Nebraska Gothic

*The first half of this was titled"Tangled Roots" on this blog. I decided to post the second part, but then I remembered that after I finished this in may that I had changed the name to Nebraska Gothic. But this is the whole story under the name that I prefer. Please comment, leave feed back, give me something to think about if I have done the same for you. Written spring of 2015*

Rainer sat alone, burying his head in his arms, trying to drown out the lyrical steel guitar  music of Chet Akins that the bar keep stood and listened to while he wiped off the bar. The plain ordinariness of the dimly lit bar came to an utter disappointment. The fan spun around, mixing the salty bar air with the country dust blowing in from the open door. A fly landed on his hand. It buzzed, rubbing its little hands together, before shifting a little further. It tickled his hairy arms. He blew on it and it retreated, circling like a plane with a broken wing. Akins yodeled. Rainer sighed, leaning up on the bar, taking the glass once more, and sipping it. The beer in this country tasted like piss water. Some strangers sat at a table on the other side of the room laughed, and clashed drinks together. Rainer watched rising bubbles. He imagined them drowning. Reaching out, trying to take hold of something, only to grasp empty liquid and sink deeper into the abyss. The fate would be fitting for a such as this. Rainer thought it ironic that the bar keep rubbed so tirelessly his counter and glasses, when dirt and dust clumped together in roaming balls of filth over the floor. In the lamps hanging from the ceiling, dozens of insect corpses speckled the yellow glass. The mirror behind the bar, shaded as Rainer preferred, spotted with black dots and streaked with white marks. The barkeep had no hair on his head, but his face was wrinkled and scaled- burnt by sunlight. A white moustache, the same shade as the apron he wore. His eyes deep in his head, only faint blue sparks could distinguish them from dark holes. His age perhaps contributed to the status of the bars maintenance. He thought of the bar he enjoyed growing up back in the fatherland. Ran by an Italian man who stayed behind the bar much like this old man, wiping glasses with a dirty rag, smoking a fat cigar while his daughter, Abelia, pristine and hospitable, cleaned and brought men their drinks. She might have been his first crush, he tried to recall. Her flowing black hair, endless amber eyes, her Mediterranean soaked words. Once a drunk Austrian slapped her ass. The girl, only a soft faced teenager, didn’t know she could pour his beer over his head. So Rainer stood up, and did it for her. He wondered about her, what she was doing, if she had survived the war… the bubbles rose and dissipated. In the glass of putrid beer, he imagined her lungs being filled as she gasped for breath. Sinking lower, kicking and grabbing, eyes popping from her skull, head feeling like it would pop off. Into this fantasy Rainer became to involved that he didn’t notice the stranger plopping into the seat next to him. All her felt was the tap on the shoulder that interrupted his concentration, and drew him to look at a young Aryan. Blue oil stained jeans, and a white shirt also stained with grease and oil, his voice twinged with the slur of the uneducated.

            “Hey there, pal. Mind if I sit here?”

            “Is zer somezink I kan helf you wiz?”

            “Well, not really. Just lookin’ for some company. Couldn’t help hearin’ your order that from ol’ Gus. That accent of yours, you from Berman by any chance?”

            Rainer smirked, and turned his head to the American.

            “Klose. How kan you know?”

             “I just came back. The beer is here isn’t as good anymore,” The man was young, blonde. He laughed was if he knew the kraut he spoke to. “But I know what you’ll like. Gus, Give our foreign friend here some Klienes…”

            A glass of swimming gold was placed before Rainer. He sipped it. Then took a mouth full.

            “Is not zo bad actually. May I ask vat your business in Germany vas?”

            “The war. 13^th armor.”

            “Ah. Congratulations on your save homecomink, and ze fictory earned by Allied forces.”

            They clashed their glasses together.

            “Yeah it was somethin’. I’m glad to be back home.”

            “Zis town ist your home?”

            “I grew up in a farm south of the limits. I’m workin’ on cars now. That’s what I did back in Europe, worked on engines. I didn’t kill no one.”

            “Hitler’s deaf pleases me.”

            “You seem to be in the dumps, buddy. Is something eating you?”

            “A voman. I haf searched all across zis vasteland, but kan’t find her.”

            “Women… can’t live with ‘em. Can’t kill ‘em.”

            Rainer laughed, first a chuckle, then threw his head back, patting his new friend on the back.

            “Perhaps you’fe zeen her. Sche is zomeone I vas acquainted wiz back in Germany. Older woman. Aged at forty five, though she looks younger. Dull brown hair that curls at her shoulders. Dark eyes. Alvays wears a nice dress. Maybe a ruby necklace. East Germany. Goes by Ada, I beliefe. Maybe traveling wiz a kompanion.”

            “I… did see two women come in to get an oil change. One was young, like a teenager. She did all the talking.”

            An eye brow shot up, Rainer turned his head. He reached into his pocket, drew out a wallet, and flipped out a photo.

            “Vas zis her?”

            In the frames was a woman with brown hair at the beach.

            “That’s her. She a friend of yours?”

            Rainer tipped his glass up and drained it.

            “Did you zee vere zey ver goink?”

            “They went west. Can’t say where they were headed. That was a few days ago though. Sorry I can’t be much help.”

            “No, no, no, friend, I’m fery glad to hafe met you. Here,” He slipped the American a bill with Benjamin Franklin’s face on it.

            “Wow, buddy, I can’t take this.”

            “No, I insist. It’s rude to refuse a gift.” Rainer produced another hundred into the American’s hands. Gripping onto his hand. Tight. “You never met me.” Then he got up, and hurried out.

            Leaving the bar was like passing into another world. No clouds in the sky. The noon sun stabbed him in the eyes, and everything glared with its radiance. He kept one hand over his brow, while leaving the other in his pocket, digging for keys. The gravel crunched beneath his loafers. A black Volkswagen waited for him, its rear facing the windowless structure, its front facing the open road spilling into the west, drawing a strip into the spanning rows of growing sprouts. The square divisions bounded onward, until the road became a faint line over the blurring heat waves. Above it, the dome of blue of sky watching over everything.

 Slamming the door of his Volkswagen, he decided to have a cigarette. He pulled one out from the pack he kept in his breast pocket, but couldn’t find a lighter. He looked in the side compartment, checked the dashboard, checked the space by the clutch. Finally, he opened the suitcase on the passenger side. Flipped through his black uniform until he found it. Besides his medals. Sliver box, crested with a wolf over an iron cross. He lit his cigarette, but before he closed the suitcase he pulled out the luger, and snapped in a clip of 9mm. Put in the glove box, took a deep drag. Smoking helped him drive while a little intoxicated. He pulled out, with plenty of gas in the tank and hurried away from town. He had a long way to go….

 “Where are we going?” Esther asked her first question. The trees had disappeared. The telephone poles too. The fences. The cattle, the crops. The land that flashed by the Ford she drove had gone from vibrant and green, to an ocean of yellow, stiff, dry grass poking out from dust and sand. The further she drove, the less grass, and more mounds of sand, more flat, cracked, empty land, interjected only by ridged, fat stalagmites biting from the ground. Even the road had become neglected. Large cracks shook the car. Esther couldn’t take her eyes from the road. Every ten minutes, she needed to swerve to avoid pot holes and gaps in the road. Yellow weeds peeked from the cracks. Cow bones littered in the dust. Esther blinked.

Nothing lived however. Not even birds or snakes. No rubber skid marks on the road. The only signs of civilization being the occasional prairie home, with the roof caved in and log walls crumbling. Stone obelisk, carved up with unreadable markings reaching towards the sky, hung on the horizons. In the distance, a ring of dark clouds gathered.

            Ada put her letters down. Esther could see the handwritten German, but didn’t have time to read any before she had to swerve around another grassy hole in the road. More and more cracks shook the car. In the distance, she could see the road ending. Esther looked back at the stack of letters. One photo stuck out. A postcard, with the image of a towering tree being struck by a flash of white lightning. Similar to what she had received in the mail the day she met Ada…

            She woke up at dawn. The rooster in the house woke her up. It kept crowing, and crowing until she got up from her mat. Odd enough, it had taken her away from a dream she had. The feelings in the dream felt so real, so strong so pleasurable. Along a dirt road she walked, until she found a lone mailbox. She waited, until a cloaked figure carrying a black suitcase approached. He stood quietly. Clothes covered in mud and dark stitching. The corn danced in the wind, blowing away the unforgiving heat. He drew back his hood, revealing peeling white skin spotted with open sores and swollen knots over a patient expression. Gray hair ringed around his bald head, hanging down like a wispy net. Purple fumes emitted from his shadow. He held out  something for her to grab. His hand flaked and dry, dangling a postcard from his contorted fingers. The image of the tree facing Esther. She took it from his cold hands, than the rooster woke her up. All the animals lived in the coop. Usually the roosters stayed in their pen in the back, but this big red guy got out somehow. Esther kicked at the rooster, herding it over the dirt floor back to the pen, but found it locked.

            Mom wasn’t home. She spent maybe one day every few months at the farm. Esther concluded that maybe she came home, and locked the big red guy up. The girl went over to her mom’s mat in the upper loft of the shack, but found it empty, the blankets nicely folded the way Esther had left them. Her stomach rumbled. She opened the ice box. Grabbed a been sprout and chewed on it. For dinner, she planned, chicken feet again. The rooster cawed again, outside of its pen, standing in the doorway. Esther looked back at the pen, cage still locked. Roosters and hens scrambling about. She stepped to the cage, and unlatched the gate. The chickens needed exercise, while she did chores. But the rooster kept crowing, until she looked at it. Frustrated, she stormed at the bird, but it hopped away out the door. She followed it outside. Kissed by the sun, the land consisted of dirt. Nothing grew for miles. Except for the measly bean garden and the patch of dwarf sized turnips. Her attention wasn’t to the desolation of the land or the poverty that her family had abandoned her in, but to the mail box down the trail that lead to the road. She could see it over the lip of the hill. The red flag erect against the black paint. The rooster crowed. She jogged over to it. Maybe a letter from mom. Maybe a letter from brother Johnny who stopped writing her shortly after going to the war. Her dress, once pink, now faded and caked in filth, clung to her legs. Her hair, tied into a tight knot on the back of her head, didn’t bother her, but she missed the way it bounced when she ran. That would’ve been before dad died. Maybe there would be catalogue in the mail, like she used to get. She could browse the fashions of Hollywood, and write in her journal about how she thought she would look in the gowns and with the hair styles of her favorite actresses. She saw a movie once. When she had been in Chicago. She didn’t remember the name, but she thought the lead female was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Not that she would ever look like that, own any of that glamour, or meet anyone who even had that luster of a movie star. Only being fifteen, Esther thought it a silly idea to imagine herself on the silver screen. Who had the time to put on makeup and style their hair when the chickens needed feeding? Beans needed catering. Turnips needed to be sold. Laundry needed to be done. Linens needed to be changed. The chicken coop needed cleaning. The floor need new hay. Dad’s truck needed an oil change. Maybe she would search the creek for discarded lumber. Flat sheets of plywood, she could place on the dirt and use as a floor. Dad would be so impressed, she imagined. Mom would be too, when she came back. The woman had gone off with preacher Cat O’Maly, a traveling evangelist. Mom used go on and on, spending breakfast praising the man. Repeating his words, how he said their problems would be solved with prayer. Just pay to be in his congregation- but the next month he said god called on him to move to another town. Mom went with him, taking her savings with her.

            The mailbox flag stuck out like a red thumb on a hitchhiker. She opened the mail box, its hinges squeaking. Heat escaped out, cobwebs hung over it, a spider crawled over the mouth and crept inside to lay its eggs. One paper slip waited. She reached in, gingerly pulling it out, holding her breath. She hadn’t noticed how thin her wrist had become. How sharply her bones stuck out from her skin. The bracelet she wore hung like a rope. It once clung like a vice. Her arm was like a pale snake biting the slip, then retracting from the infernal box. The rooster stood across from her, watching. She looked at it. A photograph. A towering tree, watching over a wasteland, higher than anything else. Any plateau in the background. Any hawk flying around in. A white bolt of light night flashed into it. On the back, handwritten in German, drive to town today and wait by the war memorial. You’ll know when you see her, - a loved one. The only people she had known that knew German were her parents. Immigrated before she was born, when they were fresh faced and clueless about farming. The ideas spun in her head like a Ferris wheel… She didn’t do any of her chores. She went back to the shack, stripped her dirty old dress and left it on the mat. She opened her mom’s chest, but she had taken the prettiest dresses. Only thing left was a tulip colored shawl, a thin blouse, and a ragged pair of jeans that belonged to her brother. She put them all on. Hanging from her body like loose bags, she had no mirror to assess herself. She took the pair of her father’s boots, and his truck keys, and went down to the creek to clean her hair, and her hands. Dirt washed out. The acne and sores on her skin relieved. She than put on the boots, and ran to the truck.

The town must’ve been Wild Creek. The closest for miles. The biggest in the county. Ten thousand people, five thousand houses, three streets of downtown with lights always on. The war memorial stood in the center of town. A tall bronze structure of a man on horse, pointing his sword at imaginary Indians. The inscription below, in memory of the Battle of Wild Creek, 1813. Esther sat at the bench. Around noon, a single woman approached. Tall, older looking, but stoic, majestic, dignified. Like a movie star. Long brown hair, a flowing gown. Sparkling black shoes. Leather gloves, and a cigarette burning in a long white holder- just like in the movie all those years ago.

            The woman spoke German. She told Esther that she was an immigrant, coming through to meet family in the west. She needed someone to drive her, and her luggage, and since she spoke no English, needed someone to do so for her. Ask no questions. Keep speaking to a minimum. She would be paid three hundred American dollars a day. Esther did the math in her head the moments the sentence had been said. After she got to the far west, a place beyond the panhandle of Nebraska, she would have accumulated nine hundred dollars… even more on the return journey. She agreed, concerns over the chickens and turnips pushed back in her mind. Mom could come back, and need them. But a part of her no longer expected she wanted to show back up. Esther drove her employer to the Wild Creek hotel, and they both waited inside as bus boys carted out bag after bag of luggage. Enough to fill the bed of dad’s Ford. The woman gave the bus boy a hundred dollar bill, and pointed down the road before investing herself in  a pile of handwritten letters.

            Once out of town, and on the road, the woman plainly stated in German,

            “My name is Ada.”

“Esther.” The girl replied. The whole way, Ada kept her nose in letters. Page after page of letters. When she wasn’t reading them, she wrote in a journal. Like they agreed, they didn’t speak. Esther stopped to fill the tank with gas, to eat, and at the end of every day they slept at a motel. Esther tried to interject Ada, and explain that they could get their faster if they just drove all night, but the woman cut her a cruel glare and shushed her. Esther didn’t try to argue anymore, keeping her comments inside. It worked out. This way she would accumulate more money. With that money she could find her mom, and together they could live in a nice house. One in the country, one in the city, didn’t matter. Nice clothes. Indoor plumbing. Wood floors. Steak for dinner every night. A fluffy pet cat.

            In the motel that night, Ada paid the bill while Esther moved in the luggage. Laid it all out by the bed closest to the closet, like Ada had instructed. Then, she hoped in the shower. Then curled in the bed. Ada took out all of her dresses, and hung them up. Beautiful, everyone custom tailored to her body. Blow drier, make up, jewelry, the woman put on the nightstand. Esther wanted to talk the night away. She never believed she meet a woman like this, and a German one at that. She cuddle her pillow, imaging herself wearing the gown of Gothic princess exiting a castle. The lights flickered while Ada showered. Esther became curious. She got out of bed, tiptoed to Ada’s luggage. One case, she opened. Inside, stacks of worthless Riechmarks. She closed the case, sealing it, and fitting it just where she had left it. Then, she noticed one suitcase apart from all the others, under Ada’s bed. She got on her knees and palms to look at it. Black, with silver lining. He took it by the handle, dragged it out. Heavy like bricks. A code was needed to open it. She shook it. Something clunked. Then she heard the shower water turn off, and she shoved it back under the bed and jumped beneath the covers once more. Anxiety wore off fast, and the girl slipped into sleep. The mattress felt like a cloud. Ada, however, twisted and rolled all night long.

            In the morning before they left, Ada took the sweet time to put away everything she had taken out. Esther waited outside, sitting by the curb, poking rocks with a stick. Ada stepped out.

            “Come in.” She ordered. Hair rollers in.

            Esther followed.  Ada stood before the luggage, half of the clothing still out.

            “Did you touch anything last night?”

            “No. I’d never.”

            Ada rolled her big blue eyes, turned around the closet and pulled a small dress from a hanger.

            “You dress like a peasant girl. It shames me. Wear this.”

The dress fit perfectly. A bit like a maid outfit, it was black with white laces, and white ruffles, but Esther had never worn anything so comfortable. While Ada finished packing her things, Esther rolled her hair into a knot on the back of her head, and stood in front of the mirror. Music played in her head. The kind from a music box. She imagined herself as the turning figure.

               On the last day of their journey, they had crossed the Missouri river. East Nebraska rolled with hills. Forests, groves of yellow flowers. Fenced off prairies filled with cows. They followed telephone poles, dotted with birds. Deer tip toed over open fields of grass. The sky stretched on without end. Esther’s ass became sore. No matter what position she moved to, it remained sore. No matter how far back she had moved the seat, her spine pinched. She kept going anyhow. About an hour of driving and she had taken Ada sixty miles inland. That’s when the engine began to stutter. Smoke puffed out. The power behind the accelerator had faded. The pedal sank beneath her boot, but the speedometer didn’t change. The truck chugged along, wheezing like an old smoker. At last it, died by the side of the road. Esther clung to the wheel, breathing through her nose, thinking of what to do next. Kept speaking in German, Esther didn’t listen. She was too busy thinking of what could be wrong with dad’s truck. Remembering times it had broken down while he drove with her as a small girl. Ada stormed out of the car, screaming at the top of her lungs- like a cat being bit by a dog. Esse Schiesse und Sterben! She commanded, kicking the truck with her heels. Turning away, to the country, diese verdammte Ödland! Esther blushed, climbing out of the car to check under the hood. So quickly Ada’s face had deepened into a furious red from a quiet pale. So fast, from the majestic beauty to a snarly toddler throwing a nightmarish tantrum. She had to giggle a little. 

               Smoke bellowed from the hood. She shut it, took off the parking break. Decided the rules needed to be broken. 

               “Misses, we need to push the car to town. It’s the best thing we can do.”

               Ada sat in the grass, fatigued, breathing and sweating like she had finished a marathon.

               “I refuse to touch that peasant machine. I will recruit a new driver with a superior automobile.”

               “Look around, Misses. There is no one for miles.”

               Ada stood up, and starred into the distance, wiping the sweat from her brow, brushing her perfect fluffy hair from her shoulder. Esther couldn’t be certain because she had begun to push the truck, but the lady may have been crying. Inch by inch, breath by breath, dad’s truck moved. Ada looked on,

               “You dumb girl, what do you think you’re doing?”

               Esther didn’t answer. She had seen a sign not too far back. Elkhead pop 230 10 mi. She needed to push. Time couldn’t be wasted. Her shoulders burned, her ankles ached and tightened. Her legs quaked where she had never felt them before. With each breath however, dad’s truck went forward. The machine moved slowly, but progress was being made. She could do it, she kept telling herself, body heat raising, sweat pouring from her hairline. It reminded her of the time, back when the family had cows at the farm, when her favorite cow had been stuck in the mud, and how her dad had put a rope around its fat neck, and pulled, and pulled until the cow was free. Ada followed, watching, walking on foot, anxiously shifting her eyes around the plains. The cows behind the fences mooed to each other, looking at the two ladies and dad’s truck.

               “These beasts are mocking us. Stop what you are doing.”

               “Moo” said the cow.

               Esther couldn’t hear. Blood rushed through her head. All she could hear was the crackle of rock beneath the turning wheels. 

               “Mooooooo,” the other cows replied.

               Birds on the telephones wires scurried away. The sun moved across the sky. The clouds came and went. Over the horizon a red hot rod appeared. Ada stopped, elated, hollered, jumping up and down, waving her hat at the speeding vehicle. Like a bullet, it sped by, leaving the woman standing in the violent gust of wind, crestfallen. Esther kept pushing the machine down the road. In the distance, poking over a grove of trees, a water tower stood like a toothpick against the backdrop of the sprawling land. The birds came back, landing on the power line before Esther. Black crows, they each cawed to each other. Ada didn’t pay attention to where she walked, her attention so attached to Esther. A dead raccoon lay before her, its organs squished from its mouth, tire tracks over its belly. Her heel hung over it, but she caught a glimpse before she planted her foot into its gooey body. She took a step back, observing in disgust, the flies, the maggots, the creature’s bulging white eyes looking straight at her.

               The crows flew off into the sky once more. Esther looked up to notice the clouds fleeing to the horizon, exposing the sun hanging in the middle of the sky. Heat exhausting the land. The heat waves sizzled the cement. Blurry squiggles shook the road before her. The machine creaked but kept going. Sweat poured into her eyes. She wiped it off on her shoulder. She wished for that refreshing breeze that she had dreamed of what felt like years ago. Then a shadow fell over her. She looked over to see Ada, coat and heels tossed in the back of the truck, pushing it along. Her red face pouting as she put her delicate weight into moving the machine. The water tower ticked closer.

               Elkhead appeared sooner than either of them anticipated. A small collection of buildings. Quiet, still. A “welcome to” sign appeared. Their muscles burned and strained like weathering belts being pulled over spinning limestone. Esther’s boots felt like a marsh of hot, wet sweat. Ada’s stockings tore, her feet black with debris, small cuts gauged her heel and the flesh between her toes, and despite her heart feeling like a cooking grenade, she kept pushing the car. 

               “Kaw,” Heckled a crow.

               They passed a white picket fence, with a single tombstone sitting within. Crossed over a small bridge laid across a thin creek. Closer they came to the road that pulled into Elkhead. A bar sat near the entrance. “Gus and Company” The sign said. Down from its parking lot, laid out like a tongue, was a strip of street rimmed with buildings. Each about the same height, some thicker than others. Broad windows bracing the face of each one. The car rolled past Gus and Company. A few trucks parked in the front. No noise came out. A dog barked in the distance. No other cars parked on the strip. No other people walked out. Esther pushed the car a little further, taking a look into the plate glass of the candy store. A display of baskets filled with wrapped candy, but dark emptiness the rest of the way through. A hardware store, some other dark places until at the end the road, a garage. Also, at the mouth of the town is a hotel. With three rooms. Connected to it is an old railway station. The mechanic, a young blonde man, told the car needed an oil change. The two women spent the rest of the night in the hotel. 

               The caretakers, clearly bored from lack of customers, kept the room clean. Ada bitched and moaned the whole time about its condition. Esther thought it was fine. No rats. Carpet vacuumed. Mirrors clear without spots. Hot water. Two soft beds. Ada didn’t shower. She walked into the room, took a look around, and collapsed into bed. Esther bathed, came back to the room, clicked the lamp off and laid down. Her notion of the movie star beauty next to her faded into a dark spot in her mind. No audience clapped for her. No flashing lights pop from the bulbs of cameras. Yet she felt a satisfaction that kindled new feelings within her. The relief of being free from pushing dad’s truck. The comfort a soft warm bed, and the strangest feeling that she didn’t need the cameras, the lights, the applause. She laid still, her muscles aching, constricting and tightening. But she felt like she could’ve pushed dad’s truck another ten miles. Ada ruffled in her sheets, moaning in an exhausted agony. She rose, grabbing her pillow and punching the hell out of it before laying back down. Make up ran down her face like an unskilled clown. The sun had begun to set, a pale haze of blue remained in the room. The shadow of dying light. She sat up again, taking a tissue from the table between the beds and wiping the black streaks from her cheeks, and the smeared lipstick from her mouth. Turning to Esther, curled around her pillow, she spoke in English.

               “Zis I love about your country… flat land. Kan puch kar wiz no hill.”

               Esther froze, feeling the woman’s dull eyes pushing down on her with the anticipation for a response. She felt so stiff, so judged, that she couldn’t bear to move or to speak. She lay there, and pretended to sleep. The next morning they would part, drive from the fertile east half of the state to the dry west, until the roads they drove on disappeared from the map…

               …The road had disappeared. Esther slowed dad’s truck down found a path cutting through the fields of prickling brown grass. Ada pointed. “There.” 

            On a ridged decline of land, sticking out like thumb.  Thousands of tentacle like roots twisting and screwing their way over each other into the dirt beneath a thick cluster of torn stumps crowned by stump that mastered them all. A massive tangle, with gaps open mouthed, wide enough to swallow a person whole. A chill fell into the air, as if the heat had been sucked up into the sky. Clouds gathered like roaming cattle. Ada wasted no time. The minute Esther hit the brakes, she jumped out, grabbing the black suit case and striding to the stump.

Esther got out after her and followed. The wind blew harder. Colder. With a frustrated voice behind its push. Her skirt pulled against her, the folds flapping with the wind, blowing through her shirt and throwing her hair into a blooming tussle. Ada hustled nearer. Holding her chest, forgetting the car and its driver, looking away as if they were a broken promise. The tree had been colossal, a stem towering over the plains. Watching over the bounding land, shadows spanning miles. Esther followed Ada up to the mighty stump. She called to her,

            “Misses! Climb down,” Esther didn’t anticipate a response.

            But Ada looked back to Esther, then beckoned before turning her attention to digging a heel into a gap and climbing over tangles of roots. Esther made her way, her skin prickling with the long gust of wind, and dust. Small needles of cold fell from the sky in transparent crystals. The clouds became darker. Ada hurried to the top, suitcase in hand. Esther followed. Her mind not on the money, but on the strange woman’s safety. The chunk of tree couldn’t be real, even as she stuck her shoes where she had seen Ada’s, and pulled herself along the same path, holding her chest close to the wood, she didn’t believe it existed. She was dreaming, climbing a jungle gym, enduring false illusions of freedom. But the roots began to move. She felt them pick at her ankles like a small dog. She felt them try to wrap themselves around waist. The contact scratched like sand paper. She didn’t look down, but held her head straight up at Ada, who disappeared over the edge. Esther pulled herself a little further, the roots constricted tighter, and pulled with ferocity. Her muscles burned, more so then when she had been pushing the ford. But she inched closer. But with every ounce of resistance, her body began to fail. Her stomach boiled with putrid acid. Her shoulders shook, her vision blurred, and her legs became numb. The tree seemed to stretch on to the sky, she reached with one last grab, thinking she saw the gloved hand of Ada reaching down, but she caught nothing. Down she went. Dollars in her purse, safely sitting in her father’s Ford. Thunder brewed in the distance…

            Ada jumped at the flash of another explosion from her window. The hum of the bombers never stopped. She dropped her suitcases, but scrambled to pick them up. She called for the servants, but no one came.  She sighed. Maria had been around that morning, but she began to believe that maybe it was understandable for the maid to be away from Bormann’s mansion at a time like this. More bombs went off, pounding like thunder. Strobes like lighting. Her skin felt stiff and she trembled. Sweat dripped down her back. The luggage pulled on her muscles. The other bags she had left at the door. Her car she had to drive herself. It waited at the driveway. Despite her flushes of heat, the mansion felt chilled as a rainy night. She left her bedroom for the last time, turning into the dark hall way. The lights popped off hours earlier. None would turn on. She could only see the window at the other end, a pale square against blackness. The beam exposed the corner of the hall the closer she got. Her heels clacked against hard wood. Despite the bombing, despite the fires riding alongside the buildings of Berlin, she found time to do her hair, and put on a fabulous white dress. At the window, she pressed her cheek against the glass to feel the cold wetness. The moon was full, the night was clear. Like triangles of birds flying south for winter, the planes flew overhead. The sirens sang, their song calmly warning citizens to seek shelter or be blown to pieces. Her head jumped at a bang that echoed throughout the house. She looked around the corner. A door was open. She waited, anticipating a follow up sound but nothing came. She continued, walking softly. The sound of her clacking heels made shock ride up her spine. She could see something in the dark before the door. Muddy tracks. She looked inside, pushing the door wide open and stepping in.

            Hello? She called to no response. A pale window elicited a small parlor. The muddy tracks were twice her size. Not the petite triangle of a heel, but the stamp of a jackboot. Against the wall, sitting open on the makeup table was a bottle of vodka. A glass beside it, tipped over. The bottle reflected in the mirror of the table, Ada could see it was half empty. A couch sat in the dark across from it. Something stuck out like a twisted branch from the front. Ada turned away, leaving the door open. Her stomach tightened. Cold flushed through her guts. Boot prints lead from the room to the stairway. She made her way, peered down. The front door was open, the way she had left it. Foot prints led down the stairs into the entrance way. Her bags sat undisturbed. Beneath the chandelier, something sprawled out. It wasn’t there before. She made her way down. Nothing happened. Her eyes stuck to the door, to the Volkswagen sitting outside. Ignoring the mass behind her, she proceeded- but gasped when a shadow came from the porch, with both hands against the doorway, his frame a colossus against the moonlight. His black hair neatly parted to one side. His cold steel eyes shining through the dark, not at her, but at the black suitcase in her grasp.

Rainer worked for her husband. Bormann always had him over. They would smoke cigars, discuss business, joke over the lack of challenge that Rainer’s duties pertained to. Performing public executions. He kept a score sheet. He would track mud inside, drink their booze, harass their help. He never spoke to Ada. She never spoke to him. Word got around. Rainer didn’t just enjoy his job, he found it to be great sport. He also brought over prostitutes to be his dates, and they would smoke and play poker in the den. Each time, a different whore. Coinciding with the accounts of mysterious women turning up in the Liebenwalde, cut to ribbons and unidentified. The last time they had spoken to each other, Ada had gotten sick of Rainer bringing ladies of the night into her home. Bormann wouldn’t do anything she told him, so she took Rainer away from his poker game into a separate parlor. He lit a cigarette, and listened as she told him to get the whore out, and never bring another. He blew the smoke into her face. Licked his lips as they curled into a vicious smile. He pulled out the tally sheet, holding it up for her to see. She balked and swept at it, but his reflexes swiftly pulled it from her reach. I hate you. He told her. I don’t have to do a damn thing. All at once, his perceptions, his beliefs spilled from him. He let her know every opinion. He enjoyed playing games, exploring the art of killing. Loved it. He told her that he didn’t like the way she treated her husband. No respect. Only in a world ran by men like Bormann would people such as himself, and her, be allowed to exist. Only a man like him would marry a woman like Ada, and let her exist peacefully. Her face burned red. Veins in her throat throbbed, but she could find no words. She slapped at him, but his black glove caught her hand and squeezed it until Ada thought the bones would shatter, but he let go. Neither of them spoke of one another after that. He came over only to talk business, and his visits were brief. They avoided one another, and she had almost forgotten about him, if it weren’t for his damn boot prints.    

“What’s in the suitcase?” Rainer demanded.

            Ada said nothing. A gun handle limply hung from the hoslter on his side.

            “See your maid behind you? She didn’t know what I was talking about. Your driver napping on the couch upstairs? He certainly didn’t. So why shouldn’t I kill you?” He lumbered in, steps heavy. Body lurched forward, dragging his shoulders like a caveman.

            “You can’t shoot straight.”

            He stopped to laugh. The way he cackled made her stomach turn. Giddy like a school girl, hehehe but always ended in long drawn out breathes and knee slapping. He reeked of alcohol. 

            “Because you are my master’s wife. His property, and until his remains are properly disposed, there is no way an honorable man such as myself can do any insult to him.”

            “Honorable men don’t desert their duties. The loyal Romans stayed in the city and burned with it.”

            “The Reich is gone. But it will rise again. Until then, it is my duty to remain hidden.”

            “You’re not taking Bormann.” The black suit case was firmly in her hand.

            “If you want me to chase you,” an explosion lit up the entrance hall from outside as his grin spread from ear to ear. “Then I’d be more than happy. I’d love it.”

            He stood aside, and bowed…

            Ada hurried away from the roots. She could hear them bending and twisting like rope. The thunder caused her to jump and cover her head. She didn’t look back, but the image of Esther’s outstretched arm poking out from the roots burned into her mind. The sound of her organs being grinded and mixed into the dust, winding, squishing beneath the howl of wind and cracking of ancient wood. The black suitcase rested inside. The remains within went with it. She only needed someone to hold the attention of the roots while she climbed to a safe distance. She dumped the ashy contents out, and dropped the suitcase then leaped and ran to the car. The ruby necklace dangled from her throat. Heels still laced around her feet, she moved awkwardly through the yellow grass. A flash of lighting struck and thunder roared over the plain. The daylight had been eaten by the dismal clouds. Yet everything maintained stillness. The world was inhaling. The clouds overhead twisted into a stew of black and purple. Ada threw open the truck door and got in. The keys still in the ignition. The engine revved, and she backed up, straightened out and aimed back East. Her heart quaked. Free of any evidence linking her to Bormann. She could be whoever she wanted to be now. Go to Cuba, Venezuela, Brazil, wherever she wanted. Ada wiped tears of joy from her face. In the rear view, the roots still waved and drifted, still hungry, still yearning for more. They slithered through the frail shell of grass, crawling in the mud, bending, twisting, screwing. It wanted to grow. The tree wanted to grow once more to its former glory.

 Then in a following flash of lightning rain began to drop like iron rods.

She reached around the steering wheel, turned a knob. The wipers began swiping back and forth. Streaks of water divided the windshield. In the dark world facing her. More thunder pounded onto the plains. A heavy hammer being dropped over a steel drum. Her hands floated from the wheel to cover her eyes as cold tingles riddled her body. The car swerved, but it inched so sluggishly that she had time to reassume control of the vehicle. The car moved slower. The rain fell faster and faster. Her heel sank onto the pedal. The wheels spun like a cyclone, but the truck slowed. More thunder dropping like explosions. She had to stop. She had to scream. Grabbing at her face, scraping her nails down her cheeks. In the windshield, her ruby necklace refracted. Her earrings, the same red. Her heels, red as well. The car felt like it was sinking. The roots reached through the mud. Slender fingers feeling for the truck. Lapping its tailpipe, prodding the back wheels, coiling around the interior and caressing the inner workings.

The clouds spiraled, constricted tighter and tighter. Ada could feel their weight on her head. In her throat. In her lungs. He tore off the necklace. Took off her heels. Existed the truck. The wind hadn’t begun to blow. The rain found her, and drenched her, but it mattered no longer. She took her things from the back of the truck. Every bag. Inside, every jewel, every Riechmark, every piece of custom tailored clothing, every device, every convenience. Totting them herself, like back in the mansion, she stepped around the roots running along the mud like oscillating pipes. Her toes sunk into the soupy brown cocktail of earth. It felt cold. The sores on her feet burned, but at the same time felt cleansed. She didn’t feel lumbered or heavy, but light as a snowflake. Her agility impressed her. The swiping roots dug beneath her feet, but like playground jump rope she shuffled over them before they could reach her. The stump was close. So close. The roots flailing like loose hair settled into the mud. A bright light exposed itself like a great all seeing eye from the center of the spiraling clouds. At the thick the roots, throbbing and pumping like veins, she throw in each bag. One by one, the roots took them, grinded them up like cement, devoured them. Then her heels, then her necklace. All of it consumed, loose Riechmarks spilling out and getting pulled under by thorns. As if she could feel the lungs of the clouds holding in breathe, she leaped over the husk of roots, shifting her feet like a cat until she was at the stump. Climbing up, the peeling bark clipping at her flesh. Her feet finding gaps and pulling herself up. Roots pulled at her ankles, biting into her legs like snakes. She kicked at them. Her legs burned just like when she was pushing the truck down the road. Her shoulders felt like balloons inflated inside. Warm blood tricked down her legs, dripping into the roots. He graps slipped against the wet wood, but she never lost control. Water spilled from the surface into her face, washing off the rouge and tears. She found that she could trust her strength. The storm no longer scared her. Something new brewed inspiration within her. Fear, she realized, is an illusion.  

Up she went, until she found herself at the top of the stump. Divots wide enough for a person to lay in sacred the surface. Satellites of the master tree, each one big enough to be used a dining table, crowned the stump. The sky rumbled. The exhale of energy came as a deafening explosion. The earth shook. Lighting flashed like a net over the clouds, and dropped down on the plains like a bed of nails. Ada looked up as the flash of light whipped from the sky…

The rain cleared up. Rainer sighed with relief. Hadn’t lasted for ten minutes. Her car slid on wet roads. This one grew thin, broken and neglected. He drove slowly, passing the empty plains. His hands sweating, knuckles white against the wheel. His luger on the passenger seat, waiting. The car shook on the shattered pavement, but it didn’t break his focus. He could see the end of the road. Hope had been dim. When he turned onto the unmapped road, he feared that he had misled himself, but the truck sitting by itself caught his attention. The road ended. He stopped his car, and got out. The ground remained a pool of mud. He stepped right, his loafers sinking in, his slacks becoming cuffed in layers of mud, he marched to the truck.

            He inspected the tires. Sunken into the mud, no way a person would be driving it away. One door hung open. He peered inside. One purse, nothing else. He climbed in, scraping the mud from his shoes onto the edge, then taking the purse and thumbing through it. Some dollars, some paper, nothing intriguing. He throw it down, and climbed out. Some farmers old truck no doubt. He put his hands on his hips, and looked around. Nothing for miles. No wind. No animals. Even the clouds had retreated to find other lands to shade. The only thing that intruded on the singularity of the plains was a massive stump sitting on a tangled salad of roots. He approached it, lifting his knees to move through the mud. When he got to it, he marveled at its size. Felt like he had seen it before- almost like he had lived here once. He could imagine its full length, scraping against the clouds, rivaling the kingdom of birds. That glory appealed to him unfulfilled. The stump felt like an empty promise made long ago. He kicked the root. Hard and stiff.

“Verdammt.” In German, he muttered to himself “I guess you get away.”

 Rainer looked at his scorecard. Scratched off a name, and erased a tally. Then flipped it over, and studied the photo on the other side. A massive tree towering over a wasteland, with a bolt of white lightning slashing through it. He scowled, sniffed his sinuses clean and spat onto the ground. He reached for his lighter, pulling the box from his pocket he held the photo by the corner and held it over the dancing flame. The color faded and a hole ate away at it until the flames caught on and rose along the edges. Ashes peeled away and dropped to the mud. In moments the whole thing became ash. His chase had ended. Rainer sat alone on a clump of roots, contemplating his next action. Along the horizon, he thought he saw a person walking towards him. A black cloak, the tail fluttering, the arms loose, not walking, but floating over the mud towards him. 

Xerxes

* Written spring of 2015

Sean always took the subway home. The ride would take up to half an hour. He’d leave the office at around 6:00 every day. Take his coat, his leather binder with all the sketches so he could work on them the rest of the evening, and have a glass of wine before he went to sleep. Architecture came to be an odd choice for him, especially since his love fell into creative design but somehow he found himself in conference rooms discussing how to keep skyscrapers from collapsing. It wasn’t creative, but his boss Gilbert reassured him that he got paid a good amount that day. Reassured being an understatement.

Sean tapped on the glass, and cracked the door. Gilbert spoke on the phone, but waved him on in. Seventy stories up, the entire cityscape sprawled before the office through the plate window that filled the west wall. Sean took a seat, and peered out. The entire Overgrowth was in view. He could see the legislature building sitting in the middle of Caulfield Park in the center of town, surround by a ring of towering banks. Overpasses sprouted from their roads and span across the city. Monorail lines circled the area. In the further distance, where Sean tried to find his flat, white fog hung over like a curtain. His eyes dropped from the fog, past the overpasses to the dark mass of buildings between the hills and below the bridges. The Undergrowth, as the citizens of Angel City called it. He looked away, and traced his way home. The old church couple blocks west looked like a dot. The subway tunnel entry a mere speck of dust.

Gilbert hung up the phone, and Sean turned to him. Back straight, hands in his lap.

“What can I do you for?” Gilbert asked, his forehead forward, glasses somehow avoiding dropping from his crooked nose. Sean held an admiration for the boss’s lack of formalities.

“I think I’m ready for an assistant manager position.” Sean said. Gilbert raised his eye brows and took off his glasses, as if his vision had somehow caused him to mishear. But they both knew there was no mistake. The writing on the glass door read: Franklin Gilbert. Assistant Manager.

“You want my job?”

“I’ve been working here for twelve years. I don’t want your job, but I’m ready for a promotion. Everyone in the office knows it.”

“Well,” Gilbert put his glasses back on and leaned back in his chair. “An opening in the mail room opened up. Do you like working here?”

“Yes sir,” he lied. “But you understand that if I’m going to put another decade into this company, then I’ll need to know that the company is working with me.”

“Sean Macintyre… Yeah you’ve been putting in a lot of time. Show up early, leave late. I see you at every meeting, and you have good ideas. You’re sure are a competent man.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Look out the window. I love this view. Every morning before I do anything my secretary brings me steaming hot coffee, and I get to stare out and sip it. Know what I can’t help but study the most? The Overgrowth. See that building with the radio tower on top? That’s LLP & Merrel. The fourth biggest Architecture firm in the country. Ten years ago, they were the thirtieth. Know what ours was ten years ago?”

“Tenth?”

“Eighteenth. Now? Twentieth. We’re losing money, Mr. Macintyre. Who do you think is in that building? Don’t answer because I’ll tell you. Two thousand people that are just like you. Maybe more. People in this city by the millions, they put in twelve hour days, and work weekends too. Are you happy with your salary? Don’t answer. I know it should be enough to keep you, and your family, if you had one, fed. I know its sufficient to afford antiquate housing. What you do with it is up to you, I don’t care. My dad was an architect. Think he did it for money? No, he believed he was helping this city. Do you think you’re helping the city, Mr. Macintyre?”

“Yes sir.”

“How’s that?”

“Word is a land is being cleared for a new hospital down by the Undergrowth.”

“Hospitals, schools… The city needs a lot more then hospitals and schools. Those things mean nothing without people and money. Otherwise they are just more concrete. Do you really think you are helping people here?”

“Of course…” Sean lied again.

“One thing I hate, Mr. Macintyre, is an ass kisser. That is one thing this company does not need.” Gilbert reached to his phone, pushed a button. “Ms. Doe, will you please open the door for Mr. Macintyre.”

Sean left the office at 6:45. The sun hadn’t set yet. His folder heavier than normal. He rubbed the bags beneath his eyes, rolling through the event in his head as he went down the forty floors in the elevator, again as he crossed the lobby and went out the doors, each time reimagining the encounter, fantasizing about interrupting the man, standing up, taking him by the collar, gritting his teeth. He went west down the block towards the subway. Crowds of strangers surrounded him passing every which way. He waited at the cross walk, when the light changed he moved to the next block. The brick building he walked along caught his attention. Like tiles on the brick, fliers hung in neat order. On them, the endearing, but questioning gaze of Paster Richard Bakeman. Sean knew the name because it was in bold below the man’s chin in every flier. He didn’t read any of them, he didn’t care anymore. Some warning about homosexuals and atheist bringing the end of days. End of days? The sooner the better, Sean thought. It was no mystery to him, or to the rest of the citizens that Bakeman owned two Ferraris and lived in a Penthouse in the Overgrowth. The local media obsessed over him, though Sean just wished the news would ignore them so they would disappear from his mind.

From where Sean walked, he could see the iron cross situated on top of the steeple. The closer he got, the more of its wooden walls came into his focus.  Small dimensions, he noted, the nave built when the cities congregations exceeded no more than fifty people. Even the narthex seemed squished between the main chamber and the heavy double doors. The sign posted by the side walk proudly announced that sinners are doomed to hell, and that includes the atheists, the gays, and the Pancake Feed will be next Tuesday at 7:00.

             Murmurs around the city whispered that the place used to be a black church back before the fifties. Shut down after a series of attacks by the local Klan. Sean thought it could be true, but found the irony reason enough to strip the rumor of its legitimacy.

            Sean held his breath as he descended into the subway. The strangers that lingered around the platform made him feel anxious. Something about stopping in the open, and standing still made him feel vulnerable. As the train lights glared down the tunnel, and its hum became noticeable, a group of four robed folk came down carrying their warnings and bibles. Sean ignored them, mind only on his folder of sketches in hand.

            The subway rolled near, its metallic hum rising like air pressure. The dozens of strangers around him stood in the same silence. Sean held his leather case, catching the sour scents of the underground tunnel. Some people he recognized from his office, others mere strangers slouching, overworked and burdened. No one talked though, but for the members of Bakeman’s church. In whispers, with eyes shifting around, they acted like they were exchanging secrets amongst enemy spies. The train couldn’t have shown up fast enough. Sean was the first to push his way onto the cart. He didn’t sit. The outside of the cart was covered in graffiti. Water coated the floor. Newspapers covered the seats. The smell of vomit and alcohol filled the cabin. Sean leaned on a pole and watched everyone fill in behind him. The church people got on last. By chance they crammed their way next to Sean. Old people, each of them. Not close enough to death, but older then Sean by at least a decade.  One of them, a woman with short hay colored hair, turned around and shot a nasty glance at Sean before turning to her cult friends, and whispering to them before turning back around.

            “You should be ashamed!”

            “Pardon?”

            “I know who you are.”

His picture had been in a few magazines, and a few newspapers across the city. Not because of his architecture work, but because he had been organizing gay marriage assemblies in Angel City, a duty that got him his fifteen minutes. It had a good year ago, most people had forgotten but not these bastards apparently. Good thing they didn’t also know he was an atheist.

            “Listen lady, I respect your beliefs, but you should mind your own business.”

            She humpfed, and turned to her likeminded compatriots.

That day he went home to his apartment. A spacious loft, furnished with vases and plants among couches, tables, and chairs. He went into his studio, put his sketches on the bench, left to get some gin and coffee, and stayed up until two am going over work.

            The next day, he went the similar way, down past the church, in to the subway. The same bland grouping of strangers, tired and in worn suits, ready to go home to their boring lives. Sean stood in front of them all, waiting for the train. The light cut through the dark, and its hum strangled the silence. The robed church people came down the stairs, this time not casually meandering through the subway. This time, the number was closer to ten, and they each held hands, forming a fence of church cultist. 

            They didn’t whisper to each other, but hummed a tune to lyrics that rolled in their minds. Once inside the train, Sean leaned against a window on the seat closest to the door. The church folk each filled in the seats around him. Spoke no words, but each stared and hummed their tune. The train paused at stops, people would get on and off, but Sean didn’t move, nor did the robed church folk. He started to panic. He held his leather case tighter than ever. The train came to his stop. From this platform, it was a half mile walk to his building. He hoped it would just be a coincidence, but the minute he got up the robed folk got up. He left the train, into the busy platform full of strangers and beeping machines, the light from the surface shining down a flight of stairs. He looked behind him, there they were, each hooded but for one, the pastor himself, Mr. Bakeman. His hair had thinned to a white ring since the time the photo on the flier had been taken. His cheeks sagged, and his eyes had sunken in. Dark purple circles ate away at them. Rolls of skin layered beneath his chin, his lips curled and his cheeks folded over them. White bristles sprouted from his chin and jaw. Sean believed he had seen a defeated man, looked back up to the street lights gleaming from the stairs and walked up. The fence of religious freaks behind him. They didn’t interrupt their little tune, making sure that Sean could hear it. Then it occurred to him. He didn’t want these people to know where he lived.

            He turned around, and waited for them to stop before him. Bakeman standing across from him.

            “You guys have made your point. Go home.”

            “We don’t listen to servants of Satan.” He sung

            “You think you’re scaring me? I’m from Missouri.”

            “Why do you hate Jesus?” a little voice said.

Sean looked down, holding the hand of the old man was a little girl, round face with shiny eyes, and braided locks hanging from a nun shawl.

            “Go home, or I’m calling the police.” Sean said.

            “All Jesus wants is to save you from eternal damnation, Sean.”

            “Jesus ain’t real. Get away from me.” He pulled out his phone, dialed 911, and started telling the guy on the other line about what was going on. Like cockroaches, the congregation of haters turned tail and fled back into the subway. He waited until the cops showed up, and told them about what had happened. Asked if they could keep an eye out. The officers reported that they couldn’t act unless a crime had been committed. Just call them again if the Bakeman’s church persisted. Thanks, Sean told them, dripping with sarcasm.

            The next day, ten of them waited by the subway tracks. Sean sighed, remembered what his older brother had told him when kids at school kept beating him up. What his first love had told him after getting fired from the Good Will. Don’t turn tale, just keep your head up. They didn’t get onto the train with him, but they watched, humming their stupid hymn. On the train, though, ten more robes stood around, humming.

            One robed man whispered from behind,

            “Better watch your back, fag.”

            Sean turned around. Spat on the man’s shoe.

He got off at his stop. They didn’t follow him, but on the platform ten more robed folk waited. These ones didn’t sit complacently, but in their fence formation cut across from him, repeating their haze in song form. Something about fags going to hell, Sean didn’t have time. His folder was heavy with sketches he wanted to work on, and he had bought a new bottle of brandy that needed to be sipped on. He stood, with false patience, waiting for them to finish, but they weren’t about to finish. They had an objective this time. One of the robed folk stood out from the rest, a big white man with a full blonde beard, standing like a bull over calves. He cut in front of them all. Dozens of strangers came and went as they pleased. In the second before this giant laid his palms over Sean’s shoulder two hundred people must’ve came and went. In the next second, Sean’s ass was on the cold concrete, and the leather folder was in the grasp of the giant. The haters laughed and danced as he opened it and showered them in the sketches. Their pale arms stuck out like dead branches, taking the scraps and tearing them to pieces, fluttering the small strips around them, stomping on them, spitting on them.

            Sean got up, tears pushing against his eye lids, the control over them weakening. He wanted to grab the giant by the throat, and force him to understand that no one puts a hand on Sean Macintyre, but all he could do was call him an asshole, before fleeing towards the stairs, tears streaming down his face, curling into his mouth, the sweet salt tasted like blood.

            At home, he sat on his couch, facing out the glass door high above the lights and noises of the city. With a bottle of gin in his arms, nearly empty, Sean wondered about how he had managed to arrive on the coast from the river lands of Missouri with the intent on escaping the haters that patrolled the night in search for whoever they wanted to hurt on that night. Why had he come so far? The problem persisted everywhere, he could’ve gone up the river to Omaha, it wouldn’t have made a real difference. Hate existed everywhere.

                The next day, he had to walk back into Gilbert’s office to let him know that the sketches, all of them, had been destroyed. Gilbert’s mouth dropped open in silence. Sean explained what happened. Gilbert took his glasses off.

            “I don’t want any more excuses. You were responsible for those designs. How do you expect to get anywhere in this business if you can’t keep track of your own portfolio? Don’t answer. I don’t want to hear it. Before you leave I want them back on my desk.”

Sean finished when the hour hand clicked between ten and eleven. He fell asleep in his chair, hunched over his desk, pencil held erect against the paper. His head dropped, and the straight lines outlining a building became an unconventional shaped subbasement. It felt good to rest. He hadn’t eaten. Only got out of his chair to visit the bathroom. The joints in his wrist burned. His eyes felt like they would pop from their sockets, and worst of all his throat felt like a desert, praying to be relieved by a rain of a vodka. Sean jumped awake, believing for a second that he had seen a brown robe standing before him. Turned out to be a coat rack on the other side of the darkened room. Sean sighed, and pressed his palm into his each eye, and as if he was sanding wood, rubbed like he was trying to blind himself. Relief came, but he had to fix his sketch. He erased the impractical subbasement, took the rule and finished the wall, and the floor. He took the drawing, put it in the folder, and left his desk to leave it on Ms. Doe’s desk. He left that night, his spine aching, and his head feeling like holes had been burned into it. He walked out the doors, faced the subway tunnel, then stopped. An eye twitched, and like that he decided to take a different way home. Away from the church, away from the subway. The road he walked along would stretch for about five miles. It would take him at least two extra hours to get home. But he was okay with that.

 So he walked. The upper city streets had nightlife. Cars still filled the roads, people still stuffed the sidewalks. The further he travelled, the less cars, the less people occupied the volume of the city. Buildings became shorter. Roads became slimmer. The city became quieter. Street The bright lights of the towers looked miles away, because they were. The monorails divided the night sky over head. The side walk declined into a slope. Sean found himself jogging, gravity pulling him down into the city below the humming bridges. Black smoke and chemical fumes puffed from stacks and chimneys behind the cracked buildings. A car with no windshield or tires sat on cinderblocks. The windows of buildings were either shattered or waiting to be shattered. Sean’s eye twitched again as he paused to read the mouth of the overpass before him. Sean knew exactly where he was. It was spray painted over the mouth of an overpass. Undergrowth.

He checked his watch. Past midnight. He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets and cuddling his coat closed before going forth. The lip of the overpass hung high over his head, above the rust colored buildings, over large flat pairs of flying wings. From the skim sand barely clinging onto the face of the concrete, tiny specks of stone kissed his face as he watched and  brown torrents of cold water poured from celestial gutters, bending and twisting until it flooded into bubbling trenches. The sound muffled against the buildings, but Sean could still feel bits of icy bits of moisture against his nose and cheeks.

Once he inside of the mouth, his pupils focused on the screen of dull light reflecting from the other side. The sound of water stopped. The loud drone of traffic above muffed his ear. Faint fog danced across the streets. He could make out flame spilling from the lid of barrels and silhouettes of people gathered around them. Someone covered in a rat skin blanket slept against a cement support post. Sean began to hurry, but slowed down again, shaking his head, and wishing he had snot to spit. Funny, he muttered aloud, people rolling through his mind like a reel of film. People from work never went down this side of town.  Hell, the city was building road that pass over this part of town so that folk from the Overgrowth wouldn’t have to pass through to get into town.

The air felt wetter, frost built around the gutters swallowing water flowing from alley ways. He reached out as he walked along a brick building and le his fingertips scrape against the melting surface of the bricks. The strand his finger cut through the wet film of moisture stretched to the end of the curb. As he passed over the next sidewalk, his found pieces of broken glass snapping under his feet. The buildings ahead seemed to smile at him, with rows of shattered windows as missing, like a meth addict in a trailer.

Everything outside of the street lights looked black as a trash bag. Only one light per block was lit. The halo of butter colored light was wide, but seemed stretched and thin. Nothing seemed to move but for Sean however. The constant hum of cars passing through the city remained like an annoying mosquito, but other than some wind, an occasional cat meow, or that destitute laying under the underpass (though he could very well have been dead) nothing else seemed to be alive.

A dead and abandoned factory wasted away behind a chained off lot. One metal door bent into the building, its bottom half clinging onto its hinge. Not even a disease carrying rodent.

Many doors had been covered up with ply wood. Each one had been coated in a lexicon of graffiti. The alleyways had intricate designs and street terms that Sean wasn’t familiar with. This reminded him of something that Gilbert had told him. IT had been a few years back, Gilbert came into the conference room, red faced-infuriated that some punk ass low life had covered one of the hotels they had worked on. Sean had seen it, everyone in the room did, and Sean had been with all of them. “Fuck that guy!”, “Yeah he ruined the aperture!”, “Know how long it takes to get a building with that kind of poche?” and so on. If felt good, and Sean really did hate the guy who did it. Some asshole in a hoodie, sat, surveyed each building in that area, and decided this had to be the one. Teen feet across, nine high, Sean didn’t even remember what it looked like- all he saw was garbage and a wall that needed repainted. No respect for good architecture.

This graffiti over these buildings though, made Sean stand up straight. His back popped all along the line, and he found himself admiring the craftsmanship. Such small spaces, intricate details, use of language, and color. These punk ass low lives were good at something, after all.

Garbage filled the alleys. Not just the first one Sean passed, but each one he encountered and flowed with fat bags of trash, spilling out like guts. White grease stained bags rolled from the alley ways the smell putrefied the entire street. Sean covered his nose with his shirt, crossed the street, but the opposite side smelled worse. Sean began to cough. His stomach felt like it was melting.  Bottles had been smashed into a pile, rats dug through garbage bags and pulled out diapers to eat. Sean wondered if humans actually lived beneath the monorails, beneath the bridges. Another highway suspended above the dark part of town. The moon still glowed from the cloud of soot and gas that ate the night sky. In its thin light, Sean could read LLP & Merrel. He tried to recall from his time looking down into the undergrowth from the office. he never counted the bridges or the monorail lines but there were at least five. Probably about ten. And newspapers said that LLP & Merrel only had more road projects in the future. Sean balled up his fist, wishing that Gilbert would pop around the next corner, cold, shivering, lost. Probably wouldn’t even believe himself when he takes off his glasses to see if it really is Sean Macintyre, then Sean would hurl a fist and straighten his crooked nose.

“The mafia owns the concrete, that’s why they’re number four!” He imagined himself screaming as he held the man on the cold wet sidewalk and pummeled his face in until Sean would fall against as building, and rest, his chest racing like he had finished a marathon. Blood  would stain his hands, probably his clothes too. The best part, no one would see it, his odds of getting away with such a crime seemed highly probable. He wouldn’t go through the man’s pockets, thieves get caught. Detectives would show up at his apartment, ask to come in for some coffee, as they would with everyone that worked with Gilbert. If he stole his wallet, they would find it. However, if he left it inside, then some bold fool will come along and take everything from the pockets. The wedding ring would probably be worth a nickel or two. His wallet, probably real leather. Probably a couple dollars with Franklin smiling back. A nice phone, top of the line shoes, wool coat. Yeah, Sean decided, if Gilbert pops the around the next corner or any other corner that night, then he’ll murder him, dispose the body in the garbage because no one would notice the smell and clearly not too many people attend to the trash situation, the corpse would remain undiscovered. Then an even better idea came to Sean, what if Bakeman came around the bend?

Sean wanted to break out in gleeful laughs, but forced in inside so that he only chuckled to himself in the dark while his arms trembled with delight at the idea of curb stomping Bateman. The crack would be his new ringtone, he decided. Rats would eat the body, and then his congregation of would come looking, and find a putrid nest that providing food to an entire family of rats. Maybe that would finally make them shut up and disappear.

Around the corner he turned, half wanting to fight someone, half surprised, he found an entrance to a subway guarded by two burning barrels by a makeshift shed over the entrance, and a woman. Smoke spilled into the sky, and the light danced over the woman. A foot taller than Sean, with black hair tied into a braid that dropped past her knees onto the grime covered sidewalk. She smiled at Sean, her big dark eyes lined with his, her fingers gently beckoning for him to come closer. He emerged from behind the corner, wiping his hands off on his coat as he approached her. She kept her hands on her hips, Her lips curled into a smile, she squinted, trying to use flirtation to get him inside, keeping one hand on the v of her semi-unbuttoned shirt.

            “You’ll have to do better than that.” He said to her. “What’s inside?”

            “Local artists. Come check out my booth.”

            He didn’t listen to her, just pushed past her and went through the door. Heavy and black, white spray paint marking it. Down some crooked stairs he went. He clung onto the rail, the metal warming his hand like a cup of hot fluid, nothing at how much longer this stair well was then any other that had taken him to the subway. The stairs seemed to expand before him, but it was the same feeling as walking down a steep hill. Something compelled him. The lights burning at the bottom danced, and grow wider. Distinguishing from one another, he saw them become torches and lamps lined along the wall, and pillars supporting the ceiling. The smell of putrid city weakened, became twisted into a new smell that was of a mix between sour wet subway tunnels and the rich autumn scent of burning plants. Voices too, a clamor of them.

Sean felt eager to reach the bottom. His tongue lapped the roof of his mouth as he came to the last few steps. With one heavy step, he found himself at the bottom at last. Among crowds of freaky people, young and old, passing him by like an ant. He examined himself. While some people casually wore ripped jeans and faded hoodies, others wore strange costumes. He was the only person there wearing a suit, he noticed. He had undone his tie, though he didn’t recall when. His shirt had come untucked, hanging past his belt and ruffled.

He disconcerned himself with his appearance however. Something pulled him through the crowds, as if he were tethered to something inside. He strode confidently like a man with business to take care of with heavy steps and his face forward.

He found people were clearing from his way, and that made his search easier. He glanced over the booths. Some had crafts. Carvings whittled from logs into horned animals. Boars, and deer, then animals that Sean had never seen before. A booth had handmade flags. Old, tattered, red communist flags, some black with strange symbols, some crossed with swords and annotated with a language that Sean had never seen before. Some had stone sculptures and clay pottery, some sold hookahs and glass work that bent and curled like Sean couldn’t believe.  A man seven foot tall, arms, shoulders, neck, and face decorated with tattoos stood behind a display of sex toys. Some Sean recognized, others he didn’t believe were even made for humans. Like the phallic rimmed with barbs. Next to it, a booth of kitchen knives. The booth across from that one, had all kinds of knives, but also an arsenal of swords, spears, hammers, axes. The man behind the kitchen knife booth sat sadly, while the weapon man appeared to be quite popular. Next to the booth, a transvestite dressed in a leather suit sharpened farm tools against a limestone wheel. Confused, Sean’s head cocked to the side like a dog. The transvestite noticed, “Got a problem, Mush-face?” Sean looked away, and got lost in the group of people. Hippies mostly, people with long untamed dreadlocks, faces painted in many manors of designs, as well as people hidden behind masks of cruel looking demons, angry rabbits, and other creatures that Sean had imagined to exist beneath beds and in closets across the darkened world.

 Sean felt like he had finally blended in when a stranger with the frizzled hair and outgrown beard who resembled Rasputin grabbed Sean by his shoulder, laughing like an old friend, and handed him a joint. Sean gave him a nasty look, but assumed an expression of neutrality as he took the joint, put it to his lips and inhaled deeply. The two men huffed away until the joint was ash.

            “Comrade, you look lost.” He had a British accent. “What are looking for?”

            “I’m not sure. I’ll know when I see it.”

He went through more stands until he found himself in the heart of the venue. There, something caught his eye. A tiny Asian girl with dark hair molded into spikes, and a macabre parody of a doll’s dress stood at a table of dark paintings of strange shapes and frightening creatures. A white spider eating a crow. A turtle with the face of a disgruntled human. Burning cityscape in the ivory palm of a skeleton. At the feet of the table, Sean was drawn to the painting of a cat. It’s eyes, its nose, Its whiskers. He felt enthralled, as if the creature was meowing at him and rubbing at his shins. The color of its pupils, the shape of its eyelids. He bent down, the sticker in the corner read, name your price. 

“Hi. I’ll give you ten dollars for the cat.”

            “It took me three months to paint that. Can you do fifteen?”

            There was no way that it took her three months to paint that cat. Clearly she had talent, and all of the paintings around her cascaded with a brutal realism that heavily contrasted the elementary talent of the perfectly symmetrical cat face. The paintings above her head priced twenty dollars and up.

            “No. Ten dollars is what I’ll give you.” He lied. He would’ve paid twenty if she had refused. She nibbled at her black fingernails, looking around like a sheep.

            “What do you like about it?” She said taking his money.

            “The eyes. This kitty knows what it wants.”

            “This is actually a painting of my own cat. He likes to sit on my chest and stare at me. So I painted him. His name is Xerxes. Do you have lots of pets?”

            “No. I’m allergic. Thanks, I’ll take good care of Xerxes.” He smiled and took the cat away with him. The whole way they walked, Sean probably didn’t get back into his own neighborhood until 3:30 Am. At one point a cop slowed his car to ask Sean where he was going. “Home,” He responded, not stopped. They asked where he got the painting from, their eye browns furling as if some great troubling thought had entered their mind. As if they had forgot to turn off the oven. “It’s my cat” he’d tell them, and then they’d tell him to get off the streets.

            He hung it above the mantel, where he would put a TV if he wanted one. He looked outside. The sun hadn’t risen yet. The night still felt young. He poured himself a glass of vodka, and sat with the bottle on the coach, facing the painting.

            It wasn’t a very good painting. It was probably worth no more than ten dollars, but the way it called to Sean, he would have given her anything if all he had done is say no. fifty dollars. Five hundred dollars.  He had felt such a strong attraction, that he couldn’t look away from its bold killer eyes, softened with a ring cuddly gray fur. 

            “Hey cat. Welcome to my home.”

            Good to be here. Will you shut up and leave me alone?

            “That’s not very nice. I brought you into my home.”

            It’s a dump.

            “I didn’t pull you out of that deplorable slum to take shit. I’ll make a vest out of you if don’t improve the attitude.”

            …

            “That’s better. Now why don’t you climb down from there?”

            Why should I listen to a damn thing you have to say?

“Because you’re my cat. Your destiny since conception has been to christen my mantel.

A neighbor walked by Sean’s door, though he heard voices. Curious because Sean lived alone and had no friends that she had seen over. Leaning against the door, she pressed an ear against it and listened…

            “You’re mouthy… No I wasn’t scared… do you want to... No, I’ve never looked at it that way before…” The last part Sean said with sarcasm. The neighbor shook her head and left.

Know what I like about you? The cat asked. It’s eyes in the frame, still, unflinching.

“What?”

                Most people are too afraid to come to the Undergrowth. They avoid the road that takes them under the overpass. They’ll take half an hour, maybe more than that, just to avoid that part of town. You? Just like a walk in the park. You even bought some art! The cat laughed.

            Another neighbor passed by. Wanting to ask for a cup of sugar, he held his knuckles ready to knock when he heard the discussion.

            “What will you do…that’s crazy… how… interesting… I’d like to see that…I doubt it…”

            He walked away, going for sugar elsewhere.

            “That’s what they want me to do. Hit one of their jesus freaks and sue the hell out of me. They depend on that shit to keep their cult running.” Sean leaned up against the mantle with both arms. The near empty Vodka bottle sat within reach. His unblinking eyes zeroed into the cat’s big black pupils, only a brick’s length between the two. “There’s so much hate, I don’t even see what difference it would make.”

            It makes all the difference. Violence is how you get what you want.

            “No, I won’t hurt anyone.”

            Don’t be such a coward. It would make you feel better.

            “I doubt it will make me better. I don’t know what to do.”

            The cat groaned. Fine. I’ll do it, just like everything else.

            “Do what?”

Don’t worry about it. Just finish your drink, head to bed, and I’ll take care of everything.

            “Ugh… I have to get up for work in two hours.”

            You’re not going to work tomorrow. I already sent the message to your boss.

            “You’re a smart cat, you know that?” Sean tipped the bottle up and drank the rest of the liquor. His body felt like melting. “Good to know I have someone to count on.”

            That night, so drunk that the floor felt like a water bed that could split open at any misstep, Sean nestled his way to his bedroom, singing softly to himself, where he curled up in his blankets, and with his head spinning fell asleep.

 The light of the rising sun woke him up. A hangover split his brain in two. He crawled out of bed, still wearing his old suit, stumbling to his living room where his bottle of gin, nearly empty waited for him on the mantle. He took it, and tipped the bottle up in the air, letting the remaining milliliters fill his stomach, and warm his body. The pain left his brain and retreated to his temples. He rubbed them, and went to the bathroom to take some Advil. He splashed water against his face. Dirt and sweat turned the water spinning down the drain a grayish yellow. He watched it slip away from the basin, sniffing himself. He hadn’t bathed since yesterday morning, and he already smelled like he lived outside. He took off his suit coat, throwing it on the floor. The white dress shirt underneath had yellow stains from beneath his arms and back. He peeled it off, and threw it on the floor. He took his slacks off, left them on the floor, than took a shower.

The water turned on with a small shriek, than he spent what felt like an endless morning standing in the steaming flow of water. He turned up the heat, until the level was passed H and could go no further. Then the bathroom became a fog filled furnace. Sean felt nothing though. No pain, in fact, he actually wanted it hotter.

He got out, walking naked through his home. He went towards his bedroom to pick out a fresh suit, but something caught his eye before he could get there.  The leather folder, fat with sketches, peeking from the studio. He growled, ripping through the door, taking the folder an storming to the balcony. He opened the glass door, cold wet air blew in like he faced a vacuum. Once outside, he unclipped the folder and let the drawings fly out over the little ant sized cars below.

Sean put on another suit. This one black, with a red tie. Then he made some coffee, sat on the coach and stared at his painting. This time though, the cat was gone. In the frame, only ceiling above an empty room. Then, someone knocked on the door. Sean put his coffee down, and answered the door. One of his younger neighbors, lived alone, anxiously called on to him to come see her TV.

            “You gotta check this out. I can’t believe it.” She told him over and over until he relented and entered. She looked troubled, leaning on her fist, pouting before the screen. Sean’s jaw fell open, and he had to fight back a smile from opening across his face. News helicopters had gotten pretty good footage of the old church engulfed in flames. Close ups of the walls wavering and collapsing, the iron cross falling through the steeple and the great cloud of ash pluming into the air. Sean jumped to a window across the room, and peaked outside. Sure enough, he could see smoke rising into the air.

“It’s horrible, Sean! The news is saying that they were in a middle of a sermon. I mean, they were bastards, but no one got out. The fire just started!” She said it as if magic could be the only explanation.

“What if they asked you for help?” Sean asked her. “Begged for help?”

“I don’t like them, or the terrible things they do, but no one deserves to be burned alive.”

Sean scoffed. “Thanks for getting me out of the apartment. I just remembered that I have something to tell my boss.”

He took the subway, laughing to himself the entire trip. An old woman gave him a troubled look, to which Sean responded by breaking from his fit to say, “Got a problem, mush-face?” scowling at her until she moved to a different seat.

Sean left the subway tunnel and entered the street where he normally would walk to work. The sound of sirens and alarms still filled the air. Yellow tape closed off the entire block. The fire must’ve spread, but the authorities standing their uniforms didn’t seem too concerned. Sean hoped that the fire commissioner would be on TV later to explain what he thought had happened. It would be a treat.

The ambulances didn’t disappear as he came to his office, to his surprise. Another group of people gathered behind police tape, facing the building, blocking Sean’s way forward. He squeezed between people, pushing them, shouting at them until he was in in front of them all. Spilled pooled from beneath a mass under a black blanket. Paramedics took their time moving in a stretcher. Sean dived beneath the police tape and jogged over to get a closer look. A cop stood before him, holding his hand out, pointing in the opposite direction. Sean tried to explain that he worked there and was trying to get into the building, but the officer ignored him and put his thumbs in his belt. Sean felt good about the church burning down, so he decided to comply and spare the officer the trouble. He left, navigating through the people until he found a coworker.

“What happened?” Sean asked.

“It’s Gilbert!” the coworker reported. “Where were you? It just happened!”

“Don’t worry about it. Tell me what happened?”

“Gilbert leapt from his office window, man!”

“That’s great news. That means I’ll be promoted!”

Sean stood at a point in the world where two of his enemies met their demise. Right in the middle. He stayed around the street until sun down, watching the show, feeling for the first time in a while, at peace with his place in the universe. As if that very intersection had aligned with stars put in the sky just for him. Leading from where Gilbert’s body had smashed, though Sean never saw it, led little bloody paw prints lead into an alley.

Years Later…

Sean sat at his desk, working out supply sheets, when Ms. Doe pressed the call button.

“Mr. Macintyre, there’s a Detective Francis here to see you.”

He wanted to shout, who the hell sent the city? But he knew better. Instead, he did the only thing that he could do. He cleared his desk of folders and papers. Stacking together the unorganized, untidy desk, stuffing everything he couldn’t find a place for in a drawer. Then hitting the button again.

“Send him on in, please.” He sat with his hands folded, smiling. The city held still in the window behind him, the foggy white light flooding the room, and darkening his features. The door with Regional Manager Sean Macintyre on the window opened, and a tired man in a black suit and tie entered. The first thing he did was open his coat and lash the badge at Sean before taking the seat before him.

“Good day. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Good day to you. This is quite the surprise, is there any trouble.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t allow smoking in the office. It’s a killer, you know.”

“Fair enough. Mr. Macintyre, I was just reading your record. Been working here for a couple years, haven’t you?”

“A couple years now. Is there a problem?” Sean repeated.

“For the company, no. For you though, there might be.”

His spine tingled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Did you know that the Senior CEO of LLP & Merrel was found three days ago. Washed up on the bank of the East River. A few days before that, the vice president of the company was found in his car, parked by the construction site of the new parkway. His head blown off by a shotgun in his lap.”

“I –I had no idea… how terrible.” Sean simulated grief. “But what’s this got to do with me?”

“Each man was threatened. Mr. David, the CEO, received phone calls between three am and four am on his cellular phone. Someone had some nasty messages for him. Mr. Fox received a package in the mail with dirty panties, and a note saying “I’ll tell everyone and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Died the next day. Strange, don’t you think?”

“You think I’m responsible?”

 “You responsible for the deaths of your company’s biggest rivals? Just a hunch. How did you predecessor die, Mr. Macintyre.”

“Mr. Gilbert jumped from his office window.”

“Yeah that’s right. Strange. Man made good money, had a smart wife and three beautiful children. No signs of mental illness. Makes no sense to me. Maybe it had something to do with a similar note we found in his coat pocket.”

“Note? What note?”

“I shouldn’t be talking about evidence. If you want to come to the station and talk, we can do that.”

“I got nothing to talk about. Sorry, detective. I can’t help you.”

“Yeah, I hate to disturb you. Been busy, from what I’ve read you’re a good man. Building hospitals and the like. Truth is I’m investigating the deaths of said Mr. David, and Mr. Fox. Thought you would have heard about it. You can understand why you’d be suspect.”

“Listen, I had nothing to do with what happened to either of them. Take any test you need, whatever it takes…”

“No one’s testing you just yet. I came by to leave my card.” He reached into his pocket and set down a paper square with his name and phone number below the ACPD symbol of a blue shield. “If you have anything that could help the investigation or if something comes up, you let me know.”

Sean took the card. “I sure will officer. Thanks for stopping by.”

“My pleasure. You have a nice office set up here, Mr. Macintyre.” He shuffled as if getting up, but stopped and resettled. “Know what you don’t build enough of? Churches.”

“Churches? We don’t handle that kind of work.”

“Terrible what happened to Bakeman’s old church. A bunch of bastards, between you and me, but know what happened?”

“The fire commissioner was on TV. He said he had no clue how the fire started. Magic maybe.”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you one more thing before I leave, and since the case is technically open, I shouldn’t mention anything at all, but I feel like you should know, the building being so close to your own office. No one knows how the fire started, but that’s not the strange part. Fires start all the time. Could be the time of year, could be just one unlucky spark. Thousands of possibilities exist. But what I don’t understand, is how someone started it when all fifty members were in full presence. What I don’t understand is how someone managed to seal the doors. The fire must’ve started from the inside. That’s what the commissioner said. The fire started from inside, but someone had sealed those doors, from the outside. What I don’t understand is how someone knew a fire was going to start, and chained the front doors shut, nailed the windows shut, and inserted a steel pipe through the handle of the back entrance without anyone seeing a thing.”

“It’s a mystery, detective.”

“Yeah.” He got up, “Funny how your name came up when I read into that file. Says you complained about harassment from Bakeman. Seems everyone that gets in your way has bad things coming to them.”

The detective turned away from Sean, an icy finger drawing down his spine. He felt color drain his face. He took a pencil and snapped it in half. As the detective left the building, Sean took pencil after pencil and snapped them in half. When he ran out of pencils, he called for Ms. Doe to bring more.

That night, Sean sat on the coach, smiling at his cat up in its painting. It’s still eyes focusing on objective, slightly bent in as if planning to attack, but maintaining unpredictability. A hunter, Sean thought, gleefully drinking from his bottle of gin. Before the painting lay the body of Detective Francis, face down in a pool of blood. Bloody cat prints over his coat, and leading out the room, and down the hall. His body, scratched and bitten like a chew toy, lay sprawled out- like a gift.

            “Good cat,” Sean said.