Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 2)

Elizabeth sat up with her knees to her chest, a bundle of plaid flannel as she kept an eye on Mr. Piddles on the other side of the room, clawing aimlessly at his cat-scratcher like nothing had happened. Her hands shook as she hit the icon of a young Asian woman with her cheeks blown up like a puffer fish on her phone’s screen.

“Elizabeth?” An audible gasp escaped Elizabeth’s mouth at the sound of Mr. Piddles’… voice.

“Elizabeth, I’m still hungry. Really I am.“

The phone was ringing. Mr. Piddles was still staring. Elizabeth told herself to calm down. That she was a grown woman for Christ’s sake… switch was awkward because she didn’t rightly believe in Christ. Until a few minutes ago she didn’t believe in talking cats either but here she was now. “Maybe my cat’s possessed by a demon-”

“Uh- is that you ‘Liza?” It was a man’s voice on the phone.

Elizabeth was confused for a moment, looking to the side. “Oh, that’s you Ian,” she said finally.

“Yeah, Rache is on the toilet,” he said, “She’ll be out in a sec.”

“Oh. Good. Yes,” stammered Elizabeth. “Yes. Good.”

Ian laughed. “So what’s this about a demon?”

“Demon!?” Shit. Mr. Piddles had disappeared from view. Elizabeth climbed up higher on her armchair.

“You ok?” asked Ian.

“Fine!” she blurted.

“Yeah… hey! Here’s Rache! Bye, ‘Liza!” he sounded all too glad to hand over the phone.

“…Stop making faces, Ian. Hey, Elizabeth?” This was Rachel. “What’s up?”

“L-look I need to ask you something,” Elizabeth was still scanning the room for her large, misplaced tabby, “And it’s going to sound crazy.”

“Okay. What is- hey stop it, Ian!” Rachel was giggling.

Elizabeth knew that giggle. It was the same giggle Rachel always had when she and Ian were ready to go home after a night downtown. They weren’t going to bed. “Can you two stop screwing around for two seconds?!”

“Geez, Elizabeth,” sighed Rachel, “Can you calm down?”

“No I can’t calm down! I have a crisis on my hands!”

“Meeeooorrrw.“

Elizabeth snapped around in the direction of the sound but Mr. Piddles was nowhere to be seen.

“Crisis? What sort of crisis?”

“Do you remember that show, Sabrina the Teenage Witch?”

“Yeah? So?”

“You remember Salem? That talking black cat?”

“Yeah, he was great. What are you getting at, Elizabeth?”

“… do you think cats can talk?”

A roar of laughter exploded out of the phone, so sudden Elizabeth almost dropped it. Rachel tried to talk through her gasps for air but failed. That failure only lead to more giggling her part. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she heard the panted breathing of her friend between what she assumed was Ian’s kisses. “…Ian…” she breathed.

That was enough of that; Elizabeth promptly hit the end call button and sighed. “Gross.” Maybe it wasn’t so gross. It had just been a while for Elizabeth. Too long. This wasn’t helping, especially not with her crisis.

“So are they actually a couple or just fuck-buddies?“

Elizabeth screamed, jumping up into the air and tumbling herself and the chair over onto the floor, knocking over a lamp. Elizabeth rubbed her head and was glad not to feel any blood.
“Are you alright?“

Elizabeth sat up. Mr. Piddles was right in front of her, his tail playfully swishing back and forth. Her mouth was open but she didn’t know what to say.

“Do you need more pineapples too?” he asked, “The effect doesn’t last very long, does it?“

“The… effect?” Elizabeth pondered this for a moment. “The pineapple make you talk?”

Mr. Piddles licked his tiny paw at the end of his chubby leg and wiped down his forehead. “Isn’t it obvious? What, did you think that I was going to turn you into a Sailor Scout or something?“

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. “I love Sailor Moon!”

“I know!” Mr. Piddles chuckled to himself. “But I’m too old to be Luna.”

“Ah… I see,” Elizabeth was little disappointed. Then she figured it was perhaps a little too much to hope that a woman her age could go traipsing downtown in a miniskirt fighting the forces of evil. That kind of stuff only happened to teenagers… with attitude. Then Elizabeth’s mouth pinched together in a determined pout. What was she thinking? ‘A woman her age’?! She was in the prime of her life! Living on her own and her freelance web design was really beginning to pick up! She was not only her own boss but the boss of her own life! She looked down at Mr. Piddles and smiled; heck she was more or less a teenage witch anyway.

“So what are they, anyway?” asked Mr. Piddles.

“Who? Rachel and Ian?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “They say they aren’t putting labels on anything yet, but they practically live together.”

Mr. Piddles nodded pensively. “Seems silly.”

“Tell me about it.”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 1)

“Hey, Mr. Piddles.”

Elizabeth closed the door behind her locking both deadbolts without thinking, the second and larger one closing with a solid “thunk” accompanied by the sound of Mr. Piddles yowling.

“I know you're hungry little guy, it'll just be a second, okay?”

“Meoooooooowrr.”

“Ah!”

Tangled between her feet for the briefest of moments the big tabby dodged down the hallway oblivious to its owners near demise. Stumbling, she grabbed the old railing along the hallway wall and steadied herself, grateful that the cat hadn't caused her yet another bruise.

“I swear Mr. Piddles, if I fed you as much as you'd like I would just have to clean up more of your little vomits.”

Hanging her keys on the holder by the door though she could hear the cat's scratching at the bin where she kept the food, his yowls echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. She put her big purse, the one that always felt self-concious about looking as much like it did like an old ladies, on the little table like she always did and walked there, her first stop the big plastic bin she kept the Friskies in. Mr. Piddles had a habit of chewing through nearly anything which lacked at least a quarter inch of plastic.

The tinkling of the food in the little porcelain dish sent him into a frenzy of course, his head bobbing around and trying its best to block the food from falling.

“Always hungry, huh Mr. Piddles. You silly little poody pood.”

“Crunch, crunch.”

The top priority taken care of and Mr. Piddles silent but for the sound of his chewing, Elizabeth Spiller slipped her shoes off beside the stove as she did every day and walked on to the bedroom right off the “kitchen.” Honestly, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were all just one room attached to the bedroom and a tiny bathroom but she liked to differenciate them in her head. It made it easier thinking each corner of the studio were separate. Like she had more of a real house and not such a tiny apartment.

It made it easier for her to accept the fact that she was living in such a place even at thirty two. Living in a tiny apartment and still working at the bookstore for so many years. She wouldn't let herself count how many. Not today. The last time she'd counted the years she'd had one to many glasses of wine and she'd had to be escorted from the party by a nice young gentlemen without the best of intentions.

“It's not such a bad life though; I like all this space to myself.” She paused, staring off at the window who's curtains were always drawn. “Though I really should stop talking to myself so much.”

Her shoes there in the little place reserved for them by the stove, her purse by the door, her button down blouse pulled from her shoulders and laid gently in the dirty laundry basket, never more than half full. Her slacks next to them soon and her pajamas pulled from the top cubby of her dresser and soon pulled over her soft pale legs. These were all things as they should be and comforting. The plaid of her cotton sleeping clothes warm against her as she walked towards the stove again and saw the clock above it glowing its gentle green 07:16.

“Slurp. Meeeeooorrrw.”

“Oh Piddles, you're so silly”

Opening the compartment at the bottom of the stove to pull out the little frying pan she petted the cat, scratching him behind the ears.

“Not that you would care, you silly pood, but tonight the menu calls for pineapple curry. Mindy at work said it was quite good mixed in with the sauce and so I thought I'd try it.” Scratching him again behind the ears as he tried his best to push the pan out of her hand with his head she went on, “I thought I'd take a walk on the wild side. Scandal, right?”

Chuckling, she put the pan to the eye as she turned it on and began to assemble the onions and tofu from the fridge before pulling the can of diced pineapple from the pantry. Of course the sound of the can opener would send Piddles into a frenzy but that couldn't be helped. Fighting him away she opened the can, drained it and sat it down on the other side of the stove before turning to the vegetables on the cutting board.

“Silly cat. I promise it's not tuna.”

Of course the onions make her cry though, so she went to grab a preemptive tissue before cutting them only to find the cat's head buried in the big can of pineapple chunks, his whiskers sticking out around the edge.

“Piddles! What are you doing?”

Slapping him on the back of the head as she shouted at him, he pulled his head up and licked his little lips as if he'd just had the finest, freshest tuna.

“What? You weren't eating it.”

“That doesn't matter Mr. Piddles! You can't even digest that stuff, you silly cat!”

“Who are you calling silly? I'm just hungry.”

“Wait. . .”

Freezing, Elizabeth looked at the cat and his lips moving as if in speech, the words traveling as surely through the air towards her as hers had traveled towards him. His tongue still flicking over his lips and licking his chops.

“Pineapples, am I right?”

Easy (Part 3)

But when I look to the top of the snow drift to where I saw the movement, I see only a single silouhette in the bright sunlight which beams from behind it. A person stands there at the crest, tall and regal. Staring down at me I can see only that it is human and female and alone. It is a single silhouette bathed in golden rays and for the briefest moment I am filled with something I long ago forgot the word for.

“Agatha?”

And before I even know what I've done the rope is lying in the snow and my feet are leaving ragged craters in the soft white ground as I run toward the top of the bank, my boots sinking in down to my knees. Fast as I can I am there but as I crest the top she is gone and I am blinded. There is only the golden glow of the harsh sun in this thin air and I can see nothing for a moment but even then, when it finally comes together, there is only a shape running away from me in the snow. Toward the horizon and the sun.

She is beautiful even from here and I know that she is Agatha, her skin as pale and clear as the white of the fresh snow and her body as fit and lean as one who has been forced to live in this hellish waste for years. She is running and as she does her blonde hair waves out behind her and shimmers in the light. My own footsteps fall through the snow like a wounded horse in relation and she quickly moves away as I slow, winded and hurting as her silhouette is gone from view.

It's then that I realize, looking down at my own feet burried in the white that there are no foot prints save my own. As closely as I followed her path it is only my own steps I see and none leading away. None leading toward her or toward anyone.

Since I've no way to keep time I have no way of knowing how much time has passed or how long I've been running. As I begin to follow my steps back toward the fuel it begins to snow once more and I become afraid. Without my own steps to follow and if the weather should turn worse I could die here, nearly within sight of the station. Killed by my own hopes and imagination.

But I do find my way back and the cart is still there, undisturbed. The fuel is safe, for now, and I begin the slow process again of pulling it to a new hiding spot, this time behind a rock out cropping slightly closer to the station. The entire time, how ever long it may be, I force the thought of her from my mind. Force the idea of what it might mean from my mind.

The days are long here but they do not last forever and if I am to survive another night, if I am to live to dream again, I must hide the fuel once more and I must refill the generators. I must make sure they are secure and running so that tonight, when the cloud cover is right to bounce the radio waves off of, I can contact her again. It is miracle enough that I can contact her at all with what little power the set has. It would not do to miss any opportunity.

And I will not tell Agatha tonight of what happened. It would not do to worry her. She has enough on her mind and I know in my heart that I am as much the only hope she has as she is mine.

I only hope that she is also well. Lately she has been sounding more and more bleak and I worry for her sanity. It is all too easy to lose these days.

Easy (Part 2)

The outside world is all but completely white and there's only a slight hint of blue in the sky to tell me where the earth meets the horizon. I can’t help but look out at the landscape and see an empty old house with white sheets tossed over all of the furniture to protect them from dust. But it’s pointless really; the sheets are there to stay, the house will never be a home again.

I venture out during the day out of habit mostly. Sight is just as difficult in the white of day light as in the the near black of darkness. Though it is safer in the day, it is only a bit. Markers I left in the snow, sparse breadcrumbs to ensure I didn’t lose myself in the tundra, are barely visible now. New snow white sheets draped over the old furniture hide them.

I had tried to hide the cache in a way that would be too difficult for others to find, but not so difficult as to where I would not be able to find it myself. The first marker meant to travel west for a hundred paces. The second was east for fifty. The third was west again, for twenty-five. The fourth marker in the in the snow was the location, but a fifth and six marker were placed in the distance to lead anyone who might have attempted to follow the trail astray.

As I dig, her words echo in my head. She’s right, it is not easy. I’ve reached the point where I can’t remember how many days I’ve been here. I kept time for a while with my watch, but the battery eventually died. Honestly I've no idea how long it was dead before I noticed. After I did though, I kept with the clock at the station, but as I began to run lower on fuel, I killed all operations unnecessary to survival. And after that, I attempted to keep time with the passing of the sun. It moves slower here, the days and nights are hours longer than I’m accustomed to. I did the math to count the hours for a while, but eventually it grew tiresome and I deemed it pointless and ceased.
Actually, everything seemed pointless, after a time. Survival is our base instinct, our one true purpose, some would say. However, I found, the more I was forced to struggle, to persist, to revert to the base instincts of survival, the less I truly wanted to. I determined that was what separates us from animals. They seek simply to survive. We wish to live.

Then I found her voice, the voice that saved my life.

I play out different scenarios in my head; vivid and intricate day fantasies to carry me until the night when I can sleep and dream proper. In my mind, I've shaped her form as if she were molded from the sun. Carved out of gold, in my mind she radiates with enough warmth to melt the snow that's covered this world four times over. She is my hope, my fuel, and the only thing keeping me from shutting down and having a white sheet tossed over me like everything else in this forsaken house that is my world.

I pull the cache from the snow, four fuel canisters covered by a tarp and tied together on a rudimentary sled. It is not incredibly hard to pull; I had the forethought to hide it up hill, getting the difficult part over with early. Though now, finding somewhere better to hide it will be much more challenging than the first time.

Of course it's then, while I'm struggling to pull the sled from where it's lodge in the snow, that I see something out of the corner of my eye. A fraction of a second really, something streaking across my vision, disrupting the infinite white. I keep pulling, trying to tell myself that it was a bird, though I had not seen a bird in all my time here, or a mouse, though I had only seen them scurrying about the nooks and crannies of the station.

Then another something darts by in my peripherally and it becomes nearly impossible to convince myself that these are not the larger vermin that stole the fuel from the generators. Impossible to convince myself that they've not tracked me down to find the rest.

Easy (Part 1)

“I never said it would be easy.”

The sound of her words have barely left the ether that is the space between us when the gentle sound of the power stopping reaches my ears. I can hear the transistors cooling with the loss of energy and I know that I've lost her again. The generators have failed and again, I am alone.

As long as there is gas in the generators there is hope, or so I've told myself these last few weeks. If I can keep the power on for long enough there will be hope; not enough hope to assuage my fears, but more than I've a right to have. More hope for the future and more hope for her.

Walking from my workshop and down the dark corridor though, the little flashlight showing my way before me, her words echo in my mind and I feel the aloneness as a tingling in the air and a depth in my heart. The aloneness that comes when her voice is gone and it is only the idea of her and the dreams that keep me moving. The dreams that I tell myself come from her somehow, through the ether and through the space between us. The dreams are what keep me going as much as the idea of her light out in the darkness.

When I get nearer the door though, I notice that the light is gone from the sky in the window and I look to my watch to find the time is long past when I'd thought. It is night and with the night I hope that the generators have stopped themselves from lack of fuel, from only the lack of my attention to them and not some other force.

I am wrong.

There is a scurrying when I punch the little plastic light by the door and I see the mice moving away from me. Two of them, it seems as if they run together. Even as small, alone, and emaciated as they are I can see they have each other and through that they have strength. One of them looks up at me and pauses, the light of my flashlight glinting off its little pupils and I swear there is an understanding there. He is secure in his companion and I am not.

Looking away I open the door and I see that there are other vermin out, and larger ones. It hasn't been my lack of attention that's killed the generators, it seems, but something else. I silently hope they have found only the generators themselves and not the store of fuel I've hidden away as I click the door softly shut along with the dimming of my light. I hope too that perhaps they haven't seen me; hope is all I have these days, at any given moment.

Quietly listening though on the other side of the door it seems I've been lucky tonight. The steps of many feet move quickly away and I quietly step outside with the quick beating of my heart the only sound to fall upon the snow beneath my feet.

The generators are still there and what's more they are chained securely. It is only the half empty gas can I'd left beside them that are gone, along with the fuel from each tank, siphoned by the thieves. The vermin were thorough tonight but they were quick and they've left my power sources at least. The cache of fuel was beyond them as well and is safe but when the sun rises I shall have to hide it all again and better than I have before. I know that I have been lax in that, so focused on my work these past few weeks.

Focused on my work as well as on the dreams. The dreams of her.

Names (Part 3)

The stars know what I've done.

The trial, the prison. The called it self defense. It didn't hurt that the trial was in Russia and the other girl was an American.

The claw marks, they didn't explain. How, I don't know? It's over now.

Free, to run across the forests, to think I even could've been locked in that ship. The intricacies of the plants and the moss like the circuits and wires on a computer board.

The stars know what happened up there and how I took their child but do they understand the fear?

There is prey ahead, a girl. She's blonde

It reminds me of Sophie, before she changed.

The hand on the hatch's handle is not a hand, though I feel it at the end of my arm. There is fur there, and it is matted and greasy, hanging limply over the claws which shine in the harsh light of the LEDs. The shape, so much like a hand, is still mine and as I flex the claws I feel blood rushing from my heart and a pulsing in my mind. A hunger.

“Sophie? What are you doing in there? Just calm down, okay.”

I move my lips to speak, to calm her so that she will be easy prey, but there is only a grunt which come out in spurts. Like the laughing of a wolf ill accustomed to the way's of speech, it can't help but have the opposite effect.

“Sophie. . . are you sick in there?” She's breathing heavily and I sense it for the first time. I can smell her fear, even though the sealed hatch. I can smell her more than I ever could before and suddenly I remember those scents in the bunk, of fear and of frustration. “Those noises. . .”

She's whimpering a little now, though she doesn't realize it, and something makes me look in the mirror on the wall above the toilet. There's the creature again with it's blood red eyes, looking out at me and smiling. Grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear, it's fangs hanging and dripping. It mouth's a word at me and though its lips were not designed for such, I know what it's saying. It says, “Go.”

And I do.

* * *

The warmth from the rocks soothes me and I look away from the stars. They judge me for what happened amongst them, but the earth knows what is right and what is wrong. The earth accepts her children and understands their hungers and their needs. She created us so long ago and she always calls us back to her, no matter how far we may stray.

But the stars, they will not stop staring down at me. They know I took their child, but it was not my fault. Not my fault that the earth sent one of its own to them.

The courts called it self defense, though they didn't attempt to explain the claw marks and the deep red blood sprayed against the ship's windows. They didn't wonder why the girl might have attacked me and why I would need to trap her in the air lock. They did wonder at the flayed skin of my arms and postulated how she might've done it. I didn't tell them of course.

When I made it back, after bringing the ship in those last few weeks, they found her there still in the airlock and they said she must've had some weapon she'd hidden aboard. Some weapon which had been sucked out into space, for nothing on board could have left marks like that. Her body was still lying there covered in my blood when they found her, though by then the hunger was creeping up on me as well.

It didn't hurt that the courts were in Russia and the girl an American. Of course I was suspended without leave, but I'd stopped caring at that point. It let me go home, to the forests.

The moss under my skin is so intricate; to think I even could've been trapped aboard a ship up there with nothing but the judging stars. The weave of the lichen is like the circuits I treasured there and the wirey strands of moss like the insides of a computer. How much better here though, the circuitry which heals itself.

The reflection in the water of the stream beneath my perch is clear and in the moonlight I can see myself. The fangs, dripping and glistening in the dim light of the uncaring moon, the fur matted and white on my shoulders. The creature stares back at me and I am it. No wonder the other one felt she was going mad on that ship. This creature need's her mother earth to live. If only I had known then I might not have killed her before she passed on her gift.

But tonight I understand and my prey is before me, walking back to her house under the cover of the moss coated oaks. She cannot see me but I can smell her, can smell the hint of freshness which always comes with the young. Can smell that she is unaware and will be an easy kill.

I do wonder what her name is though. She reminds me a little of Sophie.

Names (Part 2)

“Scaring you? I was just…” I turn toward Darya. Her pretty blue eyes are a mix of concern and fear.

“Just needed a minute, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down? Your face, it was…” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know how to describe it. You’re so pale.”

“I’m fine, Dar.” I glance back at the mirror. The creature’s gone.

“Darya,” she insists. “My name is Darya. If you’re sure you’re fine…”

“More than sure, Dar…I mean, Darya.”

“Alright, then. Make sure not to over do it on your shift.”

“Yes, Mother.” I roll my eyes in jest, and it seems to work. A smile twitches at the corners of Darya’s lips before she sets off to the bunk for some rest.

I stand in front of the mirror, searching it. Darya’s right. My face is pale, almost skeleton-white, in the mirror’s reflection as I trace my fingers along the mirror’s edges looking for any sign of the creature. There’s nothing but a sense of dread, a faint heat emanating from the mirror’s surface. I run to my Evo suit and put it on in record time,and throw myself into the work in hopes of banishing the creature from my mind. It doesn’t work. The creature’s eyes follow all through my shift and stare down at me as I fall asleep.

* * *

Over the next few days, Darya watches me closely. At first I think it’s as much out of self-preservation than anything. A sick partner can make so many things go wrong; one wrong decision outside the ship can leave a partner dead or incapacitated; either way, your trip gets cut short and your pay cut with it. Darya, though, she cares enough to look after me, or as much one can do on a ship like this. It’s a moot point in the end. The creature dogs my steps on the ship like a poltergeist. I see it in the corner of my eyes when I’m by myself; it flashes across the mirror when I wash my face in the morning. Every night it’s the last thing I see as I close my eyes. On the few occasions I find myself staring into its eyes, I feel the dread, evil feeling that curdles my stomach and sends the blood rushing to my head. I’m losing my mind, but I can still do my job. It doesn’t matter how much I lose it so long as I can do what I’m being paid for. The end of the job is only a month out. I can make it. I can make it. I can…

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

No, I’m not. I try to tell her, but nothing comes out but a hacking cough. I can barely keep myself standing; my knees keep threatening to buckle even as I lean against the wall.
Darya places her hand on my back.

“It’ll be alright, Sophie.”

I want to to tell her to leave and run as fast as she can from me. That heat, that poisonous feeling, surges and falls like a wave in my stomach, and something – or someone – else skirts the corner of my mind, thinking thoughts that can’t possibly be mine. My vision blurs.

“It’ll be fine, Sophie,” Darya says again. “Just lie down, you’ll see.”

“No!” I can’t believe a voice so high and so scared, almost to the point of screeching, belongs to me. I push her away, and I hear her gasp as she stumbles and falls; by that time, I’m already running, panicking, with no better sense of direction than a frightened deer. I find myself in the bathroom. I lock the door.

I stop in front of the mirror. My reflection’s gone. In it’s place is the creature, its eyes burning hot, its lip curled into a sneer. It laughs, a low, guttural, booming sound, and I feel the last bit of myself slip away.

“Sophie! Sophie, are you in there? Answer me!”

My hand reaches for the door, but I’m no longer the one in control.

Names (Part 1)

The rock is cold and smooth beneath my fingers and after awhile, despite the chill, I start to feel it pulsing slightly. I feel the smooth stone moving under my fingertips ever so gently and through it I imagine I can feel the entire planet reaching up to me, touching me and soothing me. Telling me it will be okay. Willing me to be silent and calm.

The stars though, they tell a different story. As I feel the gentle pulsing of the stones beneath my hands and even my bare feet, the smooth cool surface of the broad river rocks under my naked calves and the gentle moss under my arm, I can also feel the stars looking down on me with a different pulsing. One altogether more ominous and not so comforting as the earth beneath me.

The stars know what I've done.

* * *

“Sophie, watch out!”

Darya's voice calls out from the earpiece in the slightly static way that everything has up here and I look up to see the girder drifting gently towards me. Silly Darya, always clumsy when she's in an Evo suit and always nervous about it.

“I see it Dar, don't worry. I'm a big girl.”

I hope she can sense the smile through my voice but I know it's hard for her. She is so sensitive to the smallest slight or displeasure. It's amazing how quickly one can become attached to a person in so few months. It is easier when there is only the two of you, especially if you occupy one bunk by turns. After a while you come to understand the scents left in the pinned down sheets when the other leaves. Come to know from the smell of their sweat if they are happy or discontent.

If they are nervous because a micro meteorite hit part of the rigging for the solar collectors. If they are nervous because they know they'll have to spend time outside the cabin with you.

“I'm sorry, Sophie. I just have such a hard time with these big gloves, you know? I was really designed to work on electrics, not this big brutish stuff.”

“Well don't think for an instant I'd ask you out here to help if I could do it on my own! I'd hate to put those delicate little hands of yours in danger.”

But she's right. Her hands really were designed for soldering connections on circuit boards and constructing tiny apparatus, not for moving three thousand pound girders around the perimeter of a spacecraft. Not that we can feel the weight of those girders. And those hands, so delicate. So unlike the big Russian farm girl I expected her to be when I found her name on the crew allotment. A shame—she would've been much more useful out here if she had been that Russian farm girl instead.

“I can handle this, even if I'm not a big bear like you. I'm just a little clumsy, that's all.”

“I know, I know. I'm just messing with you, Dar. Don't worry.”

She's silent for a while then, hovering on the end of her tether about twenty feet away, watching me as I slip the new girder into place on the solar arm and then pushing the damaged one off and away from the ship. I wish I could see inside that helmet of hers and know what she thinks in there. As many times as I've done these stints, I've never been so intrigued by the oddities of another worker like this one. Usually they are big thoughtless cows who have no thoughts besides the pay off at the end of the trip, not scared little girls with blonde hair and shifting blue eyes.

We shall see how we feel in another three months, at that. By the end of the out-solar run everyone reaches a point where they no longer care for the other worker, only for the voyage to end. I cannot wait for that time.

* * *

“I really wish you wouldn't call me 'Dar,' you know.”

“And why not? You call me Sophie.”

“Yes, but you introduced yourself as Sophie. I told you my name was Darya.”

“Oh, but that's such a silly name, Darya. So indiscriminately Russian and harsh. Dar has such a nice ring to it, though.”

“Maybe. I just like my name, that's all. Couldn't you respect that?”

“Meh, who cares. We only spend a few sentences together each day. I could call you anything and it would make no difference.”

“But Sophie, it would. Our names are all we have that make us human.”

“All we have? All we have?! And this spacecraft? These mining tools which we use to harvest the asteroids a million miles from our home planet? This doesn't make us something special? Something human?”

“No.”

“And what does, at that?”

“Our souls, Sophie. Our souls and the names they wear.”

* * *

It's staring at me, and in its eyes I see a fire burning. The flames lick up in little tendrils from around the deep orange pupil, licking the edges as if testing for a weakness there. Flicking out toward the edges of the eye as if each one carries the burning heart of a glistening sun. Solar flares of evil running out from the thing's brain and poisoning the world outside.

The eyes like worlds surrounded by the matted black fur that glistens in a way no fur should glisten. Fur that doesn't float outward in the weightlessness but instead hangs flat and dry, but glistening all the same. And why should a space faring creature have fur at all?

Fur or fangs, which glisten with the light from the ship's LED lights. Fangs which send tiny little globules of moisture floating in any direction away from them. Why should a creature in the night of space have fangs and fur at all.

“Sophie, why are you staring in the mirror like that?”

“What?”

“You're scaring me.”

A Cold Night (Pt. 3)

Well, there goes any chance of him being interested in me. Look at the crazy Asian snooping through the photos under the mirror while he hooks up the car, desperate to see if he's a keeper because that's a valid concern before I ask him to fuck me in the backseat. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know all that. Stop it, Rachel.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Goddamn it, now I just sound more crazy.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

Of course when he takes the pictures from me, while I sit there hoping he doesn't notice how red my face is, I mean really, it's just the cold, I notice he's got big hands. You know what they say about that. Gotta keep it together. Must be the cold getting to me. That and the full moon. It's a full moon right?

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there. I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Is he stammering? He is. Maybe he thinks I'm cute. I mean, I am pretty cute. And he's a tow truck driver so his standards are probably pretty low.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

* * *

“Maam? Can I help you?”

The hell? She may be cute but maybe this girl is a nut job. What the hell is she doing looking through my photos. I mean, they may just be random crap but really. . . Maybe she's a psycho who pretends to break down and then fucks with the tow guy. But I did see that busted radiator house when I popped the hood and damn if there wasn't antifreeze all over the place.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Oh. Why am I over thinking all this so much? Just a simple mistake. She was probably just curious anyway and that means that she's curious about me. Good sign. Means maybe she's interested after all. And a possible nut job. Oh well, they're usually better in the sack anyway. Not that that's all I'm thinking about. And now I've just been staring at her for like a whole minute.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

But her knees are in the way of the glove box and when she pulls them away I see that she's blushing like crazy. It's really cute on her though and I have to admit I get a little tingle when I reach past her knees in those skinny leg pants and see that underneath all those layers she's actually pretty petite. Man, I hope she's not a nut job. Let's see what she says on the ride.

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there.” Goddamn it, Ian! Never bring up an ex girlfriend when you're talking to a new girl! I mean, she's just a AAA pick up but fuck now I sound like I'm not interested and fucking A. Fix it. “I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Bad save but at least we both sound like nut jobs now. She's still blushing over there at any rate, and now we're driving off with that yellow Mercedes bouncing around on the flatbed out back. Still curious about that.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

“Um, what?”

* * *

“I mean, when all the pictures fell out and I picked them up and I saw a picture of this couple and at the bottom it said, 'Pineapples, am I right?' and I just wondered what that meant. I mean, I was curious.”

Like I don't sound like a retard now with all that pouring out of me. Good going. Guess I won't get to squeeze that cute butt after all.

“Oh,” He's laughing though. It sounds nice, like it comes from deep in his chest and somehow it accents his manliness when it does. Or maybe it's just the mountain man beard. “It's just this thing we had back in college, me and Eric. My friend in the picture I mean.”

He's looking at me and he's smiling and maybe he doesn't think I'm weird after all. “It's kind of juvenile I guess, but we used to joke about calling tits, err breasts, pineapples, and when he met Carol we were at a bar and when she walked by he said 'Nice pineapples on that one, eh?' So when they got married it was just kind of silly, you know? Just college stuff.”

“No, it's cute. She did have nice pineapples, anyway. I'll start calling them that too.”

Of course mine are more the size of tangerines but hey, girls from China can only ask for so much. Maybe he'll like 'em anyway. Brian never did so it'd be nice if someone appreciated them. He always wanted me to buy a bigger pair of pineapples but this guy, I don't think he'd be that way. Especially since I keep catching him checking me out and trying to hide it.

“So, you like knitting?”

“Not that I was spying on your or anything. I just noticed the stuff in the back seat when I was hooking the truck up to that pretty ass of yours.”

Did he really just say that? Yes he did.

“I mean, your car. Hooking the truck up to your car. Your Mercedes I mean, I like your car. It's really cool. I mean I like old Mercedes, and it's a cool color and--” And I'm laughing my ass off.

“It's okay. I'll take that as a compliment. Yours is pretty nice too, you know.”

And of course we're there before we know it. I guess I didn't realize how close I was to home when I broke down. I almost could have walked here.

* * *

“Um, is this the address?”

“Yeah, that's my house. I didn't realize we were so close though. And conversation was just getting interesting too.”

Interesting? Yeah, embarrassing too. This girl is getting me all mixed up, but I kind of like it.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” I smile at her but that's about all I can do. This is the part where I usually fail miserably anyway. “Let me just go unload the car.”

And there went my chance. And now I have to go back out into the freezing ass cold and undo her car so she can go do whatever it is she does and I can go home alone. Good one, Ian. Good one.

“All done. I managed to get the car in the driveway pretty well for you, hope it's alright.”

“Yeah, it looks good.” I guess she took off another layer while I was getting the car undone. I swear I couldn't see cleavage before. “Ian, I know this must be a long terrible night for you. Would you like to come up and I'll make you some hot tea? We can talk about pineapples some more. . .”

Wait, what? Is this really happening . . . Maybe being a tow truck driver isn't so bad after all.

“That would be amazing! God knows I love Chinese teas too. I mean, I'm just coming off shift too.”

Woah, curb your enthusiasm there boy. And of course I'm scheduled another four hours but damn, I'll make something up tomorrow. Fuck Bubba anyway, I swear she just winked when she got down out of the truck.

* * *

I promise I don't do this all the time. Inviting tow truck drivers up to my apartment, I mean, but really he seems like such a nice guy. And that thing they say about big hands . . . Well, let's just say that in Ian Boyd's case, they're right.

You Get Used to It (Pt. 2)

So of course I run back to the dumpster and I’ll be damned if little Victoria isn’t standing there with one of the friggin' feet in her hands. She’s holding it up, looking at it like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen, short as her dumb little life is, she's probably right and she has the big, creepy grin on her face too, like the Cheshire goddamn Cat.

Picture this cute little eight year old girl with pigtails and little bows on ‘em with her My Little Pony t-shirt and crazy colored polka dotted socks and she’s holding a severed foot like it’s a friggin' toy doll. That's Victoria, my creepy little neighbor. She likes to bother me and follow me around and stuff and she’s always asking if she can come with me to pick up a body. She’ll either grow up to be a serial killer or a president.

I shout at her and run over and knock the foot out of her hand. She’s all like, what did you do that for, and I’m all like, what the hell are you doing picking up severed feet out of a fucking trash can? That’s when she tells me she saw me putting on the boots and wondered if she could find anything else cool in the bin too, so she came out and looked through the trash and found the severed feet, which she thought were much, much cooler than my “stupid boots.”

The little brat, she wouldn’t know a good boot if it kicked her in the butt. Course, she doesn't have to lug dead bodies around all day. Dumb thing, making fun of my boots. So I made fun of her stupid pigtails and she made fun of the fact and couldn’t get a girlfriend and it kind of hurt a little bit, but she apologized and said there had to be some girl out there with low enough self esteem and daddy issues that would think I was I catch which made me feel better, so it was all good.

So anyway, I tell her about the feet and how they were in the boots and then she starts making me feel dumb as hell because she’s pointing out all the diseases or fungus or whatever the guy coulda had and she tells me to go inside and wash my feet, like I’m some kind of dumb little kid or something. Who does she think she is anyway, my mom?

But yeah, so I get through cleaning off my feet and I come back out and she’s sitting on my couch playing around with one of the severed feet again. She starts going on about how there's not too much discoloration on 'em so they were probably severed in the last eight hours or something. Then she looks at the top of the foot where it would’ve been attached to the leg and starts rambling about how the flesh was a little jagged or whatever and that they were probably done with a dull blade and took a lot of chops. Then she starts theorizing about mob hits or gang wars or a creepy serial killer with a foot phobia and how the cops would probably be looking for whoever the feet belonged to soon and how forensics would have a field day in my apartment, whatever that means.

So she kind of convinced me I should call the cops before she leaves and I was about to until I looked at the boots again. They were, like, a really nice pair of boots. If I told the police, they would just end up taking them as evidence and they would end up just sitting in some cold, dark room, all alone with no feet to feel the holes inside their hearts. These boots deserved a good home, you know. I couldn’t just let the cops come take them away. Plus, it’s wasn’t like the guy was gonna miss them; he couldn’t wear them anymore. He was probably chopped up in more pieces in more dumpsters around town anyways, so what help would could the cops really give him. Like I said before, I live in a pretty sketchy neighborhood, dudes probably got their feet chopped off all the damn time.

So yeah, I sit down and figure I'll finish the rest of my beer and play a little more Madden before I call it a night and hit the hay. But I get this call from work and Leslie, the actual Mortician, is all in a tizzy or something about how there’s a problem with the body. Like there ain't one, and the box was just full of blocks of cocaine. Then, in the middle of Leslie screaming his head off over the phone, there’s this loud ass banging on my front door and someone yelling at me to come out with my hands up. That’s when I lose my shit all over again.

Ezekial's Train, Epilogue

Ester hears the door open from the kitchen and puts the bowl of bread dough down, listening for foot steps. “Pa, that you?”

Waiting a few moments without answer, she peaks around the corner of the kitchen door and down the hall towards the front room, curious who it could be if not the Reverend. He shouldn't be home from the church for at least a few more hours, anyway. Leaving this morning he'd said that they'd be finishing that new sign he's been talking about for months.

A slight worry creeping into her voice she shouts out as the screen door slams, “Who is it?”

Words float down the hallway toward her and she knows the voice immediately. “Hey now, 'lil girl, don't be frettin'. Is just me.”

“Zeke!”

Dropping her spoon and running as fast as she can to the door she tackles her brother, wrapping her arms around him and making him drop his duffel bag to the floor with a thud.

Responding in kind he smiles down at her. “Man, y'all must be excited to see me, huh?”

“Oh, Zeke! We all been so worried!” She chokes the words out with a mix of happiness and frustration. “Why didn't you tell you was comin' back?”

Pulling back and looking at him again, noting the colorful purple pip on the front of his uniform she sees that his face is marred by a long grisly scar which crawls its way down his neck and under his dress shirt. “Zeke . . .?”

“Ah, that ain't nothin'. Jus' got hit by some shrapnel in that 'splosion in California, thas' all.”

“But you're alive! Do papa and mama know? He's at the church and she's out buyin' groceries.”

“Nah, thought I'd surprise 'em.” Smiling broadly down at his little sister, Ezekial Thompson sniffs theatrically. “Smells like you cookin' somethin' good anyway and I'm fit to eat a horse.”

“Oh Zeke, we thought you were dead!”

Wrapping her arms around him again, tears running down her cheeks and spreading into blotches on his white uniform she clutches him tightly enough that he coughs.

“Me too, 'lil girl, me too.”

“What happened?”

“Well, you heard about the big 'splosion at Port Chicago?” She nods and he goes on as if it's a story he's told many times before.

“I was workin' the docks with the other coloreds and that's what got me. Three hundred twenty men dead, and me alive. They says if I'd a been fo' feet to the right I'd a been cut right through by that flyin' piece a iron but right before the ship blew up . . . it was the strangest thing.” He pauses long enough that Ester looks up at him again and sees that his eyes are gazing into a place far away.

“Right 'fore it all blew up I had this vision. Musta been a guardian angel but he just looked like an old white man to me. Thought he was sayin' somethin' about you, but I couldn't make it out. . . Whatever which way, wasn't for that vision stoppin' me, y'all wouldn't have no big handsome brother no more.”

“Oh Zeke, that's all that matters. You can tell us all the rest after Ma and Papa get back. You okay though right, other'n that big scar?”

“Sho' nuff. Fit as a fiddle and hungry as hell.” Picking up the duffel bag once more he moves toward the kitchen, Ester trailing behind him. “Been havin' some right strange dreams since though. Thought I'd talk to Papa about 'em . . .”

Ezekial's Train, Chapter Seventeen

The morning sun is just beginning to climb over the horizon lazily and its warm light only trickles in on the soldiers waiting in the trench. Daniel can already feel the warmth of the coming day though, even in the dimness of the trench's shadows. On the morning breeze the comforting aroma of smashed grapes wafts over him and nearly drains out the smells of gunpowder, stale blood, and unwashed bodies.

The field in which the rude fortifications lay was a vineyard in the not so recent past and in the no man's land between the Italian loyalists and his own trench there still lies the torn and twisted remains of a few grapevines, ripped apart after being carefully tended for centuries.

Sounds of men yawning and stretching, the rustling of gear and weaponry, all these sounds float up from the trench as the sun rises and Daniel stands with the others, gently placing his rifle against the trenches crude wall. Pulling his hand away from the cool metal of the gun's barrel he looks down at his it and notices the smoothness of the skin under a thick layer of grime and dirt.

There are lines on the smooth skin of his hands where the sweat has trickled down from his arms and then made snake like patterns as if tracing the veins of the arm beneath. Holding his hands out before him and staring at them, turning them over again and again, rubbing them together he sees callused fingertips and notes that they are steady and strong.

Pulling his helmet from his head he sits it atop the point of the gun's barrel and begins to take off his shirt, undoing one button at a time gently and folding it delicately and neatly to lie on the ground by his mess kit.

No one notices him as he begins to walk to the ladder facing the no-man's land. The scant few other soldiers in sight are busy going about their morning ablutions. All sound dies away and to Daniel the world is silent as he grasps the first handle. The recently and crudely fashioned ladder's wood is rough on his still too soft palms as he climbs.

Nearing the edge he stares straight ahead and thinks of Ester. He pictures her face as he lifted her wedding veil seven years from now, the tears of happiness running down her soft brown cheeks while her grin split her face in half and melted his heart and matched his own.

Smiling at the thought of that day he reaches the last step and stands on the very edge of the trench, looking out on the torn land and the barbed wire which begins maybe twenty feet away. The debris of the grapevines lie around his feet and they crunch under his heavy boots as another American notices him standing above the fire line and shouts, then screams at him in words Daniel can no longer hear.

He walks forward across the field one slow step at a time and his last thought is of Ester walking through the door earlier in the day, still beautiful despite so many years gone by, her eyes wrinkling as she smiles at him there sketching and asks him to lunch. He smiles at her in his mind as the sniper's bullet tears through his brain and paints the ground red behind him.

As the body of Daniel Christiansen, shirtless and alone on a broken field in Southern Italy, falls backward onto the torn brown grape vines the shouts from the trenches stop abruptly and the field is quiet once again.

Far away, farther away than even Daniel imagined, Mordechai watches the future change and feels acidic tears run down his cheeks. The Watchers nod and look away from him, already struggling to trace who the next architect will be.

You Get Used to It (Pt. 1)

Okay, yeah, so my name is Mortimer and I work for this place called Addams Funeral Services, Inc. I know, funny right, like Mortimer the Mortician? Yeah, I never heard that joke before, so don't worry. You can call me Mort and if you call me Mort the Mortician I'll call you “Future Client.”

My own little joke see. Anyway, so I'm not really a mortician, I just drive the truck to pick up the bodies. A big old, banged all to hell late 90's Chevy van that looks like shit, but it gets the job done. We don't pull out those fancy hearses for just anything you know. They're expensive as hell and they look weird at a hospital anyway. The hospitals don't like it, that's for sure. One time I had to drive the big Caddy 'cause the Chevy had a busted radiator and man, did the people at the E.R. freaked out. They said it gives people the wrong idea.

Like all the people at the hospital aren't gonna die one day or the other anyway.

So today was just another kind of boring day, or at least for me. People always think it's crazy or weird to be around dead bodies all day but listen, you get used to anything after a while. Acclimatization they say, if you wanna be fancy. After four years of doing manual labor with heavy dead people I bitch more about my back than the smell, that's for sure.

But today was a Tuesday and listen, hardly anybody dies on a Tuesday. Weird I know, right? Like you'd think people would be dying for me to pick 'em up on a Tuesday, but no dice.

See what I did there?

You end up making a lot of puns working around dead people all day. Makes the time go by and it keeps you from going crazy. Nobody wants to be that guy who goes nutty and starts eating the corpses or banging 'em or something. Never seen that happen, mind you, but I know it does. Just makes sense it would happen.

Now I'm gonna think about something else so it ain't me it happens to.

So anyway, today was a Tuesday which was good. I like Tuesdays since I get to sit around most of the day and read. I help out with a lot of things around here, things you don't need special degrees for at least, and sometimes ones you do, but on Tuesdays there isn't that much to do. All the clean-up from the weekend funerals are done and like I say, nobody dies on Tuesday.

But of course today, I'm getting really into chapter 4,719 of the newest Stephen King book and the boss says we got a pick up at the airport. Some army guy. Now, airport pick-ups are nothing, just just drive out there, they help you load the box and you come back. When they're shipping the bodies on the plains they box them in these wooden crates that look like they come off of Indiana Jones, just a body in a box and nothing fancy. The coffins are too expensive to ship by air, so they keep it simple.

First time I saw the bag guys drop the box off like it was just more luggage I was kind of shocked but like I say, you get used to anything.

The weird thing about the army guys though, is they gotta make a big deal outta taking 'em off the plane. It's kind of cool and touching at first but well, you get the idea. Basically when I get to the freight depot at the air port there's a army guy there to meet me, usually a low officer or something and we both get in the truck, get all searched and stuff, and we get escorted out onto the ramp, right up to the airplane.

So what they do is they got these long conveyor belts they move the bags from the plain on, and they drive 'em around like cars. So they put that up to the plane and the army guy gets out and everyone lines up beside this beat to hell conveyor belt and salutes the box as it rolls down. Then everyone looks away while me and a couple of the bag throwers lug the thing in the truck. Army boxes usually ain't bad though, since half the time they're all but empty.

So anyway, I go pick up the box and it's a heavy one. The officer at the gate has a lot more shiny shit on his chest than they usually do but I hardly notice. Whatever, just another day. Drop the body off, sign off my shift, grab some McDonalds on the way home and eat, play some Madden and drink a beer.

Funny thing today though, I go to take the trash out 'cause I can't fit any more beer bottles in the bin with all those pizza boxes and I can't just set 'em next to the can 'cause I want to keep the place classy, ya know? So I take the bin out back and I walk through the gate to where the big trash can in the alley is, and I prop it open to dump the trash in.

But when I open it I look in just out of curiosity because weird shit shows up in our trash all the time. I live in a sketchy part of town and you never know what you're gonna find. This time it's a pair of boots. Nice ones too, they're the ones with that little white cross in a red square, whatever brand that is, and they look pretty new so I pull one out. Looks pretty close to my size too.

So I pull off my slipper and go to try the boot on but I gotta un-tie it first. Who throws out a pair of boots all laced up? When I go to put my foot inside though, they're something in there. Looks like a foot. So anyway, I pull it out and it's a little sticky but sure enough, the boot fits like a charm! Just my size.

I pull the other one out and sure enough, it matches. Got a foot inside too, damn it, but that one's not so sticky so it's okay. I throw it in the bin and dump the trash and head back to play some more Madden. I'm pretty proud of my new foot gear, that and I still got at least a six pack of Natty Light in the fridge, so it's a good day after all.

So like I say, you get used to things after a while. I'm half way through another beer before I realize boots don't usually come with severed feet in them and that's when I lose my shit.

Ezekial's Train, Chapter Sixteen

Mordechai takes another deep breath before the machine speaks for him once more. “You must die, in the past, before the Angels have begun to use you.”

“No!” Silent no longer, Ester screams at the bear. Mordechai cowers from the power of her voice and the guilt evident even in his alien posture. He can see that she has put the pieces together in her mind and gathered the implication there.

“Please, Ester.” Daniel seeks to assure her but then hecomes to the realization too and grips her shoulder, holding her back from attempting to attack the alien even as he resists the temptation himself.

Looking quickly at Mordechai though, he calms himself and brings Esters face to his, tears running from the corner of her eyes as they lock on his. “You did not see that world. You cannot imagine what is at stake.”

“I don't need to imagine anything! You are not going to let these aliens kill you for their own crazy plans. I will not let them take you from me.”

Wresting her arm from his, Daniel thinks for a moment she is going to slap him and he shrinks back but instead she merely crosses her arms and looks at Mordechai with eyes of fire.

“Please, Ester. Let me think. . .”

Reaching out to touch her again, seeing her chest rise and fall in deep breaths of anger and fear, Daniel is torn by the words of this alien who he is just now beginning to trust and the Angel's words and visions of the future and the past. The surety he once had is gone and with it his confidence. Adrift in events much greater than they ever seemed before, the only thing he knows is that there is more here than an old man and his wife at stake.

But looking down at Ester and her looking up at him with her lips pursed and her eyes glazed with even more tears still unshed, it's hard for him to imagine sacrificing himself. Either himself or his entire life with her. Though he knows in his heart that the words of the alien are true and knows that his life is as nothing beside that of the future's fate, he knows that he cannot embrace it until he is sure there is no other option.

“But--” There is a flash of realization in Daniels eye's as he turns on the bear man, anger falling from his words as his hands fall from Ester's shoulders and ball into fists. “You say this is not the first time they have tried to take our planet. If we stop them now, who is to say this will come to pass later still? You would have me lose my life, my past and future, my everything, for nothing! So that they might do it all again, years from now.”

“Please, Daniel, there is more at work here than you know. There is--”

“No!” Shouting now, his shoulders tense, Daniel cannot stop himself. “I am tired of this life you Angels and aliens, whatever you creatures may be have put upon me. There is always more to what is going on than what I know and I cannot trust it any longer. You ask the sacrifice of me but you give so little reason.”

“The city you saw? The visions of the future I showed you, that is too little reason?”

“It is too little for me to loose what is left of my life. Too have stricken from history the life I've led until now. To lose not just my life, but my life. To lose it all, even,” he pauses and sees his wife once more. “Ester.”

Gripping her hand tightly he glances toward her eyes and sees she is crying softly and silently once more. There is an understanding there and he is glad that she is silent. If she were to speak again it would make this even more difficult than it is. Make it harder to stay even as rational as he is now.

“Listen to me.” Mordechai's words are crisp from the machine as they reach ears that no longer wish to listen. “If you can stop them now there is hope. The Host, and more importantly Enoch has already spent much resources and time on this world. They will not do this indefinitely. We can make this world more trouble than they are willing to tolerate.”

“So that is it? That is our hope?” Laughing ruefully Daniel stares into the alien's eyes. “The only hope of the human race is to inconvenience your Angels until they leave? To be pests? You would have me die a pest?”

“But there are the Watchers now, trying to stop them too, as there were not before.”

“And you all are so helpful that you need me to die. You who are so powerful you cannot stop the Angels without my help? You helpless Watchers will fix things in the future?”

“Daniel, we are fixing things right now, if you will let us.”

“No,” Ester speaks to the bear as if he is a demon appeared in their home, seeking to be exorcised. “You ain't doing nothing but torturin' an old man who needs to be left alone. Why can't you get out of here!”

“Ester. . .”

“Please humans, we must stop this, there is not much time! We cannot argue this any--”

Break

Standing before the Angel once again, its human head speaking to him first, his words sweet but with force behind them, “We have abandoned you for many of your years, and now you would work with the Fallen against us.”

Daniel struggles to speak but it's as if his mouth is sewn shut and he cannot respond.

The Lion speaks to him next and his voice is angry and grating, “You will not speak back to a God, human. That you seek to defy us leaves you worthy of destruction.”

Phrasing his thoughts as if he is speaking to the monster, Daniel coalesces them into a strong voice, hopeful that they might see inside his mind. But you still need me because you are too weak to do this on your own.

And the angel explodes in a burst of light, casting Daniel down on the floor in a heap, warm light covering him in a soft layer of pain. In the place where the Angel stood, there is now a hovering light, like a cloud of fog infused with starlight. He can sense that it is sentient and somehow he knows that it is examining him. The words are in his mind as it speaks, and they are fluent Danish, more fluent than he has heard since his childhood.

The Fallen seek to lead you astray but you are more wise than those others of your race. We did well to find you as a vessel for this world it seems. You have seen the future with the betrayer, Malachai.

The words are not so much a question as a statement as Daniel knows that they can read his memories now, even as he tries to keep his true thoughts shielded. Yes, he has shown me your plans for my world.

And you found them terrible because you do not understand. The world you saw, painted as a wasteland by that one, was in fact a paradise. After the Rapture, it will be as your people have longed for, if you will allow it.

Even inside his mind Daniel is laughing as the entity speaks to him. Allow it? As if you've given us a choice?

The cloud speaks in a single voice that holds traces of the Angel's four, but still is strange. You, Ezekial, you have a choice. Know that there is a future for you after the Rapture, in our paradise. We will record the mind of your human self as you die and store it for the future. We will bring you back, and whoever else you choose, and you will live forever.

. . .Ester? Before he can stop himself the words form and he knows they are a mistake. The honeyed words of the Angel cannot be anything but lies and he knows this, but . . .

Yes. Your Ester with you for all eternity. By the side of us, your Gods.

Gods? Daniel looks down at his hands, or as they seem to be his hands in this world, and he sees the wrinkles there. Turning them over and examining them he sees the liver spots that have begun to appear on his skin which has become thin and like leather. He sees the last few years of his life in pain as Ester watches him die, knowing that she will outlive him and move on. He thinks of the years he's spent finding those wrinkles on his hands and he remembers that Mordechai would have him lose them. Mordechai.

No. If what you say is true and this world you give is a paradise, then why the Watchers? Why Mordechai? Why would they try so hard to stop you?

The words that course through Daniel's head, coming straight from the being before him, are like shouts that wash his thoughts away. The ones you call the Watchers, and the one called Mordechai with them, are fallen from the grace we offered. They are not worthy and they are not accepting of being led by their Gods. You will not listen to the Fallen. You must not.

No! Fighting against the force of the being's thoughts, Daniel screams inside his own mind and pushes against the words of the being inside his mind.

I will listen to myself.

Shatter

Ezekial's Train, Chapter Fifteen

After speaking the words, Daniel can see the sigh of relief that Mordechai lets out and sensing it, he wonders if maybe there was a choice to be made after all.

Speaking quickly now though, Mordechai sees the weakness in Daniel's resolve and pounces. “Ezekial, Daniel, whatever name we call you by, you are the key to stopping what you see.”

“Yah, I know! But how do--”

Shatter

The world literally falls away from Daniel in a way it never has and he feels plucked from the sky as if by godlike hands. The world in its pulling away from him is replaced then by flashes of blinding red light arrayed in long straight lines which form into complex geometric shapes around him. Surrounding him on all sides, moving through him even, there is a seeming rationale to the lines which coalesces and then is lost, repeatedly, moment to moment. His eyes searching, Daniel knows he cannot find Mordechai and as he looks down he realizes that he cannot find himself. It is as if he is a floating intellect in a sea of chaos, alone and afraid.

But then the world is all a sterile white and he is standing on a bare, pale gray plane. A perfectly flat surface stretches in all directions and Daniel knows for once that this is not a real place, but a construct within his mind. A vision in the truest sense.

The Angel standing before him though, is as real as himself as it howls in rage at him with all four heads, mouths agape. A screech of pain leaps from its human lips and roars and bellows from its other heads, all screaming together and bathing Daniel in a cacophony of rage, anger, and pain. All four of its wings flap furiously behind it and Daniel is pushed back by the force of the wind as its screams form into a single word which splits his head apart.

“No!”

Break

* * *

“Daniel!”

Ester is staring down at him as he realizes he is lying on their couch once more, the familiar room around him and the lights dim as he looks down to see that he is shirtless and covered in a thick layer of sweat. His head pounding with the fury of a migraine, he looks to the room to try and spot Mordechai but they are now alone.

“What happened? How long?” “The words break loose from his throat with a tinge of pain and desperation.

“You were gone for hours, honey.” The tears are mostly dry on her cheeks by now but he can see that new ones are forming as she pulls a damp cloth from a bowl beside the couch and wipes his brow once more. Just gone.”

Struggling to stand, Ester pushes him back down and holds him there, his body too weak to fight her. It is so like the times so many years before in her father's home, when he had nearly drowned in the visions and then in the Atlantic. The faces, his and hers, the same as then but older and even more creased with worry. “They got to stop doin' this to you! You can't take it like you could then, can't take it anymore like that. I can't take it anymore like that.” She grabs his hand and brings it up to her chest, clutching his fingers so tightly that they begin to feel numb. “Please baby, are you alright this time?”

“Yah.” He smiles gently through the pain and exhaustion, remembering again the times when she nursed him back to health, her gentle touch shocking him when it came from such a stern and powerful woman, her gentle words and voracious curiosity winning his heart. “I am fine, though my head, it is very much in pain.”

“Well, lay back baby. Y'all be okay, alright.”

“And where is our friend, the bear?”

“He's gone,” Ester tells him, wincing at the mention of Mordechai. “Done left when you went under, and ain't seen him sense. Don't worry now, you relax.”

“Yah, yah. You are right my dear but,” Daniel closes his eyes as he whispers to her. “He will be back.”

* * *

It is late in the night when the bear returns, though Daniel is awake to meet him. Unable to sleep since returning from the broken vision, the pain lessening with time, he sits in the study, having washed away his terrified sweats and changed into his bedclothes. Ester, refusing to leave him, lies beside him and he pats her hand gently as she rests, gentle snores drifting towards him in the silence as the alien arrives, his image forming slowly. As he comes together, he stands across the room with his shoulders slouched but he perks slightly as he sees Daniel is awake and well, if haggard. He speaks immediately, the worry coming through the chatter of the translator he carries once more. “You are okay? The Angels broke into our--”

“Yes.” Daniel interrupts him with a nod. “So I gathered.”

“They broke through and I was afraid, the Watchers were afraid that you might have been harmed by them. The breaking into one projection from another, it is . . .”

“Yes, I know. You can trust me, I know better than anyone.”

“I am sure. They did not kill you though, so they must still need more of you in this time, or they do not know the breadth of our plan.” The bear looks around as if to sit, but perhaps realizes mid way that he is not physically in the room. His face, even under the alien fur, is haggard and stressed. There is a distinct wobble that Daniel notices in the beast's left paw as it paces the room, silent. “As ironic as it may seem to you, we haven't much time.”

“I think we have had enough time, these last few hours.” Daniel laughs at the though, after having gallivanted from the past to the future with the creature so much and so recently, the idea is absurd. “Tell me though, could they have really have killed me?”

“Yes. They could have extinguished you through the vision. It would have been a stroke to outward appearances here. But that is not important.”

“Not important! That I could die?”

“Yes. Now please, bear with me.” Daniel laughs at Mordechai then, the stress finally breaking into his calm, ignoring the puzzled stare that he sees as the creature goes on. “You have to know, now that Enoch is interfering, things have changed. Our hopes are thin, but we must go forward.”

“Forward into what? All of this posturing and explaining, but still you have not told me what I am to do.”

Ester stirs beside him as the voices finally wake her, looking up to the bear and then to Daniel through groggy eyes. Looking down at her, he can see the questions in her eyes but he wills her to be silent. In the way of two who have spent so long together, she understands and sits up, watchful but quiet.

The bear's pacing increases as he walks in lanky strides from one corner of the room to the other, ignoring Ester all the while until stopping in front of Daniel and looking directly into his eyes. “That is because it difficult. It is not something you will do lightly, and I had hoped we could discuss it in the future vision, with the world we are preventing before you, as inspiration.”

“Mordechai, or whoever you are, sir Watcher, so long I have been at your whim. Please, tell me what it is that will stop that horrible place from coming to light. You said I must come with you, to stop me from doing what I did then. You said there was a cost as well. What is that cost? What do you need of me? Tell me now, finally.”

“Yes, there is a cost.”

There is a long pause before Daniel stand and breaks it, anger in his voice even as he suspects the answer he will receive. “And what, god damn you, is that cost?”

“Ezekial,” Mordechai pauses again until he senses the anger rising in Daniel once more. “Daniel, to save your world from that future, you must die.”