Serpent and the Sun, Chptr. 9 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

Jameson swallowed the lump in his throat as he heard Blake’s approach. Though he couldn’t see out into the hallway, the footfalls were unmistakable; thundering hard enough to shake the mug of coffee Jameson had just heated up. He would in any other case have scrambled to pick up the papers on his desk, lest they become stained with the hot spill. But this wasn’t any other case.

Jameson would have to make a decision today, faced with a fork in the road both branches of which needed him. He couldn’t abandon New Rochester; he could scarcely believe that the place would function without him. He had the best team under his command, but there were so many details, and he never left all of those details in the mind of any other man. Paranoia tied him to his post, it seemed. But if Blake needed him to go to Denali, he might have no choice. New Rochester wouldn’t last forever, and the filtration system keeping the virus out would be destroyed once the UEC could focus on it. In a way, Jameson might have to abandon his post to keep it intact.

He told Blake to come in before he knocked. Jameson liked the antique oak door. Blake looked terrible. Jameson had known him for a long time, and had just taken Blake’s imperviousness for granted. Now he had an ionic respirator on; Jameson could see the two small plugs in his nose. Certainly he’d have the mouthpiece as well. When he smiled, Jameson could see it.

“Blake, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I feel like shit.” He opened his mouth and pointed to the mouthpiece.

“Just a precaution,” he said, “I’m not that bad…”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be bad at all.”

“That is true,” Blake responded, “Look; we got other things to talk about right now.”

“Yes, yes, OK,” Jameson stammered, shocked at seeing Blake sick. Adam was out; it was just then that Jameson realized it. Though he was silent, the worried look on his face said it all. Blake was the third closest person to him, closer even than Jameson himself.

“Come, Adam,” Jameson said, “Time to rest for a little while.”

“But I’m not tired.” Adam said.

“Adam, please,”

“Jameson, let him stay on,” Blake said, “At this point it’s for the best.”

Jameson was anxious. He’d been careful to leave Adam out of his conversations with others.

“We have to go soon anyways,” said Blake. He looked around the office, shuffling papers around on Jameson’s desk.

“I’m assuming you haven’t packed your bags yet.” He said.

“Me?” asked Jameson, off-guard.

“Well, I don’t have any bags, silly!” Adam said before giggling uncontrollably. Jameson darted his eyes around his little corner of the world. The sinews and synapses of the entire city were anchored to his office with every paperclip and staple, binder ring and filing cabinet. No one knew all the nuances and intricacies that made New Rochester what it was. No one except Matthew; he was slated to replace Jameson before he was killed. Jameson was irreplaceable.

“I can’t go,” he said, “They need me here. You know that.”

“We need you, J’,” Blake said as he took a seat on one of Jameson’s trunks. He kicked his feet up on the desk, a move that would ordinarily have aggravated Jameson. Now he just stared absently at Blake’s boots.

Blake coughed. That snapped Jameson out of his fog.

“Jameson, they’ll make do.”

“You could’ve warned me, you know,” Jameson paced the space between the door and the window, “gave me time to prep someone, make arrangements. I would’ve,”

“…you would’ve spent that whole time coming up with a better excuse to stay.” Blake said.

“That’s not fair!”

“It’s true. Since when was fair a consideration?” Jameson was silent.

“Was it fair that they killed Matthew to take you out?”

Jameson grabbed the nearest thing to him, a hard-cover dictionary and launched it at Blake. Blake took the impact, not bothering to flinch.

“Fuck you, Blake!” he shouted, “Matthew’s death didn’t take me out!” He got right up in Blake’s face.

“Why do you think I’m still here?” he asked. Blake was silent for long enough to let Jameson calm down.

“Why are you still here, Jameson?” he asked. Jameson opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He scanned his mind for the answer to give, but nothing came up. He was speechless.

“W-what we do here is important…” He said, but he couldn’t convince even himself of that being the glue that bound him. Blake opened his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, stained dark in one corner.

“Donnie gave me this when we were in New York, before he…” Blake scratched his head, “…well anyways, he got it off a scout. They killed him, and managed to make printouts from his order list.” He handed the paper to Jameson. Jameson stared at it, turning it over and over. He looked up at Blake with a befuddled look.

“They had an order to wipe out New Rochester.” Blake said. “The whole area razed; everyone was to be killed. Everyone except,”

“Me.” Jameson said. “Why?”

“You know more about what’s done here than anyone,” Blake said, “More, even, than they do.”

“But that’s impossible!” Jameson snapped. “They have PEALE! They’re light-years ahead of us!”

“No,” Blake countered, “PEALE’s light-years ahead of you. Problem is; it’s light-years ahead of them too.” Blake pulled a cigarette out of his pocket that he’d rolled prior.

“You think you have piles of paper and trunks full of shit?” he said between ignition puffs, “PEALE generates that much in a day.”

“So they wanted me alive.” Jameson said.

“Yeah,” Blake leaned closer, “We want you alive too, Jameson.” He said. “It’s time to put the past behind ya’.” Jameson stared out the window.

“Please Jameson?” Adam begged from his screen, “Please-please-please?”

Jameson let out a laugh.

“Fuck it.” He said. “I’m in. Adam still needs a teacher, and dare say I leave him to you…”

Blake patted Jameson on the back. “I never doubted you for a sec’.”

“Yeah, I’m sure…”

Blake headed towards the door.

“Hold on a sec’,” said Jameson, “I still gotta’ pack.”

“That’s OK.” Replied Blake as he pulled out a beacon. “Donnie got this off the scout too. It’s a UEC beacon.” He pressed a button, and a shrill beep could be heard down the hallway.

“In the future, you really gotta’ watch who you let into these places… seriously.” He smiled.

“A spy!?!” Jameson said, “You gotta’ be shittin’ me!”

“You pack,” Blake said. He pulled out a sidearm from the shoulder holster in his coat. “I’m gonna’ go do some housecleaning…”

***

The bitter cold hugged Albany like an old friend, pressing on clumps of debris amidst buildings reclaimed by only the hardiest of flora. It was a city devoid of life, save for the occasional hare or raven, in whose watchful eyes the hares would spend their uncertain lives. Just days ago the city hosted a most furious tempest, as two men behaved like banshees above the former capital building. Now all that remained was debris shot into windowsills and brick walls, warped and broken trees and structural collapse. From inside the concrete and steel of the city’s last human refuge, a raven cawed. It had found a meal buried hastily in the stones, one large enough to feed the flock. Yet something outside made it stop in mid caw; something primal, never seen before in those parts. The crow took off as black vapors coalesced about the foot of the fallen bridge.

Coulson BlackLake fashioned for himself a fine black suit from the dust of the road beneath his feet. Wholly unnecessary; he no longer felt human, and he shaped himself as such in pure mockery. As he walked toward the remains, he could smell decay. But he could also smell something else, more familiar. Indeed one of the Guardsmen had been metallicized. That boded well for him.

BlackLake stood at the edge of the rubble pile the rebel had buried the bodies in. With an extension of will, he returned to vapor, tentacles of which buried themselves into the stones, dissolving them as though they were a sublimated acid. The stones sizzled as they melted, forming puddles black as crude oil. What was left were three bodies; two human, one not-so. BlackLake sent vapor into the two sets of human remains, dissolving them as he had the rocks. Let the ravens starve.

He reached out to the metallicized one. Swift, Cyrus Swift. He was a statue features perfectly captured in alloy. But he was worth more to BlackLake alive than dead. He reached out, his vapor covering Swift, black turning to brilliant white. After a few seconds the vapor withdrew, leaving Swift curled into a fetal position on the ground, coughing. He looked up at his resuscitator.

“What the-,” Swift started, but BlackLake no sooner resuscitated him than he stretched out his arms, shooting black vapors through Swifts eyes, ears and nostrils. He could feel Swift’s brain, a landscape of electrical impulse, his to control. He sparked Swift’s memory until he found the rebel. Through the visual recollection, BlackLake made his way into the rebel’s memory. New Rochester, he thought, Canada. Then he saw a conversation through the rebel’s eyes, recent. A man with a scruffy goatee, green eyes and orange, nappy hair. Jameson. He jumped to Jameson’s neural network until he had a glimpse of what he wanted, a digital little boy. Adam. He couldn’t penetrate Adam’s neural net; he doubted he could, and he withdrew back out of the minds he’d raced through.

Swift looked up at him with a look of fear in his eyes.

“Did Denali send you?” He asked. BlackLake kneeled down.

“Why yes,” he said, “Yes they did.”

“Are you gonna’ help me get Blake?”

“No,” Coulson traced circles in the dirt, “no I’m not.”

“So why are you here?” said Swift, “I don’t get it.”

“I just needed to borrow your brain for a minute.” Coulson replied.

Swift tried to get up, but he couldn’t.

“Now what are you gonna’ do?” He asked.

BlackLake got up. The tendrils of black vapor tightly coalesced about him, giving him a more rigid form.

“I’m going to put you back the way I found you.” He said. Suddenly tendrils of vapor stabbed into Swift from every angle, enveloping him in darkness. Within a heartbeat BlackLake was staring into the permanent look of shock on Swift’s alloy face.

BlackLake drifted out to the edge of the fallen bridge. In the distance he could see a raven, perched on the railing of a section of roadway still intact. The bird looked at him curiously, cocking its head and hopping from foot to foot. He stretched out his hand to form a perch. The raven didn’t move. He then fully stretched out his hand. He snapped his fingers and the raven’s blood froze in its veins. It dropped like a brick to the ground below.

BlackLake adjusted his lapel, stepping off the edge of the bridge to once again become a black vapor, headed for New Rochester.

***

Elle stared listlessly out the window of Le Mer, the Pacific Sanctuary’s trendiest restaurant. The charging cycle was off temporarily, and the languid red-shift of dusk occupied the western horizon. Frederick was noisily slurping up whatever high-brow slop he’d ordered. Elle had done little more than rearrange the culinary decorations on her own plate. Suddenly she felt Frederick’s clammy hand cover her wrist.

“Elle, what’s wrong?” He asked. “You’re not even eating…”

Elle snapped her gaze back to the table, and Frederick. Poor fool.

“Oh, nothing hon’…” she said with the kind of smile she gave distribution clerks, “Just tired; that’s all.”

“Would it trouble you too much to wake up, darling?” He asked, looking about the restaurant. “This place wasn’t cheap, after all…”

“I’ll tell you what;” she said, folding her napkin in her lap, “include me in our plans, and I’ll make it a point to be well rested.”

Frederick leaned back in his seat, giving her a venomous stare as he twirled pasta with his fork.

“Is this what I’m to expect for the rest of our lives?” He said, “This kind of attitude?”

“Unless you learn how to respect me; yes.” She said.

“I can have my pick of women here,” he spun his fork around the air in gesture, “Real women; I don’t have to dip down the gene pool.” That last statement boiled Elle’s blood. She always knew Frederick was jealous of Gerhardt. Now that he was gone, Frederick thought it proper to sling rocks.

Elle smiled. She wouldn’t sling rocks back. Frederick’s rocks were in a sling, and in a quick, ferocious movement Elle slammed her foot into them under the table. Frederick’s face went to ash, and as he spit out the daily special, Elle gathered her things to leave.

Frederick hopped away from the table as she got up. His arm was strapped across his stomach, as that was where Elle’d put his testicles.

“Elle, wait!” he said in a strained voiced. Elle couldn’t tell if it was strained from her kick or his reluctance to make a scene. But Elle intended to make a scene regardless.

Elle spun around, and at the top of her voice dressed Frederick down.

“I love Gerhardt; I don’t care what you say or think.” She began. Everyone stopped eating and turned to look.

“He was a Second Tier citizen, a mongrel to your high-and-mighty social order.” She continued, “But he left the safety of the Sanctuary to protect me, so that I’d have no choice but to marry someone like you.”

“You’re no Gerhardt, and I don’t think you’ll ever come close a day in your life.” She pointed out the window. “He stepped out into that contaminated world because he loved me.” She said. “Would you do the same?” Frederick weakly nodded his head yes.

“Well I’d rather you did than Gerhardt,” she replied, “hate me all you want.” She walked out of the restaurant to the buzz of busybodies, preparing the paragraphs that were destined to find their way into the Society Section of the Pacific Sanctuary Monitor. She didn’t care; that was why she had a bird.

Elle walked down the mezzanine, serenaded by Frederick’s desperate pleas for her to stop, then his curses. Eventually he faded into the general hubbub. The mezzanine was awash with activity, as the ground floor was involved in the Celebration of the Opening, to kick off the end of charging. It was due to formally end in three weeks. If she was a good little debutante, she’d be down amongst the revelers, competing against her friends for the chance to play Persephone returning from her time betrothed to Hades. As she gazed down, she had to chuckle. She actually felt like Persephone. If only Frederick were trapped in Hell, it would be a perfect match.

She made her way along the boutiques, walking aimlessly though she knew where she was headed. It amazed her how the boutiques managed to stay in business. Every dwelling in the Sanctuary had a transmuter; everything under the sun could be made at home. One night Gerhardt explained that the boutiques were living proof of the stupidity of Sanctuary-dwellers. People in the Second Tier seldom went to boutiques and those unfortunate enough to be in the First Tier never did. Interestingly enough, almost every transmuter technician was a member of the First Tier.

Elle hopped a TPT to the Second Tier. She wanted to go back to see Albrecht again. He was her only real link to Gerhardt, and she knew it would be the last place Frederick would come looking. Aside from that, she felt comfortable in Albrecht’s hodge-podge abode. She trusted him.

The Second Tier was also a mezzanine, much larger than the one that comprised the Third Tier. It had shops, but they weren’t in any way boutiques. Gerhardt called them bodegas. They sold artwork, electronics, newspapers and other odds-and-ends that couldn’t be easily produced at home. One shop sold organically-grown vegetables. Most likely that was where Albrecht got his seeds.

Elle turned left at the entrance to the Fourth Section living area. The people in each Tier lived behind the boutiques or bodegas in living quarters that looked quite the same from the outside. ArchiForm technology allowed each resident to personalize their living quarters, and though this was supposed to make everyone equal, it didn’t. Everything relied on plans, and plans weren’t freely distributed.

Elle noticed something odd when she got to Albrecht’s door. He had a peephole in his door, rare for the Sanctuary. Now it was gone. She knew she had the right door; she knew the Sanctuary well. She saw a woman with her son outside of an adjoining apartment. After knocking, ringing the bell, knocking and ringing the bell, Elle turned to the woman and asked her if she knew Albrecht. The woman just shrugged, putting her hands on her son’s shoulders and shuffling him inside. Strange, Elle thought. Before she left, she tried the door. Uncharacteristic, but she was worried.

Perhaps she had a good reason to worry. The door opened to a completely empty apartment.

***

Gerhardt awoke the next day to a buzzer and a raging hangover. Upon opening the door, he was greeted by a brown paper bag with a note attached that read simply,

Hurry up.

Inside was a bottle of pills, with another note attached that instructed him to take two. There was also a bottle of nearly fluorescent yellow liquid. Attached to that was yet another note;

DON’T drink the water.

The only other thing in the bag was a small map to the Anchorage Proving Ground. Gerhardt had to sit at the edge of his bed for five minutes, head in hands before he remembered Dalton and the night before. He threw open the nightstand drawer next to the bed, relieved to see his weapon. He couldn’t remember if he locked his door or not.

After downing the pills and their chaser, Gerhardt pieced himself together well enough to hop a taxi for the Proving Ground. When he got there, he was shocked to see what amounted to a building half the size of the hotel he was staying in. He scratched his head as he got to the door. What the hell are they proving here? He thought.

He entered into a medium sized waiting room with video-films strewn about the wooden end tables. He checked himself in and sat down to a video-film of The History of Anchorage. He didn’t get to the twentieth century before Dalton called his name from a doorway left of the receptionist’s booth. When Gerhardt looked up Dalton motioned him to follow.

“I see you got my package,” he said as they walked down a long corridor.

“Yeah, thanks,” Gerhardt replied, “What was that yellow stuff?”

“It’s called Flash,” said Dalton, “It’s a secret recipe, but I can tell ya’ it won’t kill ya’.”

Gerhardt laughed. “No, I guess not…” He said. “So this is a Proving Ground?”

“Yup’,” Dalton said as they made it to an elevator at the far end of the corridor.

“Awfully small, no offense…”

“None taken,” Dalton replied, “You don’t know the half of it…” The elevator slid open, and Dalton pressed the B button after they got in. The elevator took a while to descend, but it finally arrived at the basement level with a ding!

They walked out into a man-made cavern. Gerhardt squinted, but couldn’t see the far end, though the entire space was open. The sound of energy blasts, mechanical fire, splintered wood and the shriek of twisting metal tore through the air, mingled with the sound of men shouting orders, and other men just shouting.

“Holy shit,” said Gerhardt.

Dalton held out his arm. “May I introduce you to the… well, the half of it.”

They left the landing they were on and walked into the melee, following a road that clung to the far left wall.

“There’s a plasma shield between us and the drills,” said Dalton, “That’s all live fire.”

“I figured as much.” Gerhardt was still in shock over the size of the place. There was one incredibly bright light coming from the top, slightly right of center. He couldn’t even look at it; it was as bright as the sun, and it made the proving ground bright as day.

Dalton stopped by a dirt pit, where a group of men were gathered around two sweaty combatants. The men would be broken up periodically by another man, a man of some rank. Dalton nudged Gerhardt and turned to place himself between Gerhardt and the fighting.

“Listen, Gerhardt,” he said, “I know we talked last night, but we gotta’ talk now too.” He turned his head to look at the fight for a moment before turning back.

“I just lost a partner,” he continued, “He… left the force. So I need a replacement.” Dalton pointed his thumb back at the fighters.

“Now I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad about those recruits; they got a lotta’ heart. But they’re bar brawlers. They fight from the gut, not the brain, ya’ know?” Gerhardt nodded.

“I need someone I don’t have to train,” Dalton said as they started walking, “I didn’t have too see much in the bar last night; you’re trained.”

“Yeah,” Gerhardt answered, “Fourteen years of classes.”

They made their way to a shooting range. Three men were prone, with long-barrel HKi440s. Gerhardt kept up on military-issue weapons from the Sanctuary; i440s were surplus, replaced by the i96AGZs. But the 440s were nothing to sneeze at, putting fist-sized holes in the steel targets.

“Ya’ any good with guns?” asked Dalton, “They train ya’ there too?”

“I took electives in marksmanship.” He replied.

“What was your MGS?”

“8-10-9-7,” Gerhardt said, “Wow, I’m surprised you knew MGS.”

“We’re technically a branch of the UEC,” Dalton replied, “We get their rules, regs’…” he looked at the prone marksmen, “…and hand-me-downs.”

“So are my scores good enough?” asked Gerhardt.

“You’ve got perfect accuracy and near perfect speed.” Dalton said. “Precision is good, but you could use a little work there. Reaction-adjustment is your worst rating. Judging by your performance in Apep last night, I suspect you could improve that.”

“If you’re up for it, we could get you certified today.” Dalton continued. “I can give you a pass on the manual combat requirement; we recognize Sanctuary training. And your MGS scores exempt you from most firing tests.”

“Most?”

“Yeah,” replied Dalton, “They won’t clear you with a 7 on the reaction-adjustment grading. Don’t worry though. We have an exercise that grades that alone.” “It’s a tough one, though,” Dalton added as he slid a card through the air. A wisp of blue electricity whipped through the air, allowing Dalton to enter the firing range, followed by Gerhardt.

“I’m ready for anything you got.” Gerhardt said.

Dalton grabbed an i440 and handed it to him. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Dalton directed Gerhardt to assume a firing stance; upright, not prone. The area in front of him was darkened somehow. He could barely make out a silhouette; the target, perhaps. There was a counter that started at ten, and as it reached zero, the field before him illuminated. He could then see the target. It was an old woman.

She had shackles on her wrists and ankles with electro-locks. There was an old mechanical firearm, an AK-47 in the dirt by her feet. Though she was at least twenty yards away, Gerhardt could see despair in her face. This was his target?

He looked at Dalton, then back at her. Then back at Dalton.

“Dalton, I can’t,” he began to say, before his words were interrupted with a hollow chime coming from the counter. He looked downfield just in time to hear the clink of the electrolocks’ release. The shackles fell from the woman, and with a speed well beneath her age she reached down, grabbing the AK-47. She drew it up to get only a rough bearing on Gerhardt.

He fired the i440, sending a fist-sized hole through the center of the woman’s neck. She lurched forward as her head flopped backward, devoid of the spine to support it. She hit the dirt with an awful sound, the AK-47 in a death grip.

Gerhardt looked at Dalton, numb with shock.

“Ya’ got a 9,” said Dalton, holding a print-out. “Welcome to the club, kid.”

***

Evergreens enshrouded Sam and Kenny as they drove down the wide dirt road of Old Glenn Highway. The road was lined with torn up concrete and pavement. Kenny asked Sam about it.

“No one to maintain them,” Sam replied, “It was better for us to just clear out the mains.”

They were in an automobile; the rebels didn’t use floats. Sam told him it was ironic, in a way, that their ability to get around was dependant upon the United States drilling for oil in their backyards. Their parents protested it, whereas they themselves set up micro-refineries in the woods like moonshine stills.

The ride was surprisingly smooth. Bubba was in the back seat, occasionally dipping his head forward, leaning it on Sam’s leg, and then Kenny’s, getting petted by both.

“Nervous?” asked Sam.

“About what?”

Sam rolled down his window to spit out.

“Being on our side of the perimeter,” He said.

Kenny looked away at the roadside.

“I’d be lying if I said no,” Kenny responded, “But it’s out of my hands at this point.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s a feelin’ you’ll get used to ‘round these parts.”

Kenny chuckled as well, but his was uneasy. He felt Sam’s meaty hand on his shoulder. He looked over.

“You might not believe this,” Sam said, “but you’ve more to fear from your own people than from us.”

“…and we’ve more to fear from you.” He added.

“I’m not a spy, Sam.”

“Not saying you are.”

Kenny shifted in his seat. “Then what are you saying?”

“Easy there, tiger,” Sam joked, “just sayin’ that not everyone who pops through that perimeter is like Roger.”

“So you think I’m some kind of sleeper, or assassin or something?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Sam replied, “You could just be a nut.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey look, all I’m saying is that people don’t cut out their chip and leave the protected area for no reason. Especially someone like you.”

“Like me?”

“Someone with a badge.”

“Oh.” Kenny was quiet. Sam had a point.

“Sam,” he said, “I really don’t know what possessed me to put myself on their hit-list. I know what it was that did it, but I’ll be damned if I know why I did it.”

They turned left onto Chickaloon Branch Road, as was posted in Black paint on a white, wooden two-by-four. Bubba leaned his nose out of Sam’s window, barking at two birds flying beside them.

“We’ll be there shortly,” Sam said, “We’ve a big family, but a big house, too. You’ll actually have your own room.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Kenny looked out of his window to see a large barn at the top of a grassy hill.

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, “my workshop.” He spit out the window again. “Got a couple a’ horses in there too. Ever ridden one?” Kenny shook his head no.

“It’s fun,” Sam said, “If we get bored, I’ll teach ya’.

As they got further down the road, Kenny saw what he presumed to be Sam’s house. It looked like a cabin, only massive; two floors, four large windows spaced out on the second floor and a wrap-around front porch. In front of the house was an assortment of bird feeders, an old outdoor thermometer and a glass barometer with mercury-filled blown glass bubbles at varying depths floating in water. Kenny found it strange that it wasn’t frozen solid.

As they pulled up to the driveway, Kenny noticed a cross in the front yard as well.

“Are you a Christian?” He asked, pointing to the cross.

“Not really,” Sam replied, “I had to bury one of my boys a little while back. I figured a cross would be as good a marker as any.”

“I’m sorry, Sam; I shouldn’t have asked…”

“I don’t mind any,” he replied, “I’ve a pretty thick skin. Too much concern needs be for the living, if ya’ catch my meaning. ”

“Yeah, I think I do.” Kenny and Sam pulled up to the door of a garage on the side of the cabin. Sam hit a plastic button under his visor, causing the door-opener to groan to life. As they were waiting, two kids came up to Kenny’s side.

Sam asked him to roll down the window.

“Dad,” one of them said, “Mitchell blew up a propane tank in the backyard today!”

“Dad, Jimmy’s being a snitch today,” said another kid, presumably Mitchell.

Sam squinted as the afternoon sun poured through the garage’s back window. “What tank did you blow up?”

“The shitty one we never use.”

“And what did you blow it up with?” Mitchell smiled coyly.

“Better answer me, boy.”

“A quarter-stick,” He said.

“Did Jimmy try to stop you?” Mitchell nodded no. Sam looked at Jimmy, who nodded yes. Sam grunted. Mitchell’s nod was apparently more convincing.

“Looks like you’re both gettin’ your asses whooped tonight.” He said.

“Why me!?!” asked Jimmy.

“You know better than to snitch on your brother after the fact.”

Jimmy walked back to the porch, stomping his feet and wrapping his arms around himself. Mitchell hopped on the hood to catch a ride in the garage.

Sam pressed the button again, and the garage door creaked down.

“We’ll have dinner in a couple hours,” he said as he kicked his boots off.

“Sam, I gotta’ ask you; why is it so warm outside your house?”

Sam laughed. “It’s a long story,” he said, “call it climate control.”

“Oh.”

Again Sam laughed.

“That’s a parlor trick compared to what I got in the workshop,” he said as they walked through the oak door into Sam’s prepubescent zoo.

More from Liam Sweeny…