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

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Vata Kılímí shuffled down the hallway as fast as she could, wringing her thin hands.

The blonde girl must be mixed up in the gun fighting that was out front. Vata hadn’t seen a weapon on her, but perhaps she was hiding it.

The one thing the girl did have showing, however, was dirt. If she hadn’t been covered head to toe with dirt from the back yard and the desert both, Vata would have let her walk through the house. As it was, the girl would just have to wait a little while for Vata to get to the chapel door. The carpet would have been impossible to clean.

The girl was not in immediate danger, after all. Pí‘oro was still unharmed, so therefore the situation in the front must be under control. Therefore the girl had nothing to worry about. There was no urgency. The girl was not in danger.

But if the girl was harmed in the back yard while waiting, how would it look for Vata to have refused her entrance to her home just because she was dirty?

Vata tried to speed up, but couldn’t move any faster. Her hip joints ached from this quick abuse. She breathed heavy, feeding oxygen to her old heart. She briefly lost her balance, flailing her arms, catching herself with a hand against the hallway wall, but hardly lost a second in her race toward the linen closet and its hidden door.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 5, page 4

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Fírí Parızada stood in the fenced-in yard, animals milling all around her. In front of her, in a metal cage almost two meters long, she could just barely make out three motionless, frilly bumps. Iguanas. What kind of a farm has iguanas? Is this a zoo, not a farm?

Fírí pursed her lips and took a deep breath through her nose, exhaling sharply. Never mind that. Hide.

The iguana cages sat on storage cupboards, none of which were large enough for Fírí to fit inside.

She spun this way and that, peering into the inky night. Zhíno would be running around the side of the house any second now, guns blazing. She couldn’t just be standing out in the open when he showed up.

Nearby in the darkness, a duck quacked.

Fírí crouched down beside the cabinets, jamming herself in the blackness where they met the wall of the house. She pulled her shoe duffel underneath her and sat on it, hugging her knees. She had to hope that Zhíno wouldn’t find her, or the old-and-young pair from the truck. Hopefully they wouldn’t expect her here with the animals, inside the fence. And if they did look in the yard, hopefully they didn’t have flashlights.

So this is what my life has come to? Huddling next to an iguana cage in the middle of the night, hoping that nobody comes along and shoots me dead? I used to have a good life. Not great, but good. With Zhíno. True, we had drug dealers and other criminals stopping by our house all the time, but we still had a house. And Zhíno was always there to take care of me. Except when he was in prison. But there was always some other man to fill his place then. Not that I’d ever tell Zhíno about those guys, though. That would hurt him too much.

Fírí stared up at the night sky, ablaze with stars. Somewhere up there--she couldn’t spot it--floated her home, the planet Kara. It should have been a bright blue dot, more brilliant than any other star or planet in the sky, since it was so close to the planet Rívorí, where she was now.

Why had she ever left? Had it really been that bad? Surely she could have survived on Kara without Zhíno. Just let him leave and get on with her life.

No, she would’ve been stuck in a dead-end job forever, toiling endlessly for rich bosses and never amounting to anything. None of her bosses had ever respected her, just because she didn’t have a college degree.

Fírí grinned.

Her last boss must’ve noticed the error in his financial books by now. It had been a couple days. But would he ever trace it to her? Would that Sorosotuzho ever realize that it was stupid little Fírí who had outsmarted him?

She bit her knuckle to keep from laughing.

Maybe he’d figure it out, but probably not.

There was no going back, either way. Not anymore. Too great a chance that the police were looking for her.

Her grin dissipated. None of it hardly mattered anymore. She probably wouldn’t even get out of this animal yard alive.

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

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Zhíno Zhudıro quickly slowed to a walk, breathing hard. He couldn’t see a plagued thing with all these boulders and bushes blocking the light from the house.

How in Pétíso’s name was he going to find Fírí?

He kept moving forward, squinting in the darkness for rocks or small plants that would trip him up. His wounds throbbed with pain, but he forced them out of his mind. They weren’t life-threatening anymore; Gogzhuè still was. He had to focus on getting those auto keys.

Way back behind him, Zhíno heard, “This is the Colonial Enforcers! Drop your weapons!”

Zhíno grinned. Maybe those two Zhéporé-spawns would act like Névazhíno and get themselves shot by the police. Served them right.

Maybe he could just wait here for the policeman to finish with those two and then leave. Maybe he could just sneak back and shoot them from behind a boulder.

Zhíno stopped. That sounded like a fine idea. Kill the old man, the idiot boy, and this Voro-fucking Enforcer.

No. Stay focused. Find Fírí, get the keys. Stick to the plan.

He stumbled through the darkness, his denim pants protecting his legs from thorny bushes he couldn’t see. Ahísıhíta damn me. I should’ve grabbed that dead Enforcer’s flashlight.

A path opened up ahead of Zhíno, two meters wide, of bright, loose sand. He stuck his face down close to the ground, searching for footprints. Nothing.

He began following the path away from the road, angling away from the driveway. Maybe that twin of Vítí found this trail, too. Maybe it would lead straight towards her.

Zhíno started jogging.

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

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Pí‘oro Kılímo stared down at Bhanar’s fractured legs and rubbed his forehead. He had to get the kid inside to stop the bleeding and fix the breaks, but the big man was afraid to touch them. What if he hurt Bhanar even further? The foreign kid had dragged himself across the ground, apparently oblivious to his legs, but Pí‘oro knew the kid was in shock; Pí‘oro could still cause him all sorts of pain and anguish. Pí‘oro could still kill him accidentally.

And now that punk Zhíno had run off into the desert. Maybe he was chasing after the blonde, but maybe he was just hiding so he could take shots at Pí‘oro and Bhanar. Either way, the punk was definitely also running away from the Colonial Enforcers. A cruiser came screaming to a halt just beside Zhíno’s stolen cruiser, then pulled off onto the gravel verge.

“Dead,” whispered Bhanar. “Make him dead.”

Pí‘oro frowned and glanced down at the foreign kid. Did he truly want Pí‘oro to shoot the Enforcer? No, Bhanar was delusional, staring off into the dark sky. He probably still was thinking about that punk, Zhíno.

The old man massaged his scalp with his left hand. He had to get Bhanar in the house, one way or another. If he hurt him further in the process, surely the kid would understand.

“This is the Colonial Enforcers. Drop your weapons!”

Oh, right. The police.

Pí‘oro turned to look down the driveway. The Enforcer was out of his cruiser and ten meters toward Pí‘oro. He’d drawn his gun, but held it with both hands pointing at the ground. He was tall, blond, and young. Then again, just about everybody looked young to Pí‘oro.

“I said: Drop your weapons!”

Pí‘oro shrugged. “They’re unloaded.” Which they were.

The cop pointed his gun at Pí‘oro. “Drop them!”

“Very well,” the old man called. He slowly bent over to gently place his rifle on the gravel. “Bhanar, set down your rifle.”

The foreign kid hugged his rifle tight to his chest. “No, no!”

“Son, drop your rifle.”

But the kid held it tight. It had to be the injuries making him crazy as Nunıta. He clearly knew what they were asking.

To the Enforcer, Pí‘oro yelled, “He’s been hit by that auto. His legs are broken. I don’t think he’s completely here. His rifle is empty.”

The policeman lowered his handgun slightly and began walking forward. “Who was that who ran off into the desert?”

Thus begins the tedium. “The man who arrived in that cruiser. I was told his name was Zhíno by a blonde woman who arrived in that brown auto. She ran off into the desert when he drove up.”

The Enforcer stopped three meters from Pí‘oro and Bhanar. He furrowed his narrow brow as he processed Pí‘oro’s information.

“What is your name?” the policeman snapped.

“Pí‘oro Kılímo. This is my house. I came out when I heard gunfire. This kid, Bhanar, was in the back of the blue truck at the time.”

The policeman’s bright-blue eyes pierced Pí‘oro. He was probably giving too much information, but this was going to take forever otherwise. He had to get the Enforcer out of there as quickly as possible so he could get Bhanar fixed up.

“Bhanar, eh? Where’s he from?”

“I don’t know. Not the Union, that’s for sure. Look,” growled Pí‘oro, “that punk Zhíno is running around in the desert with a handgun.” He was about to tell the policeman to go hunt Zhíno down, but a different tactic hit him. “He might be pointing it at us right this instant. Shouldn’t we get inside?”

Pí‘oro knew the punk didn’t really want to kill them, but just scare them. But the Enforcer didn’t know that.

The Enforcer shook his head. “We can’t move him,” he rejoindered with a nod at Bhanar, “and we can’t leave him out here alone. I’ll call an ambulance and we’ll wait.” He paused and looked closer at the foreign kid. “Didn’t you start first aid?”

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

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Chapter 5: Far from Home



Fírí Parızada slowly stood on wobbly legs. Clumps of soil fell from her knees.

“Coming,” she croaked.

She bent over to pick up her shoe bag, collecting the straps with both hands, then began crossing the yard to the house’s door.

She couldn’t run off into the desert. She’d die of thirst and heat exhaustion once day came. So that only left hiding in this house, at the mercy of this elderly woman who somehow had known that Fírí was in her back yard.

The sheep, pigs, dogs--and was that an antelope?--scurried out of Fírí’s path. The soil squished beneath and around her shoes, which luckily were old trainers. Comfortable, but not a huge problem if they got dirty.

Framed in the open doorway stood a small woman with a black bathrobe and frizzy gray hair pulled back in halfway-successful ponytail. Thin ankles sprouted from leather slippers. How many cute little animals had to die for those? thought Fírí. The interior light left the woman’s face in shadow.

“Please come in, dear.” The woman extended a hand towards Fírí. “Oh, aren’t you a mess. We’ll get you all washed up, don’t you worry.”

Fírí stopped two meters away from the door stoop. The old woman sounded sincere, but Fírí wished she could see her face, just to be sure. But it was hidden in darkness. In any case, Fírí had come this far, so she had to trust this woman. It was her only option.

“I need to hide. Some men are trying to kill me.” How much should she tell this woman?

“Oh.” The woman lowered her hand. “Well, dear, if that’s what you need, we can help you, certainly. Just come on in--” The woman looked Fírí over from head to toe. “Why don’t you just wait in the yard, dear? Over there by the iguana cages.” She pointed to Fírí’s right, back the way she had come.

“Um. Okay.” Fírí nodded.

The woman let the screen door swing shut and then closed the solid door behind it, leaving Fírí alone in the dark. Alone with a yard full of eerily quiet animals.

Was this woman really going to help her? Or was she tricking Fírí into staying outside where that perverted old man and kid pair could find her easily?

And if she was going to help Fírí, why didn’t she let her inside? Had Fírí said something wrong? Had she offended the old woman in some way?

Fírí looked around. If Zhíno or those perverts came back here looking for her, they’d find her in an instant. She was caged bait for the predators. She had to get out of the open, right that instant.

She took two quick steps to the door, pulled open the screen door, and tried the doorknob. Locked.

“Let me in!” she called out, pounding on the door.

She stopped abruptly, realizing that she’d better shut up before Zhíno or the perverts heard her. She might as well be yelling, “Hey, here I am! Come rape me!”

If that old lady wasn’t going to return, Fírí had to hide here in the animal yard. If the woman was telling the truth about letting her in through another entrance, Fírí should hide near the house over there, over next to the cages for the--
Wait a minute. Did she say “iguana”?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 9

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Bhanar Narak rolled onto his back, careful not to disturb his legs, and opened his eyes. Where was his rifle? He needed to start shooting people. He turned his head this way and that, finally spotting the gun a few feet from the gravel, at the base of a two-foot-tall scraggly bush.

The siren had stopped, but he was sure he could still hear it, faintly. Just ringing in his ears.

“Pí‘oro!” he called. “My gun! Bullets!”

The old man towered over Bhanar, rifle clutched in his beefy hand. He glanced down at Bhanar and growled, “Calm down, son,” then stared toward the road.

Bhanar craned his neck to see that direction. Gravel poked into his scalp, not even coming close to masking the bolts of pain from his legs.

Way back at the highway, Zhíno ran towards them, coming to finish off Bhanar face-to-face.

“My gun!” Bhanar screamed.

The useless old Sorosotuzho wasn’t going to get it for him. Bhanar had to do it himself. Ignoring the excruciating agony in his legs, Bhanar pulled himself across the ground toward his rifle.

“Stop,” commanded Pí‘oro. “You don’t need that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Bhanar stretched out the last few inches and grabbed the barrel of his rifle, yanking it to him. He spared a glance down the driveway, only to find it empty. Just gravel and desert brush flashing red and green. Zhíno had disappeared, probably hiding in the bushes, sneaking up for a surprise attack.

“Pí‘oro, I want bullets!”

“I will help you,” snapped the old man. “Just be quiet and stop moving.”

Was the old man actually going to shoot Zhíno? Or was he just lying to Bhanar to keep him pacified? If Pí‘oro didn’t kill that Zhéporé-spawn, Bhanar would kill them both.

“Dead,” he hissed. “Make him dead.” Or you’ll be dead, too.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 8

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Zhíno swung open the brown sedan’s trunk and realized he needed to open the Enforcer cruiser’s trunk as well. He hurried around the auto to the open driver’s door. He felt between the seat and the door, but there was no release lever. He had to use the keys.

He yanked them from the ignition. The siren and flashing lights abruptly stopped. Zhíno didn’t care. They were getting annoying, anyway.

A few quick steps and Zhíno was at the cruiser’s trunk. He jabbed the key in the lock, turned, and flung the lid open, the keys jangling, still in the lock. Besides a spare tire and some emergency flares, the trunk was empty. Plenty of room for Gogzhuè’s guns.

Zhíno ran to the Sonla’s trunk and grabbed one of the smallest boxes with his right hand, bracing it with his left elbow. He gritted his teeth against the pain in both arms and lifted.

Red and green flashed in Zhíno’s vision. But that was impossible. The cruiser lights had turned off. It must be from the pain. And then the faint sound of a siren intruded upon Zhíno’s ears. No, you’re imagining it. Start hauling the boxes.

But between the two autos, way down the road, a pair of headlights approached, flashing red-and-green lights above.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!”

Zhíno dropped the gun box back into the Sonla’s trunk and slammed the lid. No matter what, he couldn’t let the police find the guns. Or at least not help the Voro-fuckers find them.

What should he do? Shoot this Enforcer, too? No, this guy wouldn’t stop to ask questions, not with this cruiser parked in the middle of the highway, door and trunk flung open. Zhíno would never get a chance to pull his handgun from his pocket before the Voro-fucker shot him dead.

The approaching police auto only a hundred meters away, Zhíno sprinted across the road, up the driveway a few strides, and into the desert scrub. Fírí had gone this way. He’d hunt down the Vítí-twin, kill her all too quickly, get the keys, and return to their auto. Hopefully the policeman would be lost in the desert searching for him by then and Zhíno would be able to hop in the sedan and drive off.

Hopefully. But not plagued likely.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 7

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Fírí Parızada breathed through her nose so she wouldn’t suck dirt into her mouth. Did the person see her laying on the ground behind her dirty duffel bag?

She focused on listening for footsteps or any other inadvertent sounds. Dry leaves crackled in the breeze. The Enforcer cruiser continued to wail its siren. Why didn’t Zhíno shut that plagued thing up? But no other sounds.

A horse whickered.

A dog barked in reply.

A sheep bleated.

What the plague? There was no perverted gunman back here. It was just a barnyard. Animals made those earlier sounds, too.

Maybe she could hide in whatever passed for a barn at this desert farmhouse.

Fírí stood and dusted off the front of her sweatshirt and denim pants. She lifted her shoe bag and started striding toward the animals. Her duffel was getting heavy, but she wasn’t about to leave it behind. It was more valuable than anyone else knew--even Zhíno. He had just though she was obsessed with her shoes, and Fírí went ahead and let him.

A sheep ghosted in the night ahead of her. And a couple goats. And was that a pig there?

The duffel bag clanked into something and before Fírí could stop, she walked straight into a chainlink fence. She grabbed it with her free hand to stop its clattering. In front of her, the night scattered away, animals visible and dark scurrying from the noise. Wings beat the air--a chicken, perhaps. The sheep bleated again. A pig grunted. A cow mooed.

Were the animals all together in one big pen? Didn’t these people separate them like most farmers? Fírí frowned. Farmers usually separated their animals, right?

It didn’t matter. She had to find somewhere to hide.

She heaved her shoe bag over the fence, nearly losing her balance in the process. The duffel landed with a squishy thud. Mud, or at least really chewed-up dirt.

As quietly as she could, which wasn’t very, Fírí stuck her feet into the chainlink gaps and scaled the fence. It was only two meters tall, but perched on top, Fírí felt she sat atop a flagpole. She quickly jumped down into the animal yard, her feet sinking to her ankles.

The animals surged back and forth, indistinct in the darkness, but always several meters away from Fírí.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I don’t want to eat you. I’m just hiding here for a while. I’ll be your friend.” She peered into the darkness. “Where’s the barn?”

The animals quieted slightly, mostly slowing down. A small, spotted dog zipped around the yard, not barking but keeping the other animals riled.

“Calm down, boy,” Fírí whispered as loud as she could. “Calm down!”

The distinct sound of a door unlatching and swinging open on oil-needing hinges hit Fírí like a gunshot. She froze, caught her breath. A shiver ran down her back; her knees buckled. She landed kneeling in the soft soil. She was found. And now that she was inside this fence, she was trapped. Koro-brained fool. You plagued this one. They’re going to rape you for sure.

An elderly woman’s voice called out, “Hello? Do you need any help, dear?”

Help? Who was this? Did she have anything to do with the two sick Zhéporé-spawns in the driveway?

“Dear, please come inside. You’re frightening the animals.”

Maybe this woman didn’t know anything about the guys out front. They must’ve both been in the truck. So therefore this old lady truly wanted to help her, or at least get her out of her animal yard.

Maybe Fírí could hide inside the house. But would the old lady be able to hide her from the crazy men when they waved their rifles in her face? Maybe Fírí should just get out of there, run off into the desert again.

Fírí didn’t budge a millimeter.

“Dear?”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 6

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Bhanar Narak awoke to agonizing pain. His legs were broken again. Without moving, he mentally checked his body. Through the waves of pain, or rather because of them, he could feel his left shin broken just below the knee. The smaller leg bone was intact, but probably pulled from the joint. His right shin had snapped further down. The thin bone had broken, too. He could feel cold air inside his leg, where the bones had torn up through his skin.

Plague of Rékaré, he thought. Why’d I have to do that? When he’d broken his legs sky jumping, it had been an accident. The parachutes hadn’t opened fully, so he hit the ground plagued hard. When he’d broken his arm motorbike racing, that had been an accident. A competitor had bumped into him and they both went flying. When he’d broken that same arm another time, it was an accident, too. He’d tripped on the edge of a rug. But this--now this was just Koro-head stupidity. That old geezer had never done anything for him, so why had he saved the Sorosotuzho?

Close by, Pí‘oro said, “Thank you, son,” and some other words Bhanar didn’t understand.

Without turning his head or even opening his eyes, Bhanar cracked open his mouth and replied, “Welcome.”

In an annoyingly calm voice, the old man gave unintelligible directions to Bhanar.

“I don’t understand.” Bhanar paused to formulate the next sentence in the Sarıman language. “My legs are break.”

If that bastard Zhíno had really been the one who shot at Bhanar in the first place, like Fírí had said, why did he try to run over Pí‘oro? Surely he had seen Bhanar standing there. Surely he had seen Bhanar shoot him in the hand. If Zhíno was trying to kill the plagued Koro-head emperor, he was certainly going about it in a strange way.

Or maybe the blonde woman had been lying. Maybe it was the blonde who was trying to kill Bhanar for being the supposed emperor, and he had kept her at bay with his rifle when she came back to finish him off.

Whoever it was that shot at him, Bhanar wanted him or her dead. Surely all the worlds knew that Bhanar didn’t want anything to do with being the fake emperor. Surely he had shoved enough microphones out of his face when the plagued reporters stopped asking questions about his racing and started asking Koro-head questions about what he would change in the worlds if he was in charge. Never mind that there was no plagued empire anymore. Never mind that his grandfather’s empire only covered a few of the smaller worlds in the solar system. Never mind any of that. The Tara-fucking reporters certainly didn’t care about it.

The reporters could all die, too. The reporters, the cameramen, the idiots in the worlds who lapped it all up; this Zhíno bastard, the Tara-fucking blonde woman, and condescending Pí‘oro; and especially Bhanar’s pretentious, overbearing, rich-without-working-at-it father could all die horrible deaths, for all Bhanar cared.

No, he did care. Bhanar was lying on a gravel driveway in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country on a different planet, with two horribly broken legs and no one even trying to help him. He did care. He wanted them all dead, right now.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 4, page 5

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Vata Kılímí hobbled down the hallway toward the front room, her deerskin slippers scuffing the thick, blue carpet with each slow step. Sometimes she wished she could heal all the little aches and pains in her hips, back, and knees, but she knew it wouldn’t be proper. It wasn’t what Névazhíno would want.

The animals were ready. She’d prepared a dog and a horse. It was unlikely they’d need a horse, but it was always possible the gunman had good aim. And if the horse wasn’t required, she could just sleep off the tranquilizers and go back to her stable in the morning.

Pí‘oro was taking too long, but Vata wasn’t worried. She could feel his presence alive and well. Something must be occurring out front, or else he would have been back in bed by now. Perhaps Vata could help him with whatever the trouble was, perhaps not. But she should at least offer.

Almost to the tile-floored entryway, Vata sensed something awry in the back yard. The animals were suddenly skittish, especially their other horse. Was it just a strong gust of wind, or was someone outside?

Vata started across the carpeted front room, angling between the sofa table and Pí‘oro’s well-worn leather armchair, toward the kitchen and its back door. Pí‘oro could handle whatever was happening out front. Vata had to take care of the animals.

And if someone was sneaking around in the back yard, just perhaps they needed assistance. And so Vata would offer help.

Maybe the person was dangerous. Maybe they’d shoot Vata dead when she opened the door. But she didn’t hesitate. Névazhíno had given her a purpose in life and she was not about to fail Him tonight.

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

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Zhíno Zhudıro sped the auto in reverse down the driveway. He had to get those guns delivered. And if that Voro-fucking Zhéporé-spawn shot at him again, only then would Zhíno take the time to kill him. Zhíno had to save himself first. This was his one last chance to obtain his dream. If he didn’t deliver the guns, Zhíno wouldn’t get the hidden farm in the desert, he wouldn’t get any solitude, he wouldn’t get to escape from this insane universe and all the Tara-fucking idiots inhabiting it.

He wheeled the Enforcer cruiser onto the highway, screeching to a stop beside Fírí’s old Sonla sedan. The road was as deserted as ever. His bleeding left wrist still crammed under his bloody right arm, Zhíno stuck the gearshift in park and reached across his body to open the door. Up the driveway, the old Zhéporé-spawn was kneeling beside the Névo-brained kid, not paying Zhíno any attention. Zhíno shoved open the cruiser door and grabbed the Enforcer’s handgun from his lap.

As he got out, Zhíno bumped his elbow against the frame, jarring his shattered wrist. Pain flooded over him. He clenched his jaw and eyes and willed the agony away. Why hadn’t he stolen more painkillers from the pharmacy?

He needed to bandage his left wrist immediately. What good would be delivering the guns if he died from blood loss shortly after?

His clothes were in the Sonla’s backseat. He could improvise a bandage from those. Zhíno raced around the cruiser to the brown auto. The policeman’s gun still in his hand, Zhíno patted his pants pocket for the auto keys, but they weren’t there. Empty. Of course. Fírí still had the keys.

“Pétíso damn her,” he muttered.

Zhíno switched his grip on the handgun to bash in the window when he realized that the driver’s door window was completely rolled down.

“You’re a Tara-fucking idiot.” Pay attention, Névo-brain!

Zhíno shoved the police gun into his pocket, reached through the open window, and twisted his right arm backwards to unlock the rear door. Quickly, he had the door open and was rooting through his duffel bag for something suitable as a bandage. A pair of cotton socks. Gingerly, Zhíno unrolled them and began wrapping them around his wrist. Bone grated against bone. He nearly passed out from the pain.

At one time, Zhíno had wanted Fírí to share his dream with him, but no longer. That Vítí-twin had betrayed him when he needed her the most. She’d abandoned him at the mercy of both Gogzhuè and the police. She’d forced him to kill that Enforcer. It was her fault that Zhíno had been shot, that he was practically bleeding to death. As far as Zhíno cared, Fírí could be tortured in the worst of Pétíso’s hells for all eternity.

With the help of the heavy-duty tape they kept in the auto in case the bumper fell off again, Zhíno soon had his wrist securely bandaged.

He took a deep breath.

Without the auto keys, he’d either have to load all the boxes and bags into the Enforcer cruiser, or hunt down Fírí and get those keys.

But wait. Make sure Fírí didn’t leave the keys in the auto. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be like that twin of Vítí.

Nothing in the ignition. No keys on the seat or the floor or the asphalt. Nothing.

“Aw, plagues.”

It would take forever to find Fírí in the desert. But with only one good hand, it would take forever to transfer the guns to the cruiser. He was a dead man either way.

Zhíno leaned down and pulled the trunk-release lever. He had to hope Gogzhuè was in a good mood tonight.

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

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Fírí Parızada scrambled to hide behind a meter-high boulder, dragging her duffel bag. Could Zhíno still see her? She pressed against the cold rock until she was entirely in shadow from the house’s floodlights to her left. Surely he couldn’t see her now, not from the driveway. And until he turned off that annoying siren, Fírí could probably sing and Zhíno wouldn’t ever hear her. Plagues. That scrawny, pot-bellied bastard never liked her singing, anyway.

Over the cruiser’s siren wail, the sounds of a revving engine and skidding tires drifted across the desert to Fírí. Maybe Zhíno was too busy to be looking for her now. Maybe those two sick Zhéporé-spawns had realized that Zhíno was the perfect target for their fantasies, not her. In any case, they were occupied. Therefore she could use this moment to escape.

She slowly peered over the boulder, her hands against the rough stone, ready to push herself back down if necessary. But she couldn’t see anyone. The desert bushes hid the driveway entirely. She could just barely see some flashes of red and green through the branches.

Which meant she could run and they wouldn’t see her.

She shoved herself to her feet, grabbed her shoe bag, spared another glance toward the hidden gunmen, and began running diagonally away from both the driveway and the main road. Out, away from anywhere Zhíno may look, away from all his insane paranoia and violence.

Quickly, Fírí left the flood-lit area and entered near total darkness. She halted. Where was she going? She couldn’t just run into the desert forever. Once the sun came up and started baking her, she’d die.

She looked around. The bulk of the house loomed in the near distance. Maybe they had a garden shed or something outside she could break into. She’d hide for a day or more, until she was certain Zhíno had left. Until all those Koro-brained bastards had left.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark just enough so she could pick her way between the craggy rocks and wind-rustled bushes. She stumbled out into a wide stretch of bare soil--the dirt seeming as bright as day compared to the shadows elsewhere--and followed the path toward the house. She sped to a jog. Zhíno may not be looking for her right that instant, but he’d be on her tail soon.

The trail curved leftward, toward the back of the black mass of the house.

Ahead of Fírí, it sounded like something thumped against a piece of wood. And was that a chain rattling?

Someone had to be up ahead. Fírí stopped and crouched down, leaning one hand against her lumpy duffel bag. Who was up there? Zhíno? The rifle-toting Zhéporé-spawns? Fírí held her breath to listen but her heart beat too loudly to hear much. No one was there, right?

But then, over the distant siren, Fírí distinctly heard two pieces of wood hitting each other, like a door closing, just ten meters ahead. Someone was definitely there!

She flattened onto the ground, trying to melt into the sandy soil.

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

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Pí‘oro Kılímo pushed himself to his feet, rifle in hand. Bhanar had saved his life. Maybe the kid wasn’t as crazy as he seemed. Or just insane in a different way.

Pí‘oro looked around, searching for Bhanar. The world flashed with red and green. There the kid lay, across the driveway. Had he been hit? Through the scream of the cruiser siren, Pí‘oro heard an auto engine crescendo. He had barely turned to see the cruiser when it hurtled past him in reverse, snapping his nightwear and jacket around like a flag in a demon-wind.

The punk--the blonde had called him Zhíno--stopped the cruiser in a spray of gravel. Zhíno’s squinting eyes burrowed into Pí‘oro from twenty meters away. The punk was trying to scare him. He could have hit him with the cruiser just then, if he had wanted to.

“So now it’s my turn to try scaring you.” Enforcer windscreens are bulletproof, right? Pí‘oro leveled his rifle at the punk’s face and fired.

The windscreen blossomed into a web of cracks, centered just about at the middle of the glass. The cruiser accelerated in reverse, away from Pí‘oro.

The big man laughed. “You don’t like that, do you? You Névo-brained punk.”

Pí‘oro crossed the driveway to Bhanar. The kid was moaning, so at least he wasn’t dead. But he obviously had been hit by the auto. He lay on one shoulder, with his head tucked down and one arm behind his back. His legs bent opposite directions with more than the correct number of joints. Blood soaked through his denim trousers at one of the joints. So, two broken legs at the minimum.

With a glance down the driveway--the cruiser backed out into the road--Pí‘oro knelt down beside the foreign kid.

“Thank you, son. You saved my life.” Pí‘oro reached to pat Bhanar’s shoulder, but stopped himself from fear of hurting the kid. “Or at least saved me from grievous injury.”

Bhanar moaned something resembling, “Welcome.”

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

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Chapter 4: Animal Instinct



Zhíno Zhudıro shoved his mangled left wrist into his right armpit and pinched it tight as he steered the cruiser straight at the old Zhéporé-spawn. Lit up by the cruiser’s headlights with flashes of red and green from the top of the auto, the old man’s jaw dropped. He started to swing down his rifle, but Zhíno knew the old Voro-fucker wouldn’t have a chance.

Through the agony of his shattered arm, Zhíno laughed with retribution, his cackles drowned out by the cruiser’s wailing siren.

Suddenly, the dark-haired kid pushed the old man out of the cruiser’s path. The kid tried to jump aside, but his legs thumped against the auto’s bumper, sending him flying over the hood of the cruiser to disappear from Zhíno’s view off to his right.

“Stupid Névo-brain,” Zhíno spat as he slammed on the brakes. The cruiser skidded on the loose gravel, the rear end swerving back and forth. Zhíno fought the steering wheel with his one good hand, keeping the auto going straight until it stopped.

Immediately, he shoved the gearshift into reverse and floored the accelerator. This part of the driveway wasn’t wide enough to turn around quickly.

Fírí had escaped him, disappeared into the desert, so Zhíno couldn’t let this bastard escape, too. He had to punish that old Zhéporé-spawn while he had the chance.

Zhíno craned his neck to see backwards, looking for either bastard. Maybe he could run them over with the cruiser repeatedly until they died, crushing them to bloody bits smeared into the gravel.

In the distance at the end of the driveway sat Fírí’s car, loaded with Gogzhuè’s guns. If Zhíno left with them now, he still might make the delivery on time. He still might avoid being hunted by that band of Voro-fucking thugs.

Much closer to the speeding cruiser, the kid lay in a pile at the edge of the driveway. Zhíno steered towards him. But there, at the other side, was the fat old man, just standing up. Zhíno swerved to hit him, but the steering wheel slipped in his grasp and he careened past the old Zhéporé-spawn by mere centimeters.

“Plagues!” shouted Zhíno.

He stomped on the brakes again. He had to kill that old Voro-fucking bastard. He had to make him pay for what he did to him.

The cruiser jerked to a halt.

Zhíno glanced in the mirror at Fírí’s car. If he delivered the guns and hurried, he just might make it back before these Zhéporé-spawns got their truck out of the ditch. And he just might save his own hide from the wrath of Gogzhuè.

But he really wanted to smash that old bastard flat, right that instant.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 10

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Bhanar ejected the bullet casing from his rifle and turned to the old man. “Bullets. Give bullets to me.” Bhanar surprised himself by remembering the correct word.

But Pí‘oro just shook his head with a grim expression and walked past him, heading for that Zhéporé-spawn Zhíno.

“Hey! Bullets to me!”

How did the old man expect Bhanar to protect himself? Was he supposed to hide behind Pí‘oro? Didn’t the old man realize how good Bhanar was with his rifle? Didn’t the old man realize how useful Bhanar was, how much he could help?

But no, Pí‘oro acted like he himself was the only man around who could stop the madman. Pí’oro expected Bhanar to follow orders and not ask questions. But Bhanar was better than that.

Bhanar started striding after Pí‘oro, the top of his long shadow quickly approaching the old man’s feet. He had to be part of the action. He had to capture Zhíno.

The old guy yelled, “Get out of the auto, now. We’re going to help you.”

What the plagues? “Help” him? Bhanar clenched his fist and hurried to catch up. You better be lying, old man. You better be tricking him into surrendering.

The police auto’s engine growled and it lurched forward, accelerating straight at Pí‘oro. Zhíno was completely insane.

Without thinking of how much he wanted to prove himself to the old man, Bhanar sprinted the last few yards and knocked Pí‘oro out of the path of the auto. Bhanar jumped the opposite direction, but not quick enough. The cruiser’s bumper slammed into his shins, snapping bones and sending Bhanar flying through the air, tumbling end over end. His limp body landed in a heap on the gravel driveway, limbs pointing unnatural angles.

And there he lay.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 9

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Zhíno’s wrist awashed him with agony.

“Tarénara-fucking shitface Kínıtíní-licked cock-sucking Zhéporé-spawn bastard.” He broke my wrist! That Zhéporé-spawn shot my Tara-fucking wrist apart. Fire raced all over Zhíno’s body and he couldn’t even feel his left hand.

Through watering eyes, Zhíno saw the older bastard walking toward him, as calm as if strolling through a park, his rifle pointed up.

That cocky Zhéporé-spawn had to die. Zhíno no longer cared if it was quick or slow.

The old man bellowed, “Get out of the auto, now!” and that was all Zhíno needed to hear.

He slammed his foot on the accelerator, aiming the Enforcer cruiser at the old Zhéporé-spawn.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo had trouble on his hands. The foreign kid wasn’t listening to reason, that blonde girl was acting just as obstinate, and now some other young punk arrived in a stolen Colonial Enforcer cruiser. The girl screamed and disappeared into the desert. The cruiser skidded to a halt. Bhanar still had his gun leveled down the driveway, looking a bit twitchy.

“Calm down, son,” soothed Pí‘oro. “You can’t go around shooting at people.”

But Bhanar snorted and didn’t change his aim.

Should I tackle him? Knock his gun aside? But Pí‘oro didn’t want to get involved. He was there to help victims, not get caught between two rival aggressors.

Bhanar didn’t shoot the blonde. He won’t shoot this punk.

The foreign kid fired his rifle.

Pí‘oro cursed, “Plague of Rívorí.”

A dark hole appeared on the punk’s wrist. His handgun clattered on the gravel. The kid had actually hit him.

Bhanar turned to Pí‘oro and snapped, “Bullets! Give bullets to me.”

Thank you, Névazhíno. The kid was out of ammo; he was unarmed. Pí‘oro could focus on the other punk. He finally had a victim to help, even if the Huro-type had stolen an Enforcer auto.

Shaking his head at Bhanar, Pí‘oro started walking down the driveway. His strides weren’t long, but they were purposeful and fast. As he approached the stolen Enforcer cruiser and its incoherent, screaming driver, Pí‘oro kept his rifle pointed skyward.

“Hey!” shouted Bhanar. “Bullets to me!”

But Pí‘oro ignored the kid. Still twenty meters from the police cruiser, Pí‘oro growled, “Get out of the auto, now. We’re going to help you.”

Just because he was going to help the punk didn’t mean he had to treat him nice.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 7

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Fírí ran as fast as she could, expecting Zhíno’s bullet in her back. She should’ve known he would be mad at her. She should’ve known that he’d finally try to kill her. Ingrained in her memory was the sight of his twisted visage, consumed by a lust for revenge.

The house’s floodlights cast harsh shadows through the patchy brush and cactuses. She could only see the uneven ground in bits and pieces, so she stepped high in the black parts, hoping to miss big rocks like the ones she could see in the lit parts. She cradled her shoe duffel bag with both arms so it wouldn’t throw off her balance.

A shot. She tensed. It missed. She tripped.

The ground whammed Fírí’s duffel into her gut and she suddenly lay motionless. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands and knees throbbed with pain. She struggled to get her arms untangled from under her bag, but the lack of oxygen weakened her muscles. She tried to gasp, but nothing worked. She was going to die. She must’ve been shot, after all. She could tell she was going unconscious. Her eyesight grew dim.

Air! Her lungs suddenly worked. She gulped in deep breaths of the delicious, cold air. Big lungfuls. She pulled out her arms and rolled onto her back, staring up at the stars.

Between gasps, Fírí realized she wasn’t shot. She’d only had the wind knocked out of her. She wasn’t about to die.

As long as Zhíno never found her, that was.

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