Empty Tank, Empty Streets

If there was a worse place to run out of gas, Gina wasn’t aware of it. She had made the trip so many times before without stopping; something must be wrong with the car. Now, she found herself in a gritty neighborhood looking for a gas station and nothing else. She fumbled for her cell- dead battery.

The chill of the night air and the loneliness of the 3am streets made her uneasy, to say the least. All she could see was a combination laundromat and liquor store, and a chain-link fence with barbed wire that contained... maybe an elementary school? 

She jumped as she heard a voice behind her call out. 

“You need a hand, missy?”

A slim, short man with a nice suit and fedora walked over to her. He wore a charming smile, which Gina did not appreciate. 

“Um, I- no. I mean, yes. Can I use your phone?”

The man shook his head. 

“Don’t have one. Got a car, though, if you need a ride somewhere.”

He stepped in closer to Gina, close enough for her to smell the foulness of his breath, like he’d been eating tar.

“No thanks. I just need to find a gas station. Do you know where one is?”

“Not one for a dozen blocks or so. And I wouldn’t try and walk there. A bunch of crazies live around here. No telling what might happen to you.”

Gina couldn’t think, instead too preoccupied with veiling her panic. She stammered something incomprehensible, followed by a jerk when she heard another man call out from the dark distance.

“See? The crazies will find you eventually. And this one- sometimes gets violent.”

Instinctively, Gina hid behind the man in the suit.

“Hey! Hey you!” barked the crazy, brushing his mangy hair from his face.

Suddenly, the crazy started sprinting towards them, still shouting. 

“You still want that ride, missy?”

She didn’t have to say anything, but just followed the man as he ran to an old Caddy. She flung open the door, leapt inside, and the man locked the doors. Breathing heavily from the adrenaline, she lunged backwards as the man arrived at the car and pounded on her window, screaming for her to get out.

“Let’s get out of here, missy, ok?”

Gina nodded as the man turned the ignition. 

“Get out! (pound) He ate my dog!”

He put the car into gear.

“That man! (pound) Ate! (pound) My DOG!”

The tires squealed as they sped away. Taking some deep breaths and returning to her seat, Gina started crying, then burst into laughter. 

“How far until the gas station?”

The man said nothing, just smiling that smile. She tried to unlock her door. It didn’t budge.

“The lock is sticky,” he finally said. “And... I don’t think I can wait until the gas station. Your panic so whetted my appetite that I’m voracious.”

The Relentless Pursuit of a Breakthrough

Somewhere between Spock and Einstein, Garrett became convinced it was possible; between The Doctor and Rufus he so romanticized it that the pursuit possessed him. An early draft of his wish list read: Dinosaurs, Pythagoras, Jesus? Of course, now that he’d passed puberty and plunged into R&D, the list had changed. 

Garrett had intrigued a wealthy senior executive who hoped for one more dance with his wife. So, funding was a non-issue. He started small, sending egg timers a few seconds back, tuning it to go longer each time. He also devised a component to return to the present. A nagging problem was destination; each subject had to be sent to a receiver. All appearances suggested no dates prior to his having built it. 

Upon successfully sending back a live rat, he conditioned it to engage the return device. Then, he built a sort of time-travel 3D printer; once tests on that had supported life, he sent back the rat and the return device to a month before Garrett had come to the building. He began the sequence, then the rat was gone. Before a full minute, the rat returned and Garrett’s heart jumped to hyperdrive. 

Garrett awoke on the roof as the sun rose. He checked his timer: He’d been out two minutes. He stood and made his way to the fire ladder, following the meticulously-planned route he had traced before making the jump. Once on the ground, he pulled out his recorder.

“Possible neuropathy in extremities; feet and hand sensations diminished.”

A newspaper on the sidewalk confirmed the date. He had really done it.

It was only a short walk to Rutherford High. Garrett slipped in among the students and headed for the quad. If anyone asked, he was trying to find a cousin who forgot his homework. No one asked.

It certainly was a bizarro yearbook. As he scanned the crowd, he’d see a face– then two, then three– that instantly brought back memories. Every clique was exactly where it usually was.

Then Garrett spotted himself, sitting on the lawn with Shane. Judging by their motions, they were still talking about the fantasy movie they were going to make together. Yes, this was probably the day. Garrett checked his coat pocket, making sure the letter was still there. Next to him was Ian, a kid in his class.

“Can you give this letter to Garrett Morse?”

The sophomore didn’t seem to notice. Garrett tapped his shoulder.

“Hey! Hey kid!” 

Nothing. 

“Can anyone hear me?”

Nobody.

“I have a bomb!”

No.

Garrett sank to the ground and wept bitterly. He tore up the letter, which had read:

Garrett–

It’s your future self. Password: Flagellate. 

URGENT: Before I tell you anything else, Shane needs you today. He’s going through rough times, and you will mock him today because the popular kids are starting to like you, but not him. If you fail, he will hang himself tonight and you will never forget it.

Julian and the Bodily Fluids

“Oh, Julian,” Katie sang from the kitchen. 

“Yes, my love,” he replied, springing up from his chair. “Oh, you’re all wet.”

“Yeah, my water broke,” like it were a daily occurrence. 

“Oh.” Julian turned to find a towel, but it finally registered. “Oh!” Then it really registered, and Julian turned to stone. His hands slowly proceeded up to his head to keep his thoughts from rocketing out of his skull.

‘Oh-my-goodness-we’re-having-a-baby-and-it’s-coming-now-RIGHT-now-’

“Julian? Do you want to take me to the hospital?” She was so calm.

“Um, yes, dear. Let me find my keys.”

“They’re in the key bowl.”

“Got it.”

“And can you get my overnight bag?”

“Your-”

“It’s by the door.”

“Ok.”

“Julian?”

“Yes?”

“Breathe. And maybe I should drive.”

“No, no, I can get it. I got it. The hospital. Keys. Bag. Anything else?”

“Let’s start with those.”

When Julian was done loading up the car, he looked at his wife. She was so serene, even as her labor started to pick up. Julian, on the other hand, was a frantic squiggle of anxiety. He missed all the birthing classes, because the plan had been for Katie’s sister Emily to be in the room when -it- happened. Julian wasn’t indifferent to the momentous event, but he had the propensity to either faint or vomit in the presence of bodily fluids. However, Emily had the gall to get bronchitis two days prior and would have to settle for facebook pictures.

“Julian, the hospital is the other direction.”

“Oh, right. I’ll make a U-turn.”

When they made it to the hospital, Julian dropped Katie off and parked, only to get flummoxed at all the possible directions his bursting wife could have gone. Upon reaching the delivery unit, the clerk recognized his panicked demeanor from Katie’s description and told him that his wife was in room 303. 

Ten minutes later, Katie was being wheeled into the delivery room. Julian kissed her sweaty forehead as she left, then felt a slight surge of acid in his throat, not due to the thought of what would soon happen in and out of the southern region of Katie’s anatomy, but because he was about to miss his child’s first breath on this planet. He was a man, after all, and heaven help him if he didn’t even try.

He leapt up and ran after Katie’s gurney.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Katie pushed for 92 minutes. Julian kept himself vertical for 82. Sitting in the corner with his head between his knees, he finally heard his daughter’s first cry. Something shifted in his head. He was a new man. He rose. Katie, red-faced and out of breath, smiled at the baby, then at Julian. Julian went over to kiss his wife and look at their child. 

Her tiny face grimacing, tiny lungs stretching, tiny fingers clutching his, Julian’s hearing fading, room darkening, floor advancing toward him...

New Single

Macy backed out of her driveway, 99.3FM still on a commercial break. They were playing that dumb ad for whichever hybrid car was supposed to save the planet. Finally, she heard the friendly voices of Jay and Monica. 

“Welcome back to Jay and Monica on KPST 99.3, where we are pleased-”

“Ecstatic, Jay!”

“-ecstatic to be bringing you the new, highly-anticipated single from The Knockoffs!”

“Their new album drops May 24th, and the single is called, ‘On Your Way Out’.”

The song started with some raw guitar chords and whizzing synth. Macy didn’t care much for The Knockoffs, but at least she’d have something to talk about with Jill at work today; the band was Jill’s one obsession. Macy stopped at a red light and reached for her coffee.

“You said you couldn’t stand me when I’m drunk

That I was just a punk 

That my ship had sunk”

Macy was frozen. Behind her, a car honked. The light had turned and cars were moving. She gunned it.

 “Well Macy if you feel that way, don’t trip on your way out!”

He was a punk. Ty was an impulse buy; sun-kissed hair, drummer in a local band, and seemed fun. And he was fun, at least until Macy got to know him, when she realized that he was rude, juvenile, and couldn’t keep his drumstick in his pants. She tried breaking up with him one morning, but he had a hangover (again) and he wouldn’t remember anything anyway, so she hastily wrote some lyrics– Ty had told her that she could probably write better lyrics than Quinn, their lead singer– and stormed out, never to come back. Ty called that evening with the untimely retort that made it into the single, to which Macy simply laughed and hung up. 

Once she was at work, Macy was able to distract herself with the stacks of papers to be processed. This lasted until lunch. In the break room, Jill forwent the bite of salad that was on her fork in order to leap up to greet Macy.

“So... you never told me you hooked up with Quinn Mayfield,” gushed Jill, hovering over the fridge door as Macy reached for her lunch. 

“I didn’t,” said Macy, annoyed that she was thinking about Ty’s song again. She tried to change subjects. “Do you think the construction will be done by April like they promised?”

“Whatever, Macy. You heard the new single, I assume?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“So? It’s not like there are that many chicks named Macy in the world. And you’re from Monterey, which is where–”

“I know where they’re from,” Macy snapped.

“Jeez, Macy. Just asking.” Jill drifted back to her salad, and Macy popped her linguine into the microwave. By May 24th, Jill would know that Ty wrote the lyrics and she’d ask about it again. Macy sighed. Better get it out of the way now.

“Remember how I said I dated a drummer in college?”

The Maze

Patrick awoke in the dark. A creaky melody sounded from the depths, like the merry-go-round in a carnival of yesteryear. He had no recollection of how he got here. Suddenly, wall-mounted lights flickered on, as if he were in a theater, only he was the subject, not the spectator, of a cheesy horror flick.

The lights revealed that he was in a hallway that extended in both directions. He decided to follow the lit path. As he walked, he noticed it getting slightly darker. He looked back from where he started; the wall lights had turned off as he past them. He took a careful step forward, staring at the next light as it extinguished. 

Patrick patted his pocket; his phone was gone. There was, however, a slip of paper that read, "Turn off the lights before you leave."

There was a scream from around the corner. Or was it a draft? 

Now behind him: another scream. Wheeling around, Patrick saw it: flesh like a corpse, only partially transparent- and racing toward him. Patrick bolted in the opposite direction, only to see a second visage, this one seemingly enflamed. Somehow, he noticed the hallway extended to his left, where he instinctively ran. The lights clicked off as he ran, and the two specters started to gain on him. 

He turned a blind corner and discovered a large blue screen. Heart racing and head muddled, he just stared at it. The shriek of his pursuers startled him, and his hand slammed against the screen just as they stretched out-

The shriek changed to agony, and they shriveled to the floor, electricity pulsing through their bodies until they popped into two blue mists.

“This is unreal,” gasped Patrick. Another scream from somewhere in the building. He had to get out.

He quickly made his way through the hallways, never finding anything resembling a door. The halls got progressively darker. Twice, he caught sight of a red glow, but ducked into a separate passage to evade it. 

It was now pitch dark, or close to it. Somewhere, there had to be a light still on. Either that, or he was on some infrared camera as some serial killer munched on popcorn. 

Keeping his right hand on the wall, he waded through the darkness. And then he started to see the hallway, growing redder. The scream behind him was all he needed to quicken his pace. 

Left turn- no lights.

Quick right- no lights.

Another right- a faint blue glow around the next corner! If it was one of those electroshock things, maybe he’d be alive a few more minutes. 

Patrick broke into a sprint. The red phantom was getting closer. He’d hit the corner in 3, 2, 1...

The glow came from an icy figure, dripping with dark blue liquid. Patrick ducked under its skeletal claw, only to fall into the grip of the red monster. Lifeless, he fell to the floor.

Game over.

Jason's Revenge

The call was Pro Right 46 Counter, but all Jason needed to know was the direction (left) and the snap count (2). The defense ran an even front, which meant no one lined up over center, so Jason and the middle linebacker had seen a lot of each other all game. 

“Green 93! Set, hut! Hut!”

Jason burst out of his stance toward #48. The linebacker got a good read on the play, but took a deep angle, meaning running back Matt Davis had a wide open field. And then Matt came into Jason’s view, making a nice move on the outside.

Jason followed, but with less urgency; there was little he could do now to influence the play. Either way, he’d need to get down the field to call the hud–

The ground leaped downward. The world was sideways. Grass was coming through his facemask. Jason’s ears were ringing. 

Jason’s first reaction was to find the punk’s number. He got up and whirled his head around: #33. Outside linebacker, maybe. Not even a starter. Jason hated cheap shots. Worse still were cheap shots by two-bit players when they’re just pissed that they’re down by 20. Jason seethed; the idiot had knocked his chinstrap loose, so he had to run to the sideline. He called in the backup, and whipped his helmet off. Furiously working to fix his hardware, Jason had only one goal for the rest of the game: hit that bastard as hard as humanly possible.

There were virtually no chances to exact his revenge. #33 wasn’t in the game the whole time, and when he was, he was nowhere near Jason’s blocking assignment. He wouldn’t stoop so low as to hit him after the play. That would make him just as much of a jerk as the other guy. No, it had to be legal, and it had to be jaw-dropping. 

As Matt raced down the sideline late in the 4th, with the safety trying in vain to catch him, an idea exploded into Jason’s mind. The tight end who lined up on the field goal unit across from #33 had just gone down with an ankle injury. Jason sprinted to the sidelines to get Coach to sub him in. Coach said ok.

Jason settled into his stance, frozen until the snap. #33 looked in at the ball, imperceptive to the daggers being stared at him. ‘Good,’ thought Jason, ‘He’ll never see it coming either.’

Suddenly, the defense rushed to block the kick. Jason stepped inside to get a hand on the inside rusher and prepared to launch himself at his target. Only his target just stood there lazily, as if he had better things to do than play football, or was daydreaming about the cheerleaders. 

‘That little punk!’

During the obligatory post-game “handshake” line, the sum total of Jason’s revenge was that he lowered his hand when #33 passed by and didn't say “good game”.

It was not satisfying in the least.

Ol' Walt

Two teenagers vehemently splattered every puddle they saw as they walked to school. The rain had let up an hour ago, but their pant legs didn’t show the difference. The one with the hood nudged the one with the sunglasses.

“Look at that old dude. Wonder if he’s psycho or something.”

“What’s he doing?”

Walt Jacobsen knew exactly what he was doing. In fact, he’d done it many times before today. Ever so delicately, because of his hands trembling under the toll of old age, he picked slowly writhing worms from the watery sidewalk and placed them in his other hand, which he intended to deposit in the planter box on his front porch. 

This was not like the times when he and Donny Clifford would collect nightcrawlers in an old soup can and jam them on fish hooks every Saturday morning. No shoes, no worries, and usually no fish, but then again, it wasn’t really about the fish. He and Donny became like brothers, which was great, because both of them only had sisters. 

No, this had been his routine after every downpour that resulted in the worms being strewn out on the sidewalk where just anyone could step on or roll over them.

Walt knew it wasn’t his fault; it was just dumb luck that he’d taken a Nazi slug to his thigh and Sarge wouldn’t take him back to the 47th. Donny would understand. They had made a pact that they’d enlist together, fight together, and come home together. Walt worked like a dog to get back his strength, and eventually got back to the unit in June of ‘44. 

So, while he never saw any action there, he did make it Normandy, but it was all over by then. Walt made it up the hill much easier than the soldiers he came to replace. Looking back down at the beach, he could see red patches where the fallen had bled out in the sand, and the sea was still tinged red. A hand on his shoulder turned out to be Sarge, who told him that one of those red patches had been where Donny–

And that’s why Walt picked worms off the sidewalk after the rains: so that there wouldn’t be any red patches. 

A Rather Piquant Development

Gabrielle Jarvis and Josephine Greenway would normally prefer tar and feathers to a walk through the grove on a blistering August morning, but on this day, there was news to be dispensed. Laden with a parasol each and two broad-brimmed hats, they braved the foul heat and retreated, arm in arm, to gossip away from prying ears.

“Edward Cornstock has been... uncomfortable in recent weeks. Have you noticed, Gabrielle?”

“Oh, he has been acting in a peculiar way. Is he the subject of your revelation?”

“Really, dearest, you catch on like a baited fish,” cooed Josephine. She coyly whispered, “It is a delicious secret. Are you ready?”

Gabrielle smiled giddily with anticipation, and nodded vigorously. The lad in question had been suggested by several as having inclinations toward Ms. Jarvis, which were secretly– save for Ms. Greenway– requited by Ms. Jarvis. Providence would have it that the elder Mr. Cornstock was in league with Mr. Jarvis in talks of a match between the two, but nothing had yet been set forth.

Even now, he and his brother Oscar were approaching on horseback, with rifles tucked in and a solitary pheasant dangling by rope. The girls giggled as Oscar pulled up and doffed his cap.

“Morning, ladies,”– and, turning to Edward– “Oh, brother, will you say good morning also?”

“I, er... Good morning,” fumbled Edward. Looking quite blue, the man kicked his spurs violently, nearly leaving his fowl behind.

“Clearly, his words are befuddled,” said Josephine as the boys rode away, “and it is because his attention is arrested by one Lucille Austen.”

“Her?” gaped Gabrielle.

An eyebrow arched on Josephine’s face.

“Edward dined with her family in Leeds, and word has it that he cannot release his mind from her. The poor girl, thought to die an old maid: flat as a board and pale as an invalid. I suppose this means you’re second in line for Edward. But pray, while I go on clucking like a hen, your wisdom is caged! Let it fly!”

“Let’s first sit down,” suggested Gabrielle. 

Blithely, they scurried to the base of an apple tree and sat down.

“Last night, I went down to the lake... for a moonlight swim... oh, I can’t say it! With Steven the porter! Oh, Josephine, stop it, we didn’t do anything... oh, but we did!”

Unexpectedly, a large object flashed in front of their eyes, causing both girls to shriek. A man’s leg had fallen before them, and only a leg, with no man accompanying it. Petrified and puzzled, the girls saw a grizzled man– a man they recognized to be in Mr. Cornstock’s employ– hop into their company and point a shaky sausage of a finger at them.

“That’s why... one never talks about one’s private affairs in open airs.”

He retrieved his wooden leg, latched it onto special stirrups under his trousers, and hobbled away. Gabrielle’s wretched countenance bore no illusion of her thoughts: “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

Kino's Fate

Kino had been sold to the statesman at a very early age. He briefly remembered his mother, but never met his father. In those days, that was a common way to grow up for someone like Kino. He had been a gift to the statesman’s children, and as such, had been assigned the task of protecting them. While the statesman seemed to despise him, the children loved him, and Kino felt the same. If it were possible, he would gladly raise them as his own.

Today, however, Kino feared that he had made a grave mistake. The statesman’s most prized possession, a jade-colored talisman, was lost. The children would, on occasion, use the talisman in their games– the statesman was not opposed to this– but Kino was always sure to return it to its rightful place. 

‘Surely the children had been using it outside again,’ thought Kino. ‘But it is not in any of the usual places. The master of the house will forgive his children, but he will not forgive me.’

He decided to search a second time, now more frantic than before, and ever increasingly so. It was not by the old oak, where the young master had climbed too high for Kino’s liking. It was not in the statesman’s garden, where the young mistress would pick berries for them to eat. It was not by the riverbank, where they loved to splash in the summertime. It was not by the gate, where the master daily greeted his children, and through which Kino would likely be leaving by day’s end.

It was nowhere.

As the sun began to set, the children came out to play. How Kino would miss their innocent faces, their giggles and squeals! He cherished the evening that would probably be his last with them. 

“Papa!”

The statesman entered the gate. A wave of shame spread over Kino’s face as the children ran to leap into their father’s arms. He carried them into the house as Kino trudged to his own quarters. It was only a matter of time. 

The next morning, Kino awoke, or rather, decided to stop trying to sleep. He could hear noises inside the house– surely his time had come. Kino’s heart froze when he heard the statesman’s voice, then turned to stone when he saw his face, and then–

He had the talisman! It wasn’t lost!

“Kino! Come here, ya dumb dog! Get your frisbee!”

Kino bolted from his house and jumped all over the congressman, tongue flopping and eyes dumbstruck with glee.

“I bet you wouldn’t be so happy if you knew what the vet was doing to you today!”

Hutchins Mall

It was the same dream again. The open-air mall, chased by the mob, ending in a staredown at gunpoint, then: bang. 

Cameron, surprised at how awake he now felt, looked at the triple threes on his clock and wondered if he could get back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later, he was googling “outdoor mall Chicago”. He’d never been there, but he just knew it was Chicago. It was unlikely that he’d find anything, but he was bored and he couldn’t sleep. He remembered hopping handrails twice down a staircase, running past the Sbarro and Orange Julius, then ducking into-

“Sears!”

Cameron had clicked on a map of Hutchins Mall, and had just traced his path past each store, perfectly aligned to his memory. Everything was in place; it was his mall. It had to be.

-

That morning, Cameron packed a bag and drove the 217 miles to Chicago. He wasn’t even sure why he was going; maybe just to see firsthand if it was the real thing. After all, he wasn’t wanted by the mob, or at least he thought so.

He arrived as it was getting dark. Inside, trepidation flitted in and out of his mind. Why did I come here? Am I destined to die in this mall? What if the mob has used mind-control techniques on me?

He laughed when he thought ‘mind-control’. Just to be safe, he kept an eye out for suspicious people.

Up ahead, he saw them. He waded through shoppers as he descended the staircase, as if he were replaying his dream in slow motion. Coming to ground level, there, right on cue, was Sbarro. Orange Julius was next. Sears was straight ahead. 

Screaming came from the top level. Cameron scanned the top level, heart racing. Was this it?

A man sliced a path through the shoppers, then jumped a handrail. He jumped it again, then sprinted past Cameron into Sears. Behind him rushed two men in suits, one of them bleeding from his forehead. 

“No way,” gasped Cameron.

Suddenly, he turned and ran up the stairs. In his dream, he ducked into Sears and went back into the mall through the second level. One jump down the staircase, across the street to a park, and that’s where the gunman was. This man had to be warned before he became a bodybag. 

Outside the Sears entrance, Cameron waited. Before long, the man showed up, walking briskly, trying to blend in but get out. 

“Don’t go to the park,” Cameron said. “They’ve got a guy there.”

He heard a faint ‘thanks’ as the man left.

Downstairs went the man, and Cameron felt relieved. This changed when the suits caught up.

“He’s down the stairs!” yelled one into his shoulder. “Stay in the park; we’ll flush him to you.”

The bleeding suit stumbled, then sat up and asked Cameron, “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“A guy ran downstairs just now. He’s wanted in five states. Any information would be helpful.”