24:01 One Minute After

  Garner’s tongue lolled from his mouth as he rolled his head from side to side. Nol nodded sadly. “It’s so, lad. Your father meant only t’ stay your hand, but in trying t’ kill yer brother, you’ve turned the act on yerself.”

  ***

  Tarin’s eyelids fluttered open and a black veil was swept away. He lay still for a moment, chilled and confused, and then memories came rushing back with the returning beat of his heart. One hand flew to his chest in a panic. He fumbled with his jerkin; wet—warm and sticky. He thrust his hand under the fabric, and felt… nothing. No wound under the bloodstained clothing. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, lifting the longbow and quiver from his chest as he did so. He glanced around, and his eyes locked on the distant figure moving down the gully.

  The Burned Man!

  He froze silent, and then rose carefully to his feet.

  I surely do not understand what has happened, but it would seem that the reaper has misplaced his visit today.

  Cautiously planting his throbbing ankle as a balance point, Tarin shifted weight to the good leg. He drew out his best shaft; long and perfectly balanced, meant for big game at a distance. Notching it, he drew the longbow taut. His mind flashed to an image of his father presenting him with the bow, a symbol of his entry to manhood just a cycle of seasons past.

  Father. Taken by the Ridgebacks, most likely, who were known to descend from the high mountains for plunder after an especially lean winter.

  As a final gift, da, I ask that you guide my aim today.

  Burnd stiffened at the twang of the bowstring but the arrow was on him near as quick as was the sound of its release. The shaft pierced him dead center, and Burnd collapsed in a jumbled heap.

  Tarin found a suitable branch and broke it to length, and he fitted the forked notch under his arm and limped slowly down-slope. The assassin’s eyes blinked open as he stood over him, and Burnd spoke in a raspy, burbling voice.

  “You must have prayed… especially well this day, Master Tarin. The Gods have surely played me for a fool, as I cannot imagine how you might be standing there.” He coughed hoarsely, spraying flecks of blood. “But strange as it may sound, I am grateful for it. I’ve grown weary of my game. The smell of the kill… once so heady… has turned to bitter...” His voice trailed off as his eyes seemed to lose focus. They flickered shut, and Tarin repositioned his makeshift crutch to turn away.

  “Master Tarin. I would make one request.”

  Tarin turned back to peer into clear blue eyes that reflected all the open sky, and looked into a soul both tortured and grateful..

  “I… cannot move. I know that my time is done, but… I fear perhaps not soon enough.” He smiled faintly, the first time Tarin had been sure of his emotion. “If you would do me a final kindness.” He nodded toward the nocked crossbow that lay a few feet away in the rocky scrabble. “I do smell blood on you now, young Master, and I’d rather not bear witness when the ravens find me...”

  Tarin nodded once, somehow saddened, and knelt to pick up the crossbow.

  The End

  Spirits of the ‘Cane

  The air pressure dropped like a waterslide at a deranged theme park.

  “Get down!” shouted Sean, and he dove for the floor just as the first window blew in. The concussion was immediately swept away by a roar of mindless violence—the chaos named Norbert was now upon them, rendering any imagined ferocity pale in contrast. Wicked shards of glass slashed overtop the barrier where Sean tried to mold himself flat to the floor, and he darted his panicked gaze to the blurry image that was Ben.

  His friend sat curled into a ball, rocking, knees pulled tight to his chest.

  The remaining windows on the eastern wall of the dining hall burst in rapid succession, banging in like a gunslinger fanning his revolver, followed by exploding glass on the lee-side. The storm roared through, all raging wind and horizontal rain, flinging and tumbling everything in its path, and the massive buffet counter they huddled behind began to slide, shoving them bodily across the wet, lacquered floor.

  Norbert, a Category Five hurricane, had laid claim to the 3rd floor dining room of the Port Mayaca Lodge.

  a few days prior…

  Sean raised his head and blinked his eyes twice, three times—unsure as to where, or momentarily even who, he was. He rolled onto his back, wincing at the too-loud rustle of the pillow into which his face had just been planted. Groaning and leveraging himself up onto his elbows, he squinted around the room.

  Now he remembered.

  He ran a tongue over fuzzy teeth and his lips curled up in disgust. His breath would be of the living dead, or worse. With a moan he pushed to his feet and stood on rubbery legs, head banging and eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the scene.

  The Frat House was a disaster—nothing out of the ordinary. But sleeping downstairs on a couch? Most likely he’d had a few too many and had simply fizzled out, as had the small but dedicated storm-watch party.

  He nodded agreement to himself, immediately regretting the motion as his head spun like a cotton candy vortex.

  forward to Norbert…

  It took both hands to twist the knob straining against the wind, and when it finally released the door tore out of his grip and slammed hard against the inner stairwell wall. He pushed silent Ben inside and braced to shoulder the door closed, convinced that he’d be unable to do so but favored by a momentary lull—just enough to force the door against its jamb and re-engage the bolt. He moved to the head of the stairs and peered down into the gloom and Ben followed slowly, woodenly, as though he walked in his sleep. Frowning and wishing the image of a B-movie zombie had not just come to mind, Sean began to ease down the stairs, feeling his way with his toes, praying that he didn’t encounter the Monster From the Second Floor lurking in the shadows below.

  The stairwell was not lit, nothing was. If this nightmare is still ongoing come the full dark of nightfall…

  He gave a shake of his head, forcing his thoughts elsewhere.

  He glanced back to Ben. His friend was reaching out for him, his fleshy, pallid form looking like a harkening ghost or a freaking nightmare in the dim stairway, and Sean leaned back out of reach.

  “Hold tight to the stair-rail, Ben,” he whispered hoarsely. Ben’s gaze was blank and devoid of emotion, almost as if he looked through whatever his gaze was directed at, but there must have been some cognition behind those dull eyes, because Ben’s outstretched hand slowly fell to grip the railing.

  Sean gulped down air and swiped a hand across his sweat-streaked face. He feared his friend now, or more accurately feared whatever it was that Ben had become. When he touched Ben he felt a chill, a penetrating coldness that somehow carried a horrid, irreversible truth. And there was another sensation, even more disturbing—a sort of yearning, an emptiness needing to be filled.

  A shiver coursed through Sean and he bit down on his lip, shaking his head. He had to get his mind back to the immediate crisis. They couldn’t stay here in the stairwell—too enclosed, too easy to be trapped. They’d have to go back to the second level and try to wait out the storm there. Once they’d reached the lower landing Sean pushed the door open a crack and peered out, scanning the dim hallway. Some of the doors stood ajar, slowly creaking with the slight stirring of mostly dead air. Very different from the beast that raged without.

  Sean’s scan froze. There he sat, hunched in a bentwood rocker at the far end of the hallway, his bony knuckles closed around a knobby cypress cane.

  Old Mr. Delane.

  Sean could just make out the smile; some teeth missing and others gold-capped and glimmering in the shadows.

  He’s humming, I can hear it even over the wind. The mother of all hurricanes rages just outside, and he hums…

  Unconsciously, Sean’s grip tightened around the bat. He bounced it in his hands, feeling its weight.

  back…

  The tepid shower went cool fast enough—as cool as it gets in central Florida in August, anyway. At
least there was water pressure—a little. A handful of Ibuprofen and a long shower had cleared his head a bit, though he could not shake off the grinning imp on a jackhammer at work behind his eyes.

  The power was off; had been for a while if the rising smell from the fridge was any clue. Though the Frathouse fridge was a bit a HazMat zone even when the power was on. Of course he’d tried the land-line phone—dead as a water-logged stump.

  Water logged—ain’t that right. He peered out the windows where he’d opened the shutters, shaking his head. The parking lot was a shallow lake. Old-growth oak lay tumbled and broken, roots ripped from the soil. Debris was scattered everywhere, even vehicles strewn haphazard—crumpled under trees, shoved up against houses and through fences. The roads looked impassable. His cell was picking up nothing; losing its charge and with no place to re-up. Even his effing ipod was dead.

  Sean grinned his clever grin; he had a plan.

  He clomped as noisily as possible up the stairs. Almost all his frat brothers were gone—evacuated before the storm, before the ‘hurricane party’. The few others in attendance yesterday had apparently stumbled back to wherever before the storm made full force last night, but Sean knew where to find one accomplice, be he willing or not. He swung open the door of his friend’s room, banging it against the wall, and stout Ben Vinson shot up in bed, eyes wide and out of focus. Ben’s disoriented gaze came to rest on Sean, and he snorted.

  “What the hell you doing, waking me this ungodly hour!?”

  “It’s almost noon.” Sean pulled open the blinds, letting the light flood in through translucent shutters. “Rise and shine, birdbrain, all the worms are spoken for...”

  Ben picked up the empty doughnut box that sat between them and tilted it back, pouring the last few crumbs into his mouth. “So what’s the plan?” he grumbled. “We’ve got no power, no food, no phone—and I don’t trust that dribble of water from the tap. All we’ve got is warm beer.” He walked over to the keg and poured a cup, regarding it dubiously. “It’s going flat,” he announced, tossing it down and belching.

  Sean scowled. “Stay the tap, man, we’ve got a mission.”

  “A mission of your making? Ha—I’m out.”

  “What’s your plan, then, Ben-boy? How long before we get power back? We’ve got a half box of Apple-Puffs, a couple cans of beans, and a quarter keg of warm beer. How much cash you got?”

  Ben held up a circled thumb and forefinger, and rose to rummage through the cabinets, returning with the Apple-Puffs. “So? You’ve pretty much just written us a bad check. What’s your brilliant plan, Doctor DoWrong?”

  Sean smiled knowingly. “You heard the reports. Melinda confounded all the computer models. South Florida evacuated en-masse, but she skipped ‘round the Keyes and up the Gulf Coast to cross the peninsula from the west—the worst of it was north of us, even.” Sean slouched back with a smug expression, and Ben looked at him blankly.

  “I’m still waiting.”

  Sean leaned forward to whack Ben with a roadmap.

  “Hey!”

  “Whattaya think, puff-boy? We head south. There’s no damage there, and only the hard-core would’a stayed put. You said your folks have a lodge near the Big O— maybe we’ll have the whole place to ourselves for a day or three.”

  “Huh. My old Beetle’s sitting in three feet of water, probably never to run again—not that it was running so well anyway—and the roads are virtually impassable. How’re we gonna get there, the breast stroke?”

  Sean pointed at Ben. “Think, college boy.” He swung his finger toward the rear of the property. “The shed. What’s in the shed, on high ground out back, Ben-O?”

  Understanding dawned across Ben’s face. “Ohh… I dunno, man. What about fuel, supplies?”

  “You know damn well our dual-sports sit there gassed up, ready and prepped for our still-born adventure.” Ben opened his mouth to protest, and Sean held up a palm. “Don’t go weaseling out on me again, Rotundo—we don’t have much choice this time.” He pointed at the empty cereal box lying on its side in the middle of the table. “You’ve already finished off most of our food, and you’ve only been awake forty five minutes. Throw some jeans and t-shirts into your bike’s panniers. It’s not much over a hundred miles to Okeechobee. With the auxiliary tanks we can make it without needing to refuel.”

  forward…

  “C’mon, Ben, pick it up.” Sean hissed, glancing between his lumbering friend and the slumped form of Mr. Delane. He’d stood crouched in the stairwell for nearly an hour, peering out, until he’d seen Delane’s head sag forward—apparently nodding off. He now released a breath as they turned the corner off the main corridor, out of Delane’s line of sight.

  He had no plan, really; he was just running, praying he could keep them away from Delane until escape was possible. The ravaging storm held them captive in the lodge and the first floor was flooded and especially dangerous. Ben’s step-dad, for reasons Sean didn’t know and didn’t care to ponder, had left before shuttering the third floor, but the second floor was battened down tight. Hopefully secure from the storm, if from nothing else. Ben lagged behind, his eyes unfocused, and Sean carefully tugged at his sleeve without actually touching him. “Ben! C’mon.”

  A raspy cackle came from behind, and Sean spun around. Delane! Reacting before thinking he leapt backward, banging into the soft mass of Ben and sending the pair of them to the floor.

  “Hellooo, boys. Ya’s come back to make us right, now has ya?”

  Sean scrambled to his feet, backing away and shouting. “Get up, Ben! Move!” He snatched up the bat and took a step toward Delane, cocking it over his shoulder.

  “Heh,” Delane chuckled, his eyes glowing luminescent green. He cocked an imaginary bat and swung it slowly through. “An’ what’re ya gonna do with that, boy? Kill us?”

  Sean raised the bat higher, circling its tip like the tail of an angry hornet. His heartbeat hammered and he could actually smell the fear in his sweat.

  “I may not be able kill you—I have doubts you’re even alive—but I can sure bust you up good!”

  A cold light flashed in the old man’s eyes, but still he smiled. He spoke in a reasoning tone. “Be puttin’ that down, boy, an’ come on over.”

  “Like hell I will, you bastard! Stay clear or I’ll bust your skull wide open.”

  The old man smiled wickedly, his gold teeth glimmering. “Ain’t it funny that ya speaks o’ bones…”

  Sean understood immediately, and he spun back around. Three skeletal figures closed on he and Ben, their bony fingers grasping.

  back…

  The place sure looked empty, and when Ben put his hand on the knob the door nudged in. He pushed it open and glanced at Sean. “This isn’t right. Pops never leaves anything unsecured, not here.” He stuck his head in. “Ma! Pops!” No one answered, and Ben frowned and waved Sean inside.

  The first miles had been a challenge—lots of flooding, broken limbs and uprooted trees blocking the roads—in places the sand had washed so thick across the road that it felt like riding the beach at low-tide. South of Orlando the storms’ affects had faded, and they had wondered at the absence of traffic. One would think the evacuees would be returning by now, though in truth most of the roads to the north were still impassable by automobile.

  Now they sat at the kitchen table, wolfing down provisions scavenged from a well-stocked refrigerator that had never lost power, and their big dual-sport thumpers—crudded-up from their transit through the challenging post-storm damage—clicked and pinged as they sat cooling in the empty parking lot.

  “Like I said, everybody turned tail and bailed north.” Sean spoke around a mouthful. “The forecasts all showed Melinda making landfall south of Palm Beach, and after the bitchin’ storms of recent years everybody in the southern half of the state was scared shitless and got the hell out.”

  “I dunno.” said Ben. “It’s like a ghost town here.”

  “It’s not exactly
Grand Central even at its busiest, right? We’re in the boonies here—black muck, sugarcane and swampland.” Sean winked. “Yaz Sah!”

  Ben frowned. “As usual you border on crude, but it’s true that it’s fairly rural here. Still—this was Pops pride and joy. I can’t see him just packing up and leaving.”

  “Fear for one’s life can change a person’s way of thinking.” Sean gestured at the wall, covered with framed newspaper clippings. “What did you tell me once about your step-dad wanting to start some kind of museum? This doesn’t look the part—more like an apartment building with way too many vacancies.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, Pops was kinda off his thinking there.” Ben nodded at the clippings. “Those’re old, from the late 20’s. When I was a little kid we lived on the coast, Delray Beach. One day Pops saw this documentary on TV, about the 1928 hurricane. It devastated south Florida, flooding the towns around Lake Okeechobee, tearing apart the cities on the coast. Survivors were recovered miles away from where the storm caught them up—sometimes clinging to branches up in trees where they’d been washed by floodwaters. Thousands were killed, mostly around the Lake.”

  Sean whistled low. “I never knew that.”

  “I didn’t either, until Pops saw that show. Then he became obsessed, reading and collecting everything he could. He bought this land and built here, saying he was going to put together the Hurricane of 1928 Historical Museum.”

  Sean snorted. “A museum about a hurricane? Way out here, so far from everything?”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. People told him—family, friends—everybody said it was a dumb idea. But he went on with it anyway. Of course it never got off the ground, and he finally had enough sense to convert the place to a boarding house. He and Ma scrape by. But he still doesn’t regret it, as best I can tell. It still consumes him.”