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InterText Vol. 5, No. 6 / November-December 1995
================================================

  Contents

    FirstText: Keep Out!..............................Jason Snell

  Short Fiction

    Handlers..........................................Ceri Jordan
    
    Dust.........................................Christopher Hunt

    Barefoot Sinderella........................Evangeline Mercury

    Storm's Child.....................................Shawn Click
    
....................................................................
    Editor                                     Assistant Editor
    Jason Snell                                    Geoff Duncan
    jsnell@intertext.com                    geoff@intertext.com
....................................................................
    Assistant Editor                     Send correspondence to 
    Susan Grossman                        editors@intertext.com
    susan@intertext.com              or intertext@intertext.com
....................................................................
  InterText Vol. 5, No. 6. InterText (ISSN 1071-7676) is published 
  electronically on a bi-monthly basis. Reproduction of this 
  magazine is permitted as long as the magazine is not sold 
  (either by itself or as part of a collection) and the entire 
  text of the issue remains intact. Copyright 1995, Jason Snell. 
  Individual stories Copyright 1995 their original authors. 
  InterText is created using Apple Macintosh computers and then 
  published in ASCII/Setext, Adobe PostScript, Adobe Acrobat PDF 
  and HTML (World Wide Web) formats. For more information about 
  InterText, send a message to intertext@intertext.com with the 
  word "info" in the subject line. For writers' guidelines, place 
  the word "guidelines" in the subject line.  
....................................................................


  FirstText: Keep Out!   by Jason Snell
=======================================
  
  Of all the funny lines he uttered in his 87 years on the planet, 
  maybe the most famous Groucho Marx comment is this: "I don't 
  care to belong to any club that will have me as a member." Given 
  his fame, it's doubtful any club would have turned Groucho away. 
  But the fact is, there are certain places in this world where 
  most (or all) of us would never be allowed entrance. People want 
  to feel special, feel that for whatever reason -- whether it's 
  their schooling, their experience, the color of their skin, the 
  social standing of their parents -- they're on the inside while 
  the unwashed masses are on the outside.

  The information revolution currently manifested in the 
  popularity of the Internet was supposed to make publishing and 
  distributing information easier than it has ever been. For the 
  first time, individuals were supposed to have power previously 
  only given to an elite few -- the power to widely distribute 
  ideas.

  And it's true. Something like _InterText_ could never have 
  existed in a "traditional" medium like the ink-on-paper 
  magazine. Thanks to the technology, it's possible for a handful 
  of people to create a publication read by thousands of people 
  all over the world, distributed for free and without any 
  advertising support of any kind. In that sense, you could say 
  we're a success story.

  But just because the technology has succeeded in making it 
  _possible_ for our voices to be heard by people all over the 
  world doesn't mean that our voices will be heard by that 
  potential audience. Although the Internet has lowered the 
  economic restrictions to publishing, people are just replacing 
  those old barriers with new ones. As a result, people have 
  gained greater potential to disseminate their ideas while at the 
  same time having that potential reduced to a fraction of what it 
  should be.



  Last month my wife and I went on vacation to the northwest, 
  visiting Seattle and Vancouver. While we were there, we spent 
  some time with Steve, a friend of mine from high school who 
  works as a transportation engineer. He always got good grades in 
  school, including in English, but he never impressed me as a 
  potential publisher.

  When we visited him, we discovered he had been developing a 
  series of Web pages on a variety of subjects -- his newfound 
  ability to host web pages from his America Online account had 
  turned him into an online publisher. And there are thousands of 
  people just like him, who are (or will be) taking advantage of 
  AOL's page-hosting capabilities and easy-to-use Web authoring 
  programs like Adobe PageMill, Netscape Navigator Gold, and even 
  old-guard applications like WordPerfect, which has been spruced 
  up with a variety of Web authoring features.

  This is the promise of the Internet fulfilled, right? Sure. 
  Except Steve's train page (or anything remotely like it 
  elsewhere on the Web) will _never_ be Cool Site of the Day, nor 
  will it be a highlight at any of the other "cool site" 
  compilations on the Web.

  No longer can paper costs and lack of advertising dollars deter 
  twentysomething transportation engineers with an interest in 
  historic trains and good beer from becoming publishers. So 
  instead, we seem to be creating a culture that turns its nose up 
  at pages not optimized for Netscape 2.0 (meaning they're 
  incomprehensible in any other browser). We sniff at sites that 
  don't offer extensive back-end scripts, that don't offer an 
  interactive forms-based quiz, that don't have professional 
  artwork, that don't broadcast live audio, or that don't provide 
  discussion areas.

  In other words, you can have the best content in the world, but 
  it doesn't matter unless you can prove you spent a lot of money 
  (or a lot of time, which in a world where even amateurish Web 
  designers charge $50 per hour) on your site. Good content? Well, 
  we can take it or leave it, but if you've got an animation of a 
  spinning cow on your pages (the appropriately vapid draw behind 
  Time-Warner's travesty called _Netly News_), you've got to be 
  good, right?

  Sure, packaging and delivery matter -- information has to get to 
  its audience in a useful and compelling way. Evaluating web 
  sites on the basis of their window-dressing is very much like 
  judging a book by its cover, yet we seem to insist on doing it. 
  We've _got_ to create those clubs that wouldn't have you as a 
  member, and now we'll resort to the trivial to marginalize the 
  very people who just got some power and freedom.

  Welcome to the exciting, empowering "new world" of the Internet. 
  Bring your fresh ideas. And bring your credit card, because the 
  Internet doesn't respect content, but it does respect American 
  Express. Sound like any old worlds you know?



  Handlers   by Ceri Jordan
===========================
...................................................................
  "If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will 
  not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and 
  a man." --Mark Twain
...................................................................
  
  It's an uncertain business, dog handling.

  Connecting is easy enough. All you need is a PC with access to 
  the normal webs, the deviousness of a hacker, and a little 
  patience. It's what you do then that matters.

  They can tell, you see. They can tell that it's not their normal 
  handler, that the command on the microchip inside their heads is 
  not His Master's Voice, that something's wrong. If you're not 
  careful, gentle, patient with them, they'll howl the kennels 
  down until someone thinks to check their Links for an incoming 
  signal and then you're as good as dead--

  Got him.

  Through the Link I feel his confusion, the faint sensation of 
  hair prickling upright on the back of my neck, even a low 
  defensive growl starting to rise in my throat as it is in his.

  Withdraw.

  Just a little, into background noise at the back of the mind, 
  present in the way that a word on the tip of your tongue is: 
  there-but-not-there. Flickering ghostly among all those 
  unfocused, nagging sensations that pass for animal memory, 
  brushing through them until I find something that will serve.

  There. His last meal, the sensation of tearing raw flesh.

  Link the sensation of pleasure to your presence and slip through 
  into his consciousness, just for an instant, then withdraw: then 
  again, and again...

  By the fifth time, he dimly associates the shadowy presence 
  brooding behind his eyes with some sensual pleasure, and by the 
  eighth, he is welcoming it, welcoming you, anticipating.

  Begging for it.

  And I almost lose him in the wave of anger and desperation and 
  pain, have to fight it down, pushing the image of her face out 
  of my mind, closing connections and locking doors, filling my 
  head with the dull wet sensations of animal pleasures instead, 
  things he will know and understand...

  Forcing out of my head the memory of the balding receptionist 
  bantering with his friends under the RENT TERMINAL SPACE BY THE 
  HOUR -- ANONYMITY GUARANTEED sign as he fetched me my key ("I 
  keep trying to get my wife to do it doggy-style but she won't 
  come out in the yard") and their sick laughter echoing all 
  through the lobby.

  New memories. Dog memories. A moment's freedom in the yard, 
  running for the very joy of it; last visit to the breeding 
  center, stupidly mounting bitch after bitch, as required.

  Not much difference between dogs and people, really.

  Growing cynical now -- suppress that. Dogs don't understand 
  cynicism. Mustn't confuse him, mustn't jeopardize the link.

  Not much difference between dogs and their handlers.

  And that is something the mastiff really does understand.



  Beginning to sneak tiny cautious feelers into the senses now, 
  test them out: one eyelid scrolls back, the slow brown eye 
  rolls, a blurry monochrome pan across the yard beyond the wire. 
  The guard on the wall, rifle slung over his shoulder, the visual 
  confusion of broken cloud at his back. Someone coming to feed 
  them now, hoisting buckets of raw stinking flesh to the hatches, 
  his sense of smell abruptly sharpened: she has fair hair and for 
  an instant I think, stupidly, it is Laura.

  And I am not, under any circumstances, supposed to think of 
  Laura.

  But I do, of course.



  I try to think of her as she was when we first met: I a nervous, 
  sober girl of 17, and she a high-flying programmer, magnificent 
  and unattainable. Surely she could never want me.

  I try to remember finding out that she did. Try to think of the 
  flat and the holidays in Asia and the silly petty arguments that 
  ended in lovemaking among the scabby shrubbery of the roof 
  garden on sunny afternoons.

  I try, and I fail. Instead I find myself seeing the funeral.



  They sent her home in a sealed coffin.

  At the funeral, the minister went outside to distract the armed, 
  dark-suited men who had materialized the moment the hearse drew 
  up, while I cursed and sobbed trying to prise open the welded 
  metal box for one last look. Her father and my brother and the 
  curate were all hammering at it with candlesticks and pulling at 
  the welds with their nails, but when eventually the curate's 
  husband hissed at us from the door that they were coming, we had 
  only bloodied fingers and a scratched coffin to show for it. I 
  wept, more from frustration than grief, and had to keep my left 
  hand in my pocket all through the service to hide the blood on 
  my black lace gloves.

  It would be nice if I could say I'd told her that taking work 
  with Qualek was a bad idea -- never get involved with government 
  agencies, there's always trouble. But no, I'd been delighted. 
  Top of her field at last: cybernetic communications with guard 
  dogs today, human experiments tomorrow.

  Human experiments, God, don't even think about that--



  Don't think.

  Or rather, think dog.

  Taking tentative control of the legs now. Peculiar sensation, 
  four legs. Coordination problems. Hard to balance. Glad I waited 
  until the feed was over and the staff was gone. If they saw him 
  tottering about like this, they'd have him shot as rabid. It 
  gets easier. You learn how much control to allow him, how little 
  effort you actually need to trigger each step. You learn to 
  cooperate.

  Because we're in this together, aren't we?

  Dog tail wags eager assent.

  Almost due for morning exercise now. He'll be here soon. And 
  we'll recognize him. Oh yes. As long as I live, I won't forget 
  that face.



  The video footage arrived the week after the funeral.

  I still can't believe their arrogance. To not even fear that I 
  might go to the civil police or the media with it, or even 
  attempt some personal revenge. To have found it 
  _amusing..._

  It came in a plain package without a note. I had been trying to 
  get information from Laura's co-workers about what had happened, 
  and hoped this might be some anonymous response, so I put it on 
  at once.

  Laura.

  They had not tied her, but the rifle muzzles wavering in and out 
  of shot were all too plain, and her naked back was piebald with 
  blood and bruises. One of them fastened a collar and leash about 
  her throat, and then the oldest of them pushed her down on the 
  bare concrete and mounted her from behind, doggy fashion, and 
  she cried and begged and closed her eyes as if it might all fade 
  away, and then the next of them, and the next...

  I tried to make myself watch the whole tape, as if understanding 
  would somehow make it easier to bear, but I never could. And I 
  did send copies to the media and the police, but as you can 
  imagine...

  Just before I came here, I carried the original tape reverently 
  up to the rooftop and took a blowtorch to it.



  The handlers are crossing the yard.

  I recognize quite a few of them, and I wonder how many it will 
  be possible to take this time. How many seconds will my tool 
  have before some gaping horrified thug regains enough composure 
  to draw a pistol? Enough time to tear out two throats, if I 
  impress upon him the need for urgency.

  But carefully, little one. No hasty casual ripping, as you would 
  to bleed your prey to death. There will be medical aid close by; 
  there's too much chance they'd survive. Your jaws are strong 
  enough to snap a man's neck. Do so.

  Key in the lock. Turning.

  Bound from the cage as you always do, friendly and docile, so 
  they are taken utterly off guard. As she must have been the 
  night she found policemen waiting in the lobby as she left work, 
  and the armored van outside.

  They will destroy you as a rabid beast, but you die a martyr. As 
  will the next dog, and the next, until I am caught or they all 
  are dead. And I mean _all._

  I think I will find a female next time.

  They should learn that even bitches can bite back.



  Ceri Jordan (dbm@aber.ac.uk)
------------------------------
 
  Ceri Jordan is a writer, theatre practicioner, and general rogue 
  and vagabond. She lives in Wales and has had work published in 
  several small-press magazines. This is her first electronic 
  publication.



  Dust   by Christopher Hunt
============================
...................................................................
  In the war against brutality, pain, and hopelessness, feelings 
  can be your greatest enemy -- or your most powerful ally.
...................................................................


  We came at dawn to the city of the dead. The heavy treads of our 
  tanks and APCs ground the crumbling road into bone-white dust.

  We perched on the riveted white edges of our armor-plated 
  vehicles, eyes narrowed in the sun's early glare, our skin and 
  uniforms coated in layers of grime and sweat.

  Huddled corpses watched us from the roadside, their freeze-dried 
  haunches settling softly into the desert's swirling sands, their 
  sticklike bodies as linear and two-dimensional as a child's 
  drawings. They stared at us accusingly from hollow faces, empty 
  eyes grimly welcoming, mouths stretched wide in sardonic grins, 
  crooked skeletal fingers still clutching rusted food bowls 
  licked clean and bare. Tattered shrouds fluttered diffidently in 
  the careless breeze.

  Even the flies were dying, buzzing angrily in futile circles, 
  tearing at flesh as dry and unnourishing as old shoe leather.

  The city shimmered in the morning light, a vast jumble of 
  bleached and broken buildings, hollowed out and brittle as old 
  bones. A tangled forest of TV antennas and satellite dishes 
  stretched from the rooftops, their angular, leafless branches 
  black against the morning sky. The sighs of the dead whispered 
  through silent alleys and gaping windows.

  A woman crouched on an empty oil drum next to the gate of a 
  barbed wire enclosure, hugging her knees tightly. A Red Cross 
  armband was wrapped around one of her sleeves like a bloody 
  bandage. Empty grain sacks were scattered around her like 
  discarded clothes. Her sunburned face was lined and scarred with 
  the pain of others. Her eyes were as hard and blue as our 
  helmets.

  "You're too late," she told us, her voice dry and gritty as the 
  desert wind. "You're always too late."

  We offered her water and food, penicillin and kind words, but 
  she took nothing. She crouched silently on her oil drum, rocking 
  gently back and forth, gazing unblinkingly at the desert behind 
  us, as if by staring at it hard enough she could force it to 
  bloom, to bring forth the life buried deep within its sandy 
  bosom.

  Finally, we picked her up. She crouched in our arms, still 
  rocking, her body humming like a high-tension wire. Her hair was 
  knotted in a loose bun; stray strands as thin and dry as old 
  straw rasped against her face and neck. We carried her to the 
  ambulance, laying her gently on a thin canvas cot in the stale, 
  overheated interior. We sponged her face with lukewarm water and 
  disinfectant, wiping away death's residue but not its memory. We 
  placed salt tablets and Nembutal under her tongue and a melting 
  ice pack on her forehead. We stretched her curled limbs and 
  spoke gently to her of ice cream and cool mountain streams.

  "You're too late," she whispered, eyes sliding behind 
  translucent lids as consciousness shut down and her mind moved 
  to deeper levels. We watched as sleep passed its healing hand 
  across her features, softening sorrow's lines. No longer a 
  haggard woman overwhelmed by despair's fierce tenacity, she 
  seemed almost a girl, innocence not yet faded from her face. 
  Hope persisted in the serene curve of her mouth, the determined 
  angle of her jaw, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts.



  We shouldered our weapons and stepped back out into the dying 
  landscape, posing grimly for the television cameras that 
  tirelessly tracked us through frame after frame of emptiness, 
  desolation, and death, breaking down the horror into digestible 
  fragments ready for instant transmission to televisions in that 
  other world, a world so distant we were beginning to doubt its 
  existence, where death was a well-kept secret. That world 
  existed for us now only as a secret memory, a myth embedded in 
  our DNA, a place to which we could never return, except in our 
  dreams.

  We had come to this land with our guns and our butter, offering 
  dreams of peace and salvation. We brought high hopes, the 
  certainty of conviction, and the confidence of righteousness. We 
  were here to fight for an ideal more urgent, more compelling 
  than truth, democracy, or the American Way -- we were here to 
  fight for life. We were an army of Mother Teresas, armed to the 
  teeth and bristling with good will. Now, only three months 
  later, we had become as eternal and as permanent a part of the 
  landscape as the roving bands who preyed upon the dead and the 
  not-yet dead. Past and future lost meaning as we wandered 
  grim-eyed and bone-weary across fractured plains and river beds.

  We were ghost-warriors in clouds of smoke and dust, on a quest 
  with a goal as ephemeral as the mirages in the near distance. We 
  knew only that our task was to dispense justice with fair-handed 
  impartiality, to distribute death and life as required in 
  accordance with the strict guidelines listed in the little book 
  entitled UNPROFOR _Rules of Engagement_, which we all carried in 
  the breast pocket of our desert fatigues.



  We entered the city, passing through a massive stone gate 
  festooned with time-worn carvings of unknown gods and goddesses. 
  The cameras followed, storing our images on magnetic tape, 
  compressing our actions and modulating our thoughts, 
  transforming us into discrete packets of data.

  A half-dozen attack helicopters angled across the sky, the air 
  vibrating with their passage.

  The city was ancient, a barren metropolis bearing the ravages of 
  millennia. The center of a civilization that had declined long 
  before our ancestors emerged from the forests to trade bone for 
  bronze and fur for wool, the city had once ruled a verdant 
  empire stretching from the bright coastal plains to the dark 
  heart of the continent. Now it was home to scavengers and the 
  dead, its buildings reduced to speechless ruins, their artistry 
  and craftsmanship eclipsed by the random etchings of sand and 
  wind.

  The journalists spoke with conscientious excitement to their 
  cameras, somberly contrasting the city's thriving past with its 
  brutal present. They spoke as if by rote, reciting passages from 
  some ritual catechism learned long ago in bright fluorescent 
  temples. Now the words were shorn of meaning, their significance 
  eroded by ceaseless repetition. While the journalists declaimed 
  in their obsolete tongue, the cameras turned away, panning 
  intently across the faces of the dead, peering curiously at 
  faded murals and maimed statues.

  We halted in the city's main square, securing the perimeter and 
  dispatching patrols to scour the twisting alleys for signs of 
  life. We set up an emergency broadcast system and began 
  announcing our presence, declaring that the city was now under 
  our authority and that food, water, and medical assistance would 
  be made available to all those who required it.

  There was no response.

  We set up our field kitchen and had our lunch. We ate wilted 
  greens and warm, soggy cold cuts.

  Billy MacDonald sat beside me in the shade of a chipped and 
  mangy lion, writing a letter to his girlfriend. He wrote her the 
  same letter every day, concealing his desperate longings and 
  deepening bitterness in carefully couched words of cheer and 
  steadfast belief. He didn't want to worry her, he said. She 
  wouldn't understand the truth.

  Billy never sent the letters. He folded each one carefully and 
  placed it an envelope, printing his lover's name and address in 
  small crimped characters on the face of the envelope, and then 
  depositing it in his knapsack. He was afraid she wouldn't 
  answer.

  We were all afraid she wouldn't answer.



  In the afternoon, we were assigned sanitation detail. This meant 
  collecting and disposing of the dead.

  We moved cautiously from house to house, grimly alert, 
  methodically clearing each domicile of its lifeless inhabitants 
  as if battling them for control of the city.

  We loaded the dead on flatbed trucks, stacking their 
  insubstantial bodies like firewood. When the trucks were full we 
  drove to the outskirts of the city where other men unloaded 
  them, piling the corpses in pyramids and dousing them with 
  gasoline.

  As the afternoon dimmed into evening, the dead still burned, 
  rising heavenwards on plumes of black greasy smoke.

  When night fell, the living began to stalk us. The men who 
  raided the airlifts and the convoys, who ambushed aid workers 
  and isolated patrols. The men who had brought death to this land 
  and who now fought each other for mastery over the lifeless 
  remains.

  The popcorn crackle of gunfire echoed in the hollow stillness. 
  The sky lit with flares and powerful searchlights. We fired at 
  shadows, smudged blurs of heat in our nightscopes. In the city 
  of the dead, the living were patches of darkness against white 
  walls, fleeting ghosts materializing briefly in windows and on 
  rooftops, bright-eyed creatures of the night who faded in the 
  light of day.

  In the morning we found the corpses of those we had killed, 
  their bodies stiff-limbed and heavy, more substantial in death 
  than in life, as if only in death could their existence be 
  confirmed.



  We had just finished clearing our sector of the night's dead and 
  were sprawled in the thin shade of a dying palm tree when we saw 
  the lieutenant and the relief worker walking toward us along the 
  empty avenue. The lieutenant walked thoughtfully, head bowed, 
  hands clasped behind his back. The relief worker was speaking 
  animatedly, her hands in constant motion, as if she were 
  simultaneously translating her words for the benefit of deaf or 
  distant onlookers. Together, they looked like a pair of 
  academics strolling across a campus, engaged in profound 
  discourse.

  The lieutenant was a hunched, nervous young man whose pale 
  cheeks were sprayed with angry traces of acne. He carried his 
  authority tentatively, like something too hot to touch. When he 
  spoke his overlarge Adam's apple trembled in his throat, as if 
  all his fears had coalesced there in a huge lump too big to 
  swallow. Once we had despised him, treating him with ironic 
  deference. Now we pitied him, sharing his pain, seeing beneath 
  his pinched, wary features the bookish child who had once fled 
  the playground and sought refuge in adventure stories and 
  medieval fantasies, seeing himself a noble warrior, a selfless 
  knight bringing succor to the world's downtrodden.

  Now those dreams were gone, the knife-sharp clarity of youthful 
  idealism dulled by the callused reality of a world impervious to 
  faith or reason. Like all of us, the lieutenant no longer sought 
  to make an impact, but only to survive.

  Our sergeant pushed himself stiffly to his feet, saluting as the 
  lieutenant came up. Nobody else moved.

  "As you were," said the lieutenant, flapping his hand against 
  his forehead as if brushing at a fly. He was staring at his 
  boots, perhaps searching for something in the intricate patterns 
  of dust and cracked leather. The relief worker watched us 
  silently, arms folded under her breasts. She looked stronger 
  today, her body relaxed, but her eyes still seemed to be focused 
  on some invisible point in the distance, registering us only as 
  foreground static. The hope we had seen in her sleeping face was 
  gone.

  The lieutenant shuffled his feet, reclasping his hands behind 
  his back. "Ms. Lindquist here," he jerked his head toward the 
  relief worker, "has indicated that there may be a relatively 
  large group of still viable refugees located at an Irish relief 
  camp a few klicks north. The location of the camp has been 
  verified by air but no on-site examination has been carried 
  out."

  We watched his Adam's apple as he spoke, measuring the cadence 
  of his words by its movement. He licked his lips and glanced at 
  us briefly before returning his gaze to his boots. "Colonel 
  wants us to check it out," he mumbled.

  "That mean now, sir?" said the sergeant. There was no trace of 
  contempt in his voice. Though older and wiser, the sergeant 
  never treated the lieutenant with anything but the utmost 
  respect. He cautioned and counseled, maneuvering the lieutenant 
  without questioning his authority. It was as if he were adviser 
  to a child king, discreetly controlling his master's actions 
  while grooming him for leadership.

  The lieutenant nodded. "Ms. Lindquist here will accompany us."

  "Has transport been laid on sir, or are we humpin' it?" the 
  sergeant asked.

  The lieutenant nodded vaguely. "Transport, yes. We'll take a 
  couple of jeeps."

  "Yes sir," said the sergeant crisply. He turned to us. "Alright! 
  You heard the man," he snapped. "Get off your asses. Let's go."

  We rose without enthusiasm, slapping at the chalky dust on our 
  fatigues. More than anything we wanted to sleep. To sleep and 
  sleep until the nightmare ended.

  "We're probably too late anyway," Billy MacDonald murmured.



  The road north was a narrow track that wound sinuously through 
  abrupt hills. Deep ruts had been carved in the road by the 
  ceaseless passage of aid convoys weighed down with powdered food 
  and medicine. Here the sand was the color of rust. Fist-sized 
  chunks of malachite glittered like emeralds in the dust.

  We sat in the back of jeeps, helmets pulled low, eyes barely 
  open, watching without seeing. Our weapons were cradled loosely 
  in our arms, our flak jackets hung open. Though the area had not 
  been declared secure, we anticipated no danger. For us, death 
  struck only in the dark.

  Only the sergeant was alert, his eyes on automatic scan, 
  tracking the low-slung hills with pinpoint precision, focusing 
  in on scattered patches of scrub and brush, searching for the 
  glint of metal, the sudden star-bright flash of sun reflected 
  from a sniper's scope.

  A lone vulture circled us lazily, drifting across the sky in 
  long, low arcs.

  The lieutenant sat in the lead jeep with Ms. Lindquist. She was 
  still talking. It seemed as if she were trying to comfort him, 
  as if now that there was no one else left for her to save, his 
  puerile timidity compelled her attention, gratifying the same 
  needs that had brought her to this helpless land.

  No one else spoke. Words seemed futile here, their meaning 
  disintegrating almost as soon as they were uttered. Conversation 
  was something we no longer understood. It implied the 
  interaction of personalities, the subtle give-and-take of social 
  intercourse. But the distinguishing features that had once set 
  us apart as individuals had been worn away by sand and wind and 
  persistent despair. Like our excess flesh, the painstakingly 
  constructed masks we had once worn were gone, leaving only bone, 
  sinew, muscle, and some indefinable core that told us we were 
  alive, but nothing more. We no longer knew if we liked each 
  other or hated each other. We didn't care.

  Being alive was enough.



  The relief camp was only six kilometers from the city. It took 
  us nearly two hours to get there. While we drove, images of the 
  world flickered behind our eyes. Air-conditioned supermarkets 
  and glittering department stores, soft ice cream cones and 
  barbecued steaks. We wondered what we would do if we ever got 
  back.

  The camp was surrounded by a flimsy fence built of plywood and 
  rusted chicken wire. The gates were open, hanging from their 
  hinges like broken cupboard doors. The vulture settled on one of 
  the gateposts, its flat, dead eyes mocking us as we approached.

  We drove slowly through the entrance. Here, too, the dead had 
  gathered to greet us. Many of them had been shot. Some hung 
  limply on the fence, their hands still tightly clutching the 
  wire, as if they had just paused to rest for a moment before 
  resuming their climb.

  They had not been dead long. They stank. A rank odor of decaying 
  matter and fetid water hung in the still air, like flowers left 
  too long in the vase. The stench stung our nostrils. We rubbed 
  mentholatum under our noses and wrapped sweat-soiled bandannas 
  around our faces.

  The Irish flag still hung above the compound, flapping briskly 
  in the sour breeze.

  "We're too late," said Billy MacDonald.

  We pulled up next to the living quarters and climbed out of the 
  jeeps.

  "Secure the compound," said the lieutenant, his weak voice 
  muffled by his bandanna.

  The sergeant nodded.

  We fanned out, weapons at ready, more alert now, as if wakened 
  by the smell of death. We walked slowly among the dead, 
  occasionally prodding them with our boots, throwing ourselves to 
  the ground at the slightest sound. The flap of a loose shirt. 
  The sudden sigh of released gas.

  The vulture swooped down from its post, pecking its way 
  fastidiously through the corpses, chattering excitedly to 
  itself.

  Billy MacDonald lifted his rifle to his shoulder and squeezed 
  off a shot. The impact flung the vulture against the fence where 
  it collapsed in a heap of twitching feathers. We all started 
  firing.

  When our magazines were empty, we declared the compound secure. 
  We slammed fresh magazines into our rifles and kicked down the 
  door to the living quarters. We burst inside, covering the 
  corners of the room, our eyes bright above our faded bandannas.

  Six people knelt against the far wall, their hands bound behind 
  their backs, their faces pressed against the cracked plaster 
  like supplicants at the Wailing Wall. Two were men, four were 
  women. All were naked. The men were black. The women were white. 
  All of them had been shot in the back of the head at close 
  range. Thick black pools of crusted blood had coagulated on the 
  floor.

  The lieutenant coughed, turning his head away. Ms. Lindquist 
  stared at the corpses, her fierce eyes filled with rage.

  "I assume those are the relief workers?" the lieutenant mumbled 
  to his feet.

  Ms. Lindquist nodded grimly. She stared around the room like an 
  angry lioness, and the scent of blood sharp in our nostrils. At 
  that moment we heard a long, soft cry, faint and distant, almost 
  like the mournful wail of a lonely cat.

  We tensed, listening.

  The lieutenant's head bounced up. "What was that?" he whispered. 
  His Adam's apple quivered.

  "Be quiet," commanded Ms. Lindquist. Her nostrils flared. She 
  thrust her head forward, twisting it slowly from side to side. 
  Her tongue protruded slightly from her mouth, flicking across 
  her lips as if tasting the air.

  Again the cry came. A ghostly lament, eerie and high-pitched, 
  its source indeterminable.

  "In there," said Ms. Lindquist softly. She pointed at a door on 
  the side of the room.

  We moved forward cautiously, padding deathly-quiet across the 
  hard-packed earthen floor, our fingers stroking the triggers of 
  our rifles. Rumors whispered in our heads, memories of macabre 
  tales told by nail-hard paratroopers from the French Foreign 
  Legion. Suddenly, we were afraid, afraid that this land could no 
  longer absorb the crushing burden of the dead and was now 
  rejecting them, returning them to life.

  The sergeant leaned against the wall next to the door. Gently he 
  turned the doorknob and lightly pushed the door open.

  The room was dark and windowless. A thin shaft of pale light 
  fell through the door, revealing only gray shadows and dust. The 
  Sergeant slipped his hand inside, feeling the wall for a light 
  switch. After a moment, he shook his head and signaled us to go 
  infrared.

  Hearts pounding, we pulled our goggles down over our eyes and 
  stormed into the room. Our rifles were slippery in our hands.

  It was the infirmary. A long row of beds ran along each side of 
  the room, each bed occupied by a heatless body. The room smelled 
  of formaldehyde and excrement.

  We scanned the beds slowly, searching for signs of life. There 
  were none. The dead lay unmoving on their beds, their shadowed 
  eyes locked on the exposed steel beams over their heads. Had the 
  cry come from these assembled corpses? A trick played by 
  gas-bloated stomachs and intestines? The last breath of air 
  expelled by a collapsing lung?

  "It's clear," the sergeant said.

  "You sure?" said the lieutenant.

  The cry came again. Longer now. A cry of despair, unalloyed 
  fear. Definitely human. And definitely alive.

  Like a child having a bad dream.

  We stood frozen in the thin shaft of light like rabbits caught 
  in the glare of an approaching headlight.

  "It comes from in here," said Ms. Lindquist. "I am certain."

  We heard sobbing.

  Somebody found the light switch.

  "Check under the beds," said the sergeant.

  There were three of them. Huddled tightly together under the 
  last bed. Tiny, bone-thin creatures with huge heads and big 
  round eyes. Their ages were indeterminate. They might have been 
  three years old. They might have been fifteen.

  At first they were afraid, weakly scrabbling away from us, 
  snapping at our hands with toothless mouths.

  Only when Ms. Lindquist crouched down and talked to them softly 
  in their language did they relax. They answered her quietly, the 
  sound of their voices like birdsong. They folded themselves into 
  our arms and let us carry them outside. Their bodies were 
  ethereal and insubstantial. It seemed as if they might float 
  away on the breeze like falling leaves. Their eyes were serene, 
  staring at us expectantly.

  We stroked their fragile heads, whispering to them, words 
  suddenly coming easily to our tongues in a tumbling rush. We 
  cooed and murmured like brand-new fathers, amazed by these 
  fragile creatures, awed by the forgotten miracle of life.

  "I hope we're not too late to save them," said the lieutenant. 
  He watched the children warily, as if afraid they would crumble 
  into dust before his eyes.

  Ms. Lindquist smiled. We saw again the face we had seen 
  yesterday, the hidden face where hope still lived. "You're not 
  too late," she said.



  That night Billy Macdonald sat under the stars in the city of 
  the dead and wrote another letter to his girlfriend. The 
  lieutenant brought us a case of beer and fresh batteries for our 
  Game Boys and Walkmans.

  The light of the stars turned the city to silver. We drank our 
  beer in the cool glow, marveling at the sweep and depth of the 
  star field. We had never seen so many stars. They coated the sky 
  like glitter dust. We drank our beer and argued over the names 
  of constellations and talked about adopting children. We watched 
  as Billy MacDonald removed all the letters he had saved from his 
  knapsack and set them alight. We laughed and clapped our hands 
  as our unwanted memories snapped, crackled, and crumbled into 
  fine black ash.



  While we slept the stars sparkled in our dreams like bright-eyed 
  children.



  In the morning we saw clouds clustering on the horizon. A cool 
  breeze caressed our faces, carrying with it the fresh clean 
  scent of rain. A few wispy tendrils of black smoke still trailed 
  across the sky. We let the children wear our helmets and carried 
  them to our jeeps. The cameras congregated around us. The 
  journalists spoke new words, unrehearsed, spontaneous, their 
  deadpan monologues barely able to restrain long-pent emotions.

  Before we left the city, a grinning Billy MacDonald went to the 
  quartermaster and mailed the letter he had written during the 
  night.

  Later, as we drove into the desert, the sound of children's 
  laughter was loud in our ears.



  Christopher Hunt (chrish@wimsey.com)
--------------------------------------

  Was an encyclopedia salesman, waiter, cook, clerk in a porno 
  bookstore, and factory laborer before ending up in Japan, where 
  he taught English and later worked as a copywriter with a 
  Japanese ad agency. He is the editor of the online magazine 
  _Circuit Traces_.



  Barefoot Sinderella   by Evangeline Mercury
=============================================
...................................................................
  "Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our 
  action. Without it, we are nothing." --Luis Bunuel
...................................................................

  It is six years ago, and I am walking back to our apartment from 
  the Dairy Queen, and I can smell the popcorn blowing out through 
  the Texaco door when the Friday night black jackets go in. This 
  is my secret Texaco walk, I am speeding in my mind, and I am 
  barefoot, on the tar, trusting the night that there is no broken 
  glass to step on, knowing this isn't a broken-glass kind of 
  night. The sun is still in the tar, and my feet are hot, and I 
  walk to where the cars are parked in the spaces, and smell the 
  engines burning, and I breathe the fury.

  A Mexican boy with a net on his head (though I'm sure he calls 
  it something else) looks at me and I smile, but he is trying to 
  be cool, and he looks away, and he adjusts his net in the 
  rear-view mirror. I have a bag of bottles, klinky pink bottles 
  that I bought at the Texaco. The condensation is making the bag 
  wet and I worry about dropping them, because I spent six dollars 
  on them, six dollars to get drunk and do things that I really 
  want to do but am afraid.

  I walk through the shadows, under the red star, where I have to 
  watch out for those prickly things that grow around signposts, a 
  vampire.

  There is a car lot by the Texaco with a shot-out rusty sign that 
  says JORGE'S USED CARS. I walk onto the pavement then, past 
  Jorge's cars, past the Tuesday-Friday trash dumpster where the 
  garbage men squished a bum once, and I see a van where a man in 
  a brown cowboy hat sits in the driver's seat, and the shadow of 
  his hanging plastic Mary is moving across his forehead, as a car 
  pulls into the parking lot.

  As I walk past him -- slowly, so I won't offend him -- I can 
  smell his life in the van: marijuana, sandalwood, oranges, 
  tortilla chips, and underarms.

  I walk under the windows of our complex where children are 
  inside, getting ready for bed in rooms with soft lights and 
  Cinderella lamps, and I think of how I may want children 
  someday, someday, I say someday, then every morning I wake up 
  and wipe out my life from back to front so that I only live that 
  day, and I don't plan children in that way, and then I smell the 
  van again.

  I wonder what it is like to know people like that, to ride 
  around in a van in south Texas and smoke pot, sitting beside 
  sweaty bodies with brown skin, men who would touch me and make 
  me feel like a little girl again, and inside I would scream for 
  them to stop but really want them to go on, and I would jump out 
  crying, and then my van ride would be over, not what I thought 
  it would be, so I decide I wouldn't go on a van ride with them 
  after all, but maybe I would sit out on the curb and talk to 
  them, and ask them which badges they wear, and tell them about a 
  spider I saw one time in a park in Del Valle that changed colors 
  when I blew on her to make her move.

  That would be a cool thing to tell cool people who ride in a 
  van, and then my gypsy laughs. I hate her, but I want to keep 
  her around. She says: Your wanderlust is going to kill you.

  I walk on, I get to our apartment but I don't go up, I decide to 
  drink with my girlfriend Cheryl. She is cool, a Mexican I met 
  here. She likes beer, and I like wine, and together we sit and 
  have a grand old time, and she tells me stories about her 
  Mexican family that is spread out all over Texas, and about 
  Mexican tradition and cultures. It all spins together like 
  whirling gold, and occasionally she tells me a racist joke to 
  keep me in line.

  The first time she told me a joke about white girls I laughed, 
  even though my face cracked. I saved my cry for later when I 
  went home, though, because a tiny whisper told me it was like an 
  initiation, because Cheryl is tough, and I have to be tough to 
  hang with her, so I was. I sprinkled in some Oh Hells and some 
  Holy Shits, it felt weird but I did it, and I don't know why she 
  likes me, I never know, but I don't ask, either. I probably 
  wouldn't like the answer, because, like I said, Cheryl is tough.

  This morning she told me she had gone to a funeral last night 
  for her cousin who was hit by a truck, and I said I was sorry, 
  and she told me about her family who got into a fight over who 
  loved the dead cousin the most, and they knocked the casket 
  over, and her cousin fell out all stiff, but nobody was in the 
  funeral parlor because it was some kind of midnight mass (she 
  called it midnight mess), so they all just helped stuff the body 
  back in, and her brother got the body's lips caught on a handle 
  fixture on the casket and tore the body's stitches, so they all 
  pretended they were so upset that they had to close the casket 
  lid, and the next day when the public came in no one knew his 
  mouth had been torn off, and she laughed all through that story. 
  I don't know anybody like Cheryl, she is tough but she cries 
  when she is drunk, and she swears like white trash from back 
  home but her house is clean, so I never really know what to 
  think about her.

  I knock but Cheryl isn't home, and I feel a twinge of jealousy 
  that she is out doing something else, without me, even though 
  there are a million places in Austin for her to be. I go 
  upstairs and sit my bottles in the refrigerator, and get a 
  plastic cup (because soon I will be drunk enough to break 
  glass), and a straw (because I get drunk faster with a straw), 
  and take my first bottle out to the porch, where I sit at night 
  and watch the twinkling Christmasy lights downtown, and I wonder 
  about all the lives going on down at 6th street. I wonder about 
  all the music playing in the bars, but I hate cigarette smoke, 
  so I don't go.

  I am so hot, sitting in the patio shadows in my white wicker 
  chair, the wind is blowing my skirt up, I wish I had a man, and 
  I drink.

  I think about a Mexican boy I saw mowing the grass today, so 
  hot, working out in the sun, with the Marquis de Sade for a 
  boss, no doubt, and I went out and took him a can of pop, and I 
  held it out to him, and said, "You look so hot, I had to bring 
  you a drink."

  I handed it to him, but he didn't take it. He said, "No speak 
  engless, no speak engless," so I gestured and said, "For you. To 
  drink."

  "Thank you, thank you," he said, and I turned and walked off, I 
  thought maybe I shouldn't have brought him strawberry, it would 
  make him even more thirsty, but when I grabbed it out of the 
  fridge I grabbed strawberry because that was my favorite, and I 
  thought it would be nicer for him.

  In my queen chair I think about his white t-shirt stretched 
  across his tight chest, and his boy arms with the muscles 
  already developing, how he was pushing the mower, how he looked 
  at me like a kid, and the breeze blows my skirt again, and I am 
  sickened with myself, using him now, when earlier my intentions 
  were pure, and isn't that just like me? Yes, says the spider.

  I drink some more, I am halfway done with my strawberry wine and 
  I go in and get my radio and put on Patsy, a perfect voice for 
  this perfect night, and I watch a fight out in the parking lot 
  of a bar down the way, I think I may see somebody get stabbed 
  tonight, it would be my first time, I have never seen violence 
  this close, and not do anything about it.

  One man is Boss Hogg-fat and his yellow shirt is undone to his 
  bellybutton, and if I got close to it there would be lint in it, 
  just like my dad's. The other one is just a greasy weasel, and I 
  feel sorry for him, I try to imagine his life and all that comes 
  is bourbon in my throat after I have thrown it up. If this were 
  a movie he would be the one to get stabbed and bleed to death in 
  the dark parking lot while clutching a picture of his girlfriend 
  whom he had made a promise to that he would quit drinking.

  They are swaggering around each other, calling each other 
  "redneck," and I laugh, what kind of thing is that to say? Maybe 
  they are friends, really, they know "redneck" is stupid, and 
  they are trying to diffuse things, do men think like that? They 
  are both rednecks.

  I see the man next door come home, his name is Joe, he is from 
  Brooklyn, and he married a lady from somewhere in Asia whom 
  Cheryl calls "gook" when the lady is going in and out of her 
  apartment. I pretend I don't hear Cheryl when she tries to get 
  me to agree with her, or when she gives me those looks. Cheryl's 
  brother was killed in Viet Nam and she told me never to talk 
  about it, and she hates the song "Billy Don't be a Hero," so I 
  never play the oldies station with the windows open.

  Joe is fatherly, even though he is just a little older than me, 
  and his black hair matches his black brows, and he has a 
  happy-sad face like those men in the '30s who wore flat hats and 
  stood in line for soup and bread. I like him. I would fuck him, 
  too, because he is so odd, so different from me, I don't have 
  any reference points for him in my mind, and I could enjoy 
  myself.

  One day Joe comes home and Cheryl and I are shooting water guns, 
  and he says hello with the big box of Air Force religion under 
  his arm that says Miller High Life, and I say hello, and he 
  says, "You'd better bring your cat in, it's Halloween," and I 
  say, "Do you mean somebody might put a firecracker up No Name's 
  butt?" and he says, "No, the Satanists are out cruising for 
  black cats." Just as pretty as you please.

  "Thanks," I say. That is about all I have said to him except 
  hello, and hello Joe in a singsong voice when I am horny and 
  proud of it, and he smiles different.

  Tonight the base looks like a UFO dream, what they must have 
  dreamt our earth would be like on their way here, even if it 
  took them just seconds, a light-up twinkle dream, like it is a 
  beautiful thing, except I know that underneath, underground, 
  undercover, buried deep, there are bombs, and dead aliens in 
  ice, carved up, and their atoms are crying to be alive again and 
  get out of the twinkle dream, because I fuck one of the men that 
  goes under there, he told me because I wanted a secret in 
  exchange for what he wanted, and he gave it to me one sacred 
  night, which is all he had to offer me, and he knew it, after 
  ten bottles of courage and some Whole Lotta Love.

  Albert Einstein said that if you physically remember a place, it 
  actually exists, though not materially, but that is the very 
  last expression of anything, anyway.

  So now, six years later, I think of the base, taps at ten, 
  touch-and-go's at 9 A.M. every morning like a hurricane across 
  the street, the grackles, La Chusa sitting on a telephone wire 
  that Cheryl screamed at when she was drunk and told me to go get 
  the hot peppers!

  I carry that in my head, and I build it, with souls I love, who 
  like to open the sliding glass door onto the patio and let the 
  curtain blow out like a flying white ghost in our Escape From 
  the Sun apartment complex, while we sit and watch Ra go down in 
  purple-and-yellow stripes, an Egyptian-Aztec god who just ate 
  his virgin Texas children, who is going to sleep now with his 
  gold armor on, and we love the smell of charbroiled hamburgers 
  from the Dairy Queen, and the sounds of the jukebox from the bar 
  across the street that gives off amber glows from its mouth like 
  a lust monster.

  The base is mine now. I am going to keep all that even though 
  one of the people on a BBS from Austin told me _Del Valle 
  sucks!_ because I sustain lives there, I work a weave with other 
  people who think of the base, we all weave a blanket in space 
  with our memories, our atta-boy-gung-ho-drink-like-a-fish-
  starve-til-payday memories. There are people sitting on the 
  blanket, people ride on the blanket, the blanket covers Del 
  Valle with protection still, it is becoming even though the base 
  is gone now, it is woven in dark pink and golden thread, and it 
  floats like a big square over Del Valle, like a flag laying 
  down, blowing each time somebody thinks about his or her life 
  there, and it doesn't suck.

  I sit on the blanket and talk to my memory-friends: the people I 
  baby-sat for; the pilot stationed there who died in a jet crash, 
  and his mother is there, who was told all of her son's body was 
  in the coffin (but it is a lie); the man who worked as a bagger 
  at the commissary who gave me my hundred-dollar bill back when I 
  thought I was giving him two ones; the dog I had to kick because 
  it tried to bite me one night when I was riding my bike by the 
  high school; the people who worked in the gordita place, and the 
  men who ate lunch there and kept their hats on during lunch like 
  it is some wonderful thing to wear a uniform, to be part of a 
  blue collective; the indoor rummage-sale lady where I bought my 
  straw chicken basket; the man who worked at the Texaco who 
  smiled at me when I came in drunk for life and wine and told me, 
  "You have a nice night, now, you hear?" knowing I would; the 
  ghost-town elementary school that was flat and spread out just 
  like an elementary school in the West should be, a mesa school, 
  with overhanging porches like a turn-of-the-century boarding 
  house and my name is Peregrine, only at night it was full of 
  triangular shadows, children's kickball echoes, and their soul 
  prints in primary colors, taped to the doors like mini 
  Jesus-hands, blowing hello; the policemen who rode by and tipped 
  their Texas hats, making sure all was safe, knowing about 
  domestic violence in military families in the summertime heat; 
  and my _me s'hahnee_ friend Ed who wore his full metal jacket 
  all the time even though I wanted him to take it off.

  And sometimes I lay on the blanket I weave over Del Valle and 
  stare at the stars, it is like laying on a waterbed outside on a 
  roof, and sometimes I don't talk to anybody else, even though Ed 
  comes and the policemen come and the pilots come and the 
  landlord comes and the bartenders come, but sometimes I wish 
  they would get off my blanket, except Ed, because I weave it 
  best, but it is their blanket, too, and they weave, too.



  Evangeline Mercury (evangeline.mercury@quantum.net)
-----------------------------------------------------

  Evangeline Mercury grew up running wild in the West Virginia 
  mountains, which are full of snakes. Her favorite road is Route 
  10. Sometimes she writes from a blue star salon in Morocco, 
  while drinking from Kerouac and Lawrence Durrell. She has 
  written books called _Cowgirl Homily,_ _Witcher Woman,_ 
  _Hollering Tree,_ and _Radio Mija._ "Barefoot Sinderella" is 
  based on her time in Austin, Texas. She lived it while listening 
  to Patsy Cline, and wrote it while listening to Mazzy Star.



  Storm's Child   by Shawn Click
================================
...................................................................

  The forecast said "cloudy, with a chance of rain." Forecasters 
  deal with chances. But not Samuel.

...................................................................

  One
-----

  It's gonna rain today, dad."

  Josh Thorst peered at his son over the top of the morning paper. 
  "Rain?"

  Samuel nodded. He was sitting at the other side of the dining 
  room table, swallowed by a high-backed mahogany chair, crayons 
  and a notebook before him. He picked up a crayon and drew a 
  swath of gray across the paper. The bangs of his dark hair fell 
  across one eye. His mouth curved into a frown of concentration.

  Josh glanced out the dining room window. The sky was a clear, 
  crystalline blue, and cloudless. Even Mount Rainier, visible 
  above the trees to the east, stood without its customary cap of 
  mist. It was a beautiful August day, full of the promise of 
  warmth and sun. "Are you sure?" Josh flipped to the weather 
  forecast; it teemed with graphics of smiling suns and cloudless 
  skies.

  "I'm sure, Dad." Samuel's voice carried a tone of impatience.

  "But the weather report..."

  Samuel stopped coloring. "Dad," he sighed.

  "I know. I'm sorry." Josh went to the closet and hunted for an 
  umbrella. Another glance out the window left him feeling like a 
  figure in a "what's wrong with this picture?" page in a 
  children's activity book. But there was no reason to question 
  his son. If Samuel said it was going to rain, it was damned sure 
  going to rain.

  "Gonna be a storm tonight, too," Samuel said.

  "Tonight?"

  "Yep. A big one." Samuel smiled.

  Josh suppressed a frown. Samuel was only six years old, but he 
  loved a good storm. Although children his age were usually 
  frightened by violent weather, Samuel welcomed howling wind with 
  the excitement most children reserve for snow on a school day. 
  During the last big storm, back in June, Samuel had sat at the 
  front window, kneeling with his palms pressed against the glass. 
  He had seemed in awe, reverent.

  "Can I stay up for it?" Samuel asked.

  Lizbeth stepped into the room, cradling a basket of laundry. 
  "Stay up for what?" she said, doing a double-take as she glanced 
  at Josh. "What are you doing with the umbrella?"

  "Samuel says it's going to rain."

  "Today?"

  Josh nodded. "And a storm... tonight."

  "Really." She clicked her tongue. "Well, I guess we're due for a 
  bit of rain."

  "Yep," Samuel said, then went back to his coloring. He was 
  drawing dark clouds -- gloomy and ominous -- hanging above a 
  house made from a triangle and square. The building seemed small 
  and vulnerable, and jagged blades of lightning, outlined in 
  yellow, lanced through the sky.

  "See ya, Samuel," Josh said. "Be good."

  "Dad? Are you gonna be late again?"

  Josh looked back. "I don't know -- I might. I have lots of 
  work."

  Samuel scowled. "You're always at work."

  "I know it seems that way, kiddo," Josh said, "but it's 
  important."

  Samuel's frown looked as solid as fired clay. It hadn't been an 
  easy year for him, with the move, a new school, and a summer 
  without his friends. The house was the first to be built in the 
  new development, so Samuel didn't even have a neighborhood to 
  explore.

  "Your father's doing a lot for us," Lizbeth added. "We should be 
  proud of him."

  Josh winked at his wife. His heightened workload had been hard 
  on her as well, but she still managed to support him. It 
  couldn't be easy. She smiled back, but there was a hesitation.

  "I'll see you tonight, Samuel," Josh said.

  "But Dad--"

  "There's nothing I can do about it. I'll see you tonight."

  "Okay." Samuel's frown transformed into a pout. "Bye."

  Sighing, Josh took his wife's hand and headed for the front 
  door. Outside, the sun seemed to shine with extra enthusiasm, as 
  if to deny the rumors of impending clouds and rain. Cupping his 
  hand over his eyes, Josh looked up. "This is unbelievable," he 
  said.

  It was a gorgeous morning. Their house sat at the crest of a 
  hill, above a sprawl of newly paved roads and vacant lots. The 
  lots were just parcels of stark, leveled earth, but as always 
  the sight filled Josh with satisfaction. They were the framework 
  of his dream. To the south, a gap in the trees provided a view 
  of the arching span of the Narrows Bridge. The water was strung 
  with the white sails of distant boats, like a thin sky speckled 
  with drifting stars.

  They didn't actually own the land, but Josh felt like it 
  belonged to him. The development had been his idea: he'd found 
  the site, rounded up the investors, handled the purchase, 
  managed the licensing process, and supervised the contractors 
  and realtors. Now, every lot was sold, the seeds of the project 
  were planted, and homes would soon rise like flowers unfolding 
  in the rains of spring. It was the culmination of all he'd ever 
  wanted for himself and his family.

  "Hard to believe we're in for some bad weather."

  "You know our little shaman." Lizbeth wrapped her arm around his 
  waist.

  "Yeah." Josh didn't care for that term. Lizbeth's father was 
  one-half Salish Indian, a heritage that revealed itself in her 
  dark complexion and hair. Lizbeth had passed those traits to 
  their son, though one feature defied both of his parent's 
  attributes: eyes that were a deep, indigo blue. Lizbeth's father 
  had once referred to Samuel as a shaman, half-jokingly 
  mentioning his blue eyes as proof, and Lizbeth adopted the 
  nickname after they knew Samuel's ability -- his talent -- could 
  not be explained as a string of coincidences. The title made 
  Josh uncomfortable. He liked to think Samuel merely had some 
  strange physical quirk that gave him an aptitude for forecasting 
  the weather, like old men whose arthritis acted up when humidity 
  dropped. Calling Samuel a shaman carried a sense of mysticism... 
  magic. Josh didn't believe in magic anymore.

  "You seem down this morning," Lizbeth said.

  "No, I'm fine."

  She pursed her lips. "Sure?"

  "Yeah." Turning back to his wife, he tried to dispel the dark 
  shadows in his thoughts. His son's capability did not seem to 
  carry any ill effects. Josh should probably consider himself 
  lucky -- how many other people were gifted with a child who 
  could out-forecast every meteorologist on the planet? If nothing 
  else, the kid had a guaranteed career in a few years. But at the 
  back of his consciousness, Josh felt a nagging uneasiness, as if 
  he were surrounded by malicious phantoms, only vaguely aware of 
  their presence.

  "Things are going to be okay," he said, almost to himself.

  Lizbeth looked back at him, her head cocked. "What?"

  "I mean Samuel... us. We're going to be okay."

  "Sure. Things have been going great. Your work'll settle down 
  pretty soon."

  "It's just that Samuel seems so..."

  "Moody?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  Lizbeth paused. "He misses you."

  "I miss him too." Josh looked toward the front of the house. "I 
  really need to spend more time with him."

  "You'll have your chance -- soon."

  "We've had this conversation before. Soon never comes."

  "It will." Lizbeth gave him a gentle shove. "C'mon -- snap out 
  of it. Are you trying to get me depressed, too?"

  Josh shook his head and forced a laugh. "You're right -- I'm 
  just being paranoid, I guess. I keep waiting for the other shoe 
  to drop."

  She hugged him, nuzzling against his neck. Despite the day's 
  warmth, Josh felt goose bumps rise along his arms as her breath 
  caressed him. "Don't worry," she said. "You've done great. You 
  deserve the success."

  He tilted her chin upwards and kissed her. "I don't deserve 
  you."

  "You're right."

  Playfully, he slapped her backside. "Modest, to the last. You'd 
  better go see what your son is up to."

  "Aye, sir." She performed a mock salute, stepping back. "Love 
  you." She stood, watching, as he climbed into the car and backed 
  out of the driveway. Josh waved at her and honked as he spun 
  around and pulled away.

  At the bottom of the road, Josh glanced back at his home in the 
  rear-view mirror. A sense of trepidation crawled through him, 
  raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He saw his home like 
  the one in his son's drawing, perched beneath swelling storm 
  clouds, small and inconsequential against the forces at work in 
  a darkening sky.



  Two
-----

  It was nearly seven o'clock when Josh emerged from his downtown 
  office. He was leaving work late again, but not so late that he 
  missed the dawning of Samuel's storm. A cold wind buffeted the 
  street, sending papers skittering across the pavement. Leaves 
  swirled and spun within invisible vortexes and, above, a shroud 
  of dark clouds spit a fitful rain.

  Bracing his umbrella against the wind, Josh began to cross the 
  street. As if on cue, the rain began to fall with vigor as he 
  made his way to his car. Once there, he spent several awkward 
  moments trying to find his keys, digging through each of his 
  pockets while struggling to balance the umbrella. Finally, he 
  was able to open the door. He climbed in, flipped the heater 
  controls on high, and rubbed his chilled hands together.

  This was August? It felt like the middle of November. Why 
  couldn't Samuel have been wrong just this once?

  As he drove home, the storm intensified. Rain, relentless and 
  brutal, pounded against the windshield like a barrage of stone 
  pellets. The clouds thickened and the day became prematurely 
  dark; night was descending two hours early. Josh drove hunched 
  forward, straining to see, every muscle tense. His car shuddered 
  in the stiffening winds as he turned into the development and 
  guided the vehicle up the hill toward his home.

  The house was well lit, shining like a lighthouse perched at the 
  edge of a rugged shore. At least the power was still on. To him, 
  the building was more than a home; like a soldier's medal, it 
  was the symbol of all he had accomplished. It was his 
  achievements solidified into wood and glass.

  Bracing himself, he slid out of the car. The wind tore at him 
  and the rain battered his face. He stumbled, then charged toward 
  the door with his head held low. He didn't bother with the 
  umbrella, thinking the short distance to the house would leave 
  him relatively unscathed. He was wrong. In a matter of seconds, 
  he was soaked from head to toe.

  The door opened before him. He leapt through the entrance. 
  Lizbeth jumped aside and closed the door. "God, honey, you look 
  like a drowned rat."

  "I feel worse." He shrugged off his dripping jacket. "I need a 
  shower -- a hot one." He turned toward Lizbeth. She was wearing 
  a green silk robe and her hair was tied back, accentuating her 
  face and neck. She smelled faintly of scented soap and perfume. 
  "Wow," Josh said, gawking.

  Hands on her hips, she tried to frown at him. "Get going. Don't 
  leave too many puddles."

  "How long to dinner?"

  "Sam's already eaten." Her forced frown drifted into a 
  mischievous smile. "I thought we might have a late dinner. Just 
  the two of us."

  "Sounds great."

  She glanced up the stairs. "Sam's in his room... I don't think 
  he's feeling too well. Probably picked up a cold."

  "Crap. That's too bad." Josh stepped forward to hug her, but she 
  backed off, hands held up in defense.

  "Forget about it. Save it for later."

  Samuel was sitting on his bed, staring out the window. Beyond 
  the glass, dark clouds coursed through an ashen sky.

  Josh finished tying the belt of his bathrobe. He had allowed 
  himself the luxury of a long, very hot shower. He felt better, 
  energized. The storm outside was only a distant concern. "Hey 
  Samuel," he said, stepping into the room.

  His son cried out and nearly jumped off the bed.

  Josh rushed forward. "Hey, it's just me, buddy. Are you okay?"

  Samuel stared at him. His face was pale, like the visage of a 
  skull. In the shadows of the room, his eyes were hollow sockets. 
  He was trembling.

  "Samuel?"

  The boy blinked. "Hi, Dad," he said, his voice a whisper. "I'm 
  scared."

  "Scared?" Josh sat beside him on the bed and put his hand on his 
  son's shoulder. "Since when do storms scare you?"

  Samuel turned toward the window again. "It's different. They're 
  coming."

  Josh pulled his son closer. "What do you mean? Who's coming?"

  "I called them. I didn't mean to."

  "Them who? Come on, Samuel... you aren't making any sense."

  No response.

  "Did you fall asleep? Did you have a bad dream?"

  Samuel thought for a moment, biting his lip. "I don't know -- 
  maybe."

  Josh rubbed the boy's back. "That's probably it. You're okay. 
  You know Dad and Mom would never let anything hurt you. We'll 
  always keep you safe."

  "They want me. They say I'm supposed to go with them."

  "Who's they? Something in your dream?"

  "I guess so."

  "Dreams can't hurt you," Josh said.

  "I know."

  "There's no such thing as monsters, or ghosts, or any of that 
  made-up stuff. Right?"

  Samuel nodded. "Right."

  "Right. Let's see a smile."

  He managed a grin.

  "That's better." Josh pulled the bed covers back. "Climb in, 
  bud."

  Samuel crawled beneath the blankets, his gaze drifting back to 
  the window. Josh pulled the covers up around his son and kissed 
  him on the cheek. "G'night, kiddo," he said. "Everything will be 
  okay. I promise."

  "Okay."

  Josh stepped out of the room, leaving it slightly ajar, and 
  peered back through the opening. A fragment of light from the 
  hall, a yellow oasis of illumination, stretched across the floor 
  and up the side of the bed. Samuel clutched his blankets with 
  small, delicate hands and stared at the window.

  Beyond the glass, the storm raged.



  "How's Sam doing?" Lizbeth asked as Josh marched down the 
  stairs. She was sitting on the couch in the living room, sleek 
  legs extending from the hem of her robe.

  Josh dropped down beside her. "The storm is scaring him."

  "You're kidding! He loves a good storm."

  "Nope. Not this time."

  "Is he okay?"

  "I think so... I don't know. He had a bad dream. Hell, he was 
  probably still dreaming while I was talking to him. He wasn't 
  making much sense."

  "Kids do that sometimes," she said. "Waking dreams."

  "I suppose that was it. I feel sorry for him. At that age, I had 
  a bedroom full of monsters. They were under the bed, in the 
  closet..."

  "And the boogeyman was in your underwear drawer, right?"

  Josh smiled weakly. "I don't know. I never checked." He sat 
  forward, head resting in his palms. "It was strange, Liz. I 
  spent so many nights being... terrified."

  "Lots of kids go through that."

  "Did you?"

  "No. Not really. What were you scared of?"

  "The dark... monsters... I don't know."

  "How'd you get over it?"

  He shrugged. "I just finally forced myself to quit being scared. 
  Planted my feet in reality." He wondered if that decision had 
  brought other changes in his outlook. Despite being raised in a 
  devoutly religious family, he liked to think of himself as the 
  consummate skeptic. Religion was a mythology, and the same went 
  for paranormal phenomena, UFOs, astrology, and Bigfoot.

  "Well, I'm proud of you," she said.

  "Thanks." Josh grinned. "At least I was finally able to open my 
  underwear drawer."

  Laughing, Liz wrapped her arms around him and looked back toward 
  the large front window. "The storm's picking up." Josh followed 
  her gaze. Water fell against the glass in sheets, and gusts of 
  wind buffeted the house. "Cozy, don't you think?" she said. 
  "Brings back memories."

  He leaned back on the sofa, settling into her arm. "What year 
  was that... eighty-five?"

  "Eighty-six. Sam was born in eighty-seven."

  Josh nodded, thinking back to another storm. He and Lizbeth had 
  celebrated their anniversary in a cabin on the coast. That 
  night, a storm swept in, knocking out the cabin's power, and for 
  a few hours they sat at the window, marveling at the beauty of 
  reflected lightning upon a dark slab of sea. Then they made 
  love, their passion accompanied -- and enhanced -- by the cry of 
  the wind, the drumming of the rain, and a sense of seclusion. It 
  was as if the entire world consisted of three things: him, her, 
  and the howling darkness. They seemed a part of the storm, an 
  element of primal energy. He could remember looking into her 
  eyes, sparkling with the reflected light of candles, realizing 
  he wanted nothing more than her for the rest of his life.

  Nine months and two weeks after that storm, Lizbeth gave birth 
  to their son. It was raining heavily that day; the streets were 
  flooded and traffic was hopelessly clogged. The drive to the 
  hospital was a nightmare, navigating through lines of cars, 
  sliding through standing water, his gaze snapping between the 
  rain-shrouded roads and the pained, urgent expression on his 
  wife's face. A block from the hospital, Lizbeth gave birth in 
  the car, bathed in rain that swept through the open door, 
  assisted by a physician who was driving into work at the right 
  moment. The final stage of the labor was brief and intense; 
  their child came into the world heralded by a rolling blast of 
  thunder.

  "I hope Sam is okay," Lizbeth said.

  "_Samuel_ is fine."

  "Sam," she said, through gritted teeth.

  Josh laughed. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her 
  closer. "Samuel," he growled.

  She kissed him, her soft lips wavering at his mouth, then 
  gliding to his neck. A warm, tingly feeling crept across him.

  "You win," he said, and reached for the belt of her robe.

  Thunder roared.
  
  
  
  Three
-------

  "Wow," Lizbeth said, sitting up. "that was a big one."

  "Thank you." Josh tugged her close. He felt like he was about to 
  float off of the couch. It had been an intense experience.

  Lizbeth smirked at him.

  "Oh -- you mean the thunder."

  She giggled. "Maybe." She looked out the window. "Jeez, it's 
  really getting bad out there."

  Josh stared out into the night. Now a sheet of water poured down 
  from the eaves, creating a glistening veil. Josh thought he 
  could see the distant outline of trees whipping back and forth 
  like the tentacles of some great beast. Lightning flashed, and a 
  second later, thunder cracked.

  "Close," Josh said.

  "Thank God we still have power." Lizbeth grabbed her robe. 
  Throwing it over her shoulder, she padded toward the bathroom.

  Another burst of lightning. The house seemed to tremble against 
  the blast of thunder. He put the palm of his hand against the 
  window. The cold glass was shuddering as the wind lashed against 
  it. How much could it take? He backed off the couch, eyeing the 
  window uneasily.

  Lightning again. Thunder.

  Josh wrapped himself in his bathrobe and tied the belt. The 
  light in the hall flickered.

  Something moved in the darkness beyond the window: a quick 
  shifting, shadows detaching from deeper shadows. He moved 
  forward a step, straining to see through the torrential rain. 
  What could be out in a storm like this? An animal perhaps, 
  driven from the woods? Or was it merely a trick of his 
  imagination?

  There was a crackling sound, very loud. An instant later, a 
  deafening crash shook the floor. The bulb in the hall light 
  exploded with a pop, and the living room was plunged into 
  darkness.

  "What the hell--?" The air was thick with a sharp, acrid smell.

  "Josh!" his wife called.

  He stumbled into the bathroom. Lizbeth stood at the sink, 
  holding a flashlight she had managed to recover from the 
  cabinet, directing its beam toward the vanity mirror. Tendrils 
  of smoke drifted from the broken remnants of the bulbs along the 
  frame. Tiny shards of glass covered the counter and floor.

  "What happened?"

  "I think the house got hit by lightning. Are you okay?"

  Her voice shook, "Sam--!"

  Running, following the dancing illumination from the flashlight, 
  they charged up the stairs and down the hall to their son's 
  bedroom.

  A shrieking wind tore at them as Josh flung open the door. The 
  bedroom window was open. Lizbeth aimed the light at the bed, but 
  Samuel wasn't there. The impact of that empty bed made Josh's 
  head spin. A cold certainty held him in a fist of ice -- he 
  would never see his son again. Then Lizbeth swung the light 
  across the room and the glow settled on the boy, kneeling before 
  the window. He was sitting still, hands held up, face raised to 
  the storm.

  "Sam!" Lizbeth cried. "Get away from there!"

  Samuel did not respond. Josh rushed into the room and scooped up 
  his son, carrying him toward the doorway. Once away from the 
  window, he took a quick survey -- Samuel appeared unhurt, but 
  his eyes seemed empty and distant. His pajamas, clinging to his 
  cold skin, were soaked. "Are you okay?"

  Samuel stared at the window.

  Josh grabbed the boy by his shoulders and gave him a gentle 
  shake. "Samuel! Are you okay?"

  "I called them," Samuel said faintly. "I didn't mean to."

  "What? Who?"

  "Them." Samuel pointed at the window.

  Nudging Samuel into Lizbeth's arms, Josh crept toward the 
  window. He moved with cautious, pensive steps, as if he were a 
  hunter sneaking up on dangerous prey. Outside, the rain fell in 
  swirling darkness. The clouds overhead were a deep black, 
  suffused with a disturbing green and yellow; they seemed fetid, 
  diseased. Trees along the ridge line were swaying; several were 
  toppled, and others were stripped of their greenery. The plots 
  of land were a mess: rivers of mud flowed across the soil, and 
  the streets were covered by water and debris -- the drainage 
  system had failed to keep pace with the rain. Josh hadn't 
  realized the storm was doing so much damage. All his work 
  washing away. Come morning, there would be one hell of a 
  disaster to deal with.

  "Josh?" his wife called out.

  "There's nothing," he said, turning back. "It's just the storm. 
  Everything's okay." He tried to keep the tension out of his 
  voice. The storm was going to cost him a ton of money and set 
  construction back several weeks. "It's okay, Samuel."

  "You don't see them?" Samuel asked, his voice trembling. "The 
  people in the storm?"

  Josh sighed. "No one's there. It's just a bad dream."

  Samuel shook his head. "No, Dad -- they're there. I saw them! 
  They said I have to go with them... go outside." He turned to 
  his mother, his eyes wide and desperate. "I called them. They're 
  out there."

  Lizbeth hugged him. Her hair drifted in the wind, moving about 
  her face. "It's okay, Sam. Just a dream."

  "A dream," Josh said, for emphasis. He put both hands on the 
  window and tried to pull it closed. It wouldn't budge. Cursing 
  under his breath, he tried again. The window refused to move. 
  The house was only a few months old and it was already falling 
  apart. "C'mon, let's get downstairs." He would worry about 
  fixing it after his family was out of the cold. "I'll carry 
  Samuel."

  Lizbeth relinquished her hold on their son and shut the door 
  behind them as they entered the hall. The piercing cry of the 
  wind was muffled.

  "I called them. They say I belong with them." Samuel raised his 
  head. "Don't you hear them?"

  "It's just the wind."

  His son was scared -- more frightened than Josh had ever seen 
  him. What was wrong? Reaching up, he felt Samuel's forehead. 
  Perhaps he had a fever. He pressed the palm, then the back, of 
  his hand against his son's brow. No. The skin was cool -- too 
  cool.

  He took a heavy wool blanket out of the closet and wrapped it 
  around Samuel. "There you go, bud," he said, patting him on the 
  back. "Better?"

  "Yes," Samuel responded in a tone that was hushed, detached. 
  "Thank you."

  They made their way toward the first-floor landing. Lightning 
  flashed, and, in the moment of clarity between two heartbeats, 
  Josh saw forms outside on the porch: several of them, with 
  vague, nebulous faces of gray, eyes black as night -- and hands 
  pressing against the glass.

  He stared at the window, his breath catching in his throat. The 
  lightning flash was gone, and all was darkness.

  Lizbeth touched his arm. He jumped.

  "Josh? What's wrong, honey?"

  "Nothing." A salvo of lightning burned through the night. The 
  porch was empty. "Nothing," he said again. But he couldn't move. 
  He waited, staring at the window, his son held tight.

  "Josh?" Lizbeth pleaded.

  He heard a sound within the chorus of rain and wind -- movement, 
  rustling -- from behind him. He grabbed the flashlight from his 
  wife, and, supporting his son within the crook of one arm, he 
  moved upward one step, then another. The hall was dark and 
  empty.

  Samuel's door rattled. He swung the light toward it. Slowly, 
  methodically, the knob was turning.

  "Jesus," he breathed, stumbling back a pace. The light fell from 
  his grasp. With a series of muffled thuds, it tumbled down the 
  stairs to his wife's feet. Josh turned. His hands were 
  trembling, and he breathed in short, ragged gasps. It was just a 
  storm -- nothing more. There were no such things as monsters. No 
  ghosts.

  Lizbeth picked up the errant light. "What's wrong?" she said.

  Josh reached the landing and made an effort to compose himself. 
  The doorknob hadn't been moving; the forms on the porch were 
  just tricks of light and shadow caused by the lightning. "I'm 
  okay," he said, taking a deep breath. He clutched his son 
  firmly, looking down at him. "Everything's all right, bud."

  Samuel nodded fractionally.

  "You okay?"

  "Uh-huh," the boy responded.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  Samuel yelped. "It's them!"

  "Who the hell would be--?" Lizbeth began.

  Josh stepped back toward the hall. His son's words resounded 
  through his thoughts. _It's them._ For many moments, the 
  three of them simply stared at the door.

  Another knock, louder, more urgent. Then another.

  Lizbeth headed for the door.

  "Don't open it!" Josh hissed.

  She turned toward him, eyes narrowed, unspoken questions evident 
  in her expression.

  What would he tell her? Don't open the door 'cause the boogeyman 
  will come in? He was being irrational. He could picture himself, 
  white as fog, shaking, staring at the door as if he expected it 
  to sprout fangs and pounce on him. What if someone out there 
  needed help?

  Did boogeymen knock? He didn't think so. "I mean," he stammered, 
  "look before you open it."

  "Sure." She peered through the peephole, one eye pressed against 
  the door, for several moments. The flashlight was pointed at the 
  floor, its glow fragmenting into motes of reflected light upon 
  the polished wood.

  Josh held his breath.

  Samuel whispered something, too soft to hear. His voice was like 
  the sigh of a summer breeze.

  Lightning shimmered, stark and lustrous.

  Lizbeth turned back to Josh. Her mouth was bent into a curve, 
  half-smile and half-grimace. With a flourish, she swung open the 
  door.

  The porch light was dangling from its mounting above the door, 
  broken loose and suspended by a long length of wire. A cold gust 
  of wind made the light swung toward the open door. The rain, 
  falling steady and hard, was a liquid haze, illuminated by 
  pulses of lightning leaping from cloud to cloud.

  "There's our suspicious knocker."

  Josh remembered to breathe again. He felt like an idiot. Looking 
  down at Samuel, he said, "See? Nothing to be afraid of."

  Straining against the wind, Lizbeth shut the door. "What now?"

  "Maybe we should find someplace to stay for the night."

  "I'll try the phone."

  Josh followed her into the kitchen and deposited Samuel on the 
  edge of the breakfast bar. Lizbeth grabbed the receiver from the 
  wall, listened, then tried to dial. Finally, with a scowl, she 
  slammed the phone down. "It's dead."

  A cold draft stirred around them. Samuel's drawings on the 
  refrigerator, most of them depicting storm clouds and lightning, 
  rustled beneath their magnet anchors. Thunder rolled, low and 
  threatening, like the growl of a dog. Where was the wind coming 
  from? Upstairs, perhaps, through the stuck window in Samuel's 
  room? No... that couldn't be. The bedroom door was closed. Or 
  was it? Josh spun around, peering into the hall.

  There was a knock at the door, and another, heavy and hollow. 
  Josh swore under his breath. He should have secured the damned 
  porch light.

  Samuel sat with his hands on his knees, looking around with 
  nervous, furtive glances. "They're calling," he said.

  Lizbeth aimed the light at the kitchen window. "What are we 
  going to do?" she asked. "Should we just stay here?"

  "I don't know.... I don't think so."

  She looked toward the front of the house. "Would the car be 
  safe?"

  "I've heard a car is safe in a lightning storm. The rubber tires 
  ground it." He stepped forward and leaned against the counter. 
  "But this doesn't seem like just any storm."

  "I know... it's pretty bad."

  "No, it's more than that."

  "It's just a storm. We'll be fine, hon."

  He looked back at her, not answering.

  "Josh?"

  "Yeah, I know. Lightning is always hitting things -- people, 
  houses. It's not unusual." He said the words to convince 
  himself, not her. The storm seemed purposeful, malevolent. But 
  that was just his fears, distorting events, conferring malicious 
  intent upon a thing incapable of deliberate action. It was just 
  a storm. "I'll need to get my tools," he said. "See if I can get 
  Samuel's window fixed. Then we'll get dressed and head out." 
  Making the decision, dealing with the situation as a rational 
  adult, gave him some confidence. He marched toward the utility 
  room, looking back. "We'll find a hotel that still has power."

  Lizbeth lifted Samuel down from the counter. Taking the boy's 
  hand, she guided him into the dining room and patted one of the 
  chairs. It was a spot shielded from the threat of breaking 
  windows. "Wait here, Sam."

  He climbed onto the chair. Lizbeth adjusted the blanket until 
  only his round face was visible among the folds of dark fabric. 
  "Your daddy will take care of everything," she said.

  Samuel seemed to be looking past her, at some distant point. 
  "Okay."

  Lizbeth followed Josh into the utility room. "I'm worried about 
  him," she whispered, standing in the doorway.

  Josh pulled his toolbox down from the shelf. He flipped it open 
  and sifted through a jumble of equipment and fittings. "Me too. 
  But he'll be okay. The storm spooked him. It was bound to happen 
  sooner or later."

  "I hope that's all it is. He's just acting so... strange."

  "He'll be better once we get him somewhere warm and well-lit." 
  Josh pulled out a hammer, a screwdriver, some fasteners, and 
  another flashlight. He hoped it would be enough.

  She tried her best to smile. "Some night, huh?"

  "No kidding."

  She put her arm around his waist as he emerged from the utility 
  room with his hands full of supplies. "I'm proud of you."

  "For what?"

  "Taking care of things."

  "Thanks." Obviously, she hadn't seen through his pretense of 
  composure. Or had she? Perhaps she was trying to instill a bit 
  of confidence. "Why don't you stay with Samuel. I'll see what I 
  can do with that window."

  "Aye, sir." She kissed him on the cheek. "Good luck."

  Josh strode toward the front of the house. Three steps into the 
  hall, he heard his wife's voice, loud and frantic. "Josh!"

  He raced into the dining room. Lizbeth was standing near the 
  table, probing her surroundings with the flashlight, searching.

  The blanket lay on the floor. Samuel was gone.

  Josh's heart seemed to stop. He flipped on his own light, 
  sending the shaft of illumination into the kitchen. Lurking 
  shadows slid away from the radiance, revealing nothing. 
  "Samuel!" he shouted.

  Only a peal of thunder responded.

  Louder. "Samuel!"

  Silence.

  Lizbeth looked toward him, then ran through the kitchen, into 
  the dining room, and down the hall, circling the first floor of 
  the house. Josh followed her. The glow of their flashlights 
  carved through the darkness. They called his name. They opened 
  closets, searched behind and beneath furniture, each time hoping 
  to sight the blue pajamas, the small, delicate face.

  There was no sign of him.

  Josh stopped at the front door. It was still closed. He grabbed 
  the knob, his hand shaking with tremors charged by worry and 
  adrenaline, and pulled the door open.

  Hushed darkness stood before him. The wind had fallen silent. 
  The rain was nothing more than a gentle mist. It was as if the 
  storm were an animal that had been fed and was now satisfied.

  Could Samuel have gone outside? Why would he do that? Images 
  sprang into his thoughts: the forms on the porch, incorporeal 
  hands pressed against the window pane; and his son, kneeling 
  before an open window, like a supplicant at an alter.

  He had to be sure. "Check upstairs, Liz."

  Her gaze swept across the open door, to him, then back. "Do you 
  think--?"

  "He's probably upstairs. I want to check outside, just in case."

  "Okay." She gave the door one last, panicked glance and dashed 
  up the steps.

  Josh turned to face the night.



  Four
------

  He found a footprint in the mud just beyond the driveway. And 
  another, a yard or so further on, filling with rainwater and 
  seeping mire. The tracks were small, shoeless. Samuel's.

  He tried to shout his son's name, but his voice caught in his 
  throat.

  Josh was dizzy with dread. He was wearing only his robe, but he 
  was barely aware of the rain, or the cold water and muck at his 
  bare feet. Lightning sliced across the sky. The development was 
  like a wasteland of puddles and gouged earth; the newly paved 
  roads showed cracks and dips, undermined by rivulets of murky 
  water. It made for difficult footing, but he plodded in the path 
  of his son's trail, eyes searching ahead, squinting against the 
  misty rain.

  The tracks led along the flank of the development. He wiped the 
  rain from his eyes and spotted a small figure perched near the 
  ridge. Beyond the form, dwarfing it, the Narrows Bridge stood 
  within a haze of drizzle, its support wires rising like the ribs 
  of a long-dead behemoth. The emerald lights of the bridge 
  glimmered dully, accompanied by the glint of distant headlights 
  as a car passed above the black water.

  "Samuel!" Josh called, forcing his voice through a throat tight 
  with tension. The sound seemed weak, ineffectual.

  The figure began to walk, moving away. It was a smudge of 
  shadow, silhouetted in the bridge's lights.

  Josh ran, slogging through the mud. Time dilated, each moment 
  becoming forever. He could see his son's dark hair, the blue 
  pajamas, the wet hair curling at the nape of his neck, the pale 
  hands. It felt like an eternity before he was coming up behind 
  the boy, reaching for him.

  Samuel did not turn; he seemed unaware of his father's presence.

  Suddenly, with violent force, the wind rose again. Like a 
  massive, invisible fist, the gust smashed into Josh, sending him 
  reeling backwards into the mud.

  "Samuel!" he yelled, but the wind devoured his voice.

  He tried to stand. The gale tore at him, churned around him. He 
  felt as though he'd been plunged into turbulent waters, gasping 
  for breath, reaching for the surface, drowning. He managed to 
  get to his knees, scrambling forward a few feet, hands sinking 
  into the cold mire. But the storm was pushing him back, and 
  Samuel -- seemingly unaffected -- was still walking, moving with 
  the methodical determination of a machine. Each step carried him 
  further away.

  Josh was losing him.

  "No -- dear God, no!" He had no strength. His arms collapsed, 
  and he fell flat. He raised his head, narrowing his eyes as the 
  wind slashed against them, watching his son move away.

  The panic boiled and crashed within him. His thoughts were a 
  haze of mounting fear. He struggled to reject the terror, but it 
  burned bright, a fire that would not be doused by logic. There 
  was no logic to this storm, only madness. He remembered the 
  nights of his childhood, when the shadows became wraiths, the 
  darkness itself whispered his name, and the world was filled 
  with endless mysteries. Monsters were real; magic was real.

  He dug his fists into the mud, crying out, closing his eyes 
  against a burst of lightning, then opening them again.

  He drew in a breath, and held it. He could see them now.

  They were forms of indistinct shadow, gray mist gathered into 
  shapes vaguely human, with coal-black eyes and bodies of flowing 
  vapor. They drifted on the wind, spinning and twisting, 
  battering him with indefinite hands, holding him to the ground. 
  Their whispers were the wind itself.

  They encircled Samuel, but they did not restrain or hinder him. 
  They wafted around the boy, touching him gently but eagerly, 
  leading him away.

  Josh shut his eyes, trying to will the creatures away. He had 
  once wrapped himself with the blankets of his boyhood bed, 
  muffling the voices, warding away shadows. Those blankets had 
  been a stronghold, walls of fabric protecting him until morning 
  light crept in ochre shadows along the surface of his keep. He 
  wanted to do that now: deny the darkness until dawn made it only 
  a memory. As the night gave way to daybreak, the chaos would 
  surrender to calm, unreason to logic. But Samuel would be gone, 
  and that thought spurred him to action.

  Straining against the hold of the mist-forms, Josh stood. He 
  planted his feet in the muck and took a step. Then another. And 
  another. The beings lashed against him with unwavering force. 
  With each footfall he grunted, but he was barely aware of the 
  sound. His consciousness was focused on three things: the gaze 
  of the beings, their cold whispers, and his son.

  A step. Another. With agonizing slowness, he was moving toward 
  Samuel.

  The wind-voice of the things formed into words. _Stop._

  "No! Leave him alone!"

  _He belongs with us. He is one of us._

  "Why? What are you?"

  _We are as we have always been._

  "He's my son!"

  _He is one of us. He has called us._

  "No!" Josh yelled. "Samuel!"

  The boy stopped and turned around, facing Josh. The beings 
  pressed against him, trying to compel him back into movement, 
  but Samuel stood firm. His wet pajamas stirred in the rising 
  wind. He said nothing. He stared at Josh, his small features as 
  rigid as chiseled ice.

  _He is one of us._

  "I don't understand," Josh said, still straining toward his son. 
  "How? When?"

  _Always._

  Always? Josh remembered the night of Samuel's conception: the 
  storm, the howling wind. He and Lizbeth had seemed a part of the 
  elements that night. Perhaps they were. And Samuel, linked to 
  the things within the storm, had unknowingly summoned them in a 
  time of loneliness. I called them, he had said. Don't you see 
  them?

  Straining harder, Josh lurched forward. His son stood before 
  him, still and quiet, surrounded by the things flowing in a 
  diaphanous haze. He was looking toward Josh, but his expression 
  did not waver. The beings around him were frenzied, forming a 
  barrier of churning, chaotic mist. Within that maelstrom, 
  Samuel's form was fading, transforming, melding with the 
  darkness.

  "Samuel!" Josh cried. He leapt toward his son, reaching for him, 
  but his hands did not make contact, and he fell through him, 
  landing in the mud.

  "No!" he screamed, turning back, clambering to his feet. Samuel 
  was a shadow. Josh could see only his son's eyes, peering from 
  an ashen mist. They were eyes of indigo blue: the shade of a 
  thundercloud at twilight. Beautiful eyes.

  "No, Samuel. Can't you hear me? Don't you see me?" He reached 
  out again. "I love you. Please... don't go!"

  The eyes of indigo seemed to meet his own. Their stares locked. 
  Recognition. Knowing. "That's it, Samuel. I'm here, bud. C'mon." 
  Josh reached out, and his hands touched something solid: 
  Samuel's shoulders, the soaked material of his pajamas. He 
  gripped the cloth and tugged.

  Samuel fell into his arms. Josh, kneeling in the mud, wrapped 
  his arms tight around the boy. He looked up.

  The mist-forms circled around them, examining, touching. Their 
  movements slowed, until they flowed like ink through the depths 
  of a calm sea. A thousand orbs of pure blackness looked down 
  upon him, but their gaze was not threatening, not evil. The wind 
  was soft now, and it seemed to whisper of understanding.

  "Please go," Samuel whispered, looking up at the creatures. His 
  voice was detached, distant, as if he were talking in his sleep.

  Like shadows submitting to light, the things faded, scattering 
  in all directions. Above, the dark clouds broke apart, revealing 
  patches of sky strung with shimmering stars. The rain stopped. 
  The pearl-white radiance of the moon swept across the landscape.

  In a moment, they were gone -- but not completely.

  "Daddy?" Samuel said, sleepily. He rubbed his eyes. "What are we 
  doing out here?"

  Josh picked him up and stood. "It's okay. You're safe."

  Lizbeth was running towards them, stumbling through the mud. 
  Josh waved at her, then looked down at his son. "Let's go home."



  
  Josh sipped from a cup of coffee and glanced toward the window. 
  A bulldozer swung into view, pushing dirt, its throaty growl 
  joining the sounds of the other heavy equipment. It had been a 
  month since the storm, but repairs still continued. He wasn't 
  overly concerned. The lots would be ready soon.

  The sun was bright and warm. They were well into September, with 
  no end in sight for an Indian summer that refused to give way to 
  autumn. The weather matched his mood: the day after the storm, 
  he had called the office and announced he was going to use some 
  of his accrued vacation time. He hadn't been to work in a month 
  -- and he didn't miss it.

  "Hey, honey." Lizbeth was standing at the end of the hall, 
  smiling. With an exaggerated sweep of her arm, she raised a 
  small object into the air.

  Josh narrowed his eyes. It looked like a vial of some sort, full 
  of blue liquid.

  "It's positive," she said.

  "Huh?"

  "I'm pregnant, you dope."

  "Pregnant?" They had been trying to have a baby for nearly a 
  year, but the announcement caught him off guard. Was he ready 
  for another child? He hadn't told Lizbeth what happened the 
  night of the storm -- he didn't even know if he could define the 
  experience. The line between reality and fantasy had once been 
  sharp; now that line was blurred to the point of invisibility. 
  It terrified him -- and filled him with wonder.

  "Honey?"

  Don't do it, he told himself. Don't spoil it. This is important. 
  It's right. "You're pregnant?"

  Her eyes seemed to sparkle. "Yep."

  "Pregnant?"

  "Catch on quick, don't you?" She rushed forward and hugged him. 
  "It's going to be terrific."

  Her enthusiasm was contagious. He spun her around, while she 
  yelped and tried to keep the vial from spilling. Then he thought 
  of something and set her back on her feet. "Honey?"

  "Yeah?" Her face was flushed. Her eyes sparkled.

  "Do you think it could have been... I mean, could it have 
  happened on the night of the storm?"

  "Sure. The timing would work out."

  He nodded. For some reason, the prospect of that did not trouble 
  him. Another child with indigo eyes -- a girl, perhaps -- would 
  be wonderful.

  "You all right?" she asked.

  "Great!"

  Samuel pounded into the room and joined their hug, wrapping his 
  arms around their legs, giggling. "Can we drive down to the 
  park?"

  "I don't know, kiddo," Josh said.

  "It's going to be warm and sunny for the rest of the day," 
  Samuel added, smiling.

  And Josh knew that it would be.



  Shawn Click (sclick@nwlink.com)
---------------------------------
  
  Is a father of two and husband of one. When he isn't watching 
  Mystery Science Theater 3000, he is hard at work on a suspense 
  novel.



  FYI
=====

...................................................................
    InterText's next issue will be released January 15, 1996.
...................................................................


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