THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 24th POSTCARD- MISSISSIPPI

CATFISH SCRATCH FEVER

     Leo cursed when he dropped the second worm almost immediately after the first, glaring at the twisting pink body fading into the murky water. He lay the pole down, and let out a long sigh. He lay on his back, stretching his arms out behind his back, looking up at the clouds through the wavering heat shimmer. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. His mother’s face flashed behind his eyelids, and Leo heard her parting words all over again.
     "You’ll end up barefoot in the street, face down in a ditch, or behind bars . . . anywhere but up. Boy, you so lazy! What would your Gramps think of you? Some way to honor his memory!" Leo sneered. Mom knew how to push his buttons, and he resented how she’d dragged his grandfather into it. He’d been close with his grandfather until his death two years ago.
     He was paying his respects to Gramps on this day, his Gramps’s birthday anniversary. One thing they’d loved to do together was to fish for largemouth bass, just as Leo was doing now. If he could get the goddamn worm on the hook.
     He rolled over to prop himself with his elbow and forearm. He gazed at the water for a while and then for an instant, the swirling browns clarified. As if looking through a spotless window, Leo saw the catfish.
It was an impeccable specimen. Sleek, fat, drifting against the current with a slow oscillation of its tail, the catfish hovered just a couple of inches above the bottom of the banked bed alongside the edge of the river. Leo slowly lowered himself onto his belly, and pulled himself slowly closer to the water. His mother would probably lose it over the grass and mud stains he was painting his clothes with, but he could appease her with fresh catfish for dinner. Let her tell him he was lazy, if he caught food.
     The catfish was still enough that Leo believed it was asleep. He could catch it by hand. Or rather, both hands. The thing was huge. Thirty-five pounds and change, if Leo knew his fish at all. He continued to inch his way towards the drifting catfish. Leo had a moment when he thought his attempt at capture would be aborted before it even began when the shadow of his head fell across the catfish’s eyes and a spasmodic quiver move down its body. But when the catfish remained in the same spot, Leo grinned as he wormed even closer.
     His abdomen muscles shook as he balanced his torso over the water, arms reaching out so that he could grab the tail and heave it over into the embankment behind him. He inhaled deeply, and plunged his hands down.
     The catfish seemed to look directly at Leo, as it spun its head around to point in the boy’s direction. Quicker than Leo’s grab, it rolled several degrees so that its dorsal fin spines jabbed into Leo’s hand.
Leo yelped, and pitched forward into the water, even as the catfish vanished, swimming so fast it was a streak of shimmering brown. Spluttering and thrashing, Leo forgot he could just stand up in the shallows. Finally he remembered sheepishly clambering to his feet. He waded out, shaking his hand which already felt as if he was holding it inside a flame. Catfish venom was dangerous if untreated, and with a fish that large, Leo had gotten a substantial injection. Leo’s legs started to tremble. When Leo stared at his swollen hand, he gasped with horrified breath to see the purple, pulsating worms crawling out of the punctures.
He slapped his palm against his leg, bringing sweat to his brow with the fresh waves of pain. His heart was racing so heart it no longer beat, it buzzed with the vibration. He tried to step forward and was puzzled when he made no forward progress. Then he realized he was already on his back, pawing the air with his foot. The clouds overhead started to squirt out great billowy emissions of ink that glittered metallic in the fading sunlight.
     Leo’s body convulsed and his head snapped to the side as his neck muscles strained in one direction, as if a fist inside his neck was clenching itself. He stared at the cypress trees as they pulled their roots out and began to pair off, twirling and dipping in a dance. Their roots made wet suction noises that make Leo think of sex, and indeed, the trees were rubbing against each other, their branches groping and rasping across bark. They started to fall to the ground, still groping and making sticky, moist sounds. An uncomfortable, hazy recollection rose in Leo’s mind. The silhouettes of his parents one night as he stood in the doorway, aghast at the moonlit patches of bare, sweaty skin and those strange, primitive sounds. Before his father left one day, never to be heard from again.
     Leo’s neck unlocked, and he turned his eyes skyward again to see the heavens burning even as his hand did, then suddenly the sky filled with river life. Crabs skittered across the blue expanse, and different fishes darted in all directions. Leo glanced down to see he was no longer prone on the ground, but rather, buoyed up by innumerable stars. He poked one, and it flitted away, twinkling. Suddenly, all of the stars flew away from underneath Leo. Screaming, he flailed through the bottomless blackness but he could still see the starbugs gathering into a single swarm, creating a stridently buzzing comet that hurtled towards Leo.
     Try as he could, Leo could not swat enough of the starbugs away, and they began to force themselves down his throat, into his nostrils. Leo cried out in silence as the swarm poured into him. From inside, they gave Leo flight once again, giving him the ability to stop his headlong descent. He turned over and over, weightless. He started at the whirling lights underneath his skin, his body a galaxy of restless stars and novae.
A massive noise broke Leo’s focus, and he turned, his skin tight at the sound. That sound always conjured up the memory of the time he’d ripped his little sister’s dress as she slipped from the rooftop that one day they were alone and he’d convinced her to join him up there. She’d broken her arm in the resulting fall, and Leo had threatened to break her other one if she told on him.
     The blackness was tearing, as if it was made of the same cotton fabric of his sister’s ruined dress. As it tore, a thick liquid welled through the opening, and then began to spray and gush. Suddenly, it burst forth with a roar, and engulfed Leo in tepid dark water, the waters of the Mississippi.
     The environment was distorted, and Leo puzzled over the disparity until realization came upon him- either he had shrunk, or the scale of the river setting had grown gigantic. Pebbles were enormous mesas, algae created thickets. Leo could breathe, so he remained tranquil, stroking through the water. He noted the starbugs no longer glowed under his skin. Turning over to face the sky through the rippling lens of the river surface, he saw that they were back in their proper places, in the night backdrop.
     A sudden, sharp pain in his wrist flared, and Leo looked down, thinking his hand was still exhibiting the signs of being envenomed, but he saw instead that his wrist was caught fast in the grip of a crawfish large as a truck, its antennae waving and flicking against Leo’s struggling body as he tried to pry the pincers off his arm. Then a quick flurry of mud rose from the bottom, and a crab that Leo could have made a house out of rose up and crunched the crawfish into half. Leo exclaimed in disgust as he hastily shoved the dying crawfish’s claw off his arm. Blood trickled from his wound, drawing the crab’s eyestalks to Leo’s floundering. Leo went pale as the crab suddenly scuttled towards him, but then a shadow passed over his head. Leo began to paddle backwards in panic. He was nothing but food to just about everything down there, especially being as tiny as he was. He espied a large thatch of algae and some river moss, and immediately began to burrow into it for concealment.
     Leo let out a sigh of relief. He grasped the strands of moss to keep from floating up above the plant mass. He didn’t squeeze his fists too hard, so he didn’t notice at first that he hands were sliding upwards over the slimy surface of the moss. He glanced up, his blood turning colder than the water surrounding him. His urine mixed with the river water as he stared at the gigantic catfish directly overhead, its mouth a vacuum that pulled Leo inexorably closer despite his grip upon the treacherously slippery plants.
Leo was startled into releasing the plant anchoring when his grandfather rose up in front of him. His Gramps’ regular kindly expression was gone; all he could see was contempt and disappointment in the elderly man’s mahogany eyes. The stooped figure pointed an arthritis-gnarled forefinger at his grandson, and uttered two words, "Wicked boy!"
     Leo screamed so loud his vocal cords seized, causing him to choke and cough through pain-shredded throat tissue while he grappled wildly with the elusive strands of moss. The inevitable finally occurred, and Leo was sucked into the catfish’s gullet. All was darkness, then, for Leo.

* * * * *

     Leo’s mother rubbed her temples with the wet, soapy dishrag in the vain hope that the slight coolness would appease the migraine that threatened to kick in the walls of her skull and do a jig in her brain. Her son, as wayward as he might be, still was her son, and so she worried about Leo. He had not returned home the previous night, which was quite unusual for the boy. He might show up in the wee hours, but he did come home.
     The tang of the coffee vapors emanating from the Mr. Coffee was all the migraine need to make it first full assault. She sank down, stumbling into the nearest chair. She buried her throbbing, tenderized head in her hands. She didn’t hear the footsteps over the blood roaring through her vessels, the crinkling of plastic and the faint clatter of glass. But she felt the tentative hand patting her shoulder.
     Through her bleary vision, she saw the double image of her son, holding the garbage bag in one hand, holding the other behind his back. His face was pinched, and a couple extra years rested upon his visage. He gave her a look that held several years of contrition, and for a moment, she could see her father’s eyes looking out from Leo’s face.
     Leo held up the garbage bag. "I didn’t know if we recycle, so I put the bottles in here, but I can take them out if that’s a problem," he said, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: 23rd POSTCARD

Darren felt a strangle tingling thrill going through his fingertips as he picked up the Minnesota postcard. It was black. Completely black. He couldn't stop caressing the colorless, glossy surface, but finally, he shook himself back to alertness. He began to read.

WHISPERS OF A DARKLING COME

I

          Moira sighed loudly, a sound of relieved exhaustion, as she slumped against the frame of her front door. She was always so tired those days, now. She was young, barely turned thirty, and her comely face took a few years off her age. Dark blond hair framed her small face and brushed her shoulders. She wore her uniform still, now that she had stopped changing her uniform in the ladies’ room at the restaurant where she worked. The uniform was maroon with silver braiding and her apron had a picture of a large, jolly-looking gentleman holding a Franklin stove in his hands. Under the picture, the words: The Cast-Iron Stomach

          This apron she wearily tugged at, trying to remove it, as she switched on the light. The sixty-watt bulb illuminated the living room in a blanket of dim light. She closed the door behind her and finally getting the apron loose, pulled it off and dropped it to the floor where it lay looking like a mound of warm flesh. Moira stared at it for a moment or two, lost in memories which plunged their claws into her subconscious and pulled images screaming in protest from their dark, locked niches.

          Her husband, Jeff, had been a wonderful lover. He had known how to bring her to ultimate ecstasy with his hands, his tongue, his member. Many nights they had moaned together, covered with sweat, their flesh sliding together, merging, until they were truly together, a single entity of pleasure. Moira had never come home tired from her job as a waitress then. She always had a bounce in her step, a smile on her full lips, and a black silk teddy under her clothes.

          Moira averted her eyes from the apron, then shut them tightly as if she could squeeze out all of those thoughts that hurt her so much. Fourteen months already since Jeff was killed and it still felt like only a few hours ago. After the funeral Moira’s father had asked her if she wanted to come live with him and her girlfriend but Moira had insisted upon staying at the apartment she had shared with Jeff for three years. Moira shuffled over to the curtains covering the large window overlooking the street outside and drew them open so that she could look at the scarlet sun sinking below the horizon. She wondered if it was as tired as she, after being up in the sky for over twelve hours, pouring out energy constantly.

          Keeping the place meant working double shifts and a practically nonexistent social life but she wanted to stay. It was the only place she had truly felt at peace with herself, when Jeff was still alive. Now . . . she left nothing except pain and loss. Still, better than the self-hatred she’d had when she met Jeff. She had been on the brink of becoming a prostitute, desperate for even a false pretense of love, an euphemism for selling her body to men. She had been in a state of deep depression and then Jeff had come along, with his liquid brown eyes and slightly off kilter but adorable face. He had saved her from the hell she had been facing and married her.

     

          Moira flung herself onto the couch and sank into the soft cushions, tears falling unnoticed down her cheeks. She had cried so often in the past fourteen months, she wasn’t even aware of it at times. Upon more than once occasion, her customers had asked her if anything was amiss and Moira had raised her hand to her face, surprised to discover that her cheeks were wet. Moira made herself comfortable, sweeping her gaze around the room.

          The shelves that Jeff built were still there, with her collection of assorted thimbles displayed upon them. She would never get rid of Jeff’s ghost, Moira knew. His musky scent lingered in the recliner, the couch, and the bed. The echo of his deep laughter clung to the walls. Maybe she wasn’t letting go of him properly, but the ache within herself could not be dissolved in mere months. Moira let her head fall back and her eyes focused upon the ceiling for a moment before they closed. Her consciousness retreated into the deepest reaches of her mind, even as the sun sank out of sight and darkness closed its cold fist around Moira.

II

          Moira looked up into Jeff’s dark eyes with adoration. They were walking down Lake Road, a small dirt road that wound through the countryside of Minnesota, through beautiful meadows and spacious farmland. They made love sometimes in these fields, running from the road and stripping as they ran, giggles bubbling from their mouths and lust streaming through their pores.

          "I love you, Jeff." The words floated upon the chill September air. The autumn air gave the words an extra crispiness, so that they seemed to crackle like the leaves fluttering down the ground, tongues of flames twisting and turning in the breeze. In reply, he caught her in his arms and swung her around once, twice, thrice. He laughter surrounded them in tiny trails of fog, a cocoon of security. They had kissed with passion, while Jeff still held Moira aloft. She had reached down with her free hand towards his pants. Lost in each other, neither one of them noticed the dark green Camaro catapulting at them, churning up dirt and leaves and the driver braked in desperation. Moira felt the impact as the car bulldozed into Jeff’s back, snapping his spine and shattering his pelvis. Moira, not understanding what was happening, fell from her dead husband’s arms to the ground. She closed her eyes as the wind was knocked out of her, then opened them, gasping for breath.

          She saw Jeff; blood trickling from his ears and mouth, and the leaves floating gently down. One landed upon Jeff’s brow covering one vacant eye, the liquid brown now a brittle grayish brown. Moira had thought: The leaf. He can’t see that leaf covering his eye. She had reached out for his face, but was interrupted by the shrieking of the teenager who had rushed out of his car and vomited in the weeds lining the side of the road.

          "Ain’t my goddamned fault, man! You guys were in the middle of the fuckin’ road! Necking, man! You gotta stay off the goddamn roads!"

          Moira simply stared at him, uncomprehending, struggling to her feet. The boy kept on screaming-

          Screaming-

          Screaming-Moira woke with a start. She turned wild eyes in the direction of the phone in the kitchen, which had been ringing for a while. She got to her feet, wiping the sweat from her forehead and neck. She had these nightmares frequently and she wished that she could wake to see Jeff’s concerned face, give him a hug of relief. The phone stopped ringing seconds before her hand touched the receiver. Moira grunted in annoyance, and decided to call it a night as soon as she fixed herself some hot chocolate. 

III

          In the kitchen, she busied herself with heating the milk and thought about the book she was currently reading, Sidney Sheldon’s The Other Side of Midnight. She thought she might actually even read a few pages before she settled off to sleep. Checking the microwave clock, Moira saw that she had been asleep for only little more than an hour. She changed her mind and decided to take a bubble bath while reading. God knew, she could use some relaxation. While the milk heated, she went through the bedroom into her bathroom, and turned on the faucet. She adjusted the temperature of the water, letting it run over her hands, thinking of silk and oil.

          She took off the uniform, kicking it into the corner of the bathroom and put on her terry robe before going back into the kitchen to check the milk. The milk was ready, so she poured some into a mug with a picture of a zebra on it and added some Hershey’s chocolate syrup to it. Moira leaned against the kitchen counter and stirred the milk dreamily, listening to the water splashing in the bathroom. It made her think of Hawaii and of sex under waterfalls. She caught herself, uttering a startled yet amused sound. She hadn’t been this horny in a while, thinking of all those erotic images.

          Laughing softly yet sadly, she turned off the stove and the kitchen light. Then she moved towards the living room light switch. She flicked the light off gripping the mug firmly to make sure she wouldn’t spill any hot chocolate on the carpet as she walked through the darkened room to her bathroom. As soon as her hand left the light switch, she instinctively looked towards the window.

          , Moira dropped the mug. She could feel the sting of the warm milk splashing on her toes and soaking into the carpet. Framed against the November moonlight stood the silhouette of a tall man, wearing a hat and overcoat. In the darkness, Moira could not make out his features, but she could detect a faint glimmer from his eyes. She groped frantically for the light switch, stammering out frenzied questions.

          "Wh-who are you? What are you doing here?" she shrilled, turning on the light just as the figure began to raise a hand to its hat. Moira stared in bewilderment and uttered a single word: "What?"

The figure was no longer there. Moira let her head fall forward, blaming her exhaustion for the hallucination she had just seen.

          She groaned, looking at the spongy brown mess at her feet. She had no desire to clean it up. She decided to simply put a wet rag on it and clean up in the morning. The tub was getting pretty full by now. This chore she completed, not bothering to turn on the kitchen light. She turned out the living room light again and when she glanced in the direction of the window, the scream that ripped from her throat was a truly terrible sound for any human ear to receive. The figure had returned and was moving slowly towards her. Moira backed up against the front door and briefly considered escaping from the apartment. Then a strange whim seized her and she lifted one hand slowly towards the light switch, fascinated by the figure as it approached her sensuously. The whispering of the overcoat as it brushed against the couch reminded her of the rustling of strong hands over the lace of her lingerie.

          The light clicked back on and the figure was gone, no longer even a shadow. Moira gasped, badly frightened, yet curious. She turned the light off again and watched the approaching figure as it reached for its hat. It was too much for her and she fled, running into her bedroom. She locked the door, hastily jabbing her finger against the button. She ran into the bathroom and turned off the water, which was a centimeter or two from spilling over the rim of the tub. She sat on the toilet lid, trembling badly.
          Jesus Christ, I’m going to be raped by Freddy Kruger, she thought hysterically. She cursed her stupidity for having taken the phone that had been in the bedroom when she still shared it with Jeff and putting it in the kitchen. The only way to call for help was to leave her bedroom, and with that thing out there, she couldn’t do that.     

          Moira dropped to all fours and began emptying the drawers underneath the sink, desperately searching for some kind of weapon should the intruder kick the bedroom door down and come for her, erect member throbbing under his clothes. Seeking her flesh, to plunge hotly into her. Moira made a disgusted noise; amazed she could think such things while trapped in this dilemma. Her search through the assorted objects turned up nothing and she stood up, wrenching open the medicine cabinet. She hoped maybe there were still some of Jeff’s shaving appliances left; a razor blade maybe that she could try to use on the intruder’s eyes. Nothing. She had been very thorough in the disposal of non-sentimental items belonging to her deceased husband.

          Moira turned on the sink faucet and splashed some cold water on her face, rubbing her eyes. Then she thought of her own shaving razor, the one she used on her legs and armpits. She slammed the medicine cabinet shut, ready to whirl and rummage through the shower rack but the image reflected in the mirror stopped her. Behind her, emerging from the tub, rose the figure. Even under the fluorescent glare, it had no color, no texture. It remained a shadow, albeit a very solid, three-dimensional shadow. Its glittering topaz eyes locked with her bright blue ones as it continued to rise, beads of water rolling off its shoulders, down the folds of the coat. The hat dripped onto the tiles, tiny splashing sounds, each of which caused a small stirring in Moira’s loins.

          Moira spun around, moaning in terror. Her eyes strained to focus on the empty space above the water of the tub. Water continued to drip off the shadowy figure, but the figure was no longer visible. Only the water drops suspended in midair, slowly changing shape, merging with each other to make miniature rivulets returning to the tub could be seen. The dripping from the brim of the hat continued although Moira could not perceive the hat itself.

          Dear God, I’m losing my mind, she thought to herself, backing up as far as she could against the sink counter. Her fingers gripped the edges with painful desperation. By moving her buttocks from side to side slowly and with the help of her arms, she slowly moved herself into a sitting position on the counter with her back flush against the medicine cabinet. I’ve been too obsessed with the loss of my husband, she realized, and it’s screwed my mind up.

          The invisible figure opened its eyes and Moira gasped in fascinated revulsion to see the topaz irises suspended under the unseen hat, nothing else. Then she realized the figure was becoming opaque. Slowly, the figure darkened, becoming more and more the image she had seen reflected in the mirror. In a few moments, a man with the appearance of being carved from obsidian stood in her bathtub. Moira found herself relaxing somewhat and her thighs moved away from each other. Her terry robe slid over her legs, away from her inner thighs, and Moira realized she was spreading her legs to reveal herself to the apparition.

She tried to clasp her knees together, but oddly, she found that she didn’t want to. Her breathing began to accelerate and she could not honestly decide if it was because of fear or desire.

          "What are you?" Moira gasped, as the being lifted one leg and stepped out of the bathtub, water cascading from his feet. She realized that although the being had risen from underneath approximately forty-five gallons of water, it was dry. The water slid off like lake water from a swan’s feathers. She moved one hand between her legs watching the figure as it removed its hat and coat by tossing them contemptuously (it seemed to her) onto the floor. The clothes absorbed the light so completely that they appeared to be merely a dark puddle. She would have had to lay flat on the ground to discern the shape of the hat and the folds of the coat. The apparition took another step towards Moira. She began to breathe in quick little gasps, her hand rubbing strongly now.

          I am a darkling, whispered the being, although she could not see its mouth moving within the darkness of its features. The golden eyes were fixed upon her. I come to those who have need of me, and you have need, it murmured sibilantly. Moira inhaled deeply of the musky scent of sex emanating from the darkling’s skin and slid forwards, hesitantly, her toes touching the cool tile floor. She reached out a tentative hand but the darkling did not respond except to draw back just the tiniest bit. Moira found herself crying out to him mentally not to retreat.

          The darkling smiled, although Moira did not know how she knew; staring at the darkling’s face, smooth except for the glittering eyes. Its whole body was smooth and Moira could not tell if he wore any other clothing other than that he had already discarded. The darkling put out its hand and caressed Moira’s cheek. Its hand was cool, yet she could feel warmth radiating from his body.

          She closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her lips, responding to its touch. She could feel herself releasing warm lubricating fluids within and she put her own hand to where the darkling’s cheek would be. She found his skin to be silken in texture and she imagined how it would feel to have the darkling enter her with his silk-covered member and a moan escaped from her lips.

          "How did you know-?" she implored in a murmur filled with aching and longing and desire. The darkling slid its hand around her neck and leaned closer, the topaz eyes burning into her own. Moira’s lips parted in anticipation.
          I sensed the emptiness you harbor within. I exist to balance what has been stolen from the heart, love lost to the intricateness of Fate. I come to those who are lonely. I am a darkling. I am desire incarnate. It is my purpose. Your destiny. With these words, the darkling kissed her, its lips sucking on hers, its tongue probing, setting thousands of her nerves on fire. Moira began to pant and the darkling held her in its arms, supporting her. You have a void that needs to be filled, the darkling whispered, and I will fill it . . .

          It kissed her fiercely and Moira could see nothing but darkness, then two orbs of gold flashing so brightly she squeezed her eyes shut.

IV

          When she opened her eyes, Moira stood on her bedroom and the darkling stood before her. She now knew it to be naked. She glanced down at herself and saw that she was wearing a very exotic lace and satin teddy. She raised one finger and rubbed it against the material. It swirled and little wisps of darkness kissed her fingers. She realized it was an extension of the darkling’s essence.

          Moira stared into its eyes, overcome with wonder and wanton lust. The darkling took her hands gently into its own and led her to the bed. It then picked her up in its arms and laid her down on the mattress, not bothering to pull the cover and blankets back. He moved to the foot of the bed and then with his head between her legs, blew the misty material away from her body. Tremors of pleasure shook Moira’s body as the dark mist evaporated into the air.

          Then she began moaning and writhing, for the darkling was now exploring her folds of flesh with its tongue and fingers. After several minutes of massaging, probing and lubricating, Moira was on the verge of exploding with rapture, her ecstasy was that powerful. Then the darkling abruptly drew back and watched her shivering and panting for a few moments.

          Now, said the darkling, as it moved further up, its erect member sliding like velvet against Moira’s thigh. Moira threw her head back and screamed. It was a scream of delight. The darkling poised itself above her for a second and then descended.

          As the darkling slid into her and brought her to unimaginable heights of pleasure, she thought fleetingly of Jeff. Then she put him out of her mind as she clutched at the darkling. And desire and passion and the darkling held illimitable dominion over her.

V

          The darkling stood up and strode into the bathroom. It picked up its hat and overcoat and put them on slowly, thinking of its recent deed. With a final tug on its hat the darkling exited the bathroom, and glanced at the empty bed. The darkling smiled, its topaz eyes glittering with contentment. All was well. Moira belonged to it now. Now . . . and forever.     

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE TWENTY-SECOND

The postcard for Michigan showed an old black and white picture of Henry Ford standing inside his factory. There was no caption or greeting, but Darren recognized the photo from anold history textbook or some such.

MORTIS CITY

          Despite the countless accusations and allegations levied against Alec Kaminski, Alec hadn’t been trying to bring about the end of the world. Or at least the end of Detroit, which was ground zero for the apocalypse, or Carmageddon, the more popular name for the disaster Alec was responsible for initiating. Alec had just wanted to fix his new car.
          Alec sighed, staring at the ceiling above his bed. Getting up was becoming more and more difficult, as if his bed was becoming a giant pit of tar sucking Alec’s motivation into itself, to create a fossil of Alec’s former enthusiasm. With a grunt Alec wrenched himself up into a sitting position but kept still, eyes closed, for another few minutes. He listened to the sounds outside his window, holding his breath. He hoped there wasn’t anybody lying in wait outside. You’d think after two months, they would have stopped trying to ambush him.
          Alec drudged through his breakfast and shower. He had to force himself to re-dress himself twice. He might be off work on this day, but he didn’t need to go out and be seen in public looking like a hung-over, depressed teenager dealing with an immense volume of hatred from John Q. Public. A hung-over, depressed teenager who couldn’t be bothered to dress with any attention to his wardrobe. This, of course, was exactly what Alec was.
          The choice between hiding out at home and going out wasn’t really much of an internal debate for Alec. At home, there was the TV with its news, talk shows, and shows rife with references to the apocalypse. His parents had changed their number five times in 7 weeks, Alec no longer went online.
When Alec stepped outside, he was gratified to see there were no effigies or piles of excrement on the lawn. No knife-wielding would-be attackers. No reporters-
          "Alec Kaminski!" the reedy voice came from the shrubbery to Alec’s right. Alec yelped and jumped to the left, colliding with the post of the porch. Slightly dazed, Alec could not decide whether to retreat back inside the house or to flee the premises. The thin, young man (barely) with glasses half the size of his face and skinny jeans who emerged from the shrubbery, yanking on the strap of his camera to free it from a branch reminded Alec of a bug. Maybe a dragonfly, without the wings.
          "No comment," Alec told him, recovering sufficiently to shoot the reporter/photojournalist/insectboy a nasty glare. Unfazed, the bug held out a hand. Alec didn’t take it, but when he glanced down he saw that the hand held a business card in it. He deliberately didn’t take it.
          "DeShawn Banks, with the Update," the reporter said, pocketing his card after a brief pause. "Just a moment of your time-" Alec made a chopping motion with his hand.
          "I said no! No . . . comment ." Alec spun around and walked swiftly down the steps, intent upon making his way towards his bike locked up several blocks away. His last bike, while locked up in back of his house, had been trashed beyond repair.
          His car was untouched. No one in Detroit worried anymore about vandalized cars. The risk was too great.
          "Why?" DeShawn’s query, simple but plaintive, stopped Alec in his tracks. Over the weeks, various people had asked Alec how he did it, who else was involved, what he did. But no one had asked why. They were too angry, too stunned. Alec didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look DeShawn in the eyes.
"I just wanted to fix my car," Alec said, his voice weary as the steps he took away from the staring journalist.
          Alec kept his head down as he shuffled down the sidewalk. He was less likely to be recognized if his face wasn’t easily discernable. But he glanced up often, out of necessity. He knew that while it was far more likely that any car leaving the road and heading up the pavement towards him would not harm him at all, there was still the risk that it would be a solid, existent car with a vengeful driver behind the wheel. So many people blamed him for the deaths of their loved ones. Or the maiming accidents. The injuries. The stress. The list went on.
          Alec dealt with enough of his own stress. It’d even gotten him started on drinking heavily, at the age of seventeen. His shoulders and neck were a constant knot of tension, as if the hand of collective resentment and hatred was wrapped firmly around his neck. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the afternoon light flash off something green. He glanced up and saw a Model-T bearing directly down towards where he wavered upon the pavement.
          Alec’s body trembled as his heart flung itself frenziedly at his ribcage over and over. Was the car real? It looked and sounded real, but that meant nothing these days. He tried to force his feet to move, to run, to flee, but it was as if his legs had petrified. Likewise for his eyelids; they would not close, would not let Alec shut out the approaching car as it came closer and closer, rattling and roaring. Smoke shot out the rear and from underneath the hood as well, making Alec think of a dragon. A dragon that soon would strike Alec and kill him. The dragon drew even closer and-
          Passed through Alec, continuing a few more feet before it abruptly stopped, the entire front caving in with a hideous cacophony of tearing metal and snapping parts. The car must have hit a tree or something similar that no longer stood in that spot, Alec surmised, as he wiped his face with a shaking hand. His legs unlocked, and he fell down onto his knees, inhaling and exhaling forcefully. A ghost car. How Alec hated the bastards.
          After a few moments, Alec staggered to his feet. Swaying, he began to move once again, his eyes darting in all directions. He reached his bike without further incident, although he did hear the collision between two 60’s sedans. He didn’t bother to look up and see the aftermath. There wouldn’t be one. The cars would disappear soon after the collision, and Alec had seen the accident already. Twenty or so times.
Alec ran his fingers over the frame of his bike. He had so little motivation these days. Lifting his leg to straddle the bike seemed to require more work than running a marathon wearing cement blocks upon his feet. His life sucked ass, and he was only seventeen. He sighed, and got on his bike. "I just wanted to fix my car," he muttered, as he began pedaling.
          The brakes need fixing, Alec decided, probably because he used them so often every time he went out, with the extremely defensive riding he had to do. God damn, but he needed a drink. Gabe at the liquor store wouldn’t start his shift for another couple of hours, though. Alec wandered the streets, trying to stay off the bigger streets and sticking to alleys and side roads. Eventually, he decided to go home to eat something, so he headed back towards the no parking signpost where he would leave his bike.
          Perhaps if Alec had returned by a different route. Perhaps if he’d pedaled slower, or faster. Perhaps if deep down within, he wasn’t harboring thoughts of just giving up for once and all. Perhaps . . . it didn’t matter. Alec was coasting along when he saw, again, the phantom green Model-T headed on a course perpendicular to his. In a single day, a car’s demise could be played out a dozen times, easily. During the nights they seemed to occur more often, perhaps because they had, in reality. Nearly everyone slept with earplugs now. Alec felt surprise when a burst of anger welled up within his cor. He was so tired of this, of everything. He gripped his handlebars and began pedaling towards the car.
          Too late, he discerned through the reflected sky the face of the driver inside the car. The clothes, the hair, they weren’t of the 30’s. Alec’s entire body went numb, even as he cried out and tried to swerve out of the car’s onrush. As the shock of the impact ran through Alec’s body, he marveled at the ingenuity and hatred behind the driver’s planning. To determine where Alec kept his bike, to discover which ghost car was nearest, and to locate and refurbish an actual match, to trick Alec long enough to kill him. Alec’s weak laughter was inaudible under the sounds of breaking bones, twisting metal, and screeching brakes.
Alec awoke in pain that transcended any possible measurement he’d even been capable of imagining. Nausea rose in his throat, receded, and then spilled forth.
          Through a haze, he was vaguely aware of cries, a sponge wiping his face and chin, a sheet removed and replaced. A hand stroked his brow, clearing his hair away from his forehead. A mother-voice murmured to him, "salrrghtAlessyoresaffnao" and then Alec sank back into the folds of oblivion.
          Alec dreamed a memory, the memory of how it all started. He’d bought his own car with long-saved cash, a ’76 Thunderbird. It hadn’t been the best of deals, because the car itself needed many parts. Even though these were plentiful in Detroit, the ones needed for a ’76 Thunderbird weren’t cheap, not by a far cry. Fed up with the disproportionate hours his car sat on the driveway compared to the few he spent driving it around, he turned to alternate means. Magic. Deepest magic.
          Alec believed that he could adapt some spells to basically restore the Thunderbird. He’d gotten the idea from a late night movie based on a Stephen King book. He’d had to be creative with the interpretation of some of the spells and the ingredients they called for, but in the end, it turned out that Alec was quite adept at working magic. More adept than he’d known at the time.
          One particular night Alec had sat inside the complex diagram that took him five hours to draw with chalk (his parents were out of town for the weekend) on the fllor of the garage and spoke the invocations, combined the ingredients, and projected his will into the wooden constrict representing his car. He’d experienced a palpable emanation of power, but when he ran outside, his face full of excitement, he was bitterly disappointed to see no change in his car.
          As it turned out, Alec’s spell hadn’t had the exact result he’d hoped for. He’d also performed it in one of the most risky locales possible; Detroit. The essence of the spell had been to restore the spirit of the Thunderbird, but Alec’s natural and innate talent had amplified the force of the magic, increased a million fold by the heart of Detroit; the cars of days gone by. The result: the echo of every single automobile that was now defunct, due to collision, fire, immersion in a body of water, rust, or old age, now manifested itself. In short, Detroit was now heavily infested with car ghosts. They looked solid, and sounded real, so people could not discern the difference between these and actual presently existing cars, except by touch. There was no safe or effective test to determine a car’s physical status by contact, unfortunately.
          A rather sinister feature was that some of these cars also had drivers and passengers clearly visible inside. The ghosts of those who had perished with the vehicle. As with any haunting, the car ghosts often re-enacted their demises over and over.
          Small wonder that Alec was so reviled by the city of Detroit. In a single night, he’d changed the entire cityscape and put the residents into a constant state of paranoia and fear and tension. Furthermore, the spell showed no signs of abating. Modern cars totaled in accident since the night Alec performed his magic also returned in spirit as phantoms.
          It took Alec three weeks to climb out of his medicated stupor. Another three weeks before he was due to released from the hospital. Two days before he was to leave, a stranger slid into the room where Alec slept and stood staring down at the boy for a long while, teeth and fists clenched, rage rising off skin.
Alec woke up completely free of pain. He sat up, and swung his feet over to the side of the bed. He stood up, and looked at his dead body, the head still obscured by a pillow. He glanced over at the departing figure of his killer without much interest. Well. It was over with and he didn’t hurt anymore. He turned to face the wall, and then walked through it.
          He ambled along several streets, enjoying the privilege of being able to look around at his environs without fear of drawing unwanted attention or reprisal from passer-bys. He reached out to stroke a parked Dodge Charger, something he would never have dared to do if his hand was solid. His fingers now just dipped beneath the surface of the fiery orange paint. He crossed an intersection against the traffic flow, ignoring the cars that simply phased through him. He laughed, elated at his new freedom.
          When the ’02 Mazda squealed around the corner at another intersection several minutes later, Alec paid it no attention as he stepped out in front of it. That’s when he realized that a ghost getting hit by a ghost car was exactly the same as getting hit by a real car in life. Exactly.
          Except that while Alec lay in the street, a broken and moaning creature, blood pouring forth from his body but making no stain upon the pavement, there would be no medical assistance coming to his aid.