Category: Fiction Factor

It was always eerily quiet during the 4 a.m. walk around the strip mall. Captain Cluck’s Chicken Shed was empty, with red chairs turned upside down and placed atop the small white tables – a yellow mop bucket always pushed against the wall after being abandoned by the after-hours cleaning crew.

The red, white and blue rotating barber pole at Village Styles was dark and motionless, and bone white blinds concealed the two chairs inside it.

A nail salon, a Chinese takeout joint, a dollar store, an athletic shoe outlet … all hours away from opening, all illuminated only by the lights in the vacant parking lot.

Usually, Magnus Compton had the route to himself, walking along the sidewalk from one end to the other, arcing around the parking lot, and then starting again. One loop was good for 678 steps, and Magnus liked to complete at least 20 circuits before starting his two-mile trip back home.

Now and again, he’d encounter an early-rising jogger, who’d usually speed up and pass him without acknowledging his presence. He could understand why … a guy wearing a black jacket, black jeans, black T-shirt and black Chuck Taylors probably did appear out of place, especially at such an ungodly hour.

A true rarity, though, was a vehicle pulling up into the parking lot and stopping. However, on this particular Wednesday morning, that’s exactly what happened.

A satin rose gold TechBromobile glided into the handicap space in front of the Captain Cluck’s Chicken Shed, with the driver repeatedly pressing the horn (which sounded like a mechanical goose).

Magnus figured the “warning” was intended for him, but chose to ignore it. He would just continue his walk – there were seven circuits remaining in his routine – and hope the person would go away.

After a series of honks went unheeded, however, the doors of the vehicle opened and five thirtysomethings exited.

“Hey, Grandpa Goth,” one of them yelled. “Kinda early for a funeral, isn’t it?”

Magnus wanted no trouble, but upon closer inspection there was nothing but trouble standing next to the dumpster on wheels. They reeked of alcohol, and four of them appeared to be henchmen to the main loudmouth, a short, sandy-haired character with full, pink cheeks and a red tee-shirt that was two sizes too small.

“Grandpa Goth,” he shouted. “I’m talking to you. It’s not polite to ignore me. In fact, it’s pretty damn insulting.”

Magnus had made an effort to steer clear of a confrontation, but that effort had failed. He walked toward them hoping in vain he could defuse the situation.

“Guys, I’m just an old guy out for a walk before I go to bed, OK?” he said. “I’m not bothering anyone. Please just get back in your car and drive away … there’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.”

The group laughed.

“There’s always a reason to hurt somebody, freak,” snorted the loudmouth. “And we don’t like your looks.”

The five young men began slowly walking toward Magnus before suddenly growing wide-eyed and disoriented. Magnus made a twisting gesture with his right hand and the group began fighting among themselves, swinging wildly and viciously at one another. The brawl lasted roughly a minute – although it surely must’ve seemed longer to the combatants – before Magnus lowered his hand and, thus, ended the fight.

All five were battered and bloody. The loudmouth was missing a couple of front teeth and had a broken left arm, while all of them were much worse for wear.

Magnus eyed the blood on the pavement, kneeled down and stared at the men.

“You know, guys, being a vampire has its challenges. Sure, we have superhuman strength, the power of telekinesis and hypnosis, and can even shapeshift … I personally prefer morphing into a possum instead of a bat, but that’s neither here nor there. Still, we have to stay out of the sun and get really nervous any time we go near a lumber yard – or see somebody flashing a silver dollar. It can be difficult being who we are.

“Thing is, though, we’re just trying to live our lives – or I guess live our deaths is more accurate. Most of us are peaceful, we get our blood through proper, legal, non-violent channels, and just try to co-exist. But then entitled assholes like you come along and decide you need to start shit because … well, because you’re entitled assholes. So, I hypnotized you and made you fight each other because if you’d have had to fight me, well, you’d be dead right now. And trust me – it would’ve been a gruesome death. But I’m not gonna drain your blood because I’m not hungry and you’re all too gross. So, what you need to do now – if one of you is well enough to drive – is get back in that tin can and leave. Not only that, don’t come anywhere near this strip mall again. Consider this your first and last warning.”

The five struggled to get to their feet, with two of them helping the loudmouth crawl into the backseat.

Magnus stood – arm’s folded – in front of Captain Cluck’s Chicken Shed as the men hastily backed out of the parking space and drove toward the highway.

As he prepared to resume his walk in an effort to reach his step goal before daybreak, Magnus watched the TechBromobile lose power and burst into flames – likely due to a faulty battery.

The vampire smiled.

Wednesdays were always a big day at the Waterfall Ridge Senior Activity Center – especially for Hiram Eckridge. The octogenarian had been a resident in the independent living wing of the facility for more than 10 years, and stayed active by walking two miles a day every day – rain or shine.

And while he eschewed “Bingo Monday,” “Monopoly Tuesday,” “Charades Thursday,” and “Movie Friday,” he lived for “Arts and Crafts Wednesdays.”

The activity center’s bright yellow walls were often adorned with artwork from the residents, ranging from pictures that were little more than colors haphazardly smeared onto construction paper to some excellent charcoal drawings and solid paint-by-numbers renderings.

As for Hiram, well, his efforts were more about details than style. And each Wednesday – for as long as anyone could remember – he spent all 90 of the allotted minutes at the center showing off his blueprints.

The roll of plastic paper he carried under his arm was taken to a table in the far corner of the center, a work area that had become “his” over time with no objections from the other residents. At first, he appeared to be drawing random lines, numbers and circles, but each Wednesday he’d add another wrinkle, in addition to the ones he had toiled over in his free time.

Nowadays, his drawing appeared to be an elaborate maze.

“So, Mr. Eckridge … how’s it coming along?” asked Mazie, the Ridge’s young activity director.

Hiram smiled, carefully spread his blueprint over the table, and then pulled a mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket.

“Mazie my friend, I do believe it’s coming along just fine,” he said. “Just so many formulas involved. Plus, the math is tough … and my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was because my math professor days are long gone. Don’t know why I started doing this, but now I can’t stop.”

Any time someone would ask him what kind of plans he was drawing up, he always gave them the same story: they were instructions on how to design an escape pod.

“Once it’s finished,” he’d say, “I’m gonna hand it over to a friend of mine and she knows some people who’ll use the blueprint to build the escape pod. Think of it kinda like Noah’s Ark, if Noah’s Ark had been a rocket ship. See, this planet is about used up, and once it is, people are gonna need to get off of it – and get off of it fast. Not sure where they’ll go, though … I suppose somebody else will need to figure that out.”

Most of the Waterfall Ridge staff would smile and nod when Hiram talked about his project, not bothering to take any of it seriously. But they didn’t discourage it, either. He was an 86-year-old man with an active imagination, and they had no desire to quell his creativity. In fact, one of the local news stations had done a feel-good piece on him a few months back as part of their “Quite A Character” series.

It was a different story among some of the residents, though. While there were those who ignored him completely and thought of him as a “silly old man,” at least one was intensely interested in his work.

Mira Dudley claimed to be a retired aerospace engineer and was another active senior who spent her Arts and Crafts Wednesdays doing abstract paintings of what Hiram liked to call “alien monsters” – tall, lanky fuchsia-hued creatures with heads shaped somewhat like an anvil. While Hiram would often break from his blueprint to eye her artistry, she would glance over his calculations and ask serious questions.

“Let’s see … ‘Lift (L) = Weight (W)’ … I know that one,” she’d say. “That’s the formula for flight. And Δv = u * ln(m0 / mf) … well, everybody knows that’s the Tsiolkovsky rocket equation. You’re on the right track, Hiram.”

As winter segued into spring, Hiram finished his blueprint. And on a mid-April Wednesday, he excitedly called Mira over to look at the final product.

“This is it … I’ve double-checked and triple-checked everything,” he said. “Shoot, I must’ve gone through 50 refills for my pencil. I think I might have figured it out … I feel it in my bones. What do you think?”

Mira carefully looked over the blueprint, occasionally squinting to make sure the numbers she saw were correct.

They were.

“You did it, Hiram,” she said. “This will work. This ship will sail, I guarantee it. Tell you what … Friday night while the others are watching the movie, meet me by the pond near the assisted living wing.”

Hiram carefully rolled up the blueprints and handed them to Mira.

“See you then,” he said. “Hope you can bring along the people who’ll be able to build it. I won’t live to see it done, but at least maybe they can describe it for me.”

A full moon illuminated the clear Friday sky, and Hiram could hear the other seniors laughing at a screening of “The In-Laws” as he walked past the activity center and made his way to the pond.

Mira was waiting and waved him over.

“Hiram,” she said. “I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

Hiram gasped as several figures emerged from the shadows – all of them resembling the “alien monsters” Mira had painted during Arts and Crafts Wednesday.

“We came here a long time ago, Hiram,” she said. “Some of us, like me, were able to adopt a human form to blend in. But while we had the intelligence to build a craft that got us here, we never could reverse engineer it. Our math and your math are sometimes at odds. But you figured it out.”

Hiram was startled by a rhythmic humming sound, and looked to up see a large black craft hovering overhead.

“Is that my escape pod?” Hiram asked.

“It is, indeed. And now we can help you escape – as long as you don’t mind escaping to our solar system.”

Hiram had seen the end of earth’s days coming, and wanted to give people hope. He assumed such a ship would never be constructed during his lifetime, but if he could provide other humans a chance at survival – especially children – he would die a happy man.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to take somebody else’s spot. I’m an old man and like the third rock from the sun, my time’s almost up. Just please, if you can, get as many people out of here as you …”

Before he could finish his sentence, hundreds of similar craft littered the sky. Mira took his hand.

“There are more than you see here – they’re all across the globe – and there’s room for anyone who wants to go,” she said. “But you made all this possible, Hiram – there’s no way I’d leave you behind.

“And as for being an old man, trust me – you have a whole new life ahead of you.”

“Alas for those that never sing, but die with all their music in them.”

As a public defender, Dave Pearson thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes more than most people – although no one, really, thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes much anymore. Still, the former Supreme Court justice was Dave’s idol, and that quote was one that stuck with the hard-luck lawyer.

As Dave grew older his world grew darker, and he feared there would come a day when he simply couldn’t claw his way back to the light … couldn’t find the music.

Sometimes, it seemed like that day was dangerously close.

Dave suffered from depression, and likened it to a pack of demons that had taken up permanent residence in his head.

As a kid and young adult, he was able to beat them back with a broom – buoyed, perhaps, by the optimism that sometimes comes with youth.

But now those bastards were kicking him in the groin day in and day out.

Often the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness were so deep and profound he’d just lock himself in the bathroom, pretending he’d stowed away in an escape pod hurtling toward the sun. Eventually he’d snap out of his funk, but not without a new scar.

He’d never sought therapy because he wasn’t much on one-on-one confessions, couldn’t really explain what he was feeling, and didn’t think anyone could help, anyway.

And why take pills for depression when he could self-medicate? Beer and liquor were readily available over the counter. Hell, you could even have it delivered to your door.

And he did. Often.

He wasn’t out of bed yet on this particular morning when he started thinking about how soon after work he’d begin throwing back cocktails.

“Pity, party of one,” he’d say, pouring himself another drink.

But before the darkness of his thoughts could consume him, Sparky hopped on the bed.

Dave had no idea how old the orange cat was, only that it showed up at his garden home door late one night, meowing frantically. He leaned down to pet him and got a small shock due to static electricity, hence the name “Sparky.”

He assumed he must belong to a neighbor, but no one claimed him – maybe because he had runny eyes and a bald spot just above his left eye. Soon, however, Dave was inviting him inside, and within a week he’d purchased a litter box and cat food.

Now, the cat was his – or maybe he was the cat’s. Either way, they had each other.

After taking a long stretch, Sparky looked at Dave intently, crawled on his chest and started making biscuits.

“Buddy, that hurts a little,” he said as the cat’s claws kneaded rhythmically and furiously. “You’re gonna draw blood.”

Sparky looked at Dave, and it was though the kitty understood. He stopped pressing, laid down, and nuzzled his head on Dave’s neck.

“You’re a sweet little guy, aren’t you? Lemme get up and check your food bowl.”

Dave hoisted himself on the side of the bed, slipped on his Crocs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Sparky – high-tailed and purring – followed close behind.

The cat’s bowl had plenty of food in it but Dave nevertheless topped it off, and Sparky quickly went to work on the fresh kibble. Dave flipped the switch on his coffee maker, looked at Sparky and smiled.

Funny how simply staring at a cat was a day brightener. And knowing Sparky depended on him made him feel less alone – made the world seem a bit more tolerable.

The demons weren’t gone, of course, but they weren’t overwhelming, either. They’d be back in full force, but not today – not right now.

And that was good enough for a cold Wednesday.

Dave walked over to Sparky, gently scratched his cheek, and started singing the silly song he’d made up about the feline:

An old orange cat came up to my door

Gave him some food but he still wanted more

Now he lives with a lonely old fool

But we’re best friends, and that’s kinda cool.

Dave shook his head and chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all.

And it made him happy that he was in tune with Oliver Wendell Holmes – at least for the time being.