Sneak Preview: Guy Mortago; Space Detective

I feel my face hit the ground, my eyes glued shut, my ears being bombarded with sound. I feel a slick, sticky film covering my body. I try to stand but my muscles are too weak. I feel an arm wrap around my waist and pull me up. My eyes and ears still covered in this film. I can only see blurs and only hear murmurs. I feel myself being dragged somewhere. I feel a cold metal table under me, and water being pumped over my body. The film slowly sludged off and I opened my eyes. Metal. Metal ceiling. Metal walls. Metal man beside me. Metal eyes looking into mine.

I remember nothing. Where am I? What is this thing standing next to me? I can't put anything together, my mind feels as if it has the same film that was covering my body. My thoughts slow as if trudging through the same thick slime. All I can do is focus on the metal eyes staring into mine. Finally, it spoke.
“Mr. Mortago, how are you feeling?” it said with a brass timbre.

“Wh-where am I?” The words stumble out of my mouth like drunks in a parade.

“Mr. Mortago, you are aboard the United Earth Empire ship Kerouac. You have been in cryogenic sleep for the past three years. It's time for your shift, Mr. Mortago.”
My shift? What in the hell does this damn contrapt-- Oh. My shift. My shift, that's it. I was in Cryo, and now they've woken me up so I can do my job. What was my job again? What was I supposed to do?

Why am I here?

“Your clothes and gun are on the table beside you, sir. You'll find your office to be in F corridor, first door on your left,” the robot said nonchalantly.

“Which corridor? Where? Gun?” I'm just as confused as ever now.

The robot took a second glance at me. I swear I could hear it sigh. “I will have an assistant escort you. You'll find a briefing folder on your desk, please get dressed first, Mr. Mortago.”

A smaller robot on wheels came beeping up next to the table. It reminded me of a dog, almost leaping up in excitement to do something, anything. I haul my legs over the table and look toward my clothes. They look familiar, but they look like standard everyday clothes also.

“And do hurry, Mr. Mortago,” the robot urged me off of the table and pushed me in the direction of my clothes. I stumbled toward them. I slowly started to get dressed. Buttoning the shirt was the hardest. My fingers were frozen for so long it was hard to get them to move right.

The tiny wheeled robot beeped excitedly at the door. My feet lumbered toward the sound and soon I was following it down more metal hallways. Left here, right there. Key code needed. My hand flew to the pad before I knew what it was doing, entered the code and the door flew open. Inside there was a wood desk (actual wood, which surprised me), a locker on one side of the wall and a cot next to it. The rest of the room was filled with file cabinets and the walls covered in generic office posters. I walk to one and study it. A picture of a cat hanging from a tree, hang in there, it read. My eyes wander around the room. It's familiar, but it felt distant in my head.

The robot beeps impatiently at the desk. I turn my head and see a folder in its claw-hand-thing. I took the folder from it, and in a second it was out the door beeping with excitement. The folder in my hand was thin, but it looked important. On the cover was written, U.E.E. Kerouac Mission Briefing. Underneath that was written my name: Guy Mortago.

I looked around the room. This was my office, right? It definitely looked familiar. It looked as if I had used it. My mind was still slow in taking in all of this. I sat in the chair, happy to give my legs a rest, and opened the file.

Welcome [Guy Mortago] to the U.E.E. Kerouac! We are proud to have you aboard serving the most important ship in the empire. As you well know, our home world is decaying. We are in constant search of a new and better world to call our own. That's where you come in! The U.E.E. Kerouac is charged with the most important mission of our generation: the mission of finding that new world we all dream of!

[Guy Mortago] you are being assigned to the post of Peace Officer aboard this ship. Your job is to keep people safe, secure, and following the law. You have been given the [second] shift in the 24 shift rotation. Meaning you've been asleep for [three] years, wow! You will be awake for three years, doing your duty until the next Peace Officer is awoken and takes your place. You should have already met the previous Peace Officer and sent him on a merry slumber. Wish him sweet dreams on behalf of the United Earth Empire!

What peace officer? There's no one here. No one but me. The halls are empty. There's no noise but my own breathing. God, it's so quiet. So quiet I think I'm going crazy. I still don't know why I'm here. This paper didn't help much. So I'm a cop, swell. But how is a cop going to work if there's no one to police? Where did the former Peace Officer go? Is there anyone on this ship? Am I all alone?

I begin to rummage through the things around my office. The drawers in the desk; nothing but papers and pens. The locker in the corner held nothing but a jacket and a few boxes of non-lethal bullets. On a whim I check under the bed. Bingo, a bottle of rum. It's contents black as the space outside. I open it to the enticing scent of caramel. This used to be my favorite, I think. At least I'll have some form of entertainment on this ship. I place the bottle on my desk and go rummaging for a glass when there came a knock on the metal door. The metal echoing louder than anything I've heard since I awoke and I recoiled in fear. I look up to find someone standing in my doorway. Not just anyone, but a woman. A very attractive woman.

“You're Mortago, right?” she asks.

“Probably, I'm not all that sure myself,” I stand up straighter, and make for my desk to sit down. She follows and sits in the chair opposite mine.

“You don't remember anything?”
“No, other than an impatient robot and its overly eager companion.”

She laughed. God, that laugh. “That's to be expected, I guess. Cryogenics are still in its infancy, so there's always something wrong.” She crossed her legs and smiled. “Let's start at the beginning. You are Guy Mortago. The Peace Officer on this ship, the U.E.E. Kerouac. Your job is to keep people from breaking the law.”

“I gathered that much from this useful piece of paper,” I say shoving the file toward her. “I still don't know who I am or where we're going. Or who you are for that matter.”

“That first one is tough,” she sat up straighter. “The other two I can answer, definitely. The U.E.E. Kerouac is on a mission to transport three million settlers to a new Earth, light years away from the old one. You see our home is dying. Some say already dead. What we are doing is going to a new planet to start over.”

“I got that much from this,” I tap the file. “But why do you have to freeze people? How far away is this damn Earth anyway?”

“That, is a very good question. The scientists say it will take over a seventy years to get there. From what the computer says, we are on year one.”

“Quite the ways to go.”

“Yes, it is. That's why we froze you. You should have been greeted by the officer before you, but there was... There was a problem.”

“Problem? What happened?”
“We don't know, that's the problem. He just up and disappeared. No note, no space suit missing, not even a heartbeat on the ship's sensors. Nothing. That's why we unfroze you two years early.”

“Wait, two years early? I've only been asleep a year and I've already lost my mind?” This is bad.

“Uhm, yes. Two years early. That may be the cause of your memory loss. It'll come back in time, I think.”
“You think? I have no idea who I am and you're going off assumptions? Who in the hell are you, anyway?”

“Me? Well, I'm the captain. Captain Samantha Grey. I came down here to tell you the situation. I hate to do this to you, but it's up to you to find Mr. Anderson. He--”

“Anderson?””

“Yes, the last Peace Officer, the one who disappeared. Take a couple of days to get your memory back, but please help us find him. He could hurt the ship and is currently jeopardizing the mission. Mr. Mortago, you've got to investigate.” Her eyes, in that ghastly green color implored me to do it. How could I say no?

“Okay, but first things first. How do I get my memory back?”

She looked relieved. It may have been my imagination but she acted as if I had saved her life. Something was off here, something I can't put my hand on but something there nonetheless. When her eye caught mine, she instantly sobered her face to look stern, captain like. “You can get help in the Medical Bay. Just turn right once you're out of the office and follow the signs. You'll find it.” She stood up suddenly, as if she had said too much, and left the room with nary another word.

She was probably hiding something from me. But at least she was pretty.

The Tale of Rodger the Sloth

The Tale of Rodger the Sloth

One day, Rodger the sloth was hanging in a tree. It was a warm day in the jungles of Puerto Rico. Rodger had just woken up from a five hour nap. He decided to take another nap, before moving. His eyes blurred in the sunlight, and he decided to nap in a nice warm sunny spot.

Rodger moved slowly up the branch. He spied a great big branch in the sunlight. “This would be perfect for a nap,” Rodger thought. He slowly made his way and took hold of the branch.

“Get off me, s-s-s-sloth,” said the branch. “I am not a branch. You’re making me angry.”

Rodger looked surprised at the branch. It wasn’t a branch at all! It was Ziggy the snake! Rodger jumped back, startled. He lost hold of the branch and fell into a pond!

The pond splashed around Rodger. He was all wet! All around him he heard the sound of grumbling coming from under the water. Suddenly the head of a turtle surfaced with a big angry frown. “You jumped on me, sloth, watch where you’re going,” the turtle snapped at Rodger, then slid back down underwater.

Rodger swam as fast as he could to the shore, which wasn’t very fast, considering he was a sloth. As he was swimming he felt angry bubbles forming around him. When he hauled himself onto the shore, all the fish in the pond stuck their heads out of the water. “Watch it, sloth! You’re getting in our way,” they all yelled at him.

By now Rodger felt very bad. He had made everyone in the jungle angry. “It wasn’t my fault!” he tried to say to the fish. Their yells and insults drowned out his cries.

Rodger sulked; he crawled across the ground until he was under his favorite tree. He felt very bad about making all his friends angry. He cried to the sky, “What can I do to make everything better?”

“Say you’re sorry,” a voice said flatly from above. Rodger looked up, and saw the source of the voice. It was Fluffers, the jungle cat. He was perched on a low-hanging branch on Rodger’s favorite tree.

“Say I’m what?” Rodger asked Fluffers. He didn’t know what sorry was.

“You heard me.”

“But what is sorry? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Rodger climbed up to where Fluffers was perched.

“Sorry is an emotion. It is when you regret what you’ve done, and want to make up for what you did that you didn’t mean to do.” Fluffers licked her paw.

“How do I do that?” Rodger felt that way exactly. He wanted to make everything better with his jungle friends.

“It’s simple, Rodger. All you have to do is say ‘I’m sorry.’ That is how you feel, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes! I definitely feel that way!” Rodger felt much better now that he knew how to make things better. “Thank you, Fluffers!” Rodger ran off as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast.

He ran to the pond, and saw the fish under the water. He splashed at the pond to get their attention. When he had their attention, he cried, “I’m sorry!” A dopey smile erupted on his face. The fish were stunned. Rodger had never told anyone sorry!

“It’s okay!” The fish all said in unison.

Rodger then crawled toward the turtle. He cried, “I’m sorry, turtle!”

The turtle was shocked, Rodger had never said sorry before! He poked his head up and said, “Its okay, Rodger. I forgive you.”

Rodger felt great! He was making everything okay with his jungle friends! He climbed a tree as fast as he could to find Ziggy the snake. He found him basking in the sunlight.

He cried, “I’m sorry, Ziggy for using you as a branch!” Rodger smiled his dopey smile.

Ziggy was taken aback; Rodger had never apologized to anyone! He told Rodger, “It’s-s-s-s okay, Rodger. I ac-c-c-ept your apology.”

Rodger felt great! He apologized to everyone he had wronged today. All of his jungle friends were not angry with him anymore. Rodger climbed into his own sunny spot, and took a long, happy nap.

Capital Wasteland: My First Novel

Here's a link to my very first novel.  Please, read it and give me advice.  If anything just read it, or let it collect dust on your hard drive.  But yeah, give it a whirl.

Capital Wasteland

Happy reading, as always,

Richard

Death Valley 01

Death Valley 01

     The desert sun blazed onto the desolate landscape.  Swanny wandered in and out of what lacked any word to describe it.  He tripped and staggered through the golden sand, left footprints in what he saw as carpet.  Swanny looks to the sun, saw every color in the rainbow, and it left him reeling.  His mouth was dry, he had been breathing through his mouth for the past few hours.  He mumbled to himself, as the colors danced in front of his eyes.  He needed water.  Only now was Swanny sure of the importance of that liquid.

     “This is one hell of a trip,” Swanny mumbled to himself.  “I need to go to that reservation more often.”  He was on a spiritual journey.  Swanny was a Native White American, he left much to be desired in the looks department.  Sun burnt eyes a crazy grey color that spoke volumes in a language that no one understood.  Average in height, with black hair, mangled and tangled under the desert sun.

     Swanny (his real name wasn’t really Swanny, but everyone called him that) crested a dune, and the whole of the Mojave opened up in front of him.  He needed water.  But he was too excited and high to have any forethought about this trip.  He wandered into the desert after drinking a foul tasting hallucinogenic liquid.  The desert sun beat down upon him like a scornful lover. 

     Thirsty, Swanny thought, over and over in his head until the only thing that they sky reminded him of was the ocean.  He fell down the side of the dune, tumbling through the sand.  Particles of sand filtered the sunlight gold and blue.  Swanny hit the bottom of the dune with a heavy squish.  He opened his eyes and found he was ankle deep in a pool of dark black-blue sludge.

     “Water!” he screamed with joy, and started shoveling the stuff into his mouth.  After a few shovelfuls of this sludge, Swanny felt more disoriented than his original state.  The lightheadedness caused him to fall face down in the muck.  The bubbles around his head slowly died.

     The sun was low on the horizon in the town of Dusty Shades, “The biggest small town in the Mojave!”  The shop keeper, Gary, had just closed up his general store/gas station/bookstore.  He looked toward the sunset, and saw a black dot shamble toward town.  He squinted to see it better, but couldn’t see what it was.  He shrugged his shoulders and went about his business.

     Later that night Gary was awakened by a bloodcurdling scream.  He leaped out of his single bed, grabbed his revolver and headed toward the epicenter of the noise.  When Gary reached the road, he was shocked.  Mrs. Wordswoth was spread-eagled on the road.  Her neck bitten out and blood still erupted all around her like a geyser.  Gary looked around and saw the figure of a man, who was shambling farther into town.  The figure became illuminated by the lights of houses turned on to investigate the scream.  It was a man, but this man was covered in what appeared to be lint with his mouth gone, replaced by a huge black bulbous boil.  Gary ran closer, but kept his distance, this man was dangerous, he could tell.  He killed Mrs. Wordsworth, he didn’t know how, but he was the only culprit. 

     The man moaned, loudly at the lights being turned on in the night.  Gary, who was always a cautious man, slowly cocked his pistol.  A crowd formed around the edges of the road.  Murmurs circulated about this figure that had killed Mrs. Wordsworth.  Gary carefully took aim at the figure.  But a split second before he took the shot, Gary heard a faint “look out!” coming from the crowd.  He turned around.  Mrs. Wordsworth was at most a foot away from his face.  She looked different.  Her eyes were dead, her face was blank, and her mouth was open.  A black-blue boil was beginning to protrude from her jaw.  She uttered a moan as her arms encircled Gary.  Her jaw closed around his jugular, he tried to scream but his gun fired and it drowned out any other sound.  The bullet flew into an onlooker in the crowd.  They all screamed, and dispersed into the night.  Utter chaos erupted in the biggest small town in the Mojave. 

     There was only one survivor.

     This man, who went by the name of Brennon, fought off the creatures with any weapon he could find.  In only two hours, the entire town was infected.  Brennon fought off what he could, and burned the rest.  When dawn broke, he climbed into his car and drove west, toward Los Angeles.  Brennon had to tell the world what happened in Dusty Shades.  It was his home town, and his family had all died in whatever the hell that was.  This was early in the November of 1999.

    

     It was now the 12^th of December in the same year. 

     In that same desert, in the middle of godforsaken nowhere.  Dr. Mathis was sent to investigate what had happened in Dusty Shades by the CDC.  He was a forensic pathologist, very overqualified for the job.  The morning sun painted the sky purple to his back.  Dr. Mathis drove his Ford F-150 into the burnt remains of the town.  He got out of the car in the center of the main road.  Burnt and decayed bodies littered the street, some with heads, and some without.  Mathis bent down to investigate one of the bodies.  It was thin, almost as if it had been starved and slightly singed.  He reached his gloved hand toward the body, and turned it over.  What he saw made him jump back.  The mouth was open, and the jaw was hanging by a thread of flesh.  In its place, a growth like a boil protruded from the jaw line. 

     “What the,” Mathis pondered under his breath.  He reached into his kitbag and pulled out a Petri dish to collect a sample from the growth.  When he touched it with his scalpel, however, it collapsed in on itself, releasing a cloud of dust.  Mathis jumped back off his haunches and onto the ground.  He narrowly escaped the dark blue-black dust.  He put on his mask for good measure, and after it settled he attempted to collect another sample.  But the bodies seemed to disintegrate on touch. 

     Frustrated, he looked for more bodies.  The entire town was of this same disintegrating matter, he looked farther out of town for more bodies.  He followed the main road, through ash and blood and dust.  He kept his head down and his mask on.  When the burnt sand ended, Mathis saw that a trail of black-blue footprints started.  He followed them, farther into the Mojave. 

     The sun was high in the sky.  Mathis kept with the footprints until he came to a pool, with the footprints leading out of it.  This dark blue-black sludge bubbled in anticipation of him.

     “I have to get a sample of this,” he said to himself, and bent down to collect a sample.  The pool released puffs of blue-black dust with each bubble.

     “Freeze!” a muffled voice yelled behind him.  He heard the cocking of a firearm.

     Dr. Mathis whirled around, and saw the man who yelled at him.  It was someone in desert camouflage, who wore a full-faced gasmask.  The man was pointing an AK-47 at him.  Dr. Mathis froze.

     “What are you doing?  This is a quarantined area,” the man waved his gun at him, but it returned to the spot between the doctor’s eyes.

     “I—I’m with the CDC.  My name is Dr. William Mathis,” his hands raised slowly, a gesture of peace.

     “Another doctor, eh?  Keep your hands up and come with me,” the soldier’s gun lowered, but he still had his finger on the trigger.  The grunt slowly turned around and his footsteps tore lightly into the sand, he left a trail of black-blue footprints.

     Dr. Mathis was stunned and puzzled.  He didn’t think that there was anything left living in the desert.  The town itself was tribute to that.  He followed the soldier, half with curiosity and half out of fear.  He avoided stepping in the black-blue lint that the soldier left behind.  After ten minutes of walking, they arrived at a small shed.  Mathis hadn’t seen this shed.  It was painted with the same desert camouflage that the soldier was wearing.  This had bad idea written all over it.  I wish I had been transferred to Atlanta.  At least there they don’t have crazy people waving guns at me.  The doctor thought as he stepped through the door, into the darkness of the shed.  His eyes took a while to adjust to the light.  There was nothing in the shed except for a large manhole.  The soldier motioned with his gun toward it, and then lifted it.

     “Down the rabbit hole we go,” Mathis said under his breath.  The air that emanated from the hole was rancid.  It was a mixture of spoiled milk, dirt, and fungus.  Yep, this had bad idea written all over it.

     After they descended the ladder into the cave, the soldier and Dr. Mathis stood at the entrance to a dark tunnel.  The soldier turned on his flashlight, and lit the path ahead of them.  He kept his light on the cave ahead, but never let it fall to the ground.  Mathis could barely make out shapes on the floor of the cave.  Part of him didn’t want to know what was there, the other part was deathly curious.

     “What is this place, and what is on the ground?”

     The soldier said nothing, but continued on until they both arrived at a large steel door.  There was a consol in front of the door with a keypad on it.  The soldier typed in a code.  There was an alarm and flashing lights all around them.  Mathis was taken aback by the sounds after the long silence.  Then he heard the sound of the steel door squealing open.  That rancid smell was getting worse.

     “God, man, what is that smell?” Mathis covered his nose.

     The soldier just grunted a laugh, and continued on.  He stepped through the metal door, and flipped a switch.  Dr. Mathis followed hastily.  He snuck a glance back toward the cave.  As the door closed behind him, the light from the door illuminated the figures on the floor of the cave.  Bodies, piles of them, the same black-blue corpses from Dusty Shades littered the floor like discarded tissues.

     A pit formed in the stomach of Dr. Mathis.  He said shakily, “Jesus, what the hell is this place?”

     The grunt moved along silently.  They arrived at another door, the lights turning on and off as they walked, following them with the saving light from an incandescent bulb.  They reached a door at the end of the hallway into a dark room.  The soldier stopped before the door, and motioned for Mathis to go through.  He stayed behind, and the door squeaked shut behind Mathis.

     Mathis couldn’t see, he uttered a shaky, “hello?” and was answered by darkened silence.

     “Ah, who are you?  And what were you doing in my laboratory?” a voice echoed through the dark.  A light flicked on, illuminating a sunken, wrinkled face.  The face was sitting behind a small metal desk, the lamp played games with Mathis’ head.

     “Uh, my name is Dr. William Mathis, I’m with the CDC.  I was sent here to investigate what happened at Dusty Shades.  And a man with a gun forced me to come here.”
     The man hit his hand on the desk.  The hollow metallic scream echoed through the dark room.  Mathis jumped, and put up his hands.

     “My apologies, doctor.  I knew they knew, I just didn’t realize how fast they would respond to that outbreak,” the man looked sad.  His eyes were in shadow, leaning forward on the desk.

     “Outbreak, what do you mean?  And who are you?”

     The man slammed his hand on the desk again, “damn drug nuts running wild!  My funding cut, my men hungry, and no one cares!  What the hell has this world come to?”  He trailed off, and put his head in his hands.  After a minute of silence, he picked back up, “My work is so important.  It’s all I have.  I am Dr. Clarke Kilborne.  And this—this place is going to be the death of me.  The death of everyone!  We have the largest collection of fungi in the world!  And they cut my funding?  All because some damn hippie drinks the waste.”  He trailed off to incomprehensible mumbles.

     “Okay,” Mathis walked closer to the desk.  “So what you’re saying is that outbreak as you call it was your fault?  What did you release?”

     “My fault?  My fault!  No, that drug nut that fell in the waste pool.  It’s his damn fault!”  Kilborne slammed his fist on the desk, harder than the previous strikes.  The lamp on his desk toppled over the desk.  It fell on the floor, and illuminated the wall behind him.  The entire wall was covered in a cluster of blue-black bulbs.  They pulsated as if the light woke them up.

     “What the fuck is that?  For God’s sake, what is that?”  Dr. Mathis stepped back, his heart full of fear.  The pit in his stomach became a void, endless and black, his mind raced with the monsters no one dared to imagine.

     “That?” Dr. Kilborne said with a maniacal chuckle.  “Those.  Those are my children.  Those are the newest of my creations.  Those are the final version.  Those are the ticket to the freedom of the human race!  No more will we be stricken with hunger, with sickness or death.  This is evolution!”

     Mathis’ head began to swim.  He took in extra air, but his throat was invaded by something.  He coughed and wheezed.  He fell onto his knees, but still couldn’t get any air.  It was as if something was attempting to climb out of his lungs.

     The madman laughed even louder, “having fun, doctor?  Like I said, soon the human race will evolve.  In exactly one week’s time, we as a race will reach a whole new tier of perfection!  Alas, you doctor will not have the good fortune of seeing human perfection.  You have already been infected with my failed prototype.  You will die.  But my children will spread, on December the 19^th; my children will invade the atmosphere infecting everyone on earth!”

     Mathis knew this man was mad.  But he couldn’t voice it, the thing trying to escape his lungs burst out of his mouth, dislocating his jaw.  Mathis’ air was blocked by a black-blue boil.  The same kind he found on the bodies in Dusty Shades.  His eyes closed, he slipped into death.

     Dr. Kilborne un-holstered his gun, and put a bullet through the head of Dr. Mathis.  “After the spores are released,” he turned around to admire his work.  “We shall truly live.”

     The mad doctor stood quietly there for a while.  He felt something grab his ankle.  He whipped around, to find the undead corpse of Dr. Mathis reaching out toward him, with one hand already around the bare skin of his ankle.  Dr. Kilborne screamed.  He knew that just one touch could spread the infection.  This was his creation.  Why was it trying to kill him?  This wasn’t right!  The doctor fired randomly at the creature. 

     He knew he would turn very soon.  He put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.  Click. 

     “Shit!”  The doctor screamed.  He broke free of Mathis, and ran to his computer.  He frantically slammed the keys, attempting to start the bunker’s self-destruction protocol.  The bunker’s alarm system blared, “ten seconds to self-destruction.”

The corpse of Dr. Mathis pulled Kilborne off of his chair and onto the floor, the doctor screamed until he couldn’t anymore.  The undead corpse of Mathis tore Kilborne’s jaw off of his skull and shoved his fungus covered hand down his throat.  Dr. Kilborne died with a scream bubbling through his throat.

Kilborne’s men attempted to run from the bunker.  The squad of seven men scrambled to the ladder in the cave.  They stumbled over body after body.  But the ladder had collapsed.  The men tore off their gasmasks and fell to their knees.

The cleansing fire ripped through the air, igniting what was left of the soldiers, Dr. Mathis, and Dr. Kilborne.  All that was left was the silent black-blue pool of waste.  Bubbles jumped excitedly at the fire erupting from the desert shack just yards away.  The sun shone through the black-blue smoke, the sun set on the flames in the desert.

The black-blue pool still waits silently bubbling in the Mojave.

The Canopy

On the stone, the bloodstained and desolate rock; occupied only by the screaming and thrashing girl tied down with vines.  Accompanied by Father Malachi, and shadowed by a congregation of sheep chanting the banter of their so-called savior.  A sacrifice they say to please the gods.  To bring rain, let the crops grow, bring us salvation and what have you.  The chanting comes to a climax, I turn away from the mob just as the screams go silent, and an overwhelming wave of nausea comes over me.  I walk over to a log and sit, trying not to vomit as the mob disperses.  I guess they lost interest.

These spectacles have been a more common sight below the Canopy, ever since the drought.  It’s been a year without rain and our crops won’t grow.  The mystics have been foretelling the end, but I’ve never been one for their astro-babble.  The world will correct itself; the rain will flow from the great stems of the Canopy once again.  In that, and only that I have faith; none of this sacrificial bull.  It’s barbaric and it sickens me.

But where are my thoughts?  I forgot to introduce myself, my name is Wallace Goldberg, and I am of average height, pale skin, brown hair and grey eyes.  I am a philosopher, but nobody thinks of me as such.  They think of me as a madman, the only people with enough sense to listen are my friends, which are few and far between.  But that will change, I will make my voice heard, that much I set my heart on.  If I have to post my views on every wall, every log, stem, so be it.  As long as I am not reduced to the barbaric acts of my – I hate to say it – peers.

After the girl has been removed from the rock, her blood joining the others on that cursed thing.  I lift myself from the log and head for home, my lonely solace in this town.  When I reach my hut, the door still gone from when my parents were taken.  I browse the house for anything stolen; my usual ritual around when I get home.  Of course I have nothing of great value, my house has been empty since the rations went out and my house was raided.  I am engorged with the vacancy of the place, almost as if it purged itself of me long ago.  Hearing my stomach rumble I decide to go out to the ration line, purge myself of this place.

Walking through the shanty town I pass dry roads, dark shadows on the ground and lines of sunlight struggling to get past the Canopy.  One thing I never understood is if we are in such a bad drought, why is the Canopy still green?  The stems and leaves show no signs of a lack of anything, they still sway in the wind, block the harsh sun, and protect us from the space above.  As I look up the Canopy moves with me, silently keeping track of me as I meander toward the ration line.  But if I look up, past the leaves, I think I can see something – what looks like a life form -- past the Canopy.  Could it be something past our world?

A loud smack and a crash bring me back to reality.  I had run straight into the exit ration line.  The lady I ran into had dropped her plate and was absolutely livid, she was screaming at me.  I really couldn’t apologize enough, nor could I really understand what she was saying.  My mind kept going back to the Canopy – in the proper ration line I stare back up into nothing – it must have been my imagination, playing tricks on me.

“Looking for rain?”  A voice said behind me, I spin around to find the only friend I have in this town smiling at me.  It was Alex Chase.  “That lady doesn’t seem too happy.”

“Oh yeah, I thought I saw something up there but it must have been my eyes playing games with me.  I guess I got distracted,” I said while I moved my hands in a wavelike motion, a nervous habit of mine.  “Games never end well now-a-days do they?”

“Not when you’re playing with the sky,” she said with a smirk.  “Saw something huh?  Like what, another plant, some clouds, sky” —she quickly changed to a whisper--- “A life form maybe?  You know how dangerous that kind of talk is around here.  Especially with Father Malachi around, he likes to creep around the ration lines and listen to the gossip.  Look, meet me at my house after dark and we will discuss what you really saw.”  She disappeared in an instant.  Just in time too.

“Ah, Mister Goldberg how nice it is to see you here.  Where is your friend Alex going all of a sudden?”  The old but strong voice was unmistakable.  I knew the face before I turned around; Father Malachi.

“She forgot something at home Father, nothing get flustered over,” I say with reluctance; I hate lying.

“I saw you two speaking before, anything I should know about?”

            “What, don’t tell me one of us is next in line for one of your sick performances, we aren’t nearly old enough.  You already took my parents, why not take me?”

“Oh gods no, I would never do that to either of you,” he said with a very hurt look on his face, one that I think he wears a lot.  “What must be done must be done.”  Something I think he says to himself just as much.

As I was coming up with something to say, something comes into my attention that wasn’t there before, an extraordinarily loud buzzing noise mixed with the sound of ripping and tearing times a billion.  And it’s getting closer, much closer; much faster.  Soon enough the air is being sucked out of my lungs and I am being ripped off the ground and everything around me is coming with me.  Into a big metal spinning blade we go, it was almost enjoyable, then—

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