One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 6

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Zhíno aimed the Enforcer cruiser straight at Fírí as he flew up the driveway. Gravel rattled off the auto’s underside. Far past her, two Névo-brained men with rifles waved at him. Maybe one of them was the Voro-fucker who shot him.

Fírí’s eyes grew to half her face as he barreled down on her. She screamed. And then the Vítí-twin snagged a duffel bag off the ground and ran into the scrub brush.

Zhíno slammed the brakes, skidding to a stop, pushing the window button with his right hand as he held his semiautomatic to the top of the glass, waiting for it to get far enough down. He couldn’t abandon the protection of the cruiser, not with two potential hostiles outside. But he couldn’t let Fírí escape.

He saw glimpses of her running between the bushes, her blonde hair gleaming bright against the darkness.

The semiautomatic fit through and Zhíno’s hand followed, aiming the gun at the blonde twin of Vítí.

His arm exploded with agony.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 5

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak steadied his nerves as the blonde woman dropped her bag. He was safe from any gun in the duffel, but that still left in or under the sweatshirt as potential hiding places.

“Off your shirt!” he snapped, hoping she’d understand, hoping she was sane enough to comprehend his fear.

She apparently was, because she slowly grabbed the bottom of the sweatshirt and started lifting.

But then she froze.

A police siren, growing louder. Bhanar relaxed slightly. He was saved. They’d arrest this woman, find her gun, match it to the bullets that must be lodged in his truck, and let Bhanar get on with living his life.

Pí’oro muttered something about the police.

And just perhaps, the police would arrest Pí’oro for being a crazy old man who ordered everybody around.

The bushes and boulders down by the road lit up with red and green flashes, ever brighter. The squeal of the police cruiser’s tires cut through the siren and all other sound. Then finally Bhanar saw the auto skid to a halt, a few yards past the driveway.

Bhanar forced his body to stand up, commanding one frozen muscle at a time. Bits of gravel stuck to his bare forearms.

The police auto jerked into reverse, passing the driveway again. Its tires squealed as it braked.

Bhanar kept his rifle pointed at the blonde, but waved his left hand over his head. “Hey! Police!”

“Aw, plagues,” spat Pí’oro.

The blonde had turned away from Bhanar and was waving to the police as well. But then she abruptly stopped.

“Zhíno!” The blonde took a hesitant backward step up the driveway. Over her shoulder, she yelled, “That’s Zhíno!”

Had she been telling the truth about another gunman? Was this him? Had he now stolen a police cruiser, as well?

The police auto accelerated up the driveway, dust billowing up from its tires. The driver certainly wasn’t acting like a policeman. He was about to run over the blonde. Didn’t he see her?

“Watch out!” Bhanar yelled--in Zhuphíoan.

The woman screamed and ran off into the bushes, but not before grabbing her precious duffel bag.

The cruiser skidded to a stop right where the woman had disappeared, still fifty yards away from Bhanar and the old man. The driver must be the Zhéporé-spawn who had shot at Bhanar, and now he was back to finish him off. Bhanar’s face broke into a grin as his blood thundered in his ears.

The Zhéporé-spawn had his handgun up to the window, then poking out a bit as the glass rolled down.

Bhanar couldn’t let him shoot first this time. Twice was enough. He targeted his rifle on the Zhéporé-spawn’s gun.

“Calm down, son,” the old man commanded, sounding just like Bhanar’s father. “You can’t go around shooting at people.”

Without disturbing his aim, Bhanar snorted a laugh. He wasn’t about to take orders from this crazy old Koro-head.

The gunman’s hand came out and Bhanar fired.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 4

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada clenched her jaw and started walking up the driveway, directly at the foreign kid and his rifle. She couldn’t go back to her car. She couldn’t retreat. Bhanar would see it as weakness and shoot her in the back. No, much better to be killed while standing tall and proud. It’s what Zhíno would’ve done.

If only her legs weren’t so wobbly.

She walked with her hands away from her body. Her left arm burned from the weight of the duffel bag, but she didn’t let it show. She had to act confident. She had to show this Bhanar kid that she wasn’t afraid of him.

“You’re not injured, are you?” she called up the driveway as she walked. “I’m sorry Zhíno shot at you. He went crazy. I left him.”

The wind rustled the desert shrubs and fluttered Fírí’s burgundy sweatshirt. She was glad she had chosen it instead of one of her thin blouses.

The old man bellowed across seventy meters of gravel. “Miss, please put down your bag. Then Bhanar here will point his gun elsewhere and nobody will get shot.”

Who was this old guy, anyway? Was this his house? Or had he been in the truck, too? Was he trying to help Bhanar to make sure she was unarmed so they could kill her easily? Or were they planning to capture her, kidnap her, torture her, rape her?

Ahísıhíta damn it. I shouldn’t have stopped driving. I shouldn’t have gotten out of the auto. And I certainly shouldn’t have started walking up this plagued driveway!

Fírí stopped. If they were going to kidnap her, they’d have to walk the remaining fifty meters themselves.

The foreign kid ordered, “Put down your bag!” He sounded desperate, like he was about to do something irrational.

In a calmer tone, the old man added, “Please.”

Plagues. Fírí didn’t really want to die. If following the crazy kid’s orders and putting down her duffel kept her alive, then she had better do it. Cursing silently, Fírí dropped the shoe bag. It landed with a muffled whumph.

“Thank you,” called the old man, relief in his voice.

Bhanar didn’t redirect his rifle. With a manic voice, he yelled, “Off your shirt!”

“What?” Fírí’s jaw dropped. What kind of sick fantasies did these Zhéporé-spawns have?

Fírí took a calming breath. She didn’t want to die, so she had to play out their perversions at gunpoint. Mentally, she shrugged. She had flashed her breasts for much poorer reasons than that before. Fírí brought in her hands to the hem of her sweatshirt.

Across the desert wind drifted the wail of a siren. A police siren. And it was coming closer.

Before, she had been afraid of the police, but not now. Now, they’d have no recourse but to arrest Bhanar and the old creep. She had no weapon. She had nothing in her duffel bag that was definitively illegal. She was the victim in this situation.

She was saved.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 3

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Zhíno Zhudıro yanked the cruiser’s door shut and slammed the gearshift into drive. He’d wasted too much plagued time already, rebandaging his bleeding arm and dragging the dead Enforcer’s body out of the road.

The radio blurped, for not the first time. “Enforcer Sıvího, do you copy?” The dispatcher was beginning to sound worried.

As Zhíno spun the steering wheel and hit the accelerator, he switched off the radio. Hopefully, the Ahísıhíta-damned Enforcer dispatcher would think it was just a malfunction. But Zhíno knew it wouldn’t be very long before somebody realized that the Voro-fucker who belonged in this auto was lying dead on the sidewalk.

With the car fully turned around, Zhíno straightened the wheel and stomped on the fuel pedal. Kickass acceleration slammed Zhíno back against the seat and held him tight. That Vítí-twin Fírí must be thirty kilometers away by now, but he’d catch her in no time with this beast.

How could Fírí do this to him? This was all her fault. If she hadn’t abandoned him, he wouldn’t have had to kill that Enforcer. Soon, both Gogzhuè and the Colonial Enforcers would be after his blood, and it was all that Tara-fucking Névo-brained twin of Vítí’s fault.

Zhíno’s eyes drifted to the siren and lights buttons, clearly marked on the dashboard. He grinned. What the plague. You can’t hide in a police auto. The click of the buttons was almost drowned out by the instant blare of the siren.

He dropped his injured right arm to his lap and fingered the Enforcer’s semiautomatic. Older than Zhíno’s, but bigger. He could barely lift it with his injured arm, much less aim it, but that wouldn’t stop him from scaring the shit out of Fírí and the Zhéporé-spawn who shot him.

Zhíno’s shoulder still throbbed from the bullet wound. When he caught that bastard, he might just have to torture him a little before he finished him off. Shoot his feet. Shoot his hands. Shoot his knees. Shoot his ass-loving dick.

Zhíno cackled a laugh. “I’ll fill you full of every last bullet in both these guns before you’re dead, you Voro-fucking Zhéporé-spawn!”

Except some bullets for Fírí. That Vítí-twin deserved at least half a clip, too.

Zhíno laughed again, excited by the image of the life dwindling from Fírí’s eyes as blood flowed free from a gaping hole in her chest, right between her marvelous tits.

The desert ahead was lit up bright from some floodlights way off to the left. And there, parked mostly off the road, was Fírí’s auto. Across the highway in a ditch was the Zhéporé-spawn’s truck.

Both of them!

Zhíno slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed.

He didn’t know what Fírí was thinking by stopping here, but he did know she was about to die.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 2

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak gripped his rifle with sweaty hands. The sharp gravel dug into his elbows.

Was this blonde woman the person who had shot at him? That was the same car, he thought. She apologized for the shooting, so she clearly knew what was happening--unlike old Pí’oro, who ordered Bhanar around despite his ignorance.

The old man kept saying things like, “Come on, son. Hand me the rifle. You can’t go around pointing your gun at innocent passersby.”

Bhanar tried to ignore him. He could barely understand half of it, anyway.

The blonde wasn’t dropping her bag. Wasn’t he making sense? Her gun had to be either in her bag or under that baggy sweatshirt. Her denim pants were skin-tight, so he knew it couldn’t be hidden in those.

Bhanar repeated himself, careful to enunciate. “Down the bag!”

She still didn’t drop it. Bhanar’s trigger finger twitched, but the rifle didn’t fire. He eased his finger away, to rest against the trigger guard, just in case. He couldn’t shoot her till she posed a threat to him, until she drew her gun.

The blonde called out, “Zhíno has the gun. I left him in town. Stop pointing your rifle at me!”

Bhanar understood most of that, but the woman had to be lying. Maybe he should just shoot her, gun visible or not. End this standoff.

No, he shouldn’t shoot her. What if the police suddenly arrived? They should be there by now. Why’d that police auto drive past? Bhanar couldn’t believe that Pí’oro hadn’t called the police. Any sane human would call the police if he heard gunshots outside his house.

Then again, perhaps Pí’oro wasn’t sane. Maybe none of these freaks were sane.

Bhanar’s finger tensed toward the trigger.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 1

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 3: Sarıman Standoff



Fírí Parızada flicked her half-smoked cigarette out the open window as she put her auto in park. Her hands shook so bad she could barely hold the cigarette to her lips, anyway.

Nobody was shooting at her. Nobody was near the blue truck. Maybe Zhíno had killed them, after all. But no, up the long gravel driveway, silhouetted by terribly bright lights, stood a big man holding a rifle. Fírí’s heart missed a beat. The gun wasn’t pointed directly at her, but still the back of her neck tingled and her throat dried.

Fírí knew she should flee, hit the fuel pedal and go, but instead she croaked, “I’m sorry!” and held up both her empty, trembling hands.

Somebody shouted, “Leave the automobile.” The voice was much too high-pitched for such a large man.

Only then did Fírí spot a second man lying on the driveway, his rifle aimed directly between her eyes.

Fírí gasped. Her face paled beyond its typical pallor.

It was too late for her to run now. This must be the guy who had shot Zhíno. He had hit him when they were already five hundred meters down the road. Surely he could kill her any time he wanted to. Fírí’s head began to swim. She would’ve been safer staying with Zhíno. At least nobody had his gunsights on her then.

She had to do what this gunman said. Out of the auto, whatever else he demanded, or else she was dead.

Fírí took a deep breath and coughed. “All right! All right! Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed. It was Zhíno, not me.”

She put the auto keys in her sweatshirt pocket and slowly opened the door.

Up the driveway, the large man’s deep voice rumbled indistinct. He towered directly over the prone man, who spat something back in response but never turned his head away from Fírí.

The night air swirled through the auto, chilling Fírí’s sweat-soaked palms and tousling her hair. With one hand, she pushed her golden locks away from her face; with the other, she reached back inside the auto for her duffel bag of shoes. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere without that.

Fírí stepped out of the auto, holding the shoe bag out to the side, her other hand in the open, as well. The two men hadn’t moved; the prone one still had his rifle trained directly on her. Fírí breathed deep, forcing air into her lungs, attempting to calm herself. If she freaked out, this guy would surely shoot her dead.

Fírí took another deep breath and held it. Was death really that bad? It sure seemed like an easier solution than having to deal with the smuggled guns and Zhíno and starting a new life away from everybody and everything she ever knew.

She exhaled slowly and began walking across the asphalt road on legs of jelly.

“It’s not my fault,” she called. “Zhíno went crazy. I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Stop!” screamed the man lying on the driveway.

Fírí stopped, just off the pavement and onto the gravel of the driveway. Her heart pounded so loud, she could barely hear what the man said. He was quite young--a kid, really. She squinted into the floodlights. Was this actually who had shot Zhíno? Or was it the older man--elderly, one could say, from his baldness and halo of gray hair--who was casually standing with his rifle on his shoulder?

“Miss?” called the old man. “I’d leave if I were you. Bhanar here won’t shoot you. Right, son?”

Bhanar was a foreign name. Was he really this elderly man’s son? But the old guy didn’t have an accent. The kid seemed to have an accent. He was too young to be his son, anyway. The old man must just call every kid “son.” But that still didn’t explain why this Bhanar kid was here in Sarıma, pointing his rifle at her. Shouldn’t he be back home in Zhuphío or wherever?

The foreign kid yelled, “No bag! Where is the pistol? Down the bag!”

And shouldn’t he have to learn the language before entering her country? She wasn’t about to take orders from some semi-literate foreigner, gun or no gun. Let him shoot. Life was becoming more trouble than it was worth. If he killed her, he killed her. No point worrying about it.

The cold wind toyed with Fírí’s chin-length hair, blowing it into her face. She kept her hands at her sides. She wouldn’t let the foreign kid kill her for something as stupid as brushing her hair out of the way.

Fírí held tight to her shoe bag. “It was Zhíno who shot at you, not I. I clearly have no gun. Please point your rifle someplace else.”

But the stupid foreigner again screamed, “Down the bag!”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 8

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Zhíno Zhudıro slammed his handgun against the window behind the driver’s door. The glass cracked. Zhíno hit it again and it shattered, sprinkling tiny cubes of glass over the interior.

No alarm. Zhíno smirked and reached through the broken window to unlock the door. It was already unlocked.

“Koro-brained hicks don’t even know how to lock their Pétíso-damned automobiles.”

He threw open the door and crouched to look under the steering wheel. It was dark. He guessed he had to pull of that panel there, before he could jumpstart it.

Kneeling on the rough asphalt, Zhíno tugged at the edge of the panel with his left hand. It didn’t budge. He tried to use his right, but pain from the gunshot overcame his concentration. Biting his lip, Zhíno grimaced and shoved his left fingers into the gap again. That panel wasn’t going anywhere.

“Plagued motion pictures always make it look so easy.”

What did he have that he could pry it with? Keys. Zhíno patted his pocket. Empty. They were still in the auto with that Vítí-twin, Fírí.

Maybe his handgun? Zhíno wiggled the gun’s hammer into the crack, careful to keep his fingers away from the trigger.

A siren whooped. Green and red lights flashed. A spotlight lit up the RZ-7 and the surrounding parking lot. A voice boomed, “This is the Colonial Enforcers. Step away from the vehicle.”

“Aw, plague of Rívorí.” How’d he not hear the police drive up? Had he gone deaf? He deserved to get arrested, if this was how incompetent he was. Zhíno’s other arrests had been gooseshit straight from Rékaré, but this time he’d earned it.

The Enforcers’ auto was on the road, directly in front of the RZ-7 racer, just the other side of the sidewalk. The racer’s open door hid Zhíno from the Enforcers’ view, so that the spotlight lit up only his boots and knees.

Over the auto’s loudspeaker, the policeman ordered, “Stand up and step away from the vehicle. Now.”

No. He wasn’t going to prison again. Never again.

But how was he going to get out of this? Was it a single Enforcer or a pair of the Voro-fuckers? If there were two, one would be probably out of their cruiser by now, towering over him, kicking him to the ground. There wasn’t, so it must just be one. Zhíno smiled. He could handle one Enforcer, as long as he kept the element of surprise on his side.

If he ran, he’d get shot in the back. No, much better to take the offensive. Strike before the Voro-fucker knows what’s going on.

Zhíno slipped the semiautomatic into his pants pocket and held up his hands into the bright light above the door. Smiling innocently, he stood up and began walking slowly around the autos towards the Enforcer. The policeman was alone. Zhíno furrowed his eyebrows in a question, still smiling like this was all some huge mistake they’d get cleared up in a moment.

“Stop right there,” the Enforcer commanded over the loudspeaker. He opened his door and started to get out.

A chill wind sent a shiver down Zhíno’s spine. He kept walking around the front of the cruiser, lowering his hands slightly, pretending to almost laugh.

This Enforcer Zhéporé-spawn probably didn’t even know about the smuggling, but that didn’t mean Zhíno could let him arrest him. It didn’t mean Zhíno could let him report his whereabouts. The Enforcer was a Voro-fucking policeman; Zhíno didn’t really need any other reason.

“Stop!” The Enforcer, still seated, scrambled with something--his gun, probably.

A meter from the open cruiser door, Zhíno smiled big. “What’s the problem?” And pulled out his gun and shot the Enforcer in the face.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 7

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Pí‘oro Kılímo frowned and rubbed his forehead. The kid was obviously a foreigner, so maybe he didn’t understand the order to drop his rifle. He might be dangerous, but he was obviously spooked, from the way he kept glancing toward town. The kid wasn’t injured, so he didn’t need to be healed, but he probably still needed help. Unless, of course, this foreigner was the perpetrator and someone was lying dead in the ditch.

Pí‘oro rubbed his head again, squeezing the skin together till it almost hurt. Well, at least the kid said, “please.”

“Come here, son,” Pí‘oro called, waving his free hand in an inviting gesture. Pí‘oro kept his rifle pointed skyward, but his finger close to the trigger.

The foreign kid nodded and started jogging up the driveway, his own rifle held nowhere near the trigger. “Thank you!” the kid yelled as he ran.

Pí‘oro walked the few meters along the cement path to the gravel driveway, trying to act friendly.

The kid was dressed in baggy denim pants and a ratty singlet proclaiming something in some foreign language--Zhuphíoan, perhaps. He had to tug up his trousers a couple times as he hurried up the driveway.

When he was still five meters away, the kid stopped and repeated, “Thank you.” He wasn’t out of breath at all, but his dark eyes were tensed so tight it looked like he was about to cry.

Something about his square, tan face seemed familiar to Pí‘oro, but the old man just couldn’t place him.

Pí‘oro held out his hand. “Come here, son. Let’s get you out of the cold. My name is Pí‘oro. What happened?”

The young foreigner took a couple hesitant steps towards Pí‘oro. “Hello. My name is Bhanar. How are you?”

Pí‘oro laughed, a deep belly-rumbler. “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” What would Vata think? Here I am trading pleasantries when she’s focused on the mission.

Bhanar barely smiled in response, his jaw clenched. “They tried to kill me. They shot at me. They went that direction.” He pointed at town, the same way he’d been glancing.

If that was true, if some Huro-types had taken a pot-shot at this kid and then sped away, there wasn’t really much Pí‘oro and Vata could do, except call a tow truck.

“Give me your rifle, son, and come inside.” Pí‘oro held out his hand for Bhanar’s gun. The kid’s rifle looked like a new model, but poorly maintained. Maybe it was a 7-mm like Pí‘oro’s.

The foreign kid spun to face the road, leveling his rifle, searching for a target. Pí‘oro considered tackling him and taking his gun away before he shot anyone. He stopped after just one step. He’d probably end up getting shot in the struggle.

The sound of an automobile engine drifted across the desert. It came from the east, not from town. It couldn’t be the Huro-types, if the kid told the truth. And then the auto came into view: a Colonial Enforcer cruiser.

That’s just wonderful, thought Pí‘oro. Now the police are going to stick their noses into this and get us all trapped in bureaucratic nonsense for weeks.

Bhanar lowered his rifle and waved his hand at the Enforcers. “Hey! Hey!”

But the Enforcer auto just rolled right on by. Pí‘oro shook his head at the blind incompetence of his government’s employees. But at least he didn’t have to deal with them tonight.

The kid yelled something foreign at the retreating police. It didn’t sound polite.

“Come on, son. Hand me the rifle.” Pí‘oro stepped closer to the foreign kid.

Bhanar looked at Pí‘oro and sputtered something, took a deep breath, and enunciated, “Why did not the police stop? You called the police, correct? To your house?”

Pí‘oro snorted a laugh. What help would the police be? “Give me the rifle, son. Now.” He extended a beefy hand at the foreigner and started forwards.

The kid backed a step away, his eyes growing large. “You did not call the police?”

Before Pí‘oro could answer, Bhanar looked back at the road. Another auto was coming, this time from town. Was it the police returning? No, it was a small, brown sedan--probably a Sonla or some other foreign make. Certainly not typical of drunkard Huro-types.

The kid dropped to the gravel, yelling, “Down!” and pointing his rifle at the auto.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 6

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada combed her hair behind one ear with her fingers. Her other hand held tight to the steering wheel as she drove through the residential outskirts of the town of Tuhanı. Keep to the speed limit. Don’t attract attention. She’d already rolled up the side windows so the Sonla sedan would looked normal, but the rear window practically screamed of trouble. The bullet hole whistled, too.

She pursed her lips. Where was she going? Should she drive all the way back to Momíníkı? Back to the portal? Or should she abandon the auto near some small town and hitchhike from there?

Without really thinking about it, Fírí opened a dashboard compartment and pulled out Zhíno’s small cigarette box. Eyes still on the road, she one-handed a cigarette out and lit it with the dashboard lighter, sucking deeply.

As she exhaled the smoke, her thoughts coalesced. She should go back to Zhíno. He could figure this out for her. He could salvage their dream of living off the land on the arid slopes of Mount Soínıpasa.

A few more houses drifted past. Fírí unrolled the window to let the cigarette smoke escape.

Then again, Zhíno could plague everything even further and get them both arrested and thrown in prison for the rest of their lives.

Headlights approached. The truck! Fírí glanced around, looking for somewhere to hide the auto, hide herself. That driveway? Duck down?

But no, it was a large sedan--a police cruiser, by the unlit lights on top. Fírí froze, her foot feeling heavy on the fuel pedal. Would they stop her? Would they notice the broken rear window? Had anyone called in a description of her auto? Fírí’s heart lumped in her throat.

The police auto flashed by. Fírí didn’t catch what the stripe across the doors said, whether it was Colonial Enforcers or some local police. She glanced in the side mirror. They weren’t stopping, weren’t turning to chase her.

Fírí smiled tentatively. Maybe nobody had called the police. Maybe it was just a coincidence. She could only hope.

Up ahead on the left, a bright light illuminated the desert. And there, sitting in the ditch, was the truck. Stop the auto! Speed up! What should she do? She should’ve known the truck would still be here. She should’ve known she was driving into danger.

But nobody was there, unless he hid in the bushes or behind the truck. Maybe Zhíno’s victims had crawled off into the desert and were bleeding to death. She had to help them. Maybe if she showed them she was unarmed, they’d believe her offer. Maybe they’d let her atone for Zhíno’s actions.

Then again, maybye they’d just shoot her dead. But she had to give the poor victims an offer of help, or else she’d be just as evil as Zhíno.

Against her better intuition, Fírí slowed the auto.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 5

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Zhíno Zhudıro pointed his semiautomatic at the retreating automobile.

“Get the plagues back here, you Tara-fucking twin of Vítí! What are you doing to me? Don’t leave me here in this Pétíso-damned plague-pit!”

Illuminated by a lone streetlight, Zhíno stood in the center of the deserted street, feet far apart and his gun arm fully extended forward.

“Don’t leave me, you Kínıtíní-licked Névo-brain! I love you!”

He didn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t. He couldn’t risk hurting his girlfriend, no matter how treacherously she had just betrayed him. He couldn’t risk destroying the shipment in the trunk of the auto. Without it, Gogzhuè would kill him without a second thought.

Zhíno snarled, “Plagues of Rívorí, Ríhíví, Rékaré, and all the rest,” and lowered the handgun.

His left hand, which held the gun, hung loosely at his side. His right arm also hung limp, a hastily tied elastic bandage around the upper portion. Blood already began to seep through.

He had to get Gogzhuè’s guns and explosives back. He had to deliver them to Umo at the drop. And then he had to hunt down the Zhéporé-spawn who shot him and put a bullet through his brain. After that, he could finally escape to the desert and live out the rest of his life, free of Koro-brained humankind.

Of course, if it was one of Gogzhuè’s goons who shot him, everything changed. He had to be ready for that. He had to have his gun ready at all times.

But first, chase down Fírí.

Across the street from the pharmacy sat a fix-it shop, several automobiles in the lot. Most of them wouldn’t be running very well--why else would they be there?--but maybe one was. Zhíno trotted across the asphalt and jumped over a concrete curb into the parking lot.

A cargo van, no. A truck covered with rust, no. A old-model Huírupho sports sedan, maybe. Zhíno jogged over to it. “Plagues.” It was missing its tires.

And then Zhíno saw it. He could barely believe his eyes. On the other side of the cargo van, facing the street, sat a yellow Rènzas RZ-7 racer. Zhíno’s jaw dropped. What the plagues is that thing doing here? But he didn’t have time to find out. He had to go.

He ran for the RZ-7.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 4

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak watched the old man with the rifle as the old man stared at Bhanar hiding behind his truck. Was this fat, old guy going to shoot at him, too? Or was he just protecting his home?

Bhanar glanced down the highway, certain that the gunmen would appear any second, guns blazing. They hadn’t finished the job and surely his one rifle shot wouldn’t scare them off forever. Unless they’d somehow remembered that his father lived on Kètnít, not Rívorí, and had gone to shoot at him, instead.

Maybe he could get some cover in this house. This old guy had probably already called the police. Bhanar could just wait it out inside.

The old man’s gun pointed at the night sky. Bhanar figured his reflexes were quick enough to duck if necessary, so he stood up and called out.

“Hello!” Bhanar was less than fluent in Sarıman, but the basics he had down pat.

The wind chilled Bhanar through his thin singlet. He rubbed his right arm with his left hand, his right hand still gripping the rifle.

The old man’s voice filled the desert. “Hello. Are you injured?”

Bhanar scowled. At first, he didn’t understand that last word, but then his brain dredged up the appropriate lesson. He was going to have to get a lot better speaking Sarıman if he wasn’t going to flunk out of college here.

Injured, no. Bhanar grinned. The gunmen had marksmanship so poor it was worthy of Korutuzho.

The old man certainly wasn’t firing his gun at Bhanar, so probably he was just protecting his home. Bhanar began walking up the driveway to the safety of the house, the gravel crunching under his feet.

“No! I am not injured.”

The old man slumped slightly. Bhanar couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

The old man shouted, “Drop your gun!”

Bhanar held his rifle tight, but stopped. What had he done wrong? What had he said? He was still eighty yards from the house, still too close to the highway. There was no chance he’d let go of this gun, not with a chance those Zhéporé-spawns might return. Maybe he should just shoot this old man and take his house.

But no. Not when he still had time to legally save himself.

“They shoot at me,” he yelled. “They try to kill me.” He squeezed his left hand into a fist at his side. “You help me.”

“First, drop your gun!”

Always the last word remembered, but always the most important, Bhanar shouted, “Please.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 3

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada braced herself against the dashboard as her crazed boyfriend whipped the little auto into a pharmacy’s parking lot, bumping over the curb with one tire. He had driven to the center of town, just about, past countless houses and businesses that were all closed. The pharmacy was closed, too, but apparently Zhíno figured he could still get the bandages he needed.

The old Sonla screeched to a halt just in front of the store’s glass entrance and Zhíno hopped out, the engine still running and the Research Suicide still blaring.

This was the chance Fírí had been waiting for. She could escape Zhíno and all his paranoid antics. She could be free of all his guns and drugs and mobster friends.

As Zhíno shattered the store’s glass front door, Fírí unbuckled her seat restraint and reached into the backseat for her duffel bags. Grabbing first her clothes bag and then her shoe bag, she yanked them to the front seat, knocking the rearview mirror askew in the process.

Fírí spared a glance at Zhíno as she placed her hand on the door handle. The injured madman gingerly stepped through the broken glass and disappeared into the darkness of the pharmacy. Fírí had had her fill of that Névo-brained jerk.

She started to open the door, ready to run, when she had a thought: Why should Zhíno get the automobile? He’s the one who deserves to be abandoned.

Quickly, before her boyfriend could return, Fírí scrambled over her lumpy duffels and settled herself behind the steering wheel. Seat restraint on, mirror realigned, audio cassette ejected, she slammed the auto into reverse and hit the accelerator.

Fírí cranked the wheel and the auto swerved till it faced the street. She stomped on the brakes and the tires screeched.

Through the auto’s open window, she heard Zhíno shout, “Fírí, you Vítí-twin!”

She shoved the gearshift into drive and floored the accelerator, turning right out of reflex, not crossing the center line. It just so happened it was back the direction they’d come.

In the side mirror--she couldn’t see anything out the cracked rear window--Zhíno ran out into the road, waving his handgun and screaming. But Fírí knew he wouldn’t shoot. Maybe for her sake, but mostly because he’d risked his life and future for the stuff in the trunk. And there was no way in all of Pétíso’s hells that he’d take the chance of losing his future in an explosion caused by him shooting the fuel tank.

Fírí suddenly realized she hadn’t used her turn signal. She hadn’t stopped either, before turning onto the road. She glanced around to see if a policeman saw her bad driving.

Laughter burst out of her, sending her practically into convulsions. Happy tears flowed from her eyes so thick she could barely see the road. What a Koro-brain I am, worrying about a traffic violation when I have a trunkload of smuggled weapons and drugs.

She laughed even more, clutching the steering wheel with both hands. “Who the plagues cares about the guns? Who the plagues cares about anything? I’m free!”

Free of Zhíno and his insanity. Free of Zhíno and his crimes.

But the auto sure felt empty with only one person.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 2

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak watched as the distant auto faded to a red pinpoint in the blackness. A second bullet sat in his rifle’s chamber, ready for the Zhéporé-spawn gunmen to return.

Bhanar had not been shot, he could tell that now. But his truck’s driver’s-side window had been shattered, right where he would’ve been sitting. That bullet would’ve gone right through his head.

But it didn’t. He wasn’t sitting there. Bhanar grinned. He’d out-hunted the hunters.

He lay atop squished cardboard boxes, silent except for his heaving lungs. The desert lay silent, too. All Bhanar could hear was his truck’s engine idling and the wind blowing through the adjacent bushes. No distant engine. No more gunshots.

The bastards weren’t returning. Not right away, at least. Evidently they were easily scared. They didn’t expect Bhanar to have some teeth! Bhanar let out a laugh and relaxed his rifle, but didn’t release it.

“What were you expecting?” he called at the distant pinprick of red light. “Don’t you know who I am?” The real Bhanar, not the spoiled-brat pseudo-emperor in a suit and necktie the media showed.

He wasn’t even really the emperor. No, his Koro-brained grandfather had abdicated the throne long ago. But the public liked having royalty to kick around. And to shoot at.

Police. He should call the police. Or whatever passed for police out here in the middle of the Sarıman desert. He needed to find a phone. Plagues. How was he going to drive his truck with a completely cracked windscreen? He’d be damned by Pétíso if he was going to walk. He erupted in laughter at the thought of himself wandering down a deserted highway, dying of dehydration or heatstroke after some Zhéporé-spawns had failed to kill him with bullets.

The laugh mutated into a shiver. Deserts got cold at night, Bhanar knew that. And yet he was lying out there under the twinkling stars, wearing nothing but denim pants and a thin singlet.

Still chuckling, he pushed himself to his knees and climbed over the rail of the tilted truck’s bed.

Lights!

Bhanar slipped down to the gravel and froze. His blood pounded in his ears. Which way was the auto coming from? He couldn’t hear it. He peered down the highway. Darkness. And the other direction. Darkness.

And then it dawned on Bhanar: the lights came from ninety degrees off the road. Cradling his rifle, he crept forward to the truck’s front bumper, noting a mailbox on a wood post laying underneath his truck. Bhanar poked his head around the bumper and spied a house with a hundred-yard-long gravel driveway aimed straight for the garage door which covered the right-hand third of the house’s front. Attached to the wall of the house, four bright floodbeam lights illuminated the desert rocks and brush as if it were noon.

The wind tugged at Bhanar’s singlet and he shivered again.

To the left of the garage, at the house’s front door, stood a fat old man, rifle in his hand, staring straight at Bhanar.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 1

(start of book) (previous chapter) (previous page)

Chapter 2: Bad to Worse



Pí‘oro Kılímo had been dreaming quite pleasantly of distant locales and exotic young women when his wife, Vata, shook his shoulder and woke him up, spoiling everything. He cracked open an eye and focused it on Vata’s wrinkled face.

“Wake up,” she stated. “I heard gunfire out by the road.”

Pí‘oro opened his other eye and listened. Nothing but the television spouting nonsense about shopping from home.

“Are you positive it wasn’t part of the program?”

Vata rolled her eyes. “They’re not selling rifles, dear.” She patted his arm. “Now get up. Someone out there might be injured or dying.”

And of course it was suddenly Pí‘oro’s responsibility to go outside to find out. And if someone was hurt, to bring them in.

Pí‘oro swung his legs out from under the covers and slid his feet into his deerskin slippers. Emitting a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan, Pí‘oro pushed his bulk to a standing position.

Vata, her black flannel bathrobe tied tightly around her thin waist, hobbled toward the open bedroom door. As she walked, Vata said, “And don’t forget to take your gun, dear. The aggressors are likely still nearby.”

“Of course, my love.” Not that he had ever shot at anybody. Not that he had shot at any living creature since he was a boy growing up on a farm up by the ocean. But at least he practiced his aim, now and then.

Vata paused just outside the doorway and turned to face her husband. She tilted her head slightly. “Do you think we’ll need a horse or a dog?”

Pí‘oro shrugged his wide shoulders. “How should I know? Perhaps a pig. It’s your show.” A few short steps and he was beside her, filling the door frame. “What the plagues. Prepare them all.”

Pí‘oro bent to peck a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me.”

Vata smiled. “I wasn’t about to, dear. Just be careful.”

Pí‘oro squeezed past his little wife and continued along the thick-carpeted hallway. Back in the day, he’d have been out the front door and down the driveway like a shot. But not anymore. Now he could only manage so fast. Not that he was in a hurry, though, if people were shooting up the night just outside their home.

Then again, it was probably just some Huro-types out having a drunken good time. If one of them managed to actually hit anything, it’d be a minor miracle. Plague of Rékaré. One of them probably shot himself and Pí‘oro would be stuck having to help the idiot. All in the name of stupid old Névazhíno. Pí‘oro huffed a laugh. All in the name of Vata, is more like it.

After a seeming eternity, Pí‘oro reached the entryway. He flicked the lightswitch--actually turning on the ceiling light for the living room, which was adjacent to the entryway--and opened the closet door. He pulled out his old greenish-black down jacket and slipped it on over his nightwear, then removed his well-oiled 7-mm long-barrel rifle from the shelf above the coats. The box of ammunition got shoved into the jacket pocket. Pí‘oro cracked open the box, pulled out a bullet, and fed it into the gun chamber.

Ready to go, he paused by the front door. He’d heard no sounds outside, this whole time. Maybe the Huro-types had all accidentally killed each other. Or maybe they were already ten kilometers down the highway. Or maybe they lay in wait for him to open the door.

One way to find out. Pí‘oro flipped on the outdoor floodlights and swung open the door. Nobody shot him.

Pí‘oro shrugged and stepped out into the cold night.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 8

(start of book) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada gripped the pepper-spray can so tight she feared it might burst. The flashes from Zhíno’s handgun still blinded her eyes; bright blobs danced everywhere she looked. Through the ringing in her ears, the Research Suicide song was as good as dead silence.

Fírí was drawn to her boyfriend’s crazed face. Zhíno’s bulging eyes stared at the rearview mirror and, through a twisted grimace, he muttered something Fírí couldn’t hear.

She had to get out--out of that automobile, out of that relationship. The Sonla sedan was technically hers, but Fírí didn’t care if she never saw it again. It and its paranoid, Névazhíno-brained driver. Zhíno, Névazhíno: it was all in the name.

Zhíno hit the brakes, preparing to turn the auto around one more time.

Fírí yelled, “Why don’t you just leave them alone? Let’s just go!” Just go and let me out in the next town, for Vuzhí’s sake.

Her boyfriend pointed his wide eyes and his handgun Fírí’s direction and bellowed, “Shut the plagues up!”

The rear window shattered.

Fírí realized her hearing was returning as she turned to look back.
Zhíno jerked the steering wheel back and forth, forcing Fírí to let go of the pepper spray so she could hold on.

Her crazed boyfriend started screaming, “That bastard! That Zhéporé-spawn! That Tara-fucking Zhéporé-spawn bastard!”

She couldn’t see a thing out the rear window. It was nothing but a shroud of cracks. Except for one dark hole in the middle.

“That Tarénara-fucking Ahísıhíta-damned Zhéporé-spawn shot me!”

Fírí glanced at Zhíno. In the dim light from the dashboard, she saw black blood spreading quick on the white sleeve of Zhíno’s singlet.

“You’ve been shot.”

Zhíno slammed down the fuel pedal, forcing the little Sonla to accelerate as best it could. To Fírí, he growled, “That’s what I Tara-fucking said, you Névo-brained twin of Vítí!”

He raised his right hand as if to hit her, but winced, biting his lip, and dropped his hand to his lap.

Fírí smiled inwardly. Zhíno deserved to get shot. Zhíno deserved everything that came to him.

A large, blue roadsign flew past them, almost too fast for Fírí to read in the instant before their headlights passed it. But she was fairly certain it said:
“Welcome to Tuhanı! Population 1,873.”

Add one more to that, Fírí thought, because I’m stopping here.

(next chapter)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 7

(start of book) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak yanked at the gun-case zipper as the headlights sped closer. The zipper stuck for an instant and the young man gave up and pulled the rifle out through the small opening, making sure to keep it as low as possible, hoping that the gunman wouldn’t see him.

Lying on his stomach, puffing clouds of steam between the cardboard boxes, Bhanar searched for the ammunition. Where were the bullets?

Sweat dripped from his nose. The approaching auto’s engine whined like the demons of Pétíso coming to carry him away.

Bhanar hadn’t asked to be famous. This was all his dad’s fault. Why couldn’t these Zhéporé-spawns be shooting at his dad?

Where are those bullets?

Or if Bhanar was famous, why couldn’t it be for something Bhanar had done, not because of who his dad and ancestors were? How about his motorbike victories, not this Tarénara-fucking emperor shit?

“Plague of Rívorí! Where are those Ahísıhíta-damned bullets?”

Bhanar exhaled slowly. The side pocket of the gun case, of course. His fingers slipped on the little zipper, wasting valuable time. The auto engine’s roar filled the entire desert.

Gunshots shook Bhanar’s universe, three in rapid succession. Glass shattered. Metal rang.

The reports still reverberating in Bhanar’s ears, he ripped open the ammo pocket, not wanting to check if he’d been hit. Grab a bullet, lever back, bullet in, lever down, and he sat up quick and aimed at the retreating little auto, a couple hundred yards distant.

In Bhanar’s sights, the brakelights lit up, painting the desert road blood red.

Bhanar squeezed the trigger.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 6

(start of book) (previous page)



Zhíno Zhudıro cranked up the Research Suicide cassette as their little Sonla sedan flew up the hill.

He had to do it. He had to finish off whoever was in that truck. Otherwise, he’d never be free. No matter who it was.

As the auto neared the crest of the climb, Zhíno set the pistol in his lap and wiped his palms on his pocket-covered pants.

“Please, Zhíno,” Fírí whimpered. “Please leave them alone.”

They broke onto the open desert plain and Zhíno spotted that Pétíso-damned blue truck stopped alongside the road ahead, at least one headlight still on. Nobody was in sight.

Zhíno slowed the automobile, even though it could be a trap, down to seventy kilometers an hour.

He pointed at Fírí’s window with the semiautomatic. “Roll down your window.”

The stupid Vítí-twin froze.

“Roll down your window!”

Zhíno swung the handgun’s butt at his girlfriend’s shoulder, but stopped millimeters from hitting her. The barrel brushed through her pale hair and she jerked away.

She grabbed the window crank and started spinning it. “Zhíno, don’t,” she squeaked.

His eyes on the approaching truck, Zhíno pointed his handgun toward Fírí’s open window. He had to time this right. The music throbbed with his pulse, urging him to pull the trigger. But wait, wait, wait, wait. . .

Fire! Fire! Fire!

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 5

(start of book) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak’s truck smashed into something and he flew forward against the seat restraint, losing his grip on the steering wheel. The truck pitched up into the air, then slammed back to the ground, shuddering to a halt tilted to the right, half in a ditch.

Bhanar bounced back against the seat and caught the steering wheel to steady himself. He blinked his eyes repeatedly.

“What the Tara-fucking Plague of Rívorí just happened?”

Ten seconds late, adrenaline pounded through his bloodstream, jittering his hands and flummoxing his head like nothing since his first sky jump.

His eyes focused on the truck’s windscreen. A web of cracks radiated out from a small hole in the glass, not much bigger than his index finger. He leaned forward. A bullet hole. Someone had shot at him!

The adrenaline redoubled, quicker this time.

Whoever shot at him must have known who Bhanar was, must have known who his father and grandfather were. It could have been completely random, but Bhanar didn’t believe that. Someone was trying to kill Bhanar because of what he had been born into, because he was famous.

The tan young man closed his eyes and inhaled deep. If somebody was trying to kill Bhanar, he would be back at any second. Bhanar had to protect himself. He had to get his rifle.

Bhanar fumbled with his seat restraint’s buckle until finally it unlatched. The truck’s engine still on, he shoved opened the cab door and jumped down to the gravel, landing on a knee. With the truck tilted sideways, the door slammed shut, just missing his head. But Bhanar barely noticed. He was already trying to remember where he packed the gun. Or rather, where the Sarıman border guards had repacked it.

He vaulted up to the side wall of the bed, his first trainer-clad foot slipping on the metal, but the rest of his body tumbling inside. He landed on cardboard boxes, his face pressed up against the spokes of a motorbike wheel.

The young man scrambled to his hands and knees, squinting in the starlight and reflection from his one remaining headlight. Where was the gun? Where was the gun?

He laughed out loud. What a welcome to Sarıma!

Bhanar slapped his own face. “Find the gun, Koro-head.”

The Zhéporé-spawn shooter was going to return any second now--the Zhéporé-spawn could’ve been back a minute ago--and Bhanar still didn’t have his rifle ready.

His addled brain finally dripped out the answer: beside the ironing board his mom had forced him to bring. He dove down across the pile of tilted boxes and laid hands on the thick canvas rifle case just as he saw the headlights.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 4

(start of book) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada shrieked, “Zhíno, that wasn’t the police!” She breathed deep, trying to calm the panic rising through her chest.

Zhíno grunted as he glanced in the mirror. “It sure the plagues could’ve been. They can’t tail somebody in an Enforcer cruiser, you stupid Névo-brain. Or it could’ve been Gogzhuè’s Voro-fucking men double-crossing us, sneaking up on us to steal what I risked my plagued life to bring through the Pétíso-damned portal for those Zhéporé-spawn bastards!”

Fírí wanted to smack Zhíno upside his head, but the sight of his gun froze her arms stiff. What the plagues is he thinking? Shooting at an innocent driver! He’s gone delusional again.

The big-eyed blonde spun in her seat and peered back into the darkness. “Please, Zhíno. You gotta turn back. We have to help them. They could be hurt.”

Her idiot boyfriend snarled, “Help them? Are you out of your Tarénara-fucking mind? If it’s the Enforcers, they want to arrest us. If it’s Gogzhuè’s men come to double-cross us, they want to kill us. If it just happens to be an innocent driver and we help them, they’ll recognize us and call the Enforcers, who’ll arrest us. No, I sure the plagues won’t help them. But I’ll finish off the Zhéporé-spawns.”

As Zhíno spoke, he kept jabbing the gun toward Fírí, punctuating key words. She shrunk back against the passenger-side door, only occupying half her seat.
Zhíno took a glance at Fírí’s agape face and abruptly stopped waving the gun. He lowered his gun and slowed the auto, reaching to turn down the blaring “music.”

As he pulled to a stop on the gravel, Fírí’s boyfriend softened his tone. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

Desert silence enveloped the automobile.

Despite the fact that Zhíno had indeed never hurt Fírí in all the years they’d been together, she still couldn’t shake the fear that there’d be a first time, and soon. Her right hand slipped into her sweatshirt pocket and gripped the little can of pepper spray.

“Yeah, babe. I know.”

Zhíno swung his head to look up and down the highway. “I love you, baby. Don’t you ever forget that.”

He spun the steering wheel with his right hand, his left clutching the gun, and accelerated in a tight corner, back up the road. Back toward that old blue truck.
Fírí wanted to tell Zhíno that if he really loved her, he should drop her off at the nearest town. She wanted to tell him that if he really loved her, he’d be willing to let her go. She wanted to tell him that she never wanted to see him again. Instead, as they raced back toward their innocent prey, all she replied was, “I love you too.”

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 3

(start of book) (previous page)



Bhanar Narak hadn’t seen any road signs for over an hour, and that got him worrying he’d missed a turn. He rubbed his eyes and reached for another can of cola. He must’ve messed up. Nothing around but dark desert and stars. The fuel gauge twitched near half. There’d have to be a fuel station in the next hundred miles. There had to be. Or so Bhanar hoped. His patched-together old truck was a fuel fiend.

Bhanar cracked open the cola and took a long swig. The cool elixir flowed through his muscular body, nearly instantly recharging him. He just might make it. If only his audio cassette deck wasn’t busted. If only there were any good radio stations out in this Rívorí-cursed wasteland.

At least there was another automobile on this road, heading the same direction. Bhanar had been slowly catching up to it and now it was only a quarter mile ahead. When he caught it, he’d have to speed up to pass, or else he’d be driving in the left lane forever.

With his slender right hand, Bhanar put the can of cola in the holder, flipped on the cab light, and grabbed the awkwardly folded roadmap. He should have been to the Éíkızo-Suívıpíko Highway by now, surely. If he was on the right road. Plagues. He should never have gotten off the expressway.

Matter of fact, Bhanar should have arrived at the motorbike race camp an hour ago and now been asleep, resting for the morning trials. But no, the Sarıman border guards had made him wait and wait and then questioned him for over an hour about where he was going and all the stuff in the back of his truck: his motorbike; his elaborate audio speaker system; his ocean-diving gear; his rifle. All his worldly possessions--minus the school projects and toys that his mom and dad kept. He sure wouldn’t need that crap at college.

Those Pétíso-damned border guards had recognized him, Bhanar was sure of it, and they’d just wanted to prove their power. Bhanar had had enough news photos snapped that his round, tan face and short, spiky black hair surely would be known by half the people in any country on any world--the Union of Narakamíníkı-Sarıma, for sure.

The leading auto’s glowing red taillights topped a rise and winked out of sight.

Bhanar gave his old truck more fuel and it charged up that hill, growling deeper than before. He took another drink of cola, nearly emptying the can.

Tíhímé Holy Day songs jingled through Bhanar’s brain--even though it was the middle of summer. Bhanar cursed and started singing an Eternal Hearses song.

“Eat your Tara-fucking love! You can kiss it all goodbye! When I come ’round again, then you know you’re gonna die!”

Headlights cut through the air above his truck, then he crested the hill and the other auto’s brights blinded Bhanar. The young man flashed his own brights, hoping the jerk driver would show some courtesy or get a Tara-fucking clue.

And then Bhanar’s windscreen exploded.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 2

(start of book) (previous page)



Fírí Parızada jabbed the eject button and the audio cassette popped partly out, leaving the couple in silence except for the high-pitched engine and the chilly wind swirling in through her boyfriend’s window.

The blonde repeated herself. “Don’t be a Koro-brain. If they were chasing us, they would’ve caught us by now. And they could’ve had you easy at the portal.”

They could not have arrested Fírí, though. She’d ridden the portal train through from Narakamíníkı separately--and clean. Mostly.

Zhíno scratched his beard-stubbled cheek with the gun and snarled, “Who’s the Korutuzho-brain? They want to get us at the drop-off, so they can arrest Umo and whoever else Gogzhuè has there.” He shoved the music cassette back in the player and toneless acid filled the automobile.

The road ahead of them leveled off, exposing reflectors on the pavement to infinity. On either side, weird desert plants and strange-shaped boulders ghosted by in the darkness. Fírí didn’t know how she’d survive out here. She needed trees, shade, winter! She should’ve just left Zhíno at the portal station like she’d planned. Then she wouldn’t have to put up with either his Koro-brained shit or this Rívorí-damned desert.

Fírí glanced back, her chin-length hair whipping slightly. The trailing auto wasn’t visible yet over the curve of the hill, but its headlights cast cones of white through the night sky. “What if they’re just tourists or something?” She turned to face forward and noticed a mailbox flash past.

Zhíno grunted. “We’ll see about that.”

He slammed on the brakes. Fírí’s seat restraint hit her hard in the shoulder and between her breasts, pinching painfully.

The little auto fishtailed to a halt, but before Fírí jerked back against the seat, Zhíno spun the wheel and gunned the little engine. They bumped off the road across gravel and dirt and then back on the highway, hurtling toward the other auto.

Fírí grabbed the safety handle, her large eyes opened wide.

(next page)

One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 1

PART I: WELCOME TO TUHANI

Chapter 1: Shots in the Dark

Zhíno Zhudıro tossed his empty beer can out the window and reached into the backseat, fishing around for a gun. The fifteen-year-old Sonla sedan flew straight and true down the dark two-lane highway. Zhíno’s narrow face creased with a scowl, but it wasn’t caused by the rattling of the automobile’s speakers from the Research Suicide cassette’s heavy beat. No, the Ahísıhíta-damned handgun had slid from its spot under the travel bags.

Beside Zhíno in the passenger seat, his girlfriend, Fírí, looked at him and his fumbling hand behind him. Her pale face a ghastly green from the light of the dashboard clock, she tucked some stray strands of her blonde hair behind her ear and opened her mouth.

Over the music and the howl of the wind through Zhíno’s open window, Fírí blurted, “What do you want? Another beer? Do you want me to get it for you?”

Zhíno’s left hand clenched the steering wheel, dark lines of grime in the grooves of his knuckles, while his right hand patted the threadbare backseat and the dirty carpet. He glanced in the rearview mirror as his right hand touched the cold steel of his pistol. The pair of headlights behind them wasn’t much brighter than the stars in the ink-black sky, but that auto was definitely getting closer. It had to be Colonial Enforcers. Or maybe Union agents. Either way, Zhíno was plagued if they caught him. He lifted the Mínumo 9-mm semiautomatic in front of his face to check it in the dimness.

Fírí gasped. “What’s that for?” she shrilled.

“Shut up, Vítí-twin.” Zhíno tapped his gun at the mirror. “We’re being tailed. It’s gotta be the Voro-fucking Enforcers.”

The blonde woman twisted briefly around to look back as the sedan’s engine whined on a slight hill, then whined, “Zhíno, don’t be a Koro-brain.”

Zhíno shifted the pistol to his left hand and flicked up the volume on the music to drown her out. Deep throbbing shook the old auto. Bobbing his head to the music, Zhíno peered ahead into the darkness, searching for a good turnaround spot. It was time to take the offensive.

(next page)