Sins of the Fathers - a short story

Earlier this summer I threw out a challenge to fans of Daniel Amos to write a short story based on one or many of their songs. So far I haven't received any back but the summer isn't over yet. I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I did writing it.

Sins of the Fathers

There’s that counter kid with the insufficient moustache and wiry frame, wiping down a table by the restrooms. He’s one of those bright and funny young know-it-alls, just like his grandpa William who was an old acquaintance of mine, though this kid doesn’t know it and probably wouldn’t care if he did. I stand in the doorway of Johnny’s Café and look around for Dotty but don’t see her, meaning she probably had to take time off from work again with a sick kid, one of the many struggles of being a single mom.

I usually sit at the counter and talk to Bob, the owner and cook of this roadside greasy spoon, but I’m feeling kind of anti-social so I take a booth on the east side where the mid-morning sun can come in. A moment later the kid comes over and I’m thankful for his name tag, my mind momentarily not able to remember that his name is Blake.

“Howya doin today, Mr. Akendorf?”

Life is God's gift but the years have weight and I'm logy, a little sluggish. My back's bothering me again and my bones are rigid and I’m wondering how difficult it’s going to be getting out of this booth, but these are things young Blake won’t understand and doesn’t want to hear. “Better than I deserve,” I reply. Like most of us old codgers, I feel like I’ve lived too many years but then again, not long enough.

“Seen any flying saucers lately?” He humors me and like always, I just let it slide.

“Not today, Blake.” I leave it at that. It’s an old story back from when I was about Blake’s age, a story that kind of got me labelled as an eccentric in this small town. I don’t mind, I suppose. One is what one is. “How’s your music career going?”

“Our drummer quit last week but we’ve got two guys trying out this weekend. Hopefully we’ll have someone by the time we have enough money saved to get into the studio. After that it’s just a matter of time. So what can I get ya? The usual?” He has his pad and pen poised and ready in front of him.

“No, I’m feeling a bit hungrier than usual. I’ll take a Mighty Grunion with extra gravy, to grow my derrière. And java jive. Black.”

“Okay, Bud. One Mighty Grunion coming right up.” The kid turns and leaves, putting my ticket in the order slider by the kitchen. He comes back in a moment and wordlessly places a white mug and saucer in front of me, filling it with steaming bean squeezins. Even this simple action reveals his limitless reserve of optimistic, youthful energy, his bright porcelain blue eyes brimming over with the fire of the immortal soul, making me feel even older, as if he’s siphoning off what little vigor I stored up overnight.

I cup the hot mug in my hands and enjoy the warmth that seeps into my bones, half-squinting with the bright sun on my face as I look out into the parking lot. In the kitchen Bob has the radio on to an oldies station and when “Last Kiss” comes on it’s too much to resist. So I let myself go, fading back to the summer of 1964.

• • • • • •

That song, “Last Kiss,” was all over the radio that summer. It seems you couldn’t step out of your door without hearing a thin rendition squawking out of some kid’s transistor radio. This was back before F.M. so everything was thin, including myself. My best friend Theo and I spent a lot of time that year hanging out with Bill, Blake’s grandpa, though he was a long way from being a grandpa. Bill was okay but I would be lying if I said the fact that Bill had a car and access to his dad’s beer didn’t play into our decision to hang out with an underclassman. Plus Theo had the hot’s for Bills girlfriend, Connie, who was constantly by his side in the front passenger seat of his 1959 Ford Galaxie. Maybe Theo just liked being close to her, even if all he usually saw was the back of her head. I don’t blame him. I mean, she was beautiful enough that I wouldn’t have been surprised to one day hear John Charles Daly pronounce her Miss Universe, but I’ve never been one to fight dirty in the game of love and try to take another guy’s girl. Besides I had my eye on a pretty young sophomore with the magical name of Irma.

One of those endless summer nights Theo and I walked over to Bill’s house to see if he was home. Bill’s dad was bowling and he and Connie had already helped themselves to a couple cans each of Lucky Lager. Bill’s dad was a big shot local businessman who could afford to buy his son a car as well as alimony for an ex-wife. More importantly he was a heavy drinker who didn’t keep very good tabs on his stash so it was easy for Bill to be generous. We sat around for an hour or so before Bill had the idea to drive out to the Los Padres National Forest. It was still early, just barely dark, so we all jumped at the chance to howl. I wasn’t much of a drinker, still aren’t, but I’d had enough so that I didn’t realize that Bill had had too many. Now I’m not saying that Bill’s drinking affected his driving, or that our collective consumption played into the events of that evening, but its human nature to dig through the past and play “What if?”

We piled into the big, warm, sweet interior of Bill’s Galaxie and headed out into that strange and desperate night that would alter all our destinies. We assumed our regular positions of Bill at the wheel with Connie right up next to him on that massive bench seat. I was behind Bill and Theo was beside me, nowhere near as close as Connie was to Bill.

It only too about ten minutes before we made it out of Bakersfield, the stores and warehouses in our dust.

“One day I’m gonna leave Bakersfield and won’t go back,” said Theo. “I’m gonna hop on a train and explore Europe, maybe even Asia.”

“You can’t take a train to Europe, Theo,” replied Bill as he cracked another beer.

“You know what I mean, wise-acre.”

Bill took a gulp of his warm beer. “Ya know what, I’m bored with Los Padres. Let’s go to Tehachapi Mountain Park instead. The views are incredible!”

“Views of what? Its night time?” quipped Theo.

Without waiting for a vote Bill turned left onto the next country road.

Because of his late decision we weren’t on the main road to Tehachapi and had to nose around a few dead ends before we found a narrow gravel side road that led up into the mountains. Once found Bill seemed eager to make up for his lost time and pressed down on the gas to speed up the treacherous curves, smiling as Connie clung to his arm in fear.

“Slow down, baby. I’m in no hurry.” Bill let off the gas a little which seemed to satisfy Connie.

As we traveled upward we hit a section without trees on the driver’s side and we were able to catch of view of the moon-bathed mountainside. “What’s that?” asked Theo, pointing past my head out the open car window. We all looked and saw a green disc of light with a red pulsing center zipping over the trees and knew that we were seeing a U.F.O., just like in the movies but this one was right there before us in real life.

Theo said, “That is not theologically correct.”

Bill said, “SHIT!” and yanked the wheel hard to the right to avoid driving right off the narrow mountain road. The car slid sideways and the driver side slammed into a short wooden fence that ran along the edge of the road, a gift from the parks department for buffoons like us. Silence accompanied our sudden stop as we all tried to absorb what we just saw coupled with the hair-raising accident. The silence was broken by the radio, playing a few bars of some Beach Boys song before the car engine died. Theo started to laugh in relief. The rest of us sat there, our minds fumbling for words, when suddenly the car was bathed in red light. I leaned out my window and, looking up, my brain turned to sand. The saucer was hovering right above us, maybe fifty feet or so, as if investigating our accident. The horrendous disc was spinning like a record while the red light pulsed twice before the thing shot straight up like a bottle rocket, disappearing into the night.

Theo pulled me back into the car by my shirt. “Where’d it go?”

“Straight up. I can’t see it anywhere.”

Bill cranked the engine and it roared to life. “Well, we’re getting out of here, fast!” He popped the Galaxie into gear and gunned the engine. The rear wheels spun out on the gravel road and the rear of the car slid towards the center of the road, causing the front of the car to push against the fence. A thick, wooden crack could be heard over the engine and the car lurched forward, along with our stomachs, and we dropped off the edge.

My mother must have prayed for me that day because the drop was only twelve feet or so. The car landed nose down, at an angle, with its back wheels leaning against the mountainside, the cabin of the car a confusing Mystery Spot where forward was now down and no direction seemed up. I was banged up with my upper body hanging over the driver’s seat. Seat belts were an option that this particular Galaxie did not have, not that we would have used them. “Let’s get out of here,” I yelled, looking around the car. Theo had a gash on his forehead but was also otherwise okay. “Bill? Are you okay?”

Bill’s head had cracked the windshield. There was a smear of blood but he was coming to. “What? Crap. My dad’s gonna kill me. Connie?” We all looked over at where Connie should have been. My blood turned cold at the sight of the open passenger door leading into a black night. “CONNIE!?” We all scrambled from the car as fast as we could. Fortunately the nose of the car was pretty well buried into the dirt so it didn’t shift or fall over as we made our exits.

“What I wouldn’t give right now for my old man’s flashlight!” We all scrambled around in the dim moonlight, yelling out Connie’s name. I found her, a few yards away, lying way too still. She had been thrown from the car when it hit. “Over here!”

Bill and Theo raced over, Bill kneeling beside her, his face next to hers. “Connie? Are you okay?” Even in the dim light I could see that Connie’s face was turning purple on one side but she opened her eyes, tried to smile through the stiffness and lifted a hand that I noticed was covered in blood, from where I couldn’t tell. “Connie! You’re okay!” Bill kissed her and turned to us, “Guys, she’s okay!” He turned back to Connie who had closed her eyes again. “Connie! Try to stay awake! Connie? Connie!” But there was nothing we could do. She was gone.

Bill stayed with her while Theo and I climbed up onto the road, walking back to the highway where we eventually flagged down help. Days later we learned that Connie had suffered a massive brain injury and there wasn’t anything medicine in those days could have done to save her. Bill spent two weeks in the hospital for his head injury and wasn’t able to attend her funeral. Theo and I both had some bruises but not much else, unless you count the severe sunburn I received from leaning out the window to get a better look at the saucer. I made the mistake of telling a few people about what we saw that caused us to have the accident, mostly because my sunburn made me a walking target for questions. Even though I shut up about it quickly enough the damage was done and I had earned myself a reputation as “that saucer guy.” Fortunately I graduated the next year and was able to move away to school. By the time I moved back four years later most people were over ribbing me about it, though I’m sure the notion was still in their minds. Bill and Theo were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. Not that I blamed them but it sure would have been nice to have someone back me up.

Theo and I went to the same college, kinda lost touch in the eighties when his marriage was in rough spot but got back in touch during the Clinton years. Irma and I used to get together with them each month for bridge but Theo’s wife has had some health issues lately so that’s on hold for now.

Things weren’t so easy for Bill. Even though there were no charges brought against him I think he blamed himself for the death of Connie, which caused him to start drinking more. A lot more. Once he showed up at my college and asked if I knew where he could get some acid. I didn’t and wouldn’t have told him if I did. Believe it or not, not everyone in the sixties did drugs. In the early seventies he ended up moving to Vegas and marrying some dancer named Terri Roy Al, and you can guess how long that lasted. He eventually went back home to work for his dad but a few years later the Vegas dancer showed up just long enough to drop off a young boy, counter-kid’s dad, surprising Bill, his pregnant second wife and their two year old daughter. In the early 80s Bill quit drinking after getting saved at some tent revival service a lady preacher held on the edge of town and basically got his act together, becoming the stereotypical pillar of the community just like his dad. It was obvious from the start that Scott, his Vegas-born son, had a wild side, or maybe he just didn’t feel like he fit in. A couple of car wrecks, a string of bad jobs, even six months in prison for dealing weed failed to turn him around. Bill did his best to help him along, finding him work when Scott was in the mood for it, but Bill couldn’t shelter him from three bad marriages. Blake here was the result, I think, of the second marriage. Some local girl named Anna, a good kid who got mixed up with Scott and ended up raising Blake alone. Well, not exactly alone. She was close to her family and they helped her out, as did Bill and his wife. Bill and I were never all that close so we didn’t reconnect after he got cleaned up but I’ve had my eye on Blake, him being Bill’s grandson and all. I guess I have a tender spot for him, and from the looks of things he turned out alright.

• • • • • •

My trip down memory lane is broken when Blake slides the white porcelain plate across my table. “One SAUCER of food, Mr. Akendorf.” I look up at his grin and am tempted to offer the boy some kind of words of wisdom, clichés about life being tough, tell him about unrealized expectations, maybe pass on a couple of tips. But I’ve learned after all this time that you can’t teach these young dogs new tricks.

“Thanks, Blake.”

My breakfast is hot, delicious and plentiful, meaning Bob is in his element. As I sit and enjoy the morning sun Blake stops by to pour me another cup of thick, bitter coffee. “Are ya finally gonna have some pie, Mr. Akendorf?” Despite my full belly I eye the glass carousel display of pie slices by the register, think about my sugar level and like always, I decline. “Just the check today.”

While he’s away getting my ticket I use the time to struggle out of the bench seat so I don’t give the boy something else to laugh about. Once up I head over to the restrooms, labeled Pointers and Setters, and by the time I return my check is waiting for me on the table. I look around but don’t see Blake so I leave the tip on the table and offer another prayer for the boy, for God’s mercy and His grace, for salvation and love and that maybe, just maybe, he can avoid the sins of his fathers and have the courage to make the world a better place. Good luck walking on water, kid. But when those mistakes come, learn from them. That’s what I would say if I felt it was my place.

Blake appears out of nowhere and beats me to the register, his usual cocky grin on his face, and I talk myself out of saying anything more than, “Have a good day.”

“You too, Mr. Akendorf. Hang in there!”

I shuffle out and leave him to his hopes and dreams as I hang onto my memories. Well… you hang on too, son.

AngelKiss - a short story

Call me old fashioned, I mean, people have been marrying their pets since 2019, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Yes, Sheila was affectionate and loving, as collies usually are, but some unprogressed genetic leftover from my ancestors made me want to pop the question without an interpreter. I’ll admit that I may have been hasty to give Sheila the Sevengevity upgrade but my calculations showed we were close to the same age and so perhaps impulsively I emptied my savings chip and made the plunge. I mean, who wouldn’t want their pet to have a human lifespan so they could grow old together? Pet. Again my unprogressed upbringing is showing.

That was before I knew I was in love. Otherwise I might have saved a little to instead transmogrify her with human DNA, although again I wouldn’t have wanted to do this without her permission. Time was of the essence and it would have taken me six months to afford the combo package of Sevengevity and Humanfuze, which meant that my Shiela (“my” being a term of endearment, not ownership, in case the Living Organism Rights League reads this) would be four years older than me. Again, not a huge difference but what if I was off in my calculations and she ended up being a full ten years older? Love wouldn’t have cared. If only I hadn’t chosen to re-up my private automobile contract, with the accompanying exorbitant carbon fees, I would have had the money. Sure, most everyone uses public transport or bikes but I like being able to come and go as I please. Plus driving yourself is a huge ego trip! Didn’t some French philosopher say “To live is to regret”? Or did I just coin a phrase?

Speaking of regrets, always read the fine print. I thought that a DNA-splice was a DNA-splice but apparently some companies, like the one I used at the local strip mall, cut some corners so that one cannot resplice with assurance of no side effects. Cutting costs and going for the cheapest upgrade is yet another regret, although I must say that the Sevengevity job they did is top notch. Since the splice Sheila is as spunky as ever and there were no problems. Even if she was comfortable with the risk of stacking splices I don’t know what I would do if she were one of the thirty-percent who have a bad reaction. And I’ve seen some really freaky bad reactions, not to mention the possibility that the Sevengevity would be nullified.

That was a couple of years ago, before our relationship blossomed, and before splicing for humans was financially within the reach of the average citizen. Sure, the politicians and the bankers and the celebrities could get any upgrade they wanted, that is after Caitlyn Jenner went to the President and he issued an Executive Order changing the laws on human splicing. It was about time, too. Imagine the horror of being a woman and yet every cell of your body cries out against you with their Y chromosomes. In those early days it required a painful spinal fluid sample and bone-marrow transplant. Now all it takes is blood and tissue samples and a few injections and one month later you are officially, and genetically female. Or male. Or whatever. The sex-change manipulations were first but it didn’t take long until athletes were getting spliced with spiders or bulls or just about anything under the sun. Since this came from an executive order these changes had to be allowed by the professional leagues, which means that if even one person on the opposing team had an upgrade you were smoked unless you too had someone with an upgrade on your team. At first it was interesting, watching someone with a cheetah upgrade zip down the basketball court like that superhero Flash but eventually things got so out of hand each game is almost like a train wreck, what with arm extensions and quadropeds and whatever crazy designer genes they come up with. The other sports are no better. I hope they come up with guidelines because it’s almost not fun to watch anymore.

Of course those people can afford the best and can switch back, which is more expensive and makes me think of that retro cartoon about Sneetches and how the price kept going up with each change. Of course, kids these days won’t watch any show that’s not immersive… their loss. Listen to me… “Kids these days.” I sound like my great-grandpa! Sports weren’t the only areas affected. When I was a kid red carpet events were about the fancy clothing that the celebrities would wear but once they started modifying it was also about who had the most outlandish upgrades. The first one I recall seeing was some movie star wearing zebra skin. Not a jacket or dress or anything. She had her skin changed into actual zebra fur! I think I saw her later on a talk show with human skin again but with three massive horns sprouting from the top of each shoulder. Man, she looked fierce! You can always count on Baby Gaga for some crazy attention-getter, like the time she “grew” boobs all over her body. Talk about weird. While celebrities were wary of messing with their faces, which is their bread and butter, it wasn’t uncommon to see a bank VP with a bird head and a human body, looking very much like a mythological Egyptian god. I speak from experience when I say that when you’re sitting across the desk from a centaur, even one in a sports coat and tie, one doesn’t exactly feel empowered to negotiate a lower interest rate. It’s still expensive but recently the price has been coming down so that it’s not unusual these days to bump into a minotaur while picking up a six pack or finding out that the person who beat you out of a new job had two extra arms which made them twice as productive.

But I’ve gotten off track. So Sheila was going to live a human lifespan but we wanted more. A second upgrade for her would have been risky. I considered becoming half-collie but what would I change? My head, probably, and I’d definitely get a tail. However even with all the government-mandated changes in businesses my productivity would surely suffer if I had paws and I can’t afford a cut in pay. Plus there’s the whole aesthetics of what I would look like and, yes, my old school side is showing, I kind of like just being human. Besides I didn’t have enough on my chip to become half-collie so I decided that I would show my commitment to our relationship by the next best thing: a spinal implant. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to the place in the strip mall but I couldn’t afford one of the higher-priced luxury splicers on a data-cleaners salary. Plus I had a coupon.

The technician at DNA Café, which I think used to be a tattoo and piercing place when I was a kid, was very thorough and explained that it would likely take three months for the CanineWize graft to fully take. Nerves, it appears, are slow to mend. However for a bit extra I could buy an ointment that would speed up the healing to about two weeks and I made the splurge. And yes, I’ll admit that I also opted for the additional GuitarWizard package. The entire process took about thirty minutes with me laying face-down on a kind of massage-bed that had a hole for my face and clamps and straps to keep my head and body from moving while a massive robotic arm numbed the back of my neck and, well, without going into too much detail, grafted the implants into my spinal column.

After thirty minutes in their waiting room to make sure everything was okay I went back to my one-bedroom apartment, gave Sheila a hug and filled her water and food bowls and took the small red pill that would knock me out for a while and allow for faster healing of the implant. I was out for twenty hours and probably would have been out longer if Sheila hadn’t woken me up by licking my face. I reached up and had stubble on my chin and thought at first “I’m changing into half collie!” but it was just from not shaving. I let Sheila out and she was gone a long time, which I can’t really blame her with being cooped up while I was recovering. She came back and wolfed down a fresh bowl of food (beef bits and country vegetables, her favorite) and surprised me by saying, “Thanks for the swally, Dylan.” Clear as day! I tried to respond in dog but was only able to make a small yip that made Sheila look at me funny. They’ve come a long way with programming implants so even though I’ll have the knowledge of dog (and guitar playing) I will still need to practice a bit so the muscles of my throat (and hands) are in sync with the chip in my brain.

I tried again, this time concentrating on saying her glorious name, “Sheila.” Another funny look in reply and then “Are you trying to talk to me, Dylan?” I nodded, slightly confused because I never expected her to have a Scottish accent. “So the implant works? You can understand me?” Another nod and I ventured another try at speaking dog with “Yes, Sheila.”

“About that name. I’m Bonnie. Scottish. Not Australian. And look, now that we can, we need to talk.” There was a long pause as she collected her words, my heart suddenly pounding at the dreaded phrase “we need to talk.” “Thanks for taking care of me the past few years and for combing my fur and all that. It’s not like I don’t appreciate it. And I know you love me and Dylan, I wish I could return your affections. I really do care for you but just not in that way.” Another pause as she gathered courage. “Dylan, I’m leaving you for Igor, the Great Dane three buildings down. In fact, I’m probably carrying his pups. I never wanted to hurt you… Can’t we just be friends?” We looked at each other in painful silence for a few moments before Sheila, er, Bonnie went to the door and scratched sorrowfully at it. I let her out and she never returned.

I already had scheduled vacation time for recovery so I spent the next couple of weeks in my apartment watching intervision, generally not eating or sleeping much, and feeling like a fool. Every talk show was talking about a new human splice called AngelKiss which makes it so you can’t die. Right now it has not been approved by the FDA but that hasn’t stopped the ultra-rich from flying to other countries to become immortal. Apparently they’ve been doing this for years and word just leaked out. Of course a few fuddy-duddies are denouncing AngelKiss, saying that if no one dies then our already over-burdened planet will collapse but that won’t happen. If something like AngelKiss really works then the underclass will never be allowed, or allow to afford, such a modification.

After about a week I finally left my apartment. It was weird and depressing to be out on the streets without Sheila with me. I walked by the park, hoping she might be there, but she wasn’t. Now that I can understand dog, though, I may have to avoid the park. Mostly they just talked about squirrels and food and joked about “their servants” scooping up their poop. On the way back there was some preacher guy shouting on a corner, obviously well outside of any free speech zone, but I didn’t feel like reporting him. He was kinda interesting, raving about how some day people will want to die but death will elude them and how we should all repent. Leave it for the religious nuts to fear the latest technological advances.

Speaking of fear, I think it’s time to face my own. It’s been two months since Sheila left me and my co-workers tell me that I need to get back in the saddle. I’ve been practicing speaking dog so tonight, after work, I plan to swing by the Non-Human Shelter and try to strike up a conversation or two. Hopefully they have a collie. Hey, a man likes what he likes, okay?

Short Story - Wiped

Here's a ditty I wrote this past March. Enjoy!

WIPED

James had to admit it… he was being followed.  As to why and by who he had no idea.  He was just a twenty year old nobody attending community college who hadn’t broken any laws or slept with anyone’s wife.  But since noticing the white sedan behind him around dusk he had back tracked, driven circles around blocks, blown through orange lights, and generally bent enough driving laws through erratic maneuvers to convince himself that he, Mr. Nobody, was in fact being followed.  It was full night by now and much too dark with the overcast skies filtering out any moonlight but those headlights remained behind him.

Not being able to shake his relentless pursuer, James considered returning to his apartment.  If either of his two roommates were there then… well, what could they do?  And why would he lead this guy right to his home?  It was then that he saw the full parking lot of a local high school, packed for a basketball game, probably a basketball game.  Lots don’t fill up like this for plays or band performances.  “Elementary,” he thought, allowing himself a brief tension relieving smile.  Not sure of what he would be able to do about his pursuer but at least there’d be safety in a large crowd.  He raced through a deep orange light, leaving his stalker momentarily held in check, and turned in to the parking lot, heading towards the front doors, one eye on his rear view mirror.  There!  An empty spot in the third row, vacated by someone who received a sick child call from the baby sitter and left the event early.  James saw the white car just pulling into the parking lot and he cut his engine, turned off his lights.  Briefly considering and rejecting hunkering down in his car, James instead hurried for the front door, hunched low and finding cover behind a small group of adult smokers outside the door, surely breaking some law meant to protect the children.

Inside he found the ticket stand was unmanned so he followed the sounds of the crowd and squeaking shoes to the gymnasium.  Basketball it was and well into the third quarter, according to the scoreboard.  He quickly made for the far side of the court, wishing he had a hat or something to obscure his face.  Fortunately the gym was packed so he might be able to hide in the crowd.

Positioned on the wall farthest away from the door he had entered James tried to blend in with the hooting attendees while keeping a vigilant eye on the door.  Although he had no idea of what his pursuer looked like it wasn’t long before someone entered and started scanning the auditorium.  James quickly stepped back toward the corner, putting the packed bleachers between himself and the man.  He hadn’t been spotted but likewise James hadn’t gotten a clear view of the man’s face, catching only curly dark hair and a closely cut beard, average height and build, no older than thirty.

James suddenly felt very vulnerable.  And trapped.  There were no hallways or doors in this corner of the gym.  Just painted cinderblock.  All that guy had to do was to walk over here and blammo, game over.  Ditto for if he tried to walk across the gym for an exit, drawing attention to himself.  What a stupid move, he berated himself, literally backing himself into a corner.  Looking around he noticed that the bleachers were the kind that pull out from the wall.  Could he possibly hide underneath?  The opening was covered by a kind of blue and gold vinyl tarp, what he assumed to be the school colors, that was attached in some way to the wall and the bleachers themselves.  He took a few steps over to where the tarp met the wall for a closer look.  Velcro.  This far back you couldn’t see the game so the closest people were ten feet away with their eyes courtward.  He quickly pulled a corner of the tarp away, the trademark Velcro sound lost in the sea of noise, and entered into the darkness, reattaching the Velcro as best he could behind him.

The contrast of the bright lights of the gym and the darkness under the bleachers, plus the muffled quiet made possible by the tarp, made it seem almost like he was underwater.  His eyes soon adjusted and he could make out knives of light from where the tarp failed to meet the floor and the accordion scaffolding that stretched out along the entire length of the bleachers.  Inspiration struck and he carefully worked his way to the other side, working slowly to avoid bumping into the greasy supports.  He knelt down to peel away a bit of the tarp so he could check for a nearby door or if the coast was clear of people enough that he wouldn’t draw attention to himself in leaving.  There was a pair of shoes, presumable attached to legs, directly in front of him.  He froze at what he heard next.  The words were difficult to make out through the ebb and flow of the crowd noise but he most clearly heard “What do you mean, ‘He got away?’”

“He got a lucky break and ditched me by coming into this building.”

There were two guys following him?

“I walked through the entire gym, scanned all the crowd.  He isn’t here.  Maybe he’s in the school somewhere but it seems pretty well locked up.  I dunno.”

“Is his car still outside?”

“Dunno.  I’ve been in here.  Why aren’t you outside watching his car?”

“I thought you might need help with…” and here the crowd erupted as the home team scored.  “…losing control… afraid he might know…”

“…want to keep looking for him?  I can stay here while you go search the lot for his car.”

“Let’s call it off.  It’s blown for tonight anyway.  I’ll call Bill.”

The feet walked away and took James’ energy with them.  He started to shake and shifted from kneeling, sitting back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest, feeling drained now that the immediate threat was gone.  Why were two guys following him?  He was just a regular guy, a sophomore at the local college with a part time job at a pizza place and no enemies.  If it weren’t for what he just heard he might have been able to convince himself that he was just being paranoid, that he had imagined being followed and overreacted.  But there was no denying that now.

“Well, what have we here?”

Disoriented, James looked up to see the kindly face of an old man looking at him, surrounded by light from the recently removed tarp.  “Must have snuck a flask in to fall asleep like that…. Got any left?”

He had fallen asleep.  He had fallen asleep?  Had the clutter of fear and emotions so sapped him that he fell asleep in the muffled quiet under the bleachers?  Embarrassed, James crawled out from under the bleachers and stiffly stood up, knocking his head on a support beam, lending even more support to the janitor’s hypothesis.

“Uh, no, uh, just tired, or something.”  He absently rubbed his head, blinking at the rows of bright fluorescents at an empty gym occupied only by himself and two custodians.  “I’d better go,” he stammered as he went quickly towards the exit.

“Next time bring some to share, kid,” he heard the man chuckle behind him.

He could see through the doors that it was still dark outside so he must have only been asleep for a few hours.  Making an excellent target against the light behind him, James scanned the parking lot, finding only his car.  It’s a good thing they didn’t decide to wait for him, or maybe they did.  He went out into the cool night and quickly stepped beside the door.  No other cars were present and there was very little traffic on the road that ran by the school.  He nearly tiptoed to his car, as if he was afraid he would wake it, and checked the back seat for ghoulies and jackbooted thugs.  Empty.  So they were true to their word and called “it” off for the night, whatever that was.  His mind raced with crazy thoughts fueled by movies, with him gritting his teeth as he started his car in case it was wired to explode.  Driving home was an exercise in paranoia but no one was following him home, his wheels didn’t fall off and he wasn’t surrounded at a red light by a SWAT team.

According to his car clock it was nearly midnight when he pulled up in front of the apartment building three away from his.  Things were as uneventful as they could be at this time of night on a Friday at an apartment complex near a college so he made his way through couples whispering together on benches and mixed groups drinking or smoking in front of the buildings.  No one paid him any attention, making him feel a bit foolish for imagining himself to a ninja stealthily closing in on his prey, apartment 1704.  There were no live hand grenades rigged to blow him to smithereens as he opened the door.  Just his apartment.

He entered the front hall, rounded the corner to the kitchenette and his heart stopped.  There, in his apartment, sat the dark haired guy who was looking for him at the game, eating pizza.  As the jolt of adrenaline faded from his system he realized that it was only Donald, one of his roommates.

“Nice beard, Don.”

“Thanks.  Claudia’s been asking me to grow one for weeks so I thought I’d give it a grow.”

“It doesn’t quite look like you, older, maybe.”

“That’s what Rich said.”  Rich was the other roommate.  All three worked at the pizza place near campus.  Rich and Don were both seniors and needed a new roommate about the time James decided that living in the dorms was for kids and removed their “roommate wanted” ad off the pizzeria bulletin board minutes after Rich pierced it with a thumbtack.

“There’s pizza if you want it,” an inside joke.  There was always pizza, either one not picked up by a student or “accidentally” made with the wrong ingredients.  James realized that he was famished and sat down at the table, taking a slice from the box open in front of him, a supreme with extra black olives if ever he saw one.  It was still warm.

Why was he asleep again?  Why couldn’t he wake up?

“He came out of it way too early this time.”  It was Don speaking.  James tried and failed to speak, to move his arms, open his eyes, anything.

“You can say that again.  Never even made it to his destination.  Bill’s not happy.”  That was Rich speaking though James had no idea who Bill was.

“I wish Bill would let us cut him free and start on someone else.  Something just isn’t working with this one.”

“We’re the last installation and Bill needs this operation to go forward,” said Rich.

“So we wipe him again?  Geez, I hate that part, when he screams.  How many times do they think we can wipe a guy before he’s a vegetable?  Before he never comes back?”

“You’re not losing your stomach, are you?”

“Of course not, Rich, just that the last time the neighbors called the apartment manager.”

“And he bought our story.  Problem solved.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.  So how far back this time?”

“Not much.  Twelve hours should be enough for him to forget us tracking him down.  Let’s cause as little damage as possible so we can start to prep him to try again tomorrow night.  I may even double the dose tomorrow if the wipe is clean.  That should take care of him coming out to early again.  We’d better get started.”

“Tomorrow?  Bill must be in a hurry.”  A pause.  “The poor schmuck won’t even know what he’s doing in that theater until he comes to with a hot gun in his hands.”

If James could open his eyes he would have seen Rich give Don a hard look.  Showing compassion for the subject could mean that he was losing his stomach and would have to be handled.  Later.  “Make sure the door is locked and then get me the kit from my room.  It’s time to wipe.”

Short Story - Project Petman Avenger

I wrote this in the fall of 2013 as part of a writing challenge with Adam Sherwood.

Project Petman Avenger

Kyle knocked on the thin plywood-covered plank that served as a door in his dorm. Three seconds of silence prompted him to repeat his knock, pounding four swift hits that shook the door. Being this loud at home at two in the morning would have woken up his dad and gotten him grounded from something but here at school there were plenty of people still up and no one seemed to notice, especially on a nice Texas night light tonight. “YO!” came from inside the room, enough of a response that Kyle entered. His long-time friend, Duke, a nickname earned in fifth grade from constantly playing Duke Nukem, sat bathed in the glow of his laptop. So everything was right with the world.

“I got your text. What’s up?”

“I got another e-mail. About that new game, Project Petman Avenger? Stupid name… sounds like a kid’s game. I hope that’s just a working title while it’s in beta.”

“Oh, the shooter game?”

“Not just ANY shooter… wait ‘til you see this. It’s amazing! When this game hits the market, assuming they change the name, it’s gonna blow everything away. Here’s the e-mail that showed up a few minutes ago. It’s just like the last two.”

SUBJECT: PROJECT PETMAN AVENGER BETA

You are invited to test Project Petman Avenger, the latest in gaming technology. The below link will be will be active tonight only between the hours of 2:00 AM and 3:00 AM.

“That’s it?”

“Well, and the link.”

“Who’s it from? ID? GT?”

“Not a clue. The e-mail address is faked. I was able to trace it to a government domain but I’m sure that’s faked too. But enough talk, it’s already after two and I don’t want to waste any time on this engine.”

Duke double clicked the link, the browser churned for a few seconds and the screen flickered once, now reflecting the interior of a parked car. The view through the windshield revealed a typical residential subdivision street at night, though it seemed unusually due to the streetlights immediately fore and aft of the care being out. “The controls seem to be standard,” said Duke as he turned his character to the left and opened the door by pressing the Enter key.

Kyle leaned his lanky frame over Duke’s shoulder, his face about a foot away from the screen. “It’s pretty good but nothing mind-blowing.” He sat down on a padded chair next to Duke, wincing as various rancid odors perfumed the room.

“That’s because it’s dark and we’re not close to anything.”

A generic female voice came over the speakers: “Your mission for tonight: Eliminate the drug dealer at 8481 Walnut Mist Drive. Male, age sixty-eight.” A semi-transparent map appeared in the upper right-hand corner showing Duke’s location and 8481 Walnut Mist Drive, a couple of blocks away.

“That’s it for a story? How original,” complained Kyle.

“Yeah, I assume it’s because they’re still working on it. There’s also a pretty limited selection of weapons, pistols and stuff. No rocket launchers or pulse weapons. But… well, wait until you see it for yourself.”

Once Duke’s character started moving Kyle began to get more interested. “I’ll admit that the lighting effects are pretty good. Realistic bob in the walk algorithm.”

“And they’ve got water down perfectly. The stuff looks absolutely real instead of plastic. I’ll show you when we get inside unless I can find a puddle or something. And check this out,” he said, toggling to a diagnostic view. “It’s all happening on whatever server they’re running and then they stream it to me. My CPU is barely awake.”

By this time they were outside of a typical suburban house. “Some fancy drug lord house… You’d think that the designers would have had more imagination but it gets the job done.”

“So how do you get in,” asked Kyle. “Can you kick the door in or use a bomb?”

“It’s more of a stealth game, like Thief. I found out the first time that I played that the entire neighborhood is wired for sound. Make too much noise and lights start going on in houses, dogs bark and, I guess it was game over because my connection got dropped and I couldn’t get back on. The next time I was quieter. It’s also best to stay in the shadows as much as possible. Lemma take a look around.”

Dukes pudgy fingers maneuvered his character to the front door and deftly pressed a couple of keys. The camera moved naturally as his characters hand moved into view, gently trying the front door. Locked.

“Even in the darkness I can tell there’s a lot of textures. And the details are amazing, the worn door knob, a spot on the siding where it looks like it got hit by a baseball. The last house I was in even had bad paint jobs on the walls. But, yeah, there are a few drawbacks. Like you can’t switch to third person view, just first. But it’s a really good first. It almost looks like a real camera is mounted on your head!” Duke just smiled and made his character creep around the side of the house to the back door which was also locked.

“Can you pick the lock?”

“Not that I’ve found. All I have are my hands and a handgun with a silencer. The games pretty light on weapons. No rocket launchers or gas grenades or futuristic pulse weapons but since we’re here in the dark back yard let me show you something else. Everything, and I mean everything, is usable.” He turned his view to take in a typical suburban back yard, lit only by the moon and a bit of lights from the street in front of the house. “Like this.” We walked over to a two foot tall pot filled with small white flowers and pushed it over. The dirt spilled out onto the ground. He then reached forward and grabbed some of the flowers and shook them. “See the roots? And how the dirt clings to them? And how it falls off the roots?”

“Incredible! That’s a great physics engine!”

Then flowers were dropped, replaced by a handful of dirt. A squeeze and release revealed that the hand in the video was now dirty. Walking to the house Duke was able to make his character wipe his hand on the grey siding, leaving a realistic smudge. “You see? EVERYTHING is modeled. And if you shoot a wall, it stays there. If you break two dishes, each one breaks differently. It’s insane how much detail has been built into this thing. But now how to get in? Ah, a keypad lock! These things usually give you at least two tries before they go off.” He tried 1-2-3-4. Nothing. “What was the address on this place?”

“8481,” offered Kyle.

8481 did the trick as the lock snicked open. “Not very bright, are they?” Duke entered the house, leaving the door open a crack, and found he was in a laundry room where he picked up a handful of laundry and slowly dropped them back. “Everything is completely photorealistic. And I see the man of the house prefers boxers.“ He picked up a box of laundry soap and held it up to where you could read the warning, all without any kind of pixilation. “And it’s not just laundry. In the last house you could look at family photo albums, pick up and read books, open containers of food… anything and it’s all rendered perfectly!”

Duke turned the corner and saw a half bath, complete with poorly chosen floral wallpaper. He turned on the light, revealing the avatar in the mirror, covered head to toe in futuristic black military garb. The face was dominated by large goggles, the mouth by some kind of respirator or gas mask, leaving not a centimeter of flesh showing. The designers even incorporated the camera into the helmet design. “Watch this water simulation,” said Duke as he turned on the faucet, placing his hand under the water. “It’s almost like virtual reality! Once they wrap a proper game around this it’s going to be killer!” He lifted the lid of the toilet and flushed it, the water swirling convincingly, ending in a triple glug and slow refill.

A voice came over the speakers, male, older, slightly afraid. “You there! Is there someone down there?”

“Crap! I woke him up with the toilet. But I’m still connected so I haven’t lost yet.”

A short, horrible silence and then a woman’s voice. “Harold? What is it?”

“Shhh.” More silence. Meanwhile Duke slowly backed his character out of the bathroom, leaving the light on, and hid on the other side of the wall in the laundry room. A few hesitant creaks on the stairs told of Harold coming to investigate. Duke waited in the darkness.

The women spoke again, now closer, at the top of the stairs. “Harold? I probably just forgot to turn off the light. You’ve been so jumpy these last few months. I wish you’d just retire from that place.”

Silence from Harold but Duke and Lyle could almost feel him on the other side of the wall, straining to hear any wayward sound, their own hearts beating strongly in their chests. The light clicked off in the bathroom. “I guess you’re right.”

“Now watch this.” Duke stepped out from the laundry room in front of a short hallway, the stairs just to his left and a man in a bathrobe in front of him walking away. He must have made some sound in moving because Harold began to turn around. But Duke already had his gun out, squeezing off three well-aimed rounds, Harold making more noise than the gun itself, half in surprise, half in pain. The screen convincingly showed dark splatters of blood hitting the wall and begin to travel down. “That’s some detail!”

“Harold?! Are you okay?” said, Duke presumed, his wife as she scrambled down the stairs.

Kyle was impressed. “Characters on stairs are hard and this one has it down!”

“Check out her face! Realistic in every way. And the AI is, well, it’s like they’re real.”

By now the wife was down the stairs and running to her husband who was crumpled on the floor. In the darkness she couldn’t see the bullet wounds but as soon as she reached Harold she could feel their sticky moisture and smell the iron at which she looked up and saw Duke, her face, a wretched combination of fear and anguish. Duke didn’t give her a chance, using her face as a target.

“Not much of a challenge,” offered Kyle.

“Yeah, like I said, it’s all environment right now. Not much game play.”

The former generic female voiceover started up. “Exit the building and return to your car as quickly as possible.” “See? Not even a timer?” Duke obeyed, closing the door behind him quietly and making the round trip to his car at which time the screen faded to black and the connection dropped. “Would it have hurt them to add a few Dobermans or newspaper delivery guys?”

“All they need is to make some better scenarios. And that guy was just some old guy. He didn’t even look like a drug king pin. But yeah, they’ve got that world down! ”

---

“Thanks for joining us tonight on WANE TV Evening News. The city is still in shock over the double homicide of Harold and Marcy Dunaway which occurred last night. Police believe the couple interrupted a break in at their home but are currently without a suspect. Harold was an outspoken member of our community and a Vice President at Raytheon. Very sad. And speaking of defense contractors, a little bit later we’ll get a look at a project called Petman from Boston Dynamics, the latest in robot technology. But first, Peter, what kind of weather are you giving Fort Wayne this next week?”