He wakes atop a fresh grave in the rain.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019s muddy and achy, and he can barely see through the gloom.\u00c2\u00a0 Fortunately, there\u2019s the near constant flicker of lightning, and a continuous roll of thunder with violent punctuations.\u00c2\u00a0 The flashes are blinding.\u00c2\u00a0 The rain feels like bullets.\u00c2\u00a0 He knows what bullets feel like.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019s cold, and he\u2019s stiff, and he\u2019s not exactly sure how he got here.<\/p>\n
Between lightning strikes, he reads the tombstone: Armando Luis Salazar.\u00c2\u00a0 Name means nothing to him.\u00c2\u00a0 But since he doesn\u2019t even remember his own, that\u2019s no surprise.<\/p>\n
Faces watch him from the shadows, hiding behind the trees and mausoleums and gravestones, some closer than others, but there\u2019s nothing real out there, nothing substantial.\u00c2\u00a0 These are ghosts, mere echoes of memories.\u00c2\u00a0 He approaches one; it fades, and others appear in alternative hidey holes, behind other stones, on the other side of the iron fence.<\/p>\n
The rain has soaked him through to the bone.\u00c2\u00a0 His clothes, torn and dirty, are a total loss.\u00c2\u00a0 No shoes.\u00c2\u00a0 Wallet, yes.\u00c2\u00a0 Inside, he finds money, albeit not much, a few pictures, credit cards, a license, all in the name of Armando Luis Salazar.<\/p>\n
He knows that\u2019s not him.<\/p>\n
He also knows he\u2019s no grave robber.<\/p>\n
The license offers his only clue: an address.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t know what city this is, but he knows the streets well enough, and he finds his way rather easily.\u00c2\u00a0 Too easily, he thinks.\u00c2\u00a0 Something\u2019s amiss, but he\u2019s not sure what.<\/p>\n
The license leads him to a row house between a dozen others.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s stands three stories, sports a steep roof, gutters overflowing with rainwater, two windows on the ground and next level, one at the top.\u00c2\u00a0 Light escapes around the drapes of one of the second floor windows.\u00c2\u00a0 The porch, though small, is the first relief he\u2019s had from the rain.<\/p>\n
Besides the wallet, he found nothing in his pockets.\u00c2\u00a0 He feels the jamb above the door, and is rewarded with a shiny silver key.\u00c2\u00a0 It opens the door.<\/p>\n
The foyer is small, dark, and claustrophobically filled.\u00c2\u00a0 Coat rack, chair, semi-circle table against the wall, oversized plant and a book on it; stairs straight up, doors on either side, one straight ahead; an umbrella stand, even a tiny mirror beside the door with three pegs for keys.\u00c2\u00a0 A set hangs from only one.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t bother with the doors.\u00c2\u00a0 One will be a closet; it\u2019s too close to the house next door.\u00c2\u00a0 The others will lead to kitchen and living room, but not to answers.\u00c2\u00a0 He leaves a trail of watery steps up the wood stairs.<\/p>\n
At the landing, a short hall leads to the front.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s a door right here, closed, two more leading to rooms with windows facing the street, and a bathroom halfway down the hall.<\/p>\n
Cautiously, he pushes open the door on his left and enters the room with the light.\u00c2\u00a0 It comes from a single lamp between the window and a reading chair.\u00c2\u00a0 Pictures hang on the walls and stand on the table.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s no bed here, but a series of books in shelves carved directly into the wall.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s a closet with sliding doors.\u00c2\u00a0 Heavy drapes over the window.<\/p>\n
It takes all of two seconds to see there\u2019s nothing to be seen, but it\u2019s too long.\u00c2\u00a0 He feels a sharp jab into his kidney, the cold barrel of a pistol.\u00c2\u00a0 A woman\u2019s voice whispers a question: \u201cWho sent you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He hasn\u2019t tried his voice.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s dusty, despite the rain.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean, you don\u2019t know?\u201d<\/p>\n
His hands are up, and if he moves them he\u2019ll catch a bullet.\u00c2\u00a0 He says, \u201cWallet.\u201d<\/p>\n
She reaches into his back pocket, extracts the wall so expertly he barely feels it.\u00c2\u00a0 She flips it open, pushes the gun deeper into his back.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cArmando Luis Salazar,\u201d she says.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cHe\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo I gathered.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn the room, in the chair, let me look at you.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 She shoves with the gun, as though he didn\u2019t know which of the single chair in the room he was supposed to choose.\u00c2\u00a0 He walks slowly, but doesn\u2019t have enough pieces to put anything together.\u00c2\u00a0 When he reaches the chair, he turns and he sits.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s still at the doorway.\u00c2\u00a0 Gun aimed directly at him.\u00c2\u00a0 She wears jeans, a tee shirt, nothing special or overt, but she\u2019s sexy as hell.\u00c2\u00a0 She\u2019s also the only woman he ever remembers seeing.\u00c2\u00a0 Short dark hair, gleaming eyes, maybe green, maybe blue, hard to tell with so little light.<\/p>\n
She throws the wallet back at him.\u00c2\u00a0 He catches it, but makes no other move.\u00c2\u00a0 The gun\u2019s still aimed, and though the rest of her is calm and cool and collected, her finger looks twitchy.\u00c2\u00a0 Maybe it\u2019s just the weapon.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019s fairly sure he\u2019s had guns pointed at him before.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho sent you?\u201d she asks again.<\/p>\n
\u201cGave you all I got,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMeans I\u2019m not sure.\u00c2\u00a0 I don\u2019t know.\u00c2\u00a0 I don\u2019t remember.\u201d<\/p>\n
She grins.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s a grin that says she doesn\u2019t believe him.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cWhat do you remember, smartass?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI remember waking up in the cemetery in the rain.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, you and everyone else.\u00c2\u00a0 We\u2019ve all done that.\u00c2\u00a0 What else?\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 Strange thing for her to say; he\u2019s fairly certain that particular memory is rather unique.<\/p>\n
\u201cI had his wallet.\u00c2\u00a0 So I came here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a fool.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI imagine I ain\u2019t the only one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re also stupid,\u201d she says.\u00c2\u00a0 She\u2019s relaxed, but she hasn\u2019t lowered the gun, won\u2019t lower it, can\u2019t completely trust him.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cYou look like him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSalazar?\u201d he asks.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cMaybe he\u2019s my brother.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou hungry?\u00c2\u00a0 Thirsty?\u00c2\u00a0 Tired?\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 She\u2019s asking as though she might care, but she doesn\u2019t, she can\u2019t, and it makes him uneasy.\u00c2\u00a0 The answers shouldn\u2019t be what most people would answer.\u201d<\/p>\n
So he tells her, \u201cI ache.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 He does.\u00c2\u00a0 Every muscle.\u00c2\u00a0 As though he\u2019d been beaten with baseball bats.\u00c2\u00a0 No bones broken, no lacerations–at least, none he\u2019s aware of–but stiff and somewhat tired.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a mess,\u201d she tells him.<\/p>\n
And he tells her, \u201cYou were expecting me.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 No question.\u00c2\u00a0 A statement of fact.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019d not made enough noise to alert her.\u00c2\u00a0 Didn\u2019t even squish when he walked.\u00c2\u00a0 How long had she been sitting in the dark, waiting?<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course we were,\u201d another voice says.\u00c2\u00a0 Behind her: a man, older, fit and broad, with goatee and an ingratiating smile that will completely annoy anyone within three minutes.\u00c2\u00a0 Salesman, except in a better suit, with an unnatural twinkle in his left eye, as though the left eye were the only one that mattered.\u00c2\u00a0 He steps in past the woman.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cAnd she should\u2019ve introduced herself.\u00c2\u00a0 This is Penelope.\u00c2\u00a0 She knew, what did you call him?\u00c2\u00a0 Salazar.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGerald.\u00c2\u00a0 Gerald Maker.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s Welsh, the name, and very old.\u00c2\u00a0 Older than I am.\u00c2\u00a0 The real question tonight, my boy, is what do we call you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He\u2019s crossed half the room before stopping.\u00c2\u00a0 He swings his hands when he speaks, wide sweeps, thick expressive fingers.\u00c2\u00a0 Penelope hasn\u2019t moved, hasn\u2019t lowered the gun, though her eyes have shifted to Mr. Maker.\u00c2\u00a0 He bends over, looking more closely at the man in the pistol\u2019s firing zone.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cYou are something of an amazement, even I must admit that.\u00c2\u00a0 You say you remember nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo I know you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, my boy,\u201d Mr. Maker says.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cIt was Penelope who called me in.\u00c2\u00a0 You weren\u2019t here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere was I?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you believe me if I said you were dead?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, perhaps you should.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 The simple denial seems untruthful, misleading.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s no vehemence behind it, no emotion at all, and he wonders if his forgotten name is, in fact, Armando Luis Salazar.\u00c2\u00a0 He wonders, but he doubts it.\u00c2\u00a0 He decides he can\u2019t believe a thing Mr. Maker says.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnyhow.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 Mr. Maker turns to Penelope, though he\u2019s still close enough to be grabbed, punched, kicked, strangled, whatever.\u00c2\u00a0 Mr. Maker\u2019s not worried; she\u2019s still got the gun trained on the chair, and he\u2019s walking past her to get out of the room.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cI believe I\u2019ve proven my worth, Ms. Penelope.\u00c2\u00a0 Shall we get on to the real thing?\u201d<\/p>\n
She says, \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
As he disappears into the gloom behind her, he says, \u201cThen take care of him.\u00c2\u00a0 Don\u2019t worry.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019ll be no blood.\u201d<\/p>\n
She hesitates, but only briefly, then it\u2019s three shots, a triangle in the chest.\u00c2\u00a0 He looks down at the wounds, sees Mr. Maker was right, there is no blood.\u00c2\u00a0 He tries to stand, but his legs falter and he drops noisily to the ground.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019s still covered by aches, but the bullets holes hurt like lava.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s already turning away.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to doubt you, Mr. Maker.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s just such an extraordinary claim.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo worries, my dear,\u201d he\u2019s saying, but he\u2019s almost too far away to hear.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cCorpse-raising isn\u2019t exactly a widely practiced art.\u201d<\/p>\n
Penelope\u2019s walking away.\u00c2\u00a0 The burning bullets are melting into the regular aches that cover him.\u00c2\u00a0 He knows his name wasn\u2019t Armando Luis Salazar, but he doesn\u2019t know what it was.\u00c2\u00a0 He was practice.\u00c2\u00a0 The real thing, presumably Salazar, is next.\u00c2\u00a0 But there\u2019s a problem.<\/p>\n
He needs to use the chair to support himself, but he does manage to stand.\u00c2\u00a0 His legs are weak, but not dead weight.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s no blood.\u00c2\u00a0 And, to be perfectly honest, getting shot now didn\u2019t hurt near as much as when he\u2019d been alive.\u00c2\u00a0 And, since he\u2019s not alive, not really, since he suddenly realizes he\u2019s not been breathing, he\u2019s merely a collection of over-stimulated nerve endings, three bullets or a hundred wouldn\u2019t make him dead again.<\/p>\n
He peeks out the window.\u00c2\u00a0 They\u2019re walking through the rain, toward the cemetery.\u00c2\u00a0 That\u2019s okay.\u00c2\u00a0 He can wait.\u00c2\u00a0 When they get back, he\u2019ll be waiting in the dark.\u00c2\u00a0 And while he may have no gun, and his strength isn\u2019t what it was, that\u2019s okay, too.\u00c2\u00a0 There\u2019s a kitchen downstairs, and he\u2019ll find a knife.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He wakes atop a fresh grave in the rain.\u00c2\u00a0 He\u2019s muddy and achy, and he can barely see through the gloom.\u00c2\u00a0 Fortunately, there\u2019s the near […]<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[12,6,1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/623"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=623"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/623\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=623"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=623"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.darkfluidity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=623"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}