About Us
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Issue #3:
Anomalies,
by Richard S. Freeland
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Ghost Therapy,
by Gerald Sheagren
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Angel Envy,
by Ian Donnell Arbuckle
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Thromboles,
by Dr Terry Dartnall
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Trapped in a
Barrel,
by Steven Holmes
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Earth,
by Dena Graham
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The Tale of the
Brilliant Thief,
by Ally Wren
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Beat Burt,
by Mike Boone
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Issue #2:
Remembering
Krempla,
by H. David Blalock
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Cthulu Calling
Collect,
by Gregory Story
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At the Trial
of
the Loathsome Slime,
by William Meikle
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Just Another Day at
Roswell,
by Randy Tanner
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A Million Ducks
Quacking,
by Marc Crofton
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Editorials
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Issue #1:
July 1, 2003
by H. David Blalock
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by Janice Clark
----
by Daniel Devine
----
by Beth Long
----
by Daniel L. Needles
----
by Susan Lange
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Editorials
Anomalies
by Richard S. Freeland
Nothing ever happens in Booster's Roost.
Don't get me wrong. I like it quiet. And Booster's Roost (population 138 and holding) is as quiet as a morgue
on a Monday night.
A politician signed the town's death warrant. Some good ol' boy calling in a favor from the favorite son of a
staunch supporter of a die-hard Democrat who happened to sit in the House of Representatives. A name scrawled on a
paper, and a high-speed, concrete, quad-lane modern transportation artery appeared in this back-water Georgia county.
The "New" State Route 441, it's called. Only a hop, skip and jump from the "Old" 441, it cut Booster's Roost off from
the rest of the world as effectively as the guillotine separated the French Bourbons from their heads.
Overnight, Booster's Roost became a ghost town.
The traffic zips by on the "New" 441, skirting the heart of the town, efficiently channeling the tourist money
into a grab-bag of attractions within the North Georgia mountains and on through the Smokies.
An economic cardiac bypass, you could say.
Booster's Roost sits high and dry, becalmed in a back-water eddy on the wild, free-flowing river of progress.
Dad died right after the four-lane came. I couldn't pay the taxes on the old three-story Victorian where I
spent my wild and woolly youth, so there it sits, sagging and forlorn, just down the road a piece, right outside the city
limits. Slowly decaying beside the cracked paving of "Old" 441. No one of sound mind will make an offer on the place.
I've still got a place to shack. I hang my hat in the back of the diner these days. It suits my carefree lifestyle.
I've owned and operated Roy's Soup and Sandwich, providing a daily fat fix to the cholesterol crowd, for
nigh onto twenty-three years. It may seem a dreary life to sophisticated city folk like yourself. But it's all I need -
really. Got a roof over my head and a place to sleep, and make enough money off the diner to keep me in staples.
And then there's my movies.
I hoard movies like some folks do books. My collection runs to the classics - old films, black and white
mostly (Ted Turner's colorized versions make my ulcer flare). "Casablanca". "From Here to Eternity". Bogart and
Hepburn. All of John Wayne's westerns. I'm a member in good standing of the "Flick of the Month" Club, and my
films fill two video cases and line the entire back wall of my diner apartment, floor to ceiling.
Sprinkled among the classics are a few of the blockbusters. I'm no prude. But it's the "oldies" I get off on.
I know their stories by heart.
Like I said, there's not much to do in Booster's Roost.
But folks still eat, and that's what gets me up of a morning.
On this particular day I crawled out of bed at the crowing of the rooster, flipped on the radio, and hit the
shower. I lathered quickly, listening with half an ear to the Weather Guy out of Atlanta - "clear and hot on this fine
first day of summer, kiddies "- and was in the kitchen firing up the grill within ten minutes, a routine I had long
ago mastered in order to steal as much shuteye as I could.
Lucy was already out front, cramming fresh napkins into dispensers and topping off salt shakers,
complacently working her ever-present Juicy Fruit like a cow chewing its cud.
Lucy's no bovine, though - more like a doe deer with glasses. She's been my singular waitress for more years
than I can remember, and I feel as comfortable with her as a dog with a well-gnawed rawhide bone.
She smiled, blew me a kiss. I scowled, hot around the collar, and set about preparing feed for the Booster's
Roost Regulars.
The Regulars were my diehard patrons. They had nothing better to do, it seemed, than to breakfast each
morning at my fine establishment, shoot the bull, and solve the problems of the world.
Not that I was complaining, mind. Their money kept me in movies. In fact, most times, theirs was the only
breakfast trade I got.
I'd learned long ago to put up with the many eccentricities of the Booster's Roost Regulars - as they, no
doubt, had learned to do with mine.
I was scraping hash browns and scrambled eggs off the grill when the first of the Regulars showed his baby
face. Stew Colin fell loosely onto a stool, braced elbows on the counter, and attacked the hotcakes and country ham
Lucy had placed there just a moment before. Stew wore his good looks like comfortable shoes, but lately I'd noticed he
was beginning to look a mite seedy. Right now his curly black hair was disheveled, and he looked as if he'd slept in his
clothes. He'd inherited a bit of money from a favorite aunt, and hadn't worked in over three years. Claimed to be
writing a book - but he never seemed to make discernible progress. He spent too much time hanging at the diner,
coming on to Lucy.
"Had a look at the sky lately?" Stew said around huge bites of artery-hardening breakfast. "Damnedest thing
I've ever seen."
"And good morning to you, too, Stewart Colin," Lucy said. Her voice held more syrup than Stew's plate.
Stew leered at her, and she batted her lashes at him from behind glasses as thick as the portholes of a bathysphere.
"What's so strange about the sky?" I said, trying to sound casual. "Weather Guy said it was supposed to be
nice out." I didn't really give a rat's ass about the weather. What I wanted was something to divert Stew's attention
from Lucy. I didn't like the way Stew always teased her, comin' on and such, but what concern was it of mine? I
wasn't her father or anything like that. I had no claim on her. Still, it irked my soul when that pretty boy, smooth-
cheeked son of a gun looked at her that way.
Before he could answer, the screen door banged open and Fred-the-Grease-Monkey shuffled in, all joints and
angles.
We all called him that - Fred-the-Grease-Monkey. He worked at Casper's Exxon just across from the city
limit sign, but that wasn't how he came by that handle. It had to do with a bucket of lard and a chimpanzee from a
circus troupe detouring through here when we were kids. I never knew what the real story was, but rumor had it Fred
and the chimp had them a merry old time late one night under the big top, after Fred had sampled a gallon of his
Granddaddy's blackberry Ripple.
If Fred-the-Grease-Monkey had been in the movies, he'd have been an out-take.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey sauntered over and slouched at the counter. He wore the same greasy coveralls as
always. His hands were dirt splotched. Grime rimmed his fingernails. He grinned, showing tobacco stained teeth.
"The usual, Roy," he said, and cackled.
This was Fred-the-Grease-Monkey's idea of a witty remark, and it never failed to set him off. I sighed.
"Two eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, Texas toast and a glass of moo juice," Lucy recited, and I nodded.
Had it memorized by now.
I cracked a couple eggs over the grill and stepped over to the fridge for the milk. I got back just as the
Professor shuffled in.
Professor Avery was a retired physics teacher from the community college down Gainesville way. He lived a
frugal existence on a meager pension, bunking over at Janey Swan's place. He saw himself as an "elder statesman". He
had a deep, melodious voice, somewhat reminiscent of James Earl Jones. Even favored James Earl Jones in some weird
way, though he packed about a hundred and fifty less pounds on a whisker-thin frame and was white as the belly of a
catfish. The unkempt mane of white hair sticking out every-which-way made him look like a slightly used version of
Mark Twain.
Right now, however, he fancied himself a budding lawyer.
He reclined pompously in his accustomed place in the corner booth and wooed the assembled throng with
brilliant oratory.
"Are you aware," he intoned, "that the sky is green?"
"No shit, Sherlock," Stew said. "How long did it take you to figure that out?"
The professor ignored the critic. "There is an anomaly in the eastern sky," he said. "It gives
me a strange feeling of disquiet."
"It's what my Daddy used to call a tornado sky," Lucy said. She slapped a plate overflowing with greasy
eggs and ham before the Professor, than skipped nimbly away to avoid the fallout as he dove in, fork first.
Stew held out his coffee cup and Lucy topped it off. He favored her with a lewd wink. I gritted my teeth.
Stew looked around and said to no one in particular. "Where's old Quinsy?"
"A no-show," Lucy said, and smacked a Juicy Fruit bubble - no easy feat, believe me. "He's an early bird,
but usually drops in by now. Likes to stoke the furnace before finishin' Uncle Sam's business."
"Hell, ain't he up for retirement soon?" Fred-the-Grease-Monkey asked.
"That ain't likely," Stew said. He leered at Lucy. "Too many fringe benefits in being a mailman."
"Oh, stop it, Stew," Lucy said. She sounded bored, and my spirits rose. "Quinsy probably got tied up at the
post office..."
"He got tied up all right," Stew chortled. "Darlene's got him shackled to the bed post with the Chief's
handcuffs!"
Lucy giggled. "Chief's going to walk in on them someday and poor ol' Quinsy will be facin' early
retirement."
Stew shook his head. "Damn, how does he do it? He must be all of sixty. I heard he's got two or three on his
string 'sides Darlene - and Mary waitin' on him at home." A tinge of irritation had crept into his voice that made me
smile. Stew, the lady's man, envious of a philandering senior citizen. It just about made my morning.
"Hey, Professor," Stew yelled. He was never one to be down for long. "Seen any aliens lately?"
The Professor drew himself up, the epitome of dignity, despite the spot of egg yolk on his chin. "I never
claimed to see an alien," he said. "What I said was that the world was becoming a strange and alien
place."
"It can't be any stranger than what happens around here," Lucy said under her breath.
The Professor caught that, snorted. I sighed and rolled my eyes. Here it comes...
"Stewart," Professor Avery said, "you are living proof of the validity of my theorem."
"What?" said Stew, and Lucy echoed, "Come again?"
"You are a child of Chaos," the Professor explained patiently. "No doubt reared on
television and Nintendo within the frenzy of the city. You can be forgiven a certain lack of
sustainable attention."
Stew shrugged, no doubt flattered. "Whatever you say, Professor."
The Professor scowled. He was on a roll and not about to stop now. "As to what I said before, the world
is an alien place. The evidence is all around us."
"'Specially in Roy's cooking," Lucy snickered.
The Professor made a sweeping motion with a fork loaded with hash browns. The hash browns took flight
and spattered against the counter. Avery frowned, looking after the hash browns as if he still might want to eat them.
"Look around you, Stewart", he continued. "Wouldn't you have to say our world is out of
control?"
Stew shook his head. "I suppose you'll give examples?" His voice was condescending.
"I can and I will. Take our new road. Forests destroyed, the mountains themselves
rent asunder for the sake of moving more autos filled with more people faster and further.
And it doesn't stop here. There will be houses and strip malls and industries. Power
companies with their obtrusive towers. Erosion, pollution, overpopulation. Rampant,
uncontrolled growth everywhere.
"Imagine this on a global scale. Rain forests denuded, rivers choked with silt. And ever more
people! My God, we are awash in humanity!"
The Professor stood and started to pace, burning with righteous wrath. He turned suddenly, and orange juice
from the glass he clutched spattered Lucy's shoes. Lucy groaned.
"Do you know what happens, Stewart, when a species overextends the carrying
capacity of its habitat?"
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey grinned. "More'n likely it's kicked out of the house by its daddy, like Stew was!"
"NO!" the Professor thundered, then went into a coughing fit as he choked and sputtered on his orange juice.
Lucy beat him on the back until he could continue. He shot Stew a triumphant look, orange juice dripping from his
chin.
"It self-destructs! If natural checks and balances such as predators are no longer a factor, the species expands
exponentially until it destroys itself! Wide spread famine, plague - or mass suicide, like the lemmings. The species
can't maintain itself at such a critical mass!"
Stew lifted his feet off the floor. "Gettin' a little deep in here, ain't it?"
For a moment I thought the Professor would stroke out right then and there. When the red had faded from his
face and his eyes had ceased bulging he took a deep, shuddering, calming breath and continued.
"Look at it objectively, Stewart. It is happening all around us. The world has exceeded its ability to cope.
Nothing is simple anymore. And it's having an affect. Senseless crime has skyrocketed. Natural disasters have
burgeoned. Diseases, wars, unrest, strife..."
"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," I muttered. Lucy rolled her eyes.
"...our world is coming apart at the seams!"
Stew opened his mouth, a hot retort itching to leap off his tongue, when the screen door slapped open and we
all jumped. The prodigal Quinsy came shuffling through the door, not bothering to close it after him. Some of my flies,
having sampled my cooking, took that opportunity to stage a desperate escape.
I took a long look at Quinsy. He looked as if he had been caught in a compromising position with Darlene,
which he had come close to a time or two. He came in all wall-eyed and sweating, gazing off into space, dragging his
mail bag behind him.
He stopped in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, as if searching for balance on the deck of a ship. His
uniform was dusty and crumpled. Huge ovals of sweat stained his armpits. His lip quivered slightly, and drool slipped
unnoticed down his chin.
Lucy blew another Juicy Fruit bubble and gave Quinsy the once over.
"What happened to you? Chief catch you sneaking out of Darlene's bed room and let loose the hounds?"
Quinsy looked at her, seemed to come to himself for the first time. His wide, amazed stare pulled us all in.
"I seen the damnedest thing."
"Not the green sky again," Fred-the-Grease-Monkey snorted. "It's old news, Quinsy."
"What you jawin' about, old man?" Stew said. "Darlene finally let you see her naked?"
We all laughed at that, but Quinsy seemed not to notice.
"You gonna think I've flipped my lid," he said.
"Let me guess," said Fred-the-Grease-Monkey. "You looked in the mirror and saw yourself naked."
Quinsy blinked. "You know that big rock that sits in the right-of-way before Grant's Feed Mill at the edge of
town?"
"Ought to," Lucy said. She turned to the counter, started clearing away greasy dishes, already loosing
interest. "Every boy in Habersham County chalked my name on it at one time or other. Rich loves Lucy. Cal loves
Lucy. Juan Valdez loves Lucy..."
"Ernie Millhouse humped Lucy behind the feed mill," Stew sniggered, then ducked as a cold, grease
smeared dish rag sailed his way. Lucy smiled saucily and swished her hips. "Eat your heart out, Stewart Colin."
I slapped a slab of bacon on the grill with enough force to flatten it into a greasy mess. "What about that
rock, Quinsy?" I shouted over the sizzle of frying pork.
Quinsy looked around, owl-eyed.
"It followed me."
"Hell, Quinsy, that ain't even a good joke," Fred-the-Grease-Monkey said.
"It ain't meant to be," Quinsy said. His eyes suddenly lost that far-off expression and zeroed in on Fred-the-
Grease-Monkey like the telescopic sight of a hunting rifle. Fred-the-Grease-Monkey actually cringed back a bit under
the intensity of that gaze.
Quinsy took a slow step forward. "The...rock...at...Grant's...Mill...up...and...followed...me. What
part of that do you not understand?"
Quinsy's voice rose as he spoke. The last syllable was almost a shriek. Dead quiet hung on his last word.
You could have heard a fly doing the back stroke in a bowl of my chicken noodle soup.
"Let me get this straight," the Professor said. His breathing was back to normal now and he raised a
bushy eyebrow. "You were making your rounds...?"
"Yeah," said Quinsy. His eyes were feverish.
"...delivering the mail..."
Quinsy slumped onto an empty stool. His mail satchel lay forgotten beside him.
"That's what I do," he said. His voice was quiet now, resigned.
"...and this - rock - accosted you?"
Quinsy sighed. "I never said it 'accosted' me. It just kind of...fell in...behind me, like. And," he
swallowed, looking trapped, "followed me down the road."
The corner of Stew's mouth twitched. Lucy stared hard at the floor, pushing a dead hash brown around with
her toe. Fred-the-Grease-Monkey suddenly developed a studious interest in the ceiling fan.
I had to bite. "And then...?"
Quinsy slammed his palm down on the counter. A plastic glass fell, bounced across the floor. Lucy jumped
and squealed, Fred-the-Grease-Monkey yelped, and Stew doubled over, snorting and blowing, trying too-hard not to
laugh.
"Gawd durn it, I saw what I saw. I was strollin' down the shoulder of "Old" 441, minding
my own dad-blamed business. I crossed the road, slipped the mail in Grant's box, then headed over to that pansy-pink
mailbox Bishop put up. I'd just opened the door when I heard this sucking sound..."
"Darlene follow you out there, Quinsy?" Stew asked with a sly grin. Fred-the-Grease-Monkey hooted and
Lucy gnawed the side of her hand, her face bright red with surpressed mirth.
Quinsy glared at them murderously. "...and I turned around...I swear to God, that big rock just eased itself
out of the ground, kind of shook itself like a dog after a good bath. Dirt flew everywhere.
"I backed up. Think I dropped Bishop's mail. Hell, it was all bills, anyway. I took a few steps back, thinkin' I
was having one of those LSD flashbacks even though I never touched the stuff back in the sixties. That rock, it kind of
rolled towards me a ways, and stopped.
"I backed up a few more steps, all the time keepin' my eye on that there rock. It rolls towards me a piece and
stops again. Like it was waitin'."
"Maybe it was stoned," Stew said, and that set off another wave of laughter which, in light of subsequent
events, I am ashamed to say I participated in.
Quinsy shot Stew a lethal look. "The damn rock followed me. I went on with my rounds. Couldn't whistle,
my mouth was so dry. Kept glancing around. That rock followed right along behind like a dog on a leash."
"And where is it now?" Lucy said innocently.
Quinsy took a slow turn around the room, his eyes meeting all of ours. There was fear, hope, and resignation
reflected in those muddy eyes, along with a queer sense of triumph.
"Right outside, Missy. It stayed outside, like a good rock."
We all looked at him, then rushed the door. Stew and Fred-the-Grease-Monkey stormed gleefully outside,
Lucy tight on their heels. I shut down the grill, and followed reluctantly. Some sixth sense, like something from the "X-
Files", was clambering for my attention. Suddenly I wasn't so eager to step out that door.
I reached the sill just as Stew and Fred-the-Grease-Monkey backpedaled so fast they almost trampled Lucy
beneath them.
On the broken side walk in front of the diner sat a large rock.
I recognized it immediately as the rock at Grant's Mill. How Quinsy had managed to get it here I didn't
know, but it must have taken a shitload of effort to do so.
The rock was huge. Shaped sort of like a fat hog, it had to weigh in at well over a ton. I could see the stained,
off-color soil line where fully half of the rock had rested below ground. How Quinsy had excavated around it, managed
to wrestle it onto a flat-bed truck, haul it over here and unload it without any of us seeing him was a wonder in itself.
The effort he'd gone to for a practical joke astounded me.
"God in Heaven, Quinsy," Lucy whispered reverently. "How the Hell did you get that thing out
here?"
Quinsy came up beside her, laid a hand softly on her shoulder. "I told you," he said patiently, like explaining
death to a child. "It..."
"...followed me!" Stew and Fred-the-Grease-Monkey chimed in, sniggering.
I glanced up the road. Heat waves shimmered in the distance, but I could make out a faint, meandering trail,
alternating from the grassy shoulder to the asphalt edge. Where the trail touched the road, the asphalt was cracked and
scarred as if by some horrendous weight.
A covey of early risers, mostly clerks from Hanson's Mercantile across the street, circled the rock warily,
amazement written on their faces. Joe Abbott, the barber, was there, as was Janey Swan, octagarian owner of Booster's
Roost's only boarding house (she called the weary old building a "bed and breakfast"). They stared at the rock, owl-
eyed.
"It was a good joke, Quinsy," I said quietly. I had always heard one should speak quietly and clearly when
appeasing a madman. "But you shouldn't have dragged that thing into town. The city council's gonna have a
conniption fit when they see what you've done to their road."
Quinsy shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. " 'Oh yea of little faith," he said, "yea see but don't
damn believe."
He looked at me and I cringed under the burning brand of his eyes. "I reckon I'll have to show you, Roy my
boy."
He stepped off the porch and onto the splintered concrete walk and shuffled over to the rock with a
gingerness reserved for mad dogs and poisonous snakes. And suddenly I didn't want him to do this, to further make a
fool of himself in front of his friends. Hell, I liked Quinsy, had known him all my life. I lifted a hand half-
heartedly, let it fall.
"Shit, Quinsy, you don't have to..."
But Quinsy paid me no mind, only walked out into the street. All his attention was centered on the stone.
"Here, rock," he said. "Come on, boy." Without a backward glance, he walked away.
And the rock, like an obedient hound, rolled after him.
This time Lucy went down, landing hard on her rump, scrambling to get out from under the boots and worn
boat shoes of Fred-the-Grease-Monkey and Stew. The covey of early risers split asunder and ran shrieking towards the
safety of the surrounding storefronts, Janey Swan waddling in their wake. As for me, my mouth dropped open, and I
stared bug-eyed at the rock romping along at Quinsy's heels like a carefree pup as the mailman hung a short loop and
sauntered back to where we stood, rooted to the spot under the sickly green sky.
Quinsy faced us, his eyes feverish. Sweat poured from his face, stained his shirt. The relief reflected in his
eyes was matched only by the superstitious fear mirrored in our own.
The rock had heeled, waiting patiently beside Quinsy's left leg like a well-trained bird dog. I wondered
vaguely if Quinsy would toss it a Milk Bone.
"You see," Quinsy said quietly. "I'm not crazy, Roy. I'm not."
"No," I said. I think I was in shock. "You're sane as anyone else here - which might not be saying a whole
hell of a lot."
Sudden movement tugged at the corner of my eye and I tore my gaze from the rock to stare up the street. A
beat up pickup truck was tearing down the length of "Old" 441, weaving crazily, tires squealing. Dumbfounded, we
watched as it slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and burnt rubber fumes. Its right bumper nudged the rock. The rock eased
obligedly to one side.
Shit, I thought. A rock with manners.
The rust-pitted door screeched open and Salvador Mendoza staggered out, clutching the door frame for dear
life. Sal was Martin and Marion Hancock's hired hand. Martin Hancock owned the largest working farm in Habersham
County.
Sal leaned heavily on the truck bed. He stared at us from haunted eyes.
"I need help," he panted. "The senor and senora..." He gagged, and his hand flew up,
covered his mouth.
"Now what," muttered the Professor, and I shot him a withering look.
Lucy stepped quickly over to Sal, studiously avoiding the now placid rock. "What is it, Sal? What's
happened?"
Sal looked up the road. "It's..." He licked his lips, avoiding our eyes. "You will think I am lying,
senorita."
"Are the Hancocks in trouble?" Lucy asked.
Sal passed a hand over his face, shuddered. "You could say that...you could, yes."
"Hell, we better git the Chief," Fred-the-Grease-Monkey said. He looked at me for support.
"Fred's right," I said. "Chief can handle it without us gettin' in the way."
"No!" Quinsy almost shouted. He looked vastly uncomfortable. A red blush crept up his neck. "No." He
smiled weakly. "We don't need the Chief to look into this. You know the Chief, he's busy and all..."
"In this burg?" Stew snorted.
"...lot's of responsibility, you know, and maybe its best we don't hand him this, too, what with everything
else and all..."
Lucy rolled her eyes. "My God, Quinsy. Your pecker's gonna' get you pickled some day."
Quinsy blushed a deep red and tugged at his collar.
"How 'bout it, Sal?" I said. "What's goin' on at the Hancock place?"
Sal swallowed convulsively. "I will have to show you."
"I was afraid you'd say that." I crossed over to Sal, pried his fingers from the truck bed. "I'll drive."
* * *
The truck needed shocks in a bad way. We bounced and jostled over the rutted dirt drive to the
Hancock place. Stew, Fred-the-Grease-Monkey, the Professor, and Quinsy rattled around in the bed. Lucy sat up front,
clutching the arm rest as a drowning man grasps a life preserver. Sal slumped between us like a melted candle.
I glanced in the cracked rear view mirror. The rock trailed along behind, having no trouble keeping up.
Probably didn't want to be separated from Quinsy.
I'd heard of chicks, ducks, geese and the like developing an offspring-like attachment to the first thing they
saw when they hatched, even if the object of their initial fixation was, say, canine - or human. Maybe this was
something similar. The rock woke up, spied Quinsy, instinctively fixated on the mailman as a father figure, and...
And listen to yourself, you ape-shit sonofabitch! This line of reasoning is crazy. I squeezed
my eyes shut, opened them wide, and concentrated on my driving.
Outside the dirty windshield, the sky roiled and churned like pea green soup in a blender. I scanned the
horizon for tornadoes.
"Come on, Sal," Lucy coaxed. She popped her gum loudly. There was a new radiance about her, I noticed, a
liveliness I hadn't seen in a long time. Lucy was enjoying this. After the stifling sameness of life in Booster's Roost,
the excitement of anything out of the ordinary was infectious. I marveled at her glow, the fire in her eyes, the color in
her neck and cheeks, and felt a stirring in my groin. I fought off the feeling with an effort. No time for that now.
"What happened, Sal? What's going on?"
"The animals," Sal whispered. "Senor Hancock..." He swallowed, looked at me from wide eyes. "I
go out to feed the animals, like I do every morning. I open the barn door and there are no animals. I scratch my head.
Where are they? I go outside and look around. The barnyard is deserted. There are no animals."
"Where was Hancock?" I shouted over the straining engine.
"He...he is in the house. I leave the barnyard, go to the house. I go inside. The senora is cooking
breakfast, I think. I smell sausage. I go into the kitchen and...and..."
Sal's hands fluttered up to his mouth again, but too late. He retched, and vomit spewed between his clenched
fingers, adorning our shoes with chunks of his late breakfast.
"Oh, shit!" Lucy wailed. "Those are my good Clinics!" She forced the window down, breathing deep
droughts of fresh air.
Sal looked at me. Flecks of puke adhered to his lower lip. His breath was foul. His eyes looked as if they had
stared into Hell.
"Do you know of Orwell's book, senor? "Animal Farm?""
"I saw the movie," I muttered. I wanted him to take that back. I was afraid I knew where he was going with
that, and the thought scared the Hell out of me.
I'd been aware for some time of subtle movement all around us. The loose rock scattered around the edge of
the drive seemed to move of its own accord, as if a stiff wind were stirring the rocks restlessly. Small stones skittered
across the drive like lizards, intent on unimaginable errands.
There was a glint of pink through the trees. I stared. Blinked.
A fluffy pink cloud about the size of a Samsonite suitcase floated among the branches of a pin oak. Another
rose from a low area and hovered, as if contemplating which way to go. Studying its surroundings, I thought, and then
wondered where that thought had sprung from.
The clouds looked wrong, somehow. Like swirls of cotton candy endowed with Frankensteinian life.
I watched the clouds in the rear view mirror. They floated easily towards one another and stopped, almost
touching. They seemed to be having a casual conversation.
Yeah, right.
I concentrated on coaxing the truck around a tight turn. When I looked back, the clouds were no longer in
sight. But something about them disturbed me greatly. I shivered.
I started to ask Sal another question when the truck slewed around a bend and the Hancock barnyard opened
before us.
As Sal had said, the barnyard was empty as beer keg come Sunday morning.
I braked hard and the truck slid around and came to a rocking rest.
"Jesus, Roy," a voice whined from the bed. "You trying to kill us or what?"
We climbed out warily. Sal cringed and clutched at my arm and I irritably shook him off.
Stew strolled over and peered into the dusky barn. "Nothin' in here. Looks like its been used recently,
though."
I glanced back down the drive, feeling an uneasy urgency.
"Check the house," the Professor suggested.
We climbed the wide steps and opened the front screen. The scent of sausage permeated the air, a scent
somehow too sweet, almost cloying. Fred-the-Grease-Monkey and I exchanged glances.
"Stay behind me," I told Lucy gallantly. She snorted and pushed past, into the kitchen.
And screamed.
I charged into the kitchen and slid to a stop. My knees went weak, and the bile rose in my throat.
Two hogs sprawled in chairs at the kitchen table. Their dark, beady eyes, almost lost in rolls of fat, stared at
me evily. Both were dressed in stained overalls. They held forks clumsily in what can only be described as vestigial
hands. Three thick, loathsome fingers entwined around each utensil. They ate busily from plates piled high with
steaming sausage, slurping and chomping nosily.
A huge cow moved across the floor, maneuvering easily on its hind legs. The cow wore an apron stretched
tightly around her girth, and held more steaming platters of sausage she had, apparently, just taken from the stove. Her
eyes glittered with malevolent intelligence.
"What the hell are you doing here?" one of the hogs grunted.
"You don't belong here," said the cow reproachfully.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out of here," the second hog said around a
bristled mouth packed full of sausage.
From the counter, next to a bloody meat grinder, the severed heads of Martin and Marion Hancock stared at
us, as if damning us for our late arrival.
"What the hell," said the first hog. He held out a plate of sausage. "Care to join us for breakfast?"
I can't remember who screamed the loudest, Lucy or myself. We tore out of the room, frantic to escape that
house of horrors. Stew had time to say only "What...?" before I bowled into him, knocking him sprawling across the
threshold. Lucy planted a vomit stained Clinic in his belly on the way out and he gasped, winded.
The Professor and Quinsy picked up on our panic and scampered out after us, stomping Stew in the process.
Only Fred-the-Grease-Monkey had the presence of mind to grab Stew by the collar and drag him out of there.
We huddled on the far side of the truck, sick and shivering. I frantically fumbled in my jeans pockets.
"The keys! Where the hell are the keys!" I shouted.
Lucy jumped in the truck and checked the ignition.
"They're not here!" she said. She slid across the seat and was on me in a second, grabbed me by the collar
and shook me like a bulldog shakes a luckless cat.
"What did you do with the keys, you dumb shit!" Her eyes were wild. "We've got to get out of
here!"
The Professor stared at Fred-the-Grease-Monkey, dumbfounded. Stew gasped from where he sprawled on the
ground, his face gray.
Our rock rolled over and rubbed against Quinsy's leg, looking for attention. "Not now," Quinsy
snapped. The rock rolled away, moping.
Lucy stuck her pert little nose in my face. "Where...are...the...keys?"
Flustered, I pointed a shaking finger towards the farm house.
"In there?" I said helpfully. "They must have fallen out of my pocket when I ran into Stew."
Lucy shoved me. "Go get them," she snarled.
I didn't know Lucy could snarl. It might have turned me on in different circumstances.
I pulled up short. "You mean, back in there?"
"For the love of God and all that's holy!" Lucy shouted. "I'll go get them myself!"
But before she could move Fred-the-Grease-Monkey said wonderingly, "Would you look at that?"
With one accord we turned to where he pointed.
The two pink clouds were floating up the drive, nosing along the lane like dogs on a scent. Every so often
they would stop and nuzzle up to one another as if communicating. Then they would come on in that sinister way that
sent shivers up my spine. My head cleared abruptly.
"Stay here." It was my turn to snarl. Lucy stopped, surprised. I ran up the steps and cautiously opened the
door. Gluttonous smacks came from the kitchen, accompanied by loud burps and belches. I eased the screen door open
and slipped inside on my hands and knees, feeling around in the murky darkness along the floor.
Nothing.
Frantic, I swept the hardwood floor in ever widening circles, alternating glances towards the kitchen and the
screen door. Someone - one of the hogs, no doubt - farted loudly from the kitchen, accompanied by a calliope of
snorting oinks that I realized with a chill was laughter.
My hand brushed something that tinkled faintly and I closed my fingers gratefully over the key ring.
I scrambled out of there, fast.
"In the truck, now!" I snapped, then stopped short, cursing.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey was standing before one of the clouds. It had nosed up to him, checking him out.
Fred smiled, looking at me from eyes filled with the wonder of childhood.
"Get this," he said. "What is this thing? Looks like my Mama's powder puff!"
The cloud nuzzled him, snuffling like a hound dog around a fox den. It seemed confused, however,
uncertain. It hesitated, drew back a mite.
Then Fred boo-booed. He reached out a hand and touched it.
The cloud went blood red, a crimson thunder head. It snapped out at Fred-the-Grease-Monkey, attaching
itself to his fingers.
"What the hell..." Fred started, and then the cloud was working its way up his arm.
"Hey, what are you doin'?" Fred yelled, the beginnings of panic tingeing his voice. He started to dance
around, swinging his arm lustily. "Hey, that hurts!" The cloud ignored him, busily shinnying up his arm and
enveloping his chest.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey screamed, his face chalk-white. He jiggled and danced like a puppet on a tangled
string, slapping with his good hand at the angry red cloud. The cloud was growing, now, becoming larger, bloated, and
now Fred's other hand became entwined in the fluffy softness of the clouds not-so-silver lining. He screamed, again
and again, as the cloud slowly enveloped his entire body.
We stared, horrified, as the blood-red cloud completely covered Fred-the-Grease-Monkey.
Fred was gone. The crimson cloud jittered and shook, like a handful of alley cats fighting in a burlap sack.
And then, suddenly, the cloud released him.
It moved away, sluggish, sated, the angry red fading to a satisfied pink. It looked bloated, and if a cloud
could sigh contentedly, this one did. It drifted slowly to the ground and settled there like a tick fallen from a dogs back,
plump and jolly, at peace with the world.
I gagged.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey, or what was left of him, swayed like a sapling before a stiff wind. Most of his
flesh was gone, vanished, as if he were a buffalo chicken wing lounging in stomach acid. What skin remained hung in
loose strips. As we watched, one shriveled ear sloughed off and fell on the ground with a slight pat.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey said, "Ah don't freel sho goud."
A finger came loose and slowly separated from his hand, descending lazily to the ground on a stretching
tendon.
He blinked owlishly. His lower lip slid down his chest.
"Uh, maybre icht's nod asch bad asch id sheems," he slurred reasonably.
Stew swallowed. "Maybe its a wee fuckin' bit worse than it seems," he muttered.
Fred-the-Grease-Monkey slowly raised his hands and looked at them.
"Ah, shid," he said. Then his right arm separated at the shoulder and plopped tiredly at his feet. His left knee
buckled and he went down. He opened his mouth to speak and it kept opening, his jaw sagging down to the ground, the
mouth stretching comically. Then, suddenly, he collapsed all at once, his body folding in on itself.
He lay there, deflating like the Wicked Witch in the "Wizard of Oz", slowly bubbling and oozing before our
horrified eyes.
He was no longer recognizable as Fred-the-Grease-Monkey, I thought. I giggled. Now he was Fred-the-
Grease-Spot.
The Professor reached out, shook me out of impending darkness.
"Uh, the other one's coming this way."
I looked around. The second cloud, not to be denied, was rushing towards us with recognizable eagerness.
"Get in the truck!" I shouted, but the others were frozen, staring in fascination at the swiftly approaching
cloud.
I grabbed Lucy and threw her in the cab, shoved the Professor in after her. I reached for Stew but knew with
a gut wrenching certainty that the cloud would be on us before I could bully them all into the bed.
Suddenly a gray blur tore across the barnyard with a rumble like a small earthquake. Quinsy's rock plowed
into the cloud, a sentient avalanche. The cloud squeaked like a mouse under the claws of a cat as the rock
rolled vengefully over it, squashing it like a steam roller running over road kill. The squeal cut off abruptly and the rock
passed on, leaving in its wake a flattened shape vaguely conforming to the shape of the cloud, a cartoon figure smashed
flat into the ground.
I literally threw Stew into the truck bed. Quinsy clambered into the back with an agility that belied his years,
and Sal dived into Stew's lap, expelling his breath once again in a long whoosh. I caught a glance of the rock
returning for a second pass as I twisted the key and gunned the engine.
The tired old truck lurched into gear and lumbered down the drive.
The screen door banged open and one of the hogs rushed out onto the porch, moving fast for something so
fat. He waddled down the steps and into the drive, a shotgun in his new hands. He miscalculated, however, and slid to a
stop in the drive, right in front of the truck. He threw up the shotgun, and for an instant I found myself staring into its
black maw. Then the truck's bug-stained grill struck the hog with a beefy - or porky - smack. The hog squealed like a
stuck pig and disappeared beneath the bald tires.
I stomped the pedal to the metal and the truck lurched over the hog and kept on going, gamely giving all it
had.
We tore down the drive. My eyes were glued to the rear view mirror, but no new horror appeared behind us.
Small stones danced in my peripheral vision.
"This is not happening, this is not real," Lucy chanted. Her doe eyes were huge behind her glasses.
"I think," the Professor whispered, "that reality has taken a back seat here." He pointed at the sky.
The sickening pea green was gone, replaced by a slate-gray pallor that had slipped in from the east when we
weren't looking. There was an electricity in the air that bothered me considerably.
"What's wrong with the sky?" Lucy asked. Maybe she was a mind reader. Nothing would have surprised me
now.
Lightning forked down from gunmetal gray clouds. Other clouds, pink and fluffy, darted among the trees,
trying to pace the truck. If we ran out of gas, or one of the bald tires gave up the ghost...
I put that thought out of my mind.
We reached the main drag, turned left. The truck shuddered, plodding like an old man.
Shaken, we lumbered back to town and into a scene out of nightmare.
Bodies littered the street. Hanson's Mercantile was ablaze, but the flames burned with a slow lethargy, as if
frigid, half-frozen. I swerved to avoid two dogs fighting in the street, which shouldn't have been alarming except that
the dogs stood on their hind legs and fought with knives.
I braked the truck before the cafe and slumped over the wheel. I couldn't stop shaking.
Sal, Quinsy, and Stew piled out. The Professor shouldered open the warped door and climbed wearily down.
Lucy followed. I slid out last, surveying the putrid sky.
A scream warbled from across the street and a woman staggered into the twilight, a gauzy pink mass
adhering to her back. Janey Swan. She stumbled up the road and disappeared into an alley.
More cloud shapes drifted over the buildings, searching for snacks.
I noticed movement at our feet and glanced down. A stone about the size of a Jack Russell terrier was
snuffling around Quinsy's calf. While I watched, it leaned against the mailman's leg and gently began to rub, up and
down, faster and faster.
Quinsy looked down. "Jesus Christ," he said in disgust. He shook his leg and the stone scampered off. "It
was humping my leg."
A crunching sound drew our attention. Quinsy's rock rolled up to us and stopped, waiting expectantly. A
faint pink stained one side.
The Professor looked at me, his nervousness plainly apparent.
"What should we do now?" he said. His face was pinched, haunted. His pompousness had long since
deserted him.
Quinsy broke in. "Something bad is coming," he said. "Something awful."
He looked at me. "I'm goin' home. To be with my Mary."
I looked around, dazed. The sky was almost totally consumed by an ink-black stain. Lightning flashed
continually. Thunder growled. Weirdly, I could see stars in the black, roiling mass of the sky, but they looked strange,
distorted, unfamiliar.
Stars not of this universe.
This is like a scene from "Sliders", I thought shakily. Only there's no where left to slide to.
"What's happened?" Lucy whispered. "Has the world gone mad?"
The Professor looked at us. "There seems to be some kind of distortion in the time-space continuum. The
world as we know it is somewhere it should not be."
"Spit it out in English, Doc," Stew said.
The Professors eyes looked fevered, bruised. "Don't you see, Stewart? Reality is collapsing around us.
Things are coming apart at the seams."
"You're crazy," Lucy said. She didn't look as if she believed it, however.
"Critical mass," the Professor whispered. "The universe can no longer expend the energy necessary to sustain
intricate organisms or complex systems."
It was getting increasingly hard to hear over the howl of the wind.
He shivered, looked at me. "Look at it this way," he smiled painfully. "The universe came home from a hard
day at work and decided to slip into something more comfortable."
Stew reached out, grabbed his arms. "What the Hell are you ranting about?" he shouted.
"It's just that things have become so frantic, so hectic, so complicated...the universe can't handle it anymore.
It...stressed out."
"You're crazy," Lucy said again, this time with conviction.
The Professor shook his head. "Things are changing, adapting. Everything is being simplified, economized -
pared to the bone. Becoming...less."
"I don't think I want to hear this," Sal moaned. He covered his ears with callused palms.
"It's like this," the Professor said. "The universe belched. And we're caught in the after taste."
Quinsy was less eloquent but more direct. "It's the end of time, you dickhead. The Lord's done come back..."
I tuned them both out. I didn't need their explanations because I knew what was happening , knew
the real reason why everything was going to Hell in a hand basket. The real reason was - that there
was no reason. This was no movie, no celluloid fantasy where all the questions wound up answered, the whole
works neatly wrapped and packaged in ninety minutes - or two hours at most. This was life, in all its cumbersome,
untidy ...unreasonable... flesh, where shit happens, things change, and, God help us, it don't have to make no
sense.
"What is going to happen?" Sal said.
"Who knows?" the Professor said. "However," he smiled gamely," I intend to follow Quinsy's advice. I am
going home. I intend to lock myself in my room with a good book and a bottle of brandy and await come-what-may."
He took off down the road in an old-man's shuffling sprint.
"Come on, Sal," Stew said. "Let's get out of the weather." He looked almost happy.
Stew waved, and he and Sal ran in a half-crouch towards Stew's place down the road.
Quinsy looked around nervously. "Ah, see you," he said, and dashed away. The rock dutifully followed.
Wind shrieked as Lucy and I bolted into the diner. I locked the door and, as an afterthought, shoved the
jukebox against it. Lightning slithered around us, dancing along the door frame. The air was charged with electricity,
and a blue nimbus glowed before my eyes.
"Hurry!" Lucy cried, and I ran over to where she had crammed herself under the far booth. I ducked down
and took her in my arms. She had lost her glasses somewhere and I looked down into her terrified eyes.
We curled together, scared out of our minds.
Thunder rolled, deafening, and lightning sizzled, one bolt tripping over the heels of another. A soft roar filled
my ears, grew louder, more urgent. I squeezed my eyes shut but could still see the blue nimbus superimposed on my
eyelids.
Somewhere far away came the sound of shattering glass. A godawful howl filled the air, like feedback from
an amplifier.
The last thing I remembered for some time was that my nose was beginning to itch.
I don't recall when the storm ended. Consciousness drifted back like flotsam on a warm sea. When at
last I opened my eyes, dazzling sunlight flooding through the windows momentarily blinded me.
We had experienced twisters before, though we were no where near the so-called tornado alley. This had to
have been the mother of all twisters, though. What else could it have been?
I gingerly raised my head, sniffing cautiously. The air smelled clean and fresh scrubbed, as if newly minted. I
stood up gingerly, testing my limbs. Everything seemed to work as it should.
I reached down and pulled a dazed Lucy to her feet.
We shuffled slowly to the door. Light streamed inside through the shattered doorway. I clawed aside the
remnants of the jukebox and climbed outside.
Down the street a door banged open. A figure stepped onto the boardwalk. I recognized Stew gazing around
stupidly. Sal was nowhere to be seen.
My mind was fuzzy. I seem to remember strange, frightening things that hovered just at the edge of
consciousness. Try as I might, however, I couldn't pin them down.
Someone touched my arm. I glanced around. Lucy looked at me, her eyes glowing. "Satisfied?" she smiled.
"What do you mean?"
"You said nothing ever happens around here. Don't say that again, okay?"
I grinned lopsidedly. My nose twitched, savoring the scent of her. I realized that what I wanted, desperately,
was to get to know Lucy much, much better.
"I think I jinxed us," I said. She grinned, flashing her canines.
It turned me on.
"There's Quinsy," Lucy said. "Looks like he survived, little worse for wear."
We strolled over to where Quinsy stood, paws on hips, surveying something laying in the road.
"Hey, you guys," he waved. "Look at this."
We strolled over. Idly, I watched a pink scavenger cloud settle over the carcass of a draft horse, still strapped
in harness amidst the wreckage of a wagon. The cloud settled over the dead horse, shimmied a bit, and floated off,
sated. Nothing remained of the horse but a faint outline.
We stopped next to Quinsy and stared down at what he was looking at.
It was our city limits sign, bent and battered but still legible.
It said, "Welcome to Rooster's Boost. Population 38."
"Damn, that must have blown a helluva long way," Quinsy said.
"Hey, don't sweat it," I said. "It can be replaced." I swept an arm around. Folks were beginning to emerge
cautiously from where they had taken refuge. "It can all be rebuilt. Hell," I grinned, "nothing ever happens in Rooster's
Boost."
Quinsy's pet rock rolled up and nuzzled the sign. Quinsy petted it absently, his claws tapping nervously on
its pitted surface. Hell, I thought. Maybe I'll get one of those pet rocks. No mess, no bother. Didn't even have to feed
'em.
Wonder if Lucy would like that?
Right there, in the ruin of the street, under the shadow of the virgin forest spreading unbroken for miles
around our battered little town, I took Lucy in my arms. Her fur was warm and soft under my paws. Her pale green, slit
eyes smiled into my own. Dainty ears, lightly pointed, twitched seductively. Her whiskers quivered in anticipation.
I wrapped my tail around her possessively and purred.
I had a lot to purr about.
Nothing ever happened in Rooster's Boost.
Except, just maybe, a wedding.
The End
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