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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