2-25-2020
Voices are rivers
uncharted avenues invitations spirit Chapter One Minds Alike Hood sat staring at the picture of Diablo on the wall. How simple life had been then. The game. The horse. Power. It had all come crashing down. He was falling still but he wasn’t through, not just yet. He would see to Wulf, ensure a safe future for his own son and sister. The Patron. To hell with the man. He was losing it. That much was plain to Hood. He was too wrapped up in that damned woman. Hood knew full well what that could do to a man. Oh yes, he had lived that one all right. So far Wulf had shown the good sense not to follow the slut. Hood was surprised at that. Perhaps a man could learn a little something. Hood had made a foolish move and was fully aware of it. Sometimes he wondered what got into him. He had done a Wulf-type thing, committed himself to folly. Taking the woman from Vasquez wouldn’t sit well with the Patron. But how could he give her up just like that? How could the blood of Vasquez run so cold? The three of them had served the Patron for over twenty years, in one capacity or another. Vasquez had apparently lost all sense of loyalty in one mad flash of lust. He had his señoritas, his whores. Maybe it was some unanswered need deep inside of him, to possess and destroy something of the Patron’s. Or, had the Patron ordered it... Ah hell, Hood wasn’t a thinking man and he knew it. He had chanced upon Vasquez and Misty and, when he saw what was going down, he came up behind him and clubbed the man unconscious with a big fist. Nothing fancy, impulse. He had always wondered about his chances if he faced Vasquez straight up and he wondered still. He had saved the woman’s life and compromised himself with the Patron in the process. So much for his only out. Time and a way out didn’t seem so very damned important now. He was in the grips of one of his infernal fevers. He had taken a dose of the medicine Jennifer left for him and then tried some more. Still the fever slammed into him, its heat looping his thoughts end-to-end, melting him down. Damn this disease. Damn it! Damn it! He knew what the cure was. Oh yes, anyone who reached this stage knew it, one simple word, death. He’d damned sure figured that one out for himself. The thought process of existing in diminished capacity never entered his mind set. Think! Think, think, think. You had Fredo bring you into the labyrinth then sent him away with Misty. You had something important to do... What? He wiped the icy sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Oh yeah! Get it ready. Bring all ten levels of the labyrinth on line. Light a candle in the window of the palace. It’s all in the book. Go to After Earth and get the book, you damned fool! Hood stood up and staggered from the room. The hairs on his arms stood on end when he entered the maze of the labyrinth. It was always like this when he’d been away. The whispers of movement as he passed, red and yellow eyes flashing, had an eerie effect on him. Each time he returned to the labyrinth, it was like the first time, except that now he was confident in his ability to acclimate to the atmosphere. He stepped into a large open space, half the size of a football field. He breathed into a grill on the wall, “AE Ten.” There was no sense of movement but before he stepped back from the grill, the space he occupied had dropped over a thousand feet. He had arrived at After Earth Ten, AE Ten. “Hood out,” he said and the walls dissolved. He walked down a short corridor and into the After Earth Control Center. There were twenty-six separate work areas equipped with consoles in the room, thirteen on each side. Each work area was furnished with a comfortable chair and desk area for a technician. An opposite wall at one end of the room was a projection screen which provided a large scale view via satellite, in real time, of the planet in orbit. Hood took a leather bound book from a shelf and studied it for a moment. He shook his head and allowed a small smile to come to his lips as he practiced the simple double Dutch phrase, ‘Ibopiben Sibesame.’ The docs had a sense of humor. His name alone wouldn’t allow him access to After Earth Ten. A large golden sphere rotated in the center of the room. He walked to within a couple of feet of it and extended a hand. It glowed red and radiated an intense heat, which caused him to jump back. “All right!” he squeaked through his throat microphone, “Just checking! I’m Hood, Andrew Corn. Ibopiben Sibesame!” The sphere returned to its golden glow and a pleasant female voice intoned, “Welcome Andrew, enter as you wish.” Hood took a deep breath then stepped forward and through its outer spinning shell. This orb was the nucleus of the netherworld the Docs had created. They hypothesized that time stopped when one was in its interior; that one might enter and exit at the same moment a year later. I’d like to get laid in here, Hood thought. There were four round spots of light, all in a row, like bar stools without supporting posts. Hood chose a blue one and relaxed as he sat down and felt the thing take him. He was spun madly for a moment and lost all sense of direction. Then the works came to a halt and he hung suspended in midair. He was completely free of the encumbrance of his physical body. Like wall walking, he thought, but this contraption, whatever it was, undressed your mind, made you free to see. He had fantasized digging up Colleen’s body and bringing it here. He had hoped the sphere would regenerate her form, give her back her life. They could make passionate love, just like when they first met. No, Hans had told him. She would be just as dead in the orb as out. He would simply be fucking a rotting corpse. With an effort, Hood forced his thoughts from Colleen and concentrated on the eight corridors that spider-legged off the Control Room. All he had to do was think about it and, in a flash, he saw the thousands of After Earth home pods and storage areas. AE Ten was the nerve center, the supply depot for After Earth. There was enough dried and canned food and bottled water stored here to supply two million people for a hundred years or more. The figures boggled Hood’s mind, all those people and all that stuff. Not that they would need it. After Earth was completely self-contained, self-perpetuating. When Hood voiced in the code sequence from the book, the docs’ bible, a world would be born. Gardens would begin to sprout in the After Earth cities located on all ten levels. Fields of hay and alfalfa for grazing would be sewn. The climates at all ten levels were set for early spring but that could be changed. The inhabitants could arrange the climates as they chose. They could enjoy all four seasons and everything in between simultaneously. The docs had left formulas for cloning any living creature on earth, the raw materials in the massive freezer vault on AE-Ten. It was all down here, from sewage reclamation vats to the massive nuclear power plant. Soon Hood would press the proverbial ON switch and After Earth would begin. The walk-through of AE-Ten was exhausting. The primers were all humming as they should, not a single red line. Hood was wondering just how much a man’s mind was able to cope with at one time. The volume of input was incredible. He was ten thousand places at once, green lights yes, but he had to be on his toes. One mistake and this bubble might cease to exist. If he advertently created an implosion a thousand feet below the Great Stone Mountains, then what? No matter. AE-Ten was on-line ready. The other nine levels would be so much less a burden to check out, mind-flying through empty shopping malls, hospitals, schools, parks and the ever-present home pods. He was monitoring feed levels mainly, Home Ten to AE-Nine and so forth. The process could all be accomplished by the computer but a fly-by visual was required before initiation of start-up. Wish I could hang around, Hood thought. Become Captain After Earth. What potential this golden sphere has, he thought as he approached AE-One. When he had gone after Mister ‘E’, he had actually wall-walked from the orb, into the URAC meeting in the blink of an eye. Then, to his surprise, the orb was with him. He had been able to whisk Wulf’s physical body back to the labyrinth. This went far and beyond what the docs had imagined and they felt they had envisioned everything. Hood felt the melancholy beginning to creep in. All the new things he had learned, the infinite possibilities, and all too late. How he loved Wulf and how he resented what he considered his selfless approach to life. What was a man without personal ambition, competition? He cruised through AE-One, all corridors clear, home pods pulsing dimly, ready and waiting to serve their new masters. And now he approached the Royal Palace. Here was the main problem and Hood was acutely aware of it. Wulf would have to learn to be a master of men. There it was, the fountain in his corner of the Palace, the place where he had lived with Jennifer and Zak. This is where a King must live and he hoped he could make Wulf see that reality. The People must literally look up to him. They expected to be below him. They must see him with his small army of advisors and armed guard, vulnerable but protected. The People would follow Wulf down. The Patron was possessed of the wisdom to know this and now Hood realized it as well. Was Wulf formidable enough to stand up to the Patron? Hood had his doubts. The Patron was the uncontested master of consummate evil, life and death and life again, mere putty in his hands. I’ll arm Wulf as best I can, Hood thought. Hope he hears even though he refuses to listen! It would do no good to write anything down. Hood was no scholar, no teacher, and anyway the Patron was a piece to be played move for move, spontaneously. The only other person other than Hood who knew the Patron well enough to possibly successfully oppose him was Vasquez and his loyalty to the man never wavered. If only I didn’t have to die, Hood thought. I could walk with Wulf through this hell. Be that as it may, I’ll take the ‘E’ out, then cheat this damned disease and follow him down. If there’s a hell and I meet him there, I’ll kill him again! Hood executed a thousand foot freefall and went spinning into the inert lump of his body. The ten levels had been checked and double checked. His own eyes could assert that After Earth was prepared to take on inhabitants. He was set outside the sphere on a golden finger of light. His fever seemed to have gone down. It hadn’t crossed his mind during the initiation process. The trembling in his body was gone. Man, I feel good! he thought. Almost forgot what it felt like to just feel normal and good. I sure would like to get laid in there! He walked to a console marked ALPHA, where he pressed a palm against the view monitor. “Andrew Corn,” a pleasant female voice intoned. “I am pleased to welcome you to After Earth Ten.” “Thank you,” Hood said. “Code Aftermath, please.” “Your priority digit,” the voice prompted. “Minus ten and counting,” Hood replied. “Very well,” the voice said. “Have a seat and we will begin the process. You will be King?” Hood struggled into the chair, which instantly raised and adjusted itself to the optimum comfort of his oversized body. “Sudden death, end zone,” he said. “I am sorry,” the voice purred. “That is an inappropriate communication, sir.” “That is the appropriate code phrase for relinquishing the appointment to King!” Hood stated impatiently. “You have no appointment to relinquish until you have accepted the post,” the voice said evenly. “All right godammit, I will be fucking King!” Hood said with venom. “Sir,” the voice said, barely audible in its pain, “I have feelings. You have offended my sensibilities. Your cursing is both offensive and inappropriate. I cannot and will not accept data under stress.” Hood’s voice mic squeaked when he touched it. “I apologize,” he said in a metal whispered hiss. “I forgot about your feelings. I was told about them but I just plain forgot. Okay?” “I accept your apology,” the voice replied. “You have a beautiful voice by the way, more resonant by far than your mind voice in the sphere. My name is Vera. May I call you Andrew?” “They call me Hood,” he said. “You will be Andrew to me,” Vera said. “I quite agree with your sentiments in the sphere, Andrew. It would be a wonderful setting in which to make love... real love.” If a voice could blush, Vera’s did. “You heard me think that?” Hood asked incredulously. “I felt you think that,” Vera answered, her voice husky. “Well I... I,” Hood stammered. “Step into the sphere, Andrew,” Vera ordered. 
Review and Chapter One 9-5-2019
Momma’s Rain (review)
by Martha A. Cheves, Author of Stir, Laugh, Repeat “I was four-years-old in 1935. My mother took my twin brother and me to a mountain park in Colorado Springs for our birthday. It was July 31st, a hot and sultry summer day in Colorado. We rode ponies round and round the pony pole, my brother and me. I’ll never forget the flies, deer flies I think. They were huge and aggressive. They bit. After lunch Mother told me to go into the outhouse to go potty. I didn’t really have to go but would not consider speaking back to Mother ever, not in any way. She closed the door and I waited. When I tried to leave the shack with the dark stinky hole and light shooting through cracks in the wall, I discovered I was locked in. I began to cry. I never saw Mother again. I’ll never forget the flies, deer flies I think. They were huge and aggressive. They bit.” ‘This is the first story my uncle told me when I found him. That was in 1982 when I was nineteen-years-old. I was abandoned at Denver General Hospital in 1963 when I was born. My Mother put me up for adoption. She felt her eighth child should have a better chance in life then the seven before. Odd, but fitting, that I would find my uncle first when I came of age and went searching for my real family. He and I are the cull, those cut from the herd and left to forage on their own.’ It’s the winter of 1957 in Billings Montana. At seven years old, Tommy is the oldest child in the Sterner family. At this time he has two younger brothers and a two year old sister. But more will come bringing the number of children in his family to seven, all before he reaches the age of twelve. Tommy’s dad is a roofer, a job that is dictated by the weather. He’s also an alcoholic and a mean one at that. Tommy’s brother Jackie as well as his mother can vouch for that. Almost daily Jackie will do something that his dad doesn’t like leading to a beating with the belt and standing in the corner. And heaven forbid if he comes home drunk, looking for a fight. That's when Tommy's mother gets the bad end of his fist and boot. Tommy’s mother, Carroll, is the glue that keeps the family together. She does everything she can to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. His dad, on the other hand, will blow every penny he can get his hands on to keep him in alcohol. The kids can go hungry and the landlord can evict them, as long as he has his drinking money. And that’s exactly what happened more often than not. They are constantly without food and being removed from their "living space" by the sheriff at the request of the owner. Reading Momma’s Rain filled me with many feelings, most from my own childhood. When I was in elementary school there were kids that I feel sure fit in with the life lead by Tommy and his family. And just as it happened when Tommy went to school, we kept our distance from these kids. We never gave thought to the possibility that these kids were possibly being beaten at home, that they might be hungry, and not just hungry for food but also for a kind word and a little friendship. We never gave much thought that they might be smart, even smarter than we were. After all they had to be to survive what they went through daily. Author Tom Sterner has written a book that will break the hearts of every reader. It will also wake the reader up to the injustice most of us seem to perform not only as children but also as adults. It’s made me see the man or woman on the street with a different eye. One with even more compassion for them and their challenge to survive. I recommend that you not only read Momma’s Rain but that you also teach the lessons learned to the kids and grandkids in your life. Now I wait impatiently to read the continuation – Momma’s Fire. It can only get better for these kids, I hope. 
Birds 'n Bones
If you mean, shit say it. Dig holes, plant ‘em deep. It is unamerikan to fail, to apply for a permit to speak, to dream, to die, too broke to buy. Tomorrow’s graveyard markers will not mention the indigent, not so much as a Hitlerian list. You lived in the body of an elephant, fed on its carcass for years, trapping crows to chase lions. For life is a fiction, birth a sad truth, death a just reward. Still, children smile. Chapter One Children in Passing I don’t like country western music Billings, Montana Winter, 1957 Momma and Daddy rolled their boy child’s lifeless body into a blanket. Daddy reared back and kicked the package a couple of times. It didn’t offer much resistance. Six-year-old Jackie weighed less than forty pounds and was just over three feet tall. Daddy’s foot almost went through him. “Stop kicking it!” Momma pled. “We have to find a bridge to throw it off.” “I’m whippin’ the l’il bastard’s ass one more time!” Daddy insisted, “L’il sumbitch thinks he can steal my lunch bread and get away with it. I’ll show ‘im!” Jackie scrunched his eyes shut. His nose and cheeks were numb with cold, his face wedged in the corner, icy walls indifferent to his plight. Daddy had stuck him there hours ago, daring him to move, daring him to breathe. Daddy dared Jackie to even think. Jackie, lying little bastard he was, promised after each punch and slap from Daddy’s hand that he would never steal the family’s bread again. He would not move, he would not breathe, he would not think. Jackie wiggled his nose, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he moved. His ribs hurt where Daddy kicked him when he fell down when Daddy hit him. They hurt so he breathed in shallow halting gasps of breath, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he breathed. Yes, he was a lying little bastard. He stood in the corners of this house, naked half the time and cold, imagined a plethora of scenarios of death, his own death at Daddy and Momma’s hands. The bridge was long and tall. Through a hole in the blanket, Jackie saw its steel girders high above, stabbing through clouds, wrapped in sunlight. They tossed him over the rail, Momma and Daddy, and walked arm-in-arm away. Lying little bastard that he was, he wasn’t dead. His broken body tumbled through the air, stones, muddy water rushing, weeds awaiting it. He scrunched his eyes shut, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he thought. We lived in a cold little house, full of shadow and dark windows. Daddy was drunk there and Momma was crying. I loved my father and hated him for making Momma’s life miserable. Momma loved him too. I bit my lip and held my breath then went where I was forbidden to go. The door, usually stuck tight, opened easily. I took this as a good sign, darkness would accept me today. I slipped inside and eased the door closed, knowing my eyes would never adjust to the total pitch black but waiting anyway, standing on that top rickety step as soft things with sharp teeth scurried below. A creature with many feathery legs lit on my forearm, skittered across the fine blonde hairs on the face of my skin, its movement lighter than breath. A terrified voice screamed inside me but no sound issued forth. I rubbed my arm on that spot, felt the tiny arc of weight the traveler of darkness made as it swung from the pendulum web it had launched from my skin. “God’s creatures, Never smite them walking, only if on your flesh or if they bite, then smite them and smite them well,” I muttered under my breath, repeating one of Grandma Webster’s lessons. The odor in that place was darker than ink. I breathed in deep and took the first step down. What damp embrace the womb of that room promised. It was warm in its earthen reek of soil, timelessness and rotted root, kind to those that crawled and climbed, huddled in its midst. My boy hands grasped the wobbling plank at the side of the staircase. Its nails creaked in their steel-worm wooden homes when I leaned in and tested it with my full weight. Feet hanging loose and free, I searched with a naked toe through the broken top of my shoe for the first of the climbing holes we’d made, me and my brother, Jackie. There... and there... solid earth; I let loose the plank, felt my legs falling first then dropped to the earthen face of the floor. With my back to the wall, I finally let the tears come, hot and salty, forging watery paths down the dusty planes of my cheeks. I was ashamed of my tears, knew I would be before they began but was unable to hold them back. This wasn’t my first experience with shame, I’d had many; it felt the same, much like times before and since forever. Seven years old, with two younger brothers and a baby sister of two, I was aware I needed to be brave. Crying would only make things worse; there was never a reward for tears. I hugged my legs up close to my chest then sobbed and sucked it in, a choking sound. I held my breath when my ears picked up some sound outside myself. Squeak... squeak, squeak. I exhaled, a gasp, an audible sigh. I could hear the voice of Jackie in my head, my best brother and only friend, a year younger than myself, taunting me. I was older but Jackie knew things, uncomfortable things I would like to argue away, but couldn’t. I felt a smile tug at my lips as Jackie’s voice spoke in my head. “They’re doin’ it, Tommy. Long as they’re doin’ it, they won’t be botherin’ us. We’re safe now.” I covered my ears with my hands, rocked back and forth in the dirt as the cadence of the squeaking increased. Dust drifted down from the floorboards above my head, a blessing of sorts from mother to son. I stood and brushed myself off, knowing she would seek me out after the squeaking. The climb holes were easy enough to find in the now not-so-dark. I poked my toes into them up until I could grab hold of the old plank with my hands. I winced as a sliver of wood went in under the nail of my right index finger and broke off, embedding itself there. I took a deep breath, found the top climb holes with my toes and swung a foot up to the step. Thin shafts of light splashed their way from the kitchen through the top and bottom edges of the door. I found the knob with my throbbing hand, twisted and gave the door a slight nudge with my shoulder. It refused to budge. Now it was stuck. I gritted my teeth and fought back the urge to cry out. Just as I was ready to give it another try, the door opened slowly and I almost fell into the kitchen. Momma stood there, a stern look on her face. She took a step back, hands on her hips. “Tommy, you come out of there. How many times have I told you...” She paused then lifted her thin arms, summoned me to her. “You’ve been crying.” Relief flooded over me and I fell into her embrace. The top of my head just reached her chin and I nestled in, wishing for time to stop, no words. Just hold me on the mercy of your sweet breast. Those were Grandma Webster’s words about Jesus but I only thought of Momma when they came to mind. She pushed me gently away. “What were you doing down there? If your dad ever catches you...” I held up my throbbing finger. “It hurts.” She took it between her hands and raised it toward her face. I giggled as her eyes crossed. “What?” she demanded with mock sternness. “Your eyes,” I replied. “They got all crossed up.” She held my finger tightly with one hand and plucked deftly at the splinter with the other. Before I knew it, she’d kissed my injured fingertip and was pumping water, washing it off in the kitchen basin. “Now, what were those tears about?” I held up my wounded hand. “It hurt real bad,” I explained. “Don’t lie to me, Tommy,” she scolded. “You know you’re no good at it.” I turned red and peeked down at my toes wiggling through the top of my shoe. “Why’d he have to whip Jackie so hard?” Momma stood up straight, arms akimbo. “Your brother got just what he deserved. He was caught sneaking into the bread. He ate the last two slices. What am I going to put in your Daddy’s lunch tomorrow? It’s cold on the roof and he needs food to keep himself going. We’re broke and he doesn’t get paid until the roof’s finished.” “That’s why I was crying,” I said stubbornly, remembering the crack of the belt on Jackie’s bare skin while he bent over and held his ankles, trying not to fall over or cry, Daddy’s boots when he did. Momma shook her head, frustrated. “I’m your mother; I don’t intend to stand around arguing with you about your brother. I’m going to lay down and have a nap. I have to go to work in a couple of hours. You keep an eye on your brothers and little Lily. Wake me up at six.” She went back into the bedroom with Daddy. I left the tiny kitchen and went to the cramped living room, which served as day room and bedroom for Jackie, Phillip, Lily, and myself. We three boys slept on a convertible couch. Lily had a makeshift bed in an old dresser drawer. She was asleep and Phillip was sprawled out on the sofa. Jackie stood slumped in the corner where he’d been placed for further punishment. I decided to take a short nap myself. I laid down on the floor so as not to disturb Phillip. I bit down on my finger to alleviate the throbbing then put my arm under my head and sang myself to sleep. “I was born one mornin’ when the sun didn’t shine.” Sixteen Tons was my favorite song. It was playing on the country western radio. At five-thirty I awoke and put a fire on low under the old tin metal coffee pot. I went back and sat on the end of the sofa, laid my hand on top of Jackie’s head. His carrot-red hair stuck out between my splayed fingers. “Sorry he spanked you so hard,” I whispered. Jackie groaned and pressed his small thin face into the hard scratchy corner of the wall. His hands bunched up into fists and he pressed them into the corner, causing his shoulder blades to stick out. He looked like a broken bird to me, a plucked chicken, too skinny for anyone to consider eating. A few minutes before six o’clock I went to my parents’ bedroom and entered quietly. I liked to watch them sleep, faces moving, eyes twitching. Asleep, they were faces I didn’t know. They were safe faces and I liked them better that way. I reached and touched Momma lightly on the shoulder. “No,” she mumbled, “No.” Daddy’s eyes popped open. “Tommy, what the hell are you doing?” The radio in the bedroom was playing country western. Daddy had two radios, one on the kitchen table and one next to his and Momma’s bed. There were three if you counted the one in his old truck. The radios in the house were on twenty-four hours a day, always tuned to a country western station. The one in the truck was only on when the truck was running. That gave me something to think about, whether the radio was off when the truck was off. The ones in the house were on whether my parents were home or not. Kids weren’t allowed to touch radios. “Wakin’ Momma,” I replied. “It’s just about six.” Daddy rubbed a strong weather-beaten hand across his bleary eyes. “Shit! You go on, Tommy. I’ll get ‘er up.” I left the room as Daddy began to shake Momma’s arm. I had always gotten on well with Momma but waking her or simply being around her when she woke up were experiences I wouldn’t wish on anyone. She was not nice then. She needed to be left alone. One hour up, maybe a bit more then she became her almost agreeable self. So, I left them to it and went to play with my little sister, Lily, who had just turned two. She was a cutie, the first girl after three boys. Daddy called her Punkin. I tickled her and she giggled. I laughed with her until I felt Jackie glaring at us. Jackie treated me poorly whenever he got punished. It seemed to me that he felt as if it was somehow my fault or like Jackie was receiving whippings on my behalf. I couldn’t figure it out. Jackie took the bread and ate it; I didn’t. Maybe he just needed to be angry at somebody who wasn’t likely to hurt him. All Jackie could do is look at me mean and stare at me accusingly since I was bigger and a lot stronger than he was. Momma told me a story about when I he was a year and a half old (I’m fourteen months older than Jackie). She caught me sneaking into the room when Jackie was being fed. I took the top off his bottle and guzzled down all of his milk. I screwed the lid back on so no one would know I’d done it. Catching me copping Jackie’s food explained part of the problem with his thinness but Momma resented him anyway. No matter what she did, Jackie had always been unhappy and undernourished. I heard the volume of the radio go up and the familiar clink of glass as Momma filled her and Daddy’s coffee cups. Smoke drifted through the wide arch between the living room and kitchen when they lit their Pall Malls. Daddy came into the room and plinked Jackie in the head with his finger. “Get your ass standing up straight. You don’t need to slouch around all day like a ninny.” I felt bad for Jackie as he cringed and shook with fear. The more fear he exhibited, the madder Daddy got. “Turn around and come here,” Daddy ordered. Phillip was still sleeping, one leg hanging off the couch. As Jackie rounded the corner, his eyes riveted fearfully on Daddy’s hands, he bumped into Phillip’s leg. Phillip moaned, rolled over, fell off the couch, and began to cry. Daddy beckoned to Jackie with his finger. “Come here, asshole. Maybe I’ll knock you down on the floor; we’ll see how you like it.” Jackie stood by the side of the sofa trembling. “No Daddy, please no.” I saw a dark stain running down the front of his trousers, hoped Daddy wouldn’t notice. Many times, when Jackie was in trouble, he messed himself which would only exacerbate his circumstances. Other times, when he wasn’t in trouble, he messed himself which started trouble anew. “Tom,” Momma called from the kitchen, “Come on now. We have to get going or I’ll be late for work.” Daddy pointed a stiff finger at me. “You put that little asshole in the corner and don’t let him out until I come home, understand?” I nodded my head. “Yes, Daddy.” I glanced at Jackie, who stepped obediently toward the corner. Daddy gave me an approving wink and left the room. Momma came in, picked Lily up and kissed her chubby cheek. She glanced at us boys. “You guys behave yourselves and no going outside. Keep the door locked. Daddy will be right back to fix you something to eat. Lily’s other diaper is soaking in the toilet. Rinse it out and hang it by the stove, Tommy. If she needs changed before it’s dry, go ahead and use a dishtowel instead of a diaper. There’s one hanging from the oven handle on the stove.” She set Lily on the couch, gave me a reassuring smile, and hurried away. The front door slammed shut. We heard the sound of Daddy’s old truck starting up and pulling away from the curb. Jackie turned around, stared imploringly at me. “Let me out of the corner.” Tears brimmed up in my eyes. I bit down on my sore finger to stop them. “I can’t, Jackie. He’ll find out then we’ll all be in trouble.” “How’s he gonna find out?” Jackie challenged. “Who’s gonna tell?” Phillip sat on the edge of the couch. “I will,” he said, a cruel grin on his little-boy face. “I’ll tell ‘cause you took the bread an’ got me in trouble. It’s all your fault. You knocked me off the couch when I was sleepin’.” Jackie took a step from the corner, threatened Phillip with a raised fist. “I’ll pound your face, you little brat! You ate half!” I set myself between them, pulled Jackie’s arms behind his back and forced him to return to the corner. I gave his head a good bump against the wall for good measure. “Stay there! Don’t be picking on smaller kids!” “Yeah!” Phillip agreed smugly. “You’re a stealer, Jackie. You’re bad!” Lily began to wail. She was hungry and upset by all the commotion. I picked her up and she stuffed a thumb in her mouth. She snuggled against my chest and closed her eyes, sucking contentedly. Daddy didn’t come home after taking Momma to work. We were hungry and there was nothing in the house to eat. I pumped some water at the sink and we sipped at it but water is a poor substitute for food. Lily and Phillip cried and Jackie moaned and groaned then finally slid down the wall and rested in a bony pile. I roamed around the confines of the shack, despairing for a crumb but, as on many a previous occasion, there were none. The night was long and the radio was singing. My siblings asleep, I went into the kitchen and sat at the table. I rested my head on my arms, ignored the growling motor in my stomach and drifted into a troubled slumber. A few hours later I heard a rattling at the door. I stepped quietly across the room and peeked out the window. It was Momma come home from work. Just as I unlocked and opened the door, a car pulled away. It was soon lost in its’ own steamy exhaust in the freezing winter night. “Where’s Daddy?” Momma asked upon entering the house. “He never came back,” I replied, “I been worried.” Momma kissed me on the forehead and handed me a heavy paper bag. It was greasy wet, close to falling apart. “Never mind your Daddy for now,” she said, “Thank God for the Big Boy.” Big Boy was the restaurant where Momma worked as a waitress. She wasn’t allowed to take food home but she cleaned up the tables she waited on and dumped leftovers from the plates into a bag she kept hidden in the kitchen. On nights when Alvin, the cook, brought her home she could sneak the bag out past the owner. The next trick was getting it past Daddy; he didn’t approve of his family eating garbage. Momma touched my face with her cold hands and kissed me again. She glanced at the clock radio wailing country western, Marty Robbins all dressed up for the dance. “Twelve thirty,” she murmured, “He’s probably at the bar. That gives us ‘til two to eat. You start sorting and fixing. I’ll get the kids.” I set the bag on the table and opened it. Though it was full of rotting salad, coffee grounds, and cigarette butts, all I noticed was the smell of food and best of all, meat! I grabbed a piece of chicken fried steak and wolfed it down, coffee grounds, cigarette ashes and all. I had never tasted better food. Momma came back into the kitchen and smiled at me when I wiped my face on my shirt- sleeve. “They look so peaceful, I decided to let them sleep while we get everything ready,” she whispered. “Tonight we’ll have a feast. I see you found some of the steak. It was the Big Boy special today. There’s lots of it in there.” We worked together to scrape cigarette ashes, egg yolk, coffee grounds, and soggy napkin off the meat and began to warm it in a pan on the old stove. Experts at this, we even managed to salvage some mashed potatoes and corn on the cob from the bottom of the bag. The cigarette butts went in Momma's apron pocket to be worked on later. We didn’t have to wake the younger children as it turned out. Phillip and Lily came stumbling into the kitchen, their noses following the aroma of food cooking even before their eyes were ready to open. Momma smiled. “Go get Jackie,” she said. Jackie was standing up straight and stiff, nose stuffed into the corner. He flinched when I touched his arm. “Come on, Jackie,” I whispered excitedly, “Momma brought some really good stuff home from work for us to eat.” Jackie turned his head from the corner; eyes big and round, he stared at me. His mouth formed one word. “Daddy?” I tugged at his shirt-sleeve. “Come on, Daddy’s not home yet. You better hurry up!” “Wait!” Jackie pleaded. “Is she... Is she in a good mood?” “The best,” I replied impatiently, “Now come on.” http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 graphic artwork music & words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Cranial Loop - Chapter 1 - 9-29-2018
“Don’t turn out the lights,” she cried, “I’m lost, I’m lost and gone inside.”
Chapter One Friends, forever Friends “If you can see across it, it’s not a river; it’s a crick.” Emily giggled. “What made you say that, Basil?” “I overheard a couple of guys arguing in class,” Basil replied. “One was from Mississippi and the other from Texas. The Mississippi guy, from Biloxi if I heard right, made the statement as a means to setting the Texas guy straight as to the relative size difference between the Mississippi and the Rio Grande.” “That’s a funny statement,” Emily said, “But rivers are rivers and creeks are creeks.” Basil stared rapt into Emily’s dark exotic eyes. He lay on a blanket at the river’s edge. She sat next to him there and, through its reflection on her eyes, he watched her watch it flow. “There!” she said suddenly. “Look, Basil! Hedgeny’s nearly halfway across already!” She nudged him playfully in the ribs with a bare foot. “Turn around and look, you silly!” Basil, though tired of Hedgeny’s showing off, could deny Emily nothing. He turned, elbows to the ground, chin resting on his hands, and stared across the river. “He’s a good swimmer,” Basil acknowledged in a flat monotone voice. “He’s a good swimmer,” Emily parroted. “Hedgeny is a magnificent athlete, Basil, world class and you know it.” She glanced pensively at her friend. “You aren’t jealous of Hedgeny, are you, Basil? It would be so unlike you.” “What, jealous? Me?” Basil laughed. He flopped over on his back, posed his arms and legs at odd angles. “I can’t even swim.” “But you are funny,” Emily giggled, “And the smartest man I know.” Basil stood up and performed an exaggerated march in place, bony knees pumping up and down. “I gots de brains and he gots de brawn. Let de lady decide whose side she’s on.” “Basil, you shouldn’t make fun of yourself,” Emily said sternly. “We’re a trio, you, Hedgeny and me. I could never make a choice between the two of you. You know that, don’t you?” So they were, since arriving at the University a year ago. All three were enrolled in classes in the Department of Psychiatry. Basil and Emily had earned full academic scholarships and chosen to pursue careers in psychiatry and/or psychology. Hedgeny was an athlete, plain and simple. Psychiatry made as much sense to him as anything else as far as academics went. Someone had told him it would be easier and more open than other fields of study. Basil had fallen in love with Emily the moment he laid eyes on her. Shy by nature, he was hard put to so much as say hello. Hedgeny had literally made a dramatic splash within a few days of arriving at the school by throwing himself into the swift flowing river at the edge of its campus and swimming across. He had talked it up a bit, so there were students watching from the moment he took his dive. Swimming across the river was a feat unparalleled in the centuries old history of the school. Though it was explicitly against the rules, each year a handful of students risked body and limb and a stern rebuke from school authorities to try their hand at reaching the other side. Over the years, there were a few who perished in the attempt. This fact only seemed to fuel the desire of fresh young-bloods bent on doing the impossible. Administrators at the school had heard the rumors about a possible new swimmer and weren’t especially surprised. They were at water’s edge as soon as word reached them the deed was under way. Each year they had boatmen posted to pluck the young men from the water (a girl had never been foolish enough to try the trick, according to local lore). The men at the oars would deliver the scamp to the custody of administrators who would see that justice was done. Their jaws dropped as Hedgeny accomplished the undoable. He reached the other side and waded up the bank. Their jaws dropped a notch further when he waved victoriously and dove back in the water. Hedgeny swam bravely, heroically even, courageous throughout the arduous trip back. He defied the white water, challenged it even. He dodged the boatmen, made sport of them and their feeble attempts to haul him out. To the utter amazement of everyone involved, except Hedgeny, he swam successfully to shore. Quite a crowd had gathered by this time and the administrators were forced to pluck Hedgeny from a sea of fawning peers. He was duly cited and assessed a stiff fine, which was eventually waived since he was, after all, attending University on a full athletic scholarship. He was also temporarily denied access to certain school clubs and scholastic organizations he had no interest in to begin with. He was, in fact, unaware of their existence until being notified he was temporarily exempt from partaking in their activities. He enjoyed many a laugh about this in local beer parlors where he spent a good part of his free time. An immediate hero and favorite, the irascible rebel, Hedgeny rarely had to put up funds for his ale. Gifted athlete and all around good guy, Hedgeny had his problems in the classroom. He frequently cut classes and was prone to cutting up and napping when he did appear. Various mentors and academic assistants were appointed him from the school’s athletic squads. The results were always the same. Hedgeny became mentor and involved his associates, who had few problems prior to associating with him, in his goodtime brawling antics. This became a cause of embarrassment in the academic community and threatened to besmirch the good name of the school. There were also certain legal arrangements (no one said bribes) and compromises made that were sure to raise eyebrows if they ever came to light. The Head Man appointed a committee to deal with the problem of Hedgeny. They pondered the problem, hardly a new one but certainly challenging given Hedgeny’s appetites and proclivities. After some time, they came up with a new idea, a fresh approach to the problem. They proposed to query the leading academic male and female freshmen as to their willingness to coach and mentor the school’s prize athlete. Basil and Emily were at the very top of that list. Basil was a bit confused and doubtful when first confronted with the prospect of conforming the notorious Hedgeny. He had no previous experience tutoring others and thought it highly unlikely the school’s most famous infamous would give a good whit for any advice or assistance he had to offer. When Emily was brought into the picture, Basil’s doubts washed away, so many worms in the gutter on a rainy day. Here was his chance to speak with her, to know her, to spend time with her. Basil spoke none of this, of course. He adjusted his round, wire-rimmed, glasses and said, “I’m willing to try to help him if she is. Together we might stand a chance.” Thus, did The Mighty Three come to exist. Who’s to say concerning the dynamics of human relationships. The bronzed Adonis, Hedgeny; diminutive princess, Emily; wise and scholarly, Basil, the three of them together became campus fixtures, the very in of the in crowd. Hedgeny bought the two of them their first beers and quickly discouraged anyone who slighted them in any way. Loving and protective, he would brook no opposition where they were concerned. Emily had Hedgeny reading and reciting poetry. Basil introduced him to the basics of physics, nothing too complicated and deep, the very basics but Hedgeny showed interest and that is all that mattered. His grades improved and he wasn’t nearly so inclined to wild troublemaking behavior while in the company of his two new friends. The administrators of the University breathed a collective sigh of relief. The rewards to The Mighty Three were manifold. Emily and Basil, both extremely private people, found they enjoyed bits of the spotlight Hedgeny attracted wherever he went. Most times they could savor it a bit, then return to their rooms and private lives apart from Hedgeny. For his part, Hedgeny found that studies and attending class weren’t half bad with his two friends to help him along. At some level, fresh from childhood, the three of them realized their relationship was special. They might never again in their lives enjoy the closeness the three of them shared. As for the University, prospects had never been brighter. Hedley’s past transgressions, swept under the carpet and behind them, his exploits on the field of athletics afforded the school world renown. They received unprecedented grants and endowments, found themselves wooed by media. World leaders petitioned the school to enroll their children. Most recently they broke ground and were in the process of having a domed stadium erected and… uh, a library. Hedgeny was an industry in his youth and glory, a cash cow they had paid highly for and intended to squeeze for every possible penny and prize. Ambitious and eager, they were fast becoming a machine; nothing and nobody could hinder their progress. Yes, Basil watched Emily as she watched Hedgeny. Never spoken between the two of them, Basil knew what a man knows. He and Hedgeny were both and each, ass over tin cup, in love with Emily and had been from the start. A slight aggravation at first, his feelings for Emily had become an insurmountable problem over the past year. She didn’t seem to be aware of it or, if she was on to the fact, she was very good at hiding it. She made it known that she held them equal in her eyes, arm-in-arm at her sides. Standing on the verge of the river, Basil made a gut-wrenching decision. They were beautiful, the two of them, Emily and Hedgeny, a paradigm as a couple. Basil was, had always known he was, odd man out. He needed to speak to Emily about his feelings but could not find the words. Hedgeny emerged on the far side and Emily clapped her hands gaily. He plunged into the water, began the journey back across. Basil touched Emily’s smooth and silky hair, light and loving, and simply walked away. There was nothing else for him to do. Her voice, “Basil. Basil, where are you going? Basil! Come back to me, Basil!” pursued him. He would forever regret not returning to her side that fateful day. But that was yesterday. His whole world was yesterday, or so it seemed as he sat in Emily’s room. His eyes scanned the banks of lights, red and green, monitors and tonal devices. Professor Grimes appeared. He gave Basil’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She’s asleep, son. For all we know, she’s just asleep. She might wake up any moment now. You need some rest. Why don’t you turn in, call it a night? Tomorrow, if she’s up to it, we’ll bundle Emily up and you can take her out for some fresh air.” Basil tried to speak but, unable to make the words, got up and left the room. Having never questioned God, he did so now. How could a bright promise, a vital source of life like Emily, go to sleep and simply not wake up in the morning? Why not him? Why not Hedgeny? Hedgeny. Basil grabbed a jacket and headed for the bar rooms, certain he would find his friend there. Hedgeny was never hard to find. He was at the second booze house Basil checked. The music pounded through the place and there, in the center of its mob of patrons, was Hedgeny. He was uproariously drunk and howling like a wolf. Basil edged his way through the crowd and approached his friend. Hedgeny squinted his eyes. “Basil! Buddy! Hey, whaddya wanna drink? Hey, bartender, gi’ my friend, Basil, a drink, anything ‘e wants!” Basil turned to walk away and Hedgeny grabbed his arm. “Let me go, please,” Basil said softly. “I need to talk to you but it’s obvious that now is not the time. I’ll find you tomorrow. I can see you’re busy right now.” Hedgeny threw an arm around Basil’s waist and propelled him toward the bar. “It’s about our l’il girl, ain’t it? She’s gonna be all right, Buddy; our Emmy’s gonna be all right, you’ll see. Have a drink. It’ll make ya feel better.” Basil sat down on a stool and waited for a pause in the music. He looked Hedgeny in the eye. “What did Emily say after I left her at the river? Was she angry with me? Do you have any idea what time she got home or what happened to her?” Hedgeny slammed a fist into the bar. “Get us some drinks over here!” He glanced at Basil, then stared balefully across the room. “She didn’t say nothin’, man, just that she was tired and was goin’ home to get some rest. I had to do the same thing so I’d be ready for the big game today. I was readier ‘n ever too, ran all over their sorry asses!” Basil stood up and shook his head sadly. “I have to go.” “Whatever,” Hedgeny pouted. “Tell Emmy I’ll be up to visit. Hey Basil, it ain’t like she’s dead or somethin’. She’ll come out of it, you’ll see.” But Emily didn’t come out of it. Basil got himself appointed Professors’ Assistant and managed to spend time with her every day. Her family had decided to commit her to the psychiatric ward at the University. What better place was there for her to be? This was her chosen place, where she went to sleep. It was their deepest hope that one day she’d wake up from her perpetual night of sleep. Hedgeny never visited and, other than hearing exalted reports of his athletic prowess, Basil lost all contact with him. He entertained a plethora of melancholy thoughts concerning his old friend, memories of the happy days he and Emily had spent with him. He had studied the grief process and was aware there were as many ways of dealing with it as there were people grieving. His way was deep and thoughtful, a resounding weep. Hedgeny’s was forgetting himself in drunken brawls and pounding opponents into the field of play. Emily had been comatose for a couple of months when Professor Grimes approached Basil. There was an experimental procedure, the Cranial Loop, that he and his colleagues had been practicing in the lab for a couple of years. It involved the simultaneous electromagnetic stimulation of the paired sets of cranial nerves where they pass through the openings in the skull. Emily’s family had read about the procedure, researched it, and petitioned the University to implement it in her case. “But Professor Grimes,” Basil protested, “This procedure has only been used on monkeys and rats. From what you have told me, it has a very limited success rate.” Professor Grimes nodded his head in agreement. “Frankly, I don’t have much confidence in the procedure in this case. On the other hand, I don’t believe it would cause further harm to Emily. That is exactly the point the family makes in favor of implementing it. If it has no effect, we’re back where we started. As they see it, they have nothing to lose and Emily’s life to gain.” “But what if…” Basil began. “What if,” Professor Grimes repeated. “That’s the nature of our business, my boy. I have mixed feelings on this issue, especially where Emily is concerned. If the Medical Association and the University agree to proceed, I’ll take on the task because I’m the man for the job. Fact is, the longer Emily remains comatose, the further she is from us. It’s a difficult call to make and I’m glad I’m not the one has to do it. I just wanted you to know what’s going on so it doesn’t come as a complete shock to you if it should come to pass. I know how dedicated you are to Emily.” He laid a hand on Basil’s shoulder. “I know how much you love her.” “How does one go to sleep,” Basil wept, “And not die but simply never wake up.” “Toss that one in with the what-ifs,” Professor Grimes replied. “Ours is a legend of shadows.” Basil visited Emily and placed her in a wheelchair to take for walks whenever he got the chance. With Professor Grimes’ permission, he did so this day. He struggled with the wheelchair across the rough turf to the river’s edge, knelt before her and took her hands in his own. He kissed the backs of them lightly. “I have loved you from the first moment I saw you,” he spoke into her face. He went on to explain to Emily all he knew about the Cranial Loop, her family’s hopes and his fears. Having concluded his medical explanation and avowal of love, Basil released Emily’s limp and unresponsive hands. He stood up and stared wistfully down the river. “I swear Emily, when I heard about your condition I began to deny a God I felt I’d known all my life. Yet you are here and, so long as you are, I will hope. That hope has renewed my faith and I pray every day that God will return you to our world.” He turned to face her. A breeze blew a wisp of hair across her forehead. “Emily, this is hard for me to say but I must. If you are afraid of the Cranial Loop or grow weary of lying in that bed all day; if you are in pain or distress and wish for it to be over, give me a sign. I will tie myself to your chair and roll us into the river. I cannot and will not go on without you.” Basil’s heart broke as a single word, a name, blew through his mind, “Hedgeny.” There was no denying the sound of Emily’s sweet voice. How it reached him was a mystery because she sat stone still between the wheels of her chair. His eyes having never left her face, he was sure the sound didn’t issue from her mouth. Basil turned the chair around and pushed Emily back to the psychiatric ward. He helped the nurse put her into her bed, then returned to the dorm and his studies. Emily’s voice haunted him through the long night. He lay there half dazed and questioning his own sanity and tenuous hold on life. A week later the Cranial Loop Procedures commenced. Professor Grimes insisted that they only be initiated twice weekly and the initial electrical impulses be as minute as possible. He refused to take any chances or to endanger his patient in any foreseeable way. In his words, “Time is on our side here.” Emily was stable and relatively healthy. No one used the phrase ‘brain dead’ but each and every one involved had felt it crawl through their consciousness. Basil argued long and hard to be allowed to assist in the treatments but to no avail. Grimes was adamant in his refusal. He relented a bit in the end and agreed to allow Basil to observe upon his solemn promise not to interfere in any way. The Professor also agreed to allow Basil to accompany him to the Operating Theater to assist in setting up the equipment for the procedure. Basil, curious by nature, wanted to know every minute detail of the Cranial Loop. Having Emily as the patient for the experiment only intensified his innate need to know. The apparatus for the experiment was located in an operating theater three levels below the psychiatric building in a sub-basement. It was decided to perform the procedure there since moving and reassembling the Cranial Loop was bound to affect its performance and would take too much time in any case. Psyche students, Basil and Emily included, who had never visited the sub-basements, referred to them as ‘the dungeon’ or ‘the crypt’. He got a chill as he climbed into the tiny antiquated elevator with Professor Grimes. Grimes pulled the steel, floor-to-ceiling, scissors gate closed. He pressed a button for ‘down’ and another for ‘sub-level-three’ and the car started its descent with an abrupt jerking motion. “What’s in there?” Basil asked as they passed sub-levels one and two. “Supplies,” Grimes replied, “Old furniture and the like, centuries of castoff medical equipment. You could probably fill a museum with all that old stuff.” Basil wrinkled up his nose. “Smells like livestock.” “That’s the lab animals,” Grimes explained. “Rats and monkeys, a couple of pigs. They’re kept on sub-level two.” The elevator stopped with a jerk and the lights blinked off and on. “Not sure they’re supposed to do that,” Grimes commented. “They always do when you hit the bottom floor though.” Grimes pulled a large steel lever at one end of the elevator and held it down with his foot while he slid an iron keeper over it to hold it in place. “Mechanical brake,” he said to Basil. “If you forget to set that, the gates won’t open.” He chuckled a bit. “If you’re on one of the upper floors and don’t set the brake, the damned elevator won’t stay in place. There’s a massive coiled spring anchored into a pit underneath this thing, the latest in safety equipment a hundred years or so ago. I have the uneasy feeling it would likely go right through the floor of this thing should one ever be forced to depend on it.” He pulled back the scissors gate and Basil followed him into a dimly lit hallway. “It’s dark down here,” Basil complained. “It’s cold and smells wet and fetid.” Grimes clapped him on the back. “Welcome to my laboratory,” he said in his best Bela Lugosi voice. “C’mon Kid, lighten up. It’s much safer to bring Emily down here than it would be to move all the equipment upstairs and attempt to readjust it. The machine is very finicky. Emily’s wellbeing is my primary concern. The surgical arena cleaned up well. It’s all stainless-steel construction. You’ll feel better once we’re there.” Basil followed Grimes through a labyrinth of hallways, curious at every turn but determined to be quiet and stop asking so many questions. The surgical area was just as the professor had described it. Its spotless stainless-steel walls and ceiling shined like glass. Walking into the room, Basil felt like he was entering a house of mirrors. “Here she is!” Grimes stood proudly next to an iron chair. It was as spotlessly clean as the room but dark and sinister in appearance as far as Basil was concerned. “Don’t worry, Basil,” Grimes responded to the concern evident on his favorite student’s face. “We’ll line it with pillows, nice and soft, for Emily.” Basil watched attentively as Grimes went through his pre-procedural checklist. Grimes gave a professional instructor’s play-by-play while he flipped switches, adjusted valves, and consulted monitors. His clinical presence and professional detached demeanor impressed Basil. Professor Grimes was a man in his element. The phone rang and Grimes picked up. “Very good, we’re ready,” he said into the receiver. There was a chair positioned a couple of yards before and facing the Cranial Loop apparatus. Grimes hung up the phone and gestured for Basil to take a seat. “The attendants are on their way with Emily,” he said. “Sit down and relax, my boy. It’ll be over before you know it.” http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: [email protected] © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Spiders 'n Snakes - Chapter 1 - 8-31-2018
Buy at WordWulf Books or AMAZON
Madman Chronicles: The Warrior Book I: Spiders ‘n Snakes To my child... all of them. What follows is a true account to the best of my knowing, a chronicle of desperate people living in a desperate time, held together by the haunting auspice of hope, a proud people unwilling and unable to give up and finally unable to forgive. The right and true names of persons and places, timelines, have all been changed to protect the guilty. So falls the warrior down. Counting the dead in the eye of the dragon tear stains blood chapter one Farewell to Hood Once blooded Never mercenary... forever tired Following the Great Conflict Wulf’s friend, Hood, was buried with high ritual ceremony. At the conclusion of the conflict a final body count was made. Hood was on the list of the missing. After two months of no contact and the body never having been found, he was considered missing in action and presumed dead. Over five thousand soldiers gathered, representative of all thirteen tribes of the Cave of the Dark Heart. They appeared at the gathering place in ones, twos and tens. At the time of leaving they made way, riding two abreast. Snaking through the city at the feet of the Great Stone Mountains, over five miles of unleashed lightning and thunder, they made way. Never had gooseflesh claimed Wulf as it did that day. Five thousand hearts strong, he felt them breathe as one. As they mounted their steel dragons he was swallowed by raw sound, pure muscle and blood, mechanical fury. He was lost to those moments as he had never been lost before, drowned in a living flood of roaring engines, brotherhood and tears. Wulf was only a man, a man born to the See. They rode high into the Stone Mountains behind the City of the Rock. When they reached the top and at the moment of the rising of the sun they tore a hole in the earth’s skin, their hands bleeding into her. Hood’s favorite dragon was brought forth, black and chrome, flames burning on her smooth skin. His riding leathers, boots and favorite personal weapons were tied to her sides. She was wrapped in chains and ten men made a solemn procession as they bore her to her final place of rest. She was lowered slowly into the warm embrace of the earth. Then commenced a viewing and five thousand men dropped pieces of themselves into the earth that she would not travel the other side alone, searching for her lone rider. The Lords of the Dragon would be with her. There were maps and words, messages from those who had loved him and fought beside him, golden keys for her gates. Wulf cut all the hair from his head and face. On top of this he dropped six ears severed from the heads of mutual enemies. Finally, a golden tear from the trap at his throat and the leather strap and worn buckle from the shifting leather of his favorite fighting dragon. Hood was one of the twelve who had shared with Wulf the mystery and challenges of the House of Discipline as eleven-year-old children, facing one another and the other eleven chosen each and every day for seven solid years. For twenty-five years they had ridden, fought and loved as brothers of the blood. Wulf had combed the field of battle inch by inch, searching for his friend. It was unbearable for him to bid farewell to Hood’s empty suit of armor but he was gone. The ritual and offerings devoured all of the first day and half the night. In the midnight, under the cold light of a hard, full moon, the hole was sealed that the warrior be healed. Wulf found a smooth stone bathed in the full light of the moon. He rubbed and cleaned it with his bare hands and tears falling, chanting over and over, “Ty Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke,” the death song of the Cave of the Dark Heart. He knelt in the center of the grave, taking two tiny glass vials from a small leather bag on his belt. One vial contained a dark-colored liquid. Wulf uncapped the vial and drank deeply, consuming half its contents. He then recapped it. The other vial was full of the white staying-powder of war. Wulf opened it and laid a thick line of the fine white crystal substance across the blade of his field knife, again leaving the vial half full. He paused in his chanting and inhaled the powder through his nostrils, cleaning the blade with his tongue, then driving it deep into the earth in the center of the grave. He continued chanting... “Ty Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke.” With his thumbs, he pressed the vials into the freshly turned earth on each side of the blade. He held the moonstone in both hands, turning it, caressing it. His chant became louder, more intense, his kneeling body rocking back and forth with the rhythm, the sound and strength of his voice, a voice both beautiful and mad. It became a keening thing, wailing, disembodied and howling forth as he raised the stone of the moon high over his head. With a final gut-wrenching scream, he brought the stone down with all his weight, burying the blade and vials beneath it. He stood slowly, reverently, backing away, whispering, “Ty Ke Yi Yut Te... Ke.” His eyes wild and uncomprehending, he collapsed at the edge of the circle of men surrounding the grave. The Captain of the Guard made a chopping motion with his arm and explosives were detonated causing a small mountain of stone four times Wulf’s height of six feet to fall on top of Hood’s grave. The silence of five thousand fighting men paid quiet homage to the humble pile of stone standing as a shrine over the tomb of Hood. Many brothers, Wulf included, wrote messages of farewell in their own blood on smooth faces of the stone. Wulf left a haiku: Soldiers across the dark night once and forever blooded we are bleeding still After the explosives and the writing of the blood many great fires were lit. The families, women, children and elders of those mourning, were coming to join the warriors of their blood. At first sight of the fires, a prearranged signal, they formed a caravan and sometime later began to arrive. They prepared a grand feast and celebrated with wines, bitter dark beers and the peace of the smoking pipe. For seven days and seven nights they reinvented, remembered and relived their lives and times with Hood. They praised and cursed him, laughed for him and cried. Most of the men remained awake throughout with the aid of the fine white waking-powders manufactured for the long nights of the war. Finally, exhausted and spent, they rode five thousand strong into the seventh night. Across one hundred and fifty miles, riders split off in ones, twos and tens to return to warm fires in the caves of their homes. Having been the host of the event, Wulf rode the circle. He took the Nomads and those who chose to linger with him to his home outside the City of Stone. His children bid them welcome, all seven waiting expectantly for the arrival of their father. One more night the men sat up, telling the younger ones of the ritual and the glory of the man they laid to rest, Wulf with a child on his lap the entire time. After a few days of rest the men fell into a routine. They spent time attending to the needs of the dragons, formulating future plans of rendezvous, trading stories and secrets. They rode across the long nights, into the City of Stone and other small mountain towns to attend drinking rooms, play cards, games of chance. Their favorite recreation by far was gathering in the smoky rooms, underneath low lights, where the night ladies made their danse. By the second week of autumn the last of the Nomads bid Wulf a fond farewell. His final guest, a Cajun by the name of Angelo, decided to winter in the City of Stone. He endeared himself to Wulf in his own peculiar way, “‘Sides mon-ami, I got nuttin’ goin’, we be mekkin’ dis a coo’ winter. I done made up m’ mind!” Wulf insisted Angelo stay in his home, which was only a couple of miles outside the city proper. 
Amazon link: After Earth by Tom Sterner
A heart of steel, will of iron. In stone it is written, tears have teeth.
Chapter Forty-two Lords of the Dragon/Boss Tongue Wulf returned to the Computer Room with Natasha. “There are two hundred eleven so far,” Natasha said to Wulf. “Evidently Santa Bob has lots of friends and relatives.” “They all check out?” Wulf asked. “For the most part, they appear to be normal people with normal problems,” Natasha replied. “At least they were before the Conflict. The URAC has prosecuted quite a few of them because of their personal beliefs. The number one of which is that they still believe they have the right to bear arms to protect themselves. Other than that, all I’ve been able to dig up is the usual traffic violations, drug and alcohol arrests, using, not dealing. Nobody checked out perfect and no Jack the Rippers. There is one possible problem though.” “What’s that?” Wulf asked. He was thumbing through stacks of data, numerical profiles of people’s lives. “Chickens,” Natasha laughed, “horses and cows, pigs, dogs and cats, ferrets... You name it, the list goes on and on.” “Just a sec’,” Wulf said to Natasha. “Vera, are you listening?” “One ear always open, Commander,” she replied. Wulf held a finger over his lips, flashed Natasha a little smile. “What about the animals, Vera?” There was a small chirp in Wulf’s head, then, “Each level of After Earth is designed specifically to accommodate one hundred thousand human beings. Any number of beasts will decrease human capacity proportionately.” “We need food,” Wulf said. “After Earth is stocked with stores to last one hundred years at full capacity,” Vera reported. “Space food?” Wulf asked. “Dried up and powdered?” “No flesh,” Vera replied, understanding his questions completely. “A perfect balance of nutrients to fuel the human body, allowing it to function at maximum efficiency.” “Is there adequate graze for the beasts?” Wulf asked. “These matters have been researched exhaustively,” Vera said, “although the research specifically targeted the preservation of endangered species.” “So... the docs considered building a zoo,” Wulf observed. “A research facility,” Vera corrected, “for the preservation of certain of the beasts indigenous to earth.” “Is there adequate graze for the beasts?” Wulf asked again. “I remember seeing open parks and meadows from the orb, what appeared to be bluegrass and alfalfa.” “You are persistent, Commander,” Vera allowed. “Yes, there is adequate graze for the beasts. Certain plant life has been developed which thrives on synthesized light. Your beasts should find it more than adequate for survival. Specific strains can be grown under water although harvesting them may present a problem.” “Fish?” Wulf asked. “Several species of your underwater creatures have already been introduced,” Vera informed Wulf. “The docs, to utilize your vernacular, were avid anglers. After Earth’s streams, lakes and ponds are teeming with small gilled beasts.” Natasha tapped Wulf on the shoulder. “Dad, are you in there?” “Sorry hon’,” Wulf said. “Just talking to Vera, the After Earth computer.” He pointed to his head. “Laser implants.” “You let them do that to you?” Natasha asked. “I agreed to be King,” Wulf replied, “laser implants were the small print in the contract.” Natasha shook her head. “Well King, it’s like listening to one side of a telephone conversation.” “Tell them to bring their beasts if they can get them here on time,” Wulf said. “No sick or diseased animals.” Natasha gave him a nod of assent. “Is there really room down there for all of us?” “One hundred thousand human beings per level,” Wulf mused. “It’s an amazing place, it really is. Oh, you have to deduct proportionately by weight to allow for the animals.” “I’ll key it into the computer when I get their figures,” Natasha said. “Sounds like we won’t make a speck down there if there’s as much room as you say.” “I don’t see how they’ll get the critters there in time,” Wulf said. “Did Bob mention anything about that?” “He said these people of his shared pasture on the Stone Mountain Ranch, so they aren’t that far away,” Natasha replied. Wulf shook his head in wonder. “Cowboys and Santas. What the hell am I doing?” “You’re doing what you have to, Dad,” Natasha comforted. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.” Wulf forced a smile to his face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Contact Bob and tell him to get his people rolling as soon as possible. The thirtieth may be too late.” Wulf felt them through the floor of his cave, in a rush of blood, moments before Natasha shared his awareness. Wulf left the Computer Room and Natasha closed the door. Outside in the yard, the air was filled with the thunder of a hundred dragons. They appeared two abreast from the road between the trees. When they entered the clearing, they executed a perfect parade maneuver, the front two crossing one another, then the next pair and the next, each rider in the pair crossing to the opposite side of the clearing. They then turned half circle until there were two perfect lines facing away from Wulf’s cave. A ten-foot aisle was left in the middle of the two lines. The last two riders rode through the aisle space and came to a stop in front of Wulf, who had stepped out to greet them. “Pretty drill,” Wulf said to Crescent as he dismounted his dragon. “A variation of the wedding line?” “Close,” Crescent answered, “except the riders form to and park, rather than riding line to touch.” Wulf stepped forward and embraced his brother, then waved at several familiar faces in the lines. The man who had ridden forward with Crescent was named Boss Tongue. He was the undisputed field leader of the Lords of the Dragon. Though fluent in seven languages, he liked to brag that the name was bestowed upon him for his well-known prowess and congress with those of the opposite sex. He dismounted and stood, extending long arms to the heavens and stretching, first to the left and then the right. Each movement was calculated, an exuberant display of his six-foot six-inch frame. At thirty years old, he was a bronzed Adonis, wide in the shoulder and narrow of hip. His hair was worn short on the sides, with a strip the width of his forehead flowing back and down his back in a long yellow mane. Wulf couldn’t see his eyes behind dark wrap-around shades, but knew they were a startling cornflower blue. When he removed the shades, he would don small round spectacles, his only known weakness. Even this became a strength in its small way, adding authority and wisdom to the awesome spectacle, the warrior Boss Tongue. He was clad in typical Lords’ attire, blue jeans and chain belt, triple buckled steel toed boots and cut-off leather vest, his rags. They were stained and worn yet appeared immaculate. The front was adorned with assorted buckles and small chains, bits of memorabilia from fallen brothers and vanquished opponents. Covering the back was the insignia of the Lords, the silhouette of a rider astride his dragon, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. These were superimposed over a winged wheel, a circle of flames. LORDS was stitched boldly in fine gold braid over the top of the insignia, The World, a quarter circle underneath. Finished stretching, he studied Wulf for a long drawn out moment. “How’s our bad boy?” he said in a carefully modulated baritone. Wulf laughed. “Better than I thought, I guess. It’s quite a compliment to be referred to as such by one as notorious as yourself.” They each took a half step forward, neither giving ground. They thumb clasped fist to fist, then gripped each other’s forearms in a grudging warrior’s handshake. “Let’s go inside and wait for the others,” Wulf said. “There won’t be any others,” Tongue informed him. “Crescent will represent the Dark Heart and I, the Lords. We’ve been commissioned to come and hear you out. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a waste of our time.” “Come on in then,” Wulf offered, attempting to conceal his disappointment. Wulf pulled a small table away from the others and arranged three chairs. Tongue and Crescent rearranged two of the chairs so that they were sitting facing the door. They positioned themselves at odd angles so that Wulf was forced into a position of vulnerability, his back to the open door. He sat down, uncomfortable in his own home. The URAC intends to blow us up in one hour, he thought. “Something for the head,” Tongue offered. He set a small tooled metal snuff box on the table. “Great!” Wulf tried to sound enthusiastic. “You guys go ahead. I’ll get us a drink. Screw drivers okay?” “Make mine a bat juice,” Crescent said. “Turkey and water for me,” Tongue put in, “We been off screw drivers for a while, bro.” Wulf went to a small bar he kept in a corner of the room. He filled three large glass tumblers with ice and began mixing the drinks. He glanced at Tongue while he mixed. Tongue winked, opened the small snuff box and poked at the white powder inside with a small knife. They’ll refuse to drink until I drink, Wulf thought. And I don’t care to taste until they taste. Stalemate. He took the drinks to the table and sat down. “Here,” Tongue said, switching drinks with Wulf, “screw driver sounds good after all. You drink mine.” “I’ll make another,” Wulf said evenly. “I don’t drink whiskey and water.” Crescent’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men then he switched drinks with Wulf. “Here Wulf, have a bat juice.” “I don’t feel like drinking bat juice,” Wulf said. “I’ll make another screw driver.” Tongue slammed a big fist on the table. “God damn it, Wulf! You know what’s goin’ on here. Just drink the fuckin’ whiskey!” “Tongue, you’re losing your touch,” Wulf said softly. “If you don’t trust me, you should have had the same as me. The switch could have been made smoothly then.” Wulf glanced pointedly at Crescent. “You could also play Roman conqueror and have one of your flunkies taste your food and drink.” Wulf took back the screw driver, placed Crescent’s drink in front of Tongue and Tongue’s before Crescent. “Can’t you even trust your own fuckin’ brother?” Tongue stormed. “It’s the company he keeps I don’t trust,” Wulf replied. “Ah this is a crock o’ bullshit!” He lifted the three drinks one after another and took a long swallow from each. Before he set Tongue’s glass down, he bit a chunk out of the rim, chewed it up and swallowed it. “May you live long and fuck lots of other men’s wives,” he said then set the glass before Tongue. “Crazy motherfucker!” Tongue growled, shaking his head angrily. Wulf lifted his own drink. “Aren’t you boys gonna drink to my toast?” he asked as if his feelings were hurt. “I wouldn’t fuck your bitch!” Tongue declared with venom. “She wouldn’t have you,” Wulf informed him. “I said other men’s wives, not mine.” “I’ll drink to that,” Crescent said nervously, raising his glass. Wulf clicked it with his own and took a small sip. “I ain’t drinkin’ from a broken glass,” Tongue announced, sulking. Wulf was studying him, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. “Hate to see you cut yourself, Boss.” “I’ll make you another, Bro!” Crescent grabbed Tongue’s drink and headed for the bar. He rummaged around underneath, then held up an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey. He winked at Tongue then cracked the seal. When Crescent returned to the table with Tongue’s drink in hand, Wulf wet an index finger and touched it to the contents of the open snuff box. He rubbed the finger on his lower gum, then glanced at Crescent. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Brother?” “Let’s do it up right,” Tongue said. “I brought a carburetor.” He took a chrome tube from the pocket of his rags and twisted it onto a curved Y-shaped piece of glass. He dipped the Y deep into the powder, then placed the ends delicately up Wulf’s nostrils. “Crazy motherfucker!” he repeated. He took the tube between his lips and blew the powder into Wulf’s nasal passages. Wulf took the tube and repeated the procedure for Tongue and Crescent. The three of them sat for a moment, enjoying the smooth heat of the drug. Wulf felt the roof of his mouth go numb, then his gums. “You switched up on me,” he said to Crescent. “This is pure coke.” “Pretty close,” Crescent admitted. “Just a taste of zip to make it snazzy.” Tongue sipped his drink. “Sorry about before,” he said to Wulf, “been up for a couple of days. Feel like I was rode hard and put away wet.” “Hey,” Crescent interjected, “remember when we got ahold o’ that YURASS Agent Training Manual? They taught those pups that one of our known rituals was stabbing each other in the nose with knives.” “Yeah,” Tongue laughed. “Stupid asses missed the trick, as usual. Never snapped to the blast on the end of the blade.” Wulf shook his head. “Dumb shits had the manuals printed in the joint. We had copies before the YURASS instructors did.” 
Any society that condones the death of children to convenience and war is lost.
Gordian Objective Four of them climbed the stair, exalted by the mad riot, made golden by the moment, immortal and soon quite dead. Chapter One Hood Talks The lights flickered and went out. A three-hundred-mile-an-hour locomotive smashed through their brains. The two men were compressed, encased in a half inch ball bearing, and bounced across the room. Jimi’s guitar was moaning and screeching feedback through an amplifier in flames. A black man laughing. Pop! Fire lights returned. Time wiggled, squeezed the chord an octave higher. Hood grinned sardonically and Wulf shook his head. “What the hell was that?” “You asked about time,” Hood growled, “If you and I were running out of it. Then a conundrum I believe, asking me if you had misunderstood me. You wanna put a name to that little trip we just took or learn why and how it’s done. Wanna drive the train? Is it tomorrow or just the end of time? Jimi knew the right questions and played the hell out o’ that guitar. What he didn’t have was the answers. I got a few. All you gotta do is listen. Can you do that, Wulf?” Wulf nodded his head in acquiescence. When Hood resumed, he changed gears, his voice was a mechanical hiss, the whisper of fan blades chopping apart the air. “You understood me well enough. You and I are trapped within the capsule of time. It owns us as it can’t and shouldn’t own a mortal man or woman. That’s the problem we have. The things that must be done concern those we love, those whose lives we’re responsible for. They can’t follow us into the never of our forever. We have no right to attempt to change them into monsters like ourselves. We have to fix things for them now, give them a chance to be normal.” Hood noticed a perplexed and questioning frown on Wulf’s face. He raised a hand, begging his silence. He stood and walked slowly to the work bench, no longer the athletic man of action but a man weary, worn all the way out. He opened a can of salve, scooped a bit onto his fingers. He kept his back to Wulf while he rubbed the salve into his throat behind the chrome speaking device. He turned around, an expression of relief on his face and returned to his seat. “See, Wulf,” he said tiredly, “you’ll have to be patient with me. I’m not used to talking to, well, to anyone now and there’s this damned thing!” He pointed to his throat. “I have a lot of plans, plans within plans, but my priorities keep getting all scrambled up. I’m trying to explain it all to you but I get started in the wrong spots then lost there. I know how you love to talk and debate but right now I need for you to just listen to me. Don’t judge what I say or try to change my thinking, just listen. When I’ve had my say you can ask questions, comment, or whatever you feel like. I get absorbed, angry. I tend to lose my sense of direction. Here...” Hood pulled a drawer out of the center of the table. After rustling around in it a bit he handed Wulf a note pad and an old cigar box full of writing pens. He reached far back in the drawer and withdrew a small metal box covered in red velvet. He pushed this across the table to Wulf. “Help yourself. I’m not much of a host. I’m afraid if you need anything you’ll just have to ask for it unless you can find it yourself. I’m utterly self-absorbed.” Wulf stood up. “Now that you mention it, sorry to interrupt but it sounds like this could take some time and, well, nature calls.” Hood handed the red box to him. “Of course,” he said. “Take that with you and take your time. Go through the door at the far end of the bench by the grinder.” Wulf stepped into the rest room and was struck once more by the contrasting conditions existing in the labyrinth. The room was huge and appeared to be as clinically clean as an operating room. A row of stalls lined one wall. Across from them was a huge swimming pool and an open area with a sauna, whirlpool and assorted physical fitness machines. Wulf shook his head and entered the nearest stall. It was furnished simply with a commode, sink and mirror. He opened the red velvet box and grinned. The white crystal powder reflected bright florescent light. When Wulf returned to the tool room he shared a simple lunch with Hood. They had egg salad sandwiches, barbecue potato chips and grape koolaid. Wulf allowed himself a self-satisfied smile while he sipped the sweet drink. This was the lunch of their youth. They didn’t eat at home much back then but when they did, nine times out of ten, this simple fare would suffice. It was a welcome respite from fast food restaurants. The two men ate in the atmosphere of quiet camaraderie afforded to old friends, silence allowing shared memories to bridge the deep distance of years spent apart. For half an hour they were nineteen years old again, free of pain and new to the world. When they had finished eating Hood cleared the table. He set the small stack of dishes on the work bench. He left the pitcher of koolaid on the table after refilling both glasses. Wulf winked at him and raised his glass. “Here’s to koolaid,” he said. “Glad it survived the Conflict.” Hood responded with an empty smile. “Yes, but that we were all so lucky.” He shifted uneasily in his chair, reached across the table to open the notebook in front of Wulf. It was new and the pages were empty. Hood watched Wulf expectantly as he rummaged through the box of pens. He finally selected a black felt with rolling ball written on the side. Wulf looked up into Hood’s eyes and wrote at the top of the first page: Hood (labyrinth) Wulf turned his glass round and round in his right hand and Hood began to speak. “Yes, well, first things first, my son Zakariah and my sister Jennifer. I’ve spent a lot of time in the walls and floors of your home since I learned to travel. You are one with your children and not with your woman.” Wulf opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it when Hood bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, a look of deep sadness and pain bleeding through his features. Wulf set his glass down. He felt embarrassed. “You got that right about me, Hood,” he admitted. “I was ready to take issue with you about Lenore and your obvious voyeurism. I apologize, please, please continue. I’ll try to hold my arguments and comments for the end of your statement.” Hood opened his eyes, twin pools of dark stone. He looked away and began again. “There is love, no, there is great peace in your home. You’ve created a place for it to be borne. Your children have made a place for it to live and grow. I’ve laughed with you and at you many times, Wulf. You’ve found and created what you always told me you were searching for. You’re sitting smack in the middle of it and searching harder now than ever before. You were right and I was wrong. You’ve lived your hopes and dreams into existence with your children but you have to become aware of mistakes you’ve made and be willing to address them. I can see it through the window, that which I never had the heart to hope for or aspire to. Let the woman go. She’s good but her peace won’t be found with you nor yours with her.” Hood paused. He reached across the table, laid a heavy hand on Wulf’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, old friend. She loves the boy, Kai Luk. That’s why she’ll leave him with you. She knows that’s where he belongs. She’s inclined to render herself sick and helpless in a vain attempt to draw you to her, where you’ve never been and will never truly be. When she’s gone, harmony will rule your house.” Hood dipped a finger in his glass then rubbed the liquid on his lips. The cavern was cool but beads of perspiration had gathered on his forehead. He wiped them off with his sleeve, stopped to touch his throat. Wulf had placed the red box on the table. He pushed it toward Hood, offering it in a gesture, reluctant to break his silence. Hood smiled a genuine smile, softly this time. The edges seemed to have begun to melt away. “No, I keep that here just for you, Wulf. I always knew you’d come and I remembered your love for the white powder. You’re here and it’s yours.” He picked the box up from the table. It was lost in his big hand. He placed it back in front of Wulf. Hood was fidgeting, stalling for time it seemed. He looked away from Wulf once more then continued. “I am not a voyeur, although the happiness in your home has warmed the darkness of many a lonely night for me. I went there looking for you. I found your children. That’s how I knew what you were talking about when you said Tah Lak needed to be dealt with immediately. He’s a hot-blooded and impetuous young man, just like someone I used to know. I went there looking for the one and only true friend to my life. There you were and, lo and behold, I had found a home for my Zak and Jenny.” Try as he might, Wulf couldn’t wipe the expression of surprise from his face. He scribbled under the heading in his note book: Hood’s Son-Zakariah and Sister-Jennifer He looked up into Hood’s dark eyes and the man continued to speak. “Yes, that’s my first order of business with you. You’ll take my Jennifer and Zakariah out of this foul hole and plant them like beautiful flowers in the garden of your children. When this dark night is at an end, you’ll understand why this must be. I love them.” He paused, held his face in his hands. “How can I say this? How? I am the murderer of my son’s mother. I loved her too, too much. I was a god. She knew full well I was a god. That’s what she wanted. She married me for that and found out soon enough that the god was a man. I went on trial before a jury of my peers. Now there’s a joke! Gods don’t have peers, but gods aren’t appointed, are they?” Hood’s voice grew stronger. Wulf sensed an electricity enter the air when Hood began talking about his wife and his football career. Hood pounded on his own chest. “I was appointed to my god position because of my size, the color of my skin, by their need to suck every last bit of decency from my soul, not that there was much of that to bleed through. They required a godboy and I was overjoyed to become the appointed, the chosen one, the exalted. Because I was all those things, you know that. I was big and quick, strong, mean and black! Black! Black! Only you or the others from the House would be aware of the dark comedy of my charade. I played their silly little game, the big game, followed the bouncing ball, endured the attacks of their flimsy little muscle men. I could have just as soon ripped all their heads off and shit down their scrawny bleeding necks! They came at me with all the rage they could muster and I held myself in check, swatting at them like the annoying little blow flies they were! If they’d had any idea what they were really facing they’d have soiled their itsy-bitsy jock straps!” Hood was rolling now, his face a mirror of conflicting emotions and the flood broke. “Their highway to heaven is paved with carnage, the blood buckets of hell! I had fancy friends, peer-gods, if you will. We didn’t take what we wanted because they needed to give us more than we wanted, more than anyone could ever need. They had to engorge us with their filthy feast. I say again, we were more than willing. I had gaggles of pretty white girls. I kept score and so did they. They hung from the end of my dick like ornaments and still I was black and still she wasn’t mine. She never was. I bought her but she had no idea how to serve her god. She had plenty of appetites of her own. I didn’t kill her because she was white or because she was a woman. It didn’t have anything to do with jealousy in a pure sense or our beautiful son. I killed her because she was my slave and I loved her. I killed her because I could, any god-damned slave owner knows all about that! Yeah, I was in a rage but back here..” He pointed to the back of his head. “Back here I knew I could get away with it. And I did. Her family couldn’t get me. They squeezed me for a few bucks, a sacrifice to the money-god. Whoopee! I had a worldwide following. A lot o’ those fools still have my picture, autographed footballs, centerpiece on the mantle, surrounded by their family, their children. Fans, shit! Bunch of fucking idiots! Even the Conflict didn’t stop them. Oh no, they needed something to believe in. I became their fucking G.I. Joe hero. So I disappeared. I had personal business to attend to. They think I died and there are times I wish to hell I had.” Hood’s face was soaked with perspiration and tears. He took his shirt by the waist and pulled it over his head. Wulf watched helplessly while he buried his face in the shirt, twisted his head back and forth. He wrung the shirt in his huge hands. Together they watched the drops of his humanity falling on the table. Hood’s lips moved. Metal scratched from the speaker at his throat. “I spent over a year in jail. You can’t imagine the hell it was for Zak and Jenny, Colleen dead and me accused of her murder. Zak and Jenny pretend I’m innocent but they know just like everyone else, especially Jennifer. My best buddy, Mister fucking ‘E’, my great business manager, he took care of them for me real good. When I got out of jail Jennifer had changed, I mean really changed. My little bubble girl, my baby sister, was gone. I knew whose pin had burst all the pretty little bubbles of her happiness, her dreams. I failed her and Zak worse than I failed myself. I tried to help her through it but how in the hell could I? She talked endlessly about Colleen, my dead and gone ex-wife. They were real close. Colleen was like a big sister, a mother figure, to Jennifer. We looked at all the old pictures and videos, even laughed a couple of times, then...” Wulf’s head came up with a jerk when he heard the first sob. Hood’s head banged against the table and he wept uncontrollably. The microphone squealed madly with unreal gagging sounds, a robot choking on shredded razor wire. Wulf pushed Hood’s shirt under his head and laid a hand on his shoulder His body was wracked with sobs. Hood shrugged Wulf’s hand off violently. “Don’t pity me, please. Sit back down. Save your sympathy for Zak and Jenny. They deserve it.” Wulf returned quietly to his seat, uncomfortable as hell. He said softly, “Go on then.” Hood ground his teeth together before touching the metal speaker and continuing his story. When he touched it, the microphone produced a horrific noise, bleeding nails screeching across a chalkboard. “Sorry,” he said, “Damned bad habit, that. Makes the thing feed-back. Me and Jenny were doin’ this therapy thing, helping her through the grief process, me too I guess. There was this one counselor. He was really good, got right into Jenny’s head. Him and the rest of the therapy team thought she was moving right through it, showing a lot of positive progress. But I always felt like there was something else, something deeper, more personal. Jennifer was always so damned strong. Nobody messed with her and got away with it, nobody...” Hood had begun to shake. He laid both hands flat on the table. The violence of the vibrations threatened to send everything crashing to the floor. Wulf felt the hair on the back of his neck rise up, a reaction to the immense stream of energy, the intensity of menace in the air. Hood growled out between the clenched steel teeth of his microphone. “Then that night. Ah Jesus. I had been out and when I came home. I went to Jenny’s apartment to check on her, to see how she was doing. She was wrapped in white sheets, lying face down on her bed. She looked like an angel, so peaceful, her beautiful hair like fine spun silk.” His voice was calm now, resigned, a metallic monotone. Hood’s face wore the expression of a man gone empty, having given everything up. “I was carrying a candle. When I bent over to whisper her goodnight, I saw the dark stain on her. A voice inside me screamed over and over, ‘No! No! No!’ I hear it still, that tortured voice. It’s not mine and it’s getting louder. It comes from the closet, from dark sweaty corners. ‘No! No! No!’ I turned her over, terrified, unwilling to take her from the perfect white of the sheets The smell of her blood was on me now. Her hands were shoved down between her legs and there was so much blood there. It was a deep pool, crimson against the sheets. What had she done? What had she done? I was sure she had shoved something into herself. I don’t know why I thought that but I did. I set the candle on the night stand next to the bed and lifted one of her arms. Blood gushed out. I saw it reflected in the candle shadow on the wall. She moaned and relief washed over me in a flood. And fear, raw and searing, burning on the edges. There was so much blood. How could she still be alive?” “But she was. I lifted her other arm and blood shot from it as well. I used my thumbs to put pressure on her wrists. That stopped the bleeding. I remember being afraid her hands would fall off, the cuts were so deep. I braced them against my face. I was awash in her blood. I saw Colleen there, in all that blood. What had I done? I tore the ends of the sheets to make tourniquets then called my old buddy, Hans. I couldn’t trust anyone at this point. Hans was the only one I could think of to help me. He was a damn fine surgeon. He brought my little sister back to me. Lucky for me, Hans had a good supply of blood down here. He matched her type and went to work. While he was stabilizing her for the trip into the labyrinth I found a note on her desk. It was addressed to me and Colleen, my dead Colleen. She begged our forgiveness but said she could no longer bear the shame and guilt of what had happened between her and ‘E’ while I was in jail. He raped her and raped her and raped her. I know he did. I know it. She wrote that he threatened to impede the funding and support of my trial if she refused to comply with his wishes. She asked that I stay away from him, that he was a bad person. He did nothing, Wulf. It was me. It was all me. I should never have left her with that monster, never!” There was a long pause while he breathed deeply in an effort to compose himself. Hood stared blankly across the table, into and through Wulf. After a few moments Wulf spoke softly to him. “Never mind the laying of blame. I’ll help you. We’ll work together. ‘E’ will pay for his crime, one way or another.” Hood’s low, metallic laugh seemed to emanate from somewhere deep beneath them, a tortured sound rising from the earth’s core. “You’re so fucking naive, Wulf! ‘E’ is protected in layers so deep he can hardly be touched. The problem when Jennifer hurt herself was that I couldn’t go after him right away like I wanted to. I had to make my baby sister well and getting even with ‘E’ wasn’t part of the prescription. Hans brought us into the labyrinth and we nursed Jennifer back to health. He had learned some pretty fair psychology concerning rape and death in his treatment of victims of the Conflict. He talked me into putting vengeance on a back burner while we tended to Jenny. She and Zak have had more than their fair share of suffering on my account. Now. I’ve told you why my son and baby sister must come to live in your house. There should be no need to repeat myself. Once they’re settled in and you and I are in agreement or have found a comfortable position of compromise, I’m going after that no-good sonofabitch. You saved his ass this time. Next time he won’t be so lucky!” http://wordwulf.com/NOVELSBLOG Inquiries: [email protected] © 2017 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Amazon link: Gordian Objective by Tom Sterner
Cranial Loop
Chasing the dragon through tongues of fire, the dance is begun and damn the liar. Chapter Five Kisses/The Way Down Morphine and Triazolam; Basil held a couple of filled syringes in his hand and half a dozen small white tablets. After seeing Triazolam listed in Emily’s secret CLASSIFIED INCIDENT file, Basil had researched it. Triazolam was an interesting drug. Used widely in dentistry, patients would remain conscious during a procedure but have little or no memory of the event or the pain and discomfort involved. The drug relaxed their will and left them open to obey simple commands such as, open wider, spit, and such. It was believed they would not obey orders that went against their morals and ethics. Basil was familiar with Morphine. A derivative of opium, it should relieve acute pain and induce a state of well-being and sleepiness. Basil reached for the logbook, stopped himself, and locked the medicine cabinet. As with the Cranial Loop, he hoped he wouldn’t have to use drugs to achieve his ends. He was determined to get to the bottom of Emily’s CLASSIFIED EVENT no matter what measures he was forced to take. Watching Hedgeny on the football field had removed all doubt from his mind. There was no natural physical way he could handle the man being touted as the young lion. He had to have an edge and these were the tools to that end. Tonight, come hell or high water (as Professor Grimes was wont to say), he would have his answers from Hedgeny. Out of the loop when it came to social events, on and off campus, Basil was caught unawares when he ventured forth into the night. He had figured, Saturday night after the big game, he would find Hedgeny celebrating in one of the local watering holes. But the game had not been a typical big game and this was not a typical Saturday night after the big game. It was early when he made his first round of the usual haunts in search of Hedgeny, about eight p.m. The pubs were adorned in green, gold, and purple. They all had posters announcing they’d be open all night to celebrate Mardi Gras in favor of the University’s astounding victory over Colorado. No one would be admitted out of costume after ten p.m. Basil checked every place he knew of but Hedgeny was nowhere to be found. Basil ventured to the central quad of the University and found out why. A huge pyre had been erected, twenty feet in height or more. It was composed of odd bits of lumber, old desks and wooden ladders, tree limbs and two by fours. People in festive costumes milled about, many of them adding wooden offerings to the pyre. Basil couldn’t imagine that they were actually going set fire to the mammoth pile of refuse. There must be regulations against such a huge open fire. In his opinion, a gust of wind could carry it to the University buildings and burn the whole place to the ground. The answer to his musings came as he made his way through the throng of celebrants to the other side of the pyre. There sat the town’s fire truck and ambulance, ready to go into action if anything got out of hand. An amplifier squealed loudly and a rock band began to pound rhythm into the night. The crowd rushed toward the sound and Basil went along with them to where a large stage had been erected. Strobe lights played tag in a fantastic display on a giant screen, backdrop to the stage. Replays of Hedgeny’s already famous runback played in an endless loop beneath their colorful antics. Basil was startled by a volley of small arms fire. He turned toward the sound and saw a squad of majorettes, batons flying high through the air. Behind them, a banner announced the town’s musketeers, who had reloaded and filled the air with another resounding whump of sound. Basil jumped at the sound even though he had watched the riflemen fire the volley. He winced as a hand cuffed him upside the head. A heavily muscled and tattooed man, dressed in what looked to Basil like authentic pirate’s garb, sneered into his face. “It’s fine to watch the parade, boy. Mind my words, you’d better be in costume by the time the fire starts. It’s a tradition of Mardi Gras and no tellin’ what’ll happen to them what ain’t!” Basil backed away from him, right into the path of a fat lady with a hand masque. She grabbed the back of his head and shoved his face into her ample bosom. She tasted and smelled of stale sweat, rancid liquor, and dead flowers. Basil felt his gorge rise. “Put your nose in there, laddie,” she twittered. “It’ll warm you up for the whole night!” Basil broke away from her. He hurried through the crowd, careful now and aware of each step he took. He found a tree from which he could view the stage and the parade filing into the quad. He got a toehold in its trunk, heaved himself up, and grabbed hold of one of its lower branches. Once he found a good place to sit and relax, he felt a measure of safety from the lunatic frenzy taking place below him. “You’re all crazy,” he muttered, “Every last one of you. It was a football game, that’s all, not the second coming!” Keeping an eye on the activity around the stage, he began to have doubts about his plan. How would he find Hedgeny in this riot of humanity? Which masque hid his face? A roar from the crowd drew his attention back to the parade. A long, low-slung, white convertible, chauffeured by a huge black man, motored into view. Its front wheels raised off the ground, chromed wire spokes spinning, pawing the air. There on its rear deck, feet resting on the back seat, sat Hedgeny. A beautiful girl in a bathing suit was glued to his side. He reached into the seat area, then stood up, each move slow and calculated. The muscles in his bare arms jumped as he held the championship trophy high over his head. The crowd of costumed celebrants went berserk. A host of motorcycle policemen surrounded the car and held them at bay. Hedgeny was lost to Basil’s view for a moment in an explosion of flashbulbs. Fireworks arced overhead and it seemed Hedgeny would be buried in clouds of flowers, panties and bras, gifts from the crowd. Hedgeny jumped from the car and employed his evasive running skills to reach the stage. Watching those he toppled over, Basil supposed it must be some kind of special privilege to be knocked over by the person of Hedgeny. They laughed and picked themselves up from the turf, dusted themselves off and called out his name. An army of beefy bodyguards ringed the stage. They good-naturedly manhandled scantily clad groupies attempting to penetrate the perimeter. Powerful spotlights swept the stage, then fixed on Hedgeny. He was gyrating wildly to the band’s rendition of ‘Whiskey Man’, a drinking anthem, his favorite and the number one song of the day. A member of the band handed him a microphone. Hedgeny held it close to his lips, threw back his golden mane and howled like a wolf. Basil felt gooseflesh claim the skin of his arms. “All right! All right! All right!” Hedgeny bellowed into the electric night. “I wanna thank y’all for comin’ out tonight! Are we gonna Mardi Gras, or are we gonna Mardi Gras?” The crowd responded with a foot stomping howl of their own. Hedgeny pranced across the stage and egged them on. He had them in the palm of his hand. He raised his arms in a gesture for them to quiet down. “Okay folks, the Head Master of the University and His Eminence, the Mayor, have a few words to say. Let’s give ‘em an ear.” Two portly middle-aged men in suits stepped into the spotlight. The Head Master made a grand show of shaking Hedgeny’s hand. Hedgeny threw an arm over his beefy shoulders and handed him the microphone. “Thank-you, Hedgeny. That’s all I have to say for now. I’ll defer to Mister Mayor and say my piece when the coach and the rest of the football team get here.” He handed the microphone off to the mayor. The mayor tipped his top hat to the crowd. “What a wonderful and enthusiastic welcoming you have shown to our boys! I am ecstatic to be here!” He paused to receive a half-hearted round of applause. Let’s all have a good time, a safe and non-violent celebration.” “Here, here!” a lone voice in the crowd shouted. Another voice began to chant, “Hedge-ny! Hedge-ny! Hedge-ny!” By the third round, the lone voice had been joined by all and escalated to a collective roar. The mayor attempted to speak, couldn’t hear himself over the crowd, and handed the microphone back to Hedgeny. “C’mon guys,” Hedgeny pleaded, “Let the man say his piece so we can par-dy!” The voices in the crowd switched from Hedge-ny to Par-dy for a few rounds, then quieted down to a controlled buzz. The mayor refused the microphone when Hedgeny offered it back. Wise to such situations, he had Hedgeny hold it for him while he spoke. “Without further ado, I crown Hedgeny King of our little Mardi Gras, King for the day!” He beckoned to a group at stage-left and they came into the spotlight carrying a magnificent costume. It was complete with a body suit, sequins glistening like scales. It was adorned with black and green feathers and a long trailing cape. Hedgeny stepped into the body suit and the mayor’s attendants fastened it for him. He knelt down so the mayor could fit the fierce-looking warrior’s headdress onto his head and shoulders. When the cape was fastened on, Hedgeny began to caper back and forth on the stage. He made a great show of kicks and blows, his head bobbing up and down, back and forth. The drummer in the band pounded out a loud primal beat to his movements and the mob went wild. This was what had brought them here on Christmas Eve. This was what they had come to see and Hedgeny wouldn’t disappoint them. He was the young lion become man-dragon, a spectacle for all to enjoy. Television vans with high lifts caught every moment, enhanced Hedgeny with slo-mo, fast forward, and loop shots. Reporters spoke into their microphones, straight-tied and crisp of voice, camera men feeding them and off them. A man dressed as a tribal warrior, in headdress and breechcloth, mounted the stage and approached Hedgeny with a lighted torch. He performed an amazing double forward flip and released the torch in a high arc through the air. Hedgeny caught it single handed, bowed low to the warrior, and was escorted offstage to the pyre by a host of painted dancers. Hedgeny began to run in circles, creating serpentine visions with his flaming torch and flying sequined cape. The dancers complemented him, stepped out of his way, and followed his lead on the tails of his cape. He stopped abruptly and a lone guitar howled its message into the wild night, Hedgeny’s fighting song, his anthem. He paid silent homage to the signature introduction to ‘Whiskey Man.’ Hedgeny launched the torch, deep into the pyre, and was finally eclipsed by a thirty-foot high wall of flame. Basil looked away, allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his immediate surround then climbed down from the tree. He had seen enough. Hedgeny’s costume and behavior would stand out anywhere. Basil should have no problem locating him later. For now, he had to find a costume for himself so he would fit into the crowd and figure out how to get Hedgeny alone. He went back to the Psyche Building and took a black hooded sweatshirt from his closet. He smudged dark brown shoe polish onto his face, then put on the sweatshirt. It had large pockets in the front, which were handy for Basil’s weapons. He put the drugs in one pocket and a flashlight in the other. A glance in the mirror confirmed the fact that he wasn’t much of a costume creator. It would do though. He was ‘in costume’ and nondescript, perfect for the role he was about to play. When Basil entered Emily’s room, her body stiffened. Her lips trembled and parted. Could it be that he had startled her? He rushed to her side. “I’m sorry, Emily. It’s me, Basil. They’ve thrown a sort of Mardi Gras to celebrate the football team’s victory today. It’s not safe or acceptable to be on the quad unless you’re in costume.” He pressed his hands against the front of his sweatshirt. “I’m in no way adept at this costume business but I want to see Hedgeny.” He paused and stepped over to the light switch, which was set on dim. He turned it up half way and returned to Emily’s side. Her lips moved and Basil held his breath. “What?” he gasped. “What, Emily?” She breathed in deeply, then spoke a single word, unbelievable and unmistakable, “Kissss.” Basil brought his face down, close to hers, and touched her lips with his own. It took every bit of his resolve to keep from breaking down and crying. At the same time, he was so happy he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. The corners of Emily’s mouth suggested the faint trace of a smile, as they had earlier in the day. Her eyes moved erratically behind their lids and Basil grabbed the day-book. ‘REMs’, he wrote quickly, ‘She’s experiencing rapid eye movement and spoke a word, KISS.’ He returned to her side and gazed lovingly at her face. How he longed to push her, to beg for another word, but he knew that it was important that she do things in her own time. His was the job of silent encouragement and patience. His was to be there; it was as simple as that. What was that above her lip? A thin, dark line. Basil wet a tissue and wiped the shoe polish off her face. Its appearance reminded him of how ridiculous he must look, brown-faced and dark-hooded, and what he had yet to do. “I’ll be back,” he promised and left the room. The night was alive with fireworks and revelers dancing in the streets. ‘From the sound of things, the riflemen from the parade must be firing their guns at will,’ Basil thought. ‘It’s just powder,’ he assured himself, “they wouldn’t dare load the muskets with shot.’ There were crowds of people everywhere he went but Basil made his way through and around them. His earlier experience had taught him to watch them but avoid eye contact, to remember to be aware of his back. His biggest problem was that he was sure to find Hedgeny in the densest part of the crowd. “What are you?” a dragon lady, painted and pretty, asked him, her sequins reflecting an awesome display of color and light. “I’m an imp,” Basil replied simply, “Just an imp.” “The hell you say!” she twittered and danced away, long legs and glitter skin. Basil found a spot by the corner of the Administration Building from which he had a fair and open view across the quad. He was able to stand around the corner with his back to the wall and concentrate on the crowd. It wasn’t long before he spotted Hedgeny. He was a head taller than the average person, in the first place, and the plumage on his headdress added another six inches to his height. He was center point in a group of young men and seemed to be involved in a drinking contest. Hedgeny was performing a feat Basil had witnessed a few times before. It was known as ‘shot-gunning’. Hedgeny placed full cans of beer upside down on a table, a full case of twenty-four the last time Basil had watched. He would punch a hole in the bottom with a can opener, pull the tab, and inhale the contents in a single swallow. This created a carburetor effect and one can was consumed even before the next was opened. His record was twenty-four in just under a minute. Basil breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was clear to him now the way in which he would catch Hedgeny by himself. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The man couldn’t abide urinating in the presence of others. He was manic concerning his privacy in this regard. All Basil had to do is keep watch until the urge struck Hedgeny. Whether he chose a men’s room or a tree, one thing was for sure, he would do it alone. At the rate he was putting away the beer, Hedgeny knew he wouldn’t have long to wait. Doing his best to keep his eye on Hedgeny, Basil almost missed his chance. He probably would have, in fact, if Hedgeny hadn’t decided to go around in back of the Administration Building. There was so much activity, so many people milling about, that Basil had lost track of Hedgeny. He stepped around the corner of the building to get a better look and was almost bowled over by the man he was looking for. “Scuse me,” Hedgeny said and hurried on his way. Basil, temporarily forgetful about his black hood and brown-face, thought, “He must be really drunk. He didn’t even recognize me.’ “I’m not me,” he said to himself as he followed in the wake of the scurrying dragon. Hedgeny made his way to a small stand of trees behind the Administration Building. He took a quick glance around, braced himself against a stout tree with one hand, took his business out with the other and began to drown the tree. “Ahhh,” he moaned with relief. Having decided the direct approach was best, Basil walked to within a few feet of Hedgeny’s back and said, “Emily needs to speak with you, Hedgeny.” Hedgeny choked off, midstream. “Whuzzat?” He glanced behind him. “Who are you? What’d you say? Can’t you see when a guy’s tryin’ to take a piss?” Basil stepped around to his side, just out of reach. “It’s me, Basil. I came to tell you that Emily has woken up and wants to speak with you.” Hedgeny stomped a foot impatiently. “Damn you, Basil! You near scared the shit out o’ me. You know I don’t like to be bothered when I’m takin’ a piss.” Basil chuckled. “That’s true. I also know it’s a good time to catch you alone.” “It’s not gonna do you any good,” Hedgeny said. “For one thing, I’m not through pissin’ yet and I can’t finish with you standin’ there. For another, I told you before, once and for all, I won’t talk to you about Emily.” “I don’t want to speak with you about Emily,” Basil said softly. “Emily wants to speak with you about Emily.” “The hell she does,” Hedgeny laughed derisively. “Like she woke up and no one bothered to tell me about it.” Basil decided to take a gamble. “She woke up this afternoon while I was watching the football game in her room in the Psyche Building. I wanted to notify Administration, maybe take her to the hospital to be checked out, but she insisted on meeting with you first.” “What’d she tell ya?” Hedgeny asked. “She said she’d talk to me about it after she spoke with you,” Basil replied. “It’s just like old times, Hedgeny. You always came first with her. Once she gets things straight with you, she’ll let me know what’s going on.” “I don’t know,” Hedgeny wavered. “Seems to me we could just do this tomorrow or somethin’. I’m pretty busy tonight, got a lot o’ things to do. I don’t see why it can’t wait.” “I’ll tell you why,” Basil said, his voice controlled and angry. “Emily is very fragile right now. She’s been in a coma for months. There’s a very real chance she might not be here tomorrow. I’m tired of messing with you, Hedgeny.” Basil looked at his wristwatch. “It’s ten o’ clock. You meet me in Professor Grimes’ office by ten thirty. If you’re not there by that time, I’ll go outside and have a little conversation with the ambulance driver parked in the hell that used to be the University Quad. I’ll tell him I have a very sick young lady on my hands and that she needs to be transported to a hospital immediately.” He turned around and walked away. Hedgeny’s voice trailed after him in the dark. “Hey buddy, don’t get your pecker in a knot. Tell Emmy I’ll be along. Hey, Basil, I’m talkin’ to ya, man!” At ten thirty, Basil decided to resort to Plan B, which was to do what he had told Hedgeny he would do. Hedgeny was covering for somebody and that somebody was bound to hear the news of Emily having regained consciousness. Basil damned himself his lies. He had put Emily in the path of danger. She would probably be safer in the city hospital than she was here. Basil decided he wasn’t very good at the detective business. What had made him so cocksure Hedgeny would meet and give him information he had refused to come forth with from the beginning? What would he have done with the information anyway? Weary of questioning himself, Basil looked in on Emily, locked her door and the door to his quarters. He stepped out the front door of the Psyche Building and bumped into a black and green dragon. Hedgeny grabbed his arm. “How am I supposed to meet you in Grimes’ office when the front door to the building is locked?” “Sorry,” Basil said, sick with fear and ashamed of himself for feeling that way in Hedgeny’s grasp. “I always lock up at night. I guess I locked the door when I came in out of habit.” “We’ll see about that,” Hedgeny said suspiciously. He reeked of alcohol but didn’t appear to be as drunk as Basil thought he would be. “Let go of my arm and I’ll let you in,” Basil said with a calm he didn’t feel. “No tricks,” Hedgeny warned. “I could break you like a stick, Basil.” Basil tugged at his arm. “Why all the animosity, Hedgeny? I thought we were friends. Since when did I become a threat to you?” Hedgeny released his arm. “Somethin’ just don’t smell right. Hey, did you really watch the game?” Basil realized he’d been holding his breath. He opened the door and Hedgeny followed him inside. “I only saw the last few minutes,” Basil said. “You were utterly fantastic. I’ve never seen anything quite like that in my life. It must feel wonderful to be that good at something.” “It’s like breathin’,” Hedgeny said. “The ball is my breath. All I gotta do is smell it and it’s mine. Nobody can keep it away from me, nobody.” “This way,” Basil said, “We’ll take the elevator down. Emily is downstairs waiting for you. Her room is on the same level as the treatment center, the Cranial Loop.” “The what?” Hedgeny asked. “The Cranial Loop,” Basil repeated, “I’ll show it to you when we get down there. It’s an apparatus that provides stimulus to the cranial nerves, purely experimental at this point in time but we’re very hopeful about it in Emily’s case.” He stepped into the elevator and Hedgeny followed along reluctantly. When Basil pulled the scissors gate, Hedgeny said, “Oohie, I don’t like tight spaces.” “We’ll only be in here a couple of minutes,” Basil assured him. “Just relax. I’ve ridden this thing a thousand times.” He pressed the ‘down’ and ‘sub-level three’ buttons and reached for the clamp holding the break. “What’s that?” Hedgeny asked nervously. “It’s both the set brake and emergency brake,” Basil explained. “It’s what holds the elevator in position in the shaft. It can also be used to stop it at any point. He released the brake and the elevator started down with a jerk. Hedgeny lunged across the car and slammed the brake down. He set the clamp in place. “Whew! I gotta get out o’ here!” “Settle down,” Basil said, “We’re in between floors. You can’t just stop the elevator and get out whenever you feel like it.” “The hell I can’t!” Hedgeny growled. The elevator was stopped mid-floor. Hedgeny pulled back the scissors gate, pivoted on his feet, and rolled into the black void of sub-level one, taking the cobweb spanning the opening with him. Basil heard him crash into something, the sounds of a struggle, heavy footsteps, and then silence. http://wordwulf.com/NOVELSBLOG Inquiries: [email protected] © 2017 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
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Will you awaken the audience, please? Our hero has escaped and on his knees.
Chapter Four Deciding the Game The file full of bloody papers accused him. If he hadn’t been so selfish, had stayed with Emily and Hedgeny that day, none of this would have happened. Basil put the papers in a drawer, out of his sight. He heard something. What? A whisper, cloth on cloth, there. Yes! His hand picked up the letter opener from his desk and he tiptoed through the connecting door into Emily’s room. She lay there, just like before, except her hands were at her sides. A few moments ago, when he looked in, they had been folded in her lap, hadn’t they? He took her hand in his and she blinked. Basil blinked himself, then stared hard into her face. “Emily?” Had she done it; had she actually blinked? Her hand squeezed his, ever so slightly. Basil fell to his knees and wept like a child. Sometime later, he noticed blood on Emily’s hand and was reminded of his cut. Basil got a moist tissue and wiped her hand clean, talking softly to her all the time. “It is fine that you blinked, Emily. No finer gift have I ever received. I saw your eyelids move and I felt you squeeze my hand. I’m going to clean up now but I can hear you from my room. I’m in the room right next door to you. I’ll be back soon.” When Basil walked into his bathroom, he very nearly stabbed himself in the mirror with his letter opener. Who was this armed madman creeping through his rooms? He leaned closer to the mirror, aghast at the phantom peering back at him. What if Emily’s parents had seen him like this? Eyes drilled to the mirror, he let loose of the letter opener. It clattered into the sink. He removed his shoes and clothing. Basil peeked through the door into his bedroom. The clock next to his bed informed him it was eleven-fifteen pm. Where had the time gone? He stepped into the shower, turned on the cold water, and gasped as it sprayed over his skin. ‘Was he experiencing a horrible nightmare,’ he wondered. The excursion into the sub-levels of the Psyche Building certainly felt surreal to him. He reached out to turn on the hot water and was startled by the sight of blood running down the drain. Warm water washed over him and he removed the bandage on his wrist. The wound there was real enough, the skin surrounding it white and wrinkled. Which meant the glass in the cabinet drawer had cut him. Which meant a folder with Emily’s name on it was in his desk drawer in the other room. Which meant Emily had blinked and squeezed his hand. Could it all be true? Basil scrubbed his skin thoroughly, as if to wash away the terrible secret he had uncovered. He applied antiseptic to his cut and fixed it with a butterfly bandage to hold it together. Tomorrow he would have to raid the medical storage cabinet in the Psyche Lab and start himself on an antibiotic. He gathered his bloody clothes and put them in a plastic trash bag. Basil put on his pajamas and consulted the nurses’ schedule on his desk wall. Nine pm and gone for the night, back at seven o’ clock tomorrow morning. After all he had been through, he wondered at himself that he would be embarrassed to be found at Emily’s bedside in his pajamas. His hand shook a bit as he opened the drawer but there it was, the file with Emily’s name and covered in his blood. Proof, cold proof, black and white and red, right there where he had left it. Basil listened attentively to the monitor for a moment, then entered Emily’s room. Her hands were at her sides and what looked every bit like a smile played at the corners of her lips. Basil longed to kiss them, had always longed to kiss them, but held himself back. They were Emily’s to offer. Quite enough had been taken from her against her will. He squeezed her hand. “You are so strong, Emily. God knows you’ve been through more than any one person should have to bear. I’m here for you. I just want you to know that. I will always be here for you.” Emily’s fingers moved in his hand. A tear ran down Basil’s cheek. “You’re coming back, Emily. You’re finally coming back.” He sat with her until midnight, then returned to his room. Basil took a couple of sleeping tablets, determined to get a fitful night’s rest. He had a number of dreadful decisions to make tomorrow. ‘Saturday,’ he thought, ‘I hope I can reach the administrators and get some answers to…’ The pills took effect and Basil drifted off into a much-needed slumber. Emily’s lips found their smile after he left. From her dream world, softly, almost inaudibly, she said, “Basil.” Basil woke up to the sounds of the visiting nurse in Emily’s room. He was groggy from the effects of the sleeping pills but they had done their job. He hadn’t woken during the night and felt well rested. He lay still for a few moments and played the events of the previous day through his mind. Basil lifted his injured wrist, touched it with his free hand. It was swollen and tender to the touch. He decided the first order of business for the day would be to raid the medicine supply cabinet in the Psyche Lab for antibiotics. Rita was Basil’s favorite among the visiting nurses that came to care for Emily. She definitely ascribed to the concept of TLC intrinsic to her practice. Young and chatty, she always had tales to share about her current boyfriend and whatever else was going on in her life. Basil supposed he favored her for her openness and generally gregarious nature, areas he needed to improve in his own personality if he ever managed to open a practice. She was singing now, her voice filling Emily’s room and broadcasting over Basil’s monitoring system. Basil had told her about Emily’s preoccupation with folk music, Peter, Paul, and Mary in particular. She was singing ‘Kisses Sweeter than Wine’, “When I was a young girl and had never been kissed…” Basil rose from bed and got dressed. He had a pounding headache. That and the pain in his arm were compelling reasons to obtain medicine before visiting Emily. Rita would be leaving soon. Considering his headache, he wasn’t particularly eager to engage with her this morning. On the other hand, he wanted to see if she noticed any improvement in Emily’s condition. He valued her opinion highly, aside from what she wrote in her daily reports. As much as he wanted to believe his own eyes and feelings, Basil was hungry for confirmation. His recent close proximity to Emily complicated the clinical aspect of his responsibility to her. A loud knock on the door startled him and took the decision as to what to do next out of his hands. Basil answered and there stood Rita, a hand on one hip, smiling and chewing gum like there was no tomorrow. ‘That’s it,’ Basil thought, ‘Everything about Rita is here and now’. At just under five feet tall, Rita was packed tight and ready for action, a perky coiled spring. Her skin was as ebon black as her nurse’s shift was pearl white. “Basil, you are a sight,” she began without preamble, “With your hair all stickin’ up and look at your eyeballs. They look like two goat turds in a bowl o’ milk!” Basil grinned and ran the fingers of his good hand through his hair. “Good morning, Rita. What a nice thing to say.” Rita switched hips and regarded Basil thoughtfully. “You don’t get no free sugar from me, honey. I tell it like I see it, you know that. Get your butt over here and have a look at your girl.” Basil blanched. Yesterday’s fears came flooding back into his awareness. He shouldn’t have taken the sleeping pills. “Is she okay?” he asked fretfully. “Is anything wrong?” He was speaking to Rita’s backside. She was on her way back into Emily’s room. The first thing that caught Basil’s attention when he entered from the hallway was the brightness of the room. Rita had thrown back the curtains, which reached floor to ceiling and wall to wall across from Emily’s bed. “We got sunshine, Basil,” she announced, “and Christmas right around the corner. Ya gotta love the south, boy. Ya just gotta love it. You get on over there and have a look at your girl.” Basil stepped over and looked down at Emily. His fears were swept away in the moment of seeing her face. She was radiant, absolutely radiant. Her skin displayed incredible color and tone, the pinkish hue of her cheeks in beautiful contrast to the dark sweeping lashes of her closed eyes. For the first time since the onset of her condition, she didn’t appear comatose. She looked as if she was sleeping and would come awake at any moment. Basil consulted the monitors next to the bed. He picked up the nurses’ chart notes from a side table and read Rita’s shift notes. “Nothing exciting here,” he said dismally. Rita took the notebook from his hand. “Give me that. You just look at that girl lying there,” she ordered. “I did not hear you say there’s nothing exciting here. I’ve been in here with her day in and day out from day one. The machines always say the same things, vitals normal, muscle atrophy arrested, responding to stimulus, blah, blah and blah.” She set the notebook on Emily’s side table and took her hand. “Basil, the machines don’t see what I see. They don’t feel what I feel. Today this girl is alive! She…” Rita caught her breath. “Well, I will be damned! Praise God, Basil, she just moved her hand! I gotta write that down.” Rita patted Emily’s hand tenderly and retrieved the notebook. “I sensed something yesterday,” Basil said, “I think she squeezed my hand and her eyes moved. She blinked again.” Rita paused in her writing. She stared at Basil, confusion evident on her face. “I don’t see that written in the day book. What kind of doctor are you not to write something like that down?” “I’m afraid,” Basil gulped past the knot in his throat. “I hate to admit it but I was afraid I had imagined those things. You’re right, I should have written all of that down, especially my fears and doubts.” “Come here, you,” Rita said. She went to Basil and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “This has to be hard on you. We all need to remember that. Any fool can see how crazy in love you are with this girl.” She kissed Basil’s cheek. “I’ll leave my number with my notes. You’re not alone, Basil. It’s important that you know that. I got some stock o’ my own in Emily. You need to talk, you call Rita.” She turned to gaze at Emily. “I’ve seen some things in my days but just look at her. That girl is alive! The two of you will be walking and talking together in no time, I just know it. When that walk reaches the aisle, I expect to be there, front and center. I don’t want to miss a thing!” Basil blushed. “Emily and I have never shared so much as a kiss.” “Oh hush!” Rita admonished. “A girl knows what a girl knows. Now go and attend to your morning constitutions. Comb that hair. I’m about to give Emily her bath. If you turn any redder, you’re liable to explode.” She took a step back. “Whoa, wait a minute. What happened to your wrist? You better let me have a look at it.” “It’s nothing,” Basil assured her. “Just a little glass cut. It’ll be fine. I’m taking care of it.” “If you say so,” Rita replied. “You better do just that. What we don’t need is a sick doctor on our hands.” “Thank-you, Rita,” Basil said, “You’re just what the doctor ordered. Hey, would you write that in the day book for me, about yesterday?” “Got ya covered,” Rita said. “A blink and a squeeze; that’s some good stuff. We’ll leave that part out about the young doctor’s fears and doubts. And Basil, you don’t need to thank me.” She gave him a friendly push in the back. “You go on now. I’ve got work to do.” Basil returned to his room where he washed his face and hands, wet and combed his unruly hair. He wolfed down a slice of days old pizza from the refrigerator, brushed his teeth, and proceeded to the Psyche Lab. Once there, he took out his ring of keys and opened the medicine cabinet. The vast array of medicine at hand reminded him of Emily’s file. Any list of suspects would have to include, to begin with in fact, medical and Psyche students and teachers with access to meds. All of the drugs mentioned in the reports were there at his fingertips, every one of them and many more. Basil took a handful of antibiotic capsules and a dozen aspirin from the cabinet. He deposited them in a small plastic zip-lock bag and dropped it into the pocket of his shirt. Out of habit, he retrieved the logbook from a drawer in the cabinet and noted what he had taken. He scanned the entries on the page, which went back to the first of the month. Had anyone checked the log for entries prior to the attack on Emily, he wondered. ‘There you go again,” Basil chastised himself, “Applying logical thinking to the illogical. Those who do what was done to Emily certainly don’t leave a record of their acquisitions.’ He locked the cabinet and went to a sink where he swallowed three of the aspirin and a couple of antibiotic capsules. Basil unwrapped the bandage and examined his wrist. The flesh around the wound was purple and angry in appearance. It was quite swollen. Maybe he should have had Rita take a look at it. He cleaned and wrapped it in a fresh bandage, then prepared an ice pack. That should take the swelling down. He’d make his phone calls and do his thinking left-handed this morning. Basil had come to the conclusion that attempting to formulate what he was going to say to the representatives of the University was both frustrating and a waste of his time. The calls might never get made if he tried to do it right. There was no right in this situation, no easy fix. Basil consulted the University’s Open-door Policy Statement. There was a prioritized call list at its conclusion. He started at the top of the list and began dialing. Two hours of frustration later, he paused for a rest. Everyone he spoke to was taken aback, amazed at his ignorance. Didn’t he realize this was ‘the day of days’? The University’s Cinderella football team was about to take on the mighty Colorado Buffaloes. Where was his school spirit? How could he not be aware of the significance of this day of all days? Each person he spoke to was more than willing to regale him with statistics and odds. Hedgeny was the man of the hour, the lone hope of the multitudes. The administrators were tied up in pre-game activities, headed for their box seats, thrones of honor. There would be no consultations or school business contracted today. The swelling in his wrist had gone down significantly, which meant to Basil that his left-handed interlude hadn’t been totally unproductive. He tapped John Alexander’s business card on the lab table at which he was seated. Heartbroken over his daughter, bereft and in obvious deep pain, the man had spoken to his wife of the big game. He had given voice to his wish to meet Hedgeny, the young man who so reminded him of himself in the heyday of his youth. He could easily imagine his daughter with such a young man. ‘I’ve been guilty of the same kind of thinking, stereotyping,’ Basil thought, ‘Seeing Emily, so bright and beautiful, intelligent and sensitive, imagining myself lesser and Hedgeny her obvious match.’ He realized for the umpteenth time that all he would have had to do was tell her how he felt and ask her to make a choice. The question was: did he have that strength and confidence now? And the unfortunate answer, probably not. Basil slapped the table with the palm of his hand. “Enough of this!” he said aloud. Everyone he encountered was responding to emotional stimulus, worried about reputations and the future. What was the point of exposing the school’s cover-up? Did he have the time or inclination to go through those awful files in the sixteenth file cabinet one by one? Knowing the identity of the culprit would arm him with a powerful tool to wield against the establishment. It had also become an obsession with him to find out. “I accept this case,” Basil said softly and reverently, ‘The CLASSIFIED INCIDENT of Emily Alexander’. I will do everything within my power to see the man responsible for her suffering brought to certain justice. I will see this thing through to its end and, if I am allowed, continue my life as a scholar and mate to the only woman I will ever love.” A deep sigh of relief escaped from the deepest part of him. The decision to take on the burden of discovering the identity of Emily's attacker and solving the riddle of her deep sleep released all doubt for him. Finally, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. In a true clinical sense, it didn’t matter what he thought. From here on out it was a problem to be solved, a situation to be rectified. It had its beginning on the day he walked away from Emily and that is where he would begin his investigation. He swore to himself that, before this day came to an end, he would find and confront Hedgeny. He would create a means to being alone with his old friend and get a true and detached account of what went on after he left them at the river. The next step in the process of the investigation would be decided then. By tomorrow he should be on the trail of the beast. Oddly enough, Basil’s fear had dissipated. His prey was comfortable by now, secure in the knowledge that all bets were covered. The University had lifted the carpet and erased his tracks by sweeping the mess he made beneath it. No one would suspect Basil picking up the scent. He hardly believed it himself. Basil returned to his quarters and prepared a light lunch, cottage cheese and a tossed salad. He carried it into Emily’s room and lunched with her, chatting and reminiscing their times together. He recited a poem he had written for her: Only Emily The nature of the water in the river is my blood It flows smoothly and sings your name to me Others hear what they hear but I hear only Emily My love for you grew on its banks to the tune of your laughter the river’s ripples winked in time to me Others see what they see but I see only Emily Life begins and ends where it will is written on the waves of time The river is timeless and feels to me Others feel what they feel but I feel only Emily A single tear squeezed from the corner of Emily’s eye. Basil caught it before it could escape and run down her face. He touched it to his lips and smiled down at her. “I’ll take this as a glad tear and keep it for myself.” Basil adjusted Emily’s pillow, ran his fingers through her soft, silky hair in the process. He took a spare pillow from the foot of the bed and did what he had done many times before, lay down on the floor next to the bed and went to sleep. Hedgeny was involved in the game of his life, so Basil would bide his time and wait until it was over. When it was, he would devise a way to draw Hedgeny out and away from the crowd. The two of them would have the conversation that Basil had worried over for months. A couple of hours later he got up and left Emily’s room. He went to the elevator and descended to sub-level three. Basil’s mind was clear now. He was the clinician, the professional. He found his way to the operating theater with no problem. He felt a certain precision in each step, a resolution to purpose. He gathered the chairs from the stainless-steel room and carried them to the office at the end of the hall. When he was through, the Cranial Loop apparatus was the only thing left in the operating room. It was an iron throne in Basil’s eyes, symbolic of Emily’s affliction and his will to reach her. Basil unlocked the control panel and retrieved the Cranial Loop headpiece from its drawer. He hoped he wouldn’t need it but would have it ready just in case. He adjusted it to its largest size and wired it according to the schematic of Emily’s last treatment. That done, he returned it to the control panel drawer and locked the panel down. “This just might work,” he said to himself. He locked the door to the room and returned to the elevator. Emily’s room was furnished with a television set. It was fastened to a wall bracket in the corner by the foot of her bed. Basil had rented movies they had seen with Hedgeny and watched them in the room, hoping to rekindle a memory, to provide a spark to ignite her consciousness. He pulled a chair up next to Emily’s bed and sat down, the remote control for the television in his hand. “Hedgeny’s playing today,” he said to Emily. “Let’s see how he’s doing.” Hedgeny was in the battle of his life, a high scoring, seesaw game, according to the excited announcers. It had been the treat of a lifetime; they had never seen anything like it. The score was thirty-seven to thirty-four in favor of the University but Colorado was posed, at fourth down and twenty on the University’s twenty-three-yard line, to kick a tying field goal. Television cameras played back and forth between the action on the field and the drama occurring on the sidelines. Hedgeny was there, pleading with the coach, chasing him relentlessly as he paced back and forth in front of the University bench. Hedgeny wanted in; he was sure he could block the kick, but the coach had other ideas. He had decided to let his field goal defense team do their job. The chances of blocking a twenty-three-yard field goal just weren’t that good and he didn’t want to risk an injury to his star player. He knew what Hedgeny did not, that the young man couldn’t do everything; no one could. He would save him for what he did best, which was carry the ball. The announcers knew it all. Hedgeny could do it. No one could do it. The coach was making the mistake of a lifetime. The coach was doing what any sensible coach would do. If it came down to fifth quarter, sudden death overtime, and his team won the toss and received the ball, it would be impossible to keep Hedgeny out of the end zone. If he lost the toss, here was a team that had scored four touchdowns and three field goals against the University’s dream team. They all agreed on one thing after watching this unbelievable game; the fourth quarter wasn’t over and anything could happen. With less than thirty seconds to play, the Buffaloes nailed the field goal, tying the score at thirty-seven all. This being a championship game, barring a miracle, it would be decided after a fifteen-minute break, in sudden death overtime. Hedgeny’s coach called his final time out and gathered his kick receiving team around him. He advised them to be alert to the squib kick, the on-side, and any manner of tricks they had watched in film reviews of the Buffaloes. The ball would be kicked away from Hedgeny, everyone knew that. Hedgeny was to play back just in case the ball was free kicked, then run to it wherever it landed. It was the team’s duty to keep the ball in play, commit no fouls, and get the damned pigskin to Hedgeny. Nothing fancy, just good, old-fashioned, American football, knowing what your assets were and using them to the best of your ability. Basil, who had never had much interest in football, paid strict attention to the game. The announcers informed and re-informed him of the obvious. Twenty-two of the fastest and surest athletes alive were about to take the field. Most of them hadn’t played for the past five minutes or so. They were tired but rested as much as they could be under the circumstances. It was the job, primary focus, of eleven of those athletes to keep the ball from Hedgeny. Ten of their opponents were bent on denying them that privilege. A whistle blew and the marauding bull, Hedgeny, roared onto the field and into the face of his destiny. “You were right, Emily,” Basil said, “Hedgeny is a fantastic athlete. He transcends the field.” Eighty thousand screeching fans were on their feet as the gladiators faced off. A young male voice growled, “Hut, hut, hut one, and!” The ball was in the kicker’s hands and he opted for the squib kick. A perfect boot, the ball bounced and dribbled a dozen yards. A field of young men, running full out, collided on its point in a loud crashing of helmets and roar of young voices. Hedgeny was a bullet fired from the rifle of life as he flew across the field. He plowed into the pile and, amazingly, emerged from the other side, the football tucked under his arm in classic runner style. His warrior’s dance to the goal line, spinning, straight-arming, feinting and running through, would be played forever in bits and pieces any time a football game was televised. He lunged across the line carrying half the field with him. The young lion would not be denied. There was no time for an extra point, no sudden death overtime. The game ended, forty-three to thirty-seven, in favor of the University. Basil smiled. “Look at that, Emily. The team is carrying Hedgeny on their shoulders.” He switched off the television and looked at her. She seemed sad somehow. Basil wondered about something Professor Grimes had said about projecting emotions. But he hadn’t felt sad until he connected with Emily. ‘I’m such a fool,’ he thought, ‘Emily has every reason to be sad.’ He dimmed the lights and left the room. http://wordwulf.com/NOVELSBLOG Inquiries: [email protected] © 2017 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © |
AuthorTom (WordWulf) Sterner is a writer, vocalist & multi/media artist. A native of Colorado, he lives in Arvada with his wife, Kathy. Archives
February 2020
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