Outside the Wire



  Outside the Wire

  by

  Richard Farnsworth

  Copyright 2012 Richard Farnsworth

  ISBN: 978-1-4661-8781-8

  Forward

  Fallen angels, demons, lycanthropes, monsters and a disembodied hand (or is it), Outside the Wire is a collection of six previously published short stories about things we don’t want to let in, all anthologized for your reading pleasure.

  “Succumbing to Gravity” tells the story of Greg, a fallen angel and heroin addict asked to do more than he is able. It first appeared in an online magazine (now defunct) named “Nosse Morte” in 2008. I later expanded it to novel-length picked up by Reliquary in 2010. The novel is available on amazon as a paperback or ebook editions (shameless plug).

  “The Gift of the Bouda” is the story of an Army Officer attacked while on a mission in the War on Terror by a were-hyena; the Bouda. It first appeared in the lycanthrope-themed anthology “The Beast Within”, 2007 from Graveside Tales. I later expanded the story into my second novel of the same name, released in 2011 from Salvo (the Microbrew of publishing). It is also available as a paperback and ebook (second shameless plug).

  “The Long Road to Sanctum” is a post-apocalyptic lycanthrope tale that appeared in the second lycanthrope-themed anthology from Graveside Tales in 2011; “The Beast Within; Predator and Prey”. (I know you may find this hard to believe, but it is available from online too.)

  “B.E.K.s” tells what happens when you mix an urban legend with the war on drugs. It appeared in the anthology “Abominations” in 2008 by Shroud.

  “The Sacrifices of Automated Tabulation” is a steam-punk themed story, telling what happens when demonology meets the Industrial revolution. This was my best-selling short story, appearing in Steampunk Tales #7 (an iTunes app) and the “Cover of Darkness” anthology.

  “Dougie’s Hand” came out in the online journal “Rose and Thorn, in the spring 2010 issue. A fun story of perception.

  “The Virtual Huntress” is a previously unpublished short story. It is a bit of a departure, as there are no monsters here. The inspiration came from a conversation relating to drone aircraft and the morality of war conducted at long distance. Given the advancements in UAV technology, it’s only a matter of time before Soccer-Moms can telecommute to the battlefield.

  Table of Contents:

  Succumbing to Gravity (the short story)

  Gift of the Bouda (the short story)

  The Long Road to Sanctum

  B.E.K.s

  Sacrifices of Automated Tabulation

  Dougie’s Hand

  Virtual Huntress

  Succumbing to Gravity

  A long, thin line of clouds stretched out across the azure sky all the way to the western horizon. I descended through the cool air above the Steppe and a teasing updraft bumped from my left. I dipped my wing to catch the uplifting thermal, but it dissipated before I wheeled into the column. With two strong beats of my golden wings I bought thirty feet of altitude.

  Below me and to the right a bronze-colored eagle hung in a lazy upward spiral on a rising column of heated air. I stretched my left wing up and out and traced my own leisurely arc through the sky and down into his elevator. I could see the apprehensive tension in the raptor as we circled at opposite sides of the column.

  “No fear, brother,” I called to him. He winged over and away; I slipped sideways and found that snaky, tightly wound, central core of air that shot me upward.

  With arms stretched out beneath my wings I flexed my fingers. I arched my back, tensed my legs and splayed out my toes. I tightened the long flat muscles along the cords of my wings. My long flaxen primary feathers stood out like individual fingers beneath the primary coverts of dark russet, flecked with black and bronze variegations.

  I spiraled upward and held as much of the air around me as I could. Over the top, the column was gone and I soared. All the world was beneath me, all of heaven above.

  A cloud front came up behind me and a sudden down draft caught me unawares. I dropped a few hundred feet and left my stomach above. Nausea took its place. Eight long beating sweeps of my wings and I regained half the altitude I'd lost. The air cooled suddenly and tight little patches of gooseflesh puckered on my bare skin.

  The earth pulled at me. I beat my great wings again, not so easy now to stay aloft. I raced ahead but still the clouds overtook me, condensed and squeezed out a sheet of rain. Looking up as the drops fell was disorienting.

  I beat harder, but I could feel the air settling around me in a down draft. Panic welled up with the bile in my throat. The dark, wet ground raced up to meet me. A whimper escaped as I unwillingly gave in to gravity’s unforgiving embrace.

  Hard wet asphalt pressed into my face. The impact wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I reached up to brace against the ground and saw the syringe still hanging from my arm, the stainless steel needle pointing to a spidery blue vein. I let my arm sink back down, and watched the rain dimple the inky puddle near my face.

  I always relived that flight when I was lit. I flexed my atrophied flight muscles to feel the wing stumps quiver. So many, many things I had lost. The phantom pain along the missing cords of my wings made me wince. I was freezing, but I couldn’t tell if it was the soaked clothing or the cold flashes that I got when I came down.

  “Greg? There you are.”

  I tried to focus on the voice and brushed the needle from my arm.

  “Oh Greg, you know you shouldn’t shoot up in the open like this.” That was Sarah’s voice in the dark, my judgmental little runaway. Her smack habit wasn’t as bad as mine so she felt comfortable lecturing me. Easy to do when she hadn’t fallen as far as I had.

  “I wasn’t in the open, I was behind a dumpster,” I slurred. Somehow I had ended up sprawled in the center of the alley, with the dumpster behind me.

  “Someone could do something to you.” Her genuine concern was both irritating and comforting.

  I wanted to ask what they could do to me that hadn’t already been done?

  She grabbed my arm to help me sit up. I batted at her. It was easier to just stay where I was and to lay there in the filth and the muck. The rain pelting down on me.

  “Come on Greg, up and at ‘em. You’ll get pneumonia if you lay out here in the street.” She pulled me to a sitting position and I leaned against the dumpster. The streetlamp shed a little light into the alley and I could make out her profile kneeling beside me. She produced a crusty towel from somewhere and dried my face.

  “I was flying.” I closed my eyes and rested my head on her shoulder.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m flying too. But it’s just the drugs, Greg.”

  She didn’t understand what I meant and it would take too long to explain.

  “Let’s get you some coffee; I got someone I want you to read.” She stood and walked behind the dumpster.

  I rested my head back against the smooth, cold metal and let the drops run down my face. It was so real this time. So real. My tears were lost in the rain.

  Sarah came back around with my threadbare overcoat. I guess I’d left it there before I launched. She shook it out and draped it over my shoulders as I leaned forward. Pressing her fingers to my temples, she pulled my head forward and touched her lips to my forehead.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  No. No, it would never be okay.

  “Listen, I’m no good for a reading right now,” I said. One of my residual gifts; if I concentrated I could see a mortal’s soul. As the soul rested slightly out of phase with the physical world I could often see hints of past events, sometimes a bit of the future. Philosophers or theologians could debate how it worked, but the trick usually
earned me enough cash to score some junk.

  “She’s scared and she can pay.”

  That last bit of information reached through the haze. “How much?”

  “Dinner for both of us and fifty bucks too, I bet.”

  “Is dinner your booking fee?”

  She smiled. I couldn’t see it in the dark, but I knew she wore that little gapped-tooth grin. She helped me to my feet and we balanced awkwardly for a minute as I dry heaved. She reached up and wiped my mouth and chin before we started off. Though small in stature her soul was bigger than any two people.

  I remembered the first part and said, “Scared of what?”

  She didn’t say. Didn’t have to, I could feel it. Alone with the monsters in the dark, that’s what everyone's afraid of.

  I stumbled beside her with that kicking feeling in my left leg. She helped to support me and guide me as I shook the cobwebs out. Soon I’d be good for a few hours, maybe through until morning.

  “How’d you know where I was?”

  “Jimenez said she saw you get a score from Beenie when she was working sixty-third. I just checked every alley from Beenie’s spot to the apartment until I found you.” She sounded pretty proud of herself. The apartment to which she referred was a room we shared in what aspired to be a slum. Often no running water or electric, but it was dry.

  We stopped a few times so that I could dry heave some more. Slow going, weaving between the deeper puddles. This wasn’t at all like flying.

  She shepherded me to a late night café. It was the nasty kind of place people like us could be served. I saw my reflection in the big plate glass window coming up. I had been radiant once. Now my wet straw-colored hair hung greasy and limp, framing those high angelic cheekbones that used to drive the women wild. Oh, what a different story my reflection told now. Gaunt and haunted, I looked like every other burnout in the city. Sarah looked a little better, but the dark eye make-up made her look more cheap than Gothy. What a pair we made.

  The smell of stale grease greeted us inside and no heads turned when the little bell above the door announced our arrival.

  The woman I’d come to meet was sitting alone, pretty and young, swathed in a heavy coat. We sat opposite her on the cracked vinyl seat of the booth, and she looked at Sarah, and then furtively at me. She complained about how long she had waited and Sarah made an excuse. Her soul was old and I saw a line from a poem I’d once read in her, something about wandering in eternal fear of falling into the indefinite.

  She wouldn’t make eye contact and didn’t believe that I could really read her so I told her that.

  “Is that all your magic?” she asked, a little flash in her chocolate brown eyes. A corresponding glint of light caught as she breathed, just above the top button of her blouse. A small gold cross on a chain rested at the little dip in the smooth flesh where the throat tucked in behind the collarbones.

  “No, that’s the surface stuff. Tell me what you want and we’ll see if I can reveal your inner most.”

  Sarah’s bony elbow nudged me. “Be nice.”

  “How nice?”

  She didn’t answer. She just looked at the pretty young woman and said, “This is Greg. Like I told you before, he’s the guy that can tell if there really is anything funny going on with your dreams. Greg, this is Maria.”

  “He looks like a drowned junkie.”

  I half-shrugged. I suppose my appearance was an occupational hazard.

  “Is that how you can see into the Santeria? Because you’re on the stuff?”

  “He’s okay now, it’s just cause of the rain,” Sarah said. Her tone was between placating and matter-of-fact, she didn’t want to jeopardize the deal.

  “How long you been using?” She had a Latin accent. Maybe Puerto Rican, I couldn’t tell.

  “Heroin?”

  “Yeah.” Her hostility had an undercurrent of sadness. Maybe it was the wisps of loss I saw in her soul.

  “On and off since eighteen-ninety, I think. Mostly on.”

  The young woman tucked a wayward strand of black hair behind an ear and gave a disbelieving cluck with her tongue.

  “Like I said, Greg used to be an angel,” Sarah whispered proudly.

  Maria raised an eyebrow. She didn’t believe.

  “It’s true, he still grows little feathers where his wings used to be.”

  “What happened? You get demoted?” The cross flashed as Maria tucked her elbows close to her sides, like a boxer ready to deflect the body blows. She looked into my eyes then. Such sadness.

  “Judged. Judged and found wanting, with ninety-eight of my closest friends. Believe me sister, that was a really bad day.”

  The waitress came over to take our order. I saw the huddled tangles of unfulfilled dreams and fifty or so hard years there as she set the coffee pot on the table lip. She laughed as she took my order and with nicotine-yellowed nails biting into the pencil stub, she scratched it onto the notepad. She called me ‘Hon’, took Sarah’s order and poured out the old smelling coffee before she moved on. I held the mug against my face to warm my cheek and took a sip. It was acrid but good enough that it made my stomach growl.

  “The reading is fifty bucks on top of the meal, like we talked about,” Sarah interrupted. “Remember how he helped your friend, Jessica? With her dreams? So he can do the same for you. Right”

  I didn’t remember a Jessica. I usually didn’t remember any of them after I got a score though. Except Sarah. I couldn’t get her out of my head after that first time I read her. Now she was my booking agent, and my best friend. She and Milton, who Sarah had brought into my life. Or was it the other way around?

  Maria nodded and pulled a billfold out of her thick wool coat. She took out three dog-eared bills and rested them at the midpoint of the grime-covered table. Such a trusting soul.

  I laid both my hands out, palms up. The sleeve of my overcoat pulled back to reveal blue veins, stark against my pale skin. The veins traced up and disappeared into the elaborate tattooing on my forearms. Marks that weren’t meant for human eyes, but were just too much trouble to keep covered.

  Maria glanced down and the look she gave made me feel she thought them dirty. She gently rested her two hands on top of mine. They were small. I ran my thumbs over the backs and she flinched a little, but didn't pull away. Hard. Sinewy. She took care to use lotions and the skin was supple. In another life maybe they'd be the hands of a wool sorter. Her dark eyes locked onto mine and I could see.

  I closed my eyes quickly at the jolt of it. I tasted copper and suppressed a shudder. There was a hint of familiarity there in that strong soul. It was an old soul indeed, a soul that could really make a difference. The kind of soul a nether-worlder could really sink his teeth into. She had paid for a show and that’s what I owed her. A show, not the proclamation of her damnation that I saw.

  “You live with your Mother. Also Maria. You work as a seamstress on the lower east side. Three bus stops from home.”

  I felt her nod encouragement, but she was not convinced.

  “You lost jewelry. A brooch. It belonged to your Grandmother. You had left it on the nightstand and it fell between the headboard and the mattress.”

  She didn’t believe that either, but if she had time I knew she would check.

  “Your little sister has passed on. Three years now. There is no fault there for you. Sometimes the little ones are just called home early.”

  She almost succeeded in pulling her hands away. I opened my eyes and could see it. She arched a raven black eyebrow. She didn’t know what I saw.

  The waitress came with our order. Sarah asked for extra crackers with her soup. I had a double stack of pancakes. I noted the ghost of a jagged white line there on the left wrist as I disengaged my hands from Maria’s and cut into my stack.

  “Ask him,” Sarah said.

  Don’t ask if you don’t really want to know. Most people
don't really want their worst fears confirmed. They just want a pat on the hand so that they can continue with their delusions that everything will be all right.

  Maria steeled herself and said, “There’s this man, I see.”

  “There are many men, Maria. Billions in fact. The earth teems with them like locusts.”

  Sarah nudged me again harder.

  “There’s this man I see in my dreams. Not really a man, I don’t see him so well. Mostly the eyes. It’s not good though, you know?”

  Sarah nodded encouragement for me. I speared a syrup-soaked wedge of pancakes. I loved pancakes; I could eat them at every meal.

  “It’s a bad thing. Sometimes I even think that I see him standing behind me in reflections, but when I turn he is not there.”

  I picked a piece of eggshell from my tongue and asked, “Reflections?”

  “Yes, like in the mirror, a window or sometimes on the side of glass of water. He is there watching, behind me, and when I turn to see him he is not there. This man, he makes me worry.”

  She should. There is nothing good in this. In fact, within the next three hours or so, the harbinger for this man would crack her open like a nut and extract the sweet meat of her soul. But what could I do about that? I only felt like a hero when I was lit and now I was almost all the way down.

  She described the wicked strangeness of her dreams that I knew too well. Then she asked me, “Do you see what I should do?” I had indeed misread the sadness in her eyes, as it was despair.

  “If you see this man, leave him alone. Get some salt on the way home. When you turn in tonight, pull your bed from the wall and pour the salt in a thick circle around it. That should keep the dreams away. Also, I’m told burning a fish will work, but I haven’t tried it.”

  “Is that all?”

  I tilted the plate, scooped up the extra syrup with an egg-yolk stained spoon and said, “Well, you’ll find the brooch.”

  “I mean is there anything else I can do?”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  ”No, I’m a Baptist.”

  “A Puerto Rican Baptist?”

  ”I’m Dominican. Why do you ask if I’m Catholic?”

  “I was going to suggest confession and a candle to the Holy Mother along with the salt, but I don’t know what Baptists do. I’m old-fashioned religion.”

  “We pray to our Lord and Savior.”

  Praying. Like that ever did any good. “Do that then.”

  I had nothing else for her and after a bit she left unsatisfied, but our stomachs were full. When we were alone I got a Styrofoam cup for the rest of my lukewarm coffee while Sarah gathered up the bills and stuffed them into her coat pocket.

  The rain was over but the streets were covered in thin puddles. The reflection of lights on the floor of the canyon-like street gave the night a subterranean feel. Sarah stopped beside a homeless man wrapped in garbage bags lying on the sidewalk and dumped her extra cracker packets into his lap.

  I stepped over his outstretched leg and said, “Someday that Good Samaritan thing is gonna bite you in the ass, sweetness.”

  The small smile she gave me made me feel even better than the full stomach.

  After a few paces she reached out and took my hand in hers. We interlaced fingers and I pulled her hand up to brush my lips against the back of her fingers, her nails all chewed and covered in chipped black polish.

  She asked, “What did you really see, Greg?”

  Maybe it was the coming down, or the positive vibe I was feeling, but I still shouldn’t have told her. In the three years we’d been together I had always told her the truth. I didn’t want to lie to her now, so I described the highlights of my vision.

  She didn't say anything at first. After the weighted pause she asked, “Why would they come for her?”

  “I don’t know. She’s special, the fact she dreams of them like she does tells you she’s got serious mojo. Funny they come in the flesh though. That’s so old-school for them.”

  “You can’t just leave her to that, Greg." Her voice caught a little, so she cleared her throat and said, "You need to help.”

  “I did help.”

  “The salt? Will that really do anything?”

  “Hell no. For the dreams yeah, but not if one comes in the flesh. Maybe slow them down and give her time to pray. Perhaps the big guy will help.”

  She pulled her hand from mine and stopped walking to give me that look of hers. When I stopped and turned back she said, “Greg, think of what you used to be.”

  I shrugged and said, “Sorry, my hero days were over long ago."

  "You can do something. I know you can. You have it in you to do great things."

  I just shook my head and gave a little shrug. The look she gave me broke my heart, but I’d gotten used to letting people down. She turned from me and ran into the cavernous night.

  I called after her to wait. To come back. I even threw my cup in frustration, but she didn’t stop. The rain picked up to a misty drizzle now as I turned back the other way and started home.

  The night was at its darkest. And I was alone again. A city of millions and I was alone. But then, I had been alone for a long time. Probably for the best, as the lives I touched never seemed to be better after, than before. The full stomach was a nice change so I focused on that. It would have been better without the ache in my joints so I started to plan my next narcotics offense while pretending not to think about Sarah.

  Three blocks down from the café, I stepped off the curb and noticed something small near the gutter. I reached down to pick up a dead sparrow. I sat down on the curb with my legs over the rush of gutter water and cradled the little corpse in my left hand. With my right I teased out the little wing.

  “No flying for you either, little brother.”

  I stretched out both the little wings and gently rested the bird on the stream of water and watched it not quite fly away. With the darkness the water was invisible but for snatches of reflected light. And the broken bird weaved first left then right on a glittering silver path through the detritus of the gutter.

  I pondered that after I got my bearings and started back toward the pad. The dead bird pushed along involuntarily as if by an invisible hand, on his way to an appointment with a sewer grate. It was too cold and wet to philosophize and I just wanted to get back home and crash.