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

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Fírí Parızada didn’t take her eyes off her crazy ex-boyfriend even after he switched to pointing the gun at Vata. His left arm hung loose, useless, a bloody bandage of what looked like sweatsocks and utility tape wrapped around his wrist. Had he been shot again?

“Then who will heal you, dear?” asked the old woman.

Fírí wanted to shout out that the healing was all a trick and a scam, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything that might aid Zhíno. If Vata was able to get Zhíno to put down his gun, all the better.

Zhíno squinted at the old hag, then gradually smiled. “Very well. I’ll let you heal me, but only if I’m the one who sacrifices Fírí.”

“What?” Fírí gulped. Does Zhíno know more about this cult than I do?

Vata smirked, casting her maleficent gaze upon Fírí. “As you wish, dear.”

Plague of Rékaré! Just when I decided the old Nuvíní wasn’t going to kill me.

As if breaking from a stupor, Fírí hastily scrambled backwards away from the two who deigned to murder her. She had to hide. She had to protect herself. She had to get out of there.

Zhíno lazily swung the handgun toward Fírí and began following her into the chapel. “So you’ll let me shoot the twin of Vítí, after all?”

Fírí shrieked and dove to the ground, her muscles threatening to give out as she scurried for protection behind the two-meter-wide stone altar. Her breaths came hard and fast as her whole body jittered.

“You can’t hide from me, babydoll. Don’t even try.” His laugh brought tears to Fírí’s eyes.

All she had wanted was a quiet and happy future, and now the one person she had ever trusted was about to eliminate her future, totally.

She wiped tears from her squeezed-shut eyes with the heels of her palms. Ahísıhíta damn me. I should’ve left him at the portal. Why’d I ever trust him? Why’d I ever trust anybody? Sobs racked her body as she waited to die.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 8

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Pí‘oro Kılímo took two steps toward the kitchen, intending to lock those doors, too, when he heard little Séara call out.

“This is Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha. Please open up!”

He couldn’t help but smile at her “please,” but he couldn’t let her charm influence him. She was there on business, not a social call. He had to keep the police out.

“Mr. Kılímo?” called Séara, knocking on the door.

Pí‘oro started for the kitchen again, painfully aware of his silly mincing courtesy of Vata’s small slippers. Nonetheless, he wasn’t about to remove them and leave dirty footprints across the carpet for his wife to discover. She’d have a fit just knowing that the Enforcer had run through the front room with his shoes still on.

Little Séara kept pounding on the door, trying to be the tough lawman she thought she was supposed to be.

Ahead of him, Pí‘oro could hear the Enforcers in the back yard. They yelled back and forth, coordinating their search for the murderous punk. Hopefully the animals wouldn’t get too spooked. Maybe one of the goats would bite or headbutt an Enforcer. Pí‘oro smiled. It would serve him right for messing up their home.

Pí‘oro entered the kitchen and hurried across the linoleum to the ajar back door. He wanted to kick off the slippers, but he needed some protection from the shards and splinters littering the floor.

Three of the eight chairs were overturned. A cupboard door was hanging askew, broken glasses visible behind it. The refrigerator had a puckered hole in the middle of the door. The window over the sink, strangely enough, was completely open, yet undamaged. Perhaps that was how Zhíno broke into the house.

Beside the back door, Vata’s framed needlepoint declaring “home sweet home” lay on the linoleum, a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the upper left corner.

Pí‘oro frowned and shook his head slightly as he reached the door. He slammed it shut and turned the deadbolt.

Zhíanoso and His ice-goddess mother, Vítí, would shake hands before Pí‘oro ever let the bungling Enforcers in his house again.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 7

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Séara Nulıpésha’s feet churned the gravel as she cornered past the ambulance, heading for the cement walkway that would lead to the trail around the house. Cowering in the bushes alongside the walkway, the paramedics looked up at Séara. Beyond them, the front door stood open, but suddenly slammed shut. The medics twitched at the thump.

Séara kept running past them, but one called out, “Wait! A victim is inside. The old guy won’t let us in.”

She didn’t stop. They weren’t talking about Mr. Kılímo, were they? Why wouldn’t he let them in?

The radio on Séara’s belt blurped. “This is Laparıpasamé. Enforcers say suspect hiding in fenced-in yard, suspect had not enough time to climb fence. Enforcers searching many sheds. I’m assisting from outside fence.”

If the murderer wasn’t fleeing, Séara had a moment to help the medics before joining the search. She halted and ran back to the front door. She turned the knob. Locked.

“It’s locked,” she said, frowning. She pounded on the door and yelled, “This is Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha. Please open up!”

Silence.

The medics should’ve gone in when they had the chance. Séara didn’t have all night to stand around helping them.

“Mr. Kılímo?” she called. Into her radio, she reported, “This is Nulıpésha. Assisting medics gain access to victim. Will join search shortly.” She reclipped the radio to her belt.

The medics walked up behind her. “He’s not going to open it,” one of them commented.

“Why not? He’s got to.” She pounded on the door again.

This wasn’t like Mr. Kılímo. He was always so cooperative and helpful.

The medic answered, “Because the Enforcer was arresting him when the shooting started.”

Séara paused, her fist motionless before the door. There has to be some mistake. It can’t be Mr. Kılímo they’re talking about. Never. Arrested?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 6

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Zhíno Zhudıro gazed upon Fírí’s pale, wide-eyed face as she backed away from him until she bumped into the wall. His face split with a grin and he cackled a laugh filled with relief and joy. He’d stumbled right onto his quarry. Neither of his gunshot injuries seemed to matter anymore, the pain overtaken by the exhilaration of capturing the twin of Vítí who had betrayed him so viciously earlier that night.

He yanked his handgun from his pocket and pointed it Fírí. Finally he’d get to enact his revenge.

Hopefully he had some bullets remaining. How many shots had he fired? Ten? Eleven? Twelve? Standard clips had twelve. Maybe he had two bullets left. Maybe the gun was empty. But if he didn’t know, Fírí certainly wouldn’t know.

Smiling as nastily as he could, Zhíno jabbed the gun at his ex-girlfriend. “Are you ready to die, whore of Rana? Give me the auto keys, and maybe I won’t kill you.”

Her burgundy sweatshirt covered with ochre dust, Fírí held up her hands as if they’d protect her from a bullet. “Please, Zhíno,” she whimpered. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.”

The old lady stepped into Zhíno’s view, but didn’t block the gun. With a scowl, she snapped, “Put that thing away, dear, before you hurt somebody.”

Zhíno snorted a laugh, his eyes never leaving the blubbering Fírí. “But that’s my plan, you stupid Nuví hag.”

“Lower the gun,” she ordered in a tone that demanded obedience. “Don’t waste your bullets. If you shoot the girl, I’ll call upon Névazhíno to revive her.”

What the plagues is she talking about?

Zhíno shrugged and swung the gun to point at the white-haired woman. “Very well. I’ll shoot you first.”

She raised her eyebrows and shook her head sadly. “Then who will heal you, dear?”

Zhíno narrowed his eyes. His wounds began throbbing. Could this hag actually heal people? He’d heard rumors of Névazhíno cults, but he thought they sacrificed humans for the benefit of animals. Maybe they could sacrifice humans for the benefit of other humans, as well. A slow grin pulled up the corners of his mouth.

“Very well. I’ll let you heal me, but only if I’m the one who sacrifices Fírí.” And has a little fun before finishing the Vítí-twin off.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 5

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha spotted the flashing red-and-green lights of several cruisers dazzling the desert night, accompanied by Mr. Kılímo’s powerful floodlights from the house.

Her radio squawked. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

It sounded like Tépíto’s voice. He was already at the house, helping the Enforcers. Who was shooting and who were they shooting at? Had the Enforcers found the murderer? Had he taken the Kılímos hostage?

As she approached the unlit cruiser blocking her path, Séara swerved to the left lane and stomped on the brakes. The other police had parked alongside the road, but time was now of the essence. She cranked the steering wheel and gunned the cruiser up the gravel driveway.

A hundred meters ahead and closing fast, the ambulance was parked in front of the garage door. Séara squinted into Mr. Kılímo’s floodlights. Someone in dark clothes scurried past the ambulance, away from the front door.

Her radio burped. “This is Laparıpasamé. I’m circling the house. Suspect went out the back.”

The person running past the garage glanced up at Séara’s headlights. It was Tépíto Laparıpasamé.

Séara grabbed her radio handset as she veered to the open area right of the ambulance.

She held the handset near her mouth. “This is Nulıpésha approaching. Proceed. I’ll cover west side of house.”

Tépíto nodded and disappeared around the corner.

She longed to ask him about the Kılímos, but it wasn’t appropriate.

Séara stood on the brake pedal and unbuckled her seat restraint as the cruiser skidded to a halt. Before the auto completely stopped, Séara shoved the gearshift into park and threw open the door. She leapt out of the cruiser, drawing her pistol, and sprinted around the ambulance.

She had a murderer to capture.

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

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Fírí Parızada ran through the loose dirt at the old woman, racing to close the door. If someone was shooting guns, it had to mean Zhíno was nearby.

Still facing the outside, Vata repeated herself in a commanding tone. “Come inside!”

Fírí slammed against the huge door. It shuddered and groaned as she bounced off. The tiny hag caught the door before it swung shut. Fírí landed on her butt, her feet in the air and her shoulder and wrist throbbing from hitting the heavy door.

“Plague of Rívorí!” she cursed.

As Fírí regained her feet, someone barged past the old Vítí-twin, catching himself against the wall.

Vata pushed the door with all her minimal weight.

The newcomer’s cold, gray eyes drilled into Fírí. It was Zhíno.

The giant door quietly thudded shut, entombing Fírí with the Zhéporé-spawn who would kill her.

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

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı awoke briefly at some loud banging that might possibly have been gunshots, but quickly drifted off to sleep once again. He’d had a long day.

Zhíanoso, the High God of Fire, did not visit Bhanar’s dreams.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 2

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Zhíno Zhudıro’s hand shook as he pointed his stolen semiautomatic at the closed door, waiting for the Enforcer to enter and get a surprise. Bolts of pain stabbed out from his upper arm as he tried to hold the large gun steady. Ahísıhíta damn the Tara-fucker who shot me. Zhíno’d lost his own gun when that old spawn shot his wrist, so now he was stuck using this clunky, Voro-fucker piece of gooseshit. At least he had a full clip, though.

The doorknob turned and the door flew open.

Zhíno fired twice before he spotted the Enforcer hidden behind the doorjamb. Without pausing, he adjusted his aim and fired several more rounds. Wood splinters showered from the jamb as the door slowly swung back shut. Before it closed, the Enforcer’s handgun appeared in the gap. Zhíno dove to the floor behind the large wooden table as bullets snapped past his head. His broken left hand bumped the linoleum, nearly overwhelming Zhíno with nauseating waves of agony.

“Nıgédazo! The suspect!” the Enforcer screamed as he kicked open the door again.

With tear-soaked eyes and clenched jaw, Zhíno aimed his handgun between the chair legs. He’d be flanked soon; the table would be no protection. And he’d already used almost half the clip. The Enforcer emerged from the garage and Zhíno fired a few more rounds at the Voro-fucker. Wood legs exploded, temporarily blocking his view so he didn’t know if he had hit the plaguing Enforcer or not. He fired again, though, keeping the bastard at bay.

Bullets zipped through the kitchen, shot from the front room, slamming into the floor and table near Zhíno.

He lurched backwards, shielding his face from the flying splinters. The movement turned into a retreat as he staggered to his feet and ran for the back door. He fired two blind shots behind him before shoving his burning-hot gun in his trouser pocket and flinging open the door, protecting his injured hand. He slammed open the screen door and leapt into darkness.

He had to hide. He had to set up an ambush.

His feet landed on the soft soil and he immediately cut left, toward where he remembered some animal cages.

Back inside, an Enforcer screamed, “He went out the back!”

A crack of yellow light dimly illuminated the dirt ahead of Zhíno. He blinked before realizing it was another door to the house and there was a small, old woman silhouetted in the opening.

She gestured to Zhíno, ordering, “Come inside!”

Zhíno ran straight at her.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 9, page 1

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Chapter 9: The Moment of Discovery



Pí‘oro Kılímo gritted his teeth as the medics stepped onto the tile floor of the entryway.

He couldn’t let them stumble across the chapel by accident. He had to show them to the kid and his healed legs. It would throw his previous statements in doubt, but at least it would protect Vata.

He rolled his shoulders under the Enforcer’s grip and growled, “Let me go and I’ll show you where Bhanar is.”

The Colonial Enforcer loosened his hold, but didn’t release him. “Where?”

A door in the kitchen squeaked open. Gunshots exploded, too quick to count. A man barked, “Nıgédazo! The suspect!”

The Enforcer released Pí‘oro, his gun drawn in a smooth motion. He popped around the corner into the front room, handgun leveled, but didn’t fire. Instead, he ran out of sight toward the kitchen.

That Zhíno punk’s in the kitchen? How the plagues did he get in?

Several more shots fired. Glass shattered. Something wood crashed to the floor.

Pí‘oro stood irresolute, his hands clenching for something to use to stop this destruction of his home. How much was this firefight damage going to cost to repair? With both Zhíno and the police unlawfully breaking into his house, somebody had to pay.

One of the Enforcers yelled, “He went out the back!”

All that shooting and they didn’t get him? Why’d they have to take my rifle away? I could bag that punk with one bullet.

Footsteps stormed across the kitchen linoleum floor. The back door slammed open against the wall. The Enforcers’ voices faded as they exited Pí‘oro’s home.

Pí‘oro glanced around the entryway. The front door stood wide open. The medics were nowhere to be seen.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 10

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Fírí blocked Vata’s shuffling path. “No.” She shook her head. “No. Zhíno’s probably out there. There’s no way I’m opening the door for him and I can’t let you open the door, either.”

The small woman didn’t stop moving, but kept on coming straight at Fírí, an evil glint in her eyes.

“Out of my way, dear. If your Zhíno is indeed the person outside, I can handle him as well as any other animal.”

The hag swiped her claw-like hand at Fírí, causing the blonde to back a step.

Zhíno was indeed an animal, and if Vata would treat him like she treated her dog, maybe Fírí should let her open the door, after all. A slit throat would do that Zhéporé-spawn good.

Fírí smiled. “Would you really?” She began walking backwards down the dirt-floored hall in front of the slow woman.

“Yes, of course, dear.” Vata’s eyes sparkled in the dim light.

It suddenly seemed immediately obvious to Fírí that this old woman not only would kill Zhíno if given the opportunity, but could. She exuded strength from some hidden depth within. Maybe that was why Bhanar was such a sheep around her. Maybe that was why the cops weren’t here already, taking Fírí away in handcuffs.

Fírí’s heel bumped into something and she nearly fell over backwards. Only a hand on the stucco wall saved her.

She looked down. It was her duffel bag of shoes and cash. That money was becoming more of a burden than a treasure. If Fírí and Zhíno had succeeded in setting up a farm in the high desert--or if Fírí had ditched him back at the portal like she originally planned--then that money would last her the rest of her life. Now, though, it was incriminating evidence she had to hide from the police, lugging from one place to the next.

It was all Zhíno’s fault. If he hadn’t freaked out and shot at Bhanar--and apparently at an Enforcer, too--Fírí would be safe for life, but she had been a fool to rely on him. Zhíno was insane. He’d shoot at anybody who he thought might possibly get in his way, whatever way that might be. There was no chance in any of the myriad of Pétíso’s hells that he’d ever let Vata stop him.

Fírí looked up to see tiny, frail Vata dwarfed by the door, her hand on the lever.

“Wait! Stop!”

Muffled gunshots rang out from inside the house, seven or eight in rapid succession, followed by yelling and storming feet.

Vata swung open the oversized door and called out, “Dear, come inside.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 9

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Pí‘oro Kılímo swung open the door to reveal a tall blond man in a black uniform with two paramedics behind him. In the kitchen, a door latch clicked shut. Was someone back there?

The Colonial Enforcer--the same one who had questioned him before--stepped through the doorway, grabbed Pí‘oro, and spun him around.

“Take it easy, son,” snapped Pí‘oro, almost losing his balance.

“Raise your arms,” the young officer commanded, tugging Pí‘oro’s wrists away from his body. “Do you have a weapon on you?” He patted Pí‘oro’s down jacket, starting with each arm and working his way down.

“No,” growled the old man. “You already took my rifle. When can I get that back?”

“Probably never.” Lieutenant Nıgédazo moved down to Pí‘oro’s torso, slapping hard with both hands.

Pí‘oro snarled. Here he was, being roughed up and probably arrested for crimes he didn’t commit, and the real criminal was on the loose.

The Enforcer’s hand stopped at the bottom of the jacket, pressing a hefty lump against Pí‘oro’s side--the box of rifle ammunition.

“What’s this?” He jabbed a sharp corner into Pí‘oro’s flesh.

“Bullets for my gun. Take them. No good without my rifle.”

The policeman yanked them out of the pocket, ripping fabric in the process.

“Watch it, son. There’s no need.”

Lieutenant Nıgédazo shoved Pí‘oro against the wall with a thud, slamming his cheek on the drywall.

“There’s every need,” hissed the officer into Pí‘oro’s ear. “An Enforcer’s been killed.”

Pí‘oro groaned. They were going to ransack this house. He had to stop them before they found the chapel. He had to stop them before they arrested Vata.

“Excuse me,” said one of the medics, still in the front door. “Where’s the victim?”

If Vata had completed the ceremony, there was no victim. The medics would be useless.

The Enforcer’s radio coughed static. “The garage is clear. Proceeding to only interior door.” Another burst of static.

Was another Enforcer in the house--in the garage? It sounded like he’d be entering the kitchen. They usually left that door unlocked.

“The victim’s somewhere in here,” barked the lieutenant pinning Pí‘oro to the wall. “I saw this one carry him in. Search the house.”

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

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Vata Kılímí crossed the hallway to the linen closet door. She could hear Pí‘oro talking heatedly with an Enforcer. They’d forced their way inside. Vata shook her head disdainfully. The police thought they had to stick their noses into everything, not realizing when they’re not wanted or needed.

She could sense that Pí‘oro was aggravated, but he’d just have to handle the meddling police on his own. Vata had to go help the poor victim in the back yard. It was obvious her husband had not made it that far. Pí‘oro wouldn’t become so agitated very quickly. On the other hand, Vata couldn’t sense anything from the animals anymore. Perhaps the victim had lost consciousness. Perhaps he was dying.

She swung open the closet door and paused briefly to make sure the police weren’t coming around the hallway corner.

The Enforcer snarled, “What’s this?” but didn’t seem to be moving toward the corner.

Vata released the catch and pushed the shelves into the chapel, quietly closing the thin door behind her as she stepped inside.

It was possible the victim was no longer in the back yard, but there was no down side in speedily opening the door if no one was present. The downside in not opening the door could be the loss of a life.

She moved aside and shut the door of shelves, removing her slippers without much thought. Across the chapel stood the blonde girl with her hands on her hips, staring straight back at Vata.

The girl tilted her head back slightly. “What are you up to? Why did you kill the dog? What are you going to do to me?”

The house shook with a heavy thud from the direction of the front door. The blonde spun to look at the chapel wall which backed on the entryway. A bit of dust drifted down from the painted stucco.

Whatever was occurring, Pí‘oro would surely do the necessary action to protect himself, this chapel, and Vata. She had to believe that.

While descending the wood steps to the cool, soft soil, Vata called to the girl.

“Please, dear. I’ll answer your questions in a minute, but could you go open the back door? I fear another victim of the gunman is injured and hiding in the yard.”

The girl didn’t respond, her ears apparently focused with her eyes upon the commotion near the front door.

Vata shuffled toward the hallway in the far corner, but she had a long way to travel if she were to save someone’s life.

The horse exhaled loudly. She would wake soon.

If the victim truly was on Pétíso’s doorstep, Vata would have to sedate her horse again and sacrifice her. If the victim’s injuries were not life-threatening, though, she would need a different animal. Another dog, or maybe a deer. Vata growled softly at herself. Thinking about such things before seeing the victim was a waste.

The girl snapped her gaze upon Vata. “What in Pétíso’s hells is going on around here?”

Almost across the chapel to the blonde and the start of the hallway, Vata implored, “Please, dear, go get the door. I fear it may be urgent.” She shifted to a harsher tone. “Someone may be dying. I can’t walk fast enough. Open the back door!”

As if she finally realized Vata was requesting something from her, the young woman scowled. She shook her head vehemently, her chin-length blonde hair dancing back and forth at random.

“No, no! Zhíno’s probably out there. There’s no way I’m opening the door for him.” She stepped in front of Vata, her jaw firm. “And I can’t let you open the door, either.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 7

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Bhanar Narak sat down upon the cushy mattress. The flannel sheets were rough under his hands, but comforting nonetheless.

The old woman patted the pillow. “Just lie down, dear. We’ll take care of everything else in the morning.”

Lying back on the bed, Bhanar yawned widely. Whatever craziness had occurred tonight, it surely would make more sense after a good night’s sleep.

He tried to kick off his shoes, but remembered he’d already removed them back in the strange chapel, before coming through the linen closet. He tucked his feet under the thick, quilted blanket, noting the blood-soaked bandage around his right shin. He should take that off, he knew, but instead he lowered head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over him.

Zhíanoso healed me. Weird. I guess the “divine right” of kings and emperors isn’t all the gooseshit I thought it was.

Bhanar turned onto his side, his eyes closed. Dust and fabric softener tickled his nose.

The motorbike race tomorrow was out of the question, what with his truck in the ditch. Hopefully the police would keep anyone from stealing anything during the night. Hopefully the police would catch the bastard Zhíno and put him in jail or just shoot him dead.

The bedroom door clicked quietly shut. Bhanar cracked open an eye to see the old woman gone.

He was supposed to be sleeping at the motorbike camp tonight. He was supposed to be resting up so he could win another race and earn praise from his peers. But he didn’t need any of that anymore. Not if he was the emperor--and he was the emperor, no matter what his grandfather or dad said. Their cycles had passed; it was his turn now.

His grandfather had taken the Imperial House of Narakamíníkı and turned it into just a last name, Narakamíníkı. Then his dad hacked off most of that, shortening their name to Narak. It was now up to Bhanar to return the imperial family to prominence, to restore the House of Narakamíníkı.

Bhanar snuggled into the goose-down pillow, moaning softly.

Starting tomorrow, he would act like the emperor he was. He would do all that stuff Zhíanoso told him to do. He would be the emperor that the media and the public all clamored for. And if anybody questioned his authority, he could just call Zhíanoso for support.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 6

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Fírí Parızada stared at the dead dog upon the altar. Vata had killed it. She’d killed it and then led Bhanar away. The kid had been fully awake, not drugged. Neither had said anything to Fírí. If this performance was for her, they sure did a poor job of selling it.

The horse snorted a wet, rattling snore, like boiled cabbage caught in a mixer. At least it was still alive.

Fírí pushed herself to her feet. Now that the dust had settled down, it should be easier to spot the fans that had caused the swirling breeze. A slow circuit around the torches and altar failed to produce any obvious grilles in the wall--or in the altar itself. Way up at the high point of the ceiling was a small square darker than the rest of the blackness, but surely it was too small to cause such a powerful demon-wind.

She tucked a few stray golden locks behind her ear and put her hands on her hips. Her gaze fell upon the murdered dog once again.

It didn’t matter--none of this. She had to worry about herself, not some weird magic trick. Zhíno had to still be hunting for her. He’d gone insane. The old woman surely would sell her out before too long--whenever the opportunity presented itself. Perhaps the hag had already called the police and they were racing down the highway that very second, trying to find this Ahísıhíta-damned middle-of-nowhere chapel of death.

Except it wasn’t dedicated to the God of Death, Pétíso. It was dedicated to Névazhíno––stupid, clumsy Névo who loved all His animal creations. Slaughtering dogs and horses was definitely a perversion of His faith--of any faith, for that matter.

Fírí pursed her lips.

If she got the chance or had the need, she should call the police on Vata. That old hag was the criminal here, not Fírí.

She sighed and looked down the dim hallway at her bag of shoes and embezzled money. Stealing isn’t the same. It doesn’t hurt anyone--not like murdering a dog.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 8, page 5

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha gazed straight down the highway, her hands firmly on the steering wheel. Her cruiser flew at 150 kilometers per hour, but it certainly wasn’t going to take an hour to get to the Kılímos’ house. It was far outside town, but not 150-kilometers far.

Her radio squawked. “This is Lawman Laparıpasamé. I have arrived at address 5430 East Crater Road. Three Colonial Enforcer vehicles at location, including one in the eastbound lane of traffic. Caution. Ambulance here also, in driveway by the house. No Enforcers or medics visible. Will locate and contact Enforcers. Out.”

Séara was still a few minutes from arriving. She knew this road well, having been driven by her mom to visit the Kılímos off and on throughout her younger years, when Pí‘oro taught her how to ride a horse. Those had been some of the best days of her childhood, when she and old Mr. Kılímo had gone riding across the desert, exploring kilometer after kilometer, investigating gullies, mesas, and hoodoo rocks all around Tuhanı.

Mrs. Kılímí had always stayed behind, preparing a grand meal for their return. Sometimes Séara’s mom helped Vata cook, and those were always the best dinners. They’d have barbecue pork ribs; spinach flatbread with spicy hummus; chopped peppers and okra and cabbage all fried up good; and beer that Mr. Kılímo sometimes sneaked Séara but her mom pretended not to notice.

Her radio squawked again. “This is Senior Lawman Vomıvé, en route to address 5430 East Crater Road. ETA, twenty minutes. All lawmen: follow Enforcer orders on this manhunt. Out.”

Séara checked her holster snap, clicking it open and shut twice. The murderer better not have hurt the Kılímos. Killing a police officer is enough to boil anyone’s blood, but when someone starts killing your friends, that’s when people get irrational.

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

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Pí‘oro Kılímo had had enough; he couldn’t stand there arguing with the Enforcers all night. Supposedly someone was in the back yard and he or she needed help. Vata probably was already getting upset that he hadn’t returned with her next subject by now.

“Look,” he called through the door. “I have something to take care of. Could you just wait a few minutes?”

“Mr. Kılímo,” replied one of the Enforcers. “The ambulance has just arrived. The medics will be here extremely shortly. Open this door!”

Pí‘oro looked at the curtains behind the television. Faint red and green flashes lit them up, but those were from the Enforcer cruisers. An ambulance’s lights would only add a bit more red. The Enforcer might be lying, using any means necessary to get inside and arrest everybody involved in any way with the death of that other Enforcer. The Enforcers would arrest Pí‘oro, Bhanar, and anyone else they could find, all because that Zhíno punk had picked this house to start shooting in front of.

Which meant the lieutenant would want to search the house, top to bottom. If the police found the chapel, Pí‘oro and Vata would get arrested for crimes they did commit. Pí‘oro always knew the risk existed, but it was worth it for all the help they gave to society--or so Vata said.

“Open the door, now!”

If the paramedics had actually arrived, Pí‘oro couldn’t do anything to keep them out. They weren’t the police; they wouldn’t be searching the house. But with the door open, the Enforcers probably would come swarming in, anyway.

Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead and placed his other hand on the door knob. It was too late to keep them out of the house. Now he had to attempt to control their visit.

“I’m going to open the door. You, the police, still can’t come in.” As if that’ll stop them.

Pí‘oro turned the knob.

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

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Zhíno Zhudıro held his semiautomatic pistol loosely with his right hand. Any tighter sent sharp pain through the muscles of his upper arm.

The fat, bald bastard kept trying to get the Enforcers to leave, but wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Zhíno grinned with narrowed eyes. If the Zhéporé-spawn had actually succeeded in getting rid of the Voro-fuckers, Zhíno would have killed him by now. It was only the old man’s incompetence that kept him alive.

Behind a door which Zhíno had assumed was a closet, but when he thought about it probably was the garage, the distinctive static burp of a police radio grabbed Zhíno’s attention.

His heart pounded hard again as a smile crept upon his face. His throbbing injuries encouraging him to fight, Zhíno quietly raised his gun to point level toward the door.

The Enforcers were flanking the old Zhéporé-spawn. If they came inside, Zhíno had to shoot first. Running away was not an option.

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

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Vata Kılímí felt Névazhíno’s presence fading away. He had answered her prayer. He had healed the boy’s legs. And yet a corner of her soul ached from the loss of His touch.

As the whirlwind settled to stillness and the last sparking bolts of untamed energy dissipated, Vata opened her eyes. Her dog was dead, limp on the altar, his slit throat no longer seeping blood. His lifeforce had gone to serve a greater purpose.

The young man moaned and blinked open his eyes, immediately propping himself up on his elbows. His gaze darted around the chapel, pausing on the dog’s body, Vata, and her knife.

Setting the blade down, Vata reached past the dog to pat the boy’s shoulder.

“Relax, dear. The wonderful Névazhíno has healed you. It is truly a most wonderful event.”

It was a wonderful event, but even the warmth and buoyance from His visit was already a dwindling memory.

The boy furrowed his brows, his mouth partly open. His eyes focused somewhere to Vata’s right. In a thick foreign accent, he replied, “But no, it was not . . .” His gaze snapped to Vata’s face and his mouth closed sharply.

Having no idea what the boy was attempting to say, Vata circled the altar to stand closer to him. “Let’s put you to bed. Most beneficiaries are quite tired after the ceremony, even when it isn’t the middle of the night.”

The foreign boy slowly swung his legs off the altar, flexing them with a growing smile. The grin stretched into a yawn as he leaned forward. He shook his head with clenched eyes.

“I am tired. Do you have a . . .”

“Bed?” He apparently had not comprehended Vata’s prior offer. His grasp of the Sarıman language was perhaps slim.

“Yes, bed.” He nodded sluggishly.

“Yes.” Vata held out her hand.

Past the boy, against the far wall, the blonde girl sat with her arms crossed. She watched the scene with a scrutinizing eye, but remained silent. That made sense, as this healing had little to do with her. It was a pity she didn’t need healing. Vata certainly wouldn’t mind calling upon Névazhíno once again.

The foreigner hopped down off the altar with extreme confidence, not taking Vata’s offered hand. His feet landed and he let out a brief laugh of joy, which was understandable considering the divine miracle which just occurred.

Vata placed a gentle hand high on the boy’s back, gesturing forward with her other. “Right this way, dear.”

He began walking, not needing any assistance. Névazhíno had healed him strong and fully, as Vata knew He would.

Perhaps the other victim, the one in the back yard, was injured. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem like the animals noticed him any longer. Hopefully Pí‘oro had brought him inside already.

Halfway to the door, the foreigner turned to look at Vata with a frown. “Is there near here a . . . bhèutsnozo?” He shook his head. “Water out of the ground?”

“A spring?” Why on Rívorí would he be asking such a question at this time? There wasn’t a spring near the house, not anywhere terribly close. “There is one spring several kilometers north of here, out in the desert. It flows from the aquifer that Tuhanı’s wells tap.”

The dark-haired young man scowled, but nodded. Vata realized that perhaps she confused him with words like ‘aquifer,’ if he didn’t know ‘spring.’ He seemed to understand the gist, nonetheless.

As they continued to the interior door, Vata began wondering what types of injuries their next beneficiary would have. What animal would she need to prepare? Which of her pets would sacrifice his life for a stranger?

Vata sighed. She would have to wait and see.

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

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Chapter 8: Denial of the Resurrection



Fírí Parızada staggered back a step as a light breeze began flowing through the chapel.

The old woman chanted to her god, Névazhíno, holding up the big knife and a goblet.

Fírí knew she should stop Vata before she killed the dog or the foreign kid with the knife, but she just couldn’t force her feet to carry her forwards. At least the horse seemed safe from the knife, drugged unconscious on the dirt floor.

Maybe the white-haired woman wasn’t drugged after all. Maybe she conspired with the old man to sacrifice the animals and Bhanar in her twisted form of worship to Névazhíno. Which meant Fírí had to be next on their list. Had she already been drugged? Fírí racked her brain. No, she couldn’t have been. Not unless there was something in the air in this room.

Fírí stopped breathing, biting her lips closed and pinching her nose. She should run, but not with Zhíno potentially right outside that door. He’d be hunting her down for sure. He’d have traced her footprints right to that iguana cage and the mysterious blank wall of a door.

The old couple must be pumping in the drugged air from another room. There was definitely a strong draft, coming from Fírí’s left. There must be a vent over there, but the chapel was so dark that Fírí couldn’t see it. Certainly no openings existed within three meters of the dirt floor, not even hidden among the painted symbols.

Still holding her breath, Fírí peered at the upper reaches of the wall, way up where it was all painted black and the flickering torchlight barely reached. Nothing was up there--just blank wall.

But she could hear the machinery humming!

A drowning sensation swept over Fírí. She had to breathe. But she couldn’t; she’d be drugged.

But that didn’t make any sense. Bhanar was already unconscious when he was brought in and Vata was much smaller than Fírí and she hadn’t passed out yet.

Fírí gasped in a lungful of air. It reeked of horse and dog, but it had to be safe.

Vata kept chanting away, calling on Névazhíno to heal Bhanar’s legs.

Wait a minute. She’s trying to heal Bhanar?

The wind intensified, sucking dirt off the floor in a tight spiral around the altar.

Now how did they do that?

Fírí looked up to the ceiling directly above the altar. Nothing but blackness.

The machine hum cranked up to a scream of a thousand voices. Fírí clapped her hands over her ears. What in Vuzhí’s name could be making that racket? Fírí looked everywhere around the room, but she couldn’t see the equipment anywhere. It had to exist, though.

Lightning sprang from the torches, arcing to Vata and the altar, illuminating them from within, blue-burning coals in the center of a whirling cloud of dust.

Fírí stumbled backwards, her hands still over her ears, till she rammed into a wall. She leaned heavily against the rough surface, taking comfort in its simplicity.

The crackling light didn’t seem to harm the old woman. Instead, she seemed to revel in it. The lightning obviously wasn’t real.

Whatever performance the old people were playing, they were insane if they were doing all this for an audience of only Fírí. She had no intention of believing a Kínıtíní’s lick of it.

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