One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 9

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha wiped her eyes with her uniform cuff as she led the pretend emperor toward her cruiser. Senior Lawman Vomıvé had reported that Mr. Kılímo had had a heart attack. And here was Séara ignoring his pain, following orders.

Bhanar had wanted to help, but she couldn’t let him, all because of her plagued orders, all because of proper protocol. Séara just had to assure herself that Vomıvé, Tépíto, and the others were doing everything they could for Mr. Kılímo. And yet they were the ones who had beat him till he collapsed. They weren’t helping him out of friendship or compassion. They were helping him to cover their butts. She sniffled, feeling the tears welling in her eyes again, just at the thought of her old friend lying on the floor in agony, probably dying.

Detective Marıdaré approached, blocking her route. He covered a yawn with his pudgy fist before saying, “What’s going on out here?” He chewed continuously, probably on tobacco.

Séara stopped, gripping Bhanar’s arm tight. “I’m taking this suspect back to our holding cells.” She clenched her teeth, trying to keep her face impassive. “Everyone else is focused on Mr. Kılímo.”

Interwoven and quickly growing louder through the several male voices behind Séara, footsteps slapped the concrete. She tugged Bhanar to the side just before a paramedic jogged past, headed for the back of his ambulance. At least somebody wants to help the poor old man. She sniffed. A tear ran down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping the detective wouldn’t notice.

Mr. Marıdaré ignored her lack of discipline and rubbed his chin, glancing at Bhanar. “So this is the punk who shot the Enforcer?” He obviously didn’t recognize Bhanar from television or the magazines.

Bhanar stared straight at the detective, his angular face strong and unflinching. Even though his Sarıman wasn’t the best, he probably understood the detective’s meaning.

Séara shook her head, then shrugged. “Maybe. Another suspect is still on the loose, last seen in the back yard by the Enforcers.”

Mr. Marıdaré snorted and spat a brown stream into the bushes. “But they lost him, of course.”

“Of course,” replied Séara, grateful that someone else’s police skills were being demeaned, for a change.

The medic raced the other direction, carrying a defibrillator kit.

“Process him,” ordered the detective. “I’ll question him in the morning.” His mouth never stopped working the tobacco as he stared past them toward the other police officers, whose voices began rising in argument.

“Yes, sir.”

Séara didn’t particularly care what the lawpersons and Enforcers were arguing about, just so long as the medics were focused on reviving Mr. Kılímo. She pushed Bhanar’s arm forward to get him moving again. They walked around Mr. Marıdaré and onto the gravel.

Senior Lawman Vomıvé had parked directly behind Séara’s automobile. She sniffled as she visually measured the distances on either side. If she ran over those couple creosote bushes, she’d make it out fine, but trust Vomıvé to not think of his fellow lawpersons.

The constabulary’s helicopter cruised past, momentarily drowning out all other sound and kicking up a fine spray of ochre dust. Séara tilted her face away from the artificial wind as the dirt settled. As she resumed guiding Bhanar toward her cruiser, Séara let the tears flow freely down her cheeks, now able to blame them on dust in her eyes. Her childhood friend would soon be no more, and she had done nothing to help him.

As she opened her cruiser’s back door, Bhanar said, “My truck. My belongings.” He jerked his head down the driveway.

Séara didn’t look that direction, just in case it was an unlikely distraction. She’d seen a blue truck in the ditch when she drove up. It must be his.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, careful to use short sentences so he’d understand. “Someone will guard it. No one will take anything.”

She placed her hand atop his head, crushing his spiky gelled hairdo, and guided him into the back seat.

With a longing glance toward the Kılímos’ house, she shut the cruiser door.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 8

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Vata Kılímí stepped back from Fírí’s flailing arms. She had to get past this petulant girl and help Pí‘oro.

Névazhíno’s powerful energy still swirled around the chapel and through her spirit, but if Vata concentrated hard enough, she could focus her thoughts on the task at hand.

“If you don’t trust me to open the door, why don’t you do it yourself, dear? Surely your ears are better than mine, so you’d be able to hear if anyone was in the hallway or not. Please. I must help my husband. He may be dying.”

Fírí shook her head, her face cinching up with distress. “He’s already dead, lady.”

“No.” It couldn’t be, and yet an empty corner of Vata’s mind revealed where Pí‘oro’s link should have been. No! She couldn’t sense him anymore, which could only mean one thing.

“Even if he is dead,” Vata argued, “I can bring him back. I’ll sacrifice the horse and Névazhíno will bring him back. I can do this.” And yet she never had even tried.

It must be possible, though. Pí‘oro’s spirit can’t be forever gone, can it? Vata’s mother had mentioned this during at least one lesson, so very many years ago. How much time did she say we have? Ten, fifteen minutes?

Her voice quiet, yet strong, Vata declared, “There’s still time to save him.”

The blonde narrowed her eyes, glaring at Vata. After a few seconds, she shoved her index finger in front of Vata’s face and hissed, “Very well. But if the police find out I’m here, you’re going to jail right along with me. You have a lot more to lose than I do.”

That’s certainly true. Vata nodded, taking a relaxing breath.

Fírí stood and cautiously cracked ajar the shelf-covered door.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro swam/burrowed/trotted through the trees/ocean/clouds. Wherever an animal soared, he soared with it. Wherever an animal fought for its life, he fought with it. Sometimes he fought against himself, but that was just the way of animals.

Wherever he traveled, however, something was never right. His wings never flapped quite as strong as they were supposed to. His forelegs couldn’t support quite as much weight as they should. His left pincer barely worked at all. But none of this was enough to keep Zhíno from his unceasing adventures.

Ahead of Zhíno on one of the many worlds, a familiar animal died abruptly. Overwhelmed by the sheer and complete agony, the animal keeled over. Zhíno felt the pain and died with him, but lived on elsewhere. Where had he seen that particular animal before?

Zhíno ran/flew/hopped on his continuing journey, but the energy from the dead animal raced after him. He skittered away, but the lifeforce closed the distance quickly, guided by Névazhíno Himself. The god deftly encircled Zhíno with the animal’s energy, trapping his wings and legs and fins against his body.

He knew Névazhíno must be aiding him, and yet Zhíno struggled, acting on instinct. The living energy penetrated his scales and hide, forcing its way deep into his flesh, into his very essence of being. Electricity zapped through every fiber of his body. The ocean waves lifted him high on their crests. An updraft propelled him far into the heavens. A mountain formed under his hooves, pushing ever upwards.

The energy surged around his right shoulder and his left front fetlock. Invigorating ecstasy emanated from every ounce of his existence. His forelegs pulsated with power and a blinding pleasure so great it became glorious pain. Zhíno knew he could do anything. He could do everything. He could touch the sun. He could move planets. He could be forever alone.

The throbbing energy dissipated, Névazhíno gone, but the echo of the experience remained in Zhíno’s soul.

And with that echo, he finally realized the identity of the animal who had died for him, who had sacrificed his life to make Zhíno stronger. Zhíno remembered the human being--the man--from the other world, from shortly before the madness ended. The sacrifice had been none other than the balding, fat man who had attempted to kill Zhíno with his rifle.

Zhíno frolicked through the fields on four strong legs, snorting a laugh. How appropriate that was. The old man gave his life for the one he had tried to take.

I should go thank him.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 6

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Fírí Parızada eyed the unconscious Zhíno lying neatly on the stone altar, his heels together but the tips of his shoes pointing to the sides. Surely he’d wake up any minute, just like that foreign kid. Or maybe he wouldn’t until Vata slipped him a wake-up drug during her chanting and dog-murdering ceremony. Sleight-of-hand and all that gooseshit.

A bellow resonated throughout the house and, simultaneously, Vata fell to her knees, clutching her head. The old woman gurgled.

“What the plagues are the police doing out there?” Fírí whispered. Are they torturing somebody?

The scream trailed off as Vata pitched forward onto the dirt. Her skull missed the bottom step by centimeters. Her white ponytail flipped forward over the top of her head.

What the plagues happened to her? What did it have to do with the scream?

No matter what, there was no way in Pétíso’s hells that Fírí was going to let the hag open that door. Not when somebody was screaming like that.

She ran the three meters to get between Vata and the door. Fírí crouched down on the wood stairs, observing the small woman from close range. Vata breathed.

Fírí sighed with relief. At least she didn’t have to deal with a dead body.

The old woman moaned low, then started to push herself up.

“What happened?” Fírí demanded in a loud whisper.

Vata shakily got to her knees and turned her dirt-covered, droopy face up to Fírí. “Pí‘oro,” she rasped.

Fírí frowned. “What? Who?” Is Pí‘oro her husband? She’s got to be thinking he’s the tortured one.

“I must. . .” Vata took a gulp of air. “. . . help him.” Her eyes stared to a faraway place, the corners pulled down as if she were scared or about to start crying.

Fírí shook her head, her hair whipping back and forth. “If somebody just got killed in a most horrible way, we got to stay hidden.”

Her voice broken by sobs, Vata cried, “I must help him!”

How does she know it was this Pí‘oro guy? Does she have some psychic connection with him or something? Fírí raised an eyebrow. It would explain her instantaneous response. She tossed her head. Don’t be silly. That sort of thing doesn’t exist.

Vata stood on wobbly legs and took a step toward Fírí. “I must help him,” she repeated, her voice only marginally firmer. “Out of the way, dear.”

Fírí hissed, “Not with the police out there, no! Pí‘oro’s dead, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

The old woman staggered closer and reached out to grab Fírí’s sweatshirt sleeve. Fírí pulled her arm away, but the hag held tight, crying, “Move!”

As she waved her arms to break Vata’s grasp, Fírí huffed. This hag was certainly the most stubborn old Vítí-twin she’d ever met.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı glanced skyward as he stepped outside. The gas giant Zhaké was nowhere to be seen. It took Bhanar a second to realize it was only natural since this was the planet Rívorí and not his home planet of Kètnít. Rívorí had no gas giant, but orbited the sun directly. Without Zhaké filling a handspan of the sky directly overhead, holding everything down, it felt as if Bhanar would lift off the cement walkway and float away.

The cute policewoman’s firm hand on his arm, though, kept him definitively earthbound as they walked toward the driveway and the waiting police cruisers. Several policemen were walking up the driveway from the highway. Only two cruisers and an ambulance were parked up near the house. The rest were down there by Bhanar’s truck, the cruisers’ rooftop lights flashing bright red and green. The police helicopter flew low in the distance, the loudest sound in the desert.

Bhanar craned his neck to get another view of the black-haired beauty walking behind him. She caught his eye briefly, but looked away. A hint of possibly a smile crossed her full lips. Bhanar grinned widely and turned his view forward. She hadn’t replied to his attempt at conversation, but he could tell she was interested. After he got this unwarranted-arrest mess cleared up, he’d have to get her name and telephone number.

A deep scream rent the air, unending. Bhanar and the policewoman both stopped and looked back toward the house, toward the source of the inhuman noise.

What the plagues? thought Bhanar. Someone’s dying. It must be Pí‘oro.

He tried to start running back to the house, to help the old man, but the policewoman held him back with both hands.

Bhanar tugged at her grip. “We need to go to help him!”

“The medics can handle it.” Her voice wavered.

“They kill him!” Bhanar twisted free of her grasp, but stumbled as he tried to run. With his hands cuffed behind him, he landed hard on his shoulder.

The scream finally stopped, dying out with the last of the old man’s breath.

As Bhanar attempted to get up, the policewoman jumped on top of him, pinning him to the cement. He struggled to roll her off, but she was tougher than she looked.

Through heavy breath, she said, “Do you know what ‘under arrest’ means?” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“Yes,” snapped Bhanar. It meant he had lost all freedoms to help those who had helped him. It meant that he would be treated as a criminal until he was proven innocent.

The police from the driveway swarmed around the two of them, some running to the house but others kneeling down, putting all their weight on Bhanar’s arms and legs, squishing them into the rough concrete.

“Cover him! Cover him!” they shouted to each other.

Several radios burped with static, broadcasting overlapping reports.

Bhanar had no choice but to relax under their combined weight.

“It’s all right,” the cute policewoman said with a clipped voice. “I had him pacified.”

The other police began to slowly stand up. A big guy ground Bhanar’s forearm into the pavement one last time before he got to his feet.

“You should watch him more carefully,” another one muttered as he turned to the house.

The police radios staticked again. From the policewoman’s radio, Bhanar understood words such as “suspect,” “collapsed,” and “cardiac arrest.”

If it was the police and paramedics killing Pí‘oro, there was nothing Bhanar could do. They would overpower him again or just shoot him. If it wasn’t the police who were hurting Pí‘oro, then they’re trying to help him. Either way, Bhanar was useless.

“Let’s go,” he calmly said.

As they stood up and resumed walking toward the automobiles, the policewoman refused to look Bhanar’s direction, as if she were hiding her face in shame.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 4

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Pí‘oro Kılímo, bloody and sore, let the police carry most of his bulk as they escorted him down his hallway, wrists handcuffed together behind his back.

He’s held out as long as he could, but he had failed. They were going to search the whole house now. They were going to find the chapel. They were going to arrest his darling Vata.

The big man’s knee buckled briefly and he stumbled to catch his balance. A policeman shoved his back, snarling, “Keep moving, Korutuzho.”

Pí‘oro grinned as he continued hobbling down the hall. The police were just as bloody and messed up as he was. He’d given as good as he got.

If only the foreign kid had helped him, just maybe they could’ve held them off. It certainly would have evened the sides a bit. But Bhanar was out the door and gone before Pí‘oro had been pulled to his feet. No-good Névo-brained punk.

Almost to the entryway, Pí‘oro’s chest shattered. His brains exploded in his skull. The floor slammed against his face, but he barely noticed. Flames engulfed his body. He tried to crawl away, but he had no arms. Waves of insane torture inundated his consciousness, overwhelming him, pulling him under.

Pain. Nothing but pain, deep within the core of his very essence. Pí‘oro’s mind, body, and soul surrendered to the unbearable agony. Pí‘oro was pain.

And then he was nothingness.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 3

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Vata Kılímí lay pinned to the floor by Fírí, the blonde’s hand covering her mouth, silencing Vata’s prayers to the God of Animals. She had to get up and help her husband. He was broadcasting so much anguish that she could barely think. Combined with the effervescent essence of Névazhíno, it almost completely overpowered her. Vata had to hurry to help Pí‘oro and then get a sacrifice for the healing ceremony before Névazhíno grew upset. He must already be upset. You don’t want to get gods upset, not even the Love of the Universe. Gods do inexplicable things when they’re upset.

Vata strained against the girl’s hold, but she didn’t have the leverage or enough mass to budge the tall blonde. She sank back against the hard-packed soil. The two women stared at each other from close range, both breathing hard. Fírí’s hair hung limply around her face, blocking the dim light from illuminating her expression.

Pí‘oro’s emotions began to settle down, his agitation mellowed by resignation. Whatever the situation in the hallway, Pí‘oro must have given up the struggle he’d been fighting. Vata frowned slightly at the thought that he’d held his ground for only so short a time. Surely he was stubborn enough to argue for hours, even against the police. Surely the spirit of the Love of the Universe permeated beyond the chapel and could give Pí‘oro the strength of will he needed to stand his ground.

The blonde girl hissed, “Have you calmed down now? You’re not going to run to the door again, are you?”

What had she said earlier? Vata channeled Névazhíno’s overloading energy into forming coherent thoughts. Fírí had said she was afraid of the police finding her. She was afraid of the police entering the chapel. Well, surely the girl knew that Vata didn’t want the police in there, either. Or maybe not.

Fírí’s hand still over her mouth, Vata crisply shook her head and murmured indistinctly.

The girl lifted her hand a few centimeters. “What?”

Whispering, Vata replied, “I don’t want the police in here any more than you do. These animal sacrifices are illegal. They have been for Cycles. Surely you know that.” Vata’s nostrils flared as she hit upon a topic that had been sore for all her life. She soared on the wings of the God of Animals. “The government doesn’t want us to worship properly. They don’t want us to honor Névazhíno above the Union. If they could have their way, they’d have the entire pantheon obliterated.”

The young woman scowled. “What the plagues are you talking about? The Union is run by religionists.”

That’s just what they want you to think. Vata breathed deep, refocusing her thoughts. She had to get out of the chapel. She had to go help her husband. Something awful must have happened to him that sapped his will to fight. She had to get a sacrifice. Névazhíno wouldn’t wait forever.

Using all of her effort, Vata calmly stated, “Never mind, dear. Just rest assured that the police will arrest me if they get into this chapel. If I open that door, it will be extremely carefully.”

Fírí’s doe eyes narrowed, but she eased off Vata. “Very well,” the girl said as she sank back on her haunches, her little brain cranking.

If the blonde alerted the police to the illegal sacrifices, Vata would tell everything she knew about Fírí and Zhíno. It was mutually assured imprisonment.

Fírí exhaled loudly and stood up. “Just don’t plague it up any further.”

Vata rolled over and pushed herself to a sitting position, from which she stood, nearly floating to her feet on the uplifting spirit of her god.

The blonde hissed, “Is there anywhere in here to hide from Zhíno?”

As Vata brushed dirt from her black bathrobe and began shuffling toward the hallway door, she answered, “Not in here, no, but you need not fear him. He is unconscious now and, when he awakes, he will be filled with the love of Névazhíno.”

Vata smiled benignly, although Fírí wouldn’t be able to see. Névazhíno understood the situation and was willing to wait for Vata to help Pí‘oro ahead of the criminal. Névazhíno was waiting for her.

The blonde glanced around the room. “Are you sure there’s nowhere to hide?”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 2

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Zhíno Zhudıro flew through the desert sky, alone and free, and yet he could sense every animal on every world. He was alone, and yet part of something far greater--the interconnected matrix of life, the energy that swirls within every living being. As he soared, he could feel every bird, every horse, every snake, every jellyfish.

Not only could he feel them, he could be them. He was them. Zhíno galloped through fields of tall grass, the stalks brushing his chest and legs. He squirmed his body back and forth, pushing against rocks for greater forward momentum, flicking out his tongue to find a scent of that which he sought. He floated weightless in the ocean, sucking and pumping water through his body, searching for food, searching for something.

Névazhíno stood/sat/hovered in front of him in the ocean/clouds/field. A forked tongue flicked from His beak and He serenely asked, “Which one are you?”

“I am. . .” Zhíno pondered the question. “A human being.” Yes, that is it. Zhíno smiled, glad he could still remember.

The god lowered His head, arched up His back, stuck out His quills. “No. Are you the sacrifice or the recipient?”

Sacrifice? Recipient? Zhíno could barely remember his species and Névazhíno expected him to know if he was a sacrifice or a recipient. Zhíno didn’t even know what the god meant by recipient. Sacrifice certainly sounded bad, though, like it would be an end to his wonderful life in these forests and lakes and mountain meadows. Zhíno didn’t want that, so his decision became easy.

“Recipient.”

Névazhíno rattled His tail and snorted through His huge nostrils. “Then where is the sacrifice?”

Zhíno looked around. Nobody else was in sight, just air and waves and empty tunnels. “I do not know.”

“Then I shall find someone.” The god swam away, His wings pumping.

Zhíno sighed with contentment, glad the issue was resolved. He scurried out along a tree branch, in search of tasty nuts.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 1

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PART III: NIGHT AND DAY

Chapter 12: Dreamscape



Umo Amuéné placed the automobile telephone back in its cradle between the two front seats of his beige Rènzas sedan. It was time for them to go. Gogzhuè’s police radio had picked up an accurate description of Zhíno Zhudıro in the small town of Tuhanı.

Without undue rush, Umo placed the key in the ignition and started the engine. The headlights illuminated rust-covered machinery and piles of slag rock.

In the seat beside Umo, his partner Lango Víkınémé continuously wrung his hands, his elbows flapping. The rhinestones on Lango’s jumpsuit quietly clacked together with each movement. Before Umo even put the auto into gear, Lango burst out, “What did he say? What are our orders?”

As Umo eased his luxury auto forward over the rocks and potholes of the abandoned quarry, he replied, “Get the guns. Kill Zhudıro if possible.”

Lango cackled a laugh, rubbing his hands together.

Umo doubted the opportunity for murder would present itself, at least not to his standards. He would never let all his plans and hard work be for naught, just because of this Tara-fucking punk Zhudıro.

Lango kept giggling and rubbing his hands.

Staring impassively through his sunglasses, Umo briefly glanced at his greasy partner. Lango shut up. His hands barely stopped moving, though, as they went to check his gel-frozen bouffant.

Umo’s own hair was in a similar swept-back wave, but he absolutely refused to use gel or spray. He also declined to wear rhinestones on his jumpsuit, but that was more for job-necessitated silence than a sense of dignity. If a man’s hair couldn’t hold a pose on its own, then perhaps that man shouldn’t wear that style, Pétíso damn tradition.

The dirt road finally exited the quarry and arrived at the paved highway. Umo turned right and smoothly accelerated down the road. They had at least three hours to drive till they reached Tuhanı. Hopefully the police wouldn’t find the guns and explosives before then, or else things could get a mite complicated.

Umo didn’t need complicated.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 10

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Séara Nulıpésha kept her face as stiff and impassive as possible as she stood in the Kılímos’ hallway, hands clasped behind her back. The familiar dark-blue carpet and blue-tinged walls seemed a different world with four policemen and two medics crammed in, especially with three of those piled on top of Mr. Kılímo.

She wouldn’t think on her own anymore. She was only going to follow orders. It was the only way to keep her job. Whether she wanted the job or not was a different question. The two-year wait for the equestrian squad was sounding longer and longer every minute.

Lieutenant Nıgédazo yanked the foreigner named Bhanar out of the spare bedroom, revealing him to be a lean young man with rumpled black hair. In that first brief instant, when Bhanar caught his balance and glanced toward the scrum of men on Mr. Kılímo, Séara recognized him as that Bhanar, the pseudo-emperor, the one whose pictures were always in the tabloids, usually wearing a motorbike jumpsuit.

Tonight, he wore a black singlet and baggy denim trousers, but he wore them as if they were an evening suit, holding his body with grace and dignity greatly lacking in the hallway at that moment, as if being arrested did not concern him in the least.

The lieutenant shoved him down the hall, telling Séara, “Put him in your local jail.”

Séara nodded sharply, holding out her hands to catch Bhanar as he stumbled. The precaution proved unnecessary, as the confident man once again quickly regained his balance. He brought his eyes up to Séara’s and smiled.

“Hello. My name is Bhanar.”

As much as Séara wanted to reply, to converse with this interesting foreigner who was only two years younger than her, she had to follow orders. She had to follow protocol.

“Come with me,” she said curtly, reaching around Bhanar to place a firm hand on his muscular forearm.

“As you wish,” he replied serenely.

They began walking down the hall, leaving the others to settle their differences and subdue poor Mr. Kılímo. Séara glanced over her shoulder at a particularly brutal grunt, but she had already turned the corner of the hallway and thus saw nothing.

She did not break stride.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 9

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Fírí Parızada watched the old hag shuffle towards the interior door. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The police were outside, the police were inside. If Vata opened that door, the police would be in the chapel.

The blonde burst into a run, quickly passing Vata and blocking her route to the door.

Breathing hard, Fírí held out her arms to either side, spacing her feet fairly wide, as well. “Don’t open that door,” she hissed.

Even with the dim torchlight behind the old woman, Fírí could still see a crazed look upon her face.

“Move aside, dear,” Vata croaked. “I must help my husband.”

The hag stepped closer.

Fírí shook her head. “No. I already plagued it once by letting you open the door for Zhíno, and that almost got me killed. There’s no way I’m going to plague it again and let you let the police in. I am not going to jail.”

With the voice of a strangled snake, Vata said, “Get out of my way!”

She pounced at Fírí, her hand clawing through the air. Fírí swatted at the flailing limbs, holding her face out of range of those wicked fingernails. She made contact a couple times, and it felt like hitting dead branches. Fírí got a good shot and Vata stumbled back a step. Her blood boiling, Fírí lunged at the hag, shoving her with both hands to her chest.

Vata flew to the ground, tumbling onto her back.

Fírí’s arms and legs started shaking with the jitters of adrenaline as she stepped toward the old woman.

Vata propped herself up on her elbows, panting just as hard as Fírí. Her eyes wide, she began chanting, “O Névazhíno, please help me in my time of need, for it is You--”

“Shut up, hag,” Fírí hissed, leaning over her.

The old woman didn’t stop, staring straight at Fírí’s face. “--it is You Who are the true Love of the Universe. You are the one and only--”

Fírí dropped to her knees and put her hand over Vata’s mouth, muffling the hag’s pleas.

“Shut the plagues up, you wretched twin of Vítí!” she whispered into Vata’s face from close range. “Your idiot god is never going to help you in a year of Nohímo Days, so just be quiet!”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 8

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Emperor Bhanar followed the large, old man toward the bedroom door. Bhanar held his chin high, walking tall. The High God of Fire had healed his legs. He was the emperor.

He failed to keep a smile off his face, but did manage to mute it.

Right before he stepped into the hallway, a man bellowed, “Enforcers! Stop where you are!” His tone of voice implied a drawn pistol.

Bhanar froze, the Enforcers out of sight down the hall to the right and Pí‘oro and the medics out of sight to the left. If he stepped into view now, he’d probably get shot.

“Let him go!” the Enforcer commanded.

Why were the police here, waving guns around? Were they upset that the old man had carried him inside? Hadn’t Pí‘oro told them that his wife would call Zhíanoso to heal him? Bhanar scowled. Did she call Him or was that me?

Breathing so hard that Bhanar could hear it, Pí‘oro growled, “Have you captured the murderer Zhíno, yet? You won’t find him in here. He ran out the back, remember?”

Bhanar didn’t understand all of the words, but he felt the rebellious intent. What the plagues is he doing? Trying to get himself killed?

Before he thought about it, Bhanar called out, “Everyone be calm.”

Silence filled the hallway.

One of the police snarled, “Who is that?”

Fighting against the rising panic in his gut, Bhanar replied, “I am Bhanar. If you are looking for me, I am here. I was hit by the automobile, but Zhíanoso healed me. I don’t need the paramedics.”

Quick footsteps in the hallway ended with a Colonial Enforcer appearing before Bhanar. Blond with a thin face, he might have been the same Enforcer who bandaged his leg. The policeman narrowed his eyes at Bhanar’s face, glancing down at his legs.

After a moment, he turned to his compatriots and said, “Either he’s got a twin or this is the kid.”

Relief flooded Bhanar. The Enforcer had seen the truth, even if he didn’t want to believe it. With all seriousness, Bhanar emphasized, “I am Bhanar.”

The Enforcer nodded curtly Bhanar’s direction, then to his fellow officers, he commanded, “Arrest them both.”

Bhanar stood dumbfounded. He must not have heard that right. The Enforcer must have used some Sarıman phrase that Bhanar didn’t know. He couldn’t be under arrest.

The tall blond grabbed Bhanar’s shoulder and spun him around, grabbing his left arm. Cold metal clacked around his wrist.

Don’t resist. Be imperial, he told himself, but in reality, his compliance was mostly a product of his shock. What had he done?

He held his chin high and his right hand back for the remaining handcuff. The steel tightened around his right wrist and thus he was detained.

A scuffle erupted in the hallway. Pí‘oro shouted, “What the plagues for?”

Grunts and thuds followed. Radios squawked with voices unintelligible.

Through heavy breath, a man replied, “For obstruction of justice.”

This was all a huge mistake. Surely, once the police discovered the truth of the matter, they’d realize the same. It would only take a bit of discussion, is all. Once everybody settled down, Bhanar and Pí‘oro would be released.

The Enforcer at Bhanar’s back said, “Come on, you,” and pulled on Bhanar’s shoulder, spinning him around towards the doorway.

Bhanar stumbled momentarily, but entered the hallway walking tall. He looked left to see a writhing tangle of bodies and limbs on the floor, jammed between the walls of the hallway, with at least two black-uniformed policemen forming the top layer. A blue-shirted paramedic watched from the other side, a wince frozen on his face.

The Enforcer shoved him the opposite direction, saying, “Put him in your local jail.”

Bhanar recovered from the shove with three quick steps, then raised his head to find himself only three feet from a beautiful woman. She wore a black police uniform, but it did little to hide her curvaceous figure. Her heart-shaped face drew Bhanar’s attention, though. Smooth, tan skin with large, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle even with her stern expression. Full lips pursed ever so slightly and a delicate chin. She wore no makeup, and yet she was stunning.

He couldn’t help but smile at her.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro lay at peace, floating on a magical flat rock. No pain. No agony. No troubles.

A woman’s voice drifted in through his ear. Perhaps it was Fírí’s. Zhíno didn’t bother to discern the words.

He didn’t care if anyone was nearby. They didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was him, the rock, the circle of fire, and the warm hand of a god.

Perhaps, though, after he was healed, other things would matter. Fírí would be dead and gone--good riddance--but there would still be Gogzhuè and the police.

Yes, thought Zhíno, Gogzhuè and the police will definitely matter once I am healed by the wonderful Névazhíno.

With two functional hands, he’d be able to defend himself. He’d be able to strangle the last breath of life out of that mob-boss-cum-religious-leader and every one of his Voro-fucking minions. And then he’d finally be able to live in peace.

High up in the desert on the slopes of Mount Soínıpasa, Zhíno gazed across his land, shielding his eyes from the sun. Endless crimson poppies waved to and fro in the wind. This was his home. This was where he was at peace. Just the land, the air, and the animals who inhabit them both. He was one of those animals; he was all of those animals.

Taking two quick steps downhill, Zhíno launched himself into the cerulean sky and soared upward on a warm breeze.

He was finally free.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 6

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Vata Kılímí paused at the thudding of a helicopter. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to sneak outside and retrieve an iguana for the sacrifice without being spotted, but she figured she had a better chance of keeping the goddess Rana away from her endless stream of lovers. Helicopters had bright searchlights and an amazing field of view. Even if all the foot police happened to be looking some other direction, the helicopter crew would see all.

Névazhíno, what now? Should I sacrifice the horse, after all?

Through her link to her husband, Vata could sense his desperation growing. His situation was getting worse, perhaps so bad that he wouldn’t be able to handle it alone.

Vata’s brain buzzed with the spirit of the God of Animals, crescendoing fluctuations as Névazhíno’s patience wore even thinner.

A group of people ran through the house, their thumping feet resounding quietly in the sound-proofed chapel.

“It’s the police!” hissed the blonde girl from beside the altar, glancing around the room like a rabbit searching for some rock to hide under. Fírí obviously knew she was just as guilty in this whole affair as her loud-mouthed ex-boyfriend.

Her head swimming, Vata took two short steps toward the horse and the altar, but paused. Iguana? Horse? Help Pí‘oro? She had to start the ceremony before Névazhíno reached the end of His patience. She’d never waited this long before and had no idea if He would just leave or if He’d destroy the chapel and maybe the entire town of Tuhanı with his wrath.

The backyard animals were settling down, finally quieting their din inside Vata’s head. Maybe the police had abandoned the yard altogether--except for the helicopter, of course.

Which meant the police were in the house, just like Fírí said.

Shouting in the hallway. Pí‘oro’s fear and anger spiked, nearly knocking Vata off her feet.

She stabilized herself with one hand on a brazier’s iron post. She had to help Pí‘oro. He’d never been so upset in his life. Something terrible had to be happening. Vata didn’t know how she could be of assistance, but she knew deep in her heart that she had to try.

She let go of the post and shuffled as fast as she could toward the interior door.

“O Névazhíno, please forgive me. I’m sorry I called you, but this recipient can wait. I must help my husband.”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 5

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Pí‘oro Kılímo furrowed his brow at the bloody bandage around Bhanar’s shin. Why in Névazhíno’s good graces hadn’t Vata removed that thing? It blew Pí‘oro’s story wide open and left him looking very suspicious, like he’d staged the whole scenario.

The house shook as a helicopter passed close overhead. More police here to destroy my property, thought Pí‘oro with lowered brows.

Bhanar glanced up at the ceiling till the sound dwindled away, then finished untying the bandage. He tossed it onto the floor and pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a tan and injury-free shin. Not even a scar remained. Névazhíno had worked His wonders.

The younger medic turned to Pí‘oro. “What kind of a game are you playing here?” he snarled. “Where’s the real victim?”

Pí‘oro rubbed his forehead, shaking his head. “No, this is him. He just . . . wasn’t as injured as we thought.”

“No!” Bhanar insisted in his thick Zhuphíoan accent as he stood up. “I was hurt. My legs did break. But Zhíanoso fixed me. He healed me.”

Pí‘oro closed his eyes. Why’d the kid have to disagree with me? Can’t he see what kind of a mess we’re in? And why does he keep attributing his healing to the fire god? Is he some kind of moron?

“Seriously,” said the younger medic. “Where’s the real victim? We don’t have time for this.”

At the far end of the house, glass shattered. Aw, plagues. Someone was probably breaking into the house through the kitchen window, and that someone had to be the police. I should’ve bought a second gun.

Bhanar pointed at his legs as he hopped from one to the other. “See? I am good. You can go now.”

The two paramedics glanced at one another. The older one jerked his head toward the door and they both started going out. Pí‘oro sincerely doubted they were leaving the house. A growl escaped his throat as he stomped after them.

“Sons, you can’t look anywhere else. This here’s the kid who Zhíno ran over. Get back here now!”

The medics turned down the hall toward the other bedrooms, away from the front room. Pí‘oro hotly pursued. This was his property, Pétíso damn it. They had no right. He had to stop them before they stumbled upon the secret door.

He reached out and grabbed the trailing medic’s shoulder just as a man shouted, “Enforcers! Stop where you are!”

Pí‘oro’s heart lumped in his throat, but he kept his hand firm around the medic’s shoulder. He needed to get everybody out of his house now. They had no right to be in here. The murderer was outside. The Enforcers saw him leave, for Vuzhí’s sake.

Pí‘oro inhaled deeply through his nose, his face turning red, and spun to look back the way he’d come. At the corner in the hallway, several men in black uniforms leveled guns directly at him.

“Let go of him!” the lead Colonial Enforcer shouted.

His jaw tight, Pí‘oro replied, “Have you captured the murderer Zhíno, yet? You won’t find him in here. He ran out the back, remember?”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 4

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Fírí Parızada stared wide-eyed at her ex-boyfriend, her ineffectual pepper spray still clutched tightly in her hand. What in Pétíso’s hells was going on?

Zhíno’s wild anger had rather quickly been replaced by calmness and serenity, as if all that pent-up energy had finally worked its way out of his system. He looked toward Fírí with a blank smile, but it didn’t seem as if he actually saw her.

The old woman carried the murdered dog away, laying it on the ground near the wall. She said she wasn’t going to let Zhíno hurt her, but Fírí certainly didn’t trust the hag.

Abruptly, Zhíno jumped onto the altar, swinging his feet up onto the slab and lying down.

Fírí staggered, glancing from Zhíno to Vata and back to Zhíno. “What just happened?” How in all the worlds did she make him do that?

Vata turned their direction and murmured, “Good,” before beginning to walk toward the back door in her slow, foot-scuffing manner.

The distinctive rumble of a helicopter cut through the house. Fírí glanced up, but of course saw nothing but the black ceiling. The din diminished, but remained audible. The helicopter stayed near the house.

Who would be circling in a helicopter? The police? A news station? A hospital helicopter would be landing to load someone on board, so it couldn’t be them.

If it was a camera crew, it didn’t change Fírí’s situation much. If it was the police, though, it meant they were doing a thorough search of the area. Which meant they’d be searching this house soon. Which meant they’d be arresting Fírí soon.

She leaned against the altar, panic rising inside her as her breathing accelerated. She had to hide. She had to get rid of that duffel bag with the money. She had to distance herself from Zhíno, both because she couldn’t be seen as his accomplice and because he might very well wake up any minute and make good on his threat to kill her.

Her eyes darted quickly around the room. This secret chapel was already the most hidden place in the house. No further-hidden cubbies or hidey-holes presented themselves. She had to stay right there, but all her muscles were twitching, urging her to run. She had to get away from Zhíno, the money, and the whole situation. It didn’t matter where she went. She just had to run.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 3

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Lawperson Séara Nulıpésha fumed on the doorstep. Her tears had dried. She shouldn’t have let Mr. Kılímo direct the situation like that. She should’ve taken charge. She should be inside, standing beside those medics, just like her orders.

In the distance, the faint chopping of a helicopter grew louder. The constabulary’s Aerial One was joining the search. That suspect could be a kilometer away or more, by now. Unless, of course, they caught him in the back yard before he jumped the fence or opened one of the gates.

Her belt radio burped. “This is Vomıvé. Nulıpésha, report. Please tell me you’re in the house. Come unlock back door.” His exasperation shone through the static.

Uh oh. Séara slowly reached for the radio. She had to tell him the truth; she had no other options. But the truth would probably get her fired.

She held the transmitter up to her mouth and replied, “Medics are in house with victim. I am outside front door.” She paused. “Is suspect in custody?” She froze in that position, waiting for the wrath of Vomıvé to fall upon her.

The helicopter thundered over the house, dark except for a few blinking lights. They must be searching with infrared, thought Séara as she turned her face away from the blast of dusty wind stirred up by the helicopter’s passing.

Her radio sputtered again, someone talking, but she couldn’t make out the words over the roar of Aerial One. After a few seconds, the helicopter rounded the house out of sight, circling into the distance.

Into her radio, Séara said, “Please repeat.”

A burst of static. “Colonial Enforcers entering house. Stand by, Nulıpésha.”

She lowered the radio, clipping it to her belt without looking. If they’re entering the house, why did Vomıvé need me to unlock the door for them?

The realization smacked Séara upside the head: they were breaking in, just as she was about to do, a couple minutes ago.

The radio staticked again. “This is Vomıvé, inside Kılímo residence. Enforcers leading search for suspects Kılímo and Bhanar. Debris from Zhíno gunfight littering kitchen.”

Quick footsteps thudded inside the house, followed by a moment of silence, then by more quick footsteps approaching the front door. The Enforcers had succeeded where Séara had failed. She took a deep breath and straightened her back, preparing for the verbal onslaught to come.

The door swung open, revealing a tall, blond man in a black uniform with Enforcer insignia. He narrowed his eyes at Séara and tersely said, “The door was unlocked.”

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