by Eric Bonholtzer

His wife was in the bag, well, what was left of her.  Vincent had been able to get rid of one of the hands when he’d stopped for gas, providing a very hungry and very scrawny dog with a decent meal, and he knew that if he could just make it to Forester City, he’d be in the clear.  His brother, Trevor, an undertaker, would burn up the leftovers in the crematorium oven, and then he’d be home free.  Being the close brother that he was, Trevor was more than willing to help, especially knowing what that wretched wife had done to little Timmy.

Just as Vincent’s blood was beginning to boil, the thought of what his wife had done making his skin blister, he heard the squeal of tires approaching from behind.  His own car had broken down a few miles back, and a brief look under the hood confirmed the fact that the engine had finally died once and for all, the wife having always insisted any money saved for a transmission overhaul be spent on herself instead.  With at least another thirty miles to go until he reached Forester City, Vincent stuck out his thumb, hoping to herald a ride, knowing that the sooner he disposed of his wife’s body, the better.  It was only too late that he realized, his thumb sticking out like a homing beacon, the runnel of dust settling and the tires screeching to a halt, that he’d flagged down a county sheriff.

Zeek continued on, as if nothin’ was wrong.  “But ya know what?  If’n that husband ya look like had decided to get rid of that monster, I wouldn’t be blamin’ him one bit.  I had a sister murdered ‘bout fifteen years ago.  Beautiful girl, killed by a drifter.  She’s the reason I became a cop.  Never did catch the guy, he’s still out there somewheres, but I’m watchin’ fer him, always.  My sister’s with Jesus now, I know that sure as I know the sky’s blue, but I tell y’all, much as I hate to admit it, even after all these years I’d give anything just to see the look in that bastard’s eyes as I squeezed the life outta him.  I know what that man felt like losing his son and I feel mighty sorry for him, but I wouldn’t wanna be in his shoes.  We got an eye out for him.  We gotta nab him ‘n bring him in, much as most of us don’t want to.  The law, ya know?”

Vincent hated the way Zeek was beating around the bush.  Yeah, great, y’all feel sorry for me.  I’ll think about that as I gather dust in a cell awaitin’ my execution.  Just do it already, he nearly screamed within his own mind, just slap on the cuffs and take me in.  No more tauntin’, no more tormentin’.  The smell of rotting flesh assailed his senses once again, seeming as if the cabin of the car had become filled with the oppressive stench of decomposition.  The silence hung between them like a shroud.

“Well, here we are.  I gotta go talk to the husband’s brother,” Zeek said with a grin, as he pulled to the side of the road.  Vincent could see the funeral home in the distance outside his window, just past the meandering Muddy River that ran deep throughout the county.  So this is where it’ll happen.  This is where he’s gonna get me, just a few feet from freedom.  He could almost taste the irony, bitter on the back of his tongue.  But as Zeek opened the door and popped the trunk, Vincent didn’t feel the sting of handcuffs being clenched down upon his wrists.

And as the cop handed over that bag, Vincent was sure that this was the coup de gras, to be the caught with bag in hand.  Zeek merely smiled sadly and said, “Thanks fer the company.”  And even as a drop of blood fell from the bag, landing between them, Zeek didn’t seem to notice, leaving Vincent in the road, no cuffs, no questions asked.

As he walked away, waving all the while, Vincent could hear Zeek’s parting words, ones which he took to heart.  “Ya know, I think drowin’ the bones in the Muddy River would be fittin’.  And seein’ as we already dredged it this mornin’, I don’t think nobody’ll be lookin’ there again.  Just some advice, now.  Take care, Vincent.”

And as Vincent stood there on the side of the road under the sun’s bright rays, the promise of a new day and a new start at hand, he gave a little prayer of thanks for everything that had happened and thanks that he had been fortunate enough to be left holding the bag.

Summer was burning the ashes, watching intently as every trace of her boyfriend’s favorite blue shirt disappeared into the smoldering fire of burning leaves.  She thought about just how much her boyfriend loved that shirt, and smiled a little, the engraved brass buttons the only thing she ever liked about it. She watched the tendrils of smoke as they wafted on the breeze, carrying away all the bitter memories of her former flame. She felt relieved, cathartic, as if now everything could be alright, as if this was the final symbol of letting go.  She almost couldn’t believe it was over, the years she’d lived in her ex’s shadow.  In the light of the hot autumn day when so many people were incinerating their piles of dead leaves, Summer reached up and touched the tender bruise around her eye, still wincing at the pain.  It had taken unbelievable courage to finally get free, but Summer smiled, knowing that she was worth it.

As the fire subsided, she saw a glint amid the ash and shook her head, admonishing herself not to be so careless.  Picking through the charred remains, she retrieved the engraved buttons of her ex’s favorite shirt, and the bloodied teeth that had not succumbed to the fire, placing them in her pocket and preparing for the new day, knowing that he could never touch her again.

The only reason that I needed to hire the Hands That Drip Blood was my misguided sex drive. Well, I might add to that my ignorance of the relationship of the object of my lust to a figure whose power exceeded his morality. The woman I pursued, whose name was Janie, was the girlfriend of one of the top dogs in the Mafia, one Baldovino “the bloodsucker” Bianchi. Had I known this, I would not have pursued her, notwithstanding her emerald eyes, shapely legs, and silk figure. No more than three days passed before Baldovino got wind of our tryst. I guess his girlfriend told him, but I do not know for certain how he found out. Maybe he was suspicious and quizzed her, and she spilled the beans on the theory that she would face less dire consequences by confessing her sin and providing all the details than denying it and not being believed. At any rate, he had my name and phone number.

It was his phone call that informed me of the bad news. He called me a “mother fucker.” I did not know who the caller was, or, for that matter, who Janie’s boyfriend was, or I would not have responded with what I thought was a witty come back at the time. I copped to screwing Janie, but pleaded that I did not know she was his mother. He did not get the joke. Or at least he didn’t appreciate it. At any rate, it failed to establish the rapport I was hoping for. However, had I been more discreet and withheld the joke, I don’t think it would have changed the outcome of our conversation. With the efficiency of a jury of one, he announced that my sentence was the death penalty, to be carried out by him at his earliest convenience. He hung up the phone with a kiss in my ear.

It was fruitless to move somewhere far away and change my name and appearance. Baldovino and his cronies were too good at tracking people down. My best chance to survive would be to hire a professional murderer who was quicker and smarter than Bianchi. I had heard of the Hands That Drip Blood. He made his living by killing. He was well-known, indisputably the best at this profession.  He got his name from the unique method by which he killed his victims with his ugly, terrifying, muscular, mutated, mutilated hands. He used one hand to grab the back of his mark’s neck to hold it in place. He then ripped the windpipe, larynx, and upper part of the esophagus out of his victim’s throat. He sometimes used his right hand, sometimes his left, to do the extraction. He never had to use a gun. It was rumored that there were two times when he had to resort to the use of a knife, but this I cannot verify. His fingers were exceptionally long. One of his hands had six fingers. The hands were strong, able to bend metal and crush bones. The six-fingered hand had a grotesque scar running horizontally along its back; the five-fingered one had a tattoo of a dragon on the palm. Some of the fingers on each hand were bent, more likely from a genetic mutation than damage from either accidents or his victims desperately, futilely fighting back, but nobody knew for certain.

We met on a secluded beach. “So you want I kill Vino,” he said. He was not a foreigner; he left out any words he deemed unnecessary, for brevity and effect. With his crude face, demeanor, and hands, the effect was chilling. “Kill not cheap, you know. And pay first.” It wasn’t cheap; I paid.

My next move was to hide out until the Hands did his work. I hastily packed anything I’d need. I brought a sleeping bag, tent, an ice chest, and other items needed to camp out, in case I felt that I would be better hidden camping than in a motel. I bought make-up, a toupee, and sunglasses, and jeans, T shirts, and tennis shoes to replace my usual slacks, button shirts, and leather shoes, to disguise myself. I took a cab to a rental car lot, figuring that if I drove my own car, it might be recognized by my predator or one of his allies. I bought a supply of food and put it in the ice chest. I did not want to take the risk of being seen eating in restaurants.

I drove about thirty miles out of town. I wondered: Is it better to stay in an expensive hotel or a run-down motel? The swanky place would have better security; it would be harder to get at me. But in the cheap dive, I could sign in with a fake name without being questioned about it. And Bianchi might be less likely to seek me at such a place, though I could not be sure of that. Camping out would make it all but impossible to find me, but I felt vulnerable in a sleeping bag out in the elements. I decided to hedge my bets. I’d stay in an expensive hotel, then camp, then stay in a dive, and then randomly choose a different place nightly. Maybe not the best plan, but it felt right.  I felt more secure changing not only where I slept, but the type of accommodation, especially if I did not rotate in a set fashion, but changed accommodations as randomly as possible. It was probably irrational, but it felt like the safest strategy, and reduced my anxiety more than any other plan I considered. And I considered a multitude of strategies.

So I found myself in an expensive hotel the first night, the night I deemed the least likely Bianchi would find me. He likely would not start his search so soon, let alone be able to locate me. So why not get a good night’s sleep when the odds were on my side?

My sleep was fitful, restless.  I heard footsteps approaching my room. Was he coming? Had he found me? It was a guest going to his room. False alarms and imagined danger went on for a few hours. Then sleep came, but it was choppy.

I woke up at sunrise, and left the hotel, figuring the longer I lingered, the greater the danger. I ate only the food I had brought along, always cooking with my portable camp stove in nature. That night, I camped out with tent and sleeping bag in a national forest. My sleep was better because I was so tired from the restless first night. Also, I did not imagine my predator’s presence as much as the first night. Still, my sleep was less than great, as I had some fear that he might appear.

And so the days went by. There was no sign of Baldovino for the first two and a half weeks after I went into hiding. The longer the time he could not find me, the more time the Hands had to rip out his trachea, and the greater my chance of survival. I bought the local paper daily, listened to the local news on my car radio, and watched it on TV in my motel and hotel rooms, but heard nothing of Bianchi’s death.  The newspapers, radio, and TV would have covered the death of a famous Mafioso, especially if he were de-throated by the Hands That Drip Blood. I never watched the TV news in my motel or hotel rooms, because I was afraid of making any kind of noise.

I had camped for two nights. It was time for a motel. I found a secluded, cheap dump, one I had not yet stayed in. I closed the curtains. The room was about eighty percent dark with the curtains closed and room lights off, illuminated only by the motel’s outdoor lights. I went to bed at about 10 PM and slept about four hours, awakening at about 2 AM I could see something hanging directly above my face, as I lay on my back in the dim light. A drop of liquid descended from the form hanging above me and landed on my forehead. Then another drop hit me between the eyes. The form was dripping slowly, like a leaky faucet. It was swinging. I didn’t dare turn on the room light. I grabbed my flashlight and shined it on the shape. Swinging at the end of a thin rope suspended from the ceiling light were two severed hands with blood dripping from them, one six-fingered and scared, the other with a dragon tattoo on the palm.

Bob Lehring and his son Jimmy were on their way to Lake Fossil.  Bob and his family had not been well off financially ever since he had been laid off after the closing of the GM plant nearly a year ago.  Bob knew he had just enough money to show his son and himself a good time.

Bob had gone to Lake Fossil with his father when he was younger.  It would be Jimmy’s first time at the lake.

“Almost there, Jimmy,” Bob said to his son.

“Good, dad,” Jimmy replied.  “I can’t wait!”

Bob was determined to show his son a good time, mainly because he was unable to provide much for him at Christmas and his birthday because of the financial rut his family had been in over the past year.

Bob wanted his wife Marsha to come up with them, but she had plans to go to a picnic; she was not a fan of fishing anyway.

Jimmy looked out of his window to see a sign that said Lake Fossil 5 Miles.  His eyes lit up with joy.  Bob got off at the exit and pulled into a nearby gas station.

The two of them walked in; Bob grabbed a six-pack of Budweiser and a package of beef jerky, and Jimmy grabbed a large Orange Gatorade and a package of peanuts.

Bob paid for the items, and they both walked back outside.  Jimmy stopped for a moment and looked at his surroundings.  He was amazed by what he saw.  He was eight, and he knew only residential areas for the most part; he had not traveled much.  He looked around at the barns, cornfields and open fields.  He breathed in the refreshing air with a large smile on his face.

“This is it, son,” Bob said.  He had the same large smile on his face as his son.  “This is where we come to get away.  Enjoy it while it lasts.”

It was a great autumn day.  The temperature was moderate, and the breeze was subtle and relaxing.  The sky was blue, and all of the clouds were pure white, not coming anywhere near the shining sun.

Bob and Jimmy got back into the truck and moved along.  Bob was visiting his friend Larry who had a trailer, boat and dock up at the lake.  Bob had his own canoe, which was strapped into the bed of his truck.  Larry had a nice motor boat, but Bob preferred the canoe; he felt that it was more authentic.

Bob drove through the country roads, getting further and further from civilization as they went along.  Jimmy stared out of his window, admiring everything he saw.

They reached a graveled area.  A small building was straight ahead.  There was a large Pepsi sign in front of the building.  Above it said, Dig Trailer Park.

To the right was a large channel of water with docks and boats in sight.  Right by the channel was a gate with a tall man sitting to the side of it.  A small booth was next to the man.

“Well, this is it,” Bob said.  “Just as I remember it.”  He pulled up to the gate and stopped to wait for the tall man to approach him.

“Are you visitors or residents?” the man asked while leaning down to look Bob in the eyes.

“We’re visitors,” Bob replied.

“Okay, that’ll be two dollars.”

Bob pulled out two dollar bills and eagerly handed them to the man.

“All right, you two have a nice day,” the man said.  He smiled, showing his teeth and gums.

“Thank you,” Bob said.

The tall man pulled a lever and the gate opened up slowly.  Bob drove through, going only ten miles per hour over the gravel road.

“So where’s Larry’s trailer?” Jimmy asked.

“Should be right up here,” Bob replied.

“Okay.”  Jimmy paused.  “I learned a lot about fossils in science class.”

“Yep,” Bob said, smiling.  “This whole lake used to be filled with dinosaur fossils.  Now they’re at the museum you and your mom went to last year.  Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah!” Jimmy said.  His eyes widened.  “Do you think we’ll see any today?”

“I doubt it.  They’ve cleared all of the fossils out of here, I’m pretty sure.  We’ll have fun though.  There’re a lot of cool things to see out here.”

Jimmy smiled and sighed.

Bob picked up a card on his dashboard.  It said 1204, the number of Larry’s trailer.

Bob looked to his right and saw the number right away.  He pulled into a small parking area right next to Larry’s truck.

Bob and Jimmy got out and headed toward the trailer.  They could both hear the TV blaring from inside.  It sounded like an old western movie was on.

As the two of them drew closer they could hear the sound of loud snoring along with the high volume of the TV.

Bob looked at Jimmy as if to say, “This might be a while”.

Bob knocked on the door with moderate force.

There was no reply or movement that could be heard.

Bob knocked again with more force this time.  He and Jimmy could hear some scrambling now.  The sound of the TV diminished, and the door opened.

“Hey, fellas!” Larry said while hugging the two of them.  He looked a little different than the last time Bob had seen him.  He looked older.  He was tan, and he had a large beard and long hair.  He was wearing a tank top, swimming trunks and sandals.

“Hey there, Larry,” Bob said.  “Thanks again for having us over.”

“Hey, no problem.  How are you, my man?” he asked Jimmy.

“I’m great!” he replied.

“You ready ta catch some dinosaurs?”

“Yeah!”

Bob burst out with laughter.

“Good!” Larry said.

“So how have you been doin’ over here?” Bob asked Larry.

“Oh, it’s great.  It really is the life.  It’s been a little lonesome up here lately though.  I sure am glad you two came up.”

“Yeah, we are too.  The perfect getaway.”

“You got that right!”

Jimmy began to admire Larry’s boat, which was a red and white Seavdoo Speedster 200.  It was parked by the dock next to Larry’s trailer.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Larry said to Jimmy while walking up and putting his hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, it is,” Jimmy replied.

“You wanna go for a ride?”

“Sure!”

“All right, we will later,” Bob said.  “I wanna get out there with the canoe first.”

“Okay.”

“You wanna go out with us?” Bob asked Larry.

“No, I’ve got a few things ta take care of right now.  You two have fun though.  We can take Clara out when you get back.  I will help you get your boat out on the water though.”

“Thanks.”

“Go ahead and back up into that channel over there.”  Larry pointed to a slope that declined into the water.  “We can all ride up there together.”

“Sounds good.”

They all got into Bob’s truck and headed to the slope.  They went through the entrance/exit gate, which opened as they approached.

Bob backed up slowly down the slope.

“All right, you’re good,” Larry said.  “Go ‘head and park ‘er.  Push in your emergency brake.”

Bob did so, and the three of them got out of the truck.  Jimmy put on his life jacket.  Bob grabbed the two oars, two rods and tackle box out of the canoe and set them on the ground.  He then unhooked the strap that held the boat in the truck bed.  Bob and Larry each grabbed one side of the boat and eased it into the channel.

They let it float until the end of it reached the water.  Then they both held onto it so it would not float away.

“Jimmy, go ahead and grab the stuff on the ground and get in,” Bob said.

“Okay,” Jimmy replied.  He placed the oars, rods and tackle box into the boat and stepped in carefully.  He headed to the middle of the boat and sat down on one of the seats while picking up one of the oars.

“All right, you’re good ta go,” Larry said.  “I’ll take your truck back to the trailer.”

“Thanks, Larry,” Bob said while shaking his hand.

“All right, I’ll be at the trailer when you get back.”

“See ya,” Jimmy said.

“Later.”

Bob stepped into the canoe and quickly grabbed the other oar.  They both paddled and headed toward the body of the lake.  They both admired the trailers and other scenery as they moved along.  Larry’s trailer was a little run down, but many of the others were very nice and presentable.  There were some gulls relaxing on a few of the docks.  There were also a few people fishing off the docks.

“Hey there, partners!” an old man called out to Bob and Jimmy.  He was sitting at the edge of one of the docks fishing.  He had white hair and a white beard and looked like Santa Claus.

“Hey, how’s it goin’?” Bob asked, smiling.

“Pretty good.  Helluva day fer fishin’.  Caught me a white bass just a bit ago.  A lot a’ perch and catfish out here too.”

“That’s good.  Have a good time.”

“Good luck ta you guys.”

“Thanks,” Jimmy and Bob called out simultaneously.

Bob and Jimmy had reached a spot where they could see the body of the lake and some trees and a road with vehicles passing by.  There were some Jet Skis, motor boats and sail boats out, and light waves were now rocking up against the canoe.

“Well, we better anchor here soon,” Bob said.  “We don’t wanna tip over.”

Jimmy chuckled.  He picked up his miniature fishing pole and looked at it.  He had gone fishing a few times before at a pond near their home in Moraine, but he did not know how to cast or set the hook.

Bob went ahead and dropped the anchor near the peak of the channel and the body of the lake.  He looked to his right and saw an area of luxurious homes.  He tapped Jimmy on the shoulder and pointed toward them.  They both admired the homes.  They were all very tall and white, and they looked like lighthouses with balconies.  They could see a few Cadillacs and other nice cars parked near the homes.

Bob grabbed Jimmy’s pole and opened his tackle box.  He pulled out an orange bobber and attached it to the line of the pole.  He then pulled out a Styrofoam container and opened it.  He pulled out a night crawler and hooked it to the hook.  He then cast out the line and reeled it in just enough to lock it.  He handed the pole to Jimmy.

“Now if you see that bobber go down let me know and I’ll set the hook,” Bob said.  “Then you can reel it in.”

“Okay,” Jimmy replied.

Bob then got his pole ready.  He always preferred fake bait.  He pulled out a bright, yellow minnow lure and hooked it on.  He cast out and reeled back in slowly.

The sun was still shining bright.  The wind was blowing a little harder, but it was still very relaxing.  Bob cracked open one of his beers and took a chug while Jimmy drank from his Gatorade bottle.  Then they both pulled out their snacks and began to munch on them.

“Your mom doesn’t know what she’s missin’ out here,” Bob said.

“I know,” Jimmy replied.  “It’s her loss.”

Bob chuckled.  He reeled back in all the way and then cast back out.

“Has she tried to call your cell phone?” Jimmy asked.

“I doubt it,” Bob replied.  “I’m not getting any service out here right now though.”  He pulled out his cell phone and looked at it to see that there were no service bars.  “Besides, I’m sure she’s livin’ it up at the picnic.”

Jimmy smiled.  He looked to his right and saw a large Tyrannosaurus Rex statue planted in front of an area of bushes.

“Daddy, look!” Jimmy pointed at the statue.

“Whoa!” Bob replied.  “That’s somethin’.  It looks so real.”

“I know!”

Jimmy then noticed that his bobber was dunking in and out of the water.

“Dad, my bobber!” he said.

Bob set his pole down while the line was still cast out.  He grabbed Jimmy’s pole and waited for the bobber to go down all the way.

When it did he pulled the pole up with great force, setting the hook.  He reeled a couple of times and then handed the pole to Jimmy.

Jimmy used all of his strength to reel the line in.  He was struggling a little, but he did not give up.

“Keep goin’, son,” Bob said.  You almost have him!”

Jimmy kept reeling.  He clenched his teeth and pressed his lips together.

He had finally pulled the fish in enough to where it was splashing right in front of him.

“All right, let me see,” Bob said.

Jimmy handed the pole to his father, who finished reeling in the fish.

It turned out to be a rather large blue gill.  It flopped around in the air as if it were fighting it.

Bob brought it over toward them.

“Look at that!” he said.  “Good job, Jimmy!”

“Thanks, dad!” Jimmy replied.  “It’s a big one!”

“Sure is.” Bob grabbed the fish with one hand and the hook with the other.  He freed the fish from the hook and threw it back into the water.

He held his palm up to Jimmy, and Jimmy slapped it.

Bob put another worm on Jimmy’s hook and cast the line back out.  He handed the pole back to Jimmy.  He reeled his line back in all the way and cast it back out, reeling in slowly.

They had both noticed that the sky had grown darker.  They both looked up to see a large, gray cloud beginning to cover the sun.  There were others moving in as well.

“Damn,” Bob whispered to himself.

“I thought it was apposed to be sunny all day,” Jimmy said with a tone of disappointment.

“I thought so too, son.  I thought so too.”  He paused for a moment.  “It’s okay though.  We’ll keep fishing for now.  If it starts rainin’ we’ll head back.  Larry’s trailer is just over there.”

“Okay.”

Bob continued to reel in; the pressure grew as he did.  He knew he had something.  He began to reel in more forcefully.

“You got something?” Jimmy asked.

“Think so,” Bob replied.  He stood up with his legs bent and one leg forward, keeping himself on balance.  He was now flexing almost every muscle in his body.

“You okay, dad?”

“Yep.”  Bob was standing his ground, but the canoe began to rock back and forth a little.  He sat back down and continued reeling; now he was barely able to move the reel at all.

Then the pressure released altogether, and Bob sprung forward and landed on his hands and knees near the front of the boat.  The boat rocked, almost tipping over.  His pole fell out of his hands and almost tipped over the edge.

“Dad, are you okay?” Jimmy asked while standing up.

Bob pushed himself up and looked back at his son.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said.  “Sit back down.”

Jimmy sat back down and picked up his pole.  The bobber was still floating, moving very little.

“You had a big one,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, sure did,” Bob replied while reeling the line back in.  His knees were hurting him, but he tried to ignore the pain.  There was no hook at the end of his line when he brought it back in.

They both looked up and noticed that the sky was now completely gray.  It looked as if it could storm at any time.

Bob sighed.  “Guess we better head back.”

“Okay,” Jimmy replied.  He reeled his line back in and handed the pole to his father.

Bob took the worm off the hook and threw it into the water.  He connected the hook to the pole and set it down.  He then pulled the anchor up out of the water, and the two of them began to row back toward the channel.

They were about to re-enter the channel when they both heard a loud thumping noise.  It was consistent, and it was growing louder with each thud.

They both stopped paddling and looked around.  The people on Jet Skis and motor boats had also come to a halt; they all looked around.

“What is that?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m not sure,” Bob replied.  He looked over to the other side of the lake, from where the noise seemed to be coming.  The sky was growing even darker, but the surroundings were still visible.

Bob and Jimmy resumed their paddling, faster than ever now.  The others out on the water also began to hurry back to land.

Just as Bob and Jimmy entered the channel they both heard terrified screams behind them.

They both stopped and looked back immediately.

Jimmy screamed and Bob looked in horror at what was on the other side of the lake.

It was a large Tyrannosaurus Rex, only its head was nothing but a dusty, gray skull.  It was able to roar loudly even with its handicap.  It stomped back and forth near a forest area, its tail swinging and wiping out everything it came in contact with; which included cars, signs and bushes.  One of the cars was hurled into the lake, and it almost slammed right into a man on a Jet Ski.  It was unclear if anyone was in the car.

The car descended slowly into the water, bubbling as it went.  The man on the Jet Ski stared at it in horror then looked back at the T-rex.  He accelerated the Jet Ski and began to move further away from the car and the dinosaur; he did not appear to have a specific destination.

Bob and Jimmy turned back around; they were about to go down the channel and head for safety when they both heard a rustling noise over by the bushes to their left.

They looked over and saw that the T-rex statue was now moving.  At first it appeared to be simple electronic movements, but then it roared and began to walk, showing real life movement and utterance.  It was considerably smaller than the T-rex across the lake, but it was still much larger than a human, and it looked extremely dangerous.

Bob and Jimmy both knew that they could not continue down the channel.  The living statue looked like it was capable of jumping onto them.

They reversed their paddles and headed back toward the body of the lake.  The small T-rex just stared at them and growled lightly.

“Daddy, where are we going to go?” Jimmy asked.

“I’m not sure,” Bob replied.  “We’ll figure out something though.”

They were now in the body of the lake again.  The small T-rex was now walking away from them along the channel.  Bob looked back and saw that the Santa Claus look-alike and the other people that had been fishing were now out of sight.  He thought anxiously about how the T-rex was heading toward Larry.  He could not see Larry or his trailer from where they were in the canoe.  He wished that he could warn Larry somehow, but he had no service with his cell phone, and he would not be able to yell out and reach him because of the large distance between them, not to mention the possibility of bringing the T-rex back over toward the canoe.

Bob and Jimmy both looked back over across the lake at the large T-rex.  It was still in the same spot, but it was not causing as much commotion as it had.  It was fairly still and seemed to be getting tired.

They both noticed some approaching figures in the sky to the left of them.  The figures appeared to be birds at first, but Bob and Jimmy both had a dreadful feeling that they were not.

Bob held onto his oar as if he was holding a baseball bat.

“Get ready, son,” he said.  “If one of those things swoops down, pretend that you’re A. Rod and knock it out of the park.”

Jimmy picked up the oar and held it just like his father.  They both watched as the unidentified flying objects grew closer.

Bob and Jimmy then recognized what they were: three pterodactyls flying side by side.  They passed Bob and Jimmy and seemed to not be aware of any of the humans below them.  They just flew gracefully, and then they were out of sight.

Everyone out on the water was now ready for anything after what they had seen so far.  Bob looked around and counted three Jet Skis, two sail boats and five motor boats.  They were all pretty far away from the canoe, close to the middle of the lake.  None of them were moving except for some light bobbing due to the riffling of the water.

Bob looked past all of the boats and noticed that the large T-rex that was across the lake was now out of sight.  It scared Bob even more to think that the giant lizard was most likely terrorizing the town now.

He then thought to himself that they needed to head back into the channel to check on Larry.  The smaller T-rex was also out of sight and probably nearing Larry.

Bob was confused as to what to do.  It seemed that any turn he decided on would turn out to be a trap.  He did not want to put his son in any more danger, and he wanted to do something to try and help Larry.

Right before Bob had a chance to make a decision as to where to navigate, the ground began to rumble again.  Dirt began to fly up out of the ground near the lake.  Bob and Jimmy looked around to see that it was happening all around the lake; it appeared to be a storm coming out of the ground.  The sky remained gray, but there were no other signs of a thunderstorm.

Something began to rise up out of the crumbling soil, making the dirt ascend even higher.  The dirt began to flick onto Bob and Jimmy and inside the canoe, so they both paddled back toward the body of the lake.

Now the things coming up out of the dirt were much more noticeable.  They were fossils of dinosaurs.

They rose up all around the lake, surrounding it.  They were not complete skeletons, but they were easily distinguishable from one another.  Bob and Jimmy looked to see a cracked skull of a triceratops connected to a spine and two upper limbs.  There was also a skeleton of a brontosaur minus the tail and two back limbs.  Most of the others were just miscellaneous bones connected to stone.  They were all gray and dusty.

Once all of the fossils had been unearthed completely, the shaking of the ground stopped.  The fossils stood still; many of them looked as if they were on display in a museum.

Then they started to rattle, and appeared to be coming to life.  The partial triceratops began to drag itself with its front limbs.  The brontosaurus did the same.  The smaller fossils just hopped around back and forth.

At the other end of the lake, there were two complete skeletons; one of which was a T-rex and the other was a stegosaurus.  They both seemed to be competing for which of them would be the ruler of all of the fossils.  Though they did not have eyes, the two of them seemed to be staring each other up and down; each of them ready to strike at one another.

The other partial fossils continued to bounce around; they seemed to be egging on the T-rex and stegosaurus.  Many of them fell into the water in the midst of the commotion, making large, cannonball-like splashes.  They most likely just sank to the bottom as none of them resurfaced.

Bob began to think about how unsafe the water probably was.  Only God knew what was lurking underneath.  Whatever had taken his hook had to be monstrous.

Bob and Jimmy looked across the lake at the T-rex and stegosaurus; they were now head-butting each other.  The T-rex had the upper hand because it was much larger, but the stegosaurus was putting up one hell of a fight as well.  Bob and Jimmy could hear the loud cracking sounds of the fossils’ heads banging up against one another.  Small bits of bone chipped off of them after each hit.

The other partial fossils that were left on the ground (only about half of the original) were bouncing even higher now.  It seemed that the ones on the left were rooting for the stegosaurus and the ones on the right were rooting for the T-rex.

The two fossils kept going at it, neither of them slowing down or hesitating.  They looked like robots fighting.

They were both inching closer and closer to the water with each blow.  The stegosaurus appeared to be tripping on the edge of the land.  Then the T-rex drew back its head almost as far as it would go and swung for what it seemed to have hoped to be the final blow.

As the heavy strike came in, the stegosaurus ducked, losing its balance and falling into the water.  The T-rex also lost its balance after the miss and fell into the water.

They both sank quickly.  They attempted to swim but did not succeed.  Once they were no longer visible, bubbles began to come up, resembling the aftermath of a sinking ship.

The remaining partial fossils began to fall into the water one by one as if trying to rescue their masters.  They all sank as well.

The surroundings were now empty, destructed and deathly silent.  The sky had not grown any darker.

Before anyone on the lake had a chance to continue on to safety, the ground began to rumble again.  More creatures rose up out of the same spots of which the fossils had risen.

More dinosaurs rose, this time in full flesh.  Bob and Jimmy studied them.  Most of them they recognized: triceratops, velociraptors, allosaurs, and brontosaurs.  There were also others which the Lehrings did not recognize at all.

When the dinosaurs had reached the ground they growled lightly and began to stagger around.  They did not seem to have much intelligence at all.  Many of them slobbered and seemed to be unable to close their mouths.  Others were cross-eyed, and others had gashes in their heads with blood seeping out.  They all seemed to be weak and hungry.

Bob realized after a moment that the creatures were dinosaur zombies.  The zombies did not seem to be aware of the people out on the lake.  There were no other people on the ground around the lake that the Lehrings could see; they had most likely all fled by now.

A few of the zombies tripped and fell into the lake.  They sank even quicker than the fossils had.

The other stronger ones just roamed around and moaned, looking for food.  They were obviously angry and frustrated.  They were overcrowded and bumped into each other.  A few more of them fell into the water, but most of them were now able to stand their ground.

Bob and Jimmy were afraid, but they were thankful that nothing was coming up out of the water though they knew it could still happen at some point.

Bob made eye contact with one of the allosaurs.  It stared at him and moaned louder than the others.  The other zombies eventually caught on and looked over at Bob, Jimmy and the other humans out on the lake.

The zombies were smart enough not to jump into the water after the humans, but they were tempted.  They paced back and forth, moaning and staring the whole time.

Then creatures behind the zombies began to approach.  They looked similar to humans and were staggering around just like the dinosaur zombies.

As they got closer it became apparent what the creatures were: zombies of cavemen.  There were males and females; some of them were completely nude while others were covered by torn rags.  They met up with the dinosaurs, nodding as if they were acquaintances.  The cave people moaned and seemed to be attempting to speak.

“Rraaayy!” they all muttered.

Brains! Bob thought.

A few of the cave people walked directly over the edge and into the water, sinking right away.  The others stood with the dinosaurs, creating a moaning harmony.

Bob and Jimmy looked back to see that the cave people and the dinosaurs were lined up on both sides of the channel; they also all lined the entire lake as well.  Bob just hoped that Larry and everyone else had taken off by now.  All of the trailers were most likely being demolished now though Bob could not see them.

Bob and Jimmy heard the sound of a high-pitched bark coming from the channel area.  A small poodle came into view between one of the gaps between the zombies.  It barked at the zombies, bouncing back and forth in a tantrum.

One of the cave zombies picked up the poodle with one hand, holding it up.  The dog attempted to bite the arm of the caveman; it did not succeed.

The caveman then proceeded to bite the head off of the dog with one quick bite.  It threw the body of the dog into the lake and began to chew as if it were eating cherries with pits.

The cave zombie spit the skull out into its hand.  It then cracked the skull open with its knee and pulled out the brain.

Many of the other zombies, cavemen and dinosaurs alike, approached the brain, hoping to get a share.

The victor growled and held the brain close to its body as if the brain was a football.

It then slipped the brain into its mouth quickly and chewed it up in delight.  The others were looking around, wondering what had happened to the brain.

The victor smiled and wiped blood from its mouth.  The others had finally given up on getting a piece of the brain the victor had just ingested and moved on to look for their own food.

The cave zombies did not seem to notice the people out on the lake.  They just scrambled around, grunting and bumping into each other.

Things seemed to be calming down for a short moment, but then the water began to bubble just meters away from the canoe.  Bob and Jimmy picked their oars back up, ready to swing.

The bubbles then moved toward the shore, past the canoe.  Bob and Jimmy just sat and watched.  They both knew that the underwater thing could easily change direction and move toward the boat.

The thing then jumped up out of the water in an arch as if it was a dolphin and landed back in the water.  It was a very long, snake-like prehistoric fish.  Bob and Jimmy had seen fish similar to it in science books.  It had a large mouth with sharp teeth and spikes on its back.

Then many others of the sort began to jump up out of the water as well.  Bob was now pretty sure that it had been one of these fish that had taken his line; at first he had pictured it being much larger though.

Bob looked over to see one of the fish jump toward a man on a Jet Ski.  The man’s face was bitten clean off right as he turned his head to look behind him.  The fish landed back in the water before finishing ingesting the human flesh.  The man appeared to be in shock and fell into the water head first.  He did not resurface.  The Jet Ski tilted and landed in the water on its side.  The motor was still running, spitting up water.

“We need ta get outta here, Jimmy,” Bob said while turning the boat back toward the channel and looking around at his surroundings.

“Okay,” Jimmy replied.  He was scared but determined to survive.

“Okay, just help me paddle.  We’re gonna go back into the channel.  We need to stay in the middle of it so those things don’t reach out and grab us.  If those fish jump toward us we’ll hit ‘em with a grand slam.  Once we get to the end of the channel we’ll get out and fight our way through these things.”

“Okay, dad.”

“I love you, son.”

“I love you, dad.”

They both began to paddle back into the channel.  The zombies were still in view, but they were not lining the coast anymore.  They had all moved toward the bushes and trailers, looking for food.

The fish were still jumping, but not near the canoe.  Bob and Jimmy did not bother to look behind them.  They made their way into the channel, paddling with all their strength.  It was especially rough for Jimmy since he was young and did not have much physical strength.  He kept going without stopping though, his muscles breaking down with every movement.

The channel was somewhat calm even with all the commotion.  There was a small amount of rippling going through the water.

They could now see the concrete slope at the end of the channel.  Bob looked to the right to see his truck parked by Larry’s trailer.  Larry’s truck was gone, and his trailer was demolished.  The door was ripped open, and the roof had been torn open.  Most of the objects from inside the trailer were now scattered and broken on the ground, surrounding the trailer.  The zombies were now moving deeper into the trailer park and out toward the road.  Many of them were collapsing due to weakness and hunger.

Bob and Jimmy had gotten very close to the end of the channel when one of the fish jumped near the right side of the canoe where Jimmy resided.  Jimmy screamed and grabbed his oar more tightly.  They floated closer to the slope, watching the water.

Then a fish jumped up out of the water toward Bob, its mouth open and teeth pointing.

Bob swung at the fish as if it was a fastball.  He hit it right in the head, and it flung back into the water, spinning like a fan.

Bob was not sure if he had killed it, but it did not come back up above the water; it had either sank or swam back down to the bottom.

Bob and Jimmy began to paddle again, only a few feet from the slope now.  They heard a splash behind them just as they were about to hold their oars out to grip the slope.

They looked behind to see one of the fish jump into the boat, landing in the back of it.

The fish wiggled around inside the boat, biting at the air and letting out moans of frustration.  Jimmy scooted up a little, and he and Bob watched as the fish struggled to survive outside of the water.

They both paddled a few more times, and the front of the canoe made contact with the concrete slope, grinding up against it and eventually halting.

Bob reached out with his oar and used it as a crutch to keep the boat from going back into the water.

“Go!” he yelled to Jimmy.

Jimmy got up, picked up his oar and carefully walked across the canoe and stepped out onto the slope.  He dropped the oar on the ground and held onto the boat so his father could get out.

Just as Bob stood up to step out of the canoe, the fish from the canoe leaped and bit onto his left arm, so fast that Jimmy had trouble comprehending it at first.

Bob moaned silently and paused as the creature bit into his flesh, connecting itself to his forearm.

Jimmy watched as blood soared out of his father’s arm, and his father attempted to shake the fish off and beat it with the oar in his right hand.

“Move, Jimmy!” Bob said as he jumped from the canoe to the slope, the fish still holding on tight.

Jimmy stepped back and picked his oar back up.  He began to hit the head of the fish repeatedly.

“Jimmy, be careful!” Bob said then moaned again.

The fish was beginning to lose its grip, but its teeth were still puncturing the flesh on Bob’s arm.  He knew that he was losing a lot of blood, but he also knew that he was still far from death.  He would be able to push on.

Jimmy continued to hit the fish with the small amount of energy he had left.  The fish was now bleeding out of both eyes.

Bob then saw a large rock right between the concrete slope and one of the docks.  He inched his way over to it and slammed his oar down onto it, breaking the top off of the oar.  He then began to stab the head of the fish repeatedly.

The fish then went limp and loosened its grip all the way, falling down onto the slope.

It stopped moving altogether.

Bob looked at his arm to see that it was soaked with blood and saliva.  There were multiple puncture wounds with blood seeping out of all of them.

He took off his shirt and tied it around his arm tightly, using his teeth to pull it tight at the end.

He then picked his oar back up with his good hand and led his son to the truck, which was fairly close, but seemed to be miles away.

There were a few zombies, mainly of cave people, that were lying on the ground, motionless.  Bob and Jimmy stepped over them cautiously and silently.  Bob’s arm was still pounding with pain, but he managed to keep himself from moaning.

There were some moving dinosaur zombies that were off in the distance, but they had migrated from Larry’s park.

Bob and Jimmy noticed the ground up dirt as they walked.  There was currently nothing coming out of it.  They would just have to push on a little more so they could reach the truck.

Then a large hand came up out of the ground right in front of Bob and Jimmy; it looked as if it belonged to a giant.

They both stopped and watched as its fingers began to move around, trying to grip something.

Bob and Jimmy ran around the hand toward the truck.  They both opened up their doors, grateful that they were unlocked.  Bob saw that his key was in the ignition.

They both got in and fastened their seat belts.  They kept their oars with them.

“Can you drive, daddy?” Jimmy asked.

“Yep,” Bob replied.  He turned on the ignition and backed out, using his right hand for everything.

The gate was open, so he saw that he would be able to drive through without any problems.

Just as he backed out, more hands came up out of the ground; these were human-sized.  There was a small pathway between the hands and the zombie corpses Bob was able to drive through.

He drove quickly, reaching the open gate in no time.

He went through and made it to the front parking lot.  He looked back in his rear view mirror to see that the giant hand was now a full arm, moving back and forth, loosening the soil little by little.

Bob sped through the parking lot, heading toward the road.  A few of the cave zombies came out of nowhere, and were hit by Bob’s truck before Bob or Jimmy were even aware of it.

Bob sped down Route 34, dodging a few zombie corpses as he excelled.  Jimmy looked out of his window to see skeletons of pterodactyls flying around like carrions.

They could both hear a thunderous rumbling behind them as they fled.

Fe fi fo fum, Bob thought.

Jeffrey Gold sat in his doctor’s waiting room gently swinging the quart food saver bag with his pill bottles.   Even though this was the same office that had written all of his prescriptions they always asked him questions on dosage or how often he took the pills.  He never remembered them all and, even when he wrote down the information to bring with him, they invariably asked him a question he couldn’t answer.  Now he just brought all of the bottles with him which they could read for themselves.  After a while he looked up and saw how annoyed the other patients were at the rattling of the pills, so he sat back and held the bag in his lap.

He didn’t like the remodeled waiting room.  The new chairs were padded and were more comfortable than the old hard plastic ones and there were now little tables between the rows.  Unfortunately those tables were piled high with boating magazines reviewing the newest in high end yachts and travel magazines touting all the international hot spots he could never afford to see.  Thanks for reminding us where our insurance and co-pay dollars were going, he thought.  Worse yet they had found another way to squeeze money out of the system by installing a large flat screen television that played constant “health” programming.  Over and over they repeated fake shows that started out by telling you how a healthier lifestyle could keep you out of the doctor’s office, but they always ended with pills as the answer to all your problems.  Gold didn’t know the economics of putting in that TV but he knew they wouldn’t have done it if it was losing them money.  Somehow intruding into sick people’s comfort by turning them into a captive audience for Big Pharma added to their yacht and travel budget.   All he could think as he watched the smiling actors pretending to be doctors, nurses and patients was how far ahead of his time George Orwell really was.

He would have preferred to come after work but Doctor Julius’ practice was thriving and he had to take the opening he could get, forcing him to lose a half day’s pay. He had arrived early and now desperately wanted a cold drink from the brand new water fountain on the other side of the room but he was satisfied with his seat, with a seemingly healthy person on his left and a table on his right.  The waiting room was always crowded so whenever a seat became vacant someone would immediately move to get away from a wheezing or coughing patient.  In the time it would take him to walk to the fountain and back he’d lose his seat and would have to choose which sicker person to sit next to.  So he sat, thirsty and bored, refusing to pick up any of the magazines and wallow in the prosperity of his health care providers.

Gold had to marvel at the efficiency of the practice.  Patients were constantly being moved into the examination rooms or out the front door with the office staff (apparently divided into specialities such as bringing patients in, collecting fees and scheduling future appointments) managing the flow so the medical professionals did not waste a minute of their day.  Time was money, even in the healing arts.

Gold had been sick for a long time with no end in sight.  As an asthmatic boy he had suffered the constant ragging of the other kids as he puffed on the inhaler he carried everywhere.  Now he was in his thirties, still “frail” and still living in a cold (and now snowy) suburb of Chicago despite always promising himself he’d live somewhere warm someday.  He remembered even back then his doctor’s office had been filled with little gifts from the drug companies but the constant promotion had only gotten worse.   This waiting room and the examination rooms inside were stocked with every manner of useful item donated by the drug reps who made regular visits to the clinic to drop off samples and push their new products.  There were clocks, calendars, clipboards, pencil cups and posters everywhere, each emblazoned with the name the donator’s product.   Less obvious were the trips and “seminars” available to the doctors.  How many news shows had he seen on “educational” junkets for doctors that consisted mainly of sailing, golf and banquets?

In recent years it seemed that the big drug companies were no longer satisfied with just treating the diseases people already had but were inventing new conditions that mankind had somehow avoided for the last million years and spending billions on advertising suggesting that you ask your doctor if you had them.  And the list of symptoms!  Are you tired after a long day?  Would you rather stay in bed than get up and go to a job you hated?  Are you in your nineties and unable to get an erection?  Tell your doctor to prescribe our new pill for you.  When he began getting, and paying for, his own medicines he started wondering if it wasn’t the doctor’s job to find out what you had and then tell you what medicine you needed.

When he was finally called he couldn’t resist taking a side trip to the water fountain with a quick look back at his former seat.  As he suspected, even before he managed to take a drink, someone had moved away from a sicker patient and taken his place.  The nurse led him to an exam room, stopping at a scale to take his weight even though he had been there only a week earlier.  Then there was another long wait before another nurse came in to take his particulars.  She seemed surprised when he dumped the plastic bag of his medicines on the counter in front of her after she asked what medications he was on, but she shrugged and quickly reviewed the labels, comparing them to the list in front of her.  She followed the drug review by taking his temperature with a digital thermometer and then his blood pressure.  Apparently neither was all that alarming because she gave the usual “someone will be with you soon” speech and left.  It wasn’t “soon”.

He sat for another fifteen minutes on the massive exam table that practically filled the tiny room, periodically considering moving to the uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner where he had dumped his jacket but it didn’t seem worth the effort.  So he waited.  There wasn’t much in the room to focus on.  There were various instruments for taking readings or looking in patient’s ears, a rack holding boxes of latex gloves in several sizes, a special container for used syringes and the usual wipes and swabs.   The only non-medical items were more of the magazines that he had seen out in the waiting room, left there for the long wait between exams.  It was all too familiar.  He could see this  room and the others like it with his eyes closed.

When the nurse practitioner finally came in there was the usual routine as she checked the clipboard to see his latest readings.  This practice had one doctor at the top of the heap but several nurse practitioners to carry the load and he almost always saw the same one.  She was neat and professional and he had come to trust her as much as you could trust anyone in the health field.

“Well,” Nurse Jacobson said, “you’re back very soon after your last appointment.  Are you feeling worse?”

“No,” Gold told her.  “My symptoms are no worse, but no better.  When you prescribed the … the red pill which I can’t pronounce for the itching I asked you how long it would take to notice a difference.  There hasn’t been one.”

“Well,” she said, “it often takes longer with some patients.  I’m sure I told you that, too.”

“You said one to two weeks and it’s been almost a month.”

“Medicine isn’t always an exact science.”

No one knew that more than Gold.  How often had a doctor said to him that they were going to try something different and “see what happens”?   He wouldn’t let a mechanic treat his car that way.  We’ll replace the pistons and see if that helps.  Yet, he could not count the number of medicines that doctors had decided to “try” on him.

“Then what brings you here today?”  She actually sounded as if she cared and was not annoyed at his constant demands to feel better.

“I have a question I hope you’ll answer for me,” he said.  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

“Of course, you can ask me anything.”

Gold had been thinking about this question for a long time but had never dared ask anyone either at the clinic or at the drug store where he got his pills.  “What I wanted to ask is this.  Are those real medicines?”

The NP seemed stunned.  She took a moment to pick up the bag and look at the  bottles inside.   “What are you suggesting?”

Was that her way of avoiding the question?

“I’ve been taking some of those medicines for years and the others for just a short time, but I never feel different.  I don’t get better and I don’t get worse.  I’ve never even had any side-effects.”

“Well you don’t want those.”

“No one wants them,” Gold said, “but people get them.  The paperwork that comes with the pill warn you about fatigue, rashes, headaches, diarrhea or constipation.  You’d think that just once I’d get one of them, but I never do.  I also never seem to get any better.”

“Mr. Gold, you certainly can’t complain about a lack of side-effects.  Those people who get them are the unlucky ones.  As for feeling better, well, some things take time.”

He jumped down off the table and fished two of the bottles out of the bag he had brought.  “I’m very careful about reading the instructions before I start taking any new medication, but a few months ago I began to wonder if someone was playing with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Gold handed her one of the bottles.   “I’ve been taking this medicine for the dry mouth for several months.  Read this warning.  Aloud, please”

The NP studied the label before speaking.  “‘Do not lie down for ten minutes after taking this medication.’  Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

The NP seemed puzzled.   “Well, I’m sure it’s for a good reason.”

“You’re a health professional,” he said.  “Explain that to me.”

She put the bottle back down on the counter.  “I’ll confess that I don’t quite understand the logic behind that.”

She seemed to be about to say more but Gold pounced on that admission.  “Right?  Right?  I mean does a tiny pill know which way is down in my stomach?  And for just ten minutes?”

“I’m not sure.  Maybe it causes drowsiness or dizziness.”

“In which case shouldn’t they instruct you to be sure to lie down for ten minutes?”

“I could look it up,” she said, “but it might take a while.  These newer drugs aren’t in the usual books.  I’d probably have to go onto the Internet.”

“Before you do that, read the warning on this other bottle.  This is the one Doctor Julius prescribed last week for my vertigo.  I picked it up yesterday.”

She read the label but could not seem to force herself to say it out loud.

“How do you explain that one?   ‘Do not sleep while taking this medication.’   That’s the warning on a medicine that I’m supposed to take three times a day.  Am I supposed to stay awake twenty four hours a day for as long as I’m taking the pills?”

The NP seemed particularly flustered at that question.   “That’s absurd.  It couldn’t possibly mean that.”

“Someone,” he said, sticking his index finger right up to her face for emphasis,  “is playing with me.   Someone is laughing at me, and I don’t like it.”

She backed slightly away and didn’t speak until his offending hand had dropped.  “Mr. Gold …”

“Yeah, I know, paranoia, but something is going on here.  Something that has been going on for a long time.  I never get better.  I never suffer a side-effect.  That’s why I asked you if those are really medicines at all.”

“Why would you be given fake medicines?”

Gold paced, as much as he could in the space left to him between the walls and the exam table.  “I remember when they came out with the first AIDS drugs the patients found out that half of them were getting the real medicine while the other half were getting placebos.   Real people with a real disease were getting fake medicines.”

“Those were drug trials with a control group,” she said.

“Leaving half of the people to just get worse.”

“It’s unfortunate but it’s really the only way to test new drugs.”

And what about Tuskeegee?”

“That I can’t justify,” she said, “but you know that was decades ago and … well, things were different back them.”

“Yeah, different.  In our modern, non-racist world only half of the black men at Tuskeegee would have gone on to die untreated.”

The NP closed up the file and put the medicines back in the plastic bag.  “Mr. Gold, I understand your frustration, but I can assure you that we are prescribing real drugs and your pharmacy is dispensing them.”

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Assure me.   Can you assure me?”

The NP’s smile seemed sincere but there was a hint of nervousness in it.  “I took an oath and yes, I know the people at Tuskeegee and the people who ran the AIDS trials also took the same oath, but I’ve devoted my professional life to helping others.  The real question is why would anyone do this to you?”

“Maybe it’s not just me.  Maybe a thousand people are prescribed one of those medicines and only five hundred get the real thing.  We all go to our doctors and someone back at the drug company gets to see how many of us improve or have side effects.”

“All of your drugs?”

“If I get eight medicines and some are real and some are not then how would they know which was doing what?   That would also explain why I get so many medicines.  After all, if there are no active ingredients in any of them, why not boost your numbers by having me take more of them?”

She shook her head in what might have been sympathy, or pity.  “You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, haven’t you?”

“I’ve got a lot of time to think about things.  It’s my life, right?  You can’t explain away my concerns.  You can’t even explain the increasingly weird instructions.  I tell you that something is going on and it’s been going on for so long that the people behind it are getting goofy.  Somewhere between the people who decide who gets the placebos and the people who hand them out someone is having their own brand of fun.  It’s like people working a night shift at newspapers or TV stations who get so tired that they start fooling with the obituaries.”

The NP seemed genuinely flustered.  “I can’t speak for anyone else, but I assure you … I promise you that I have been honest with you.  I report on your condition to the doctor who prescribes the medicine.  I don’t know anything about fake medicines.”

“Then maybe I should talk to the doctor.”

Gold went back to waiting.  He had finally said it.  After years of vague suspicion that something was wrong he had come up with this theory, as insane as it sounded, even to himself.  When he had asked his pharmacist if he could have his pills analyzed (claiming he was worried about additives and preservatives) he had been warned that it was unlikely that any testing lab would accept the job.  Something about being accused of “back engineering” patented medicines.  He had no way of knowing whether that was true or not.  Beyond that, he had been warned, the cost would likely be prohibitive.  Were they in on it, or did they want to avoid getting involved in something that was wiser to stay away from?  He had no real choice, of course.  He either took the medicines or he didn’t.  He could ignore his medical condition or at least try to get better.

Doctor Julius joined him more quickly than he had anticipated.  Did that mean something?  Was the doctor alarmed by his questions?  Or had Gold gotten so used to waiting for the doctors and nurses who saw him when they had the time in their busy careers that any shorter wait seemed significant?  He had been seeing Dr. Julius for the last eight years, averaging a visit every two to three months, but had only seen him in person a few times.  He was a tall, athletic man who seemed to get more healthy every time Gold saw him.  At least, he thought bitterly, at least the health care system works for someone.

“So, Mr. Gold,” the doctor said, “Nurse Jacobson tells me you have some concerns about your medicines.”

“So, what’s your answer?”

“To what question?”

Gold started to feel angry.  It was unlikely that the doctor was unaware of what was going on.  If he had prescribed the medicines in good faith he could not be expected to ignore their lack of effect.   For the scheme to work those patients in the control group had to keep taking the medications even if, especially if, they had no effect. If the control group was “blinded” the doctor might suspect something and take the patient off the placebo, thus ruining the entire plan.  He had to be warned to keep the patient going on the medications assigned to him.  How innocent could he ultimately be?

“Doctor, you must know what I’ve been saying.”

“All I know is that you have some concerns as to whether you’re on the right medications.”

“The ‘right’ medications?”  Gold paused and took a deep breath to control his anger.  “I’m not sure I’m getting any medicines at all.  I think I’m in some kind of special control group and all my pills are nothing but placebos.”

The doctor smiled.  “You should have them tested.”

Bastard, Gold thought.  He knew.  Somewhere in the doctor’s private files (which he would never get to see) was a note warning him about Gold’s conversation with the pharmacist.  Was everyone in on this conspiracy?  Certainly enough people that he would have a hard time escaping from it.  He could choose a new doctor at random, and go to a pharmacy picked out of a hat and there still might not be any escape.  Only so many people made medicines and you couldn’t buy a television in this country anymore without two forms of ID.  Even if the doctor and pharmacist were innocent dupes he would still get the medicine picked for him and him alone.

“Mr. Gold,” the doctor continued, “you’ve been coming here for quite a few years now and I assure you that our only concern is your health.”

As long as it pays.  Gold looked past the doctor to a travel magazine on the table behind him.  Ski Zermat!, the cover said. The arrogance of the man. How many of his working class and pensioner patients were planning to ski the Alps?  Maybe he hadn’t always been corrupt.  Maybe, as a medical student, or during his internship, he really believed the crap he had learned to shovel out, but no one less than a saint could stand up to the years of temptations heaped on them.  The only ones who were still honest were the ones who weren’t worth paying off.

“Doctor,” Gold said, “I think there’s no point in taking my medications any more.  Especially as I’m more and more convinced that they’re not real and were never supposed to make me better.”

“Mr. Gold,” the doctor said, “I appreciate your anxiety.  It’s not uncommon for a long term patient to become frustrated with his, let’s say perceived, lack of progress.”

“So it’s just my perceptions that are off?”

“I think so.  Your records show a steady, if slow, improvement in your condition, but it’s only natural for you to concentrate on when you feel bad rather than when you feel good.  Some people tend to ignore the sunny days and think about the weather only when it rains.  I think I have something that might help, at least in the short term.”

The doctor just happened to have a clear plastic bottle in his pocket.  He handed it to Gold who shook it, rattling the two capsules inside.

“More medicines?  Are they real this time?”

“All your medicines are real.  There’s no such thing as this super control group you imagine yourself a part of.  Your problem, your real problem, is this anxiety.  You’re not sleeping well, are you?  You worry and you lose sleep and the fatigue makes you even more anxious.”

“There’s no label,” Gold observed.

“This isn’t a prescription, just a couple of samples.  Take them tonight before you go to bed and I guarantee you will feel much better.”

It took some time, but eventually Gold did feel better.  The warmth and dryness of rural New Mexico seemed to agree with him.  He missed certain things, like the Internet and home mail delivery but he wasn’t completely off the grid.  A few friends knew where he was and could be periodically roused to send him an actual letter which he could pick up at the post office twenty miles away.  Sometimes it had been sitting there for nearly a week by the time he picked it up but the local pace was slower and he didn’t mind the delay.   He even got the occasional pill in the mail.  Not medicines, since that was illegal, but vitamin supplements which were apparently legal to send to people who had not ordered them.  He did not take them, of course, or even throw them out.  He went directly from the post office to the bank where he had rented a safety deposit box to be opened (according to the letter he sent to a trusted friend) in the event of his death.   He didn’t even wrap them in bits of hamburger and put them out for the strays as he had with the two capsules Dr. Julius had given him.  The doctor said they would relax him and, to be honest, he had never seen two more relaxed cats in his life.  Until rigor mortis had set in.  He had left the city not more than one week later.  His phone rang several times as he packed his essentials, the Caller ID displaying the doctor’s office number the first few times and then “Unknown Caller” after that.  He waited until he was in another state, halfway to his destination, before calling to cancel all of his services.

When the starving first appeared in the Pruit yard, passer byes stopped and stared, but most agreed they made good lawn ornaments. There were exactly two of these ornaments – tooth-pick thin with leathery skin, eyeballs rolled back into their heads, tongues lolling out of the side of their mouths. They stood on the Pruitt front yard, hands outstretched, palms up. Flies circled their heads like airplanes looking for a place to land.

One of the passer byes was Harry Gordon, next door neighbour and good friend of the Pruitts. He liked the display so much, he stormed across the lawn and jealously knocked on the Pruitt’s front door.

Marty Pruitt answered the door wearing only a pair of Khaki shorts and a white muscle shirt.

“Harry, long time no see. Want a beer?”

Harry stormed past his neighbour and into the kitchen, where he came face to face with a photo of Marty pasted on the refrigerator door holding up a large pike he had caught on a recent fishing trip.

“What gives Marty?”

“Huh?”

Harry raised his hands in the air. “How come you pull a stunt like this, and you don’t even tell me about it? Imagine my surprise when the Murphy kid dropped the newspaper on my porch and said did you see what’s on the Pruitt’s lawn. It’s so cool.”

Marty stared at his neighbor. “A bit early to be hittin’ the bottle, Harry?”

He looked at Marty. “You mean you don’t know.”

He grabbed Marty’s arm and pulled him out onto the lawn.

“Look, see ! What a stunt! Where’d you get the idea for it?”

The can of Coke in Marty’s hand dropped to the neatly manicured lawn.

“What the…?”

Harry looked at his friend, puzzled. “You really don’t know about this do you?’

Marty grabbed his good friend and neighbour by the scruff of his shirt. “Is this your idea of a joke? Cause if it is, it’s a sick pathetic one. And if you pulled this, I’m gonna wipe up my kitchen floor with you.”

“Whao, hold on, Marty. You think I did this? “

Marty let go of him and walked over to the two licorice-shaped figures posing on his front lawn. He looked at them, his eyebrows almost popping off of his forehead.

He ran a large hand over one of the figure’s sinewy arm.s“ Jesus! They’re real.”

Harry ran over.“ What?”

Marty’s fingers were pinching the paper-thin skin of one the figures. It did not move, blink or seem to take a breath of air.

Just then Marty’s daughter Carina stepped out of the house.

“Hey dad,, what’s going on?”

Seeing the starving, she sprinted across the yard.“Hey dad, did you buy some art? Cool.”

She looked over the two figures as if she were eying some clothes in a display window..“

They look so real. Where did you get them?”

“The question is,” his wife, Carol said staring at the figures from the kitchen window, “why did he get them? They’re awful and in bad taste.”

Marty opened his mouth. He looked at his wife , then to his daughter, then to his neighbor.

“I didn’t buy them?”

“They’re so cool. Wait till the kids at school hear about this.”

She then disappeared into the house, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket.

The backdoor next door creaked and then slammed and Maja, Harry’s wife appeared at the fence dividing the properties.She stuck her head over the top of the fence. She noticed Carol at the window and beamed a smile and a quick wave.“ Harry, call for you.”

Harry slapped his friend on the back. “I’ll come back later and we’ll talk about this. I got dollar signs in my eyes.”

Carol Pruitt shook her head as she appeared into the backyard via a swinging screen door.

“This is going to cramp our budget, Harry. Honestly, I don’t know…”

Marty waved her away, and headed into the house. “I’m callin’ the cops.”

Carol Pruitt frowned .

“If you didn’t buy them and put them there, where’d they come from?” Marty sighed. “Carol, it’s like I told the cops…waitaminute. Do you remember Monday?”

“Which Monday?”

“This past Monday?”

“What about it?”

“Someone came to the door, remember?”

She stared. “Many people come to our door.”

He gritted his teeth in frustration. “ The barbecue, remember. There was someone at the front door.He was one of those peacenik canvassers. Y’know, torn jeans, long hair that hadn’t been washed in years,and he was wearing sandals with socks for chrissake…”

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, he had nice shiny teeth.”

He rolled his large brown eyes.“Yeah, yeah that’s him. Do you remember what he was canvassing for…?

She shook her head. “You closed the door in his face.”

He sighed. “Before I did that! He was going door-to-door to…waitaminute, he gave me his card. Didn’t he give me his card?”

“You threw it in the garbage. And he gave you a pack of seeds that you tossed onto the compost.”

“Yeah, yeah. What was the name of the group he worked for…? His voice become soprano in pitch.

He ran into the living room and brought back the telephone book. Shuffling through the yellow pages, he found the organizations section. He ran his finger down the page, mumbling to himself.

“That’s it! The Starving Foundation.” He closed the book and rubbed his hands together.

“And his name was Bush. George Bush!”

“Sweetheart,” his wife said plainly.

He stopped and looked at her.

“George Bush?” she asked.

“That’s…”

Just then Carina ran into the kitchen and went straight for the refrigerator. “ Where’s the leftovers, I’m starving.”

“Top shelf,” her mother replied, Carina looked back over her shoulder. “Hey dad. Two is cool but ten is overdoing it, don’t ya think?”

“What?”

She turned around, a chicken leg in one hand. “ The garden ornaments. There’s ten out there now.”

“There can’t be!” her mother said.

“I counted them myself. Ten. All the kids are coming over to gape at them after dinner. Dad, can I borrow the camera?”

Marty swept past his daughter without a word.

His wife and Carina, now chewing on the chicken leg, followed.

Outside, Marty stood transfixed. Mentally he counted the figures. Twelve. But…how?

He didn’t understand. All of them pencil thin. All of them with their skin seemingly kept on their bones by safety pins. All of them with sunken cheeks, hands out, and smelling of death.

“That’s it! He turned. “ Carol, call those assholes, the Starving Foundation. Tell them enough is enough. I want that…whatever his name is…I want his head on a plate and I want these things out of here.”

His wife and daughter ran into the house.

“And you guys,” he said storming across the lawn towards the stick-figures, “are finished.”

Marty grabbed one of the figures. It would not budge. He used his 6’2” frame and put his weight into pulling, but the figure would not move. It stood rooted in place, withered hand out, head slightly tilted back, mouth open and eyeballs rolled back into its head. He tried again, this time harder.

The figure’s head suddenly tilted. It’s eyes rolled like pinballs and stopped, staring right at him. Then it snapped, sinking its teeth into Marty’s arm.

Marty screamed and punched it.

The figure anchored its jaws deeper into his arm.

“Arrrrghhhh!” he cried, Carol and Carina rushed out of the house in alarm.

“Marty!”

They came over and begin pulling at him, to no avail.

“Do something!” he said yanking his arm.

Carol saw the shovel in the flower bed. She hadn’t gotten back to digging up the garden.

She ran over, pulled the shovel out of it’s mound, came over and with a heave and a swing, smashed the sharp end of the shovel against the figure’s head. The head dropped to the ground with a thud.

Marty grabbed his wounded arm with his free hand and tried to stop the bleeding.

“Carina, go and get a clean sheet. Now.” Carol shouted.

She dropped her chicken leg and ran back into the house.

“Hold your arm up,” Carol ordered.

As she led him into the house, the chalk-thin misshapen masses began ravaging the chicken leg.

“There are forty of them now,” Carol said peering out of the living room window.

“You can’t see the front lawn anymore.”

Marty stood in the middle of the living room, his arm in a sling. He punched numbers into his cell phone and brought it to his ear with his good arm. After several rings, a voice came on. The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

He grunted and pressed redial: the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

“Any luck?”

“The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service,” Marty said throwing the cell phone onto the couch.

“Marty, this isn’t funny anymore.”

“Anymore? It’s NEVER been funny.”

“The neighbors are talking. We’re on the front page of the newspaper.. Do something!”

He touched his injured arm.“What do you suggest? You saw what happens if I try to move the suckers.”

“They look so real, so pathetic.”

Marty looked at his wife. “What’s the matter with you? You saw one of those things take a chunk out of my arm!”

“But Marty, it’s not possible…

Carina bolted into the living room, a sandwich in her hand. She stared at her father’s arm, then smiled. “Hey dad, let’s go bowling!”

“Go to your room.”

Carina looked startled. “ I was just joking dad…”

Marty’s pale face had shaded deep red. “ I SAID GO TO YOUR ROOM!”

“Have you seen Toby? I haven’t seen her all day ” she said plainly.

Carol shook her head. “ She was in the kitchen a few minutes ago.”

Carina looked at her father. “Can I look for Toby then go to my room?”

Marty, whose face had lightened a bit, sighed. “Yeah, go look for Toby.”

Carol came across the room and touched her husband on his large shoulders. “C’mon in the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee.”

A backdrop of darkness had started down over the horizon. Carol peered out the kitchen window. The dish she was washing suddenly,slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor.

Marty looked up from his coffee cup. “Carol? What is it?”

She grabbed her head with her hands and moved away from the window, leaning back against the counter. “There’s more of them!”

Marty came over and peered into the back yard. Hundreds of the stick like creatures. No, thousands. Some stood on those who were kneeling. Some laying on one and other.

“The garden!”

The beautiful stalks of corn had been nibbled down to nothing. Whole rows of lettuce and spinach gone. The peas and beans. The pumpkins. Marty’s mouth dropped.

Then Carol screamed, pointing out the window to a lone stick-like figure. It’s liquorice like skin bristling with hair, it’s malformed head lolling on it’s shoulder.

“That’s Carina’s cap!”

Marty looked.

The thing Carol pointed to wore a cap on its lolling head. A black cap with the letters NY on it. A cap very similar to their daughters. And then Carol was off, throwing open the back door and rushing down the stairs.

Marty made a grab for her, but in vain. “Carol come back.”

The starving were upon her as soon as she stepped onto the grass. Marty ran onto the porch. The starving were packed into a circle like vultures. He couldn’t watch, he ran back into the house and threw up in the kitchen sink.

The sounds of footsteps on the back stairs. The door was open. He ran over to close it.

The starving were starting to pack into the kitchen, each finding their own spot and anchoring there, all the while staring at him with vacant eyes.

“What do you want?” he screamed.

They began to crowd in around him.

“Leave me alone” he clambered onto the counter and just as some hands were reaching for him, he leaped out of the kitchen window.

It wasn’t a long drop, but he landed on the porch on his injured arm and he groaned.

Shadows encircled him, and the starving with their lolling heads and frothing mouths and wide eyes gathered around him.

He grabbed onto the patio barbecue beside them and pulled himself to his feet. One of the starving stared at him for a moment, then looked at the barbecue.

Marty screamed.

by Marc Colten

“How do you know if you’re crazy?”  Bob Lewis asked.

The toaster seemed to think about it for a while, but didn’t answer.  He stared at it for a while longer, finally realizing that he had already unplugged it.  I probably should have asked it while the toast was cooking, he thought.  All that power surging through it, the wires glowing red hot.  That was the time, when it was firing on all cylinders.  Or was that too much of a mixed metaphor?

Lewis rose from the table and took his plates and utensils to the sink  He looked to his left.  “What?” he asked.

The blender played nonchalant and pretended it didn’t hear.  The inside of the glass pitcher was still dripping with the remains of his morning energy shake.  No wonder it didn’t answer.  If your head was still sticky with the disgusting mixture of wheatgrass, raw egg, wheat germ, tofu and grapefruit juice Lewis consumed every morning then you wouldn’t be in a talkative mood either.  Lewis pulled the pitcher loose, squirted in some dish soap and filled it with water.  He left it in the sink to soak.  That would give it something to think about!

As much as he wanted to get away from his house and the judgement of his appliances, it

took him a while to work up the guts to get into his car and drive into the city.  The car was like an angry passenger you were stuck with on a long drive, grumbling over every slight and every transgression while sullenly refusing to talk.   Picking at you, demeaning you, tearing you down until you were ready to crawl.  Every time Lewis sped up or hit the brake he could feel the car watching him, judging him.  I’m doing the best I can, he tried to explain.  When he went through a yellow light he was sure the car thought he took too big a chance but when he stopped before the light had turned red he felt like he was being called a coward for not going through.  When he arrived at the medical building and had to wait in the left turn lane for a break in the traffic the car began acting more and more anxious.  It was as if Lewis could hear it taunting him to go, go, go.  He finally saw an opening and surged through to the entrance of the parking lot.

“Happy now?” he asked the car.  No answer.

He was happy to leave it behind.  He had done his best to park in the shade but had finally settled for a spot in the sun, leaving the windows open a bit.  What did it want from him?  It wasn’t as if he could create shade where there was none.  It wasn’t fair.  It just wasn’t fair.  He didn’t look back as he hiked to the building entrance.

The therapist’s office was on the fourth floor and he took the elevator.  He had considered taking the stairs but what did he care what a strange elevator thought of him?  Certainly it was contemptuous of someone who was reasonably physically fit yet still too damn lazy to climb four flights of stairs but if it wasn’t for people like him they wouldn’t even need an elevator.  It was the same with the toaster and the blender and the car.  It would serve them all right if he got rid of the bunch of them and went back to the land.  That appealed to him at times but it would be just his luck to wind up with a plow with an attitude.

The waiting room was small; just big enough for a couple of people.  Unlike his dentist’s office where a dozen people could be waiting for simultaneous cleanings or examinations, this room was set up for serial single or couples sessions.  The door to the inner office was closed and Lewis waited patiently.  He was dreading the conversation he planned to initiate but not once did it occur to him to leave before his appointment time.  Not with a couch, coffee table and lamp chuckling behind his back.  He sat patiently, thumbing through unfamiliar magazines.

Ten minutes before his time the inner door opened and a timid-looking young woman popped and passed him on her way to the outer door.  Although Lewis watched her pass she didn’t look at him on her way out.  Maybe he had just learned his first rule.  Obviously the young woman had been here before and knew that eye contact between patients was forbidden.  He settled back on the waiting room couch and flipped through another magazine.  It was obvious that the style magazines knew he couldn’t appreciate, and certainly couldn’t afford, the beautiful homes and furniture they displayed, and the science magazines were mocking him for his inability to understand any of their articles on Relativity or String Theory.  When the ten minutes were up the inner door opened and Dr. Wilson summoned him in.  He dumped the magazines back on the coffee table in front of the couch with a thump.  Take that!

He had expected there to be a couch, like those in an endless series of magazine cartoons, but there were only two facing chairs, each with a small table to accompany it.  Perhaps the therapist’s couch was only as real as the tiny island with a single palm tree that castaways always seemed to be stranded on.  On the patient’s table there was a large box of generic facial tissues.  What secrets had been cried into those no-name tissues?   He found himself wanting to reach for a tissue as his nose bristled at the smell of smoke.  More and more cities were banning smoking just about everywhere but he doubted anyone would try to prevent therapy patients from giving up what little pleasure they had in life.

His medical doctor had recommended Dr Wilson after Lewis had discretely suggested that he felt he might need someone to talk to; someone professional.  Dr. Fink had laughed at first and suggested a bartender, but it hadn’t taken him long to take the request seriously and he had provided a written referral a week before this preliminary appointment.  Dr. Wilson was on Lewis’ medical plan and Dr. Fink knew that was a consideration.  Other than referring to the psychiatrist as “she” no more information was provided.  She was fiftyish and attractive but not so much that he was uncomfortable talking to her.  Her brown hair was shoulder length and she wore a very professional business suit.

She made a short notation on her pad before addressing him.  “So, Mr. Lewis, what would you like to talk about today?”

He ground his hands together.    “I’ve never seen a therapist before,” he said.  “I don’t know where to start.”

“Well, I recommend following the Mad Hatter’s rule.”

“Mad Hatter?”

“In Alice in Wonderland, Alice says the same thing you did to the Mad Hatter.  His advice was ‘Start at the beginning, continue until you reach the end, then stop.’  Why don’t you try that?”

Lewis breathed heavily.  This was a therapist who had heard God knows what in this room.   He could only think to start with the same question he had futilely asked his toaster that morning.

“Well,” she said, after a moment’s thought, “most people aren’t crazy, so the odds are in your favor.  Why don’t you tell me why you think you might be, for lack of a better word, crazy.”

“I feel … judged.  I feel that everything around me is judging everything I do.”

“You said ‘everything’, not ‘everyone’.  What exactly is judging you.”

He was glad she was so observant.  He hadn’t been sure how he was going to force himself to say it.  “It’s all the things in my life.  The toaster, the blender, my car, even the things in this room.”

She didn’t make any notes.  Nothing upset a paranoiac like writing things down as they spoke..  “You feel judged by inanimate objects?”

“They’re not all inanimate.  Cars and elevators and even blenders move.  As for pieces of furniture they may be inanimate but they can still think and judge.  In a way it’s all they can do.  They’re like people in comas, stuck in one place, seeing and hearing everything with all the time in the world to judge and mock.”

“Well, why don’t we try an experiment?   Tell me about the chair you’re sitting in.”

Lewis jumped out of the chair.  He suddenly felt as if he was actually sitting on a comatose patient.  Maybe there were people in the world who could sit on a hospital bed, crowding someone who couldn’t do more than blink, and not even care that the patient knew they were there and hated them.   He wasn’t one of those people.  He actually felt guilty that he hadn’t cleaned the crumbs out of the tray at the bottom of his toaster.  It was probably sitting on the counter thinking about what a slob he was.  How inconsiderate he was.

“Mr. Lewis, please.”

He sighed heavily.  “You think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re in pain and my job is to help you.”

He looked at her and hoped that she was being sincere.  He knew nothing about people and their thoughts.  He was capable of walking through a mall full of people without knowing, or even wondering, what they all thought of him but he would freeze as soon as he approached an escalator, dreading the long ride up or down.  When he sensed it laughing at him for not taking the stairs he’d try to shorten the ride by walking the steps even as they moved but that just increased the mockery.  Not only was he lazy but he was too afraid to endure the judgement for the whole ride.

“Try to understand,” he said.  “You think of it as an object, something that you bought in a store, but it sits there all day listening to everything your patients say and judging them.”

“What bothers you more, the listening or the judging?”

“Does it matter?”

The therapist shrugged.  “I don’t know.  This is the first time I’ve even thought of the possibility.  Has it ever occurred to you that these … things … aren’t judging you?   Are people judging you?”

How to explain that?  “I don’t know how to answer that.  I don’t even think of other people.  I see them all day long, I work with them but they’re just there.”

Dr. Wilson studied her new patient.  This was going to be a long one, she could just feel it.  His entire affect was introverted and timid.  He barely made eye contact and admitted to a total disconnect with humanity.   Autism perhaps, high functioning but still a possibility.  Asperger’s?  She had treated patients with both syndromes but had never seen someone who substituted fantasy interactions with home appliances for actual interactions with other people.  Or perhaps it was the other way around.  It was possible that the sheer weight of his delusions had pushed out all the people around him.  Cure the delusions and maybe he’d reconnect with real people.  So, long talks or little pills?

“You still haven’t told me about the chair.”

“I don’t want you to think this is weird, but what if someone just came into a room and sat on you?”

She laughed.  “I’m sure I wouldn’t like it.  However, that’s what the chair was created for.  Don’t you think there’s some dignity and maybe even pleasure in fulfilling the function you were created for?”

“Would you say that to a slave?   Would you suggest he find dignity and happiness in doing the work he was bred for?”

“So our furniture and our appliances are our slaves?  If that’s so then why are you so concerned with their judgement?  A person who owns a houseful of slaves doesn’t really worry about how they feel about him.”

“Now you’re laughing at me.”

She smiled.  “Maybe a little but you can’t seriously consider freeing your toaster and blender, like human slaves, to go forge their own destinies.  Surely you can see that.”

“So what do I do?”

She leaned forward to emphasize her seriousness.  “First, you sit in the chair.  You accept the fact that chairs were meant to be sat on, and that they have no purpose otherwise.  You’re not too heavy for the chair.  You don’t have body odor.   You need to sit in the chair and the chair needs people to sit in it.”

“You don’t believe anything I’m saying.  How can I listen to you?”

“I don’t believe the chair is judging you.  I don’t even believe the chair is sentient but just wood and cloth and springs, just as it was when I bought it.  But even if all the things in your life  aren’t really thinking about you, you are thinking about them.  You need to accept that your relationships with furniture and appliances can be different than they are now.”

“Different?”

“Certainly.  You think it’s an imposition to make toast in a toaster or to mix drinks in a blender.  You think that a chair minds being sat on, like a person might.  I think your relationship with your possessions can be more, let’s say, symbiotic.  You need toast and your toaster makes toast.  You need to sit comfortably and that is what chairs do best.  It doesn’t have to be adversarial.”

“You can say that even though you think it’s all in my head.”

“Believe it or not,” she said, “almost everything is in our heads.  Our relationships with family and friends and co-workers are mostly what we think they are.  When we adjust our view of those relationships we change the relationship itself.  Someone thinks his co-workers dislike him so he avoids working with them,.  The result?  His co-workers mistrust him and he’s created the very situation he only imagined before.  But if he would only be more open with others he’d find that he had nothing to fear.  Don’t assume and you can recast entire relationships into something more positive.  What I think about your feelings is irrelevant.  All that is important is how you see them.   Do you think you can sit in the chair now?”

“Just like that?”

“Try it.  Don’t assume.  Just trust that it’s okay with the chair.”

Lewis approached the chair, feeling its animosity.  He was so sure that he was right and the doctor was wrong.  How could he possibly will things to be different?  He turned around and slowly lowered himself into the chair, not wanting to crash into it.  The chair didn’t like him, he didn’t doubt it, but they didn’t have to hate each other.  Okay, chair, he thought, I’m not your enemy.  When he was fully resting in the chair he let his muscles relax.

“How does it feel?”

He couldn’t get himself to tell the truth.   “A little better, I guess.”

“Do you think you could try this with other things?  I mean give them the benefit of the doubt?  I know your feelings won’t change overnight, but it’s a start.”

“I suppose I could try.”

He rose from the chair, grateful to get away from it and agreed to another appointment the following week.   Despite the doctor’s words he avoided the elevator and took the stairs down to the parking lot where his car waited for him, literally as well as figuratively, stewing in the sun.

Dr. Wilson  made a few notes and marked Lewis’ next appointment in her date book.   Then, since she had a free hour until her next appointment, she pulled her cigarettes and lighter out of the table next to her, along with the small battery operated smoke absorbing ashtray.  She lit up and took that first satisfying drag.  After blowing a cloud of smoke into the air she looked down at the faintly whirring ashtray as if for the first time.

“Don’t start.”

Chief Napoleon Bear Killer wasn’t really a Chief, but he looked the part and he scared most White men. He was tall with a face that was the color and texture of weathered leather in need of oil. A mustache drooping from the corners of the mouth gave him a sinister look, his facial expression never changed, and he stared right through you; these particular characteristics made people from the city a little uncomfortable. The long knife he carried on his hip didn’t help his appearance; especially, when he sharpened it every night after dinner while telling one of his tales of murder and mayhem. He was actually a kind-hearted man with a gift for story telling. Unfortunately, a favorite story of his was about one of his ancestors, a homicidal maniac named Olivia Muskrat. He loved to tell this story to hunters late at night around the campfire, when there were strange noises in the darkness or the wolves were serenading us after a few shots of sipping whiskey.

Olivia and her husband trapped on the banks of the Parsnip in Northern British Columbia, during the mid 19th Century. Apparently, they had a blissful and harmonious existence except for her husband’s tendency to commit adultery with various young maidens. Now trying to hide facts from a trapper would be like hiding a crime from Sherlock Holmes. Trappers are attuned to reading ‘sign’ and they can see a story among the grass and twigs where most people see nothing at all.

Olivia knew her husband was cheating and this can be a serious offense in a matriarchal society. She tracked him and came to know all of his paramours. The knowledge of his infidelities seethed in her until she lost her mind and went on a murderous rampage; she killed her husband and his girlfriends, all in one bloody night. Her victims were decapitated and their heads stuck up on poles around her cabin. She kept one skull for a lantern on her table and to carry at night as she walked checking her traps. Since the daylight in the North country is only a few hours during the winter and it is usually an eerie gray misty kind of daylight, she needed her lantern most of the time.

Since her ghoulish lantern could be seen at night as she walked along the creeks and rivers, the Indians lived in stark terror of her and her knife. Infidelity became a much more risky business in the Peace and Omineca River country; Olivia always knew and she would seek you out in the dark of night.

Eventually she died, but the spirit world wouldn’t let her in when she refused to leave her skull lantern and her knife at the gate. So Olivia still walks the trails and creeks looking for those who have committed adultery. The flickering lights that people see at night are thought to be the candles burning in the eye sockets of Olivia’s husband’s skull that she carries with her.

Chief Napoleon would look around and say that they were still finding headless bodies in the bush country and they are almost always adulterers. We guides would join in the game and say something like, “Old Sam Morton wasn’t an adulterer, he wasn’t even married.”

Chief Napoleon would stop sharpening his knife and say, “He laughed with Mona Red Top, Charley Red Top’s wife. She was killed a week later.” The Chief would then draw his finger across his throat for emphasis.

Then one of the guides would say, “Damn I didn’t know that. I don’t want to meet Olivia at night. She doesn’t cut your throat while you are sleeping does she?”

“Olivia comes around when you least expect it. That’s how she has been able to kill so many men without them fighting back, but she only kills you if she thinks you cheat.”

The hunters would get nervous and put their rifles right next to their blanket rolls and be listening for sounds and watching the darkness for the light of a lantern.

Someone, always asks, “Have you ever seen her?”

“Many times, she comes to me while I sleep. She make noise, wake me up. First I see skull, with eyes burning bright red and yellow. Then I see her point knife at me.”

A guide, “Are you a cheater?”

“No. I have two wives: old one for housework and cooking, young one for laughing and kids. I old man, two is enough for Chief Napoleon.”

We guides were country boys caught in a time warp. Most of us lived out our lives and were never over two hundred miles from the cabin we were born in. Being able to spook the sophisticated hunters, who acted superior to us, was great fun; although, not all of them acted superior, some of them were actually great guys to be around, but when they had an arrogant attitude, Old Chief could pretty well make them delirious and hysterical with his stories of murder and mayhem. Often times, some of us guides would get half spooked after listening to Chief Napoleon and the same old stories we had heard many times.

It started as a normal day, I guess,
I awoke as I do most always.
I made my sloth-like way out of my bed
And trudged me down the hallway.

I threw some water on my ungrateful face
And went thru my each morning bathroom thing.
After that I wandered to the kitchen
And felt the first pangs of that old familiar sting.

I call it sting for lack of a better term,
More of a mild annoyance at the start–
Just the smallest bit of premonition,
Like something hanging heavy on my heart.

But as the morning passed the feeling grew.
I began to sense it very strong.
I could not place exactly what it was.
I knew somehow that something near was wrong.

The afternoon arrived both cold and gray.
I began to have a sense of dread
That someone whom I could not see
Was close and had a plan to make me dead.

I’ve had premonitions all my life.
I realized that they did not all come true,
But this one had me by the throat, or so it seemed.
I could sense me folded up in two.

Evening found me apprehensive, but confused,
For someone had sure been dispatched to Hell,
And the author of the cruel and foul deed
Was coming nearer to send me there as well.

It was like I almost knew him.
I could plainly see him do his crime.
Although I couldn’t seem to see his face
I could clearly see his mind.

Suddenly I felt he was right outside
Leaning up against a tree.
I felt the hair stand on my neck.
I could now feel him feeling me.

“That’s why he’s here,” I gasped aloud.
“That’s the reason that he’s come.
He knows that I’ll sing out his crime.
He knows that I know he’s the one.

“There is someone waiting for me in the woods, my dear.
He is here to try and do me ill.”
I whispered, “Call 911 for me quickly now,
Then hide yourself and please keep still.”

I thought to grab my pistol also,
But I thought, “It must end here.”
I wrestled with a wicked dread,
But I wrestled not with fear.

I slipped myself out in the yard
And walked over to the wood
Exactly where I knew I’d find him–
In the shadows there he stood.

Was then I heard the siren wail.
I half expected he would turn and flee.
Still I guess I understood inside he wouldn’t.
He was here to have an end of it all with me.

From my right there came two flashlights,
Both of us bathed in their glow.
I could see his pistol point at me,
But his face in shadow wouldn’t show.

They yelled for him to drop his weapon.
He just straightened up his arm
And took aim at my chest. I think
He really meant to do me harm.

Then the police discharged their weapons,
I suppose with reflex he did too.
He went over backwards with a hollow thud.
I was doubled up in two.

The police rushed and surrounded the figure.
I could hear his torso sucking wind.
One of them kicked the man’s gun away
Before he could fire again.

The police yelled out my name.
I answered, “Somehow I guess I’m fine.
I thought I was hit in the chest
But there’s no blood on me to find.”

The cop picked up a wadding from the ground
And said, “This fool was shooting blanks.
We both just shot a fella here in the dark
Over some stupid foolish childish prank.”

Suddenly I was seized with fear
And my throat voiced out an angry cry.
I bent down to see the figure in their flashlight’s glare
And looked into my young brother’s dying eyes.

Countless years ago I made a pact
With the one whose name I can’t reveal
To trade off my soul for life everlasting
At the time it seemed to be the perfect deal.

For how could I ever forfeit my soul
If I would never die
I caught myself thinking of Dorian Gray
As the years began drifting by.

Youth would now be mine forever
With no fear of impending death or disease
My frame to stay as young as the morning
My mind be as old as the trees.

And for a time it seemed, more or less,
To be all I had hoped it would be
But slowly thru the years something changed
As the truth became ever clearer to me.

It came as gradual as a breeze in the night
And I almost paid it no heed
That I was no longer as mortal men
For I had no physical needs.

I could not be poisoned, burned or cut
Nor ever changed in any way
The moment that the pact was forged
Was how I’m bound to stay.

I began to have a sinking feeling
That I’d been deftly swindled
As everything changed on earth but me
My enthusiasm dwindled.

Thus began the endless passing of time
But with each new adventure that I’d try
I longed for that which I’d never attempted
Only thing I’d never done is die.

I even went to war for a moment’s diversion
But I’d no fear of my own ending
Courage for me was just a word
There was no cause worth my defending.

I never fathered any children
From a million interludes I’ve had
Some twisted plan of my tormentor
Perhaps to drive me mad.

I would not risk my heart at love again
For I’d be young and still around
When the simple, trusting soul I’d care for
Was long dust beneath the ground.

Never assumed I’d spend forever
Trapped in one moment of my prime
I could not understand that—lonely
Be the payment for my crime.

One day boredom found me in front of a bus
Which swerved and hit a van
The explosion killed two children
I couldn’t have that on my hands.

I couldn’t see why some twisted “deal”
To simply never pass away
Could steal the lives from children.
That price I found I could not pay.

I called out, “I relinquish any deal we had,
I’m ready now to die.”
Suddenly he is at my side
And there is a twinkle in his eye.

“So you want to die again?” he asked.
“I thought all these years gone by for you would tell
That I took you at twenty-two
And you are already in your Hell.

“You are already dead,” the bastard screamed.
My eyes found both my shoes.
“I was there to hear your final breath,” he whispered.
I made your last twisted wish come true.”