Unabashed

I love the Big Idea series John Scalzi is doing. I like reading about the genesis of an idea, how it came to be written. If I had an opportunity to show John Scalzi my Big Idea–which I don’t, since the book is not published–I might tell him that my idea has a lot to do with bringing science to fantasy. It might look something like this:

I love stories where there are invisible worlds set within the world we live in. The idea that someone is right there, standing next to you, but you can’t see them because they’re in this other place. The first time I remember thinking about that was in high school, when we were talking about the Mayan culture that just disappeared off the face of the Earth, without a trace. While everyone else was thinking drought or war or famine, I was thinking that they must have evolved into a higher state, and then transitioned into a separate reality from the physical one we can see.

Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, Neil Gaiman, Charles de Lint…there are a lot of writers who utilize the “world within a world” plot to great effect, but they always seemed to miss one important detail that I always wanted to see expounded upon: how did the invisible world come to be in the first place? Once I began wondering in that direction, the book Modern-Day Mythica wrote itself.

The story evolved from the concept of an energy mass that encircles the globe, that flows across the surface of the Earth like a river, from north to south. That energy is called the Wash. And everywhere that the Wash touches ground it forms pockets of reality within reality, some large and some small, attainable by certain doorways which are difficult to find and even more difficult to access, unless you really know what you’re doing. But to simply go that far with the idea still wouldn’t have satisfied my curiosity of how the Wash itself came to be, in order to form these pockets of reality. And that was the point where the idea became my Big Idea. The complexity of the concept is vast, but it fits perfectly within the scientific laws of the universe, if you can accept that there is one ingredient in the universal stew that remains undetected and unaccounted for: the energy of the Wash itself, which originates from a celestial body once in orbit around the Earth, when the Earth had two moons in the sky.

The implications of this are much more far-reaching than might initially be thought of: the presence of a moon that is unaccounted for, that disappeared some ten thousand years ago and is unrecorded except perhaps in some arcane hieroglyphs drawn on cave walls, could have a devastating impact on how science looks at history. With two moons, Earth’s time line could shorten considerably. Things that might take millions of years today, such as the formation of mountain ranges, might have only taken thousands of years in an environment where there was so much more gravitational pull on the planet’s surface. The tides would have been greater, earthquakes and volcanoes much more frequent…essentially, everything that science has applied to a timeline would have to be compressed into a much tighter margin, because things would have been happening so much faster than we can account for today. This is important because it enables the scenario where the ages of mammals and dinosaurs could have overlapped, and it is entirely feasible in the real world. Indeed, this is a scenario which is entirely possible, one which I do not believe can be proven incorrect. That was the essential Big Idea of the book.

But what happened to the moon, one might ask. Well, this is the point where the story leaves the plane of the real world and delves into fantasy or science fiction. The moon, a crusty, charred satellite with a surface composed primarily of slate, is the source of the energy of the Wash. Some combination of minerals and exotic materials, in an environment of intense heat (such as the core of the moon, which happens to be molten), releases the energy, which is copious enough to encompass both moons as well as Earth. This shared energy is a fuel for magic, making the impossible possible in many ways. For instance, the cocktail of energies allow for the existence of creatures on the moon in question, which could not exist in any world where magic is not possible. And furthermore, the influence of the energies allows for those creatures to migrate to Earth, lending credence to the ancient myth of dragons.

In Modern-Day Mythica, dragons are pivotal characters, striving to reach the cool blue comfort of Earth once again. But they were banished long ago, by means of a spell woven by a man, using the inherent energies of their home moon itself. For thousands of years the dragons have been seeking to undo what was done, and once were able to expose a rift between Earth and the realm to which their moon had been banished. This rift allowed the energies of the moon to once again enter Earth’s atmosphere, forming the Wash, and enabling magic within its borders.

This work is unpublished and unagented, although it is under consideration at this time. Read the first five chapters here.
Crappy cover art was contrived by myself, with a ganked photograph from here (the cover art is crappy, but the photo is pretty cool).

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Big Idea, black moon, book, John Scalzi, legend, Modern-Day Mythica, moon, myth, mythos, story

There is a hidden place in Prague that is accessible only by the narrowest of concealed passages. It exists beyond the normal confines of time and space, and, despite its immediate relation to the ancient city of Prague, it and Prague are invisible to one another. It is a passageway into the Wash.

Hillock backtracked his steps of all those centuries ago to an ancient and forgotten bell tower on the banks of the Vltava River. A bridge once extended over the Vltava from the tower, long since destroyed by one or another marauding hoard. Now, it extended toward the river, only twenty feet of it still in existence, ending with a jagged edge. Hillock crept down the slippery bank to the water’s edge and gradually made his way into the shaded area beneath the shelf that remained of the bridge. There was an arched portion of the flat wall of the bell tower that looked like a doorway that’d been bricked over. Hillock approached this arch and frowned. He put his hand on the wall and sighed. He looked around and then, with what appeared to be minimal effort, shoved the bricked-up doorway so that it crashed down into the bell tower.

Inside, the bell tower base was about twenty by twenty feet square. It was enclosed with tapering walls made of brick that were about three feet thick. The wood plank ceiling which served as the floor for the level above had fallen in, along with the stairway. It was dark and musty; it had been many, many years since the air within those thick walls had been stirred by anything other than spiders and ghosts. Shafts of sunlight crisscrossed through the air, and disturbed specks of dust floated up through them.

Hillock entered without hesitancy, stepping lively but carefully around the strewn bricks and boards. He walked toward the northwest corner of the room, stopping about five feet short of the wall. He reached out his hand and waved it through empty air, and then he walked around that spot in a tight circle, waving his hand in and out of that same spot of air.

He took off his hat and undressed completely, folding his clothes and placing them in his satchel. The satchel’s strap extended by a brass buckle, and he let it out as long as it would stretch. Then, naked, he held the satchel in his hand and walked toward that spot of empty space, where, with a narrowed eye and a cocked head he could vaguely see a shimmering scarlet glimmer. It had been a long time since he’d had to use a portal to enter the Wash, and he only did it now as a sort of ritual. This was the way he’d come into Prague, all those years ago, and this was the first time he’d come back to this spot since. It was fitting, for him, to leave in the same way that he’d come. He stepped forward and, for the second time that night, disappeared into thin air.

A blink of an eye or less, and he was in the Wash, that ancient, magical fountain of energy that flowed forever like a thousand tributaries across the surface of the Earth and separated those things within from those that were without. Where a moment ago there had been a city built of brick and mortar, now there was a rocky path through green grass that led up an incline toward distant snow-capped mountains. The Vltava River was still there, following its familiar curve, but it was now much smaller and the bridge was gone. Gone too was Prague itself, replaced by rocky hills, thick grass and sparse trees and shrubs and not a single building in sight. The Griffin—Hillock—exhaled sharply and then snorted. He stretched his limbs in the form he now found himself in, his true form. His skin was the same smooth black and his eyes were still yellow but that was where the similarities ended: his neck was serpentine and five feet long, extending out of a thick, horse-like torso. He walked on four legs, the forward set complete with three-inch claws at the tips of the fingers and opposable thumbs. He had a long, coiling tail, and a pair of broad leathery wings that shivered with anticipation. There was no wind, only the slight breeze, and yet the dirt on the ground beneath and around him swirled and danced, as if it knew that neither it, nor gravity, could possibly hold him down. His face was expressive; he had long black whiskers curling down from his snout, a pair of ivory stubs at his temples that he considered horns, and a mane of dark-gray fur stretched from his head and down his spine to his tale. When he smiled, his teeth looked like those of a wolf, only larger. They were three inches long and pointed, sharp. Sharp. They looked like they could bite a man’s arm off easily. And they could.

He closed his eyes, stretching his wings to their fullest length—thirty-eight feet from tip to tip—and sucked in a mouthful of air so luxuriantly he looked like he was eating it. Then, he opened his eyes and looked up, and was flying.

He normally stayed clear of the Wash; Blair lived inside the Wash and she was too powerful a psychic to agitate, and the mere presence of Hillock, if detected, could agitate her to violence. There had been times when he couldn’t resist, however, the temptation to spread his wings, but he’d done so with only the utmost caution. It had been ten years since he’d last felt his serpentine coils flex and his wings stretch, and the sheer exhilaration was magnificent.

The air was cold but it didn’t bother him. He was so elated by the rush of icy air in his nostrils that he flared them wide, sucking in as much as he could. Ice crystals formed on the underside of his wings but this just exhilarated him further. Hillock had not known much joy in his long lifetime. He longed for joy, to bathe in it, suckle its breast, but for him joy was in comfort, and there had been very little comfort so far for him. Even here, as pleasurable as the sensation was of flying through frigid air, there were precautions he must take in order to remain hidden, to stay alive. The life of ease he desired remained, as it always had, just beyond the horizon’s limit.

Whatever his situation here on Earth—in hiding, in constant fear of discovery and death by the most painful methods imaginable—it was still better than anything on Slate, where the atmosphere was hot and thick and choking. Nothing could live on Slate without magic—dragons included—but not even magic could make the living comfortable. If life on Earth was a struggle—for food, survival—it was only as comparable to Slate as Heaven was to Hell. Earth, as perilous as it could be, was as he’d always suspected when staring at it from his distant home on Slate: it was a blue chill, a sapphire paired with an emerald, a jewel of the universe. The air was pure silver and the sunlight pure gold.

The news Helling had delivered was exactly what Hillock had been waiting all these thousands of years to hear: that another had finally crossed over. Who would it be this time? Gregg himself, no doubt. But if it was Gregg he would need help immediately, he would need to know everything that Hillock had learned during his long exile on Earth. Gregg was no wizard; he had power, sure, and there was perhaps nothing in the cosmos that could match him in sheer brute strength, and he could spew a column of flame a hundred yards or more with an almost-inexhaustible supply of fuel. But outside of those his power was limited. He could change things, Hillock remembered. A trick he often had performed in his court. But that was all there was. A few tricks, a charm or two, nothing compared with what Hillock could do. Hillock on Slate had been the leader of the Clan, the wizard elite. Gregg might be able to rend flesh and leave an area scorched and charred, but Hillock could fold reality. Hillock studied nobler sciences: alchemy, chemistry, astrology and astronomy, augury, voodoo, cleromancy and even thaumaturgy. Gregg may have finally come, but without Hillock, he would be no more useful than an impotent prick.

Of course it was possible that it wouldn’t be Gregg who’d come. Cut off as he was, Hillock didn’t even know if Gregg was still in power. The only thing he knew for certain was that if another had deposed Gregg, who was very much a titan, then the new king must be a like a god. Hillock couldn’t imagine a dragon with enough power to dethrone the king. Gregg had been in power since Slate’s banishment—fifteen-thousand years, he was all-powerful.

Either way, it didn’t really matter. If it was Gregg or another, it was Hillock’s duty to go with haste, to impart his wealth of knowledge, and to retrieve the stone. The stone they surely would have sent along with the newcomer. All he needed was a small piece of stone from Slate, and he felt with confidence that he could return Slate to orbit around Earth. He was certain that he had finally unlocked the secret of the enchantment that’d been used to banish Slate, certain that he could reverse it.

The air grew colder as he flew farther and farther north, careful to stay within the borders of the Wash. As powerful as Gregg was, he did have one distinct weakness: he was cold-blooded. Hillock was a different breed of dragon, a warm-blooded breed, known since time immemorial among dragons as “Legoa-Taniynoa .” Gregg belonged to a breed known as “Gizsh-Taniynoa,” and all Gizsh dragons were cold-blooded. For all his strength, Gregg would be curled up and dying right now if he was in this frigid air through which Hillock flew. Gizsh dragons were bigger, stronger, more colorful and meaner, too. Legoan were black or silver or gray or white. They were proficient with magic and science. Those who were strongest with magic were invited into the Clan. Some said the Clan was just a pet of the ruling class, and it may have been true, but there were many times that Gregg had made a request directly of the Clan. In Hillock’s mind, that made them valuable. Of course, as weaknesses go, on Slate being cold-blooded wasn’t a problem, because it was hot everywhere—scorching hot. On Earth, the Gizsh dragons only had to be careful to stay far away from the poles. This was fine with the Legoans. They thrived in cold air; for some, the colder the better. A Legoan could rule his own frozen patch of land without interference from any wasp dragons. Of course, if Gregg had his way, he would scorch the entire planet and melt the poles rather than restrict himself to the tropical climates as the dragons had done before they were banished. He would burn the Earth to cinders, with pleasure.

Hillock knew it was dangerous thinking these thoughts. For him to make it to America, to find out if the Clan had indeed succeeded in transporting the king to Earth, he would have to pass through Blair’s domain. Blair was the most dangerous being on Earth and was the main reason he kept his thoughts shielded and used a pseudonym. She, the bitch of the north, was the sole reason this planet was not now ruled by dragons, and she herself, a dragon, could have only benefited from such a situation.

He flew north along a vein of the Wash across the Baltic Sea into Finland. It crossed the Gulf of Finland near Helsinki and from there carried on across many glaciers before it came to its grand conclusion: the Cave of Dreams, which was a Wash portal that linked Europe to North America, allowing travel from one to the other without having to cross the sea or the pole. It was where Hillock and Blair had come to Earth centuries earlier, along with a horde of now dead and frozen dragons, and it was where Blair currently resided, deep within its subterranean darkness. Blair and Hillock alone survived being thrust through the portal; every other dragon died almost immediately, and only through an insurmountable effort of will did Hillock survive. Blair survived as well, of course.

The bitch.

It was Hillock’s aim to fly through the cave, past Blair’s watch, psychic shield in place, and then to head south until he found Gregg, the ruler of Slate, from whence all dragons come. If it was true that Gregg had found his way to Earth, then Blair would already be aware and would be working to either send him back or kill him. Regardless, she definitely wouldn’t allow the Clan any contact with him. Indeed, she’d been blocking communication between Slate and Earth ever since she and Hillock had arrived. So Gregg may not even know that Hillock was here waiting for him—Blair didn’t. But soon, if Gregg was here and if Hillock could find him, and if he brought the stone, that precious magical stone, then they would return Slate to its natural orbit around Earth. But either way, Earth would soon once again be ruled by dragons. Hillock was sure of that.

written by Matt Mitchell

When the sun began to set Joe drove over to the Jolly Roger, a restaurant/oyster bar on the beach that his uncle owned. A sign by the front door read:

Lifeguard night
Only on the Quarterdeck!
Kegger served from 9:00 till it’s gone!

Wednesday nights the Jolly Roger hosted lifeguard night. Every night of the week some bar or restaurant in town or on the beach (usually the beach) hosted their own version of lifeguard night. Some were better than others, but the Jolly Roger’s was widely considered to be the best. This was primarily because the Roger provided a whole keg, free of charge, whereas most other places only gave drink specials.

‘Shucky,’ the owner of the Jolly Roger, would place a keg and a pile of cups on one of the tables on what he called the Quarterdeck, which was really just a big porch, and let the ‘guards have their way with it. The process hadn’t changed in some years: the lifeguards got the free kegger once a week so long as they would plug the bar while they worked the tourists on the beaches. The only requirement was that they had to police themselves—only lifeguards drink from the keg and nobody damages or steals the keg. The first time something happens to the keg the deal ends. The lifeguards were remanded to the Quarterdeck because it was separate from the main bar and restaurant and had its own side entrance. That way the ‘guards didn’t crowd the main entrance (although the Quarterdeck was built right alongside the Gangplank, which served as the restaurant’s main entrance and exit, so the ‘guards still got to see who was coming for dinner), and Shucky could keep the ‘guards and his paying customers separate. The ‘guards didn’t mind, though: the Quarterdeck was where the best seats were to watch the drama unfurl inside the bar and along the strip. And there was always drama.

The Jolly Roger was a ship-themed restaurant; it had the Quarterdeck, the Gangplank, and the Fo’c’s’le, which was the main bar. There was a small balcony upstairs called the Crow’s Nest. For a treat, patrons would visit or eat in the Galley, which was a dining room that Shucky had built on a hydraulic-actuated teeter that replicated the sway of a ship on the sea. Shucky spent most of his time in the Fo’c’s’le shucking oysters and serving up the drinks. 

Shucky was a wizened old salt. His real name was Sherman Davidson, but he’d been known as Shucky since he was a young boy growing up in Tampa. He’d gotten a job working an oyster boat, and slit his hand open from thumb to pinky shucking an oyster fresh out of the bay. From then on he was called either Shuckster or Shucks, which eventually evolved into Shucky.

Shucky had a white cap of hair and a tight white beard and a mustache that he curled up at the tips to look more the part of the salty sea captain. It was quite effective. If he put on a sou’wester he could be the poster boy for Red Lobster. But he didn’t wear a sou’wester, he wore sailor’s hats he called “squid lids” and blue chambray shirts.

He was a retired Navy man, of course, who opened the Jolly Roger in 1976, right after retirement, saying that the only thing he knew how to do other than float a boat was shuck oysters. He hired a waitress and worked the bar himself in a ramshackle hut near the beach, running a skull and crossbones flag up the mast. Now, nearing seventy, he was drawing a steady retirement income supplemented with a decent summer draw at his bar. The old hut he’d had torn down in the winter of ’82, when it became obvious that his business had grown too large for it. His new place was slightly larger and new, although it was designed to look ramshackle, and was open just in time for the summer crowds. That was one of only two winters he’s worked since he retired from the Navy; the second one was when he added the teetering dining room, which, as it ended up, had been a stroke of genius. It was the most successful restaurant on the strip, primarily because of the kitschy shipboard ambiance.

Joe was born the year after the Jolly Roger opened. His dad, Kevin Copeland, had been a sailor in the boatswain’s shop on board the USS Tuscaloosa. Shucky had been the shop supervisor, and he took Kevin under his wing and gave him a first-class seaman’s education. In four years aboard the Tuscaloosa, Kevin whizzed through the ranks until he was only one behind the Old Salt himself. In those four years, the two not only became steadfast friends, but very much like father and son.

Kevin’s own father had run out on him and his mom when he was very young, and he had no recollection of the man at all. Whenever he thought of him, all he felt was a dull rage burning in his stomach. Shucky was the first man who’d ever shown any interest at all in helping or teaching him, and for that Kevin loved him. They visited ports-of-call together when their shore leave days matched, and when they didn’t they usually roamed around alone, soaking up as much culture as they could so they could go back and tell one another what they’d seen or found, where the best places were that they knew of so far, and where to buy the best souvenirs.

Kevin was promoted to shop supervisor when Shucky retired, and he accepted it without much cheer. It just wouldn’t be the same without the Old Salt around. Once Kevin’s enlistment expiration was due, for the first time since he’d known Shucky, he refused to accept Shucky’s advice and gave the Navy up. He bought a car and drove to Naples, where Shucky had set up his bar, and got a job at a mechanic’s shop. Shucky wasn’t too disappointed that Kevin had gotten out, he was damned glad to see him, but he also knew that Kevin was already, after only four years, a first-class petty officer, which was a huge accomplishment. It would be a cinch for Kevin to make chief, a goal which Shucky had given up on with eight years left on his enlistment. He knew he wasn’t chief material. But Kevin was, and he would’ve been a good one. He could have retired at a young age on a Senior Chief’s salary, set up for life. But he wanted to follow Shucky, and Shucky couldn’t begrudge him that.

Kevin soon met a girl, Brenda, and married her. Six months later they had Joe (then Joey), and Shucky gleefully became the baby’s godfather. From the time Joe could speak he knew Shucky as ‘Unca Shuck.’

When Joey was five, Brenda died at a railroad crossing, trying to release a baby from a car seat that a teenage mom had abandoned at the sight of the oncoming train. Kevin told Joe that his mom would rather have died trying than to have lived knowing that she did nothing, and that was why she was gone. He explained that his mother had died a good death, a death that made her a hero for many people, and that in some ways she would live longer than any of them because she had chosen to try to save that child’s life. Even though she was unsuccessful and had died herself, Joey should be proud to have had her as his mother. But, at five years old, Joey couldn’t help the sorrow, the agony of life without her. His mom had meant so much to him; they’d always had a good relationship, and her death was almost too much for him to take. He developed a depression that Kevin feared would never let go. He began to call Joey “Blue.” “Why so blue, Blue?” he would ask, years after her death, but know the answer without ever receiving one. He tried and tried to draw Joey out of the funk, and finally thought it was happening, that Joe was finally letting her go, but then he began to feel ill and found out he had cancer. It took all his strength not to put a gun in his mouth and blow his head off. The only reason he didn’t was Joey.

Kevin made sure Joey was taken care of, and then he wasted away, with Joey and Shucky at his bedside. When he finally died, Shucky attended the funeral with Joey, let him grieve, and then wordlessly accepted him into his home. Kevin had already arranged to have the house sold and put the profits into an account for Joe, to be managed by Shucky. There wasn’t much, certainly not enough for college, but it helped Joe buy his truck when he turned sixteen and helped him pay rent for a couple of years after he moved out of Shucky’s house when he turned eighteen.

Joe and Shucky came to be as close as Kevin and Shucky had been. Shucky never tried to be Joe’s father, he just gave him the same encouragement and direction as he’d given to Kevin, and Joe responded in much the same way as Kevin had. He loved Shucky like a father.

At the bar, Joe went straight to the bar. Shucky set a long neck in front of him.

“Why didn’t you come by earlier?” Shucky asked, knowing this to be Joe’s off day. It was no coincidence that the Jolly Roger’s Lifeguard night was on Wednesday night. Since Joe had worked for Broodal’s, the Jolly Roger lifeguard night coincided with Joe’s off-day. If Joe’s day off changed, lifeguard night changed as well. It was no great mystery that Shucky wanted Joe to be assigned to the Roger’s beach. He could have made that a condition of the service to Broodal’s, but Joe wanted to move up the right way. It was an important beach, maybe the most important beach in Naples (other than Gator Point), and Joe wanted to be sure he was duly trained and ready before he took on a job of that importance. So he worked the dreaded mile, figuring that next year would be the year he would be ready to move to the Jolly Roger, even if he had to get Shucky to request the move.

“I’ve been busy,” Joe replied. He’d been at the library for most of the day, in fact. He’d always been a reader. He’d read his first book before he turned four years old, had known his entire ABC’s before he turned two, before he could even put together a coherent sentence. The library was his favorite place in the world. He could get lost in mysteries, westerns, horrors, and sci fi all the same. He could even walk into the substantial reference section and lose hours of the day delving into subjects from feudal Japan, the Civil War—he’d read all three volumes of the Shelby Foote Civil War Narrative sitting at the library’s desks, medieval Europe, the discovery of America, so on and so on. He was a fast reader, too. He could never type particularly fast, but he could read a four-hundred page novel in three days, just in his off time.

Today, Joe had gone directly to the reference section and began reading about wolves. He read the majority of Of Wolves and Men again by lunch, and absorbed a few others before he was through. Once, while he was reading The Wolf Almanac, he swore he heard a woman’s voice say, right behind him, “Go into the Wash.” But he turned and had seen no one. It happened again a little while later and he thought he must be hearing the library’s announcement system, even though he’d never heard it before. At the counter, he had an armload of books and asked the lady who was checking them out for him if she knew what the Wash was. She replied, “Sure, that’s what I’ve got to do when I get home.” They both laughed, but Joe a bit uneasily. First the wolves and now he was hearing ghost voices chiming in his mind about mysterious things. Not for the first time he began to doubt his sanity. Once, when he was sixteen, he’d actually felt his sanity slip away from him. He’d been sitting in this same library, much too young in Shucky’s opinion to be reading about the mysteries of the universe, but that’s exactly what he was doing. He’d pulled down a book about the solar system, and began to read it. He moved on to Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, and finally he picked up The Universe Explained. What he read in that book—literally—almost blew his mind. The sentence that did it seemed simple enough: ‘That the universe is never-ending is granted; even if it wasn’t, what would be on the other side of it, rock? But it should be stated even more impressively that there are infinite universes.’ He’d pushed the book away from him and sat back in his chair, his mind suddenly calculating the expanse of what was, what is, and the Great Beyond and for one brief moment he felt his entire mental system shift. It was as if his mind had floated two feet to the left. He reeled it back in and shook his head, deciding that he could accept that the universe was unending without actually having to go there. But now, hearing voices and wolves in the south Florida night, now he was afraid he was losing it and he wouldn’t be able to reel it back in. And the Wash; somehow it seemed more substantial than just doing laundry. The name resonated with him, even though he had no idea what it was, it felt significant.

“Busy! I’ll bet. That’s a good one,” Shucky laughed.

“I’ve been at the library,” Joe said.

Joe smirked and took a pull from his beer, and then asked the question he felt he already knew the answer to, which he’d already asked several other people that day who lived near the beach. “Shuck, did you hear anything last night? Late?”

“Like what?” Shucky asked, smoothing his beard with his hand and leaning across the bar. “How late?”

“I don’t know. Like… something weird. Early this morning.”

“Can’t recall anything,” Shucky said.

“Like he gon’ hear anyting wit’ dat log cutter he got,” one of the regular patrons injected, referring to the sound of Shucky’s snoring.

“Cheers,” Joe smiled at the fellow, tipping his beer.

“Damn ingrates,” Shucky said with dramatic flourish of mock rage.

“Well, let me ask you this: Do you know what the Wash is?” Joe asked, this time a little more secretive.

“Sure,” Shuck said, “There’s a whole pile of it in the back that needs doin. Want me to get yer a washrag?”

Joe just shook his head and, smiling, made his way out to the Quarterdeck. He picked up a cup and poured the rest of his beer into it. He didn’t want anyone to think he got special treatment, even though everyone knew the score and didn’t begrudge him an ounce. Joe was well thought of in lifeguard circles.

It was still early, so only a few lifeguards were there. But they would begin to stroll in soon enough. As they did, they individually looked beat but brightened when they got to the Quarterdeck, filling a cup and then sitting back to enjoy the night in paradise. The night was still hot and a light salt spray filled the air that smelled of brine. They could hear the faint lapping of waves on the shore behind them and tunes playing inside the bar at roughly the same volume as the waves, and merriment. The Quarterdeck was on the road-side of the bar, facing the strip where cars of vacationers crept bumper-to-bumper, most with no particular destination. There were two tables on the Quarterdeck, wooden, with tiki-type umbrellas over them. A wooden rail surrounded the porch, and there were a few neon lights in the windows of the bar. Across the street there was a souvenir shop—the Crusty Barnacle—and its parking lot was full. It bathed its parking lot and half the street with a blaze of white light, but the Quarterdeck was comfortably dim. For the next few hours Joe milled around asking the ‘guards if they’d heard anything strange the night before, but no one had.

Around ten o’clock a limousine slid into the parking lot near the Quarterdeck and stopped. 

“Who’s that?” Punk, one of the Broodal’s crew, asked.

“Dunno,” Joe replied.

“What’s with the limo?” another lifeguard asked.

“We’ll find out in a minute. Better not be that prick… aw, hell,” Joe said, as Dymo’s head sprung up through the sunroof. He was howling like a wolf.

The limo door opened and he climbed out. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you and fuck you,” he said to everyone he passed, including Joe, who was still amazed at what a dickhead Dymo could be.

“Whose limo?” Joe asked, sucking on a lemon wedge.

“Mine for tonight,” Dymo said, snatching Joe’s beer away from him and popping a pretzel in his mouth from the bowl on one of the tables, a devilish grin on his face. “So’s the passenger.”

Dymo stared into Joe’s face as if challenging him to say something about the beer, but Joe just looked past Dymo’s shoulder at the limo. A pretty dark-haired girl wearing a party dress was visibly preening, mirror in hand, by the dome light.

 “What’s her name?” Joe asked, sucking on his lemon, his right hand feeling particularly naked now that his beer was stolen. Dymo was guzzling it down with fervor, utterly unrepentant. 

“Get this… her name, Godzhoness truth, is Bliss.” He said this with his hand over his heart.

“Bull,” Joe said. 

“Swear to God,” Dymo said. “But I don’t want to interrupt your happy little lifeguard night. I just came by to say hi to my old chums…” he picked up is hand and waved once and said, “Hi!” Dymo had a way of saying anything with measured amounts of sarcasm and disdain, and when he said hi, everyone within earshot turned up their eyes and shook their heads. All except Butch, Dymo’s greatest—and only—supporter, who was belly-laughing at Dymo’s wit. 

Dymo turned and walked a few paces toward the limo, but then ran back up to his ‘friends,’ placing an index finger to his lips in an exaggerated shush. He spoke with a whisper at first, but finished with a shout: “I guess I don’t have to tell you, but I’m gonna be in Bliss tonight!” He howled with laughter and ran to the limo, slamming the door and tossing Joe’s now-empty plastic beer cup out the window. 

“Idiot,” Joe said under his breath.

“Geez, how do you put up with that guy?” one of the ‘guards asked. It was well known that Joe catered quite a bit to Dymo’s needs. Dymo was always demanding, though, and never gave anything in return.

“Humility. Lot’s of humility,” Joe said of his relationship with Dymo. He got another cup and filled it with beer.

“You seen Sunny tonight?” Punk asked.

“No, why?” Joe asked. 

“Man, she’s a knockout.”

Joe just nodded, and Punk said, “Yeah.”

“You should have to look at her in a bikini every day,” Joe said.

“The agony,” Punk said, shaking his head.

“No kidding,” Joe replied.

“Hello, boys,” came Sunny’s voice from behind them. “Who’s buying my drinks tonight?” She always loved to coy it up with the ‘guards because they always smiled at her and always bought her drinks. Sunny was very pretty, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes. She had a full bottom lip—all the better to pout with—and was petite in every way, from her tiny little toes to her tiny little hands. She was wearing a bikini top and a pair of blue jean shorts.

“Hey, beautiful,” Joe said.

“Hey, Joe,” she smiled in reply. Sunny worked the beach as a photographer. The past three years she’d been working the same beach as Joe, even though she could make more money on any number of other beaches. But Joe always set up her booth for her and helped her out if she needed it, and she liked him. “You buying me a beer tonight?” 

“Sure,” Joe said. “Just tell Shucky to put it on my tab.”

“Hey Joe,” one of the ‘guards asked as Sunny turned to go in the bar for a beer. “How do you like your eggs?”

Joe shook his head, not understanding where this was going, when one of the other ‘guards chimed in, “Sunny side up!” and everyone laughed hysterically.

“Come on, guys, leave Joe alone,” Sunny turned back to say, “he’s worth at least five of the rest of you.” Everyone laughed all the harder at that. Even Joe was laughing. Only Butch was silent, and he was glaring at Sunny.

“Why don’t you shut up, bitch?” Butch said.

“Aw, come on Butch. You know I’m just kidding,” she said.

Butch’s wide, bronze, hairy chest bounced as he hopped off the rail he’d been sitting on. To everyone’s surprise, he looked genuinely angry, even though it’d been obvious to everyone there that Sunny was just hamming it up with the guys.

“Settle down, Butch,” Joe said, stepping over between him and Sunny.

“Up yours, puss,” Butch said. He was still glaring at Sunny.

“Butch, do you really want Zed to come throw you out again?” Joe asked.

Butch’s eyes narrowed and dropped and locked with Joe’s. Then he sneered, shook his head and walked past Joe and Sunny inside the bar. “Fuckin bitch,” he said, forcing Sunny to step out of his way as he walked by.

“You should watch it around him,” Joe said, approaching Sunny. “He’s loco.”

“Well, I’ve always got you to protect me, don’t I?” Sunny asked, stepping closer to Joe as he walked over. The rest of the ‘guards were silent now, mostly trying to figure out what Butch’s problem was.

“We’d best leave the protecting to Zed. C’mon, let’s go get that beer,” Joe said. 

The got a beer at the bar and walked back to the Quarterdeck. There were at least fifteen lifeguards out there now, along with a few girlfriends and a few unidentified folks that everyone was keeping their eyes on. Nobody drinks from the keg but lifeguards, all the ‘guards enforced it; even Sunny, even though no one would mind, minded the rule.  

A loud cheer rose from within the bar and everyone turned to see Butch doing the Bump-N-Grind with a blonde girl on one of the tables. The blonde called out, “I’m just a Georgia Peach!” as she pounded a shot of tequila. She pulled her shirt up, exposing a huge pair of breasts, and Butch shoved his broad skull amidst her bosom and shook his head. She just howled and kept on dancing.

“Butch got ‘im a tourist,” Jesse said. A few of the ‘guards outside began migrating up to watch the show. Joe still stood with Sunny near the keg, along with Punk and Jesse and a few other Broodal’s ‘guards.

“Is this where Lifeguard night is?” asked a dour looking pale boy who’d come walking up from the street.

“Yep. What can we do for you?” Jesse asked.

“I’m a lifeguard,” the boy said.

“No,” Jesse said. “You’re a pool-guard.”

“I… I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. I just wanted to get a beer.” 

“Then go to the bar and buy a beer,” Punk said. “But leave the kegger alone. It’s for beach-guards only.”

“How old are you, anyway?” Punk asked.

“I’m twenty one.”

“You don’t look it,” Jesse said.

“Well, I am.”

“What’s your name?” Joe asked.

“Kenny.”

“Kiddo, if you want to drink these guys’ beer you’d better have ‘coon eyes next time you come here,” Sunny said. “I work the beach, too, but they won’t even let me have any of the kegger.” She took a pull from her bottle as the others drank from plastic cups.

“Damn right,” Punk and Jesse chimed in, in unison.

“‘Coon Eyes?” the kid asked.

Sunny rolled her eyes. “Look at everyone here. See how they’re all so tan, but then notice how they all have those little white circles around their eyes?”

“Sunglasses,” the boy said.

“Bingo,” Joe said.

“Genius,” Punk said.

“You stand out like a sore thumb, kid,” Jesse said.

A raucous noise emanated from the bar. It seemed Butch was headed out the back with his new girlfriend who was now topless and latched onto him like a suckerfish on a shark.

“Dude!” Jesse said. “Butch is in.” 

“Butch and Dymo. I wonder if anyone else will get any tonight,” Punk said, looking at Sunny who was looking at Joe who was looking at Butch and the bare-chested babe who had her legs wrapped around him and was grinding her hips and kissing him with a lot of tongue.

“I guess they’re goin’ down by the beach for some carnality,” Punk said, smiling.  Everyone groaned. 

“Big word, Punk,” Joe said.

“High five, dude,” Jesse said and Punk slapped him five.

Joe shook his head. “It’s a sad day when Punk starts getting creative,” he said.

“Oh, well, at least Butch is in,” Jesse said. “I haven’t been in in months.”

The scene inside the bar shifted: a throng of gyrating vacationers had been observing the show between the Georgia Peach and Butch, but now they were easing back into their seats and ordering fresh beers. 

“Where you going, dipshit?” Jesse said to the pool ‘guard, who started walking around toward the side of the bar.

“Nowhere. I gotta go,” Kenny said.

“Good riddance,” Punk said, refilling his cup from the keg.

“You working tomorrow?” Sunny asked Joe.

“Not at the beach,” he breathed.

“Doing what, then?”

“Changing light bulbs.”

“On a tower?” she asked.

He nodded.

“See? I told you you were psycho. Who am I stuck with tomorrow?”

He nodded toward Punk. “Punk.”

She looked at Punk and Jesse, who were both staring at her and Joe, grinning like lab rats given cheese. “Shit,” she said loud enough for all of them to hear.

Punk gave her a hearty, hyuking Goofy laugh and went on grinning.

“Are you going to lifeguard night at Trader’s tomorrow?” Sunny asked Joe.

“You know it.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you there,” she said.

“You’re not going?” Joe asked.

“I’m tired,” she said, sashaying away from Joe and the motley crew.

The other ‘guards looked from Sunny to Joe and back again with grinning, goofy expressions. Sunny turned back once and said, “I’m going to bed.”

Joe stood watching her departure for several moments, performing a fish-out-of-water ritual with his mouth when Punk loudly whispered, “Joe… Joe! Ask her if you can come!”

Joe glanced back at him grinning like an idiot and, upon realizing his golden opportunity was slipping away, the smile disappeared and he called out, “You… uh, want me to tuck you in?” Joe called back.

She turned around without slowing down, looked briefly at the ground, then smiled and shrugged as she turned back toward her car.

Joe’s heart leapt. “I’m out, boys!” he said as he chugged the last of his beer and ran toward the car. He tossed his empty cup over his shoulder, toward Jesse and Punk.

“Joe!” Punk yelled. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Sunny side up!” Joe called back, just quiet enough so Sunny wouldn’t hear.

“Shit,” Jesse said. “Joe is in!”

“No kidding. ‘Bout time, too.”

“What do you mean?”

Punk glared at Jesse. “Shit. He’d thump me good if he knew I was telling you.”

“So tell me already.”

“Joe’s a virgin.”

“No. Shit.”

“Yeah. And worse, he’s only been in love with her all summer long,” Jesse said.

“Who’s that?” Bo said, a newcomer to the conversation but nevertheless one of the guys. He was filling his cup with the kegger that Jesse and Punk were dutifully guarding from pool ‘guards.

“Joe.”

“Joe’s in love with Sunny?”

“Sure. Always has been.”

“No shit.”

“None.”

*** 

Joe and Sunny were riding down the strip in her Tercel. 

“You know you’re not getting laid, don’t you?”

“Well, I was hoping…”

“Keep hoping,” she said.

He grumbled playfully.

She giggled. “Let’s just try to be friends, OK?”

“Hell no. I’ve got friends. I’m not about to agree to be friends with the girl I want to make love to.”

“Make love to?” she giggled.

“Okay, I’m not about to agree to be friends with the chick I want to bone,” he said.

“Now that’s more like what a girl around here is used to hearing.”

They laughed, and then Joe said, “Still, I’m not falling into the friend zone.”

“Well, you’ll have to do something. Since we work together.”

“No I don’t,” he said with a smile. “We work the same beach, but I work for Broodal’s Beach Service and you work for Beach Memories. We are not coworkers, therefore I don’t have to have a ‘friendly’ relationship with you.” 

Sunny smirked, said, “So, we can’t be friends.”

“Well, we can’t just be friends.”

“What if I don’t think about you that way?”

He shrugged. “Then I guess I’ve been wasting my time thinking about it.”

Silence. Although he wouldn’t look at her, he strongly felt she was smiling.

“Do you feel anything for me?” he asked, eyes locked on the road ahead.

It was obviously not information she was willing to share with him, which made him smile even bigger because he knew that meant that she did have feelings for him.

“I guess…” she began. “I’m just not ready for a relationship. I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, that’s not good enough either.” 

“Then I guess you’ll do without, won’t you?” she said.

“Been doing without my whole life… What’s going to be different?”

“Whose fault is that?” she asked.

“What, just cause I don’t bang every skank that comes my way means it’s my fault I’m a virgin?” he said. And of course the opportunities had been there. But one thing led to another and the end result was a woeful condition of ridicule among his friends and peers. The truth be known, he’d just never felt close enough to any of the girls he’d been with to want to go all the way. He’d had Kelly Swann’s shirt off and was fumbling with her bra when she’d backed away for a moment, looked him in the eye and moaned softly. At that moment he knew that this was the point where he would finally be freed of the shackles of virginity, but as he looked into those eyes the thought passed through his mind that this was something bigger than just sex. This was love, or it was supposed to be, and those eyes told him that she expected love in return, something he searched for in that instant and, regrettably, could not find. He’d wanted to; so badly his crotch ached under the constraint of his blue jeans. He’d wanted to so badly that the look in her eyes almost broke his heart when he pushed her away. And when they were back in school and the word got around that he’d turned her down the ridicule started. At first it wasn’t so bad, he was called a chicken and a wimp. But then people began calling him queer and fag. Even Kelly, her eyes now vicious little buttons of black hate as she whispered with her friends, telling them, he knew, that he couldn’t get it up or that he liked boys instead of girls. None of it was true, of course. Joe was straight and was eager to enjoy the thrill of loving a woman, but he shrank away from it because he wanted the moment to mean something more than that moment ever could have. In that respect, he supposed, he was more like a girl than a boy, but he couldn’t help the way he felt. With Sunny, he knew the moment would be right and that he would be ready. He would marry her on the spot if she would consent. His moment of reverie was interrupted by a startling statement from Sunny:

“I’m a skank now?” she said. 

Joe blushed so hard his head nearly exploded. “No, that is not what I meant…”

“I know, but it’s fun to see you blush,” she said. “Virgin.”

“Thanks,” he said, and that old familiar ache began again to heat up his crotch. 

“Really, though, I think it’s endearing. Might as well not rush it. You can only give it up once.”

“Yeah,” he said, and his aching subsided, if only for the time being.

They grew silent.

“I’ve had my chances, you know,” he said.

She said nothing, but smiled. They fell silent again.

“So…” he said.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just keep it real, that’s all. Keep on keeping it real.”

“How do you like your eggs?” she asked, smiling, and Joe shook his head and blushed.

“I’ve got to drop by my room for a minute,” Sunny said.

“Your apartment?”

“No, I don’t have an apartment. I have a hotel room that I rent monthly.”

“Oh. At the Crown?”

“No,” she said. “At the Dunes.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“It’ll just take a sec, here it is now.”

She pulled through an opening beneath a crosswalk into a courtyard surrounded by rooms. She stopped in front of the door marked 12 and popped out of the car. 

“Be right back,” she said as she closed the car door. He watched her go into her hotel room.

Suddenly there was a tap on the window and Joe rolled it down. A man was standing there, fiftyish and graying, fit and wearing khakis and a blue oxford shirt. “Joe Copeland,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You’d better come with me,” the man said, sounding authoritative, handing him a card. “I can help you.”

Joe took the card and looked at it:

Martin Caster
Paranormal Investigator
Order of Pallium
Prague ● Jerusalem ● New Orleans ● Hong Kong

“Uh, this is not really a good time for me,” Joe said, handing the card back.

Martin didn’t accept the card back, though. He said, “I know about your experience last night, and I think I can help you. But you’re going to have to trust me and come with me right now.”

Joe looked at the door to room twelve and then back at Martin, thinking hard about the situation. The ache was there, and his heart tugged him to her, but if this guy could explain to him the phenomena of the last two nights then it would be worth giving him a few minutes of his time. He wanted to stay, but he felt he needed to go. “Do you know what the Wash is?” Joe asked, doing his best to test the guy out before he agreed to go.

Martin leaned down into the car’s window and said, “Yes.” And Joe knew he did. He knew it.

He looked back at room twelve again, cursing under his breath. “Can I just tell her goodbye?”

“There’s no time to waste, and explaining to your girlfriend that you’re off to save the world isn’t likely to be a short goodbye. You can phone her from the road, but we need to make haste now.”

Save the world? He could feel shock in his features as the guy said this. How could the experience of hearing a wolf pack in south Florida equate to saving the world? We must be talking about a different experience, he thought. But at the same moment there was that undeniable tug from the north, that invisible force that seemed to be drawing him away, trying to get his feet moving in that direction, and somehow it was inexplicably connected to the calling of the wolves and the Wash, whatever that was.

“Crap,” Joe said, and almost beyond his ability to control it, he felt his hand open the car door and his feet settle on the ground. Then, with a sick feeling in his stomach that told him his chances with Sunny would now be over for good, he followed his feet to Martin’s car and got in.

***

Sunny walked inside her apartment for two things: a sweatshirt because the night was apt to grow cool, and her diaphragm cause the night was apt to get hot. She didn’t know what it was about Joe; she had almost decided that his naivety, his slight nerdiness but total honesty, and his infatuation with her was just adorable enough to cause her to start liking him in the same way he liked her. She was no slut: she’d only been with three guys in her life—but still, there was something about a virgin, something that made him all the more adorable. She almost flushed with the realization of what she was thinking: he is adorable! It was an immediate understanding, and a rush swept through her as she came to terms with the immediacy of her longing for him. It was almost like… she loved him? She wouldn’t touch that one yet, but she felt a deep like growing in her and she may just let him round second tonight. If he put forth the effort. 

When she got back to the car Joe was gone without a trace. She felt herself begin to get mad. A red flush rose in her cheeks, on her neck. She’d been so damned excited—she couldn’t remember ever being that excited before in her life. The realization that she had feelings for Joe had taken hold of her and she’d let them and now he was gone. Typical of the gender. Her anger flittered away from her and she began to grow afraid that she’d done something wrong—but what? He’d made it clear he had a crush on her and she told him she just wanted to be friends. Had that hurt him so badly that he just ran? She went back inside and put her diaphragm back in its place.

Not tonight, she thought.

written by Matt Mitchell

A man crouched in an alleyway paved with centuries-old stone in Prague, deep in thought, absently chewing on the remains of a piece of rotting salt pork. The weather was wet with drizzle and the clouds sagged heavy and low to Earth, covering the tops of the buildings around him. He had the vagrant look of a beggar: his clothes were dirty and worn; he wore brown trousers and a wool trench coat and had a satchel resting against his hip, its strap slung across his chest; he wore a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and square-buckled shoes. But he had a surprisingly clean and complete set of teeth pulling on the salt pork, each one sharp as a shark’s. He had unblemished skin as smooth and black as oil, and a pair of lively, energetic amber eyes. His stature was diminutive: he was barely five feet tall. His clothing, while worn, did have a purposeful appearance, as if to shield him as much as possible from sunlight, or to hide his appearance altogether from other people.

He was known as the Griffin, although Griffin was not his name. His true name was Hillock, and he longed to use that name again though it had been many years since he had. There was a time when the name of Hillock would strike fear in the hearts of men throughout the world, but that was a long, long time ago. Now, if it was known that he drew breath in this world, he would be hounded unmercifully until he was dead and his body was dismembered and burned and the ashes scattered to the four corners of the globe. He chose the name Griffin as his alias because it represented a great duality: half eagle and half lion, it was a great beast, just as Hillock was a great beast, although he might not look it, except for the shark’s teeth. Also, the griffin of myth was said to represent strength and vigilance. In those first years of solitude in the great frozen arctic north, Hillock found out what strength and vigilance truly were. So, when he finally came to Prague in search of answers that he couldn’t divine on his own, and in needing to choose a name, he chose Griffin. Then he made contact with the Pallium.

He stood and wiped his hands on his coat, looking up into the hanging fog. A man approached from behind him.

“Tell me; why do they call you ‘the Griffin?’” the man asked, smiling, completely at ease in the presence of the tiny monster.

“It represents duality,” Hillock replied with a nonchalant wink in the opposite direction of the man who’d asked the question.

“Are you two people?” the man smirked.

“I’m not even one.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Not a soul on Earth knows,” the Griffin said, and then added, turning to face his inquisitor, “Can we please dispense with this repartee and get to business?”
“Certainly,” the man said. “I’m just… so very curious about you. It seems to me that you are just the type of individual the Pallium exists to police, and yet I can find nothing about you in any of our extensive tomes which cover virtually every supernatural occurrence in the history of the planet. Plenty on griffins, nada on the Griffin.”

“You don’t have an inkling of history: to you this world is a few thousand years old. When it comes to history, your geologists would make better historians.

“And if you did know my true name, and found what was written about me, you would have run for the hills long ago and never dared to step foot in my presence again.”

“Well. Good thing for you that I don’t know your name, eh?”

Griffin leaned forward and with careful annunciation, taking care to show his teeth, mouthed, “Precisely,” turning away from the man at the same moment. Inside, Hillock was in awe of the absolute idiocy of this man, but he was thankful for it at the same time so he said nothing. He was also aware that the informant was trying to scan him, as he did every time they’d ever met. He tut-tutted at the futility of the exercise. Not a human alive could crack his shield. Not one.

“The Pallium is mobilizing,” the man said.

“Why?” Hillock asked.

“Apparently they’ve detected a disruption in the Wash. They’re not quite clear what it is exactly.”

The black man breathed in deeply, half closing his eyes as he did. “Where?”

The man held out his hand. “I should think this information would be worth quite a bit more than my usual fee, Mr. Griffin.”

Griffin winced slightly and his shoulders and head sagged just a bit, but then his chest puffed up and he turned to face the man that had approached him. He considered the man’s hand for a moment, extended as if to receive payment immediately, and said, “The Pallium might be interested to hear of your activities here, Mr. Helling. Perhaps I should drop them a line—a Pallium operative spilling secrets for money? Tsk, tsk, dear sir.”

“Nevertheless, I believe I am entitled to double my usual fee at the very least.”

Griffin shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned slightly away from Chad Helling. “Meet me tonight at the Wolf and the Stag. We’ll discuss further payment there.” He took a step as if to walk away, but turned back and added, “I’ll expect a detailed report, Helling. If this is going to cost me extra it had better be well worth it.”

Helling smiled smugly, straightened his cuffs, strolled out onto the street and disappeared around the corner. Griffin walked in the opposite direction, deeper into the narrowing alley. He observed the black ironwood door that bore the symbol “Ж” and marked the entrance to the Prague motherhouse of the secret society called the Order of Pallium, Pallium being the Latin word for cloak. The door was well shielded with telepathic barriers of all sorts, as well as a few traps that, if triggered, were designed to annihilate the triggerer down to the last molecule. Griffin was capable of circumventing those deadfalls and gaining access to the hallowed inner sanctum of the Pallium if he chose, but there were other dangers for him to beware of, so he used a few well-placed informants to gather information for him and kept his own mind’s resources dedicated to shielding himself from detection.

Detection, for Hillock, was always a danger. What a disaster it would be if the Pallium performed one of their almost ritualistic global scans and his presence here was exposed. Worse: if some bumbling idiot Pallium operative (Helling) was scanned while simply thinking his name. The Pallium may have their share of fools, but they were still dangerous to Hillock—they were the ones that considered themselves the policemen of beings such as Hillock; that is, anti-humans. And if they knew of his existence, they would hound him to the ends of the Earth and snuff him out like a candle. Humanity, the damnable state in which Hillock was cursed to exist, was a very fragile state to be in.

***

At the Wolf and the Stag that night, on a gravel road well beyond the city’s lights, Helling stepped in like he owned the place, wearing a tailored black suit with a black rain coat. There was a big, stone-hearthed fireplace with a crackling fire inside and a black pot suspended above the flames. The tables and bar were composed of thick wood, very rustic, adorned with brass rivets the size of a baby’s fist. Cigarette and wood smoke fogged the air, and Helling scanned the dimness for the Griffin, smiling broadly when he saw him. He walked straight over, removing his coat as he approached. The Griffin’s back was to the rear wall of the bar, in the darkest corner he could find. Helling sat down across from him, tossing his coat over the chair back. Griffin’s hat was sitting on the table beside his left arm. His head was bald on top, with a small patch of hair at the top of his forehead that swirled upward in a little curly-que. The rest of his hair was long and dark gray and straight, cascading down to his shoulders and down his back.

“Sorry I’m late, Griffin. Pressing matters, you know.”

The Griffin sat still as a statue, staring into Helling’s eyes.

“You have something for me, sir?” Helling asked.

The Griffin spread his crossed arms, revealing a small paper sack he’d concealed with his arms. Helling couldn’t seem to decide whether to reach for it or not, and the Griffin made no move to offer it.

“I think you’ll like what I’ve got to offer,” Helling said.

“I’d better,” came the reply.

Helling glanced around and threw up a finger at the bartender. He looked to see if the Griffin was drinking but he wasn’t, so he left the bartender to bring him a single pint. “I suppose you won’t give me that until I’ve given you a taste for what I’ve got.”

The Griffin’s eyes fell on the brown paper bag for a second and then came back to meet Helling’s, but he remained silent.
“Alright, then, we’ll play your game for now,” Helling said.

It took all of the Griffin’s considerable power to keep from laughing aloud. This fool. This buffoon! To think there was any other game to play!

The waitress set the mug down on the table and didn’t even draw a glance from Helling, who smiled like a weasel might when in the chicken’s coop. He drew some odd coins from his pocket and slapped them on the table beside the mug. She took them and walked away. Helling’s glare was steady.

Helling looked to make sure the waitress was beyond earshot and then leaned forward slightly. “The Wash is active lately,” he said. “There seems to be a disturbance within its flux. The Order has a team on standby to investigate, but they’re waiting for the time being; I suppose Colonel James is nervous. They’ve never seen anything quite like this before and they want all their ducks in a row before the make their move.” He took a drink from his pint, wiped the foam from his lip with a napkin, and said, “There’s more, but first, I’m still so very interested in what you have in your little baggy there. Or should I say my baggy?”

“Helling, if you want your pay, earn it.”

“Very well,” Chad said, leaning back in his chair. “They believe the disturbance was caused by the birth of an individual from the Wash itself, as if some bloke just popped into existence right out of the ground.”

Griffin drew back as if he’d been struck. He couldn’t hide the shock on his face.

“I presume, by your reaction, that this is the news you were seeking. Excuse me if I help myself to my compensation,” he said, and reached out to take the paper sack, but the Griffin’s hand flashed out and grabbed Helling’s thumb. Griffin twisted the thumb painfully and snatched Helling halfway across the table, so he could whisper directly into his ear.

“Who is he? I know they know. Tell me.”

“They didn’t say,” Helling said through clenched teeth. “Now kindly release me.” He was surprised at the strength of the Griffin’s grip.

“Damn you!” Griffin said, pulling him closer still.

Helling felt a sharp point at his belly and his anger quickly evaporated into fear. The Griffin’s face was a black snarling mask of rage. “Where?” he asked. “Where did this happen?”

“Find out for yourself,” Helling said, but shut his mouth when he felt the dagger pierce his skin. He whimpered. He felt sweat bead up on his forehead and he tasted blood in his mouth.

“You know I can’t,” the Griffin said, “It’s too dangerous for me. That’s why I have lackeys like you, chum. Now tell me, where did this happen? Or so help me I’ll gut you like the Christmas pig.” He wrenched Helling’s thumb so tightly that Helling cried out. Some interest began to show from the other patrons in the bar, and the Griffin noticed the bartender’s eye turn to see what was going on as well.

“America. Florida,” Helling groaned, and then he felt the blade slide deeply into his flesh and all he could do was whimper. Griffin grimaced and hoisted the knife upward, and everyone in the bar heard the thumping splat as his innards spilled out onto the table in a wet gush. As a safe measure, the Griffin pulled out the knife and slashed open Helling’s carotid, sending a jet of blood ten feet across the floor to the foot of the bar. Helling’s color went faster than his money, and his life’s breath ran out in a fatal gasp.

The griffin whispered to his murdered informant, who still stared up with a shocked, appalled expression, “Who needs telepathy when there are lackeys like you, boy? Besides,” he said, pushing Helling’s body to the floor and then leaning low over his face. “I can still do magic!” With that, he patted his hat smartly onto his head and spun and ran directly through the wall.

After he was gone the patrons of the bar would later testify to one another and to the authorities that the black man (abnormally black, some would say) had simply disappeared into thin air. There was no hole in the wall, no secret doorway or window. There was only a wall.

***

The following day Vaclav Hradil, the proprietor and bartender of the Wolf and the Stag, arrived to open bar at two in the afternoon. It was late for him to be opening, but it had been a hell of a night. It had been daylight when he’d finally locked the bar and walked across the field to his small house. The bar would normally have closed at midnight, but it’s a rare thing to have a murder (especially one so mysterious) occur in the bar, so he stayed around and answered all the questions the authorities could think to ask. At five thirty he toed the rocky path through the grass as he’d done for twenty five years without ever having had to do more than separate a couple of drunken patrons when they got to brawling—until that night. His brain was foggy when he finally got home, and he went straight to sleep without even taking off his clothes.

A murder! He could scarcely believe it. Sure, he’d heard stories; the Wolf and the Stag had been in the same spot for five hundred years, in the same stone-walled structure, there’d been hundreds of people killed here, in hundreds of different ways. But he’d never heard of a single story where the killer had vanished. Vampires had drained the blood of a dozen patrons, werewolves had devoured at least five, on any day of the week you could hear a tale of at least three spontaneous combustions that’d occurred in its history, and there was even word that some simple fool had been sexed to death by a succubus. But there’d never been a stabbing in which the stabber (an uncommonly black, almost demonic stabber) had simply disappeared into thin air. This, to Vaclav, was the number one murder in the history of the bar, and he couldn’t disguise his pride, even from himself.

He keyed the lock and opened the door, walked inside, and closed the door behind him.

“Hello!” came an excited voice that startled Vaclav. He turned to see a man sitting at one of the tables. He thought back for a second and distinctly remembered having to unlock the door just now, and he briefly became nervous that this was a police officer that he’d accidentally locked in the bar overnight.

“I’m no officer, Vaclav,” the man said, speaking Czech despite his poor accent, smiling like he’d just been sexed to death by a succubus.

Vaclav’s mind was rushing with thoughts; he’d never opened the bar to find someone there already, and he’d never had his mind read, either—at least, of which he was aware. Of course, it was possible that this fellow just assumed that he would be thought of as an officer and thought he might disqualify the notion right up front. Vaclav considered running back out of the bar and going back to his house where he kept his rifle; here he had only a cricket bat, and that probably would be insufficient against those type people that disappear into thin air and read minds and materialize inside of locked bars before the owner arrives. Also: the bat was behind the bar which happened to be behind the strange visitor. Furthermore: this man’s smile was extremely unsettling. It was the type of smile Vaclav imagined a lion might smile while deciding whether he wanted to eat again or not. The smile said, “Come closer, I won’t bite, and I certainly won’t reach out and tear your arm off and swallow it whole if you come too near…”

“Relax, Vaclav,” said the stranger. “I’m only here to ask you some questions. The man who was murdered last night was a colleague of mine. I’m concerned. That is all.”

“Ah,” said Vaclav, wanting his bat in his hands. “Then you should let me get a drink for you.” Vaclav said this, but made no move toward the bar. He wanted to be certain the stranger knew exactly what he was going to do, and approve, before he did it.

“Splendid idea! Do you speak English?”

“Yes,” Vaclav said in English, walking toward the bar very slowly.

“Good! My Czech is horrible. Now, would you mind telling me what you know of what happened last night?”

As he walked to his station behind the bar, Vaclav was thinking that this man looked a lot like John Cleese, the English actor that was in A Fish Called Wanda, a delightful program. He looked more like John Cleese than he did a lion, for certain, but that smile was still very unsettling. It was a smile that was smiled by a man who was very unaccustomed to smiling. He began pouring a pint, eyeing his bat, trying to figure out if this man was John Cleese or a lion. Why would a lion act like John Cleese (the brilliant actor) for no reason in the middle of the afternoon unless he was looking for a quick meal? Vaclav almost took the bat in his hand, but he was too scared. He didn’t want to become the next great murder in the history of the Wolf and the Stag.

As Vaclav watched, however, the man’s expression dropped; he went from John Cleese to a much more lion-like Clint Eastwood in a matter of only a moment or two, and Vaclav knew Clint Eastwood was not a happy John Cleese sort of fellow. It was time to grab the bat.

Clint Eastwood stood up. “Be a good chap and put the bat down, Vaclav. You’ll only get yourself hurt, and I only want to ask you a few questions about last night. No harm will befall you if you’ll cooperate.” His face was grim, but it was better in its own way because Vaclav thought this expression was genuine. He preferred the man showing his true face to showing the lion’s face.

If, the man had said. “If you’ll cooperate.” This meant bad things to Vaclav. If this lion’s idea of cooperation meant something different from Vaclav’s, then bad things were sure to come.

John Cleese shook his head and put his hands out like he was approaching a timid animal. Like a cow. He reached for his coat pocket and drew out a card and laid it on the bar, approaching very slowly.

Vaclav looked at the card, which read:

Martin Caster
Paranormal Investigator
Order of Pallium
Prague ● Jerusalem ● New Orleans ● Hong Kong

He gave the card back.

“You see, Vaclav? I am only here for information. The man that was killed here last night was a colleague of mine, and I would truly like to bring his murderer to justice. You understand that, don’t you?”

Vaclav’s eyes blinked very rapidly several times, and he had to shake his head to make it stop. He also felt something odd, like a feather tickling the corner of his mind, right at his right temple. He almost fell down.

“Vaclav,” said Martin, with a hand out as if he was going to grab the bartender, but he didn’t. “I’m not here to harm you. If you’ll just be calm for a moment…” He broke off and his eyes narrowed, his eyes began moving back and forth as if he was reading the words on a book page, and then

Vaclav snapped his eyes open and was alone in the bar.

He shook his head and squinted his eyes tightly. Then he began the business of opening the bar. It had been the oddest twenty four hours of his life.

***

Martin was traveling in the back seat of a black Mercedes sitting beside another, older, man.

“He didn’t know anything about the killer, then?”

“Nothing, Colonel,” Martin said.

Colonel James shook his head. “So what do we know? He was dressed like a Pilgrim or a Quaker or something. He had black skin; really black skin. Yellow eyes. And he can disappear into thin air. That about cover it?”

“Pretty much. The disappearing bit can be explained well enough: there’s a Wash portal right outside the wall of that bar, if he could extend it for a few seconds by some means, then he likely just passed through and into the Wash.”

“Who would know how to do that?” the Colonel asked.

“I don’t,” Martin replied.

They grew silent for a few minutes. “You know Chad was selling information,” the Colonel said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what information was being dealt?”

Martin shook his head. “For certain? No. He’s been digging up a lot of information about griffins for some reason. Beyond that though I don’t know.” He stretched his neck and pulled at his collar, loosening his tie slightly.

The Colonel nodded. “You can damn well bet that whoever it was he was dealing with was the one that killed him.”

Martin agreed.

“What about his signature? Was there really nothing?” the Colonel asked.

“Nothing I could detect,” Martin said. “The bartender showed me where they sat, where the murder occurred, but there was nothing of the murderer. I could clearly see Helling, the fool, but as for the other… He must have been masking himself.” And doing a damned good job of it, too, he thought.

“Yes, of course. But how long has this black man been here? To what purpose? This business shakes me up, Martin, I don’t mind telling you. There’s too much going on now.”

Martin nodded.

“A telepathic buffer. And maybe even a memory bomb set off right here in Prague! Unebelievable! This is some serious magic being tossed around, Martin… When was the last time a memory bomb was detonated?” the Colonel said.
Martin shrugged and held the posture for a few seconds. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Not in my lifetime. At least not by anyone outside the Pallium.”

“Right! And now magic, once again, as if…” the Colonel faded off, looking at the passing countryside through the window, shaking his head slightly.

“As if it’d never gone away,” Martin said, finishing the thought.

The Colonel nodded and then shook his head. He put his hand on Martin’s arm and said, “Martin, magic hasn’t been in use in any with any real accuracy for nearly a thousand years. Who in the world would know how to set off a memory bomb?”

“Someone who’s been around for a thousand years.”

“Anyone that old is under our watch. Every one of them.”

“Maybe one slipped by. Maybe—”

The Colonel cut him off, “—How? How could a single one escape the Pallium’s eye? We’ve been keeping an eye on this planet since Hector was a pup. Tell me, Martin, I beg.”

“If this is as powerful a being as we suspect it must be, and if it’s been focusing all its power on remaining hidden…” he shrugged. “It’s possible.”

They grew silent for several long minutes, each one staring out his respective window. Then the Colonel began again.
“We knew about the disturbance in the Wash for days before the entity was born; we began to mobilize almost immediately. I’ve had a team on standby for days now, chomping at the bit, as it were, to get going, but I’ve held them back so far. I had hopes of gaining a bit of insight as to what it was we were dealing with.” He shook his head. “But we can’t read it and no one knows why. All we’ve been able to detect so far is a human signature. A human being somehow is born out of the swamp in south Florida, and almost simultaneously a summons is sent from the Arctic Circle that encircles the globe. And now this. These are bad tidings, Martin.”

Martin nodded again. “The arctic north has been hopping with telekinetic energy for many years; perhaps this is the culmination of that energy.” He paused, and then glanced at the Colonel and posed another question. “We’ve all read the Explanation of the Wash. Do you think it’s possible that it’s true? Could it be a dragon that’s come through?”

“I shiver to think of it, but thought of it I have. The simple truth of it is that Dirkshire’s book is the only one in history we’ve been able to find that offers any speculation at all that dragons breathing Earth air will assume human form. And even if he was right in his conclusions, this entity was born in the Wash; shouldn’t he retain his dragon form until he exits the Wash?”

Martin shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Presuming, of course, that Dirkshire’s book is anything other than what we’ve labeled it as: mythica.”

“Of course. But what if it’s right? What if a dragon has found a way through?”

“Then we shall kill it and all others that follow it, presuming they don’t run the world over before we figure out how to.”

“Should we alert the government?”

“Let me worry about that,” the Colonel said.

Has the summons been answered yet?” Martin asked.

“Received but not answered. You know how it is; the receiver is probably one half idiot, the other half imbecile. Regardless, is it too much of a coincidence to be considered coincidence that the summons’s receiver is in south Florida as well?”

“Probably,” Martin said, and then added: “Who knows? Do you have a name?”

The Colonel, blessed with a near-encyclopedic mind, responded automatically. “The receiver’s name is Joseph Copeland. He’s young and basically irrelevant to society in general. Works as a lifeguard in Naples, Florida. No arrests, no record.”

There was a brief silence during which Martin mulled the potential uselessness of a marijuana-smoking, skirt-chasing, incompetent twit such as this Joseph Copeland must certainly represent. He rubbed his temples and exhaled.

After several long minutes of contemplation, the Colonel said, “You know it was this that Helling sold, don’t you?”

“The Florida situation,” Martin stated knowingly, nodding.

The Colonel nodded. “It would have to be. Nothing else major has happened in months. No, it’s my guess that whoever our killer was, he’ll be hotfooting it over to America the first chance he gets. He’s been masking himself and waiting for a Pallium operative to give him the information he’s been looking for and once he got it… poof!” He held his hands up as if illustrating an explosion.

“I concur, sir,” Martin said. “Hopefully when the team arrives we won’t have an actual griffin to deal with.” He’d never seen a griffin, although he’d heard stories. Vicious, brainless beasts, they were. And large.

The Colonel nodded, but his eyes revealed that there was more he wanted. “The team is on standby,” he said, “but now I think I would rather have an agent look into it. Any chance you’ll hop over and have a look around?”

Martin thought for a moment and then said, “You’ll arrange to have me set up in the New Orleans office for a while?”

“It will have to be Savannah. The New Orleans motherhouse is still reeking from the hurricane,” the Colonel said.

“Yes, I forgot.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue, and then said, “But I’ll agree. I want to get a look at this mishmash anyway. I’ll go to the receiver first, for however much good it can do. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him to heed the summons. We could probably get there before him but whoever sent it will likely only give whatever information they have to Mr. Copeland. So it’s vital he makes haste.”

“Should I go with him?” Martin asked. In his own mind, he thought that he must go with him; a task of this importance couldn’t possibly be left in the hands of an incompetent. It was inconceivable to him.

The Colonel’s chin drooped in thought, then he shook his head, “That’ll have to be a judgment call. If you feel you should then by all means go. Just make sure we’ve got all our bases covered.”

“Fine,” Martin said. He looked at his watch. “I should be able to interview him within twenty four hours.” Whatever good it can do.

“Ha ha! Very good. You’ll solve this puzzle if anyone can!”

“It’ll get me out of this suit, at any rate.”

“Nonsense, it’s the best you’ve looked in ages.”

Martin smirked and turned back to the window, wondering where this mysterious black “man” was.

written by Matt Mitchell

He’d been sound asleep when he felt something like a hand touching the side of his face. It was slight and swift and then it was gone. His mind sprang to life, but his body stiffened, flushed with a light fresh film of sweat. In his dark room he imagined a bandage-wrapped, gnarled, decaying finger smoothing a sprig of hair off his forehead, right before the green-hued hand it was attached to clamped over his mouth and nose to suffocate him. A hand just like the one in that old movie with Boris Karloff, The Mummy, which his dad had let him watch as a boy on Friday Night Fright Theater, and like the Mummy he saw with his own eyes in a carnival a few years later. The hand of his imagination was wrapped with ancient, blood-stained bandages. His eyes were wide open, his mouth as dry as grave dust and his heart was pounding in his chest, but he didn’t move. The sensation had been so utterly alien and distinctively physical that there was no question in his mind that there was something in the room with him, and an elemental panic welled up inside of him.

Then it touched him again.

With a reactionary swipe of his hand he slapped at the air above his head and raked his own face with his fingers. Almost simultaneously he sat up and spun in the bed, looking around the room. But the room was empty, dim with moon glow mingled with the light of the city filtering through the window. The book he’d been reading when he fell asleep, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, tumbled off the bedside and thumped onto the floor. His mouth was dry and a flush was rising in his cheeks; he couldn’t help but be a little embarrassed, having slapped himself in the face in a fit of near panic at, apparently, nothing at all. His temple stung a little across the arc his fingers had scraped, and if he’d looked in the mirror he would have seen a little red welt there. It would be gone within 24 hours or so, but still. The drone of the air conditioner drowned out most of the noise in the room. No slithering, no thumps could be heard creeping around the floor. But then, at the very edge of his auditory perception, he noticed something just above the mechanical reverberation of the air conditioner. It sounded like a moan or a wail. It was distant, like it was coming from beyond the horizon’s limit, steadily growing, becoming more and more pronounced.

Then the little tickle touched him again, and this time it remained there, at his temples and at the base of his neck. The hair stood stiff on his arms and neck and his skin spouted knobs of gooseflesh. He touched the places where he could feel the tickle, rubbing and kneading, but it was nothing he could scratch or rub away: it felt soul-deep.

And there was this sound, growing like the hot sensation that shoots through a man’s stomach when he’s taken a shot to the balls. He sat up and concentrated on it and his head turned slowly to the north, staring at the wall of his apartment. He shook his head slightly and got to his feet, following them to the door which led out to the second-floor balcony. He stepped out into the hot, humid night with the smell of brine blowing in off the nearby gulf. The air conditioner was even louder out here, and now he could hear the leaves of a palm tree rustling not ten feet away from him, and the gulf surf pounding the shore across the street. The stairs which led down to the parking lot went down to his left, and the balcony was surrounded by an iron rail. On it was a small charcoal grill and a folding chair; the balcony itself was only about five feet by four, just as wide as the stairs that led up to it. Out here in the night air he could still hear the wailing sound, more audible now, even over the air conditioner behind him. It was growing, winding its way through the live oaks and palms to his apartment. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, focusing as well as he could on it, with a cocked eyebrow and his lips tightened in concentration. The sound was imminently familiar, and as it grew louder he recognized it, but shook his head at the impossibility of it. With a raspy whisper he identified it: “Wolves.”

He had never seen a wolf, never heard one outside of a Discovery Channel or PBS special, but it was an unmistakable sound. The somber rise of the note to its highest pitch, then a tranquil ebbing, marked by an adjoining howl of another wolf that cast a different, yet complementing note, and then others, several others, all forming a euphony of sound matched by no other animal in the world. It was a melancholy sound, not like the cheerful yipping of coyotes or the challenging roar of a lion or even the boisterous crow of a cock. He listened to it while it remained, enjoying the possibility of hearing something he would have considered impossible unless he’d wanted to travel about three thousand miles northward, and allowed himself to be carried away on the somber song of the wolves which drifted in on a south Florida breeze.

He opened his eyes as the final note ebbed away. He could see the glow of the apartment-building’s sign illuminating the parking lot, the streetlamps lining the street to his left and the super brightness of the quick stop’s fueling area just around the corner. He could see the motor-lodge sign advertising the building he was in; ‘Florida Straits Motor Lodge,’ it read, ‘Daily, Weekly, Monthly. Cable TV, WiFi.’ A big metal sign with flashing light bulbs, it was framed with a large arrow that pointed at him, at the bottom in red neon lettering the word vacancy hummed. The windows of the four-story hotel across the street—the beach side of the street, to his left—were all dark, as were most of the buildings over there. Down past the side of that hotel he could see the Gulf of Mexico, the white lines of rippling waves rolling toward the beach, and the moon was a little past three-quarters full, resting almost right on top of the roof of the hotel. Specks of stars were barely visible due to the city’s light pollution, the city of Naples, Florida. Somewhere off to his left, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a reddish glimmer that was there for a second and then it was gone. He was so nearly enraptured by the sound of the howling wolf pack that he closed his eyes and willed them to howl again. He almost howled himself, but thought better of it. He could still hear them inside his head, clearly, plain as day. The ocean continued its surge against the shore, and for a moment he locked in on the sound of the waves, so like a groan or a sigh, as if the sea itself was one big sentient creature, taking deep, cleansing breaths. The thought continued to roll around in his head, and he found himself thinking that it was sighing, as if in relief of some great strain it had endured long before man ever walked upright.

Then he sighed himself and opened his eyes. “I’m cracking up,” he said, roughing his hair with his hand and shaking his head.

He walked back inside and closed the door, the cold air infused his sweat, causing him to shiver, and then he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Wolves,” he repeated.

He began running the thought in his head. He knew there hadn’t been a wolf south of the Mason Dixon Line for at least a hundred years. The Discovery special he’d seen was about the reintroduction of wolves to the northern Rockies—Montana, Idaho. He imagined there might be some still in the north of Maine and that they probably flourished in the Yukon; but south of the Great Lakes? No way. Least of all in the Everglades. There’d probably never been a wolf this far south.

He’d always had an affinity for wolves, and some memories from his youth crept into his mind. His mom had given him a book when he was five—he’d been an early reader—about a wolf pack and he’d loved it, reading it many times over before it was finally lost to the passage of time. He hadn’t even thought of that book in years, but now he remembered it in detail, a pack of wolves in the northern arctic wild battling against an uprising of another pack which wanted to raze the wild and rule with bloody fangs. He remembered the lessons of the story, how the good pack always took down the old and diseased prey, but the bad pack was killing for fun and would sometimes ravage an entire herd rather than just taking what they needed.

When he was in high school he’d once read Of Wolves and Men by Barry Lopez and done a book report on it with the fortunate byproduct that he loved it, and the wolf catapulted itself into one of his favorite study subjects. Wolves were amazing animals, he’d always known it, but he couldn’t imagine how or why he was hearing a howling wolf pack in south Florida.

Exacerbating the problem was that this was the second night he’d heard the alien sound; he’d not paid it much attention the first night, thinking it just some odd street noise. In fact, he hadn’t even remembered hearing it the night before until now, it had been so pushed out of mind by the fog of sleep. But now, having heard it two nights in a row, and this time much more clearly, now he began to seriously wonder what the source was. It was possible that it was a breeder of timber wolves, but that was improbable because he lived right in the city of Naples, and he couldn’t imagine a compound for raising wolves within earshot.

His eyes grew heavy and he shook his head to clear it. The thought of wolves nearby seemed so spectacular that he figured he’d check on it tomorrow, maybe see if there was a wolf pack somebody was raising nearby. But as spectacular as it seemed, it was also unbelievable, and the marvel of it felt like an electric surge pumping through his mind. He could only remember one other occasion in his life when he’d had a similar sensation. He was only eight or nine, and his dad had taken him to the beach one night. His mom had only been dead a couple of years then, and his dad had just had his first test returned which showed high levels of something in his blood that was Not Good. Nobody told him it would be cancer, though, that took his father’s life a few years later. They’d gone to a beach up near Pelican Bay in a park, and as soon as his dad turned off the engine Joe (Joey, then) uttered an almost-unintelligible sound of awe. The waves that were crashing onto shore were glowing. Bright green phosphorescence glowed in every splash of water, and Joey had run down into the surf and frolicked for a solid hour, splashing in wonder at the singular magnificence of the event. He’d never even imagined such a thing was possible, but to see it with his own eyes! Of course, his father explained with a smile that even though it seemed magical, it was a phenomenon that was caused by a type of microscopic organism that lived in the ocean. So it was explainable. Of course, he’d seen that phosphorescent water many times since then, but never with the same sense of wonder. Now, to hear wolves in South Florida—with his own ears—made Joey think that he’d experienced at least two such events in his lifetime. Maybe this one would be as easily explained.

“Or maybe I’ve got a brain tumor,” he said aloud, roughing his hair with his hand, his eyes growing heavy. He’d heard of brain tumors causing victims to hear odd sounds and see flashes of brilliant light. Somewhere in the back of his mind he decided that he should see a doctor soon, but that was the last thought that passed through his mind before he was once again asleep.

***

A knock at the door woke him at six that morning. He got up and pulled the door open and, without even checking to see who it was, flopped back in bed. He knew who it was, though: Dymo.

“Hey, punk, you gonna to give me a ride today?” Dymo asked.

Joe didn’t move, he just grunted and pulled his pillow down over his head. Dymo was not going to give up that easily. He never had.

Dymo was about five foot six and wore lifts no matter what shoes he had on. He even had a pair of work boots that had a two-and-a-half-inch heel that he put lifts in. He had a Rebel flag tattoo on his left shoulder and a Marine bulldog on his right shoulder; he’d never been in the Marines, but he was quick to point out that they were the “Most awesome fighting force the world has ever seen.” Rumor was that he’d tried to enlist but had been turned away because he was too little, which may have been right, but in Joe’s opinion maybe they should have tested for ego, because Dymo had enough to make up for any size deficiencies.  He had brown hair that he rarely cut, but when he did he usually got a flattop. Right now it was in the process of growing back out and was kind of long on the top, but still shaved on the sides and back, so that all he had was a shaggy mop of hair on the very top of his head. And Dymo’s teeth were a fuzzy-looking green-brown color that, as a color, might not have had a name at all. He was actually wearing a tee shirt that said “Muscle” and had a flexing cartoon arm on it.  

“What beach have you been working?” Dymo asked, in an obvious ploy to make Joe see that he was just a good ol’ boy and great friend who was interested in Joe’s life and was clearly deserving of a ride to work.

“Miracle Mile,” Joe said, turning his head toward Dymo but keeping his head under the pillow.

“Ooooh, doin’ the Mile.” Dymo sniggered and wagged his head as he said this.

Asshole, Joe thought, now regretfully awake, and said, “Yeah. You?”

“I’m at Gator Point.”

“Gator Point sucks. All old people.” Now his head was out from under the pillow, but he was still in bed and his eyes were still closed. 

“Old Rich people,” Dymo sneered.

“Whatever,” Joe said. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Gator Point did not suck. It was probably the best beach Broodal’s managed, but he had to say something because Dymo would never, ever shut his hole about what a great job he had and what a horrible job Joe was stuck with. Dymo had seniority because he’d been working for Broodal’s for almost five years; ever since he’d dropped out of high school. Joe had only been there for two seasons: he’d graduated high school. As the beaches were rated by those that mattered, the lifeguards themselves, it would be much better to end up at Gator Point and work around old rich people that would pay fifty bucks a day for a chair rental, on which the ‘guards were paid commission. Plus, the fogies all tipped like crazy. At the other (bottom) end, there was the dreaded Mile, which wasn’t really a mile long but seemed like it when you had to walk up and down it all day long in the sand. There were five hotels on the Mile and chairs had to be set up in front of each one and then visited regularly to collect rental fees. The class of people dropped drastically from the condos on Gator Point to the hotels on the Mile, which were mainly rented by Christian mission youth groups and rednecks who couldn’t afford Gator Point. If a chair went for fifty bucks at Gator Point it would only go for fifteen at the Mile; twenty if you were lucky, and Joe was rarely lucky. He just wasn’t blessed with the salesman’s charm.

“I’ll have my beach wrapped up by five,” Dymo said, “and I’ll be at Lifeguard night by five thirty, waiting on you, Bubba.”

“You’re an asshole,” Joe said, aggravation finally opening his eyes.

“Maybe, but I’m an asshole nursing a booth at Gator Point with twenty chairs, four Sea Dos, and a Hobie Cat. You’re an asshole that’s walking eighty-five chairs on the Mile and tending a dozen ancient Kaws. And I’ll still make more money than you.” He stood on his tiptoes as he said this, something he’d always done unconsciously, Joe thought, whenever he was trying to win an argument or debate. Joe made an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes as Dymo talked. Every word Dymo said was right on the money and Joe hated it. He was a prick, but he was right. 

Dymo said, settling back onto his heels, “I’ll be set up and running by eight. You won’t even have all the beer cans from last night picked up by then. Hell, you won’t have all those chairs set ‘til ten.”

“Damn right. Non stop,” Joe said with a lot more machismo than he felt.

Dymo smirked. “I’ll keep the Point, dude, you can have the Mile.”

Dymo had always been a jerk who’d taken advantage of Joe’s hospitality and never reciprocated. He’d known Dymo since high school and he’d been a bully then just as much as he was now. His real name was Darryl Munsen, but anyone that called him anything other than Dymo would get a punch in the gut/arm/leg/whatever Dymo could reach when the infraction was committed. He was the type of bully who would hit and bite and kick until he realized he was going to get a fight in return, at which point he would usually flee, claiming to have won even as he was running away. Dymo had bullied Joe for an entire year (in high school) before Joe finally got fed up. Dymo punched him in the arm one day so hard it brought tears to Joe’s eyes. A knot rose up on his bicep and Dymo called out, laughing, “Frog!”

Through clenched teeth and tear-filled eyes, Joe punched Dymo square in the chin. Tears burst from Dymo’s eyes and he ran away crying, wailing that he would get even and that “nobody hits me and survives!”

But from that day on Dymo treated Joe just the same as he would treat his best friends. There was no more physical bullying; Dymo still hurled insults as fast as he could, laughing if Joe fell or was embarrassed, but at least the hitting stopped, and for Joe this was good enough. It was as if they’d come to some understanding, some off-brand form of mutual respect—Dymo knew Joe wouldn’t take it. Dymo would even stop bullying others when Joe came around. Joe became a popular guy among Dymo’s marks. 

“It’s Wednesday,” Joe said.

Dymo’s height rose a few inches. He immediately settled back down on his heels, though, and said, “You’re off today.”
Joe smiled and winked.

“C’mon, man, give me a ride. It won’t take long,” Dymo begged.

“I can’t, I’ve got plans.”

“Fine!” Dymo yelled, and walked out the door, slamming it as hard as he could behind him.

Joe jumped to his feet and looked out the window, knowing it would not be beneath Dymo to key his truck since Joe had refused him.

Dymo didn’t key the truck, though, he just stomped past it and on up the street where he would likely call a few other ‘guards to see if he could bum a ride from someone else.

Of course, Joe’s plans weren’t so very pressing, he just hadn’t had much time off lately and he wanted to take it easy for the day. It was Wednesday, so Lifeguard night was to be at the Jolly Roger that night, and he would drive over for that, but otherwise he just wanted to take it easy and mull over the sounds of wolves he’d heard during the night.

written by Matt Mitchell

In the Everglades a lot goes unnoticed by the general public. A lot goes on that even the avid observers of the swamp never get wind of, too. The swamp is a dangerous place, full of malaria, rot, and animals that see people as just another (weaker) link in the food chain. A dominant male alligator is one such creature. Given the opportunity, a gator will gobble anything likely to bleed, like this one specific gator, Fred, who lives in a south Florida swamp and is often observed by the NWF. Fred is the largest living alligator in the world, and a good many people intend to ensure that he remains alive. But, as stated, a lot goes on in a swamp that even the watchers miss. Those things that make the swamp their home don’t miss anything, though. They talk the talk, and they definitely walk the walk. Take old Fred, for instance: he hasn’t wanted for a meal in fifteen years, almost half his lifetime. The NWF folks are always dropping a road kill deer or dog for him to munch on, so he rarely bothers with hunting for himself any more. When he does, it’s because he wants to. But old Fred has been watching the swamp, and especially his ten acres of it, for a long, long time, and when the bottom gets stirred up, he’s the one that will be there to see if there’s anything good to eat in the end. Fred knows when things change; he feels changes. A staff of scientists could watch Fred twenty-four hours a day through binoculars and with a helicopter and still not know half of what Fred knows about his little patch of swamp.

Fred reclines through most days nowadays. He’ll roll over, get good and wet, dig a little in one of his holes, but mostly just sit like a statue on the bank. He’s old for his kind, and he doesn’t have to eat nearly as often as he used to, and when he does there’s usually something waiting for him already sweetly rotting, so all Fred’s had to spend his time doing these past few years is growing. This one night, though, Fred was lazing around an area that had had his interest piqued for several days. 

The swamp, she stirs, and Fred observes. 

It was an overcast, rainy night and the swamp was alive with night sounds and the rain. He was on a pine hammock in an area that was densely covered with mangroves and pines. His nose pointed toward the water, and when he felt the first stirring in the water his eyes rolled open. About twenty feet from his bank in the black murky water (the kind Fred loves best!) the water began to shiver slightly, as if a giant catfish was unearthing itself from the mud floor about ten feet down. Fred thought that was grand. Catfish were quite tasty, and he just loved to catch them when they’re half covered with mud. From the look of the bubbling water, it must’ve be a doozy of a cat; for two days there had been air bubbles rising out of the mud floor of that spot in the swamp, and now, those bubbles were becoming larger and larger and… the water began to roil.

Fred the frozen suddenly became Fred the functional, and soon, he hoped, he would be Fred the fed. Not because he was hungry; just because he was in the mood for a tasty treat.

He pushed off toward the water’s edge and slid down into its warmth. He was in no hurry, he could still see the activity and he knew that that big catfish was just-a squirming down there in the mud trying to get wriggled free. That’s okay, too, because Fred abides. He circled the spot slowly, widely, and then he closed a little and a thrill shot through him as the churning water’s bubbles caressed his flank. The smell of flesh met his nostrils. He swam through the bubbles and his whole body shuddered from tip to tail, then he turned and dove, straight down to get a good feel for what was soon to be satisfying his always-ravenous appetite.

At the bottom, there was a bubble of mud expanding that was quite large. Fred swam over it and let his belly lightly brush against it, and he recognized solidity within; whatever it was, it was big. But that was a good thing for Fred, cause there ain’t nothing bigger than Fred in this swamp, and Fred was well aware that he ruled the roost ‘round Hell’s Half Acre. He doubled back around and settled right up against that wonderful, bulging bubble of mud. Bubbles were vigorously jetting from around the edges of the mud swell, and Fred could just detect a slight temperature shift in the water immediately surrounding the spot; it was about ten degrees warmer than the water beyond it. He grew so anxious, craving the deserts inside, so in need of a delicate meal, that he let one of his little (four inch long) claws rake ever so slightly across the side of the bubble and

WHOOSH!

out popped a thick, gooey mess of something that made Fred shiver with pleasure. It tasted of afterbirth, a particularly fine delicacy for Fred. Fred drove his nose into the mass of mess and there found purchase on what he knew would prove to be a magnificent morsel of meat. He knew it was, he knew it was, and now he had it and

OH!

how it struggled! He used a thrust of his giant tail to propel him and his treat out into the deeper water and then dove to the bottom and began the wondrous death roll, which to Fred was like a ballet step that he’d managed to perfect beyond anyone else’s ability. He rolled as fast as he ever had, the water around them a cauldron of dynamic, roiling energy and he felt the blood spill from his broken prey and

REJOICE!

it was done.

Except that it wasn’t.

An underwater cry sprang from his prey and sudden strength livened its limbs. The water was red and thick with blood, but the prey was alive, struggling…and… Strong.

Roll again, then…

And Fred danced the roll again, and then

Shake!

he shook until the normally placid swamp took on the look of a cauldron of boiling blood, but not Fred’s blood…

But then it was Fred’s blood, and Fred suddenly wanted to let go and get out of the water because something had a hold of him and was hurting him and he could not make it let go. Whatever it was, this prey of Fred’s, it had swung the tables on him. Now Fred found himself being dragged by the tail, something that’d never happened before. Fred struggled to swim away, but it was no use. He went limp and allowed himself to be dragged back to the bank.

Near the edge of the hammock Fred was released. Quizzically, he turned an eye toward the prey-turned-predator, but saw nothing through the murk. Then a tender touch traced its way up his back, and soothing sounds settled into his mind, emanating from nowhere. Fred calmed. And just like that, Fred’s mind expanded, Fred became conscious in a way he never had been before. He thought. He realized. And his first realization in the wake of his revelation was of love. It was a man, this prey, and this man was now the boss of Fred as nothing and no one else ever had been. Fred shivered with the fury of his love, and he felt a reciprocation of the sensation from the man. He would curl around this man and give him everything; he would do anything for him.

From that moment on Fred could do nothing if he didn’t please this man, whose name, he somehow knew, was Gregg.

***

Reality was comfortably hot for Gregg, he remembered that much, but then came a searing sensation of light and cold and a tug that he felt down to his soul. It pulled him, squeezed him through one reality into another that felt vaguely familiar but all-too unreal. It was dark, wet, and violent. He groaned and was surprised by the sound he heard issue from his own throat—not the deep, rumbling growl he should have heard but a simpering cry, light and weak, a cry of prey. He felt his body disintegrate into atoms and felt them slowly reassemble, thickening like soup, becoming solid again. Then, with a sickening belch, his bo