One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 7

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Fírí Parızada had to get out of that chapel. Her unconscious ex-boyfriend remained motionless on the altar, and yet he loomed over her--mocking her, insulting her, threatening her.

The house was silent again. No police in the hall. The crazy old hag had gotten rid of them--just by yelling at them, apparently. Fírí hadn’t ventured far enough out in the hall to watch. But she’d seen plenty enough other doors in the hallway, so surely there’d be a place for her to hide, where neither the police nor Zhíno would find her easily.

Carrying her duffel of shoes and cash, Fírí slowly opened the secret door. The shelves full with towels and sheets swung quietly into the chapel. One last glance toward Zhíno encircled with flaming torches, and Fírí put her ear to the thin wood door that would swing into the hallway.

Except the echo of Vasataté’s ocean in her ear, Fírí heard nothing. She took and released a deep breath, then turned the knob.

She pushed open the door enough to peer out. Someone was there, coming toward her. Fírí froze. Close the door? Hold it still? And then she realized it was Vata.

Fírí sighed, relaxing. A shiver ran down her neck and arms. Who knew the old woman can walk so quietly? Fírí swung open the door and stepped into the hall, whispering, “You nearly scared me to death.”

Vata didn’t stop her hurried shuffle. She glanced down at Fírí’s feet, her face like she sucked a lemon. Glaring at Fírí, the old woman whispered harshly, “Get out of the way. I need to get the horse.”

Horse? What does she need it for?

Two meters away, Vata swiped her hand at Fírí. “Move!”

Fírí stepped aside. Wait. Is she going to sacrifice the horse?

As Vata passed the blonde, Fírí held out her hand in a feeble attempt to stop her. She couldn’t let the horse die, and yet she had to hide. Especially with Vata in the chapel, where she might wake Zhíno at any moment, Fírí had to hide.

Vata shrugged off Fírí’s hand and entered the doorway.

Sorry, horse, Fírí thought. I hope she doesn’t kill you.

Fírí took a couple steps away from the chapel toward an open door on the other side of the hall. The lights were on. She peered in and saw a musty bedroom with boxes piled in the corners and the sheets and blankets on the bed disturbed. Had the foreign kid been sleeping here? Where’d he go?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there now.

A yawn escaped her maw. That bed looked awfully inviting. What time was it, anyway? One, two o’clock in the morning?

Fírí stepped inside and closed the door behind her. After cramming her duffel bag behind a pair of ancient suitcases in the overflowing closet, she flipped off the lights and headed for the bed.

But no. What if Bhanar came back? What if anybody entered? She couldn’t just be sleeping out in the open.

As the police helicopter thudded in the distance, Fírí felt her way across the dark room. A miniscule amount of light crept under the door, illuminating shadows in the blackness. She circled the bed and knelt down. A half-meter separated the bed from the wall opposite the door--just enough for Fírí to lie down, hidden.

She stretched out on the dusty carpet, lying on her side. Her eyes already closed, her hand snuck into her sweatshirt pocket and removed the can of pepper spray. She clutched it with both hands in front of her chest and began waiting for sleep, Zhíno, or the police to come. Only one would she welcome, and yet it was the least likely.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 6

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré shoved through the arguing mob of policemen to get to the paramedics. “Shut the plagues up!” he bellowed at them all.

An Enforcer approached the house’s front window, apparently about to break in.

“Stop right where you are!” shouted Sétıpímo. “Don’t you dare force entry.”

The Enforcer stopped, turning around almost shyly.

Sétıpímo asked the medic, “Is Pí‘oro alive?” before resuming vigorously chewing his tobacco.

The policemen silenced to hear the response.

The paramedic wiped his forehead, his eyes darting around the assemblage. “Uh, we were performing defibrillation when the defibrillator battery died. We were--”

“Is Pí‘oro alive?” Sétıpímo snapped. Some people just couldn’t give a straight answer. He spat tobacco juice near the medic’s shoes.

The medic glanced down, then brought his eyes up to meet the detective’s. “No. He was flatlining on every scale from when we first got to him.”

Was that before or after you beat him? From the previous arguments, it had become apparent to Sétıpímo that at least one of the medics had fought Pí‘oro, along with an Enforcer and two county lawmen.

Sétıpímo turned to face the head Colonial Enforcer, a lieutenant.

“You have no authority to force entry into the Kılímos’ house. Your suspect is dead. Focus on the missing suspects who are still alive: Zhíno and the blonde woman.”

It finally hit Sétıpímo: Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. The crotchety old rancher, who was only three years older than Sétıpímo, who Sétıpímo had known since just after high school, who had always shook his head sadly at the ways of mankind and the universe as a whole, had finally joined Pétíso in the next existence. How much longer do I have? Sétıpímo thought suddenly. His jaw stopped momentarily.

The lieutenant had already begun talking. “We must double-check that the suspect is deceased. We need to question his wife. We can--”

“You don’t need to question Vata,” Sétıpímo cut in. He spat a stream of tobacco off to the side. “First of all, she’s not going anywhere--she’s got nowhere to go. Secondly, she’s not a suspect or even a suspected accomplice in this murder. Thirdly, you don’t have a warrant to go busting into houses like Rékaré when there’s no suspect inside. This is Pívo County; we follow proper protocol here. We obey the law.”

Sétıpímo glanced over at Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who might not have been following those laws quite as well as he should have, that night.

Vomıvé nodded sharply. “Exactly.” He evidently missed the rebuke in the detective’s glance.

“We don’t need a warrant,” barked the Enforcer, jabbing his finger toward the front door. “We’ve been in there already.”

“There’s nothing to be gained,” snapped Sétıpímo. “Just leave the old girl in peace!”

Why couldn’t they just leave Vata alone for one night? She wanted to be alone with her husband just awhile longer, to mourn for him, to say goodbye. Perhaps, per the rules, they should break in and take the body away, but it didn’t feel right.

The tall, blond Enforcer emitted something which might have been a growl. He narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Plague of Rívorí.” Louder, with a tight jaw, he said, “If you are following your precious protocols so precisely, then it isn’t you, detective, who decides whether we can enter this house or not. It’s the senior lawman.” He turned his head toward Vomıvé. “Well?”

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı sat awkwardly in the back of the cruiser, his wrists still cuffed behind his back. A metal grating separated him from the pretty policewoman as she drove them down the two-lane highway.

She had not said anything to him and hadn’t even looked his direction, but Bhanar could catch glimpses of her face in the rearview mirror. Even though the cruiser and the surrounding desert were dark, he still thought he could see that she was crying. If she was crying, it had to be because of Pí‘oro.

“Do you know Pí‘oro good?” he asked.

The brunette didn’t respond, not even the slightest movement of her head.

Bhanar asked again, “Do you know--”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her voice strained.

“Ah.” Bhanar leaned back on the bench seat, one knee folded up on the vinyl.

If the girl wasn’t a local, she had at least been there long enough to form friendships--friendships with strange old men. Bhanar frowned.

Whatever the policewoman’s relationship with Pí‘oro, Bhanar felt he had to comfort her, somehow, to give her hope.

“He will get better. They will heal him.” Whether the “they” were the paramedics or Zhíanoso and Vata, he didn’t know. But they would heal him, right? “He cannot die, don’t you know?”

She emitted a moan of a grunt, but nothing more.

Bhanar scowled. This girl was obviously mourning for Pí‘oro, even though she didn’t know if he was dead or not. Maybe something in the police radio reports had told her that the old guy was definitely dead, but it sure had seemed like the paramedics hadn’t given up yet.

He had to get her to open up, to let her feelings out. It was the only way for her to start healing emotionally, if Pí‘oro was really dead.

And if it so happened that she and Bhanar formed a close relationship during her healing process, surely that would be all right, right?

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 4

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Zhíno Zhudıro followed the trail of the energy that had healed him, back along its tendrils toward the soul of the deceased man. The path flickered and faded, stretching from one universe to another, but Zhíno never lost its track. He was a bloodhound on a scent. He was a falcon close upon his prey. He was a wolf stalking his dinner.

Névazhíno was nowhere to be seen any longer, but that hardly mattered. The god had performed a mere pittance of His power. The old man, on the other hand, had given every last drop of his life for Zhíno.

The floating line of dissipating energy coalesced in a clump of swirling particles. It had to be the man. Where he was, exactly, Zhíno didn’t know, but that didn’t stop him from leaping into the universe the old man inhabited.

His paws landing on cool grass and soft plants--a meadow-covered hillside. Ahead of him, up the hill a ways, the old man stared off into the distance. He seemed at least a decade younger than Zhíno remembered from his brief view earlier. Not nearly so plump, saggy, or bald.

Zhíno trotted up to the man. When he spotted Zhíno, he began to frantically search around, obviously in a panic to defend himself. Zhíno stopped, realizing that his form was a wolf. For some reason, he couldn’t figure out how to change it. The way he previously flitted from one animal to a next didn’t seem to work in this place.

He tried to speak. “Thank you.” Zhíno breathed out heavily, relaxing. At least this lupine body responded to his commands, however unusual they might be for a wolf. Zhíno knew how to talk, and so Zhíno-as-a-wolf knew how to talk.

The human straightened, standing tall with feet at shoulder width, and rubbed his forehead. “Um. . . You’re welcome?”

Zhíno wagged his tail and slowly resumed walking forward, making sure to stay on the downhill side the man.

“Don’t you recognize me?” asked Zhíno, dropping his ears back briefly.

The man slowly shrugged. “Should I?” he growled.

“My name is Zhíno. We met in conflict in the other world, but that is of little importance now.”

The man scowled, his eyes slits. “I’m Pí‘oro,” he quietly drawled.

Zhíno wagged his tail. “You gave your life for me, Pí‘oro. Névazhíno took your lifeforce to heal my body. And now I’ve come here to thank you for your sacrifice.”

Pí‘oro staggered, shaking his head. “No. No. What are you talking about?”

“The god Névazhíno used your energy to heal me. Don’t you remember this? Didn’t you volunteer?” The god had given Zhíno a choice of being the sacrifice or recipient. Surely He would have given Pí‘oro a similar option.

Pí‘oro plopped down onto his rear end, staring blankly at Zhíno’s yellow wolf eyes. “No. . .” was all he said.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 3

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Detective Sétıpímo Marıdaré stood on the outside of the group of Pívo County lawmen and Colonial Enforcers. They were supposed to be coordinating and organizing the hunt for a man named Zhíno and a Narakamíníkan woman named Fírí Parizada, who owned the brown Sonla sedan, but instead they were fighting about who lost track of the suspects and who beat Pí‘oro Kılímo so much he had a heart attack.

Sétıpímo spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the desert soil and resumed chewing. He didn’t want to stay out here all night. He should be in bed right now. If these Koro-heads couldn’t resolve their conflicts by themselves, it was up to him to do it for them.

A young medic raced out of the house and sprinted past, already breathing hard.

“Men!” Sétıpímo yelled. “Men! Shut the plagues up!” He waded into the group of policemen, grabbing the first county lawman he saw. “Laparıpasamé, shut up and go stand over there--quietly!”

The young man looked like he was about to scream something, but caught himself short and replied, “Yes, sir.”

As Laparıpasamé sulked away, Sétıpímo grabbed another lawman, doing the same thing, with the same results. He then came to the red-faced Senior Lawman Vomıvé, who was nose-to-nose with one of the Colonial Enforcers. Both were yelling at the top of their lungs straight at each other, but Sétıpímo couldn’t understand either of them.
The detective grabbed Vomıvé’s shoulder and spun him around. The lawman started to throw a punch, but held himself up just in time.

“Plague of Kínıtíní!” cursed Vomıvé. “What are you doing, Marıdaré?”

Sétıpímo couldn’t help but smile as he chewed his tobacco. “What am I doing? What the plagues are you doing? You’re going to get yourself demoted if you keep this up.”

Vomıvé rubbed his eyes with one hand.

The surrounding men started to quiet down, except for a couple people yelling incoherently over by the front door. One didn’t sound like a male voice. Sétıpímo and most of the others peered past each other toward this new disturbance.

A second paramedic ran out of the house, his arms clutching his head. “She’s gone crazy!”

Behind him, Vata Kılímí screeched, “And stay out!” just before she slammed the door shut.

The younger medic raced up to his boss, clutching a plastic cube in his hand. “I’ve got the battery. What’s going on?”

The assembled men erupted into a chorus of yells.

Sétıpímo spat his tobacco, trying to miss everyone’s shoes. “Aw, plagues,” he muttered.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 2

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Vata Kılímí shuffled as fast as she could around the hallway corner. Ahead of her, two paramedics crouched over her prone husband, a young lawman standing guard. Heated voices floated in through the open front door. Pí‘oro lay on his back, his nightwear top torn open, exposing his pale, flabby chest. A lump stuck in Vata’s throat. He looked so lifeless. She couldn’t feel anything from him.

“Clear!” snapped one of the medics, two paddles on Pí‘oro’s bare torso.

An electronic whine thumped, twitching Pí‘oro slightly. The medic with the paddles leaned back, looking at the other man, who stared intently at a flickering screen on a box twenty centimeters wide. They obviously trusted their electronic gizmo more than actually putting two fingers to the carotid artery.

It was past the point that medical machines could revive her husband. Only the love of Névazhíno could bring Pí‘oro back. She had to get everybody out of the house. She had to get Pí‘oro on the altar, but that was impossible. She’d never be able to move his body, not even with Fírí’s help. Her only option was to wake the horse and bring her into the hallway and perform the ceremony there. Hopefully the hall was close enough to the chapel for Névazhíno to recognize the sacrifice and respond. Vata had nothing left but hope.

“Mrs. Kılímí,” said the lawman--Tépíto Laparıpasamé, she thought his name was--as he held out his hand to stop her.

The police helicopter thundered past, drowning out the raised voices of the arguing men outside.

Vata slowed, still two meters away from her husband’s feet. She couldn’t look at him.

“Leave him alone!” she begged, staring at the paramedics. “Show some respect for the dead!”

Lawman Laparıpasamé softly said, “They’re trying to bring him back.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door.

Vata hobbled to stand over the closer medic, who had the paddles. Laparıpasamé took a step toward her, stretching his hand in front of Vata. His attention was clearly on the argument outside, however.

“Nothing,” said the medic staring at the flickering gizmo.

“Right,” replied the other, nodding briskly. “Clear.”

Why are they ignoring me? “Leave him alone!” Vata screamed.

The machine’s whine sputtered out, only half begun.

Facing the doorway, Laparıpasamé shouted, “That’s not true!” He stormed out the door, his voice soon lost amongst the others.

The medics glanced at the dials on the box, fiddling with knobs.

“Get out of here!” Vata screeched, whapping the closer paramedic on his shoulder.

“There’s a spare battery in the case under the gauze,” he rattled to his partner. “Hurry!” Only then did he turn his attention upward at Vata.

The younger paramedic leapt to his feet and disappeared out the door.

The medic glared at Vata, his jaw tight with stubbornness. “We can still save him.”

Vata hit him again, a closed fist to the top of his head. “Get out!”

“Hey!” He held up his hands to defend himself as Vata struck again. “What the plagues?”

“He’s dead! Leave him alone! Get out! Get out! Get out!” She kept wailing away on his arms, his shoulders, his head--anything she could, as hard as she could.

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One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 13, page 1

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Chapter 13: Brotherhood of Man



Pí‘oro Kılímo was dead. He had to be. No one could survive the explosion of agony he just experienced. And now he felt no pain whatsoever, which meant he either was in a hospital on some extra-strong painkillers, or he was dead.

If he was dead, he should be at Pétíso’s great hall, ready to be judged for reincarnation by the God of Death. Perhaps His friends Sívorí and Ahísıhíta would be standing by Pétíso’s side. Surely Névazhíno should be beside Pí‘oro, there to vouch for his life of good deeds and such. But no gods were present. Nothing was present. Nothing except blackness . . . and the buzzing of insects.

He opened his eyes.

Pí‘oro lay on his side in a steep, grassy meadow, his face tilted down toward the earth. A light breeze rustled the tall grass, swaying violet and yellow flowers to and fro. Little bees danced from one blossom to the next.

“Where the plagues am I?”

He pushed himself to a sitting position and rubbed his forehead. The hillside meadow curved out of sight to either side. Clumps of trees dotted the landscape, growing into a forest further down the mountain. A thick layer of clouds blanketed the lower reaches of the slope, perhaps three kilometers below. Scattered far in the distance, numerous conical mountains protruded from the clouds. The closest was at least fifty kilometers away, but they all looked surprisingly similar, as if they were all built from the same set of plans.

“Where the plagues am I?” Pí‘oro repeated.

This had to be a dream. No other explanation presented itself, unless this was the afterlife. But it certainly was nothing like any description of the afterlife he had ever heard. But if this was a dream, it was unusually detailed.

He stood up with surprisingly few aches or twinges in his joints and muscles. Like a dream, he thought.

Up the mountain, the meadow gave way to rocks and snow. The highest point he could see had to be a thousand meters above him, but that probably wasn’t the peak.

Somebody or something whistled sharply, a call quickly repeated across the mountainside.

Pí‘oro spun around, light on his feet, to find a gray wolf loping diagonally up the slope towards him. He couldn’t outrun it, not even in a dream. No sticks or rocks at his feet. His heartbeat swelled. Adrenaline began to flow. He braced himself to fight with his bare hands. At least he wore his calf-high leather boots, which would provide some protection and a few good kicks.

The wolf stopped five meters away, wagging its tail, its tongue lolling out.

“Thank you,” it said.

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