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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