Small Prices

A new free short story from yours truly. An old piece I wrote in my Literature of Science Fiction class. I hope you lot like it. 🙂 Enjoy and leave comments folks. Share it!

 

Small Prices

R.R. Virdi

Written 2015

Copyright and Published 2016

            The Drift, imagine the first leaves of autumn, tumbling through the air—without direction—flowing—freely. That’s your mind in the Drift, freefalling through someone else’s subconscious—consciously.

It’s as hard as it sounds.

Tresses of spun gold filled my sight, she was cream completed with a smile made for toothpaste commercials. Denim blue eyes greeted me, and her smile widened. Her face blurred, pulled from view like smoke in the wind.

A small dog yapped at my leg, stubby tail twitching in excitement. The corgi pawed at my shin, making every effort to climb up me. It too—faded.

Voices rang around me, they were a distant echo, unclear but loud enough to be distracting. The Drift slipped, and I was aware of the briny solution supporting my body, its coolness on my skin. The sensory deprivation was overwhelming. The utter lack of all sensation threatened to tug me from my meditative state.

I stilled my breathing for a ten-count, my heart quickening as I did. The Drift and its depth returned. I continued to dream.

A small house, the side boarding was the sort of color used to define lush forests. An address, 2101, in chunky metal lettering, ran vertically next to the door. The mailbox was stuffed with letters of a depressing nature, but it didn’t matter. A beautiful girl sat in my lap, her head against my shoulders as we sat on the couch. My fingers idly trailed over the short fur of the dog, dozing contently on the floor.

And it was—all-of-it—taken from me.

My throat was raw, spittle left my mouth as I continued shouting. The well-dressed man with the crooked smile, remained calm as he explained things. My fingers tightened and my fists balled. There was a sharp crack like bone meeting flesh, my knuckles left quite the imprint. It didn’t help my cause.

First the house, lost to paperwork, bureaucracy, and the indecent—predatory nature of corporate man. Then the girl, she buried herself in a bottle to cope. At first it was manageable, soon, like the house, she was gone. Hardest was the ever cheerful corgi, who, through poverty, remained happy and loyal. He didn’t leave through choice, but necessity, a decision that didn’t make the action easier to live with.

Moisture obscured my vision, trailing its way down my cheeks. There was a squirming bundle of fur in my arms, yapping. I refused to walk inside, instead handing him off to the couple, listening to their promises of caring for him. Pride made me turn down the small offering of cash. I didn’t give him away for money. I did it so he could eat.

A rush of air flowed around me, pulling me from the visions. I heard voices again, sounding like they were coming from underwater. The reds of my lids were all I could see. Light peppered me, causing me to squeeze my eyes tighter.

“Get him out,” someone barked.

Hands wrapped around my arms, lifting me out of the liquid. I inhaled like a drowning man as my face broke through the surface of suspension fluid. I squinted in the face of the jarring overhead industrial lights.

“Put me back in,” my chest heaved as I breathed in ragged gasps.

“You’ve been under for three minutes man.”

He was dressed like the others, uniformed in black tactical gear, beige skinned, a few days of hair growth on his face. His amber eyes regarded me with caution, a glint drew my gaze to his chest. A small metallic shield was pinned to it, the gold reflecting bits of light.

“Put me back in, Abe.” I repeated.

He ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair, “You’re pushing it, you wanna go in so deep that you end up in a coma?”

I tried to speak, “Abe—”

With a dismissive hand, he cut me off. “Worse, you wanna end up thinking like that guy? You know the risks, don’t be stupid. Too much time in his head and you’ve got a shot at ending up a criminal yourself.”

I scowled.

“What’d you get?”

“Nothing we didn’t know already,” I said through gritted teeth. “Put me back under.”

He shook his head, but waved to nearby men, motioning for them to help. “One minute, that’s it. Got it?”

I nodded.

“Make it count, or guess which two guys are getting the shaft from the Captain?”

Ignoring the warning, I slid back into the egg-shaped chamber, slipping under the liquid. My fingers trailed over the electrodes on my temples, they still had a firm grip on my skin. Three slow breaths and I was falling under again. The lid closed shut with a hiss.

            One word: Dickerson, ran through my mind.

Cold metal sat beneath my fingertips. I brushed over it with precision and care. Dim lighting showed the various parts of the rifle laying disassembled around me. Other men sat at identical tables, laboring to take apart and clean similar weapons. A flat paneled screen flared to life on the wall, there was no image, just a voice. A prerecorded message droned about the failings of the government, of political ineptitude, of corporate greed. It served its purpose, spurring the men to redouble their efforts and attention to the tasks at hand. The image washed away.

Dickerson echoed in my thoughts again.

A recruitment poster sat on my lap, an old picture of Uncle Sam. The face was replaced with a Jack from a set of standard playing cards. In chaotic bold letters, it read: Jack Mayhem wants you. Make a difference. I folded it back up, tucking into my back pocket. Blackness ensued; another memory took its place.

Dickerson.

I looked down at the floor by floor layout of a skyscraper. A blueprint lay beside it.

I lost sight of it all.

Dickerson

Various drawings hung on the wall, a neat row of materials were arranged on the table before me. Moldable plastique, metal tubing, stripped wiring and an array of chemicals.

Noise, it was like a freezer door opening. There was no ceremony this time, lights shone down, hands gripped me, pulling me out. I was pulled from the Drift.

“Hey, what’d you see?” asked Abe, punctuating each word with a slap to my cheeks.

The world was set to the tumble dry setting, spots of light danced before my eyes and everything continued to seesaw. Abe’s fingers pressed tight around my skull, cradling it as he shook me gently.

“Nick, I warned you man, come on!” My cheeks stung, there was definitely going to be a welt after that one. “Burke!” he snapped.

I blinked several times, clearing my head and vision.

A row of officers stood behind Abe—waiting.

“Bomb.” I said, my voice stone. “He’s built a bomb.” The words hung in silence after I said them.

Abe was first to speak. “That means move, guys!” Officers shot into action behind him, scattering around the warehouse. “Here,” he pressed a clean terrycloth into my hands.

I looked at him, arching an eyebrow. Abe ran a finger beneath his nose, rubbing it back and forth. Salt and iron rolled over my upper lip, I pressed the cloth to the spot Abe pointed out. When I pulled it away, the pristine white of the cloth was marred by a crimson splotch.

Abe gave me a knowing look, “I told you not go back under.” He waved an admonishing finger.

I shook my head, placing my hands on the edges of the pod, lifting myself out of it. “Get me a bigger towel than this man, I’m soaked.”

“Diva,” he muttered as he went to a nearby table, snatching a length of plush cloth from it. “Catch,” he tossed it towards me.

Drying myself, I wrapped the towel around my waist and headed to a makeshift changing area. Abe called to me from the other side. “Find out anything else?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s a conversation best had when I’ve got my pants on.”

He snorted.

I stepped out fully dressed in uniform. Abe handed me a paper cup filled with black gold. “Please tell me this ain’t from our machine?”

Abe rolled his eyes. “Santos made a coffee run.”

I nodded, taking a sip, praying the caffeine would hit me fast. Grogginess and lethargy weighed me down, another side effect of the Drift.

“So?”

“I saw a lot, man. But I’ve got the feeling it might not be enough. He lost his home, his girl, his dog.”

“Rough,” Abe commented.

“Yeah,” I agreed over another sip.

“So… a bomb?”

“From what I could make out, looks like he’s part of that anti-big government—corporate extremist group. The one with that stupid Jack playing card figure head.” I said.

“What? That Jack of Mayhem guy? Pops up on random screens with a mask, lecturing in fake British accent about corruption and stick-it-to-the-man crap?”

I nodded.

Abe shook his head, “Bunch of jackasses following an even bigger one. Stupid name too.”

I grunted in agreement.

“What now?” he asked. “We’ve got a bomb threat, and one of the guys behind it in a Drift Pod. I mean it’s not like we can ask him? He ain’t gonna cooperate.”

“Still wish we could’ve done this at the precinct—”

“And what?” Abe interjected. “Use Drift tech there? You know how much those civil rights groups are riding up on us. It’s unethical, it’s not right, inhumane,” he mimicked in a nasally tone. “Yeah,” he spat, “unethical until there’s a bomb threat. Captain told ’em we don’t even use it anymore,” he finished, giving me a sidelong glance.

“Burke—Patel,” chimed a voice.

We turned to face the source of the voice. He stood a couple inches over six foot, dark skinned and solid built. Lines ran under his brown eyes, a weariness hung in them. His hair was steely gray from age and the stress of the job.

“Captain,” we replied in unison.

“What’d you get?”

I told him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling, “I don’t need this right now.” Seconds later he opened his eyes, glaring hard. “Find it, I don’t care how, find it. I don’t want tomorrow’s paper headlining an explosion. Got it?” His tone made concrete seem soft.

Abe and I nodded. Captain Braugher spun on his heel and marched off.

“Better find something out Nick, else you’re in trouble.”

We’re in trouble,” I corrected. “Partners, right?”

“Yay,” he droned. “Sinking together, huh?”

“Patel, got something!” hollered a voice. Abe faced the slender man running towards us. Short hair, tanned skin, on the lanky side. He stood out among the rest of us, the only one wearing slacks and a shirt reading: People don’t kill. Robots do!

“What’s up Santos?”

Santos doubled over, resting his hands on his knees, “Aside from my heart rate?”

“Do more cardio kid, take a break from the computers.”

“Shut it Patel,” he said, laboring to breathe. A minute later, Santos righted himself and held up several print outs. “Alright, Curtis Palowski, thirty-one—”

“Skip the AA introduction,” I said.

Santos huffed a breath, flipping through some of the papers. “Fine, guy lost his home recently to a financial scam—”

“It happens,” chimed Abe.

Santos glared at him in cold fury. “Interrupt me again Patel, and I’m going to take your coffee and give you an enema with it.”

I barked out a laugh, Abe stood there, blinking.

“Like I was saying,” he said, eyeing Abe as he continued. “Guy lost every financial asset to that scam by Trott and Dickerson—”

“Dickerson?” I blurted.

“Give me your coffee, Nick!” Santos growled. “I’m going to shove it so far up your ass, you’re going to taste it!”

I raised my free hand in a gesture of placation. “Whoa, calm down, it’s something I picked up in the Drift.”

He seemed mollified. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It kept going through my head, it was like a whisper.”

Santos waved a hand, motioning for us to follow as he walked towards a desk lined with monitors.

Abe and I fell into step behind him as he led us to his nearby workstation.

He fell into his seat unceremoniously, the chair spinning a bit before he stopped it. Santos’ fingers blurred over the keyboard, screens flashed and seconds later we were looking at a singular image stretched over the monitors. Making a flourish with his hands, he gestured to the picture, “Meet Richard Dickerson.”

I had to fight not to laugh. Someone’s parents must not have loved them.

The man on the screen had a weathered face that screamed “Greed.” If any person could’ve been a physical embodiment of corruption, aging badly, and the stereotypical “Fat Cat,” it was him. He had eyes of faded china blue. One of them was obscured by a lock of shoulder length gray hair. The guy wore a suit that looked like it’d cost more than my second hand card. His crooked smile made me reach back to make sure my wallet was still there.

“This is the man behind the investment banking scandal of 2039. He got tons of people to buy into worthless stock, inflating it, and then dumped it. His company raked in billions, with a capital B. Left a lot of people with nothing, some less than nothing. Lot of innocent folks ended up owing tens of thousands upwards, after having all their assets taken and liquidating what they could.”

Abe let out a low whistle.

“Quick, find out if he’s got a residence here, or an office, something!” I turned to Abe, “Get the guys ready,” he nodded and ran off.

Santos snapped his fingers in rapid succession, “His firms on Wall Street, why?”

“Check to see if they’ve tripped an alarm, anything, call the office, something!”

Santos eyed me, but didn’t question my order. He did his computer thing, muttering to himself all the while. “No alarms tripped,” he commented as he reached for his phone. He dialed the firm, lips pursed as he waited.

“Well?”

He didn’t answer, instead placing the phone down and sending his fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Line’s cut.” he told me. Santos spun in the chair to face me, “What’s going on Nick?”

I hooked a thumb to the sealed tank behind me. “Curtis over there has built a bomb.”

Santos’ eyes widened.

“He’s in league with that extremist group—”

“The Jack—”

“Don’t say the name Santos, but yeah. Who else would make a better target for the group? This guy stole the life’s earnings from so many people, he’s the poster boy for corporate greed. It’s not just a statement, it’s personal.”

“Nick!” shouted Abe. “Come on!”

I spun, taking several quick steps before my shirt constricted against my chest, stopping my momentum. “Let go of my shirt, Santos. I just put it on, and if you wrinkle it, so help me God—”

“Nick,” he said, voice raw. “It’s the middle of the day—”

“So?”

“On a weekday, in the middle of the workweek..?”

Bile worked its way up the back of my throat. “Hostages.” The word left a sour taste in my mouth.

Santos nodded.

Too many thoughts bounced through my skull for me to make sense of them. “But we can’t be sure though, right? No announcement made, no demands, nothing.”

Santos arched an eyebrow, giving me an oblique look.

The pit of my stomach fell as I realized what he was implying. “They’re not using the hostages as leverage or an escape plan. They’re leaving them in the building for when it…” I trailed off.

“Like you said, Nick, it’s personal.”

I rubbed my face, a negotiator wasn’t going to help, but there was someone who could. Providing he was in a helping mood.

I doubted it.

“Okay, get bomb squad, make sure they meet us at the site.”

Santos arched an eyebrow, “What are you going to do?”

“Get help.” I spun and made my way over to the Drift pods, letting out a sharp whistle, I motioned for the guys to help. We gathered around the still occupied egg-like chamber, several men had their rifles trained on it. “Pop it,” I said.

The glossy shell cracked open. Curtis Palowski lay suspended within, skin flushed pink from the cold solution. His hair was buzzed short, blonde fuzz. He was the unassuming, average every-man in appearance. Average build and height. His eyes fluttered, revealing eyes of steel wool. Shaking his head, he screamed, lunging out of the pod.

It always disconcerting when a naked man jumps out of a pod towards you. It’s like a bad science fiction movie scene.

There was a sharp crack followed by the wet sound of cartilage breaking. One of the officers tucked his rifle back into a shooter’s position. Curtis was back in the water, blinking through the tears as blood seeped from his nose, spreading through the solution like red ink.

“Get up,” I said, my voice coming out like granite.

His face twisted into a scowl and he spat. “Fuck off, tool.”

“Gotta love a guy with manners,” chimed Abe.

“Get him up,” I ordered to the surrounding men. Two officers reached in, grabbing him around the arms and hauled the naked criminal to his feet. “Get him dressed and cuffed. I want him with us on this one.”

Abe shot me a questioning look. “You sure? I mean, he’s the reason we’ve got a bomb threat.”

“And the best one to stop it, just in case the bomb squad can’t.”

Abe pursed his lips, nodding. “I mean hey, if you’re wrong it’s not like there’s a lot at risk right? We’ll all just blow up. No biggie.”

I exhaled through my nose. “I’m gonna gear up and meet you at the car in a min.”

Abe said nothing, instead helping the other officers handle the uncooperative Curtis.

Terrorists never play nice.

I walked over to a table decked out in Kevlar, rifles, ammunition and more. Within a minute, I was geared up and heading towards the cruiser. I opened the door to the vehicle and clambered in. A disgruntled series of noises emanated from the back seat. I turned to find Curtis sitting in the back row, cuffed to a metal bar running along the roof, an officer sat next to him. “You had to put him in the back of our car?”

“Hey, you wanted to bring the criminal along, you know that means they ride wit us.” commented Abe.

“I’m not too thrilled about it either,” called a voice from the backseat. He was dressed in full tactical gear, heavy ballistic plating, Kevlar and black clothing.

“Quit bitchin’ McKenzie.” I turned over my shoulder to flash him a smile that was all teeth. He grumbled something incoherent and went back to training his shotgun on our would be bomber.

An ear jarring screech filled the air as rubber burned. The cruiser lurched forwards as we sped down the street. Sirens blared above and around us, lights cascading off the glass of nearby buildings. Abe said something as he drove, but it came over muffled. The sirens quieted and an electric jolt shot between my temples.

She had an easy smile, perfect white teeth, and hair you wanted to run your fingers through.

“Nick?” said Abe.

I blinked, shaking my head clear of the vision.

“Nick?”

“Yeah,” I groaned. “What?”

“You alright? You blanked out.”

“Yeah,” I repeated, “just saw more visions, well the same ones.”

“Still?” Abe said as he wrestled with the steering, leading us around a tight corner. “That’s not good man. Anything else, or just more memories?”

“Just a flash of one, not even complete.”

Abe nodded as we rocketed down another street.

“Serves you right!” shouted Curtis. “You got no business running around in people’s heads. No business!”

The next sound was of McKenzie jabbing Curtis in the ribs with the butt of his weapon. Curtis grunted and let out a stream of creative obscenities. Some of them should’ve won awards.

I shifted in my seat as the car swerved a bit, Abe fought to keep in control. Brakes squealed in protest from the hard and sudden deceleration.

“Cap’s on scene coordinating, let’s go.” Abe waved a hand to follow.

I nodded, stepping out of the cruiser and moving towards the rear passenger side. I reached out, opening the door, leveling my handgun on Curtis. McKenzie undid the locks holding his cuffs to a rail running across the cars interior roof.

“Get out,” he ordered.

Curtis slid towards me, inching his way out of the car. Right when he was at the edge of the seat, I reached in, grabbing him by the collar. With a sharp tug, I pulled him to his feet and out of the cruiser.

“Move,” I snarled, shoving him towards the mass of officers and tactical response units gathered outside. McKenzie and Abe fell into step behind me as I led Curtis further towards the group.

Captain Braugher was on the scene, barking orders. When he saw me, or rather, who was with me, his face twisted into a scowl.

“Burke! Please tell me you didn’t bring a terrorist to the building his buddies are occupying with the very bomb he built?”

“I thought he could help.”

“You..? Christ, I don’t need this. Sure, whatever. Look, we’ve reasoned his pals have gathered every employee and have them somewhere on the first floor. Somewhere near the back end of the building,” he said, pointing to the skyscraper in question.

It was a monolith of concrete, steel and glass, fashioned like every other modern art deco nightmare.

“How do you figure the first floor?” I asked.

“Where else would you put a bomb if you wanted to take out a building?”

The Captain had a point.

“What’s to stop them from blowing it up as soon as we enter?” I argued.

All eyes turned to me.

“Burke!” snapped the Captain. “Refrain from giving the terrorists ideas that’ll turn my finely shaped ass into briquette.”

“Yes sir.”

As we went over how we’d breach, I pulled Curtis aside. “Look man, last chance. This is bad, anything you give me that can help, will help you out as well.” His lips peeled away from his teeth and his eyebrows knitted together.

“Like hell,” he spat.

“People could die!” Spittle left my mouth as my fists balled around his collar.

“They deserve it,” he said, venom dripping out of each syllable.

“Deserve?” My grip loosened at the conviction of his statement.

“People like that, they took everything from people like me! My home, my life. It’s personal,” he growled.

A series of minute pops rang out as my knuckles ground in anticipation. Punching him wouldn’t get me anything, except intense satisfaction. My palms impacted his chest as I pushed him away from me.

I flinched as a hand fell on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“Come on Nick, we’re ‘bout to breach.” said Abe.

“Yeah, one sec.” I glared at the criminal, still lying on the ground. A few quick steps and I was standing over him. I kneeled, grabbing his clothes and hauled him to his feet. I tilted my head, leaning close to his ear. “If we burn in hell, you burn with us.”

Abe led a handful of officers to the south side of the building, I followed with Curtis in tow. Lined up against the opaque glass, we waited.

The comms buzzed.

“Breach!”

An officer at the front of the line pressed a button on a large contraption. It had a steel pyramid base, at the top of it was an industrial grade ram. The metal cylinder rocketed forward with hydraulic speed and pressure. The area where the door met the building, crumbled, and the door flew into the building.

We moved in unison, stepping through the deteriorating door frame, and spread out.

It was the typical office space, an indefinable dark colored office carpet. Cubicles consisting of corkboard walls and the cloth lining them.

All of them were empty.

“Clear!” Shouted several voices in stereo.

“This is oddly unsettling,” murmured Abe.

“Moving to conference room,” blared our talkies.

“Move,” I growled to Curtis, as I continued forcing the cuffed terrorist to follow.

We made it outside the conference room with only a minutes walk. Two doors, six teams. I looked to Abe, he nodded and tapped the speak button on his talkie twice.

Two clicks answered.

We burst through the doors and froze.

It was as wide around as the wheels of a big rig. The pylon ran from the office floor to the ceiling. Finger thin lines spider-webbed out from its core across the roof, windows, and to random points on the walls. They were translucent tubes, a staccato of red light flared within them. At the core of the construct were a series of Post It note sized squares, comprised entirely of light. They whirred about the machine like a scrolling marquee of pale blue light.

The bomb. A really big fucking bomb.

Lining the walls were men and women, dressed in a monochromatic swatch of the colors you’d expect in an high tier office environment. They were bound and gagged, some were passed out, others awake, covered in a sheen of sweat.

“So, we’ve got the hostages—” said Abe.

“—But where are the hostage takers,” I finished.

Someone laughed.

I turned to Curtis, he doubled over, laughing harder. His skin flushed, tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

“Aw holy Admiral Ackbar,” muttered Abe.

“Yeah, it’s a trap.”

“You didn’t think we were going to go out in this, did you?” said Curtis. “What, die with them?” He waved a hand to the employees. His laughter died out, replaced with iron tones of rage. “After what they did to people like me? They ain’t worth dying over. But you,” he pointed a finger at me. “Cops, we figured something like this would happen. Didn’t count on me having to be here but you know, small prices to pay.” The laughter resumed, and I felt the overwhelming urge to throttle the man.

“Clear the hostages out!” I ordered. Officers rushed to cut their bindings and lead the hostages out. “Bomb squad, move it!”

The world slipped and dull throbs rolled through my skull.

“No!” snarled a voice.

I struggled as Curtis’ hands slipped over my throat. He was using his weight to his advantage as he kept me pressed to the floor. My gun was pulled from my holster and pressed against my forehead.

A thunderous report echoed throughout the room.

Curtis fell from atop me, a neat hole where his nose used to be. Several more shots followed.

“Damn sloppy Nick, letting him get the jump on you.”

“Shut up Abe.” I took his hand and pulled as he helped bring me to my feet. I looked over to the bomb, which was being combed over by four officers in gear situated for handling explosives…and their detonation.

I hoped.

“So?”

One of the men sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Shit, thirty seconds, you and detective Patel should leave. Now.”

A small dog yapped at my leg.

It was pulled from view.

I remember leaning against the wall from support, something warm trickled down my nose.

“Nick,” shouted Abe, it sounded far off. “We have to go!”

Tresses of spun gold filled my sight, she was cream completed with a smile made for toothpaste commercials.

A taser went off inside the base of my skull as the flashes continued to appear, and be torn from sight.

Cold metal sat beneath my fingertips, I brushed over it with precision and care.

I shut my eyes, squeezing tight, trying to stop nails being driven into my brain.

“Fifteen seconds, guys, leave!” rang a voice.

The Drift clung to me, even still. So I did the only thing that made sense.

I gave in.

A small house, the side boarding was the sort of color used to define lush forests.

It’s personal.

            It’s personal.

“2101!” I screamed.

“Ten seconds.”

“2101!” I roared, the lining of my throat going raw.

One of the bomb techs entered the numbers into a keypad.

I watched the detonator screen flash.

“Three!” called the tech.

“Two!”

“One!”

And he didn’t stop.

“Zero!”

I shut my eyes. There was no flash. If there was, I didn’t see it. All I saw was the Drift.

Tresses of spun gold filled my sight, she was cream completed with a smile made for toothpaste commercials. Denim blue eyes greeted me, and her smile widened.

A Night Among The Graves

So once again I’m back with a free short story. If you like it, love it, and more…comment. This is something I resurrected and dedicated to a very important person in my life. I hope you love the free read. And if you’re a nano (you know who you are, thank you!)

A Night Among The Graves

RR Virdi

Published 2016

Dedicated to Cheyenne Alicia Thommarson

Chips of ice slid beneath his skin as a hollow gust of wind worked its way through the multiple layers of his clothing. It wormed through the canvas of his jacket, and slipped through the netted sweaters like cold grease. His muscles contracted from the chill. The bits of fingers not covered in the thin woolen gloves ached from the toothless gnawing of December wind. He peered down at his fingers and grimaced. Ashen webbing and cracks ran atop them. The cold made its way to his legs and knees forcing him to shamble forward. He brought his hands to his mouth and exhaled a warm breath of it. His fingers found no respite from the cold.

“’Scuse you,” he grumbled as a passerby brushed past, nearly jostling him.

The pedestrian didn’t acknowledge him. They moved down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

Banishing the late night walker from his mind, he pulled his coat tight around him. He noticed a bench ahead and moved towards it, giving his regards to the stone wall on his left. It was a mosaic of gray and brown rock running around the block. It stood several feet higher than his head. He was thankful for that. Most people saw a wall. He saw a bulwark from the wind for when it came time to sleep.

The nearby bench brought back old memories of a shopping cart filled with clothes and supplies. A time when he had a cup of loose change. The days always ended with a meager collection of coins, but they always managed to fill his belly, if only for the night.

He debated if he should spend the night on the bench. Sandpaper like ridges brushed against his fingers as he rubbed the coarse hairs over his face. The bench was simple in construction. It wasn’t inviting. It was an ugly thing of metal varnished more by age and grime than paint. Slender bars ran between the bench. Bad to sit on, worse to sleep atop. Steel was hard, cold and unforgiving. No amount of rolling or contorting could bring you comfort.

But comfort was a luxury, sleep was a necessity. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

He eyed the bars again. They emanated a cold that would find its way past one’s clothing, straight to your bones and chill the marrow. A man would wake brittle and broken. You would be a frozen sculpture of glass waiting to shatter on the first touch.

Beggars can’t be choosers. There was no ceremony in preparing his bed. He didn’t bother to swipe his coat over the surface of the bench to clean it. Removing the weighty garment he laid it over the metal rails, keeping the side with the lining face up. He eased himself onto the bench and rolled to his side. His fingers creaked in protest as he pulled the jacket over him.

He sighed. Poor man’s blanket.

His fingers fumbled to find the lip of the thick woolen mess over his head. He pulled down. The hat slid over his eyes and nose, becoming a barrier to the warm what air passed through. A string of groans left his lungs as he squirmed to settle himself.

A sound echoed through the air, tugging him from his weariness. Soft and faint like the strumming of a guitar some distance away. It pulled at him, ears, heart and mind. He rose from the bench and snatched his coat to go search for the source.

His ears did the guiding as he cocked his head like a dog hearing a new and unfamiliar sound. He made it to the end of the block and turned the corner. The wall was his guide as he pursued the gentle echoes.

Not strings, he realized as the sound grew louder.

Humming.

Stone ended and the wall transitioned into a row of vertical bars. It was like a jail cell, only they ended in an arc of elegant design. The gate resembled something that would have been fashionable in the Gothic Revival. He gazed through the bars and took note of the cresting. The humming came from it.

A tree dominated the view. It had paid winter’s price, stripped bare of leaves, and towered over the hill. Gnarled and twisted branches spread out like emaciated limbs belonging to creatures out of horror stories. Stone markers dotted the land like minute monoliths.

The wind changed direction, buffeting his back and grasping the exposed section of his neck like fingers of ice. Ahead, the wind stirred the slender finger-like branches of the tree.

His shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

The humming intensified. All the more he found himself being pulled forwards. An invisible hand tugged at the lobe of his right ear. The was large enough to serve as a better reprieve from the wind than anything else for the night. Besides, he always found wood more inviting than steel. He would be able to rest against the trunk. His coat would become a blanket to warm him and the humming—a soothing lullaby.

That settled the matter.

He ran his hands over his wrists and wrung them as he approached the gate. No signs barred entry. They didn’t need to. The taboo of entering a graveyard at night rang through his mind. His body tingled like a flurry of insects scuttling across his skin. He reached out to the gate. There were no chains, no lock to prevent him from slipping in. Comforting warmth filled his fingers as he pressed against the bar. The feeling of sleeping outdoors on a summer day rushed through his body. He didn’t question the sudden source of heat. He took at it as sign to enter. The gate opened with a weary metal sigh. A single shriek cried out from the hinges.

He made no effort to close up behind. Aches filled his body as he strained it to traverse the grounds. The tree was his marker, and he was resolved to reach it. The humming grew, growing clearer, washing away the fatigue and chills. Navigating past the headstones with equal parts caution and reservation, he made his way up the hill. Upon reaching it, the tree morphed from monumental, to terrifying.

It loomed over him as if the branches would contort themselves and reach for him at any moment. The arms of a gargantuan scarecrow ready to do their duty and ward off the unwelcome. The branches twitched in the night air and he mirrored the gesture.

The humming stopped.
Frowning, he placed a hand on the tree as he paced around it. He made it to the other side when his body seized like being dumped in a pool of ice water.

She sat atop a gravestone, watching him intently. The edge of her mouth quirked in a small smile. She was beautiful, hauntingly so. There was something about her that reminded him of a bird. Her features were pointed and hawkish with the body of a ballerina. He could see the slender grace her body held. The dress was a relic from a time long since past. A thing of countless frills, rumpled with its hem frayed. What stole his attention was her midsection. A fistful was missing. It was like it had been savagely torn away. The area was matted with a discolored fluid.

The sole though preoccupying his mind was the color of her appearance. He couldn’t tell what she was, only that she wasn’t wholly there. She couldn’t have been. The wind stirred the edges of her figure, deforming them like smoke under a breath of air. She was the white of a winter morning’s chilled breath. Her skin and clothing did not seem intent to remain that color. They shifted through countless hues of pale greens and whites.

He swallowed.

She watched his reaction and smiled when he came to the obvious realization. Arching an eyebrow, she tilted her head to regard him.

He blinked, understanding why she had stopped humming—why the silence. She was waiting for him to speak. He swallowed again and steeled himself as best he could. “You’re…” he trailed off, fumbling for words.

She leaned forward on the stone, propping her chin atop her hands. Her smile grew.

Licking his lips, he tried again. “You’re a ghost.” He didn’t know what shook more, voice or body.

She threw her head back and let out a delightful peal of laughter. It was musical, making the December cold grow a littler further from his body. His rigid joints easer and his body loosened as the tension fled. The laughter ended as abruptly as the humming had.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” She thrust her chin up, beaming.

His mouth worked in silence as he searched for the proper response. “You hum…nicely.” He managed to match her smile.

Her eyes widened and she hopped from the stone. She landed straight. “Thank you.” She gave him an elaborate stage bow. “I am a singer you know? And you?” Enthusiasm colored her voice. “What are you, who are you?”

“Tired,” he said. “Cold. Sleepy. Hungry.”

“Then rest,” she urged. “Let me sing you a song.” And she did.

He let his back fall against the tree, sliding down until he was slumped against it. Placing the song was more than difficult. It was like being blindfolded and mired in fog trying to find your way out. He felt reminded of old nursery rhymes his mother san. He heard unnamed songs from past decades. In between it all, he heard the humming that had brought him here.

He felt renewed. Thirty years younger. He blinked. “How’d you do that?”

Her smile grew. “I am a singer.” Her tone implied it was answer enough.

It wasn’t.

“My name is Miriam, and you are?”

He frowned. It had been years since he had heard his own name aloud. It was like fishing for something that had fallen into murky water. “Harris.” It felt odd recalling his name and hearing it aloud. “Harris.” Saying it the second time felt good.

“Nice to meet you, Harris.” She curtsied.

“You too.” His gaze dropped to the gash in her dress. Harris recognized the stains. She caught his look.

Miriam picked at the damaged material surrounding the wound. She ran it through her hands. “Oh this?” Her smiled became something bitter. “Jealousy is an awful thing.”

Harris nodded as if it made sense.

“It’s hard being a performer, you know?” She gave him a look as if he was expected to understand.

He nodded in silence.

“People get jealous of your success, when you have what they want. Some well…” she shrugged. “They find that if they can’t take it, they will make sure you can’t have it either.” Her eyes fell to the gash. She shook her head as she looked at it.

“You were…” Harris found it hard to finish the question.

“Murdered, yes.”

“Sorry.” His voice could have scoured stone.

She waved him off. “Oh, no matter. It has been long since. Much time, much singing to let it all go.” She threw her head back and laughed.

He looked away, wishing that she would leave now that the singing was over. It was clear she was a tad unstable.

“Oh don’t look at me like that,” she chided. “We all are a bit touched here.”

Harris eyed her askance. “We?”

She rolled her eyes and gesture to her side.

He stole a quick breath that dried what little moisture was left in his throat. The winter air turned his esophagus raw.

The newcomer was six foot and dressed in overalls speckled with dirt. He stood there, staring at Harris, haggard from what looked like years of hard work. The man ran a hand through his pronounced widows peak. He was just as translucent as the singing Miriam.

Harris folded his lips and chewed on them. He was sick. His insides knotted, going tight. He couldn’t tell if he had eaten too much, or not enough. That was it. Hunger, nausea, the cold, any one of those could cause the mind to see things.

“You tell him yet?” barked the ghost in overalls.

“No.” She turned and scowled at him. “I was being gentle. You can’t knock someone over the head with this sort of thing, you lout!”

“Women,” he grumbled below his voice. It wasn’t as quiet as he had thought.

Miriam rounded on him, her fists balled and on her hips. “What?”

Her male friend appeared to shrink. His posture loosened and he mumbled something under his that sounded like an apology. He gave Harris a hapless look.

Harris debated the safety of intervening.

The two ghosts bickered for a handful of minutes before Harris had had enough. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention.

Miriam flushed. Harris found it quite the feat to watch a ghost manage that. Bowing, she apologized for their heated display. “My husband,” she said, drawing out the word with dangerous undertones, “is uncouth. Cotton-headed—”

“Hardworking,” her husband interjected.

She shot him a withering glare causing him to recoil.

Harris laughed. It was weighty and full thing. The sort that shook his ribcage and took the air from his lungs. It felt good. The pair of ghosts noticed his laugh. Their smiles didn’t quite make it up to their eyes. They remained hollow—pained.

Before he could ask what the matter was, the ghostly man stepped forward. “Oliver.” He extended a hand.

Harris glanced at the hand quizzically, then Oliver.

“Go on.” Oliver inched his hand forward. “It’s only polite. You’re not going to catch anything from this old ghost.”

Harris suppressed a cringe and reached out to meet Oliver’s hand. An electric jolt, one more imagined than actual, rushed up his arm as he shook hands.

Oliver grinned. “See.”

Harris fought hard to catch his breath. “How?”
Oliver’s grin faded. His wife stepped beside him, thumping him across the back of his head. “Oi!” He rubbed the area.

“Cotton-headed,” she said under her breath.

“Why could I feel hi hand? You’re both ghosts.” Harris gave them an owlish stare.

Miriam and Oliver frowned in unison.

“What is it?” Harris took a step forward, pressing them. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Instead of answering, Oliver turned around and revealed the back of his skull.

Harris leapt back. His skull was deformed. It looked like someone had scooped a portion of it out. Harris was thankful for not having been able to eat.

Oliver pointed to Miriam’s injury. “My wife was stabbed. I was shot. An unlucky pair of circumstances if I ever saw them. Too bad I didn’t see the bullet, or the sunuva-gun who pulled the trigger.”

Harris folded his lips, unsure of what to say.

“Do you know how ghosts are made?” Miriam gave him a weak smile.

Harris shook his head to the side.

Oliver inhaled like a man about to give a lengthy speech. “Right then, short of it. Ghost’s are born when someone dies in a terrible manner without closure. They can’t let go, so something has to cling on, doesn’t it?”

Harris nodded.

“The body, well that’s not sticking around. Not well at any rate. Bodies don’t hold up once they’re dead. Go figure, hmm? That us then,” he pointed between his wife and himself. “We can’t let go. Trust me, we’ve tried. Easier said than done, yeah?”

Miriam placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and took over. “Ghosts are stuck, not just here, Harris, but reliving things. There are times where I am replaying the moment I have been stabbed. Oliver remembers and has to go through being shot on occasion. Mostly though, we’ve been around long enough that we can roam freely here.” She waved at their surroundings. “Where we are buried.”

Harris licked his lips but said nothing.

Miriam beckoned him. She left Oliver behind and walked towards another row of gravestone. She came to rest against a solitary grave, dozen yards or more away from the nearest one. Miriam rapped her knuckles on it.

Somebody groaned.

Harris leaned to look past the grave. The source of the noise came from behind.

A man came into clarity from nothing. He was well bronzed and looked like he should have been attending college. Dark featured with quick eyes. He tugged at a thin checkered shirt.

Miriam waved to get his attention. “How are Marco?”

He stretched and yawn. “S’okay.” With a balled fist he rubbed his eye. He nodded to Harris, then turned eye Miriam askance.

Miriam shook her head as an answer.

“Oh, this again. Sorry, Harris. You’ll get used to this.” Marco titled his head, revealing a horribly bruised neck. “If you could see my head, you’d see the bruise there too. You know those commercials have it right, don’t drink and drive, huh.”

“I’m sorry.” It seemed the appropriate thing for Harris to say.

Marco waved him off. “Don’t. I wasn’t driving drunk. Idiōtās coming down the other way. Necks are soft, yeah? Mine didn’t take the accident well. My head was smacked around. I died in the ambulance.” He exhaled, giving Harris a weary look. “Go on, see the rest. You need to stop doing this to us. I’m tired.”

            Harris blinked and apologized. He didn’t know what Marco meant, but it seemed smart to play along.

Miriam led him toward another grave, set near the middle of a row of twelve.

Harris’ heart fell into his stomach. A child sat atop the grave, kicking their legs at the edge. They couldn’t have been taller than his own knees. She had the bearings of someone from the east, and a country Harris couldn’t finger. A bright yellow book grabbed his attention. The child flipped through it with speed and intensity enough to nearly damage the pages.

Miriam leaned forward. “Sweet-pea.”

The child stopped and turned. “Oh, hi.” She beamed, waving a pudgy hand at Harris.

He returned the gesture before turning to Miriam. “I don’t want to know. Please, don’t tell me.”

Miriam didn’t abide by his request. “Poor thing got Pneumonia. It can be lethal at her age, did you know that?”

He didn’t. He didn’t want to hear it either.

“Come on.” Miriam gestured for him to follow. She led him along another path markers until she settled in front of another stone.

Harris froze when he saw it. Something about the name clawed at his stomach, making it feel like his insides were removed. The hollowness made its way to his heart. “I know that name.”

Miriam said nothing.

A young man appeared. He looked much like Harris would have thirty years ago. Dark skinned and clean shaven. The man’s hair was cropped short. He could have modeled if he had chosen to. Harris knew that instead the boy had decided to attend an ivy league college on scholarship. He remembered when he received the acceptance letter. Harris was filled with pride, a far cry from the emptiness wracking his heart now.

He was dressed as he was then. Simple jeans, and a fresh ironed shirt. Harris always thought the boy handsome.

“Hey, dad.”

Harris broke. The air left him as did the words. He fumbled for a moment, looking away to the ground, then his ashen fingers. “Curtis…”

“Yeah dad.”

“I remember.” Harris blinked away the moisture.

“I’m sorry dad. I screwed up.” Curtis looked away like Harris had. First to the ground, then the back of his fingers.

“It’s okay. We both did. I should’ve… I don’t know what I should’ve, but I should have done something.”

“It’s okay pops. Been waiting for you.”

Harris blinked and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I couldn’t come here. I was scared. Not since the funeral.” His son had passed away listening to the wrong people. People who abused his trust and beat him until they couldn’t beat him any further.

“I’m glad you came back again, dad.”

“I don’t understand, Curtis, again?”

Curtis’ expression sank. “Dad…you don’t remember after my funeral?”

Harris shook his head. “I don’t remember much of anything these days. It feels like I’m a VHS stuck on loop.”

His son cracked a smile. “No one uses those things anymore dad. You always were a bit behind the times.”

Harris laughed.

“Dad…after I died you…quit work.”

Did I?

“You just left everything. Went through the money. You started drinking. You wound up on the streets. Then one night you went to bed on a street bench on a night you should’ve found a shelter. It was cold, dad, really cold. You shouldn’t have been out there.”

Oliver came by Curtis’ side. “Do you know why you came here today, Harris?” He asked.

“I was cold, tired, and I heard humming.”

“No.” Oliver shook his head. “That’s not it at all. Not most of it anyways. Not the right of it. You used to sleep around these parts for many years—a long time in fact.”

“I still do,” Harris chimed. He looked to Miriam whose gaze was fixated on the distant sky.

“The humming’s part of it. You like music, always have.” Oliver gave him a weak smile. “You told us the first time?”

Harris blinked. “The first time?” Then it came crashing back. The cold bench. The passerby ignoring him. Miriam’s singing.

“The first time you came here dad. We’ve been trying to bring you back.” Curtis waved to a grave beside his. Harris recognized his name. How nice to always be so close to his son. “We’ve been going through this for a while now. You haven’t adjusted well. New ghosts normally don’t, dad.”

A lead balloon formed in Harris’ stomach.

Oliver took over. “See, someone like you, doesn’t have anywhere to go. You don’t have a place to call home. As far are you’re concerned, the graveyard’s the closest thing you have to one. So, where do you cling to? What can’t you let go of? What are you repeating?”

The lead balloon rose to the base of his throat.

Miriam and Curtis reached out, placing a hand on each of his shoulders.

“You’re stuck in a loop Harris, we’ve tried to help. This isn’t the first night you’ve come wandering to us and it probably won’t be the last. It’s how Miriam here knew what to sing to you. Trial and error. She’s just trying to soothe you, put you at ease. Maybe give you a bit of what we can’t have.” Oliver said.

Harris’ throat constricted as the balloon wedged itself higher up in his throat. No amount of swallowing would put the balloon back down into his gut.

Curtis stepped up and wrapped his arms around Harris. “Welcome back dad. You’re one of us, you’re a ghost.”

Free short story: Red Sands

Hey you! Yes you! You reading this right now! Do you like free stuffs? You do? Of course you do! Who doesn’t? Well here is a free short story of something I penned a while back in 2014 creative writing class. It’s not my usual fair of fantastic fiction in the sciences, urban fantasy, or fantasy…but as was mandated by the teacher, I wrote lit fic. Sort of…I’m a rebel and snuck in some fantastical elements a la Coelho!

This is my free short story Red Sands. Like it, share it, love it. Comment folks. This one is for you wonderful peeps following me here at the beginnings of my literary journey.

 

Red Sands

 

RR Virdi

 

Copyright 2014

Published 2015

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