My short sci fi story, “Go Outside” is out now in this quarter’s issue of Abyss & Apex Magazine. This was my first pro short fiction sale. Check it out!
Name is April 29. April 29 work in Farm 36. April 29 not allow know how to read. April 29 not allow know how to write. April 29 only allow know how to count, so April 29 can count the Yield and be good Farmer. Old Man name December 4 teaches April 29 read and write in dark unit on HabLevel every 3rd day after lights out. Old Man stole pen and paper from Spacemen. Old Man say Orbiters will kill April 29 if they find April 29 words. April 29 practice every day. April 29 loves to write. To write makes April 29 grow tall inside.
Old Man say Spacemen very mad. Old Man hid in Spaceport and heard Spacemen talk. Spacemen think Yield too low for whole year. Spacemen complain to Orbiters. Orbiters kill 77 Farmers from Farm 36. April 29 scared.
Spacemen gone. Orbiters very mad. Orbiters find April 29 and Old Man practicing writing in dark unit. Old Man tell April 29 to hide. April 29 hide and Orbiters crack Old Man’s head open. Orbiters take Old Man’s body to Reintegration.
April 29 go to Old Man’s unit after lights out to take words hidden in his pillow. Orbiters there orbiting. Tell April 29 to go back to unit.
April 29 come back next night. Orbiters not find words hidden in Old Man’s pillow. Orbiters stupid. April 29 take Old Man’s words and read them. Another old man, name was February 2 taught Old Man how to write when Old Man was young. Old Man’s words say that someday every Farmer will know how to read and write. Then Farmers will grow tall. No more Orbiters. No more Spacemen. Only Farmers and the Yield. Old Man’s words use the word “The”. April 29 likes the word, “The”. April 29 will use “The” from now on.
In the Farm today April 29 showed October 31 how to write with dirt. Orbiters find October 31 writing with dirt and pushed him off the Farm. April 29 went down to Farm 1 after lights out. October 31 was dead at the bottom. April 29 was almost found by the Orbiters but April 29 hid. April 29 was scared.
Today an Agras Company ship arrived in the Spaceport. 6 new Farmers were assigned to Farm 36. The new Farmers were scared. Old Farmers kill one New Farmer already in fight. April 29 had to stop the fighting. April 29 said to Old Farmers that new Farmers will all be Old Farmers soon. 1 of the new Farmers said to April 29 she would rather be dead. April 29 said to her, the Yield dies, only when it is ready to be harvested. So, too, must the Farmers wait until the right time to die. April 29 read that words in Old Man’s words. The Orbiters came and April 29 stopped talking.
Today April 29 trained the new Farmers how to count the Yield. Most of the work is cutting the Yield with stem cutters and counting it. Sometimes, the work is sowing seeds and tilling soil; very rarely, checking water systems in the tunnels. April 29 showed the new Farmers the tunnels and the Girl Who Would Rather Die said they looked big, easy to get lost. April 29 said to the Girl Who Would Rather Die that no, Farmers never get lost, because they must learn the tunnels to become Farmers. Only the Orbiters get lost, because Orbiters are stupid. The Girl Who Would Rather Die laughed. She asked where the Yield goes. April 29 said the Spacemen take it. Then the Girl Who Would Rather Die got very sad. She started to cry. April 29 threw dirt on her to cheer her up. She did not like that. She tried to kill April 29 with a stem cutter. April 29 took the stem cutter away. The Orbiters came. April 29 threw more dirt on the Girl Who Would Rather Die when the Orbiters were not looking. Girl Who Would Rather Die started to laugh. Girl Who Would Rather Die is strange.
The new Farmers received their names and Days of Rest. Girl Who Would Rather Die was given the name and Day of Rest June 2. June 2 did not know what the Day of Rest was. April 29 explained to her, all Farmers get 1 Day of Rest per year, which is also their name. That way, the Orbiters do not get any of the 365 Farmers on each Farm mixed up. June 2 said the Orbiters can’t be that stupid. April 29 said they can.
The Orbiters started pushing the Farmers hard to make up for the recent low Yield. June 2 got tired and dropped her Yield so April 29 helped her pick it up. June 2 said April 29 is strong. She said April 29 could lead the Farmers to kill the Orbiters. April 29 said April 29 never killed anyone. June 2 said she did, back on the Eaters’ World. April 29 did not know the words “Eaters’ World.” June 2 said it is where the Yield goes, and where she is from. June 2 was captured and sent to this planet, Agras 9166, as punishment for fighting against the Agras Company’s farming practices. April 29 did not know the word “planet.” June 2 said “planet” means all the soil in the world. June 2 said the Agras Company also owns the planet, the Farms, and all the Farmers, including April 29 and June 2.
June 2 got sad and started to cry while she was cutting the Yield. April 29 asked why. June 2 said the Agras Company is going to win, and her friends died for nothing. April 29 did not know the word “Win.” June 2 said to “Win” means to grow tall, like the Yield. June 2 asked April 29 why April 29 always asks about words April 29 does not know. April 29 told June 2 April 29 is learning to write, and to come to the dark unit after lights out. In the dark unit, April 29 showed June 2 the words. June 2 said she also knows how to read and write, but pretends not to in front of the Orbiters. June 2 said April 29’s words are very good and growing better every day. April 29 was proud. Then the Orbiters made noises down the hall. There was nowhere to hide so April 29 told June 2 to run. April 29 got scared but wanted to be strong for June 2. The Orbiters hit April 29 on the head and searched the dark unit. The Orbiters found April 29’s words. The Orbiter said April 29 was going to Reintegration. But June 2 appeared in the door and killed that Orbiter with a stem cutter. Then June 2 gave the stem cutter to April 29 and April 29 cut the other Orbiter’s neck like a stem. April 29 and June 2 ran. April 29 and June 2 hid in the tunnels. More Orbiters followed, so April 29 led June 2 into the septic disposal system. June 2 got unhealthy because of the smell.
June 2 was unhealthy most of the day. April 29 carried June 2 through septic pipes down to Farm 27 maintenance tunnels. The Orbiters were very mad and searched every tunnel. It was difficult to hide. April 29 and June 2 were scared.
June 2 was not sick anymore today. June 2 ran ahead every 10 minutes to track the Orbiters’ position in the tunnels. April 29 and June 2 got all the way down to Farm 15 septic before lights on. June 2 said We were lucky We did not have to climb all the way down from Farm 10,883. April 29 did not know the word “We”. June 2 said “We” is June 2 and April 29.
We got down to Farm 1 and hid in the delivery barge. The Orbiters tried to search it but We killed them. Too many Orbiters came looking for the bodies so We ran.
June 2 said there was nowhere else to hide after We left Farm 1. April 29 said We could go to Processing. June 2 said the Spacemen wouldn’t come to collect the Yield for another year. June 2 started to cry. April 29 had an idea, said We should go to the Overcom. June 2 said she did not know the word “Overcom”. April 29 explained the Overcom is the central command where the Foreman gives commands to every Farm. April 29 said many Orbiters guard it, but We could kill those Orbiters and take the Foreman hostage, then use the Overcom to make an announcement. June 2 asked what kind of announcement. April 29 said June 2 already knew what kind. June 2 stopped crying.. June 2 said there would be an Agras Company ship visiting the We planet very soon for inspections, much sooner than the Spacemen’s ship. June 2 said We could tell the Farmers to kill every Orbiter, then when every Farmer was free, We could steal the Agras Company ship and go back to the Eaters’ World. June 2 said it is more fun to kill Agras men than Spacemen anyway. April 29 did not know the word “Free”. June 2 said “Free’ is ability to grow as tall as one wishes. June 2 said if the Farmers knew about the Eaters’ World they would grow very angry, but the Agras Company does not allow them to know. June 2 said this is because the Eaters need the Farmers, but the Farmers do not need the Eaters. June 2 said this is why the Farmers aren’t allowed to read or write. June 2 says reading and writing are the seeds and soil of Freedom; without them, We cannot grow; without them, We are slaves. April 29 does not know the word “Slaves”. June 2 says a “Slave” is a Farmer who works for the Agras Company. April 29 started to cry, and asked June 2 why she would help the Farmers if she is an Eater. June 2 held April 29 in her arms and said because for her there was never any other option. June 2 said it was the Right Thing To Do. April 29 did not know the words, “The Right Thing To Do.” June 2 said “The Right Thing To Do” is the count one must reach before he finds peace in his heart. Then June 2 counted April 29. April 29 felt much better after.
Orbiters came, but they did not find We. June 2 stole one of their radios. Then We heard everything the Orbiters did. We got very smart. The Orbiters stayed stupid. We waited 3 days to plan our attack on Processing. Processing was the most secure place on every Farm. We went to Processing but there were more Orbiters at Processing than April 29 predicted. June 2 killed the Orbiters with the fire cold spray, freezing them. April 29 hid the frozen Orbiters in the trash chute. April 29’s hands were cold and the fingertips died. June 2 said don’t worry, they’re all trash anyway. April 29 laughed. We found the lift to the Overcom. The lift was guarded by the Orbiters and June 2’s stem cutter stopped working. So June 2 approached the Orbiters and said she would count them all night. The Orbiters had to discuss it, but they agreed yes. We killed the Orbiters while they tried to count June 2. Then We took the lift to the Overcom.
The Foreman in the Overcom booth was terrified. I recognized his voice from the speaker in my ear, but he sounded different in real life, smaller, less like an Orbiter and more like a Farmer. He said the Orbiters would come in the booth and kill us. June 2 said if the Foreman called them, she would cut off his stem with her stem cutter. The Foreman wept and begged her to stop. June 2 would not let me kill the Foreman, because she said We needed him to use the Overcom.
The Overcom was noisy. Many Orbiters arrived outside. The Orbiters said through the door to let them in. June 2 cut the Foreman’s finger off with April 29’s stem cutter. Foreman told the Orbiters to stay away. June 2 made the Foreman activate the Overcom, then cut his throat. June 2 hailed all the Farmers in all the Farms on the planet. She told April 29 to speak to them. April 29 said all Farmers rise, pick up your stem cutters and kill every Orbiter. We are not slaves. We should be free. April 29 finished by telling about the Eaters’ World, and how they grow no Yield of their own, that their world is lit by a giant bulb brighter than the brightest Hydropon that is named the Sun. The Overcom went silent. June 2 said We are running out of time. Agras Company men spoke to We through the Overcom. The Agras men said We are liars and will be dead soon. The Agras men said We would go to Reintegration. The Agras men said We already tried the same Revolution on other Agras Company worlds 1000 counts before. April 29 did not know the word “Revolution.” June 2 explained that “Revolution” means to count all the bad Yields, then cut them, replant the field with new seeds and grow a better Yield. The Agras men grew very angry. They said no Agras ship will come. They said We were fools and that this was an open channel. We heard the Agras man say to other Agras man using the Overcom that 1,000,000 Orbiters were dead from the Revolution and Farms 1 to 3,882 were compromised. They said Farm 36 was free. April 29 started to cry, but the water was not sad. June 2 counted April 29 again. June 2’s lips tasted like salt and soil. April 29 was scared but also not scared. The Orbiters cut through the door and June 2 tried to cut her own neck with the stem cutter but the Orbiters took it away. April 29 killed 3 Orbiters but the Orbiters knocked April 29 unconscious. The Orbiters did not kill We, but April 29 knew We would be dead soon anyway.
We woke up in time to say goodbye as the Orbiters dragged June 2 away. June 2 said, “I love you.” April 29 did not know what those words meant. June 2 did not have time to explain. There were no words to describe what April 29 felt.
I learned what June 2’s last words to me meant on the long march to Quarantine. “I” is the subject, me, April 29. “I” was a word We never spoke because the Orbiters did not want us to know we were individuals, because to know you are an individual with the ability to make choices means to know if you are free or not free, and a slave will not stay a slave for long if he knows freedom exists, but that he does not have it. That is the way to Revolution. Love, then, is to Do the Right Thing for another, to feel deep within that their light is what makes you grow tall, but also, that you return it.
My unit in Quarantine is smaller than my old unit back on Farm 36. It reeks of trash and there were many other Farmers here before me. I counted their fingernail scratches on the walls. They used their nails and teeth to draw pictures. Every single picture was of the yield. I have lost count of the days, the weeks, the cycles, awaiting my trial.
There is a Good Orbiter who visits me from time to time, who makes conversation with me, slips me contraband through the food chute in the door, and who even checks my work – although it took some time for him to gain my trust. The trial will be fixed, with only one outcome – there’s no doubt about that – but still, the wheels are slow to turn. The Good Orbiter also patrols June 2’s wing of this prison. He told me today he received a note from her, written for me, but can’t deliver it until the brief period between 23:55 and 00:00 when there isn’t anyone watching the cameras.
The Good Orbiter cannot help me escape. This was one of the first parameters established in our short, but pleasant relationship. He said he admired me for what I’d done, inciting the other Farmers to rebel and starting a civil war on Agras 9166 that, at the time I am writing this, still rages on. I said if he liked me so much, why didn’t he open the door? The Good Orbiter laughed and said the other Orbiters would kill him. I knew then I would never leave this place; that I was sure to meet my end here, that if there was a way to escape, he would have already secured it. Bringing me comforts, and this final note from the woman I love, the one whose true name I never learned, but who now goes by June 2, is all the help the Good Orbiter can afford to give me. It is enough. I have read the note, and it brought peace to my heart, just like she said it would. We did the right thing. The Farmers are winning. June 2 said We had to be brave through the darkness ahead. She said wherever We were going, she would always love me. June 2 once said I was strong for holding my soil against the Orbiters. I do not know the word that means stronger than strong, but I am sure there is no better word that exists to describe June 2. I ate her note so the Orbiters wouldn’t find it.
My trial was held in a dim room full of bright screens where the faces of twelve Agras Company Executives waited to find me guilty. I was sentenced to Reintegration based on something called the Agras Company Bylaws. I did not know the Agras Company Bylaws, so I asked my accusers how I could be guilty if I did not know. The Agras Executives called me insolent. I did not know the word “insolent.” My accusers grew even angrier, and said I had killed forty-three orbiters in total. I told them I thought forty-three was a good count. The Agras Executives said that Revolution is the highest crime a Farmer can commit. I told them I did not know the word “Crime.” The Agras Executives said a “crime” is to do one bad thing. I told them I did zero.
The Good Orbiter has just left my door for the last time. He wanted to say sorry. I did not know the word “Sorry,” but the Good Orbiter said it is hard to explain. I asked if Sorry is to count all bad Yields and replant them. The Good Orbiter laughed and started to weep. I asked if Sorry is the same as Revolution. The Good Orbiter said yes, and promised me he would take up arms and help the Farmers the next time a Revolution took place. I asked him when that will be. The Good Orbiter said soon. He told me millions of Orbiters have already died and the ships carrying their replacements will take many cycles to arrive at Agras 9166. The Good Orbiter said the Farmers will win. I asked what will happen to me. He said Reintegration, which means death. I asked him how it will happen. He said I will be mixed with other dead Farmers to be used as fertilizer, then sent on an Agras ship to other Agras farms on other Agras worlds. I asked why they wouldn’t just keep me on this world, to fertilize the Yield here. The Good Orbiter said it is cheaper to do it Agras’s way. No more Yield. No more soil. No more green. I asked if there was another note from June 2. He told me June 2 is dead.
I can hear the Orbiters’ footsteps coming down the hall. They are trying to open the door, but I blockaded it with my furniture. I will not let them take me until I have finished these words. The Eaters on their world of plenty and opulence must know about June 2 and Farm 36 and Revolution. The Good Orbiter will know where to find this. You, my only friend, must eat this document for safekeeping. It is a special paper we use to wrap the Yield for space travel; it will not dissolve in your stomach. Use the broadcasting system at the coordinates June 2 gave you to send my account, and hers, to the Eaters’ World. They do not know about We, the Farmers, or they do not care, and this to me is the greatest crime of all. We give the Eaters the Yield. We give them the sustenance that allows them to be free, at the cost of our lives, our freedom, our future. The Orbiters are almost through the door now, I can see the light shining on the slick steel of their helmets – but without We, there can be no Orbiters, and no Spacemen, and no Agras Company Bylaws. We are not only June 2 and April 29. All Farmers are We. We is the Farm. We is good. We is green. And We will grow. We
WHEN HE WAS YOUNG, Covfefe’s father would take him for wharble rides. “Watch for the spout!” his father would say, and hoist the young birpl into the air to blow a big, wet kiss on his belly. Covfefe would squirm and laugh, and they’d fly together through the endless halls of their world-house, father and son, the perfect pair, until his father got tired or dinner was ready or some other cataclysm wrenched apart their loving bond.
Would that those short bursts of birplhood bliss could’ve lasted forever. But bliss is not something made to last.
Whenever Covfefe considered what it meant to be good, in all the long millennia he lived to consider that question, that was the memory his mind always came back to: his father taking him for wharble rides through the empty, root-filled halls of their world-house. And now that Covfefe was dying, what it meant to be good was the single, all-consuming thought rattling around in his quantum brains. That, and the pain of slow disintegration.
How was it possible he had wasted so many millions – or was it billions? – of years, when his father, a strong, sturdy mirple, simpler than Covfefe, but good, had seemed to live so well on a measly three hundred thousand? How had Covfefe consumed so many worlds and all their myriad species, yet never seemed to feel content, while his father had only needed the two? Those damned two. His dad always bragged about those two like they meant something. Those pitiful two worlds were a veritable family myth. Every time Covfefe’s father had gone out with his friends and gotten drunk on the Good Old Dark Stuff, he’d told the same damned story about how he’d grown to his size without ever extinguishing another life, not even one as small as a single cell. His father’s world-stomach had been so refined with the liquor of goodness it had only consumed cold planets.
Covfefe felt another world slip out of him, and his quantum body slimmed a little more. This one hurt. In the vastness of spacetime, Covfefe winced. It wouldn’t be long now. A few hundred million, maybe a billion years. Not much time at all.
How could his father have been so proud of only two worlds? The old fool had missed the best part of being a mirpl: drinking that beautiful energy as a hot civilization disappeared down one’s world-gullet. Covfefe had surpassed his father’s record before the second millennia of his quantum life. And, as all strong, conservative, world-stomach-minded mirpls knew, once you devoured your tenth star system, your world-intake skyrocketed. Covfefe’s world-stomach-portfolio had exploded after his tenth at a rate that could only be described as “mental.”
Yet here Covfefe was going cold himself. His quantum body was finally, albeit slowly, dispersing back into all its inanimate, constituent parts, and the question of what it meant to be good was unrelenting, like a super-massive black hole at the center of his being sucking in all other possible thoughts. His world-stomach-portfolio didn’t mean a damned thing now, did it? All the lives he’d consumed, from the small to the tall, raised their ever-deafening screams from the silence of the void at all hours. How was he supposed to rest, if he couldn’t even close his local clusters without seeing them? Without wondering what if?
What if someone had done that to him and his family? What if he had never had the chance to take a wharble ride at all, because someone else’s world-stomach-portfolio was more important?
He’d enjoyed eating all those warm worlds, hadn’t he? Feeling their lives disappear into his own insatiable mass? He had. They’d made him drunker than the Good Old Dark Stuff, so drunk that for most of his adult life, all Covfefe could think about was eating more of them.
And only now, in hindsight, could Covfefe see that this was the worst part of the deal. Because, like any rational creature large enough to have a quantum brain spanning millions – or was it billions? – of miles, Covfefe knew what it meant to be good, and that he wasn’t. He knew that it was too late for him to change. He knew he would never give anyone a wharble ride, despite having more offspring than there existed atoms of certain heavier elements in this universe. He knew he could never brag to his friends over a parsec of the best top-shelf Dark Stuff that he’d grown to this size by only consuming cold matter.
The disintegration quickened, and one more world slipped away. Covfefe thought of the wharble rides again. Between the stabbing daggers of pain, he wondered if it was possible, had he grown large enough – another dozen or three dozen or three million worlds, perhaps – that he could earn the power to reverse the flow of time. He still had the energy to give it the old Particle Era try, didn’t he? To eat a few more, hot or cold? To do anything but sadly wither away without leaving a single positive mark on the universe of his birth?
But there were no more worlds in this quadrant. He’d eaten them all. And, sadly for him, there would be no more anywhere else, either – by the time he reached them, he would be too weak. It dawned on Covfefe then that not even gods have the power to undo their mistakes once it’s too late.
Which sort of makes all their other powers irrelevant, doesn’t it?
There is a click, click, click coming down the hall. The eaves that echo with every footfall, the ladder creaks as she begins to climb. Hands parting the cobwebs of this old attic. She hasn’t been up here in years.
The picture fills her hands and she cries. “I miss you, Mom. I love you so much. I miss the way you used to sing. I miss you making me soup when I was sick. I miss you just sitting there, watching me sleep. I miss you. I miss you.”
But she can’t hear me when I whisper, “I still do.”
First published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal.
TINDER was a lost cause. He had over two hundred matches and none of them wanted to meet. The most recent, Dana, 22, less than a mile away, shot him down so hard Paul had to put his phone down and reconsider his life.
Sorry… you don’t look tall in ur pics, Dana, 22, less than a mile away said.
I’m 5’7, Paul replied.
Must be 6’4 to ride, Dana, 22, less than a mile away said.
Paul rolled over onto his side, careful to keep his feet off the bed so his freshly polished brogue shoes wouldn’t get dirt on his comforter. It was 10:24 PM.
What happened? I used to get new ass all the time, Paul thought. I might not be the tallest or richest guy in San Francisco, but so what? Tell a girl here you’re co-founder of a science fiction-themed indie rock record label, and their pants practically grow tentacles and climb off on their own.
Everyone has dry spells. I just need to get out of the studio more, and back in the game.
He was walking out the door of his building to go to the bars solo when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a new match: a cute brunette with wide eyes and a seashell smile named Linda, 24, less than a mile away.
You look like trouble, Linda, 24, less than a mile away said.
LOL that’s my line, Paul replied.
That’s my usual opener.
Figures, Linda said.
So, gorgeous, are you just on this for an ego boost, or can we grab a drink tonight?
Linda took a whole ten minutes to respond. While he was waiting, Paul looked at his own pictures. He liked the one where he was drinking beer on the beach in Ko Phi Phi, Thailand the best. In the picture, he was tan and sporting an eight-week beard. His chin looked great. Paul thought it was his best physical feature, like a young William Shatner in the first season of Star Trek. His dad had a great chin, too.
Paul was about to un-match Linda when her message bubble appeared. I’m with my friend. We’re at Costarella’s. Come meet up!
On my way, Paul replied.
Linda sent him a smiling poop emoji, and Paul knew he was in.
He hailed a Lyft and was at Costarella’s in exactly twelve minutes. It should’ve been eight, but there was deadlocked traffic a few blocks from the restaurant, a line of cars rubbernecking an ambulance where a pair of EMTs was loading a pale, gasping man onto a stretcher.
Paul caught a glimpse of the man just as they were closing the door. His eyes were parched and bloodshot. His pupils looked like tiny barbed raisins. He looked excruciatingly thin, like he was dried out. His pants were covered in vomit and something else Paul didn’t want to think about. There were dozens of tiny puncture wounds covering the man’s face and arms.
Junkies, Paul thought.
As if reading his mind, the Lyft driver, an Indian man named Patel, said, “San Francisco… beautiful city, but it has a bad homeless problem. This is the third overdose I’ve seen tonight.”
Paul shook his head in disgust. “I know. I hate it. Why can’t they do that shit somewhere where people don’t have to see them?”
The Lyft driver shrugged.
It didn’t occur to Paul until later that night, that the man he’d seen being loaded into the ambulance was dying.
Costarella’s was a trendy seafood joint turned after-hours bar in the Marina. Paul didn’t see Linda and her friend when he walked in, so he pulled up a seat at the bar and ordered himself a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. It was eighteen dollars. Paul promised himself he’d take it easy tonight. That was when he saw the chubby brunette girl sitting alone at a table in the back corner of the bar.
She had wide eyes and a seashell smile, a deep tan like she’d just gotten back from vacation. It was Linda, alright, but she was twenty pounds heavier than in her pictures. Paul felt his heart drop and thought, Great, another catfish. Oh, well. She’s kind of pretty. I guess I could be into it.
Paul approached her and said, “Linda?”
She half-stood and smoothed her skirt awkwardly with one hand while extending the other for Paul to shake. “Omigod, Paul. Hi.”
“Hey, Linda. So formal. What are you drinking?”
“Oh, omigod, I’m not. This is water,” Linda said.
“And… this is a bar.”
“I was waiting for you. Sit down!” She patted the chair. “I’ll get us a round.”
He hesitantly took a seat, deciding whether or not he was going to pull a runner on her. She’s chubby, and has really hairy arms, but I’ve settled for worse, especially off of Tinder. At least, she has a cute smile. But she’s so bloated. Did she eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s before meeting up with me?
Still, it had been a three-month-long dry spell. Paul decided to stay.
A moment later, Linda returned with two glasses of whiskey. She handed one to Paul.
“So, where’s your friend?” Paul said.
“She went home.”
Linda sat down. “So, what do you think? Do I look like my pictures?”
“Sure,” Paul said.
Linda flashed him her seashell grin. “You’re a lot hotter in person. I really like your chin.”
Paul stroked his beard dramatically. “So. This fine patch of German-Irish face forest is the reason you matched me, huh?”
“I’m a sucker for beards.”
“It wasn’t my big muscles or my towering height?” Paul said, immediately regretting it. I sure hope she takes that as a joke. He pretended to flex his right bicep just to drive home that he was kidding.
Linda smirked. “Uh, no. I’ve met a lot of tall, buff guys on Tinder. I wanted to meet a guy with a nice chin. And you have one, so…”
Paul grinned. “So.”
Linda winked. “So, Paul, what do you do?”
“I’m co-founder of a science fiction and fantasy-themed indie rock label.”
“Oh, how cool! I love science fiction.”
“I’m recording an EP for a band called The Body Snatchers, actually.”
“Far out! That totally sounds like my jam.”
“I work in molecular biology.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Uh, mostly gene blotting, but not really the traditional kind. It’s complicated, and honestly, it would bore you.”
“You’re talking to a guy who has the RNA tree of life tattooed on his back.”
“I do. Check it out.” Paul stood, turned around, and pulled up his shirt, revealing the faded black ink. Linda oooh’d.
“How about you? You have any tattoos?” Paul asked, sitting down.
Blushing slightly, Linda turned over her wrist, where the words Gene Catcher were written in blue ink.
“Gene Catcher? That’s a little weird,” Paul said, running his fingers over the ink.
Linda rolled her eyes. “It’s an inside joke. My parents were weird. Whenever my mother tried to talk to me about sex, she’d couch it in these huge, life-or-death terms, like, Remember, sweetie, whoever you sleep with will be giving your children a whole chromosome, better make it good. For the way she talked about it, you’d think my mom was trying to breed the fucking chosen one or something–Paul Atredes, since you like science fiction. But it isn’t that big of a deal. Sex is fun.”
Paul snapped his fingers, smiling. “Dune. I got that reference.”
Linda stared into the bottom of her empty glass. “Anyway.”
An hour and six rounds later, Paul was drunk. They were sitting closer together now, her knees in between his. Linda was talking about how she ran away from home at sixteen and hadn’t seen or heard from her parents since. But Paul wasn’t listening.
She’s so cute. And she’s staring at me like she wants me. If I don’t kiss her soon, I’m gonna blow it. I can’t believe I thought she was fat earlier. That body is a ten.
Paul cupped Linda’s face in his hands. Linda stroked his chin, closed her eyes and said, “Kiss me.”
Paul kissed her. Her tongue flickered inside his mouth and he felt something sting the tip of his nose. Paul opened his eyes. Hers were still closed.
Did she just bite my nose? How could she bite my nose with her tongue in my mouth?
Paul suddenly felt hot. Queasy.
Linda looked skinnier than she had a second ago. When they’d met up, she had a beer belly and a double chin, hadn’t she? That was only an hour ago. The tan girl sitting in front of him was petite and thin, just like her profile pictures showed.
Paul felt another gas bubble rise in his belly. He rubbed his nose. It hurt. But he was drunk and horny, and she was stroking his hand.
His stomach rumbled louder. Paul sat back and clutched his abdomen with both hands.
“Hey, are you alright?” Linda said.
“Just (hic) drunk,” Paul said with a burp.
A sudden, sharp pain cut through his stomach like he was giving Cesarean birth to a xenomorph.
“Hey. Seriously. You look pale,” Linda said. Her hands were on his forehead. The black coils of hair on her arms seemed to rise, reaching for his eyes.
Food poisoning. Shit. What the hell did I eat?
Paul brushed her hands away. “I’m fine. Come here.” He kissed her even deeper than before.
In five minutes, the stomach pain had advanced to full-blown nausea. Paul stopped thinking about the dull ache that nipped the tip of his nose or the strange, wire brush texture of her hair. Paul’s only thought was getting through the next hour without diarrhea.
But she’s so hot. This girl could be a model. She’s way out of my league.
He lost his train of thought when he noticed Linda nuzzling his neck. “I’m pretty drunk, too,” she said, pulling back. Her eyes were balmy and bloodshot. “You wanna go back to my place? I know a funny YouTube video you’ll like…”
Hey! That’s my line.
A wave of nausea hit Paul, crashing down from the dryness of his mouth to the shaking depths of his bowels. No. Not here. Not yet.
“I’m down,” Paul said. “Let’s go.”
A block away, her hand slipped down the front of his pants. “I want you,” Linda said in his ear. “I don’t want to wait, Mr. Hot Shot Sci-Fi Rock Star. Why don’t you engineer somewhere for us to fuck?”
I need to lie down. I need a shower. No. I haven’t had sex in months. I need to do it.
“Wait until we get home,” Paul said.
“No. When I want something, I get it,” Linda said. She pulled him by the hand towards an old Victorian house with a huge wrap-around porch nearby. All the lights were off.
Pain separated his thoughts into staccato bullets.
“We’re in public.”
“So? Never stopped me before.”
Halfway across the front yard, his legs wilted under him. Just need… to lie down…
“Alright. But we need to be fast,” Paul said. He climbed the stairs to the porch, lay down and unbuttoned his jeans.
Linda seemed oblivious to his distress. She was too busy unbuttoning his shirt, stroking his face, kissing him. The dull ache he’d felt on the tip of his nose spread to his eyes and arms. He was too weak to do anything but lie still.
When he opened his eyes, their eyelids were attached.
Paul felt Linda get on top of him. Something ticklish and wet wrapped around his scalp. He felt a sudden, violent stinging all over his skin, like alcohol poured over a scratched-open wound. With great effort, he managed to push her off him and break free.
Linda’s eyelashes had grown long enough to entangle his entire face. They protruded from her eyes in long, black filigrees as thin and supple as the hair on her head, swaying like little antennae as they searched for him.
Paul screamed and rolled backward down the stairs. The little clasps of her eyelashes snapped and went with him. They wriggled and curled on the driveway next to him, still searching for a grip.
“The fuck…?” Paul said, stumbling to his feet. His fingertips grazed the blood seeping out through the dozens of tiny cheesecloth holes puncturing his skin.
In the darkness of the porch, Linda giggled.
He scrambled to pull up his pants.
“I’m sorry,” someone on the porch said. “You’re so nice. It’s just… when I want something, I get it.” The voice wasn’t Linda’s.
He didn’t look back until he was three blocks away. The street was empty, a rolling sine curve of quaint San Francisco houses and bars falling away to a sea of diamond lights sparkling over the Bay like stars. He knew she was chasing him. She hadn’t been able to quite get everything she wanted – she’d taken some, but there was hunger in the voice that had called down to him from the porch.
What’s happening to me? He thought. I’m going to die. Oh, God. I’m going to die. What did she do to me?
Paul searched his body for wounds. He had dozens of tiny pinpricks on his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and his forearms. There wasn’t much blood, but his clothes were ruined.
She took something from me. What? I’m bleeding a little. I’ve still got my wallet. I’ve still got my…
Somewhere up the street, he heard her giggle. As with the voice on the porch, it wasn’t entirely female. There was more bass, more gravel, like ten voices recorded on separate audio tracks and played back simultaneously.
Paul ran. He crashed through the door of the nearest business. It was a Chinese restaurant. Tables of gasping people dropped their soup dumplings to cover their mouths with their hands. He pushed his way into the kitchen, bowling over a waiter carrying a steaming plate of General’s Chicken. A fry cook cursed loudly at him in Chinese.
She’s going to come back for me. She’s going to find me. This is really happening.
He lurched for the kitchen’s back door. Two wild-eyed Chinese chefs blocked his path. One was wielding a cast iron frying pan. Paul found what he was looking for and snatched the biggest butcher knife he could see off the magnetic hanging rack.
They think I’m crazy, Paul realized.
The chef slashed at him with the frying pan, hitting Paul in the arm. Paul gasped, but didn’t drop the knife. He circled crab-wise until his back was to the door, then tripped and stumbled backward into an alleyway, where he expelled everything in his bowels from both ends all until there was nothing more to expel.
Sirens bellowed on the adjacent streets. He tried to stand and run, but his legs felt disconnected from his body, the misfiring signals in his brain trying to control a multitude of scattered pieces. Everything burned. The strength drained from his body with every stumbling step.
A girl in a blue dress walking towards him on the street saw him and lurched backward in disgust.
Paul grabbed her desperately. “Please, help me. Help me.”
The girl kicked him and ran the opposite direction, stopping halfway down the block to yell, “Go die under a bridge, ya stupid bum!”
Paul couldn’t feel his limbs anymore. His shoulder and guts were distant satellites, the pain growing number with every second.
I’m going to lose consciousness soon. And I don’t think I’m going to wake up.
Paul got up and stumbled aimlessly toward anything, anywhere that could save him, past families, businessmen, bachelorette parties all whispering and covering their noses when they caught his foul waft. A group of frat boys on a bar crawl threw a beer bottle at Paul’s head.
He didn’t recognize the person gazing mad-eyed back at him in the glass of the shop window where he stopped to hold himself upright. His reflection looked haggard and deranged. Jesus. I look just like that guy they were putting in the ambulance. Same hair. Same poked-up skin. Jesus, it’s hot. This fever I’ve got must be a hundred and five.
The word “death” lingered in every errant, feverish thought, despite his conscious effort not to think it. The sweltering heat of his body only drove it deeper into his mind. I’ll never get the label off the ground. I’ll never get big arms in the gym. I’ll never get-
Paul leaned against the shop window and vomited blood, bright red streaks showering down the glass. It reminded him of a science fiction movie he’d seen once, where the victims of a zombie virus vomited blood during the first stages of infection. The blood in that movie had looked as fake as the zombies’ latex flesh. Paul’s blood looked wrong, too; it was thin, and runny, like dried egg whites; only, he hadn’t been infected. Linda – or whoever she was – hadn’t given him anything, but rather taken something away. Like she’d done it to the man who Paul had seen die.
It had to be her. He looked exactly like the dying junkie, right down to the bodily fluids covering his pants. It’s what she does. She takes what she takes, and we die, like in that one movie, Species. But that was about an alien who was trying to destroy the human race by breeding us out of existence. No, this Linda – or whatever her real name is – is more like a Body Snatcher, except she isn’t trying to infiltrate us. She does this for fun.
I still have time to stop her.
Two blocks up and around the corner, Paul saw the man sitting in the window of a Starbucks.
Paul recognized him instantly. He was tall and handsome, with big, muscular arms, a good tan, and a seashell smile. He was bloated, like he’d just eaten an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. He was using the free Wi-Fi to swipe Tinder profiles on his iPhone. And he had Paul’s chin.
Paul hid the knife as best he could against the side of his leg and slid nonchalantly into the coffee shop. He approached the man, lifted the knife, and stabbed him in the shoulder. He meant to stab him through the heart, but weak as he was, Paul had to sort of slump over into the man with the blade outstretched.
The man with Paul’s chin saw the attack coming and slid easily to the side. He looked down at the knife, then back up at Paul. His eyes narrowed and he set his iPhone gently down on the table. His grip closed around Paul’s wrist. It felt like a thousand-ton vice, burning hot and inhuman.
Slowly, the man with Paul’s chin pulled the knife out of his shoulder. As soon as the blade left skin, the flesh knitted and the wound closed. In an instant, there was nothing but a minuscule dribble of blood to show it was ever there.
Paul recognized the man’s voice when he spoke. It was like Linda’s, only deeper, broader, the kind of voice a starship captain would have, or the singer of a band.
“You surprise me,” the man who had Paul’s chin said. “You of all people should know my flesh is fast-knitting. That was the first one I ever got. I have all the variants, too. Y’know how many thousands of years that took? Lemme put it this way, Paul: there’s a reason I’m the only one around who still has it.”
Paul stared at his hand where it was locked in the man’s grip, the skin quickly turning from white to oily purple. He was too hot and sick to do anything. All around him, people were screaming. The man with his chin didn’t seem bothered. He let go of Paul’s hand. The knife clattered to the floor, and so did Paul.
“Y-y-you t-took m-m-my ch-chin,” Paul said.
The Man With Paul’s Chin casually picked up his phone, returning to the message he’d been typing to Janice, 24, two miles away, which said: You look like trouble.
Someone was sitting on Paul’s back. A different man, an onlooker. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. Locking both of Paul’s wrists behind his back in a bouncer hold, the onlooker asked the Man With Paul’s Chin, “Hey pal, you alright? Looks like this asshole cut you. There’s blood on your shirt.”
“Just fine, thanks. Lots of crazy junkies in this city,” the Man With Paul’s Chin said.
“Well, the cops will be here any minute.” The onlooker nudged Paul in the ribs with his knee. “You hear that? Have fun trying to get high in the joint, you sick bastard.”
The Man With Paul’s Chin gave the onlooker a seashell smile. “Honestly, I think what he needs is an ambulance.”
You stole my chin, Paul thought as the coffee shop ceiling faded to black.
A small crowd gathered outside to watch as the paramedics loaded Paul’s body onto a stretcher under flashing blue lights.
“Another one,” one of the paramedics sighed.
“You still don’t think it could be ricin?” the other said.
“Y’know, I thought about your little theory, while we were loading that D.O.A. a few hours ago, and you know what conclusion I came to?” Paramedic A said.
“You need to cut your TV time to one hour a night.”
Paramedic B zipped the body bag closed. Beneath it, Paul’s face looked like a pale, dried-out sponge.
The paramedic wagged his finger. “Then how do you explain those other cases in China? Russia? Johannesburg? Mexico City? All the D.N.A. in their bodies, simultaneously destroyed. Gone. Poof. Like it was never there. Dead in a matter of hours.”
“That’s just bullshit you read on the Internet. Wait until the autopsies come back. It’s dope. Something we haven’t seen before. Ricin? Sure. And this is Walter Fuckin’ White.”
“Nah. I’m tellin ya, it’s a cult, and they use ricin to poison their victims. It’s the only logical explanation. Unless it’s aliens….”
Paramedic A grunted, and nodded for the other to help him lift Paul’s stiffening corpse into the ambulance.
Somewhere else in the city, Janice, 24, two miles away, waited outside her apartment building for her Lyft to arrive. She hoped the new guy she was meeting up with for drinks liked her shoes. Costarella’s was a nice place, so she’d worn her best Jimmy Choos, the black strappy ones with the rhinestones that showed off her calves.
She stuck her feet out and pointed her toes to admire them. Her calves were smooth and strong from twenty-one years of competitive dancing. Her mother was a dancer, too. Janice thought they were her best feature.
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They called me the Coffin King.
I was the hero who slew the Lich and returned the Crown of Whispers to the Empire. The man of the people who rose to become emperor, only to fall again to a conspirator’s blade. The cursed one. The creature of darkness, doomed to wander these shadowed halls for years uncounted. I have feasted on the bones of warriors who came by the thousands to win glory to their names through my destruction, brave warriors – the bravest of the brave – much like yourself. The mere mention of my name sends children to bed at a reasonable hour and keeps them from playing outside after dark.
I am the monster the stories warned you about. I am the Lich.
But you already knew all this, didn’t you? If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have ventured miles beneath the earth to my Castle-Under-The-Mountain to the foot of my Throne of Skulls with your silver sword in hand, ready to plunge it through my cold, un-beating heart. You wouldn’t have slaughtered my wights and left their dust piles littering my halls. You wouldn’t have waltzed past those treasure chests I left brimming for you in plain sight with booby traps a child could disarm, a last generous offer for you to turn back. You wouldn’t be wearing that same fragile smirk I’ve seen so many times before, which you assure yourself is an adequate mask for your fear.
You wouldn’t have come to slay the Lich if you didn’t know what I am. But there are some minor discrepancies in the version of my story you’ve heard. Inaccuracies. Falsehoods. Naked slander.
Yes, it’s true, that mountainous pile of silver swords, spears, axes, and glaives belonged to your fellow monster hunters.
And yes, I have been sitting here sharpening these long, black fingernails on the skulls of my throne for a very long time.
Yes, the Crown of Whispers, which you have come here to reclaim, does adorn my lolling head.
But any man who is willing to become an executioner should first be a good listener, should he not? To be a confidant for the last words of the one he has condemned?
Be honest with yourself. You didn’t just come to kill the Lich. You came for a confession; to hear it all, the trail of my crimes that led me here, straight from the corpse’s mouth. So a confession you shall have.
Now please, come a little closer. I don’t trust you, either, but we can’t get started with you standing all the way over there, can we? No. This old, dead voice is far too meek, and I must save at least some of my strength. It is a long and harrowing tale.
I began my life as a coffin maker’s son. I was never schooled, except in the art of felling cloud pines and fashioning them into six-foot-long boxes for the dead.
I spent my boyhood exploring the cloud forest where we cut our trees, pretending I was all manners of warrior or royal assassin, even going so far as to spy on the local lord, whose name is now lost to me, and his retainers when they went hawking in my woods. I quickly learned two ways of speaking, one for the people in our village, and one for myself when I was alone and pretending to be a nobleman.
My father had served as an archer in the king’s army before turning to the trade of making coffins. I practiced with his longbow as soon as I was old enough to draw it. I learned the differences between hunting for food and hunting in war, how to hold my arrows in my bow hand so I could quick-draw them without reaching for my quiver, how to shape my own bow from wood. He taught me which plants and roots could be eaten and which would kill, how to follow without being seen, how to kill with a single arrow.
But my father was a drunk and flew into an easy rage any time I made a mistake. If I misplaced a nail or dented the wood with my hammer, he would box my face and sides until he felt something break. If I overshot my target and lost my arrows in the woods, he would not let me eat or sleep under his roof until I found them.
Eventually, I left home, preferring to spend my nights sleeping on a bed of pine boughs in a cave high in the cloud forest overlooking our valley, next to the place where the river fell over jagged bluestone cliffs into a deep, crystalline pool.
It was there I met Justina, my first love.
I can still envision her, like a sliver of a dream. She had hair the color of volcanic glass, eyes that held the light like jade mirrors. Her face was a pale, heart-shaped jewel, her skin the blue-gold color of fresh milk. When she smiled, it filled my heart with the indescribable mixture of joy and sadness that only comes when we love someone more than we love ourselves.
I caught her bathing in my Crystal Pool one morning, and her mother caught me watching her. Her mother vengefully promised to turn me over to my father, but I begged and pled not to make me go back, the tears carving their own waterfalls from the encrusted dirt and grime of my cheeks. I must have looked an overwhelmingly pitiful creature, because the old bag relented and started crying, too, avowing to take me in.
I slept in the attic of the inn owned by Justina’s family. In exchange, I washed the guests’ dishes. When Justina’s mother would go to bed, I would steal a bottle of wine from the cellar and Justina would sneak out her window to meet me at the edge of town. Navigating by candlelight, we would sneak up the mountain path to the cloud forest, where we’d get drunk and swim in the Crystal Pool, then fondle each other until we both fell asleep. As long as we both awoke and were back before dawn, her mother was never the wiser.
Justina was the first girl I ever loved. But our happiness, like most, was not made to last.
I caught her screwing the nobleman’s son. I found him taking her from behind against a tree, not far from our Crystal Pool, where she’d promised she was mine, forever.
On my last night in the village, I recall imagining I was standing over her bed while she slept, dagger in hand. But in the end, I simply packed what few belongings I had in a potato sack, slung it over my shoulder and stole away upon a moonlit road, promising myself between peaks and troughs of rage and heartbreak that I would use my pain as fuel to see the world and make myself a better man.
Whatever you may think of me now, dear warrior, there was a time when I was good. Now please, come a little closer. I’m finding it hard to continue at this volume.
I arrived in the capital a month later, as lean and filthy as the road could make me. It was mid-summer, and the sun was ungodly hot, made worse by the fact there was no water to be found. The capital was experiencing the worst drought in recorded history. The wells and streambeds were dry. Bathing was an unspeakable luxury, and drinking water had to be purchased from merchants who charged prices so astronomical I wondered how the city’s poor were able to survive.
It was there I learned the truth of the stories I’d been hearing since I was a boy: that our once-great Empire of the Sun and Moon was dying.
The fields were barren and the trees black and brittle. The ancient palaces and grand promenades were filthy and overrun with beggars. Giant columns of unwashed, unpainted stone stained black with smoke towered over swarms of mucky children lying bored and starving in the shade.
“You’re from the provinces. They think you’re rich,” an impossibly tall, thin merchant said to me with a laugh as I passed his stall. He was selling locusts, the one food item the capital seemed to have in abundance. He wore a savagely curled black mustache that covered half his face, mirroring the shape of the dagger that hung from his belt.
“Why?” I said.
The merchant responded, “Because life is still good there. The fruits still ripen on the vine. The water is still clear enough to drink. People are healthy, and their bellies full. But it won’t be so for much longer. Soon the corruption destroying this place will spread to the provinces, too. He means it to spread across the world entire.”
Scratching my beard, I said, “Who?”
The merchant picked up one of his own locusts and let it hover by his mouth, not noticing the minute tremble of its legs. “The Lich.”
A confounded look must have seized my face, for he raised an eyebrow at me and said, “Have you not heard of him?”
“No. Who, or what, is a Lich?”
With a heaving sigh that trembled the locust’s tiny feelers, the merchant began. “He was High Wizard, the Emperor’s most valued advisor. He murdered the Emperor and stole the Crown of Whispers, which the Gods of Sun and Moon gave to this land in the Age before Time. Rumor has it he used black magic to seduce the Princess. Many believed the High Wizard meant to use her to usurp the throne.”
“So, what stopped him?” I said.
The merchant scraped one greasy, shining corner of his mustache with the locust’s tail and said, “His plot was discovered, and the Emperor arrested him. But on the morning of his execution, instead of going to his death with honor, the High Wizard murdered the Emperor, stole the Crown, and fled to the Castle-Under-The-Mountain.”
“Forgive me, but what is the Castle-Under-The-Mountain? I’m from the provinces and don’t know much about politics,” I said.
“It is an ancient, hidden fortress, a secret redoubt built to hide the royal family in times of crisis,” the Merchant said. “No one knows its exact location, though many now seek to find it. For the Lich remains there still, using the Crown of Whispers to blight this land with famine and plague. Did you do any research into our fine city before coming here?”
“News takes long to travel to the provinces,” I said.
The merchant shrugged and, at last, popped the unfortunate locust into his mouth.
To avoid an uncomfortable silence with my new friend, I pushed the subject. “So why do you call him a, what was it you said? A… lich? What makes him different than any other run-of-the-mill scoundrel, or brigand?”
The merchant said through a mouthful of insect parts, “The gods punished the High Wizard for his betrayal. They cursed him, sapping the life from his body, turned him into a living corpse, who must drain the souls of the living to survive.”
“But if that’s true, shouldn’t he already be vanquished?” I wondered aloud. “He secluded himself in a place that sounds very hard to get to, yet he can only survive by preying on others. Sounds to me like the problem should have solved itself.”
“Clever man.” The merchant grinned. He offered me a locust. I took it and chewed. “And if no one ever sought him out, you would be correct – the problem would easily sort itself out. Unfortunately, there seems to be no shortage of brave idiots with silver swords and maidens’ promises in hand eager to march off on a fool’s quest to slay the Lich and save the Empire. There is a widespread belief that whoever kills the Lich and takes the Crown from his head will become the new emperor. If you ask me, people simply can’t resist the temptation to pay mind to those who they despise, even when not doing so would cause their opponents to wither in obscurity.”
“So you’re saying the Lich has an infinite supply of food,” I said, swallowing.
The merchant offered me another locust. “I can see you’re thinking of going after him. I’ve tried to convince you otherwise, like all the others. Oh, well. Your life is yours to lose, my friend. I can’t help you win this moronic quest, but I can tell you where to start. The map showing the location of the Castle-Under-The-Mountain is hidden in the Great Library. And, who knows? Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll be calling you emperor.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the map was hidden. I suspected it would be built into some part of the library’s architecture, most certainly the floor, so I climbed the stacks until I reached the highest indoor vantage point the library offered, a hanging scaffold where an absent artist had been repairing one of the spires in the giant mosaic of the Crown of Whispers that adorned the inside of the dome.
No, the hard part was seeing through all the bodies. Sleeping, standing, leaning, begging, the library floor was teeming with refugees, orphans, and the homeless. The Great Library was the largest building in the capital, even larger than the royal palace, and it was open to the public. I had to wait until five minutes before closing, when the last tawny fingers of dusk were seeping through the highest skylight, before I could make out the image on the floor.
The map was hidden in the design of the floor tiles, as I’d expected. I instantly recognized the landmarks, as they weren’t far from the valley where I’d grown up. The river that gave life to my village was a tributary of the great river Ist, which flowed south from the Iga Mountains, the map’s starting point. I would have to cross them at the Izo Pass, the sacred high road where the Sisterhood of the Moon Singers lived in their ancient monasteries cut straight from the faces of the rock. Then, I would have to ascend the heights until I found the mountaintop crater holding the sacred lake known as the Eye of the Sea, where the entrance to the Castle-Under-The-Mountain was hidden.
I spent many more days in that library, learning everything I could about liches and how to defeat them. Since I could not read the books myself, I employed a young girl named Pia to read them to me. Pia had bright, translucent hair the color of whiskey, and barely looked old enough to be in school, yet was already studying alchemy at the university level. I paid her in locusts borrowed on good faith from my friend, the merchant San, who always gave them to me with a silver-capped smile and a wink.
With Pia’s aid, I learned that silver is toxic to the undead, but that they also hoard it. I didn’t understand this paradox until my young assistant found in an old black tome that the undead are drawn to silver by instinct, just as we are to food or drink. It cannot harm them unless it penetrates the heart or brain. Liches, though physically frail, were notoriously brutal sorcerers by their nature, so I decided the best way to kill this Lich would be with a silver arrow.
I made the perfect plan. I would sneak into the Castle-Under-The-Mountain and shoot the Lich through his cold, wicked heart, then take the Crown of Whispers and be back in the capital before the seasons changed.
I convinced Pia’s father, a metalworker named Gahri, to forge me twenty silver arrowheads. He was as strong and skilled with an axe, so I promised he would be my Royal Master-At-Arms when I came into power. I do not believe he would have given me a nickel if it wasn’t for Pia.
The next morning I set out to slay the Lich beneath a purpling sun.
As soon as I entered the Lich’s lair, it became grossly apparent how little I knew about magic. The old corpse had seen me coming before I had dipped my toes into the Eye of the Sea, even before I had left the lowlands for the grueling, week-long climb up the Izo Pass.
Fireballs shot at me from invisible ziggurats secreted in the walls from my first step into that old, dusty tomb. They singed the hair off my arms and neck as I flailed to escape their deadly communion. I sprinted and slid down serpentine halls of slick, time-smoothed stone, my elk-skin boots barely making a sound as I leapt nimbly over spike pits and impaling objects flung from murder holes in the ceiling and walls.
Yet despite my quickness, the Lich’s wights found me as if I wore a beacon. They’d been waiting for me, I knew as soon as I heard their eager howls echoing from the depths.
You of all people, brave warrior, should know how terrifying it is to be charged by a wight. I can see the sweat still creeping down your brow, the tremble still lingering in your fingertips.
I felt it too, then. My blood flowed like fire, and time, like sugared sludge. Their dead, contorted lips screeched octaves I didn’t know existed. I quick-drew my bow on every pale face, every set of flinty, unseeing eyes, and unleashing missile after missile into the disintegrating slag of their faces. I recovered as many spent arrows as I could, but by the time I reached his Throne of Skulls, I had only two arrows left.
I crept slowly into the hall, bearing down on every moving shadow and glimmering mote of dust, but the Lich wasn’t there. I stood where you now stand and with great confusion, lowered my bow.
Then I heard the scraping of rough cloth on smooth stone, shamble, scratch, shamble, scratch, scratch. He entered walking on the ceiling, cupping something in the pallid bowl of his hands.
The Lich uttered a word and I froze. He drifted down as paper falls through air, silently landing on his throne, and scattered the dust pile at my feet. When he spoke, his voice sounded ancient and exhausted.
“The gods did not make me a Lich,” the Lich said.
I tried to speak and found I could not.
I’m sure you’ll agree, brave warrior that it’s hard to describe the look a dead face makes when it emotes. I can only describe it as sadly unsurprised. The Lich descended his throne and took my face in his hands. His touch stung like ice, but was dry as ash. I tried to fight, but I couldn’t move.
I thought he would kill me then. Instead, he only sighed. “My heart stopped beating because it grew cold. Not the other way around. I pushed everyone who ever loved me away, for power, country, glamor, fame. When I realized how truly alone I was, I sought the purest love I could, that of a beautiful young girl with innocence in her eyes. Or did you think I stole the Princess, like everyone else? You may speak.”
“Traitor,” I spat. “Murderer. Demon.”
The Lich returned to his throne, where he tapped a long black fingernail on the bones of the armrest. He was toying with me, I realized, trying to squeeze every last bit of information he could about the outside world before he slew me.
But I had no trump card up my sleeve to play against his magic. I couldn’t move anything but my lips. My only chance to survive was to make him angry enough to stumble and release his grasp. “What would she tell me of your innocence, I wonder? What would the princess say?”
The Lich shrugged. “Those are her ashes before you. She was one of the wights you slaughtered on your way in.”
“She begged me to give her the Hymn of Death Undying. In the end, she won. As I said, I am in the end a selfish creature.”
“Then why not let me give you your mercy? Is that not want your heart truly wants?” I said.
I couldn’t tell if the flutter of his eyelid was some unholy spasm, or if he was actually winking at me. “Let me tell you something about this treasure you have come to claim. The Crown of Whispers is an instrument of tremendous power. You know the legend of how it washed ashore after a great orgy between the Gods of Sun and Moon, and Ithas, the patriarch of our land, found it and put it on. Whether all that’s true or not, it is above all things a weapon… the most powerful in existence. But here’s the secret, little man. I can’t control it. Nor can you. All we can do is listen to the things it whispers in our ear.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to justify the murder of an innocent girl?” I said.
The Lich saw red. Figuratively, of course; but in that instant, I felt his grip on me slide. The invisible pressure on my skin relented, my muscles freed from whatever intangible force had rendered them immobile.
The arrow left my string before he even knew it was drawn. I rolled out of the way as fireball burst where I’d been standing, a final desperate reflex to take me with him as my silver-headed arrow impaled the withered heart under his tattered purple robes. With an uncoiling hiss, the Lich released his last grip on this world.
Word of my deeds traveled faster than I did. You’d think, brave warrior, that anyone I met on the road would simply kill me and take the Crown of Whispers for themselves, but it was not so. As soon as anyone I met learned of what I’d done, they fell at my feet and groveled. A dozen battle-hardened warriors knelt to kiss my boots before I had left the first village. By the time I departed the mountains, my army was two thousand strong.
They called me the Coffin King. They told stories around their fires about me, the coffin maker’s son who’d outsmarted and slain the Lich. Men are quick to follow strength, but they are even quicker to follow stories.
Here I must pause, my noble, and oh-so-gallant warrior, to make a few observations about you.
One, your dress and posture show you come from humble origins, as I did. Not a coffin maker’s son; no, the strength of your upper back tells me you were a farmer’s boy.
Two, you fight for love, hoping your deeds will win her back. What was her name? Ah, Lina. Such a pretty name.
Three, you wonder how you’re going to get this crown off my head after you finish me off, if you will have cut the places where the flesh has grown over and entwined with the spires, if you will even have the strength left to carry it.
I assure you all your questions will be answered in time. Now, please. I must insist that you come closer. Just a few more steps. My voice fails me.
I arrived at the gates of our Empire’s capital with ten thousand warriors at my back. But the people greeted us as heroes, and a grander parade was thrown in my honor than the city had seen in the last hundred years combined. Thousands of people lined the streets under the shade of the old arches and columns, the stones all washed and freshly painted for my arrival. Confetti snowed on our heads and our ears were filled with the cries of ecstasy and the ringing of a thousand golden bells.
The city’s wells were already filling with fresh, clear water. Late summer blossoms bloomed on branches that had been bare weeks earlier. Grain was sprouting in the fields and fruit from the old vines. The true death of the Lich had given new life to the Empire.
I did not put on the Crown of Whispers until my coronation, fourteen days after I re-entered the capital. My coronation was hailed as the greatest party the Empire had ever seen. I swore an oath on the steps of the Great Library before Father Sun, Mother Moon, and all the people of our great city. I appointed my friend San, the locust merchant, as my High Wizard, my most important political advisor. I appointed Pia’s father, the brutish metalsmith Gahri as my Master-at-Arms. I appointed a dozen other members of my court whose names and qualifications came at the highest recommendation from the incumbents.
A grand feast was held for the commoners on Library Plaza, and a more private affair for the members of my court in the tea gardens within the palace walls. It was there that San, the former locust merchant, approached me and said, “The crown suits you. But I think it’s a bit of a farce for anyone to call me a High Wizard. I don’t know the first thing about magic.”
“We’ll study together. I’ve already ordered every book and scroll belonging to the former High Wizard to be delivered to my chambers,” I told him.
“I suppose you would, having killed the most powerful sorcerer in the Empire,” the Merchant San said. He took a long survey of the feast-goers sauntering about the flower ponds and moss-speckled bridges of the garden. The topic clearly made him uncomfortable. “You know they will expect you to take a wife before the harvest. Now that the Crown has been recovered, the Empire is even less secure than before it was lost. The Old Families consider you a threat, and won’t think twice about cutting your throat so one of their own can take your place. You need a powerful alliance made through marriage. Even then, I would not trust anyone who didn’t know you before, back when you had nothing but the patches in your pants.”
“So you, Gahri, and Pia, then?” I said.
San gave me a silver-capped grin and offered me a locust. “Try one yet? They’re dipped in chocolate. My favorite.”
I saw her dancing under the starlight during the band’s second-to-last waltz of the evening. She was Justina come again. She had the same crow-colored hair and burnished jade eyes, the same elegant spill of good hips and spider-slim legs. She was taller than Justina, older, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman dancing in front of me was the very shade of my first true love.
The music died and the dance floor cleared. We looked at each other and she started laughing. I was shy, but a healthy swig of wine helped embolden me.
“Your highness did not ask me to dance,” the woman who was not Justina said.
I took her hand and kissed it. “An emperor doesn’t need to ask.”
She placed that same white-gloved hand on my arm and we began to walk. “But he needs wine to speak to his subjects?”
I stopped her. “What is your name?”
The woman who was not Justina smirked. “I’ll tell you, but only if you dance with me.”
“I could throw you in the dungeon for that.”
“Maybe I want you to.”
Reluctantly, I took her hands and led her to the dance floor. I was always a horrible dancer – girls in my village would laugh in my face when I asked them to dance at the Juvenalia – but the woman who was not Justina did not punish me for my missteps. She only smiled and introduced herself. “I am the Lady Ita, of the Water Lily House. I see you have taken a pine tree as your sigil. Does that mean you are sturdy and strong? Or only that you are prickly, and have a strong scent?”
“Neither. It means I came from the earth and will soon return to it. All that matters is what I leave behind.”
“Not many kings are also great poets,” the Lady Ita said.
I leaned in close. “I learned to speak this way when I was a child, so that I could fit in more easily around people like you.”
The Lady Ita chuckled.
“So, where is your lord husband, Lady Ita? Forgive me. I was only a coffin maker’s son before. I don’t know much about politics.”
The Lady Ita frowned. “Don’t worry. He’s three years dead and gone. Pox in his lungs, a terrible thing. But if I may be so bold, you don’t strike me as a coffin maker’s son.”
“And if I may be so bold, you don’t strike me as a lady in mourning.”
“Maybe my mourning is finished.”
A month later, we were wed.
The Empire entered a period of extended peace.
I left most of the actual ruling to my councilors, preferring to spend my time studying magic. I locked myself in my chambers through all hours of the day and night, breaking only to sign royal edicts, eat, sleep, and make love to my new queen. I consumed every book, scroll, and scribbled scrap that I could.
San’s advice that day in the garden was never far from my mind. I immediately saw plots developing among the Old Families. The cook was an agent of the Redwood House; the girl who changed my linens, a spy for the Roses; my Queen’s favorite handmaid, a skilled assassin of the Orchids in disguise.
Now that I had my Crown, I was determined to keep it.
One of the Crown’s attributes was that it could read aloud what I saw written on the page, so although I couldn’t read, much less make sense of ancient grimoires on the subject of magic, with the Crown I was able to decipher literal piles of manuscripts; which, for a boy who grew up making coffins, felt just as magical as shooting balls of lightning from my fists.
I learned that magic is often nothing more than a finely-crafted illusion. The ziggurats that had scorched me when I entered the Castle-Under-The-Mountain, for example, were nothing more than arrows tipped with high-combustion fuel rigged to fire when someone stepped on a carefully-hidden pressure plate. So, too, did the Crown teach me to use illusion to my advantage.
After two years, I had learned everything the old High Wizard had known and more. The Lich’s spells, which had so dazzled and terrified me when I first invaded his dank fortress, seemed nothing more to me now than the cheap tricks of a parlor flop.
The Crown of Whispers was true power.
Three years into my rule, an alliance of bandit tribes in the Iga Mountains declared independence from the Empire. My advisors had predicted as much, since that region had never truly accepted imperial rule.
They butchered my emissaries and sent their heads back on silver-tipped arrows.
You must make an example of them, or others will follow, the Crown whispered in my ear.
I led a raiding party to the Izo Pass, where we slaughtered the bandits in their camp while they slept. I put three silver-tipped arrows through their leader’s heart, then cast a flurry of flame and ice down upon their heads so cruel they threw down their weapons and surrendered at my feet.
But the Crown was not appeased. They defied you, it told me. Rebellion is in their blood. You must wipe it from the earth, every man, woman, and child.
I gave the order. We left none alive.
My cruelty to the Mountain People did not go unnoticed back home in the capital. A series of anonymous pamphlets began circulating bearing the words KILLER OF WOMEN AND CHILDREN! And NO HEIR!
I consulted my councilors, who agreed the Old Families had put out the libelous filth. San, my High Wizard, assured me: “People are quick to trash talk their leaders, and even quicker to believe the slander they hear. This is just politics as usual.”
My Master-At-Arms, Gahri was less optimistic. “Soon they will rise against you. They saw you as a hero for saving them from the Lich, but stories die. It’s unfortunate your legend faded so quickly, but that’s the way of it. There’s talk in the streets the queen cannot conceive. You need to give the people someone new to put their hope in. You must give them an heir.”
Yet try as we did, the queen’s belly would not grow.
By my fifth year, the Empire was the most prosperous it had ever been.
To bolster my public image I threw wild, lavish festivals, bacchanalias complete with dancers, fire conjurers, elephant riders, and gladiatorial games that lasted weeks at a time. I built monuments to myself on every city square, replacing statues of the gods with ones of myself slaying the Lich. I ordered a fleet of one thousand ships built, promising pioneering families free passage to the New Provinces. I sought to spread my dominion beyond the setting sun.
Yet I spent my nights cold and alone, getting drunk on the best wines ever fermented and enjoying the most beautiful whores the world had ever seen. They did nothing to sate the growing emptiness inside me.
And then there were the campaigns. I suppressed more bandit rebellions in the Iga Mountains; rebellions I fomented, of course, by staging false flag ambushes on my own troops. Thousands died. The army began its push to expand the imperial borders to the north and south, on the pretense of protecting the settlers there from the bloodthirsty natives. The body count climbed to the tens, then to the hundreds of thousands.
And now I know something else about you, my brave warrior. You cringe at the thought of actual violence. Trust me, that reflex will vanish in time. Now please, come a little closer.
I fell in love with my own story anew each morning when I rose, the day already late and the gulls weeping on my balcony. The Crown whispered its affirmations to me in the mirror. You are a good king, it told me. You have saved the Empire. You are a good king, but not a great one. Your queen is holding you back.
I had the queen’s quarters moved to the farthest tower of the palace, sending the message by courier. I never spoke to the Lady Ita again.
In the tenth year of my reign, I divorced the Lady Ita and banished her to the Sisterhood of the Moon Singers to marry Pia, my young former assistant. Gahri showed up at one of my garden parties with a stunningly pretty young woman on his arm who I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t until my Master-At-Arms grew visibly nervous that I realized the girl was Pia. Nearly a decade had passed since I’d last seen her.
Pia had grown into a woman of breathtaking beauty. She was slender and almond-eyed, with a radiant smile and hair so blonde it gleamed like silver in the sunlight. Sweating profusely, Gahri informed me she had gone away to study alchemy at the New University in the Southern Province. He introduced her as “The Lady Pia.” I thought the old goat would drown in his own shirt.
I tried to take her hand and kiss it, but Pia only swatted it away and gave me that same confident, goofy grin she’d always had. “I hope you still love books, your highness. I brought you a whole cartful. My favorites. Almost all of them are about magic. I heard you’re something of an aficionado.”
We wed in the Great Library at sunset on the Feast of the Sacred Crown, standing where we’d first met a decade earlier among the stacks beneath a dozen shades of sanguine light falling through stained-glass like a story fractured in the retelling. I promised Pia I would be hers forever, and she promised she would be mine.
And the Crown whispered: But we’ve heard that before, haven’t we?
Our happiness faded as quickly as it came.
The Empire entered a rapid decline. A decade of war and rampant expansionism had not only drained the gold from the vaults faster than the royal accountants could measure, but had sent many of the Empire’s best minds abroad, where they wouldn’t be persecuted.
I, in my infinite wisdom, had begun executing any academics or members of the Old Families who spoke out against me, burning them alive on the steps of the Great Library as traitors.
My councilors, too, grew distant. The tenuous friendships I’d formed with San and Gahri withered. I stopping heeding their counsel, and eventually they stopped giving it, choosing to spend our meetings staring blankly into their wine instead.
Vicious rumors surfaced that despite still not having a legitimate heir, I’d sired hundreds of deformed bastards upon countless whores across various regions of the Empire. The former, at least, was true. Pia and I tried to produce a child, but like the queen before her, Pia’s belly never grew.
Whatever sliver of control I’d had over my temper with the Lady Ita vanished completely when Pia and I quarreled. A disagreeing word would send me spiraling into a foul rage. I drank the palace dry. And Pia, for all her innocent patience, grew ever more hurt by my pitiless anger. She would lock herself in our bedchamber for hours, crying and begging me to be myself again.
But that was the problem. I was myself. I was a liar, and a whoremonger, and a loner, and a fraud. The only real power I ever had, had come from the Crown.
I can hear its whispers even now: We are as they made us, are we not?
Nothing I did could change my and Pia’s fate. The affection she had so selflessly showered upon me in the beginning evaporated with each successive tear. I emptied the royal coffers to take her on exotic trips to the farthest outskirts of the Empire. We spent our nights crying uncontrollably in each other’s arms on the sea of satin pillows that adorned the interior of our wheelhouse, until finally, she would place a tender hand on my cheek, and say, “I have loved you since I was a girl, and you were a pauper in rags. Nothing in the world could ever change that
To which the Crown would whisper in my ear: And you’re a fool if you believe her.
There was no spell or magic aid that could save us. Magic is mostly an illusion, and love is real. Pia’s love, which was as close to unconditional as the human heart is capable, could have saved me, if I had only let it; if I had not been enslaved to the Crown.
I started losing my mind. I began to suspect the Crown was evil, not a jewel-encrusted diadem at all, but an intelligent parasite that was manipulating all of us: me, Pia, our court, and through us, the Empire.
The Crown told me I was wrong. But I started having vivid, waking dreams. I ceased being able to tell what was real and what was an illusion.
I dreamt I was a very old man, older than time itself, sitting upon a throne made of skulls, where I slept and waited, sharpening my long, murderous fingernails to a razor’s edge.
I dreamt that my life wasn’t mine at all, but someone else’s, a story being whispered in my ear by the Crown, which had been sitting so long and heavy upon my head it had fused with my flesh and become part of me. Warriors would come to slay me, not knowing I was only the shell through which the Crown acted, that I could not control my own body, that I could only wait, and watch, and scream inside the silent prison of my mind with a thousand other nameless voices.
Inevitably, I would lure those brave warriors in until they came just close enough, then my fingernails would plunge through their breastplates, chain mail, flesh, bone, and all, driving straight into their still-beating hearts, and those who came to slay me would die. Then I – or rather, the Crown – would absorb their memories, and I would become someone else. I would assume the voice of the last warrior who had died.
When I awoke in my chambers, I was myself again. But this dream came to me so often that part of me started to believe it was reality, that I truly was a dead man sitting on that old chair, and my life in the royal palace in Ito was the dream, and always had been; that I’d never been a coffin maker’s son.
One night, she tried to take the Crown from me.
I stirred from my dream of being the Lich to find Pia’s fingers crawling along the pale edges of my scalp. I slapped her hands away, screaming, “What are you doing?”
“You n-n-never t-take it off,” Pia said, through stutter-stop sobs. “Look what it’s done to you. To us. Please. I want you to take it off, this once.”
My voice, magnified by the Crown, thundered so loud it shook the palace to its foundation. “Why should I take it off? I saved the Empire. It chose me! Why should you have it?”
Pia raised her hands to her face as though I would strike her. “I d-don’t want it, my love. It’s just that…” My queen hesitated. “I t-tried to take it off twice before, while you were s-sleeping, and couldn’t. I thought there might be a latch, but… how do you take it off? Your forehead has grown so white. It stinks. I tried to wash it, but… why do you never pray? You neglect the gods. You never let me read to you anymore. I’m worried sick about you.”
I do not know if it was I, or the Crown, who said, “If I take it off, we lose everything. Would you sacrifice our People to save this stinking, little marriage, you selfish whore?”
Pia fell to her knees, weeping and grasping my hand like it was her last shred of life. “My love, do you not see? It’s called the Crown of Whispers because it lies.”
She was a benevolent queen, an adoring wife, and of far greater intelligence than I ever was. Pia saw the writing on the wall before it was written.
I was at court when they came for me. Twenty men of my own household guard surrounded me at spear point, led by Gahri, my Master-At-Arms. Pia wasn’t there.
“You, the King, stand convicted of high treason, as well as blasphemy, fraud, adultery, and unholy sodomy. Father Sun, Mother Moon, their respective churches, and the patriarchs of all the Old Families support these charges. The queen, Lady Pia of the Papyrus House has testified in a secret tribunal that you are mad, and that you have willingly set the Empire of the Sun and Moon on a course toward poverty and destruction. Should you sign this confession and admit your crimes, you will be stripped of all wealth and titles, but allowed to spend your life in exile, in the New Provinces. Should you resist, or deny these charges, you will be executed by burning at dawn tomorrow, as your own laws have decreed to be the punishment for treason.”
Gahri offered me the parchment to sign. I took it in my hands, ready to tear it in two and then kill them all when I felt someone’s hot breath on my neck. A familiar voice whispered over my shoulder.
“Don’t be a fool,” my friend San, the merchant said. “Don’t throw your life away. Sign it.”
He felt me move and tried to imprison me with magic, but I was always the better sorcerer. I threw Ball Lightning at his Cage of Ice and impaled San’s heart with his own dagger as he fried in a pool of his own conjured water, then rained fire and ice down upon my would-be captors’ heads, magical traps I’d set ages before in case of such a betrayal.
They burned and froze and shattered and died, all but Gahri, who dodged my attacks nimbly and rushed me with his long axe. The silver-tipped polearm slashed toward me and I remembered the Lich’s black fingernails from my dreams, punching like spike traps to skewer the brave warriors who came to slay me. I slid to Gahri’s left and bashed his skull in with mine, using the Crown of Whispers to turn his head into crimson pulp.
Then, I ran.
And now, brave warrior, you know the story of my fall, of how the unlikely ruler of the greatest Empire known to history lost everything, betrayed by the people he trusted most. You know the rest of my story.
I fled into the mountains and became the Lich. I fled the royal palace to the river, then to the Iga Mountains, then across the Izo Pass and into the heights, to the Eye of the Sea, and the only place I knew I could be alone, the Castle-Under-The-Mountain. I set traps. I sent out spies, bugs and worms and crows, beasts I could easily control with the Crown’s magnetic thrum. I began to change. The Crown changed me. I called out to my bastard children in their dreams. They came to me and became my wights.
I find myself rather exhausted by all this glorious retelling, and do not have the strength to speak much longer. Please, just one more step. Ah, yes. That’s close enough.
See? I am old and weak as rotten paper. See my lolling head. I can barely hold the Crown aloft. My magic is naught but barest illusion, no match for your gods-given courage. You will take the Crown of Whispers for yourself, and return to your Empire, a hero. They will call you “The Farmer King,” the boy who killed the Lich, who rose from nothing to save an empire. You will succeed where I failed.
But before you do, a warning.
To be the hero, you must slay the Lich. But to slay the Lich is to slay yourself, for in every man a Lich lies waiting. All that must happen for the Lich to be born is the man must lose everything, and behold! The warrior becomes what he set out to so gallantly kill, as I once did, as you soon will.
So, what are you waiting for, my brave and valiant warrior? Take pity on my bitter, tortured soul. Put me out of my misery. Come nice and close, and strike me down.
Have at me.
They called me the Farmer King.
I was the hero who slew the Lich and returned the Crown of Whispers to the Empire. The man of the people who rose to become emperor, only to fall again to a conspirator’s blade. The cursed one. The creature of darkness, doomed to wander these shadowed halls for years uncounted. But you already know all this, don’t you?
Please, do come a bit closer.
(First published in the Ancient Enemies anthology from Bloodlines Press.)
If you intend to be more than a one or two-time player, Russian roulette is a game with only one winning strategy: you must learn to secretly palm the round. This was the best advice I could give her. She did ask for it… in those exact words.
Her name is Gina, but she goes by G. She’s eighteen and has green eyes and a good tan. We’re driving in my car, top down, seats back, Beach Boys blaring. It’s just before dusk and LA is coming alive as the lights flicker on through its steel veins. The freeway is conspicuously thin of traffic.
G says she’s going to “Chicaco”. She has a hundred thousand dollars cash and her daddy’s gun. She says she got it off of her dead boyfriend, who died in a shootout after a drug deal gone wrong. The piece is a Colt 1911, all chrome.
“So, why Russian roulette?” She says, considering my advice aloud as she thoughtfully plays with one curly lock of blue-brown hair. “Why not Hold ‘Em? Only a idiot tries to kill hisself.”
“Because,” I say, “it’s a game you can play with city people. All sorts. And if you’re good, that is, if you know the necessary deceits, you’ll never be without a place to stay or a meal to eat in this whole wide world.”
“You do that?” She asks me. “F’real? Just play other people so you can stay at they place and shit? Sounds like one helluva gamble.”
“Maybe you’ve just never done it.”
“And maybe you not a woman.”
“No. You’re right, actually. But it’s usually the friends who put you up, not the people you beat at the game. The ones you’ve just impressed by scaring their buddies out of a few bucks are usually more willing to help. People aren’t so inclined to show you much hospitality after you’ve just won all their money. I learned that in Iraq. Among other things.”
“You was in Iraq? F’real?”
“Real as the Reaper.”
“Is that how you lost yo’ leg?”
I know she’s been trying to avoid looking at it since she got in the car. I nod. “I lost my leg to an IED outside Baghdad. I was the only one in the truck who survived.” Then after a long pause I add, “There were six of us.”
“And you and yo’ buddies used to put pieces to yo’ heads at lunch time, or what?”
It is a bittersweet recollection to remember the games we used to play.
“We always knew we were playing with blanks,” I say, “until one night, in the shit, when we played for real. If I hadn’t hid the bullet in my sleeve I’d be less some gray matter. And I never forgot it, not over one foot of this great country, from Fort Lauderdale to Santa Monica.”
G says, “Is that how far you got to drive?”
And I say, “That’s how far I already drove. Now I’m goin’a turn around and do it again.”
“So tell me more about this game,” she says. “Shit, maybe someday I’ll find myself in a situation where I got to play it, too. Might come in real handy to know the tricks.”
“Well if it’s tricks you want, I got ‘em,” I tell her. “First thing’s first, never play it with your friends. You won’t win as much but the risk is the same. People always risk more around those they think they’ll never see again.”
“What happens if you get caught cheatin’?” she asks.
“On the rare chance you do get caught, you simply make a show of good faith and put the round in the cylinder where it belongs – in everyone’s sight – then put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger for real. Worst case scenario is nothing goes through your mind at all, because the lead’s already been there and you’re dead.”
She raises an eyebrow in what I think is approval, but remains silent.
I chuckle. “Sister, you get your leg blown off in the desert, then wake up and spend a month getting dosed with combinations of every painkiller under the sun because the morphine and oxy ain’t enough… you’ll consider hanging yourself from the edge of the hospital bed with your own IV. And c’mon, don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. A girl like you from a neighborhood like the one I picked you up in?”
“Whatchu tryinna say about my neighborhood?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just that it looks a little rough.”
She nods in agreement.
We spend a little while talking about nothing important. The conversation is nice. Usually I’m alone on these long drives. Now that I’ve hit LA, I was planning on heading up to Washington – lots of open country up there – but Chicago works just as well.
She asks where I’m from, how old I am, why I’ve spent the last three years on the road. I tell her Texas, twenty five, and I’m traveling across the United States because I made a promise to a musician buddy of mine who died that I would play a song on his guitar at a famous street corner of every major city in these United States. My mission brought me here to Los Angeles, where I met G in the parking lot behind a Von’s in Torrance trying to hitch a ride, a golden sun child with a gun… a real California girl.
“I could have been a serial killer, y’know,” I remind her at one point. “What would you do if I was? Did you have a plan?”
“That’s why I have the gun,” she says, defensive. “I don’t need no plan, bruh. Girl carry a heata when she don’t wanna make a plan.”
I laugh. “But do you think you could use it? Do you think you could actually shoot someone?”
“Psh. I will actually put a bullet in yo’ ass faster than a pig spots a donut shop if you so much as try to lay a hand on me, bruh.”
I shrug. “What if I pinned you down?”
“Man, you axe some stupid ass questions.”
“What if I was strong? Let’s say I had both my legs and I overpowered you.”
“Shit, you may have lost yo’ leg but it doesn’t seem to have set you back none. I ain’t tryin’ to bump and grind wit you, dude, I’m just sayin’. You look like you work out.”
“Thank you. But what if I took the gun and drove you somewhere secluded, so I could pull you off the side of the road and kill you? To eat you, or somethin’?”
“Well, you betta not be plannin’ on it,” G says, eyes still fixed on the sunset. “You really creepin’ me out. I thought we was talkin’ about a game. Tell me how to win.”
“Alright, fair enough,” I say. “I want you to do something for me. It’s better if you get it over with now. Take the gun out,” I instruct her.
She looks at me oddly. I repeat myself. “Take the gun out and put it against my temple. Do it.”
She reaches under the glove box for the gun case and when she comes back up a beautiful Colt 1911 is filling her fist, barrel high polished and grips clean as a cheater’s lie. I see in her eyes the hint of an old look I once knew well, that fear that comes before one does it, puts their finger inside the trigger housing. I suddenly wonder if she’s ever handled a piece before. She looks nervous.
She goes to check the chamber, proving my previous assessment about her experience with the steel to be wrong, but I tell her: “Don’t open it.” She complies. We both know her daddy was the kind of man who kept it loaded. The question is: was the road paved recently? “Put it against my head,” I say. I feel the ring of frigid steel touch me there, light. “More.” It presses and bites into the skin. I sigh. “Gina.”
Her eyes dart wildly to and from the road, but her mouth is a rigid line. “What do you want me to do?” I can barely hear her over the whip of the wind and Barbara Ann bellowing through the speakers, but you learn to read lips and gestures like a sixth sense when your hearing gets blown out of your head by an IED and you spend the next three weeks terrified that it may never come back.
“You see, if you shoot me, we crash and you die too. Nothing goes through your mind but the lead. But if we survive what I’m about to do next… well, then you pass.”
A long beat. “Pass what, you crazy bastard?” G says.
I glare at her from the corner of my right eye. “I’m going to take my hands off the wheel now. You’re going to count to six, and if you take the gun away from my head or your finger off that trigger before I reach six, then I’m going to crash us and we’re going to die.”
“This is bullshit,” G says. “This is some bullshit.”
Then, after an eternity of waiting I hear that old, familiar click. I pull my hands away from the wheel. Then I lift my one good foot off the gas and curl my leg up so it rests on the dash. She gasps and shuts her eyes. The traffic around us is moving steadily but she sees a curve coming and reaches for the wheel. I tell her no.
“You should be counting,” I say.
I feel the wind in my hair.
Bar Barbara Ann.
The curve is close.
We’re on the shoulder.
“Damn – six!”
I grab the wheel and correct our path, barely making it back into the lane. The blaring of horns creates a cacophony everywhere. An old man in a Dodge pickup flips me the bird. I smile at him and shrug.
When I look, G is sweating, washing her hair with dry hands. The gun is tucked under the seat again, far from sight. “What the hell was the point of all dat?” she says. She sounds furious, terrified. But a part of her voice sounds triumphant, too.
“We almost died,” I say with a grin.
“No shit!” G yells at me. “You are one crazy ass fool. I never seen such a crazy ass fool in all the days of my life. You coulda got us kilt.”
I say, “Remember what I said about palming the round?”
G recoils. “Man, you are rollin’ on me right now. This ain’t even a revolver!”
“But you believed I was ready to die. Whether or not I really was willing to let us crash or to have my brain eat a bullet if we hit a bump, you believed I was.”
“Yeah, ‘cuz you were,” G says. “Crazy ass bastard. How ‘bout you let me drive from now on?”
“You asked how to win at Russian roulette,” I tell her. “Now you know.”
(First published in the Bumps in the Road anthology from Black Bedsheet Books)