'Buried'

It's Fiction Friday so here's a short story. I got the idea for this one, several times over the course of a few months, after reading the Sunday paper.

A lot of my stories come with a warning, and rightfully so. This one isn't that bad but it's a bit graphic here and there. Not for everyone.

Buried
written by Alan Green

Bobo stands next to the patch of dirt, his stance wide, blue eyes gleaming, looking serious. The storm had blown dead leaves away exposing a rectangular section of bare ground about seven by three feet. Yeah, it was curious. I didn't know what to think. Of course, that shape was eerie, but who goes there, mentally I mean? Who thinks stuff like that? Then, there was the way Bobo stood. Tense, his intelligent eyes trying to communicate something important. He is so smart. Really, it shakes me up sometimes. This was one of those times, for sure. That first time.

I had gotten Bobo from the pound. I just didn't like the idea of going to a pet shop. Wanted to rescue an animal, I guess. He had been brought in a few weeks earlier by someone who was moving to Europe and couldn't keep a dog any longer, and was scheduled to be put down the next day. Nobody had taken him, I guess, because he was scruffy. Short fur of black, dull aqua, silver, and burgundy that had darker patches here and there and was naturally dirty looking. A squat animal, thickly muscled with a large head, he was pure mutt with no discernible lineage. Like the dog in that 'Road Warrior' movie. Besides being homely, he didn't make a good first impression. He just lay there, on his side, like he was asleep but with his eyes open. He didn't sell himself as a prospective pet very well, seemed resigned to his fate.

But, those eyes. He pinned me with them. Intense, knowing, and made more captivating, almost disturbing really, by their deep iceberg color. Made you feel he could read your thoughts. When he sat up the guy from the pound said, 'He likes you. He usually just lays there.'

I squatted close to the wire mesh. 'What's his name?' I said. 'Bobo,' the guy answered. 'Hi Bobo.' His ears perked. I put my hand up and he sniffed, eying me. The guy opened the door. I reached in and stroked him. He put his paw in my hand. I thought it was noteworthy he could shake hands. A silly thing, but it seemed meaningful at the time. He stared at me. I swear it was like he was waiting for me to make a decision. Almost impatient. 'Are you taking me or not,' he seemed to say. Those eyes... Almost human. I took him.

Standing next to that patch of dirt, he was waiting for a decision again. I knelt, stroked his head, and looked at the ground. The hole hadn't been dug recently but nothing had grown over, either. And that shape -- a fairly good rectangle. Those dimensions -- seven by three. Bobo sniffed the earth and mewled, worried. He put his paw on my arm, growling low.

Okay, fine. I'll probably feel like a fool, I thought, but what the hell. I got a stick and starting digging. I hadn't gotten six inches before I uncovered a dried-up hand, its skin turned to a papery leather. I jerked back as soon as I recognized what it was, stood up, caught my breath. Bobo barked and backed away stiffly, his tail straight. He shot me a hard look. 'I told you it was important.'

The police arrived within a few minutes of the 911 call. Ten minutes later, three more cars arrived. An officer ran yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter. They asked questions. Bobo sat by my side panting, content, watching. He was always paying attention. A detective, William, arrived. We talked for a while. Nice guy. You could tell he'd seen a lot. I had nothing of value to offer. He took my information even though a uniformed officer had already done that. 'We'll be in touch,' he told me.

On the way home I stopped and picked up dinner. Bobo stayed in the car. He knew he couldn't go in the grocery store. I bought a steak, a pepper, onion, portobello, fresh garlic, a nice Chianti.

I separated Bobo's serving from mine before adding spices, mixed in some plain chopped-up pasta, and set it aside to cool while I finished cooking. Bobo watched every move, licked his chops, eyes wide and full of hope. We ate watching TV, as usual, but I kept glancing over. He looked the same but didn't seem the same. He seemed smarter, like a dog on a mission.

The discovery was covered by all the local stations. William made one of those generic noncommittal statements. A few weeks later the news said the body was that of a girl that had been reported missing years ago. Analysis of DNA evidence made it clear she was the victim of a serial killer who had been convicted and was serving a life term. With this body, the new total of known victims was fourteen. The killer said there were more but wouldn't help police locate their graves. He claimed to remember where each was but wasn't inclined to be of assistance.

I was curious so I looked him up online. He killed women because his mother had liked his two younger sisters better than him. She bought them new school clothes but made him wear the same stuff every year until he looked bad and that made him feel stupid. The three of them made fun of him. He didn't have friends. Other kids taunted him at school so he quit. When he turned eighteen his mother told him that if he was going to stay he would have to move under the house because she and the girls couldn't stand the sight or smell of him. They didn't have a finished basement but the space under the house offered protection from the elements. He lived like that for years while his sisters finished high school then went off to college in new clothes and new cars. One day they came home for Christmas break and found their mother raped and stabbed on the kitchen floor. Her head was in the microwave, fully cooked.

I checked my e-mail. William had sent me a thank-you note. He said the discovery of the body helped bring closure to the family. I e-mailed back thanking him for his professionalism in a difficult job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Sunday. That's the day I take Bobo out someplace special for a walk instead of the park up the street. I park in a lot overlooking the entire area -- a shallow valley with a picturesque river -- a great spot for a walk and a little adventure. A favorite spot in the summer the place is deserted this early on a cold, rainy, late-winter day. We head down the path, Bobo's tail wagging wildly. Nearer the water's edge he leaves the path and runs down to the river. I throw his ball and he dives in, swimming like a pro. I walk on expecting him to catch up. I get maybe fifty feet before I realize he hasn't rejoined me. Looking back I can just make out his shape through the brush. He is sitting on the muddy shore.

When I get closer I see he is soaking wet, his ball between his front paws, looking back and forth between me and something a few feet to his side. I call but he just sits there. He barks once, an edgy sound. I move to the edge of the path and can just make out the object next to him. A crumpled blanket in the water, right next to the bank. I make my way down and when I get close enough I realize there is something under the blanket, bobbing in the water. Holding a tree I lean out over the mud. It's a kid's blanket with yellow ducks and tiny elephants. Bobo growls cautiously. Daintily, I pull up the corner. There is a body.

This one was a young boy, seven years old, who had been reported days earlier as missing by his mother after she left him asleep in the car while she shopped at a local mall. The police said there were discrepancies in the mother's story that were cause for concern and, as she had been convicted of child abuse some years ago, was considered a suspect in the disappearance. The mother's family was split. Some thought she had something to do with the disappearance citing suspicious things the boy had said at various family gatherings, while others vociferously defended her, claiming the rest of the family was 'jealous of her good looks and would say anything to undermine her life'.

Police obtained a search warrant on the basis of a random comment the mother had made to the press. 'You get down to that river and you search,' she demanded. She had said this two days before the boy's body was discovered. William was on TV again. He announced that, as a result of the search a photograph of the boy had been found. It showed the child, his neck deeply bruised, apparently dead and was taken on the bank of a river. In fact, after cursory analysis, it was determined the photograph was made on the exact spot the body was discovered. The mother was taken into custody and charged with murder. Later, it was revealed that other items recovered connected the mother to the crime scene, including shoes caked with a certain dried mud that had been kept in a plastic bag in the back of a closet, perfectly preserving the evidence.

The coroner's report indicated the boy had been strangled, his throat crushed. However, it was clear he had survived for several minutes after the assault. In that time blood gathered in the throat and was drawn into the lungs as the boy struggled for breath. The walls of the air passageway swelled in reaction to trauma and pinched closed making breathing more difficult. None of this, the coroner pointed out during testimony, would have been possible had the boy died immediately. The prosecution pointed out that, had the mother sought medical care for the boy after the initial attack, she might have saved his life, but instead elected to take a picture of her dying son as a keepsake then leave him in the cold water to die. This, they claimed, indicated she had a callous disregard for human life which warranted the most severe punishment. The point was reiterated during the sentencing phase.

During the trial the mother sought empathy saying she had done it because she didn't want the father to get custody of the child in the divorce proceedings which were ongoing at the time. She called him a 'scoundrel' who couldn't be trusted to raise a kid correctly. She thought, given the father's drug use, criminal background, and how he regularly beat her, he would raise the boy to be a thug.

When I read this in the paper it made sense. Once, I had a Guinea pig. She had a litter and I would watch her care for the babies. Pressing my face close to the habitat, I would tap the plastic tubing and click my tongue. I guess I stressed her out because she ate one of the piglets as it tried to crawl away. It screamed the whole time she gnawed, starting with its butt and finishing with its head. I guess killing your baby is an instinctual reflex, under the right conditions. Then again, we aren't rodents.

The mother was sentenced to life in prison.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I would look at Bobo a lot while we watched TV. What he had done had helped people, that's for sure. It made me feel good to have had a part in it. I found myself wondering whether there was something else at work, though. Some force. I mean, what are the odds of us finding those bodies? One, maybe, but two? There had to be something else at work here. Fate, destiny, a cosmic consciousness, something, guiding us.

Or, maybe Bobo was a person reincarnated in the body of a dog. He could have been a master detective whose life's work was unfinished so he came back to complete his assignment. But, why as a dog? Because they have a better sense of smell?

I test him: 'Bobo. What's two plus two?' He looks at me. I over enunciate and speak slowly in case his ability to understand human speech has become dull between incarnations. He cocks his head in an effort to comprehend. 'What's the square root of nine?' He lays his head back on the floor, watches TV, his eyes following the motion. Maybe he didn't speak English. Maybe he was a Chinese detective. I could hire an interpreter. Of course, that would create its own complications.

I marvel at my stupidity and go back to watching TV. It's mindless -- perfect, all things considered.

Bobo (I shouldn't take credit) found the next body in the middle of summer in a mountainside park. We were on a trail about halfway up one of the smaller hills when he took off running. I figured he was chasing squirrel or rabbit, but when he didn't rejoin me, I went back. Calling, I heard him bark, down a slope. He was a few yards off the unpaved access road that parallels the trail in fairly thick underbrush sitting next to the driver's side of a car which had run off the road. It sounds corny, but a chill ran up my spine. Out of habit, I suppose, I approached the car carefully so as not to disturb fragile evidence. It had crashed into a tree, but not too hard. The driver was slumped over the wheel. I tapped the window but he didn't move. Looking closer I saw he had a bullet hole in his forehead. I called William (he had given me his direct number). After the usual questions Bobo and I went home.

This case was one the strangest. I couldn't believe each new revelation I read in the paper. The guy in the car, I'll call him Joe, was shot by a jealous husband, we'll call him Lou. Lou owns a business. He comes in after office hours and finds Joe and his wife (Lou's wife, not Joe's), who was the office manager, talking in a way that, to Lou, meant something was up. The wife admitted during the trial that she and Joe had a relationship, but insisted it wasn't intimate. She said she would have had a sexual thing with Joe, seeing how she and Lou had been discussing divorce for a while and she figured the marriage was over anyway, except Joe was borderline retarded and she didn't feel right about it. 'He was forty on the outside but only, like, fourteen on the inside,' she testified. So, they were just friends. Well, Lou didn't see it that way. The business had been losing money and he thought his wife and Joe were bleeding him dry in order to finance running off together, though he could never explain what that was based on, saying sheepishly in court, 'It was just a hunch.'

So, Lou gets mad and levels accusations. They argue. Both Joe and the wife tell Lou he's crazy. Lou fires Joe, then, as Joe is leaving Lou tells him to wait a minute, goes in the back for his revolver, returns and shoots Joe in the face. Lou and his wife have a screaming match for a couple hours while Joe sits in a chair dead, staring at them. Over the course of the argument, the wife becomes impressed by the fact Joe was jealous enough to shoot a man he thought she was having an affair with. To her, this was a sign the marriage might still be salvageable. Lou, for his part, was touched by how his wife was still interested in him despite the fact he had just killed a man. They realize they were still in love, make up, and decide to give the marriage another go.

They load Joe into his car and Lou drives him out to the mountainside park with his wife following in a company car. They arrange Joe in the driver's seat, point his car down the hill, and release the brake. The car crashed into the tree doing about twenty -- not fast enough, really, to cause a bullet hole to appear in Joe's forehead. As an accident it was suspicious even on casual review.

Over a beer, William told me that when he questioned Lou and his wife, routine considering they were the victim's employers, they made up some ridiculous story about how Joe was upset when he left work and said something about meeting some guy he owed money to and was frightened cause this guy was tough and was, Joe thought, probably a dangerous criminal. They continuously interrupted each other with suddenly remembered details that began 'Oh, yeah, and then he...!' and ended with the other saying, 'Yeah, that's right!' nodding their head. William shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'Fuck,' he said. 'You see a lotta crazy shit in this line of work but I could hardly believe what I was hearing.' All I could do was gaze into my glass slack-jawed and say 'no shit' every now and then.

Lou and his wife's fingerprints were all over the interior of Joe's car. Ballistics matched the bullet in Joe's head to Lou's revolver. Though Lou and his wife cleaned the office, there was a lot of blood splatter hidden behind furniture and in crevices like around window sills, even a couple flecks of Joe's skin, and a shard of his skull. Witnesses testified they saw Lou and his wife put a heavy object that looked like 'a body wrapped in carpet' into the trunk of Joe's car. The carpet itself was found in a storage room, loaded with evidence. The keys to Joe's car were found in Lou's desk. The GPS system in Lou's company car indicated a round-trip to the mountainside park where Joe's body was found. And, as if that weren't enough, there was the sobbing confession upon subsequent questioning that, according to William, went 'on and on'.

Lou got twenty-five years for manslaughter while his wife got twelve for, you know, all the stuff she did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dream. I've had it so many times I know when I'm in it. It's first light. The woods somewhere. Light rain, cool. I'm looking at Bobo. He's sitting next to a patch of fresh dirt. Behind him are several more. They go back into the woods as far as you can see. All about the size of a grave. Bobo turns to look at me. His eyes are more blue than normal. Almost lit up, like a neon sign. He snarls. It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. He stands and takes a step and I realize he isn't looking at me but something behind me. His lip curls, baring large teeth, and he growls, low and serious. Behind me, very close, I hear the unmistakable sound of the hammer of a revolver being cocked and think 'I hope they take care of Bobo'. It's a ridiculous notion, I know, even while still dreaming.

My hair is wet. It's sweat but it may as well be the rain from the dream. It takes a moment to get my bearings. I pull the covers off to cool down. My tee-shirt is damp. My breathing slows, evens out. As usual, Bobo is there, looking up at me. 'Hi, boy.' I tap the bed and he jumps up, lays beside me. I wrap my right arm around him and extend my left hand into the sunlight streaming through the window onto the bed, enjoying the warmth and crispness of clean sheets. Bobo snuggles his nose under my ear. His tail taps my leg softly a while, then stops.

It's Sunday. I'm glad. Glad I don't have to go to work. Glad I have a job in this economy. Glad it's our special day. Don't know where we're going this time. Didn't plan it this week. Hope we don't find another body, but if we do I guess I'd be glad then, too. In a way.

We'll go get the paper at the corner shop. That way Bobo can get his first pee in and won't be uncomfortable while I make breakfast and read the news. Really, though, I'm not looking forward to it. I used to love reading the paper, especially on Sunday, but not so much anymore.

I pet Bobo, getting sleepy in the sun's warmth. I have to chuckle at the notion he is a person reborn in the body of a dog. The stupid things we think of... My eyes closed I say, 'Bobo. What's the square root of nine?' No response. I half whisper, 'What's two plus two?'

As I drift off Bobo's tail taps my leg three times then, after a moment, once more.

A Science Fiction Short Story

Here's a sci-fi short story.

Birth

written by
Alan Green

Part I


It was dark.

Sleep Cycle. Bugsy's section, Alpha 1, was blacked out. No electricity was allocated for lights with the exception of ten minutes Personal Illumination Time, affectionately called PIT. Bugsy's compartment, however, was not completely dark. It never was. The blinking red LED indicated the door was locked. The green-orange light shining through a dirty plastic cover informed the Occupant CO2 levels were within an acceptable range. The tiny blue light floating in blackness meant the ventilation system (VENT SYS) was working properly.

Bugsy had extra Light Ration, as did the others assigned to the ICT, (Insect Clearing Team aka Bug Zappers, Beetle Burners, and Roach Rippers). It was one of the perks, but he was in no mood to use it. Staring into darkness was soothing. It made it easier for him to pretend he was in another place, another time.

The constant thrumming helped lull his senses as well. The sound was produced by giant rotating blades of the VENT SYS which, along with a series of pumping stations, pulled air down from the surface, circulating it to every Occupant. It was the incessant sha-shumm-da sha-shumm-da that reverberated everywhere. It was known as The Heartbeat.

Bugsy's facility, US-UHHF-1702 (United States - Underground Human Habitation Facility - Number 1702), officially known as New South Chicago but called 'The Burrow' by most, was one of the last subterranean living facilities constructed before the Migration Project ended in 2325.

The Burrow was a vertically oriented cylinder, a hundred yards in diameter, extending one hundred and fifty levels into the Earth. As such, elevators were the favored mode of transport, stairways being utilized only for trips of one or two levels. Since there was no day or night the rigmarole of activity never diminished. A sudden high-pitched whir of a passing elevator would interrupt conversations, streams of consciousness, or tenuous slumber, then just as suddenly its screeching would fade and The Heartbeat, the backdrop to all goings on, would return.

It was a bubbling muffled complex compacted cacophonous cottony-soft clangor comprised of a thousand distant frenzied yelps and whispers, a million stomping footfalls, endless door slams, non-stop gear turnings, ceaseless equipment chugs, continual pipe rattlings, and the perpetual hum of surging electricity. On occasion, even a minor earthquake would add to the rumble. It was the facility's audible fingerprint -- the first thing known upon waking, and the last thing known before sleep.

Bugsy preferred it. Liked it better than music. The persistent dull thudding would press on his mind creating a pleasant sort of senselessness in which directed thought subsided, allowing cherished apparitions the space to roam. It was an aural narcotic that created a portal into the past. Once the drug wove itself into Bugsy's mind, facility noises changed into beautiful singing tones. Sounds from a life on the surface. A life before the Earth was scorched by UV storms, before ice caps melted, before the desolation of Z-Virus, before nuclear accidents and attacks, before strange jungles of tall purple and blue plants teeming with hordes of giant insects replaced wheat fields, city parks, and forests. A life that now only existed in the interstices of memory.

Once he managed to quiet his mind and catch hold of the elusive delirium, the squeal of an elevator would mold itself into his daughter's voice calling, urging him to hurry to the playground. The blare of a fire alarm would transfigure itself into his wife's gentle sweet voice announcing dinner. Random clangs and thuds were the happy barks of the family's dog. In this altered state even smells changed. Foul air became the fresh scent of approaching spring rain.

For Bugsy it held more allure than other diversions. Bars and clubs on the lower levels were lurid and depressing. He wasn't much of a drinker and snorting grunge left him with splitting headaches. He much preferred spending down time in his Living Unit, the lights off, staring into darkness, reliving a life bygone.

Tonight, though, he found no solace in excursions of the imagination. He lay in his bunk wide awake, waiting for the alarm, listening to The Heartbeat, breathing thick air, feeling droplets of condensation gather on the hairs of his nostrils. He worried about the work that had to be done. Killing bugs. A nasty job but one that came with advantages. Bugsy couldn't complain about those.

One of the perks was a Living Unit at the top of the facility. Section Alpha. A desirable thing because, simply, it was closer to the surface and, therefore, the air was better. Despite that, the air was still heavy and moist and resisted being drawn into the body. Bugsy found it uncomfortable at times, but was glad he wasn't on a lower level.

In some facilities, the first ones built, the lowest levels had such poor air circulation that deaths were common. Design was revised and new facilities boasted better ventilation and utilized basements only for storage and machinery. Other measures were taken to guard against O2-related mishaps. Each Living Unit was equipped with a small oxygen tank in the event of VENT SYS failure. However, tanks leaked over time and were often empty when needed. Automated sensors were installed to detect high levels of CO2 (as well as low levels of oxygen). However, most of these failed after a few years and were never replaced or repaired due to the expense. While there was a certain amount of protest, facility life is not, strictly speaking, democratic and CA (Central Administration) determined that Vent Teams, which they pointed out, were highly trained in both VENT SYS repair and first aid, offered an adequate response. The need for sensors ceased to be a subject for debate. Vent Teams were posted on every third or fourth level, however they were notoriously slow, sometimes taking ten or fifteen minutes to get to an affected area once the alarm was sounded, the lag being worse when the local elevator was out of order. These factors conspired to make survival of a VENT SYS failure unlikely and the death rate from hypoxia continued to be high, even in the newest facilities.

The signs and symptoms of hypoxia progress in an orderly fashion. First, there is headache, sometimes nausea, an inability to concentrate, then shortness of breath and, often, a sort of cheap high caused by too little oxygen in the brain. Many of these indications were things most Occupants lived with much of the time, hence were usually ignored. Next, the victim becomes sleepy. In day-to-day facility life, drowsiness is an affliction of epidemic proportion and generally goes unnoticed, so, as a symptom is of value only in the most pedantic sense. Next, if no action was taken, the victim fell asleep and his or her skin turned blue. What happened next depended on the amount of time it took for a Vent Team to get to the scene. If they arrived in, say, five minutes, the victim might well be revived. If it took ten minutes or more the victim would be discovered unconscious and taken to the nearest Med Level where, generally, they would lapse into a coma. If discovered dead, they would be taken to the morgue and prepped for disposal.

During the Surface Era, a coma was preferable, at least preferable to dying, as appropriate medical care was widely available, and with a small measure of luck a comatose patient might recover. In the Subterranean Era Med Teams lacked the resources for care of comatose patients. The few doctors a facility was lucky to have were perpetually overworked. Around-the-clock treatment of a comatose patient could last for weeks or even months and the rate of survival was very low. In most cases, if a patient did manage to emerge from this state he or she could no longer contribute any useful function.

Considering all the factors it was deemed that any comatose Occupant, whether their condition was due to hypoxia, alcohol abuse, getting beat up, or snorting grunge or grime or whatever concoction was going around, would be taken to the surface by a Disposal Team and left behind, alive though unconscious. What happened next depended on the current Weather Cycle. If dust hurricanes prevailed, the body would be blown away by a wall of wind thick with pebbles and dirt, tossed and rolled for miles until the parts were no longer congruous. The remaining bits would be pushed and scraped until everything, including bone, was ground into dust, becoming one with the hurricane. In a Growth Cycle, the body would be left in the jungles of neon colored plants where giant bugs would find them. After a day or two nothing would be left. In a Burn Cycle the body would be taken some distance from the facility entrance and left to fry in UV radiation. With the same result.

Keeping a cadaver within the Facility for more than a few days was impractical. Neither electricity nor refrigerant needed for storage could be diverted. Cremation was not viable as no Facility could afford to allocate the resources necessary. Conventional burial was too risky. A Burial Team on the surface might become disoriented in a dust storm and end up wandering aimlessly in the wrong direction until their O2 supply ran out. Or, if particularly unlucky, they might be surrounded by a hunting expedition of bugs.

Even if the body was successfully interred, a marble headstone would be worn smooth by the first windstorm. It was true that fortified steel could withstand a hundred years of blowing dust and sand, but this material was in high demand and far too precious to be squandered on grave markers, especially considering that, without a Surface Suit, no one would dare venture topside to read such a marker until the next period of Climate Stabilization, which was not expected, even by the most optimistic climatologists, for at least a thousand years.

It was currently Growth Cycle. A slow giant storm akin to a cyclone (except without high winds) was centered over Kansas, turning slowly counter-clockwise, making a complete revolution once a week, churning warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, distributing rain to the entire central United States.

The formation, like all new weather patterns, was obstinate. It lingered, hovering stationary over the same spot on the globe for several weeks, a phenomenon previously known to occur only on a few distant planets and large moons. It would rain most nights, all night, and be very warm most days. The sun was barely visible in the dirty haze that had become the sky. In fact, the sun and sky appeared fused into one thing, orange in the brightest part, green toward the horizons, and a sickly grayed-down mauve at the edges, even at high noon.

In locations where there wasn't Growth Cycle, it was Burn Cycle. Ultraviolet radiation bombarded the surface of the Earth, and fire swirled for days or weeks. When there was nothing left to burn the soil baked, and anything that intended to survive had to burrow deep. The windstorms created by Burn Cycle would, in turn, lead to the pebble hurricanes of Dust Cycle in which churned up smoke and ash was carried around the planet. This haze of organic material would collide with a cyclone and mix with the moisture there. The resulting rains would fertilize soil already rich with the remains of insects and plants which had perished in the last Burn Cycle the region had suffered, and once again, Growth Cycle would begin.

The ground was richer than anything ever known and weird life sprung up from it with frightening speed. A brilliantly colored alien jungle could grow a hundred feet, laterally as well as vertically, within a day or two. These new plants were mutations. Their seeds, carried by winds for thousands of miles, were exposed to radiation both from space that found its way through weakened strata of atmospheric defense, and nuclear meltdowns that spewed smoke around the clock. Most species died, but some survived to become rooted abominations.

Beneath unsightly colored broad leaves, in gloomy shade, were giant mushrooms, mostly poisonous. Under the mushrooms was yellow and brown moss and beneath that a layer of viscous clay -- the waste products of the ecosystem.

Insects occupied every level of the jungle and enjoyed eating the plants. Over great periods of time a tit-for-tat battle of adaptation ensued. The plants created defenses. Pollen became caustic. Skin grew as tough as leather and in some cases was like tree bark. Juices were corrosive. Insects made counter moves, growing steely sharp mandibles that sliced through thick outer layers, and mouth parts which were immune to toxic liquor.

As time went on, bugs began eating not only plants but each other. So, further adaptations were needed. Shells grew thick. Venom was concocted which blinded, made the blood boil, or paralyzed the victim so it could be devoured at leisure. The warfare continued and only the most grotesque, queer, and bizarre prevailed.

Insects and plants were all that could acclimate quickly enough to the violent new weather patterns and onslaught of radiation. No higher forms of life, birds for instance, existed though there were rumors of humans who dwelled in caves and suffered from a strange malady.

The beetles were the worst. Some were the size of a car battery. Many were larger, as big as a medium sized dog. Territorial and aggressive, they represented the greatest threat to people who went topside. A large beetle, if disturbed, could chew through a surface suit in seconds, through a leg bone in a minute or two. They always traveled alone.

The small beetles, about the width of a deck of cards, were just as voracious and moved in groups as large as a dozen. Some beetles were tiny, barely visible, traveled in swarms of thousands or millions and, if inhaled, would eat away at the lungs. All were to be avoided.

Leaving a body in such an environment to be consumed by weather or insects was perhaps a barbaric practice by Surface Era standards. However, this was the Subterranean Era. What Surface Disposal lacked in humaneness it made up for in efficient utilitarianism, a commodity highly valued by the Doctrine of Facility Life. So, despite the severe nature, it remained the only practical method to process the deceased.

Even the smallest Facility was home to half a million people and, with that many, there were several deaths each day. The last Disposal Team, coming back from topside, reported a concentration of bugs, mostly large beetles, on the northwest ventilation intake grill. Currently, their report read, the bugs blocked about thirty percent of one vent. Left unchecked there would be total blockage within a week.

With the latest outbreak of pneumonia, brought on by an especially virulent new strain of Toxo-influenza, the death rate had quadrupled and the bugs had doubled in numbers, size and shell thickness. All of which made it more dangerous for one man to attempt to clear them. Going topside alone was never a good idea, but with the crawler population at a peak, there was a better than average chance of attack. While the bug population had increased, the number of bug zappers assigned to Northwest VIS (Ventilation Intake Sector) remained the same. One. Bugsy. That was why he lay awake in his bunk staring into darkness. Sleep always eluded Bugsy the night before a bug bake.

The fluorescent main light stuttered to life. The sight was never different. The same exposed pipes, video monitor, stainless steel mirror above a dirty sink, computer and work area, dents and scratches where they always had been. A soft feminine voice announces, 'The time is six a.m. You are scheduled to zap bugs this morn'-- 'Alarm off,' Bugsy says, stopping the synth-voice. He sits up with a groan, massages the back of his neck. There was time for a cup of coffee and maybe a donut before going topside. He takes a shower, gets dressed, unlocks the door and leaves.





Part II will be posted soon

Black Rose: A Vampire Love Story

Black Rose
A Vampire Love Story

written by
Alan Green

Chapter 1



The Wind is Lonely

The wind cuts across a sleeping city, darting here then there, lithe and quick, chasing the moon's frosted bleached-bone illumination down abandoned streets, between buildings, through clicking bare branches. Play with me. It will not. Moonlight only plays with water.

The wind pokes into crevices to harass insects. Come out and play! They roll into tight balls and hide behind thick shells. They have no use for play.

The wind howls, lifting loose tiles of roofs under which fragile fatigued folk seek slumber, blankets pulled high, wanting only to escape and dream of pleasure not pain. Will you play? Their houses were built to keep out the wind, and all things wild. People grow old then die, they don't stop to play.

The wind whips through iron bars, peers down park pathways, peeks under stone archways, seeking something, someone, anything, anyone. Skims over icy creeks, trespasses through frozen gardens, leaving no trace. Sweeping into an abandoned playground, it turns the merry-go-round and pushes the swing just to prove who's boss during the night.

Rusty hinges groan, silvery chains clink,
but they won't be roused, they won't lose a wink.

Children are the ones with whom they play,
and with them only during the day.

The wind toys with a leaf, dead since autumn, edges split and chipped, flipping it again and again, higher and higher, laughing, tormenting, giving it little hope of rest, then moves on, bored, letting its quarry settle back to the earth.

Only in bright and sunshine do leaves play,
in greenness and warmth, not in cold and gray.

Everything sleeps, cowers from bitter cold, turns its back on that which lives in winter's dark. It's always been. For longer than can be expressed. Every night the wind riffles here, rifles there, hoping to uncover a mate. Every night nothing spends even a moment.

Everything has another. Why shouldn't the wind? It has always been lonely at night. Always... It will have none of it. Pushes on. Hunting. Somewhere, there must be a partner.

Hither and yon mischievous wind rushes,
for a cohort this errant child searches.

Night after night since the beginning of time,
the wind keeps skirring for a friend to call mine!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Silhouetted against moonlight, Isabelle looks at the old man lying in bed. Because they met just hours earlier she knows him only as Thomas. She also knows he has a daughter that gave him two grandchildren -- little brats, according to him -- which he sees once a year, he likes baseball but can't watch basketball, and recently had his driver's license taken away due to failing vision. All were usual tidbits she had gleaned from old men many times before. Most importantly, though, she had learned he had made a fortune in real estate. This was the reason she persuaded him to bring her to his apartment and, with a modicum of pressing, why she also persuaded him to open the safe and show her what one hundred thousand dollars in cash looked like. The money was, ultimately, why she had spent time with old Thomas, and why she had killed him.

In the beginning, just after her transformation, Isabelle battled guilt each time she took human life for sustenance. In time though, she realized her true nature, seeing that taking a person's life to gain nourishment had become essential, was now her design, and could not be considered any more criminal than a spider snaring a fly. Killing for money, however, remained difficult for her to reconcile. She sidestepped, rationalized, and glossed it over, but reproach found a way past her defenses, penetrating to her core.

It started with her first take. His name was Gustavius, a handsome young baron from a country no longer remembered. After a night spent together, she harvested him, sloppily drinking his blood, then took his gold and jewels and was gone before first light. She ran into the forest until she could run no longer, hid in a coppice and wallowed in self-loathing. She remained for two days poring over events, trying to come to terms with what she had done. It was impossible. Her mind would circle itself in a dance of illogic and soon her determinations made little sense, offering no solace. The cold fact was she needed money, and food, and there was no way of getting both in any sizable amount without killing.

Practical need forced an end to her fretting. Once the baron's death became known within a vicinage, a strange woman newly arrived in a village where everyone had been known since childhood would immediately fall under suspicion. She had to move on, continue traveling, head toward the large cities of the coast, with their teeming anonymous masses in which she could maneuver undetected.

As she feared, her advantage had been squandered. During the time spent in the forest news of Gustavius' death had spread. The story had become a living, fantastic tale. 'It was unnatural,' they whispered. 'A strange fanged creature that crawled through the open window and attacked the helpless man during the night!' According to the telling, the monster restrained Gustavius with leathery limbs thick with muscle and sinew, and claws that bit into the skin. With each passing hour the story evolved and was made more macabre, especially when told at night, in pubs, when teller and listener were propped up by drink.

The creature struck two punctures in the man's neck then sucked out his blood, watching with strange black animal eyes. Finally, the poor man became too weak to resist and, mercifully, closed his eyes and stopped breathing. The beast continued to drink even after that, eyes flitting about, tall ears turning, searching the shadows for approaching threats. And so it went! In the cold still bedroom that had become the baron's death chamber. So it went!

The wide-eyed, half-drunk audience was titillated, but as the stories pitched, such a dread was incited that no one would go home, not alone, not in the dark. Guards with torches and hounds took to patrolling once the sun had set, and soon, women would gather in groups of two or three to exchange the latest version of what had happened in hushed voices, children were biting at their playmate's necks, and grown men jumped at shadows and yelped at every movement or sound in the moonlit woods.

Now, with everyone on edge, Isabelle had to avoid detection. However, keeping out of sight at all times was impossible. If a river flowed at the bottom of a ravine, crossing a bridge could hardly be avoided. Fortunately, though, she was strong and had traveled with ease and speed on the third day, despite having to stay off the roads, and had put a good distance between herself and the scene of the crime.

One or two districts from where the baron had been killed, people were accustomed to the story and yawned and stretched during its telling. Frenzied emotions had settled. Isabelle had hoped this would be the case, and took to the roads in order to make better time. When she approached a checkpoint, she found that guards were weary and bored and, upon seeing her, too taken by her beauty to make serious inquiries. She handled crude questions with ease, flashing a smoldering look if it seemed needed, was allowed passage, and found her way to the coast without too much trouble.

Early in her career, she preyed only on young strong men. They practically overflowed with the life force she needed and made for an efficient source of sustenance. Truth be told, men, certainly young men, are not masters of their energy, and have more of it than can generally be handled with prudence. In fact, they possess far in excess of what is required for mundane activities, and tend to waste much of it on fiddling pursuits. This has been the case throughout history. So, in a way, by feeding on them, by harnessing their potency for her work -- the creation of music, writings, and paintings inspired by nature -- Isabelle made better use of their essence than the men themselves ever could have.

There was a problem with taking young men, though. They were too active in the community and, after the fateful pas de deux with Isabelle, were quickly missed, hence quickly searched for.

Over the years, times had changed and the situation worsened. News spread farther, and in less time. First by a stout rider and quick horse on a good road, then by telegraph and newspaper. Later came the telephone, radio, and the internet. Macabre deaths of young men popular about town became written about, talked about, and known of more rapidly by more people, whether they lived near to, or far from, the place in which the death occurred. This, in turn, created suspicion and heightened awareness, making things more difficult for Isabelle. So, she adapted.

She had learned that when a rich old man died in unusual circumstances, his rich old family often took great pains, called in favors, and sometimes paid good money to keep things as quiet as possible in order to avoid damaging publicity. Certain grotesque facets related to the codger's passing might need to be blunted so that their strange nature was less apparent. A medical examiner could often be called upon, given the correct incentive, to modify details of the official certificate to an adequate degree so that a natural cause of death would be presumed responsible.

In other cases there simply was no one who cared about the death of an elderly person. Friends and family were already dead or, due to the decline of old age, were in homes for the sickly or bedridden where news of the outside world was not followed, or sadly, not plainly understood.

It worked in her favor. In a modern city, bustling with people, the death of one old man, strange though it may be, would garner little notice. So the case would be with the next old man, and the next after that. In such an environment Isabelle could work in relative peace as long as it suited her. So, whenever possible, she selected the elderly to feed upon. Without a doubt, had her current benefactor, this old man in bed named Thomas, been young instead, with loved ones and business associates to notice his absence, things would be more cumbersome. The logic was sound as ever.

Eventually, to be sure, news would get out. Victims would be reported having been found with round wounds in the neck, their bodies emptied of blood. These reports would gain traction on internet sites that feature such accounts and be read breathlessly by fans of the stuff. However, just as it had in remote villages a hundred years earlier, the telling would be embellished, and embellished again, until it was a sensation. And, again, this would work in Isabelle's favor.

There are many such sites, and competition is acute, so that an editor will routinely elaborate on what is known in an effort to hook the most readers and create the most buzz. The result is often ridiculous, and can hardly be taken seriously by level-headed people. Desperate proclamations of the existence of vampirism are almost always laughed at and those who blare such assertions aren't given the time of day. As a result, as the case had always been, vampires were thought by most people, educated or not, rich or poor, to be a fiction. So, in a way, Isabelle was aided by the instant, pervasive, and inflammatory reportage of the electronic age. Her activities, because they were reported with such fervor by an unreliable media, went unnoticed. The irony always amused her.

The sheer curtains at the sliding glass door of the balcony billow wildly in the freezing wind, tossing her hair, stinging her face. Her mind is forced from memories back to the present where Thomas lies in bed staring at the ceiling. At once, shame sets itself. If only there wasn't a need for money, she thought. There was no time for these concerns. She steps toward him, her graceful movements contrasting sharply with her embittered expression, and leans close to his face. I'm sorry, she whispers, kissing him on the lips. She looks at him a moment longer then, with the palm of her hand, brushes his eyes closed. I'm sorry, she says once more, before turning to leave.

She stands on the balcony looking at the city. Boston. She had never been and it delighted her as it would a child. She gazes at the moon, hovering low in the sky, to the west, its entourage of brilliant crystalline five-pointed attendants standing in wait. She is captivated by its beauty, as she had been for a hundred years, and a hundred years before that. She loved listening to its quiet rumbling -- a perfect marble sphere rolling across the black flint ceiling throwing off sparks. The sight and sound filled her with wonder and reverence.

She looks to the east at the glow of impending sunrise, and her reverie is broken. Her thoughts darken, turning back to the business of the night. She leans over the rail to better gauge the distance to the street below the penthouse. After making the calculations she notices a dying potted plant at her feet. It's no more than a twig, disregarded and frail. She picks it up, and tucks it under her arm, unable to leave it behind to die. She hops over the railing onto the narrow ledge. Without fanfare she inhales deeply, steps into the air, and falls.

The heaviness of the work that lay ahead and the anticipation of what she might find this time melts away, allowing her mind to focus and her heart to open to the pulse, the cosmic rhythm, the silent thrumming most never know. She gives herself over, becoming one with the primal presence, allowing her crude physical substance to dissolve and transform into wisps of golden and silvery filaments, flashing with shimmering evanescence. Her thoughts become threads of luminescence that enlace themselves with the etheric corpus, guiding it by force of will. Just before striking the ground, the metamorphosis is completed. A capricious zephyr turns sharply toward the sky and moon, snaps at the darkness, and darts away, laughing at all things earthbound.

Isabelle has become a quick unseen child of the night.





Part II soon

Digging for Gangsters

Digging for Gangsters

written by
Alan Green

Part I

I own my own business. Corey's Day Trips. I'm Corey. I take people into the desert around Las Vegas to dig for buried gangsters. You know. Starting with Bugsy Siegel and his crew, through the fifties and sixties, and maybe some of the seventies, gangsters ran Vegas, pissed each other off, killed one another, and buried the bodies in the desert.

Back then it was the glory days for the mob. They lived like kings. Nobody messed with them. They had it all. But, they had short fuses and spouted off at the mouth, and that got them into a lot of trouble, fast. A bunch of them would be out at a bar or restaurant, having a good time, spending money like it grew on trees, boasting about this thing or that, one upping each other, and, sure as hell, before long, somebody would say something somebody else found offensive. It could be anything. Something dumb about a girlfriend, someone's shoes, the color of someone's new car, not knowing someone had bought a new car, what someone was drinking, the suggestion that one baseball team was better than another. You name it. And, the next thing you know there's an argument. Whoever was right or wrong, it was always the guy who had less clout that apologized. It was expected. The pecking order had to be respected. If not, then things escalated. And if it got past a certain point there was no turning back.

And, it didn't have to be a rude comment either. Not what you or I would call rude, at least. Not in that crowd. A guy could say anything that rubbed the wrong guy the wrong way and the next thing he knows he wakes up in the trunk of a Cadillac with a lump on his head, tied up and gagged, being driven away from the city in the middle of the night. He was 'a package', and was on his way to be whacked. Offed. Taken care of. Whatever. Call it what you want.

When they got to the location, the boys would dig the hole if it wasn't already dug, get the guy out of the trunk, put him next to the hole on his knees so there wasn't any doubt as to what was going to happen. (Not that there could have been. I mean, you weren't riding in the trunk because there wasn't enough room in the car). Then, the guy that had been offended would deliver a speech that made it clear he had won the encounter, was the better man, and how all this would have been unnecessary had an apology been offered (seeing how he's so understanding and forgiving) then kick the guy into the hole. Two shots in the chest, one in the head (more, several on occasion, if the guy was still pissed off, which was the case a lot of the time, though that was considered poor form. I mean, how many times do you got to shoot a guy in the head?) Then, they'd cover the poor sap up, go home, have breakfast, bullshit like nothing had happened, then go to bed.

Most of the guys buried in the desert are mobsters, but some worked in construction, restaurant supply, hotel supply, casino supply, were regular joes that had racked up too much debt, a bartender who didn't remember a guy's favorite drink, a waiter that fucked up an order, politicians who wouldn't play ball (or decided to stop playing ball), cops who wouldn't take payola, cops who did take payola but didn't deliver, any poor schlub who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever. Any guy that pissed off the wrong guy got taken care of. The desert is filled with them.

The good thing though, at least for me, is most of these guys are buried between thirty and fifty miles outside Vegas. See. The plan was, always, to drive at least a hundred miles into the desert to do the thing but, these guys, they all had real short attention spans, were real impatient (it was a hallmark trait of being a mobster), and once they had driven maybe half an hour or forty-five minutes in a straight line through blackness and the featureless landscape they were bored to tears and had to pull off the road. They couldn't take it anymore so they planted the guy right there, instead of a hundred miles out.

The other good thing was the guys doing the digging were in terrible shape. There were soft as dough. They smoked, drank, ate too much pasta with too much meat sauce and too much bread dipped in olive oil. They hadn't exercised in decades. Hell, they didn't know the meaning of the word. So digging wasn't exactly a thing they looked forward to, or were capable of doing too much of. They'd get maybe three, three-and-a-half feet and they were drenched in sweat. They'd be short of breath and couldn't hardly see straight anymore, like they were having a heart attack or something. So, they'd look at the hole, look at each other, ask whether it was deep enough, nod, then get the guy out of the trunk. Also, a lot of times, they didn't get out there until real late and the sun would start coming up right in the middle of planting a guy. So, these graves tended to be real shallow. Six feet, hell. Some of those bodies were barely covered.

That pretty much sets the scene. You figure five or ten bodies a week for, what, ten or twenty years from the 50s and 60s, and maybe some of the 70s. That's a lot of problems buried in a lot of holes, all about three feet deep, all in a strip of desert about ten miles wide, in a circle with a radius of about fifty miles around Las Vegas. A giant O of buried thugs. All you got to do is find them.

And that's where I come in. That's what people do when they go out with me on Corey's Day Trips. They search for buried gangsters (wise guys, made men, soldiers, goodfellas, whatever, call them what you want) in the desert.




Part II will go up soon. (I promise)

Light Part II

This story will be published in three to five parts (I'm not sure yet as they're not written yet). Toward the end it will get extremely graphic. Most people will find some passages difficult to read. Some will stop reading altogether.

If such content will bother or offend you, please do not read 'Light'.

Part I

Light

written by
Alan Green
.

Part II


On the way home I almost ran a red light. Stared at it until I was just about in the intersection. Had to stand on the brakes. Kept staring, through the rainy windshield, wipers going back and forth, until it turned green.

My hands trembled so bad trying to unlock the front door I had to take a deep breath before I could make the key go in. Drop the ice cream on the counter and head straight for the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I couldn't see a spot in the middle of my forehead. No red dot. I rubbed my forehead in case there were tiny bits of dirt or something covering the dot, stood on tiptoes to get closer to the light fixture, leaned toward the mirror. My eyes were almost crossed I was so close. Nothing.

Go back to the kitchen. The ice cream was soft. Just the way I like it. Put it in the freezer. Sweet wasn't what I was looking for anymore. I wanted something with kick. Needed it.

My favorite is bourbon. It's got backbone. I crack a bottle of Jefferson's Reserve. Fifteen year old smooth-ass liquor. Pour a slug into a juice glass (I'm not at the stage in life where you own shot glasses) and shuffle to the living room, downing half before I plop on the couch. Even across the tongue, sharp in the back of the throat, toasty all the way down. Backbone.

Fire up the laptop. Do a web search for 'third eye'. Got nothing I didn't already know. Psychic center, place you concentrate on when meditating, one of the chakras. Et cetera. The reference to it as a 'doorway to the consciousness' stopped me. That creeped me out. Was the dot a doorway? Did it allow me to see into people's souls? I was filled with questions. Couldn't think. I shut the laptop.

The 'Alien' anthology. Forgot about that. No thanks. The thought of watching a movie about a monster growing inside you was a bad joke at this point. I pulled the quilt off the back of the couch, got wrapped up. Sat there, in the dark, drinking. Thinking. Asking. The same questions over and over. Got no answers.

I woke up. Didn't know what time it was. Glass of water. Kitchen clock says three. Go to bed. The next day I get ready for the appointment with my neurologist. He's a nice guy. We chat sometimes. He tells me what the squiggles on the PET or CT mean. Smart.

Should I tell him? I wonder while getting dressed (compulsively checking my forehead every time I look in the mirror). I could have put my jeans on backwards and wouldn't have noticed. But, I watched my face like a hawk.

I decided to tell Neal. That's my neurologist. Don't know his last name. But, what if it leads to some kind of psych eval? A write-up. That's all I needed. Could mean I wouldn't qualify to participate in the protocol anymore. They'd cut me loose.

Maybe I did need help, though. You know? Maybe I could do with some therapy. But, what would I tell the therapist? 'I'm seeing red dots in people's heads?' It's not like he would have any way of dealing with that, or any experience with it. They'd think I was nuts. Decide to keep the idea on the back burner for now and head out the door.

Neal is in his sixties. Married, grown kids. Still, though, he flirts with me. In a nice way. Not ham-fisted like most younger guys. Subtle. I like it. Makes you wonder where it might go. He stares at the PET imagery. 'How do you feel?' he says.

'What?' I'm a little stunned, eyes too wide. Was he seeing something weird in the scan? Was there a blob of emitted positrons that screamed 'This chick is crazy! Put her in a lock down!' He looks at me. 'Good,' I say. 'Why? Something wrong?'

'No. Looks great,' he says. I exhale. 'You know,' he says, 'researchers around the world are following this. Your progress, I mean. The results are almost too good. Two months and no seizures. That's a record, huh.'

'Totally. I can't remember the last time I went two months without a spill.' I flash a big fake smile.

'If this works -- I mean, it looks like it will -- you'll be famous. A lot of people will be helped. Millions' He pauses for effect, then, dramatically, but in a cool way, 'A cure for epilepsy. Just think.' His smile is beautiful, reassuring.

I couldn't tell him. Couldn't. A cure for epilepsy... No way I could jeopardize that. Meant too much. "Millions," he had said. Way too important. I don't say a thing about the dots.

My plastic smile was beginning to hurt. I shake hands with Neal, then, for the first time, he hugs me. 'See you next week,' he says. You betcha.

I saw three more people with red dots on the way home. Was glad to get inside and lock the door. Collapsed on the couch. What if a by-product of the procedure was insanity? I laughed. "Good news! You're cured of epilepsy, but now you're crazy!" I notice I've finished my first shot of bourbon. Didn't remember pouring it.

But, I didn't feel insane. It wasn't a 'crazy' feeling thing. It was real. It felt real. I know. That's exactly what crazy people say. Well, not all of them. Some schizophrenics know the voices in their heads are an illusion. Delusion. They know it. They want help. Some don't, but some do. A lot do. Most do. Right?

That got me nowhere. Was I one of the ones that knew they were nuts? Or, one of the ones that didn't? No help.

But, seeing the dots was just a new ability. That's all. To sense...things. An enhancement. Not crazy. 

I stayed home as much as possible over the next few days. Finally, I grew a pair and came to a decision. If I was going to tell someone I had to know what I was dealing with, and, if I wasn't going to tell anyone I needed to know what I was dealing with. So, I went to the mall for some people/dot-watching. To get a handle on it.

I sat by the fountain near the food court. Around seven out of ten people had a red dot. Seventy percent. Just like that. I looked for patterns. What kind of people were they? How did they dress? Did they look affluent, educated, trashy? No. Average. Couldn't be more average. One guy wearing sweat pants and a tee-shirt. A thirty-something chick with super high-maintenance hair, a cashmere sweater, and killer pumps. An old lady (her husband didn't have one). No pattern I could find.

Just when I was coming to terms with it, starting to feel a little at ease, getting a grip, this one red dot, a youngish guy who looked like he was always in a hurry, changed direction all the sudden and came toward me, walking real fast. When he passed I tensed up, felt rushed. What the hell. Why would I be tense? What was I in a rush for?

A man with greasy hair whose clothes might have come from the lost and found at a laundromat passes. I feel -- the best word I can think of is -- lazy. Maybe, that's not right. Maybe adrift is better. Like my life is pointless. Then, his body odor hits and snaps me out of it.

I couldn't believe it. Now, not only was I seeing dots, but I was feeling things. Emotions. I was sensing what these people were about. A fat guy makes me want to eat. A fifty-something woman with a droopy face wearing her dress crooked makes me feel edgy, anxious. A little boy passes, dragging his mom in tow. I follow his gaze to the toy store. I want to go in and buy a bunch of toys and play all day.

Great. Just. Fucking. Great.

One second I'd be pissed, the next nervous, ill at ease. Pudgy guy with a silly comb-over -- I'm insecure about my looks, wonder what people think of me. Nice trim dude in a tailored suit strides by -- I'm all about making money. It went like that. One after another. I could sense them. What their lives were about. How they carry themselves inside. I hold others in contempt, want to have sex, feel tired, skittish, sad, mad, glad. You name it. I sat there for a couple more hours until I couldn't take it anymore.

Back at home, looking in the mirror, I couldn't see anything in my forehead. I even tried looking through a magnifying glass. Didn't work. Made me feel stupid, not to mention look like an idiot.

Wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, all the lights off, I'd flash a crazy smile thinking of it. Just when I had started to come to terms with seeing lights, I begin to feel other people's stuff, emotions. As far as tackling my new, let's call it "a condition", I was back to square one. My thought process was circular. The questions were new, but pretty much the same as before. The answers were pretty much shit, which was pretty much what they were before. I pour another drink. (A bottle was by my side a lot of the time now).

If this was happening there were two choices: I was crazy, or, it was a special (I hated to think in terms of 'magic') thing that I should learn about. Embrace. So, which was it? If I was crazy I wasn't aware of it and wasn't likely to become aware of it. If it was some new ability, a new sense that enabled me to perceive things in people, then, to hell with it, my life had changed, for better or worse, like it or not. Like I said -- I was back to square one.

So. Do nothing or embrace it? I went to bed. Had to get an early start the next day.

At the mall, at the fountain next to the food court, I watched dots go by. Picked up their feelings. Studied the process. Tried to acclimate myself. Find a pattern. It got kind of routine to tell the truth. One red dot after another, each person feeling regular stuff. Apathy, chronically worried, skeptical, optimistic. You know. Regular. Normal. When they walked by, got within a few feet, I felt them. Sensed their emotions. Their mental orientation. Whatever you want to call it. I knew what they were about.

I see this one guy coming. Weird looking. Chubby greasy face, off balance expression, high-waters, shirt with a hole, one shoe untied. He got close. I waited for the impression. What was this guy feeling? Nothing. I felt nothing.

I looked at his dot. It wasn't red. It was purple.

The next chapter will be posted soon

.

Light

This story will be published in three to five parts (I'm not sure yet as they're not written yet). Toward the end it will get extremely graphic. Most people will find some passages difficult to read. Some will stop reading altogether.

If such content will bother or offend you, please do not read 'Light'.

Light
.

written by
Alan Green

Part I

I'm recovering from surgery. Brain surgery. No. I'm not stupid. They didn't cut out a huge chunk. Just a tiny chunk. About the size of an eraser on the end of a pencil. But. The good news. They replaced that chunk. With a tiny sliver of a rat's brain. A sliver taken from a part of the brain, the rat's brain, responsible for controlling motor function. I forget the name. And, that gets me to my problem, my sickness. The reason I needed surgery. I had epileptic seizures. Bad ones. Really bad. The docs said I'd likely die from one within a few years. Great.

They procedure is experimental. They really didn't know what would happen. But, hey. If you're slated to die 'within a few years', why not. What they do is insert a catheter through a small hole they drill in the skull, guide the tube using realtime PET imaging (or, it might be CT, I forget that too). They worm the catheter around until the end in near the spot to be excised. Then, they snake an optical filament through the tube and fire up an RF (radio frequency) emitter on the end of the filament and ablate the offending tissue. Then, they vacuum up the goo with a really tiny hose, and insert the afore mentioned rat brain tissue, bathe it in anti-rejection and AP (assimilation promotion) drugs, and sew you up. Badda-bing, badda-boom.

Simple. Hell, I could have done it if I had good instructions.

So, here I am, the first human, the first girl (I'm twenty-six if you're interested. My name is Chloe.), to have this done. I feel fine. At my first scheduled post-surgical examination everybody was real cheerful, but it was a kinda forced. You could tell they all had their fingers crossed. But, the next day, I hadn't had a seizure, and when I went down to the fifth floor for another exam everybody had big beautiful smiles. They watched me walk across the room like I was a rock star, or something. One and a half days, no seizure. They liked that. Liked it a lot.

A couple weeks go by, still no seizures. I moved out of the hospital to my apartment. Well, it's not mine. It's provided and paid for by the university medical center -- that's where the protocol is being conducted. EP-TI-4755-001. Experimental Protocol, Tissue Implant 4755. I'm 001. (You can write your own 007 joke). Anyway, since it's a federally subsidized protocol, all the participants get a free ride -- everything is paid for. It's the law. And, as the protocol calls for the subject (me) to live very close to medical personnel and facilities, I get an apartment on campus rent free. Cable, wifi, even a stipend for food and expenses. I even get to use one of the university's cars.

What the hell. I should get that stuff paid for. Had to quit my job for this. That's another thing. I can't work for twelve months after the surgery. To keep environmental factors, like stress, and thinking a lot, to a minimum. So, In my downtime I surf the web, or watch blu-ray movies on my killer fifty-two inch plasma TV (that your tax dollars bought). Sometimes, I'll do the History Channel thing, or watch that channel that only runs biographies -- what's that called? Every now and then I'll watch a game or something. I can watch football for maybe ten minutes before I zone out. Sometimes, I read. I got a stack of books (yeah, your taxes bought those too).

That's my life. I take it easy. And, why not enjoy myself? I asked one of the nurses how much a study like this cost. She said 'millions', even 'tens of millions'. Okay. It's their dime. They dick around with my brain, I watch TV, read the latest bestsellers, eat gourmet ice cream. In exchange for all that sumptuous living, I show up for my check ups, AP injection, PET scan, almost every day. Sometimes, up to four or five hours a day. Other days, it's just a blood draw or something simple. I forget the last time I had a whole day to myself without having to go to the clinic or hospital. Whatever. It's worth it.

Being seizure-free is fucking great. I'm loving it. I don't have to worry about having a spill, that's what I call them, in the middle of the mall, or wherever. One time, I was picking up some dry cleaning and fell to the floor doubled up, making these weird moaning sounds. The Korean woman behind the counter screams, eyes bulging. She called 911. By the time the EMTs got there it had passed. I was sitting against the giant plate glass window sipping Oolong and explaining to the Korean woman what had happened. She said, with a silly laugh, that in the old country (she's a transplant) an attack like that might be taken as a sign of demonic possession. Sheesh. How 'old country' can you get.

One seizure was so bad. One of my incisors got stuck on the inside the lower teeth and, when my jaw snapped to the side, the tooth was knocked right out. Okay, I was a kid and it was a loose baby tooth, but still. It hurt. I was at school at the time and the other kids thought it was cool. 'Chloe, that was so cool!', they'd say. I even earned cred with the boys. Not bad. They quit making fun of me for a while.

So. A couple months went by. After the surgery, I mean. Not one episode. The docs are talking 'preliminary success'. They're happy. Can't blame them. If this works they'll be famous. Millions would benefit. It would be a landmark event. Look good on the resume. I guess I'd be happy, too.

Anyway, one night I load up the new 'Alien' blu-ray box set. Anthology... Watch the first few minutes to see how much better the picture is. Wow. What a difference. Didn't know movies could look that good. And, the sound. So clear. Makes the movie much creepier. Didn't know sound could do that. I pause it and go to the fridge. No ice cream. Could. Not. Believe. It. I was out for a couple hours getting stocked up for tonight. That's a bad thing. You're not supposed to be out of 'the subject's assigned living quarters' for that long. In case they need to reach you, don't you know. Going out of town? Forget it. It's all in the stack of stuff you have to sign before you can take part in the...you get the picture.

I had gone to the bookstore for the latest translated Euro murder thriller. I love those. I stopped for a three-dollar latte and some people watching. (Anything to avoid going back to the apartment). Then, I swung over to the electronics store for a flash drive and the 'Alien' Anthology. Then, the grocery store for some frozen dinners (yes, I do those). Figured I had everything you need for several hours of horror movie watching. Forgot the damn ice cream. Have a frozen pizza, you say. Don't want one. Want sugar.

Back to the grocery store. Jump back in the university's car (with the dorky U logo on the side). I'm in the ice cream aisle. Butter pecan or peach? Which is right for the monster-growing-inside-you genre? I grab butter pecan and head for the check out. Then, I see her. This lady, maybe sixty, a little stooped, silver curls, but sharp eyes. I look at her as she examines an apple. When she glances at me, she smiles. I smile too, but it fades when I see the spot of light in the middle of her forehead. The tiniest red dot. I mean, it's teeny, but it glows really strong. A deep, brilliant red. She goes back to her apples. I'm still looking back at her, and almost run into a stack of bananas. Did I? No. No way. Girl, go home and watch horror movies -- you're in the mood for it. Seeing things.

It's late. There's nobody in line. I set my purchase on the belt, get my card (well, the university's card). 'How you doing?' the girl says.

I swipe my card, 'Fine, thanks.'

'Four fifty. You want a bag?'

I punch the PIN number. 'No,' I say, looking at her for the first time. There it was. Right between her eyes. A teeny tiny red dot. Glowing, with sort of a fog around it. Until she looks at me. The fog disappears and the light becomes pure, bright, shining right into my eyes, first the left, then the right.

'You said you didn't need a bag, right?' she says.

I'm slack-jawed. 'No...yes, I said that.'

She glances at the ice cream sitting there in front of me. 'Did you want something else?'

I pick it up. The cold brings me back to reality. 'Sorry,' I manage. 'Tired.'

She grins. 'That's okay. I get that way.' The light grows brighter with her emotion, hitting my eyes in quick succession. Left, right, left, right. Then, it settles, seeming to shine into the middle of my own forehead. 'Have a good night.'

'You too,' I say out of reflex, and leave.


Part II

The next chapter will be posted soon.

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The Brain Eater Part II

Part I can be read here

The Brain Eater

Alan Green

Part

II

The elevator doors open and Bob steps out. He is wearing the same old clothes, same calculated neutral expression, and walks with the same tacked-on ease as he does everyday. When nobody is looking his eyes flit around to catch approaching threats. He sees one now. It can't be avoided. So, just keep walking. You're doing fine.

"Good morning," she says.

This one is Margeaux. Stu-pid. I'm smarter than her. Margeaux only speaks to him because she must. He knows it. If she just passed without speaking it would make her a bitch. The Office Bitch. So, she says something. Anything. That's the only reason. She's still a bitch but at least she doesn't act like one. She hates my guts. She'd just as soon not say a word to me. She wants to see me get fired. I know it.

"Good morning."

He sits at his desk. Everything where I left it. Perfect. I can't believe I'm back here. It's like I just left. I swear, it's like I was here just a minute ago. Just sixty seconds ago. I mean, literally…one minute. That's what it seems like. Now, I'm back. Great.

Okay, big smile -- Hey, how's it going? You know, he's not so bad. He hates his job, too. Like me. That makes him cool. He's an okay guy. Kind of a dick, but who cares. Everybody's kind of a dick. If he sat next to me he could learn how to work better. Get ahead. I could show him -- I wouldn't mind. He's been stuck in the same job for years. I've been promoted...once, but who's counting.

He starts the email server and gets the systems running. Then, he hears her. Oh, my god. Here she comes. What kind of perfume will she have on today? Don't we have policy against that? You're not supposed to be able to come to work smelling like you dunked yourself in a bathtub full of GD perfume. (GD stands for God – you know. I don't say that, though. It's not nice). Oh, fuck. There it is. That's it. She's wearing that flowery kind. I fucking hate that kind. I hate all of them, but especially that one -- the flowery one. What's that for? To help you get rid of your anonymity so you stand out from the herd? Stu-pid. It's so stupid.

Now, she'll take a slurp of her coffee and set the cup down. There it is. Sluuuurp. I have to listen to that because she doesn't know how to drink coffee quiet. Look, you do it just like this. He raises his cup to his mouth and sips coffee without making a sound. Is that so fucking difficult? Can you do that? Dumb bitch. Oh, great. Here he comes. The boss. Check this guy out.

"Morning Bob," he says.

"Morning," I say. "Busy today?"

"No, kind of light actually."

"Oh, good."

The boss nods as he ambles away. Dick. Thank God he's gone.

At least it's light today. I always like it better when it's slower. I like to be able to think. Even while I work -- I can do both at the same time. More time to look around, watch people. Makes it more interesting. Like, look over there at Margeaux. She's a couple desks down chatting with that idiot, T-T-Tommy (he stutters -- dumbass). See? The one I passed coming out of the elevator? See? Wearing the floofy shirt unbuttoned so you can see her cleavage (especially when she bends over [on purpose] like that), and a skirt (well above the knee), with dark hose and platform shoes, leaning over his desk so her ass sticks out so people will check out her ass? Yeah, her. She thinks T-T-Tommy likes her but he thinks she's a manipulative bitch. I agree with him (he may be a dumbass stutterer but he knows the score). Only problem is he's such an idiot. He's lazy. His work isn't very good. No resolve. He'll never become anything. I'm much better than him and the boss likes me better (they want to fire him except if they do he'll claim it's because he stutters and sue the shit out of them -- which would be cool. Which adds to his cool factor. Oh, man I'd love that).

That damn perfume. It stinks. Don't you think? She smells like a prostitute. Okay, I admit it. I don't know what a prostitute smells like. I've never, you know, seen one. Well, maybe I've seen one but I didn't know it at the time and never got close enough to smell one. Not that I know of. That would be cool, though. To stand right next to a woman who would let you fuck her for money. I wonder if she would let me squeeze her boob. Stu-pid!  'Boob' is so lame. You're like a kid. It's 'tit'. You say 'tit'. Not 'boob'. Say the right words. Sorry, sometimes I get mad at myself. Anyway, how much would she charge for that? Like, a couple bucks. That is so funny. 'Here's two bucks, ma'am.'  'Oh, thanks big boy (they call their johns [you know what a john is, right?] they call them big boy because men want to be big -- it's a psychological trick). Now, give my tit a good squeeze. I want you to. Go ahead.'  That would be so cool. I'd do it, too. I'd reach right over and put my hand on her boob and yoink it. Oh, man. Honk, honk. I can almost feel it.

That stinking perfume. And that slurping. Can't she drink coffee without making noise? You do it like this. See? It's so easy. Margeaux is finally finished sucking up to T-T-Tommy. Oh, good lord. No. She's coming over here? No way.

"Another day, another dollar."

"More like fifty cents."

"Yeah. At least it's not that busy today."

"Yeah, thank God."

"Yeah. See you."

Yeah, right. See you. Her name isn't 'Margeaux', it's 'Margot.'  She spells it that way because she thinks it makes her special. Stu-pid. She's hot, though. I wouldn't mind fucking her. I'd like to find out if she even wears panties under that short skirt -- bet she doesn't. I've heard girls like her don't. It would only take a second -- one quick reach up there, feel around -- I bet she'd like it -- I bet she wants me to -- maybe, someday I will.

I work in an office surrounded by pests and dorks. Out of everybody here I'm the best. Not that anybody appreciates that. Speaking of dorks, check out that guy over there -- he's a good example. I can work and tell you about him at the same time. (It's easy for me). This guy has a lot of energy but he's insecure, and it really affects his potential in the company -- if he could just focus, he'd go a long way. Here's what I mean. His eyes. He's always looking around. He can look at two or three things in one second. I'm serious. One second. Each time he looks at something he responds to what he thinks it might be thinking about him. If he looks at the water cooler he is relieved because it's an inanimate object and couldn't have an opinion. But, half a second later he'll catch a glimpse of someone passing by and he's scared. You can see it in his face. It's the most expressive face I've ever seen. His face looks like it's controlled by puppet strings -- jink up the brow, lower the left side of the mouth, cast the eyes to the floor -- that kind of thing, except lightning fast, like a computer controlled puppet face. Now, he's suspicious yet befuddled -- eyes narrowed, lips pursed, and now, a fraction of a second later, he's surprised and embarrassed -- eyes wide, mouth shaped like an O.

If he catches you looking right at him he freezes like a deer in headlights, but only for an instant. The moment he realizes he is looking directly at someone who is looking directly back at him he zips his eyes away and finds some random thing to look at. He's like a shoplifter desperate to look casual -- the only thing missing is the fake, innocent whistling. Then, he'll realize he's staring at, say, a pencil and feel self-conscious -- like he's making the pencil uncomfortable by looking at it. Like it was a rule of etiquette that you can't look at pencils if you are not planning to write something with them. He'll get pissed at himself for being so rude, then find some other object to look at, proud of his quick sensitivity -- only to realize that now he's staring at the clock or bulletin board and feels like shit for being so rude again. After eye-hopping a bit he'll look at you again and get red-faced because he knows you've been watching him the whole time -- the 'whole' time being between two and four seconds -- then the process starts over again when he realizes he is looking directly at someone who is looking directly back at him, and he starts the search for some inanimate object to look at, only to feel guilty for making that object feel bad, et cetera.

He twitches like this all day long, from nine to five, five days a week. This guy can make an ass out of himself ten times in a second -- ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, buffoon, ass, ass, ass, ass -- forty hours a week. Stu-pid. At least he's good at it. He changes facial expression like a concert pianist plays a fast passage -- effortlessly, hitting every ass note. He'll never go anywhere. How could he? He spends half his time looking around to see if someone is watching, the other half of his time wondering what they think of him, and he spends the third half of his time feeling guilty for staring at things. For the last ten years. He's been with this company, flashing his eyes around like that and feeling guilty...for ten years. I'd rather be dead.

See that woman? Her name is Gretchen. She's an alcoholic. She drinks so much on weekends that by Monday morning her breath smells like vodka. I don't mean she has bad breath, I mean it smells like vodka. On Monday morning, saying hello to her is like sticking your face in a bucket of vodka and taking a big whiff. It stops you in your tracks. It's so bad you have to fight not to laugh -- after you choke back the urge to wretch, that is.

She drinks during the week too, but not as much. I guess she prefers saving the big guns for Saturday and Sunday. Anyway, she's in the first stage of liver failure. This means her liver can't burn all the booze and her body tries to get rid of it some other way. Right now, it's her lungs (later it'll be her skin). Her dying liver ships raw booze to her lungs in the hope it can be expelled there -- and, it works -- the proof is in her breath. Her breath smells like vodka, largely, because there's a certain percentage of vodka in it.

On Monday night she's mainly interested in knocking back the daylong hangover with a bottle or two of red wine -- strictly utilitarian, you understand. But, then by Tuesday it's not her breath that's the problem it's her mistakes. By then she's in withdrawal, despite the two bottles from the night before, and she can't concentrate. This is made worse because she doesn't start workdays with a toot like she does weekend mornings. So, by Tuesday her mind is a zing-zang of jonesing for booze, and fierce determination to concentrate despite it, so as a result she makes lots of mistakes. She'll put the wrong name on a file, copy the number wrong on a phone message, that kind of thing. After all these years people expect it of her and treat her dismissively, as if they're better than her. She tries to offset this by being over friendly and clingy. Some people like the power this gives them and string her along. I can't do that. I try to treat her normal. Other people keep her at arm's length, which hurts her feelings. Knocks her back on her heels, and the loss of equilibrium causes more mistakes.

Then, come the apologies. Endless apologies. It's automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to almost anything. Even when she doesn't do anything wrong she's apologetic. Like -- you'll pass her in the hall and she'll say, "Hi" (she's always the first to talk) and you answer, "Hey, how's it going?"  Then, a second later, she'll say, "Oh, sorry. I guess…I didn't."  But, by this time you're halfway up the hall and she's apologizing to the place where the floor meets the wall. Walking and apologizing and gesturing. When she realizes she's doing this she apologizes for it. "Oh…you're gone. Sorry. I'm so sorry." 

She has these episodes all day. They're not clumped up -- like a few here, a couple there. They're strung together -- one leading to another in a smooth unbroken chain of gaffs and apologies that's painful to watch. Mistake, apology, mistake, apology, gaff, I'm sorry, gaff, I'm sorry. Then, toward the end of the day, she's all flustered and that makes the next mistake unavoidable. At this point she's afraid of her own shadow and moves about with her hands held near her chest in a protective way like some little girl in the dark woods of a fairy tale. I've seen her like this. She'll be sitting at her desk, hands clutched near her chest, looking at her pens. She'll reach out then snatch her hand back. I guess she's sure that she'll make a mistake when she writes. Problem is she needs the pen so she's stuck in a loop: reach for the pen, snatch her hand back, wait a few seconds eying the pen like it's a snake, reach, snatch her hand back. She'll try to trick the pen by looking in another direction like she isn't interested -- the only thing missing is the fake casual whistling -- then, when the pen's guard is down, she'll grab for it, but won't be able to commit, and she stops, her trembling fingers hovering and twitching. Her eyes will be wild. She'll look like a bad actor in a bad movie who is about to address the press to inform them that monsters from space have attacked Earth. Her hand will hover there over the pens for several seconds, then she'll snatch it back where it will join the other hand clutched to her chest and you can just see the disappointment -- she's really ashamed, breathing hard, glaring at the pens, hands twisting between her breasts.

After a few minutes of this her face will be all shiny and slick with sweat. It's pathetic and after a while she'll sense how pathetic it is and with all her resolve she'll squeeze her eyes shut, take a deep breath, shoot her hand out, and grab a pen. When she opens her eyes and sees the pen in her hand she does this weird smile-grimace thing and clutches it in her fist like it was a stake and she was going to kill Dracula with it. Her expression is pure triumph, as if she just won a wrestling match -- which she did I guess. She'll click the pen a couple times, wipe the sweat off her face, and take a deep breath. Then when her breathing has returned to normal, she'll hunker down, and eloquently, triumphantly put pen to paper. Then, she'll write a few words and start a different version of the same process. Write a couple words, scratch them out, apologize, write half a sentence, scratch it out, apologize. Write, apologize, write, apologize, agonize, I'm sorry, agonize, I'm sorry. She keeps this up until the paper is covered with scratch-outs so dense they're solid ink. In places it's so bad there are holes where the pen has been raked back and forth. It looks like modern art, like something you would see in a small gallery for five hundred dollars entitled 'Frustration', or 'Life Sucks!, number 4.'  She'll throw the paper away and fling the pen back behind the desk. Then she realizes she's right back where she started -- without pen. Then, again, she'll reach for a pen.

By the end of the day she's exhausted and tends to stare at her computer a lot. It gets worse as the week progresses. By Friday she's a real mess. Her hair is frazzled, sometimes a shirttail will stick out. People are unable to look her in the eyes and make their remarks short and to the point -- one word if possible -- and without breaking stride. I think the only solution is for her to start drinking during the day. You know -- keep a bottle in the bottom drawer. A lot of people do it (you'd be surprised). It would calm her nerves and she could focus. I suppose it won't be long before she figures that out. I mean, she has to reach a point with this where it can't get worse. There has to come a time when she can't function...right? Until she decides to take that final step and become a full-time booze hound, she'll spend her day fucking up and saying she's sorry.

It's been like this for the last sixteen years. She's been with the company, fucking up and apologizing for sixteen years. It can't last much longer. It's funny. If she didn't drink so much she wouldn't be such a balloon-head. And, if she wasn't such a balloon-head people wouldn't make fun of her, and she wouldn't feel so bad about herself and, if that were the case, she wouldn't drink so much. It's circular, I know, but it makes sense.

I guess lots of stuff is like that. I used to care, but Bob got tired of it. What are you gonna do? Bob would rather be dead (and Gretchen will be soon).