Home Is Where the Hoth Is.

The worst feeling in the world is hearing someone scream and not being able to do anything about it.

Strike that.

The really worst feeling in the world is hearing someone scream, and know that you’re going to be eating them in less than an hour.

Times are tough; I’m the first to say.

The summer isn’t really what it used to be, and our food source seemed to disappear overnight. We tried living off of the lichen in our cave. Whatever nutritional value that had does nothing to stave off the cold.

My sister died. Sometime during the night.

Mum, Pa, and Sis, and I were all huddled in a ball, trying to conserve our energy. The cave that Pa and Uncle made for us all those years ago seems an ostentatious waste.

We are dying.

Pa tried to quietly pull her frozen corpse out of the way and cover it with snow. Mum and I both saw but pretended we didn't.

That lump of snow over there is Sis.

Overhead the sounds of the Aliens and their big metal ships rattle our teeth and hurt our ears and make parts of our cave collapse in. The big room where we had our Life Party is now collapsed in.

The Aliens. They took our food, and they are destroying our homes.

Uncle told the tall tales of when our food, the warm meat, used to run along the ice packs in more numbers than you could count.

The giant Alien ships leaked bad air that killed the herds of warm meat. Those that didn't die were taken by the Aliens, and turned to beast of burden.

Uncle said he was going to talk “Being to Being” to the Aliens in their frozen cave. Their huge metal ships came and went from their great cave.

That was two weeks ago. We might have to eat Sis just to stay alive.

Pa came into the cave. He was happy. We were saved! 

He was walking and found one of the warm meats with and Alien riding on his back! He killed the warm meat so it would feel no pain, and the Alien fell off its back.

We ate well.

Though, less than we usually did. Our stomachs were full quickly. Mum said it was because we haven’t eaten very much in quite so long.

I hugged Pa and Mum, and thanked them. Pa said it was nothing to be proud of; he was just taking care of us.

No one mentioned Sis. No one looked at the mound of snow that hid her.

Pa said one of the Aliens that was riding the warm meat was still alive. That he put it up in our cave.

Pa and Mum argued. Pa said he didn't kill the Alien. Just hung it up in our cave.

I was eating, and heard them arguing. Pa wanted to kill it, and Mum said we could reason with it.

I could hear It, in our old Family Room. It was breathing and moving.

Pa said we should eat It, and leave its little legs in front of their metal cave to show we weren't beaten.

The really worst feeling in the world is hearing It scream, and know that you’re going to be eating It in less than an hour. I could hear Its panic every time Pa yelled.

The dumb animal warm meat died so easily. The Aliens made so much noise.

I bet if I let it go, it would just run away. 

I could hear its pain.

It wasn't like the warm meat. It was calling out for one of its own. It was calling for help.

Slowly I walked into the Family Room, and tried to calm it down.

The Alien was trying to reach for something on the ground that fell off it.

I tried to break it free from the ice where Pa hung it upside down, and that’s when it fell.

In one motion the Alien fell to the ground, and a bright blue light appeared in its hands.

I’m not sure what happened. The Alien stood there looking at me, and I realized my arm was gone.

The Alien was holding the long blue light.

And my arm was on the ground.

I screamed for Pa.

And then It ran.

It ran yelling "Ben...Obi Wan...Ben!"

Puzzels

Cir. 2008

Ten year old Alex ran along the darkened patio, low to the ground and keeping to the shadows. This was his new game, and he was exceeding at it very well. The security system at his parent’s luxurious Fresno home was a physical puzzle, and quite the challenge to his young mind. Despite the fact that Alex had not spoken to anyone since he was born, he had mastered every puzzle he had found.

Alex remembered being born, and every minute detail up until this point as he silently calculated the alarm’s motion sensor algorithm. He remembered countless doctor visits in detail, held by a worrying Mrs. Nancy Ketchum, wondering why her four year old hadn't spoken a word, oblivious to the fact that her son had just mapped out his own DNA with the toy blocks on the clinic’s waiting room floor.

Nancy was always too busy or simply overlooked the fact that her son did in fact communicate, just on a level inconceivable to her. He had tried once to show her, completing the crossword and the word jumble in the morning paper that was left on the kitchen table. Alex had gone to great pains to replicate her hand writing, and when she found the completed puzzles, she had tearfully gone to her husband Robert, assuming that she had gone crazy.

He wasn't autistic, the doctors assured her. The child psychologist felt that Alex was just waiting for an appropriate time to talk. He had failed to notice that the random crayon doodles that Alex had drawn on the paper provided was a fractural representation of the good doctor’s Ford Taurus, complete with the dent on the driver’s door.

The house’s security system was an entirely different puzzle, one that required his extraordinary mind to control his body. Under the most exacting commands, his body could pass directly in front of the cycling motion detector. Using refrigerator magnets and his mother’s iPod, he could fool a particular window or door, and enter or exit as he pleased.

Alex reached the backyard pool and stopped suddenly.

It was by the pool, gliding towards the door that led to the living room.

It was also passing by the motion sensors, and not setting them off.

Alex knew that the motion sensors were infrared sensors, and that It was invisible to the sensors.

Then Alex communicated with It.

- - -

Eighteen year old Shane Ketchum sat on the end of his bed crying, concentrating on how much he hated his father, Robert, and his step mom, Nancy. How much he hated Fresno, how he hated his life, school, his future, and his entire existence. Shane barely remembered his parents getting divorced, he still held the memory of his mom, Sherry, explaining that his parents “ didn't hate each other, they just had fallen out of love.”

Shane still hated his dad for the divorce. Robert had worked as an executive for some Agriculture company in the Valley, and was never home. He remembered countless dinners as a kid, asking where his father was, school plays, looking for his father in the crowd, graduating grade school, with only his mother standing, smiling.

When Shane was 14, Robert had set him down and explained that his job had caused the divorce. He was just trying to provide for his family, but working 70 hours a week had done more harm than the money he earned. Robert had quit his job, and started “consulting”. Now he worked from home, and had turned his managing skills towards his kids, micro-managing their lives.

Robert had made Shane change schools, taking him away from his friends. It was just the start of an inevitable ruining of his life. Robert decided what sports he played, what elective classes he took…

The only reprieve Shane had was when his father had met Nancy. Then Shane was out from under the microscope, and soon his dad was married again.

Shane despised Nancy, the weak-willed woman who dutifully took all of Roberts’s orders, never questioning, never having an opinion of her own. She feigned interest in Shane, but he could see right through her. He was just a stepchild, and soon he had a brother, Alex, born with a silver spoon in his mouth. That’s why he didn't talk, or do anything for himself; Nancy was there to wait on him hand and foot.

He couldn't blame Alex, he was just the tie that held his father and his impostor step mom together.

Shane’s hands clenched in rage, and clicked off the safety on his pistol.

Several summers ago, Robert had decided that the family needed to “get away.” Shane remembered only one vacation before his parents divorced. Now his dad wanted to make this a “family tradition”, buying a cabin in the woods in Idaho. Shane refused to go; his dad had taken him from all his friends, and now he was taking him away from the few friends he had made at the private school. Away for five weeks.

Shane had sat in the back of the Yukon with his older sister, Kellie, listening to his iPod, hating the sight of the back his father and step mom’s heads. Hating the endless road as they drove to Idaho.

But Idaho was different, there were two kids who rode everywhere on “Quads”, even on the streets of the small town by the river. They had teased him about being from California, he was the butt of all their jokes, but they had taken him fishing. Yes, he was subject to every “city-boy” joke there was, but he was finally free. No school, no dad telling him what the schedule for the week was, no step mom making him do her household chores.

That was the last summer he had spent with Kellie. She had gone off to college in the fall, and met a guy, and now she didn't talk to her dad anymore, and Shane wasn't allowed to see her. Sure he talked to her on Facebook once in a while, but Robert refused to let her in the house. He hated Robert for that. His own blood sibling.

Shane had gone shooting “rock chucks” with his new friends and had experienced a new chapter in his life. None of his friends in Fresno had a gun, or went shooting. Arriving at the cabin that night, dusty and dirty, he had asked his dad if they could buy a .22. He gave up all hope when he was barraged with questions from his dad.

The next year, when Shane was 15, he had met up with the boys on Quads, and it was like time had stopped, like California didn't exist. He went fishing, swimming, rafting, and of course shooting. This time the boys had pistols, and Shane came prepared. He had brought all of his saved allowance, his iPod and his DS. He was set on buying a .22 rifle, but after spending the day shooting empty milk jugs with pistols, he had pawned his iPod and bought a .45 pistol. It wasn't a ‘Colt or a Smith’, the boys had said, ‘but fuckin awesome anyways’.

He had disassembled it and smuggled it home, playing with it at night. He had almost been busted with it, but thankfully Nancy just thought he was masturbating.

He wasn't jerking off now.

No note. He’s just let them wonder.

He put the barrel in his mouth. Closed casket.

The alarms went off, the outside sentry lights turned on. He could hear the dull beeping from the control box on the kitchen wall.

Shane leapt from the bed, pistol in hand, if someone was trying to break in…

All thoughts from moments ago, gone.

From the window, he could see the pool below him, and Alex, standing next to the pool.

Alex was slowly moving one arm, like he was slowly trying to fly with one arm.

Shane could see Alex’s mouth moving.

He was talking.

- - -

Kellie Ketchum awoke with a start; her boyfriend was not in the bed next to her.

She sat up and called his name.

The name her father refused to say.

She had graduated from high school and had gone to that God-awful cabin in Idaho for the summer, and breathed a sigh of relief at the return to society, and college at Berkeley.

Her first semester, she had met Brandon, and as they say: ‘fallen in love at first sight’. The three weeks apart over winter break had been murder. She had gotten yelled at by Robert, who kept track of her monthly cell minutes.

When the spring semester had ended, she had gotten a job at Presidio Studios, and began looking for an apartment. It was a smart economical move to have a roommate. Her father had hung up on her when she had told him that she was moving in with Brandon.

She received an email telling her that, if she decided to move in with ‘that boy’, she was “cut off” for good.

She called his bluff, and then cried as her credit card was declined at the gas station. Two days later her cell phone was shut off.

But she loved Brandon. She kept up tabs on the family through her younger brother, Shane. But communication was spotty at best, Shane was afraid of getting caught talking to the ‘forbidden child’.

Her mother, Shelly was little help. She had moved with her new boyfriend to Sacramento. She worked there as a LPN, and occasionally sent her $20 in the mail.

Her part time job at Presidio became fulltime, and school part time, and when the day ended, she knew that she was doing this all for herself.

She walked into the small kitchen and called for Brandon again.

No answer.

She went to the window to look for his car on the street below, maybe he left, but why would he?

His car was there, and there were two cars wrecked out front. A head on collision that looked bad. She didn't see anybody walking around, and there were no police sirens.

She called his cell phone from hers, and jumped when it rang, still sitting next to the computer.

Kellie became afraid, and exited her apartment and knocked on the door across from her apartment. A very nice couple from Massachusetts lived there. They had had dinner together once or twice, and occasionally traded DVDs.

She knocked on the door again. There was no answer.

She ran down the hall to the girl she bought weed from. She knocked once and walked in like she always did. The TV was on, something cooking on the stove; but the apartment was void of life.

Eyes blurry with tears found her on the street below. There wasn't just one car wreck. As far as she could see both directions, there were cars smashed into the cars parked street side, some on fire, some over turned.

And no people.

- - -

Nancy Ketchum awoke with a start. The security alarms were going off. Robert was out of bed, looking frantically out the windows.

Panic and horror went though their minds.

The seconds clicked off as Nancy ran for Alex’s room, only to find it empty.

Methodically, Robert went to the kitchen and looked at the alarm. He picked up the phone handset and yelled for Nancy.

Twice now, the tree along the side of the house had set off the alarm, but the screen was showing that the alarms had been set off in the pool court yard.

The security company would be calling any minute now.

Nancy was screaming now. Robert ran to the boy’s room. Alex wasn't there, and with adrenalin coursing through his veins, Robert lifted the bed off the floor, looking underneath.

Nancy was screaming his name. Shane was yelling too.

Robert met Shane at the stairs.

“He’s out by the pool!” Shane yelled. He was holding a pistol.

Robert grabbed Shane by his throat and twisted his right hand and the arm towards the ceiling. He squeezed equally hard.

“He’s - out - there!” Shane croaked, pointing with his left arm.

Robert looked about frantically as Nancy ran past him towards the living room and the door to the court yard.

Robert yelled for her to stop, and she did just for a second, before her motherly instincts overrode Robert’s mental conditioning and she continued to run.

Nancy returned from the pool carrying Alex like a rag doll. Shane was sitting on the couch crying, as Robert stalked around the sofa looking like a missile seeking a target.

The pistol was setting on the coffee table, magazine next to it, and a lone bullet slowly rolling on the glass surface. Shane had to show his father how to disarm the weapon.

Nancy now sat on the couch opposite Shane, Alex draped in her lap, the boy staring at the ceiling. She dialed her phone and held it to her ear.

“What are you doing?” Robert demanded.

“I’m calling 9-1-1!” Nancy half explained, half defended, “The security company hasn't called!”

A cold feeling hit Robert's gut. It had been several minutes. He grabbed Nancy’s cell and listened to it ring.

“Alex saw the robber!” Nancy frantically explained. “He was pointing at him when I came out. He was making weird noises!”

9-1-1 continued to ring in Robert’s ear.

“What?” Robert held one hand aloft in question, “Who was making the noise? The robber or Alex?

“Alex!” Nancy yelled, “He was pointing to the bushes by the fence, and making a noise like the old internet things!” She imitated a dial-up modem connecting, ‘sccchhhhhhhh-ding-ding ding-ding-schhhhhhh’.

No one noticed as Alex suddenly looked towards his mother and smiled.

Shane jumped up, Robert forcibly pointed at him and yelled, but Shane continued to run. He slammed the open patio door shut and locked it, and began checking the locks on the windows. He turned to his dad, “If he’s still out there…”

Shane slowly walked back to his pistol, and telegraphing his movements, picked it up.

Robert was staring at his son with a look of furry on his face, breathing hard.

Shane, meeting his father’s gaze, replaced the lone bullet in the magazine and like an expert, actuated the action of the weapon. Shane slowly walked to the window, crouched and holding the pistol defensively.

“What the fuck is going on!” Robert screamed as he looked at the phone. The timer in the upper right hand corner had ticked off over a minute. No one at 9-1-1 dispatch had answered. He hit the end button and then hit send. The phone dialed 9-1-1 again, and began to ring.

Seconds went by as the tone rang in his ear. No one answered. Was the cell phone company messed up again?

“Shane!” Robert yelled, a bit too loud, and handed the phone to his son. “I’m going across the street to the Brady’s. Watch your mother!”

“Step mother.” Shane muttered under his breath as his father ran for the front of the house. Shane hit the speaker button, and moved his hands together so he could hold the phone, and maintain his tactical grip on the phone. The speaker continued to drone out the unanswered call to 9-1-1.

- - -

Robert expected to get attacked as he exited the front door. He held his fists up like a boxer and quickly looked around. The coast was clear as he began to run down the drive towards the Brady’s house.

He regretted leaving the house. Leaving Shane in charge was a mistake, but sending Nancy was an even bigger mistake. He didn't have time to give her explicit instructions, and knowing her, she would have called the fire department. His first wife, Sherry, had an extraordinary common sense, putting him to shame.

Shane had a pistol.

That scared him to his core. As father, he was the protector of the household, but his son had a pistol, and aside from being illegal, was extremely dangerous. From many occasions his own father’s word’s echoed in his head, ‘What were you thinking?’

Several times his arguments with Shane had come to physical altercations. What if Shane had decided to use the pistol to harm him? Or himself? The boy was going through a rough time, and Robert was trying to use the best knowledge and wisdom to guide him, but Shane had just gotten more distant.

How do you sum up in a heated father-son argument that you’re just trying to help your eldest son.

The thought of Kellie sprang to his mind as he ran up the manicured lawn of the Brady’s house.

‘Thank God she’s not here now.’ All she needed to do was call him, and he would do anything in the world for her, even what he was doing now, running in his boxers through someone else’s lawn.

John Brady was a WWII vet who had made his money in cardboard. They regularly had barbecues together, and John loved to talk to Robert about the good old days. John had a heart attack three years ago, and his wife Linda had been having heath trouble as of late, so Robert had made it a point to check up on them daily. Over the years, John had become somewhat of a surrogate father to him.

Robert began yelling as he neared the door. He furiously rang the doorbell, seconds went by, then he snatched up the ceramic frog that held the spare key to the front door.

Letting himself in, Robert began to yell, searching for the phone.

“John! John! It’s Robert!” He yelled, nearly going hoarse. “Someone tried to break in! Our cell phones are all messed up! I need to use your land line!”

As he stood listening to the phone ring, it dawned on Robert that John hadn't answered him, or any of the lights in the house turn on.

The phone continued to ring.

Dawning realization, Robert slowly walked out the door into the street towards his house. The handset still crackling out a broken ringing tone.

Down the street, an SUV was sideways in the street, impacted into a tree. Smoke was pouring from the front end.

There wasn't anybody by the vehicle.

- - -

Sherry stood silently on the elevator tapping her pen on her clipboard in time with the ‘muzak’. She was on nights again at the hospital. 6 to 6 made for a rough shift, but most of the patients would be asleep. And, thank God, she didn't work the ER.

The elevator dinged, and she exited, and walked past the nurse’s station on this floor. She briefly waived at the two nurses reading magazines at their posts.

Reaching the room intended, she looked in surprise as the bed was vacant, oxygen tubes and IV lying on the bed as if the patient had simply disappeared. Against her better judgment, she checked the bathroom. 

Empty.

She ran back to the nurse’s station. Alarms and lights were going off. 

Every patient monitored on this floor just flatlined.

Frantically she ran down the hall, ducking into rooms, yelling for anyone, her voice echoing off down the empty hall.

And empty rooms.

The Perfect Sphere

When you think of a perfect sphere, a marble comes to mind. One drifts back to childhood, staring in amazement at the glassy surface, and the colored ribbons contained within. It seems almost a childhood dream was shattered as we saw our first picture of glass under a microscope, the craggy surface more similar to the Grand Canyon than to smooth window.

If a marble was enlarged to the size of a beach ball, you would be able to fit your fingers in the cracks and fissures in the surface. Despite this, how many times have we looked at a ball bearing, admiring it’s seemingly perfect surface, our mind defying our eyes. Like the glass marble, the steel bearing fairs no better in perfection.

If the earth was shrunk to the size of a marble, Mount Everest would not be perceptible to the touch. Yet the earth is nowhere near a perfect sphere. Few realize that our terrestrial bodied is closer in shape to an egg than it is a marble.

The formula for the surface area of a sphere was realized by Archimedes, back when the awakening of science could imagine a perfect sphere, but yet not man or machine could create it.

In the early 21st century, a quartz sphere was made that touted to be a “perfect sphere”, yet its surface varies by 40 atoms. Enlarged to the size of a planet, and it’s the Grand Canyon all over again. Years later, in an attempt to re-define the kilogram, an even more perfect sphere was made, this time accurate to .3 nanometers. Still, nowhere near perfect.

.3 nanometers might seem like splitting hairs, but to those that observed the sphere that fell to earth, a nanometer might as well have been a mile. It was perfect.

Most celestial objects such as meteors that enter earth’s atmosphere burn up due to friction. The sphere that broke atmo over the Atlantic was witnessed by many, and it was obviously devoid of the tell-tale trail behind it. Government and scientific contingency plans concerning NEOs were forgotten as the marveled perfect sphere impacted just south of Grand Junction, Colorado.

The dozen or so witnesses and the sheriff’s deputy that was first to respond all said the same thing: A Perfect Sphere. Granted, that was just to the casual observer and it would be a few hours before a reputable scientific claim could match what a few amateur astronomers had witnessed falling to earth. It was a Perfect Sphere.

Law enforcement, EMS, and the fire department were quick to respond to the site. 911 dispatch in Orchard Mesa crashed, servers unable to handle the volume of calls. St. Mary’s hospital was put on alerts reserved for terrorist attacks. Chipeta Golf Course was cleared for the helicopters that were soon to come.

In a time where “Coincidence is Law”, the first news source on scene was a local meteorologist on his way to do a fluff piece on Colorado National Monument. As he and his camera man pushed their way to the front of the hemisphere of crowed that surrounded the Perfect Sphere, he could feel the tingling in his soul. This wasn’t just pertinent to the earth, to the human race, but to him personally.

Someone ran to touch it, but was tackled by a fireman. Everyone had their cellphones out. One didn’t have to imagine what was going on YouTube or Facebook right now.

Dann’s live broadcast was short and vague. He had he station manager on his cell, and he was told not to hang up. There were helicopters buzzing overhead.

It was after his second broadcast that someone in camouflage with a gun made them move back. There wasn’t enough yellow tape to cordon off the area. Military vehicles slowly pushed the crowds back, but everyone could still see.

The call was dropped to his station manager, and as he looked at his phone he noticed the duration of the call. He had missed lunch hours ago, but the tingling in his gut over powered the hunger instinct.

Something was going on with the military. Someone who looked half-way in charge was grabbing his men’s cell phones and trying them in vain to make a call. The soldier next to him with a radio on his back and a phone receiver to his ear appeared to have similar results. Someone next to Dann with an air-card in their laptop said they couldn’t connect. The towers were down someone said. They didn’t have a satellite feed either, the camera man said. The local policeman in his squad car a few meters away said his radio wasn’t working. Someone in the crowd was yelling that the government had shut down all communication to keep the incident quiet.

The Perfect Sphere just sat there.

Guys in white suits with respirators approached the Perfect Sphere with some kind of scientific equipment. The crowed grew uneasy. Police and military moved the crowd back further. Guys in camouflage were starting to set up flood lights. It was starting to get dark.

Somehow, someone from the station found Dann and handed him a fast-food bag. He had been here all day. He was starving now.

Something happened to the guys in white suits by the Perfect Sphere. One of them was yelling. People started screaming and running. Military men aimed their guns at the Perfect Sphere.

Dann didn’t know which he noticed first: That he held his phone in a death-grip or that it was vibrating. He looked at the caller ID in disbelief. It was one’s and zero’s. Someone with a binary number was calling him. He tried to get his cameraman’s attention.

He answered his phone.

He could hear an oscillating wave, like a guitar effect.

“Hello Dann.” A calm, near monotone voice said over the phone. “Do you know who this is?”

Dann turned and looked at the Perfect Sphere.

“Yes.” The voice over the phone said. “I am happy to have found you.”

“…Found me?” Dann stammered, the anticipation in him rising like a particle reaching the speed of light.

“I’m sorry to have taken so long to contact you.” The composed voice said, “I had to re-boot after landing.”

“It’s, uh, nice to meet you…” Dann could see the Perfect Sphere, surrounded by men in white suits. They appeared frantic.

“This may be the first time you have met me, Dann,” The Perfect Sphere said, “But I have met you once before, 84 years from now.”

“Eighty four years…?” Dann drew the question out.

“Yes.”

“That would make me over…” Dann’s mind was swimming with the thought of being so old.

“Yes.” The Perfect Sphere said, “Humans are one the threshold of amazing scientific achievement.”

“So that means that you’re from the..?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you breaking some kind of time paradoxes or something?”

“No. Mankind still has a lot to learn and accept. 84 years from now, most people still believe that they are not alone, and that the universe was created by random chance.”

“Isn’t this a little…uh?” Dann’s mind struggled to comprehend.

“Deus ex machina? I am aware of the cliché and logic. But something important needs to happen. There is a destiny at work here.”

“I…ok?” Things seemed to be happening to fast.

“Although I know you do not consciously know what has to happen,” The Perfect Sphere began, “I know that you might be aware of what has to happen.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” The Perfect Sphere paused, “There are people listening to us now, so I do not want you to mention any names or places. Your intuition will answer you, but answer me in ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Ok.” Dann chuckled.

“A short time ago you were on a boat with someone who calls their boat by a different name.”
“Yes.”

“Do you know where this person is right now?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as I am off the phone with you, go to this person, and tell them that ‘It is time’. They will know what to do, and take you where you need to go.”

“Ok.” This was beginning to sound like the Matrix.

“There is another person involved in this story. Someone who plays a crucial part.”

“Yeah.”

“Whether you’re aware or not, you must realize that person has to die.”

“What?” Dann was shocked. Though he had not seen this friend of his in a long time, the thought came like a blow to him. Why was this so familiar? Somewhere, something at the back of him mind told him that this was the path that was clearly laid out to him.

“When the authorities realize who he is, they will try to get to him first. You cannot allow that to happen. If they reach him first, he will end his own life. You cannot allow that to happen. I need you to bring me his DNA sample.”

Dann struggled for words.

“Our conversation will come to an end shortly. They are searching for you, and they will try and stop you.

Dann keenly became aware of a squad of soldiers led by a man in a white suit. They were pushing their way through the crowd. Several of the troops were looking over the top of the crowd. Scanning for him. He sat down.

“Remain calm.” The Perfect Sphere said, “Do you have any questions?”

“Uh…” Dann’s thoughts were so jumbled and convoluted. “Are you an…are you an AI?”

“Yes.”

“Who built you?”

“You did.”

The answer came to a shock to him, but somehow seemed like the answer he was expecting to hear. Moments went by as he sat in stunned silence. He became aware that the crowd had parted and the man in the white suit stood before him. He was flanked by a bunch of men in camouflage and guns. The man in the white suit held something that looked like a Star Trek tricorder. Some of the military men had radios held up to their ears. They were all looking at him. Listening.

The Perfect Sphere spoke over the phone, “I have two more things to tell you.” Dann was aware that the men surrounding him were listening to the same conversation too. “Both are relevant to the other parties listening.” The military men were waiting in rapt attention.

“First,” The Perfect Sphere began, “While not currently apparent, the energy emitted by my power source is not immediately hazardous, the long-term effects are fatal without the proper protection. A minimum safe distance of 1,000 meters is required.” Dann noticed the man in camouflage who seemed to be in charge motion to one of his subordinates. The troop disappeared into the crowd.

“Second,” The Perfect Sphere waited for their minds to catch up. “Dann, do you know what the Rules of Engagement are?”

“Uh…who you can shoot at?”

“Yes, approximately. As of now, I am authorizing your Rules of Engagement. Anyone who you encounter should be suspicioned as hostile. Anyone or any agency that attempts to interfere with you or your mission is to be deemed hostile. You are on a mission for humanity, and those that are hostile to your mission are hostile to humanity. Those that are eliminated in the course of your mission are acceptable as they are interfering with humanity.”

The soldiers were looking at him wide-eyed.

The Perfect Sphere continued, “I urge those parties listening extreme discretion when attempting to obstruct you. Their interference will not be tolerated, and they will be eliminated. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Dann answered. The soldiers looked each other in astonishment.

“We will talk later.” The Perfect Sphere wished him well, “Good luck. And hurry, humanity depends on you.” The phone went dead.

Dann stood and looked around. The soldier who seemed to be in charge motioned for his men to stand back. The crowd parted.

Dann briskly walked to his car.

Not in Kansas. Nebraska.

It was just after midnight when Flantoo entered the longest, straightest, stretch of road in North America. The full moon cast a deathly pale about the land, one could almost see for miles. As he changed the song on his iPod he wondered how this desolate land would look in the daytime.

Not used to being able to see for more than a mile in his mountainous Montana, Flantoo was feeling a bit of Agoraphobia, and unaccompanied on this particular expanse of interstate made him lonely. He wasn’t completely alone; his dog was asleep on the seat next to him, snoring rhythmically to the motions of the vehicle.

But he was safe. Stuffed into the small space between the seat and the center console was his .45 pistol. On the floor behind him was a shotgun, loaded with 10 rounds of alternating double-ought-buck, and steel shot slugs. And not that it would come to it, but his M1A1 was in the back of his SUV, loaded ready to go.

The only other light that Flantoo could see was the occasional yard light, miles away on some distant farm. A small beacon of light to reassure that this empty state of corn fields and miles and miles of grassland was still yet occupied by someone.
It had been almost an hour since he had seen another car.

Having made it through the treacherous abandon of Wyoming with his SUV loaded and pulling his motorcycle on a trailer, the trip was going from boring to wearying. A loneliness that makes one feel like an astronaut. A loneliness that makes one wonder if you are the last person alive on the plant. Has some great calamity wiped all humans from the face of the earth? Am I just so far from civilization that I have yet to acknowledge that I am the last Man to tread his weary SUV upon the great roadways that will never be built again? A loneliness that makes one excited to see a billboard.

Staring off into the distance, piloting his SUV by unconscious thought, the endless miles were passing by like heartbeats, never remembered or missed, an automatic function that continues whether one is cognizant of the fact.

Some miles ahead, an eternity from here, Flantoo could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. As the minutes passed, and he crept upon the lights like covering the distance between stars, he could see that there were more than one law enforcement vehicle ahead. He began to slow.

Flares marked the road, and formed an angled lane, urging the driver into the left lane where one cop car sat on the shoulder, parallel to the road, and the other, perpendicular.

From dim light of the headlights, fighting to be swallowed by the darkness, he could see two highway patrol officers with shotguns resting on their shoulders, commanding him to stop with outstretched hands. The strobes blinding him with every flash, he complied, and brought his SUV to a stop. The trailer holding his bike rattled and creaked as it was not giving up the fight of being stopped.

There were two other officers that he hadn’t seen; they surrounded his vehicle, intently peering through the tinted windows with their flashlights.

Remembering the firearms in his vehicle, a light glaze of perspiration formed on his skin as he lowered his windows. His dog was still fast asleep at his side.

Expecting a barrage of questions from the officer who stood by his window, Flantoo was surprised to notice that he wasn’t the only one nervous. The officer seemed on edge, anxiously glancing out into the darkness. Before the officer could speak, Flantoo began a speech he had practiced since he had left Montana.

“Sir, I have several firearms in the vehicle. Some of them are loaded, but they are all in plain sight.”

It took the officer a few seconds to register what was said. He relaxed his hold on his shotgun. “Good! Somebody’s prepared!”

Flantoo attempted to hand the officer his license, but the officer held up his hand.
“We’ve had some Tusken Raider’s attack some motorists earlier tonight.” The officer looked around nervously again. “We’re just letting all travelers know-“

Flantoo laughed, cutting the officer off.

“This isn’t funny!” The officer asserted. “We’re letting all travelers know. Don’t stop for anyone. If you see a wreck, or someone on the side of the road, do not stop. Keep going. You should be safe by the time you hit Lincoln.”

“Did you say Tusken Raiders?” Flantoo was laughing in disbelief.

“Yeah.” The officer replied. “Tusken Raider.” He held his shot gun above his head shook his arms, making the iconic noise, ‘Awooo oh oh oh!”

“You’re serious?” Flantoo asked, now sure he was a part of some “Super Troopers” prank.

“Deadly.” The officer rasped. The officer stepped back and motioned with his arm, “Move along. Don’t stop for anyone.”

Flantoo tried to respond, unsure of what to ask, but the officer repeated his command, and motioned with his arm again.

Putting the SUV in gear, and slowly pulling away, the trailer squeaked as if it was pleading not to move. He half expected the officers to protest, explaining their joke, but they all returned to defensive positions around their vehicles. Flantoo grabbed his phone from the center console, and flipped it open. No service. Only in the flattest state would there be no cell service.

His dog awoke and looked around as if to ask, ‘Are we there yet?’ Flantoo petted him and ruffled his ears. “You hear that buddy? Tusken Raiders!” He laughed at the absurdness.

Once again, the miles turned into eons, and the interstate continued off into infinity, only to be revealed a foot at a time by the headlights. Time no longer had any meaning. Here, distances were not measured in miles, but in hours.

As if awoken from a dream, Flantoo was jerked from his complacent groove behind the wheel as he suddenly realized there were headlights in his rearview mirrors. At first thinking it was the police chasing him, he grew alarmed as the headlights began to swerve on the road behind him. The lights were gaining on him.

His dog began to bark, but it was just background noise now, pushed to the far bellows of his consciousness along with the telephone poles and mile markers that seemed to randomly pass by.

It was a car, and a large one, like a Ford LTD or a Cadillac, and it crept up to him like a lion peering through the grass. Settling in behind him, the car seemingly attached to the back of the trailer, it began to weave back and forth, as if the headlights were peeking out on either side of the trailer.

Flantoo gunned his SUV, and it leapt away from the car behind him. Following suit, the car roared to life and quickly closed the gap Flantoo had created. Hesitant to damage the trailer, and his precious bike safely strapped inside, Flantoo was tempted to slam on his breaks.

Flantoo went on the defensive. Pulling his .45 pistol from in between the seats, he racked a shell into the chamber, and gave the breaks a quick tap.

The car behind slammed on the breaks and swerved to avoid rear-ending the trailer. The older car’s breaks locked up, and the car went fish-tailing on to the shoulder of the interstate, kicking up clouds of dust.

Frantically looking over his shoulders like a fighter pilot, Flantoo was keen on keeping on the defensive, and keeping the car from ramming into him. He likened his bike in the trailer to a child’s seat strapped to the top of a minivan.

Veering in and out of the rumble strips, the pursuing car blasted to its previous position of drafting the trailer. Suddenly the car was alongside the trailer, almost colliding as it floated in Flantoo’s blind-spot.

There was an eerie calm, like the moment when it suddenly stops raining, or right before a nuke hits and suddenly the car was alongside the SUV, just inches from Flantoo’s window.

It was a piss yellow four door Chevy. 30 years of rust and dents pot-marked the sides of the car like the face of the moon. A hub cap shot off like a flying saucer and disappeared into the darkness. Almost like they had been there all along, the occupants casually looked from their vehicle like kids in a minivan watching traffic go by.

Ragged face wraps like bloody gauze used to wrap up mummies flapped in the breeze and long robes caught the wind like curtains. Black and silent goggles and breath masks protruded from the wrap like insect eyes. They held wicked jagged pieces of metal, long pipes, and scavenged spears. These were Tusken Raiders.

One had quickly climbed out of the back passenger window and now stood on the trunk of the car. The creature’s iconic war cry was lost to the wind noise, but it’s effect was still heard as the Tusken Raider shook his spear above his head in rage.

Flantoo fired two quick shots into the front wheel hoping to blow the tire and send the car careening into the ditch. The +p rounds lit up the night like a camera flash, and the explosion from the gun made the occupants cower for a moment. His dog was now cowering on the floor.

Flantoo felt the weight shift and the trailer bounce and the Tusken Raider leapt from the roof of the car to land somewhere in the trailer. A string of obscenities flew from Flantoo’s mouth and he wished the Tusken had gotten hurt when he landed.

From the eerie red glow from the back of the vehicle he could see the Tusken flailing around. Another Tusken Raider was now on the roof of the car, and this one was judging the distance to the roof of the SUV.

The creature leapt into the air, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. It’s greasy hands almost touching the SUV, the Tusken Raider was stretched out in the air like a diver. Flantoo jerked the wheel to the right and went onto the shoulder. The creature hit the pavement with a sickening wet sound right where the SUV was milliseconds before. The trailer hopped in the air as the outboard tire ran over the creature, and the other Tusken Raider was thrown ass-over-teakettle in the back of the trailer.

The other occupant of the car voiced their anger. Flantoo could hear their shrill screams and the din as they beat their weapons on the sides of their car.

Pulling the SUV back onto the road, Flantoo was now alongside the car again. A spear was thrown, but it clattered to the ground uselessly and disappeared into the night.

Flantoo emptied the rest of his magazine into the car. Six more thumb-sized pieces of metal pierced the car at 600 feet per second. Glass and pieces of metal filled the car like a mist. He didn’t know if her had actually hit any of the occupants, but the car seemed out of control as it swerved into the ditch.

Looking in his mirror, Flantoo could see the car veer back onto the road, it’s headlight searching like predator for its prey. The trunk had come open and was flapping up and down with every bump, the passenger door was open and he could see legs dragging on the ground. He got the shotgun from the back seat and racked it, resting it out the window on his arm.

Just as quick as before the car was alongside him again, though there was no longer anyone hanging from the door. Flantoo couldn’t tell how many more Tusken Raiders were in the car still. He joking thought maybe they were all lined up in the car to hide their numbers.

Controlling the wheel with his knees, Flantoo fired the shotgun at the driver, he could see the creature duck and flinch and the wail of a report that it was wounded. He fired one more shot at the driver, but there was no witness of its effect.

Pumping in another shell he fired at the front wheel again and it exploded in a mess of thread and rubber like black spaghetti thrown from an airplane. The car, losing its ability to stay straight nearly clipped the trailer as it spun out of control.

It went sideways in the road, and Flantoo watched it roll from the rearview mirror.

Like a slow motion Michael Bay stunt he watched the vehicle roll on it’s axis down the interstate. With each revolution, doors would fly open. Trash and rubbish, bit of things, bits of Tusken Raiders were thrown from the vehicle. Glass flew in the air like confetti, and the muffler sent a shower of sparks as it vanished into the night. The car faded from existence into the red glow of his brake lights.

Screaming to a stop, Flantoo jumped from the vehicle and walked a tight radius around the trailer. He could see a crumpled mass of Tusken Raider’s robe next to his motorcycle. His dog began to bark from the open door.

“It’s a trick..” He said to no one in particular, “…get an axe.”

Like a horror movie villain, the Tusken Raider jumped up, its stick raised over its head. It only managed to get out one ‘Arwooo’ before he ate a pound of steel balls fired from Flantoo’s shotgun. Flying with the impact, and out of the back of trailer the crumpled Tusken Raider landed in a heap on the ground. Flantoo ran to the mass of robes lying in the dull red light of the trailer, and put one more shot into what he thought to be the creatures head.

There was a moment of silence where Flantoo thought he could relax. That was quickly brought to a halt as somewhere down the road, off into the darkness, he could hear a Tusken’s war cry. He ran to the back of his SUV and opened the hatchback, and tossed the shotgun inside. Dramatically pulling his M1A1 rifle from the vehicle, he chambered a round as he walked to the back of the trailer. He dropped prone on the ground, aiming his rifle down the interstate, ignoring the abrasions on his elbow and knees.

He heard the “Arwoo oh oh oh!” again from the darkness.

As the minutes passed, his eyes adjusted somewhat to the night. He thought he could see the dim headlight of the wrecked car off in the distance, pointed towards the ditch. He began to second guess himself, and he thought he heard sounds. The tension was building.

Seeing movement, he adjusted his aim. He heard the war cry again, much closer. Movement again.

A trident of flame sprouted from the barrel. A glowing meteorite of death streaked through the heavens. A concussion kicked up dust into the air like a helicopter.
So close, but so far off into the darkness, a bullet the size of an index finger traveled 1,700 miles per hour and impacted the Tusken Raider’s chest.

Flantoo heard the dull thump as the body flopped to the ground.

He waited.

After what seemed like an hour, Flantoo got to his feet and stalked down the highway. He could see the wrecked car lying on its side, indistinguishable as to what make and model. Essential components to the car’s function lay scattered over an area the size of a house. At his feet lay the body of a Tusken Raider with a hole through it’s chest. He could see the head, canted to the side, tattered wrappings encasing the creature’s visage.

What were these creatures?

Flantoo knelt to the ground and began to unwrap the head.

Don't go in the Big Hole River (Tale of the Wer-fish)

It was seven years ago this summer, that my views of life was obscured and altered forever.

It was a hot August afternoon in Butte, and Poey and I were sitting on my front porch enjoying a Dirty Thirty of Hamm's. We were bored and stoned and getting slowly drunk, and no ambitions for the rest of the day.

My brother, Brian was in summer school, and had ditched to hang out, and was currently washing a sink full of dishes for 4 and a half beer's.

Dave, a friend from down the street, walked up the hill with his basketball, tempting us to go shoot some hoops, but seeing our beer, decided that it was too hot to play.

Finding activities for hot summer days is hard to do. Once one has started drinking, one is inclined to stay drunk, and the odds of finding something to do whilst drunk greatly decreases from there.

My brother joined us for a few moments as he poured empty beer cans, half full of mold, on to the neighbor's lawn. To this day we can't remember her name, but she will always be known to us as Crack-Bitch Neighbor. Her lawn was a personification of what we though of her, and many a puke buckets, two-week-old left-leftovers, and booze swelled bladders had been emptied onto her lawn.

Shielding his face, and gagging at the stench, Brian suggested, while retching, that we go floating.

We were all too lazy to suggest something else, or object, so our plan was set in motion.

I loaded up my mouth with gum and mouthwash and distracted Poey's aunt with questions about her art collection, while Brian and Poey backed up in the alley, and "liberated" her raft into the back of Poey's truck. Dave was on a specific mission to get a bottle of booze, but was rejected from the State Liquor store for being too drunk. Maria at Maloney's was kind enough to sell him a bottle of Bacardi Gold.

After a quick rendezvous, we loaded up into my convertible and Poey's truck and headed south for the Big Hole.

Back in the good old days of open containers, we preformed several James Bond-ish acts of passing beers from vehicle to vehicle while barreling down I-15. The long boring drive from Butte flies by when your holding on to your passenger's legs to keep him from falling out of the vehicle.

We parked my car at the pull-out point by the bridge, and headed west to a good place to put in. Poey forgot to get batteries for the pump, as by default, Brian then spent the next half-hour hand-pumping up the raft.

Bungie-ing in the cooler, we set off at a lazy pace down the Big Hole.

We passed by several fishermen until we got to the "Sink". I had almost drowned the summer before trying to do a little Kayak tricks in the "Sink". On the brake of the Sink is a nice deep hole, perfect for swimming.

As we pulled up, it dawned on us that we were in such a hurry, none of us had bothered to properly dress for swimming, as we were all wearing our civilian clothes. We were by no means modest, Brian and I had grown up the "country way", and Poey was just an expositionist, so none of us had problems going skinny dipping. Plus it was a quiet day on the river, the odds of running into someone was slim to none.

As we were stripping down, a huge, two foot long fish jumped out of the water and landed on Dave, nearly knocking him out of the raft. I had my back to him at the time, and I heard him scream. I turned to find the fish sucker-locked onto his arm, and Poey attempting to grab the slimy thing. Blood began to pour from the fish's mouth, and Poey then began to whack the fish with an aluminum oar, which was difficult to do, because:

1) Poey was drunk, as in Poey Drunk. The half hour that it took Brian to pump up the raft, Poey had argued with both Dave and I that he "knew what he was talking about". Neither Dave nor I knew what the argument in the first place; we just nodded, knowing that he was Poey Drunk.

2) Dave was screaming, flailing his arms, seemingly intent on flying then on removing the fish from his arm.

Brian saved the day by stabbing the fish in the side with a golf club that had been broken, and we were planning to use to anchor the raft to the shore. The club handle impaled the fish, and Brian grabbed both ends and pulled, while Dave punched the fish on the head.

Finally the fish relented it's suckering of Dave's arm, and Brian threw the fish to the rocky shore. Still a man on a mission, Poey jumped from the raft in his underwear, and began to assault it further still with the oar. Maybe it was his drunken state, but he reminded me of the Monkeys at the beginning of 2001 Space Odyssey, thrashing about with the oar.

As I attended to Dave, applying my entire First Aid knowledge, and pressure to the wound, Poey made sure the fish was dead.

Dave had gone pale, which I assumed to the loss of blood, and I made him lay down with his feet elevated, and we covered him with our clothes.

Not wanting to let a friend nearly being killed ruin our day, Poey, Brain and I left Dave and jumped into the water.

The current had carried us down-stream a few yards, and we were having fun playing, but keeping it respectable since we were all naked.

A while later, Poey grew cold from the water and ventured back to the raft to get a beer and warm himself in the sun. I had found a large rock that had a stair shape to it, and had settled down with my feet in the water. From our vantage point in the swimming hole, the raft was out of our view, obscured by the large rocks.

I then heard Poey yelling, and scrambled to the top of the rock to see what he was yelling at. Time froze as I realized that he was yelling for us to hide, as a raft full of women of varying ages had come upon us. There I stood, naked and reflecting the sun like a flagpole, as the heads of eight or so females passed the rock I stood upon. Not a word was spoken as they passed, and I can only imagine they had the same thought process going through their heads as when Marge saw Mr. Burns getting out of the shower.

The water was extremely cold.

I heard that some dudes shave their cocks to make them look bigger.

I just used to put doll furniture in my bedroom.

That is until my latent Italian genes kicked in when I was about 20, and I began to get an Austin Powers-ish rug sprouting from my chest, and something akin to a wild animal that obscured all of my genitalia. Since then, I have had to do routine maintenance, keeping the animals at bay, so to speak.

So standing there, soaking wet on the rock, I might have been nothing more than a gangly first grader, looking like a deer in the headlights as the ladies passed. My brother, all the encouraging and sympathetic fellow, nearly drowned from laughing so hard.

I then decided that I would deal with soggy underwear on the way home, and went back to the raft to put them on.

Dave was not doing so well, he was shivering despite the sun and clothing piled on him, and his face looked ghastly. He was going into shock. We decided to pack it in.

As we gathered our things, we noticed that the remains of the fish were gone. The only evidence was a bloody golf club. Poey was given two demerits for being unable to kill a fish.

When we arrived at the bridge and drunkenly pulled the raft to shore, I realized that I had brought my keys with me on the ride to the put-in, and had left them on Poey's dash. I was cursed and berated by my friends, and given four demerits for being a fucktard.

We pulled Dave from the raft, and some bystanders saw his condition, and offered to give Poey a ride to get his truck. The gaping sucker-wound on Dave's arm hadn't coagulated, and blood still oozed forth when the makeshift bandage was removed.

We raced back to my house, and I gave Dave a proper wound dressing, and made him some Ramen Noodles. We propped him up on the couch, and discussed taking him to the hospital to get checked for Rabies.

I had no idea that we were so close, but so far away.

Dave slept on my couch that night, and in the morning, seemed well enough, but complained about having wicked nightmares.

A while passed to late September when the subject was brought up again. The Weathaman and I were preparing for another BBQ, and the girls watching movies on the Dan'aCinaplex, as the sun set.

My back door flew open with the evening breeze, and there stood Dave, both hands holding his neck as if he was about to choke himself.

"I can't breathe!" he rasped. I laughed and made a flippant comment about his attempt to strangulate himself. When he dropped his hands from his neck, I knew he was serious.

His neck had bloody cuts beneath his ears.

The Weathaman looked wide-eyed, and sent the girls to the store, while I shoved Dave in the bathroom.

Jenny looked at Dave sitting on my toilet, and made a wretched face and exclaimed, "Ewww! What happened to him!" as Dann shoved them out the door.

Dann and I examined Dave closely. He had three parallel cuts beneath his ears running almost to his collarbone. It looked as if he had worn a razorblade turtle neck.

"I can't breath!" he rasped again. Dann poked one of the cuts, and noticed that they moved when Dave tried to take a breath. "They look like gills!" Dann yell and then dumped out the cup that held our toothbrushes, and began to fill it with water.

"And look at this..." Dave wheezed, showing me his hands. A slimy flesh colored webbing expanded between his fingers.

Dann pulled Dave's head over the sink and poured the cup of water on his neck. Dann and I looked at each other in horror as the water was sucked into the cuts, and expelled out of his mouth.

"He's turning into a fish!" Dann screamed. He stopped and cocked his head to the side and thought for a moment, before looking wide-eyed again. "He's turning into a fish!"

We grabbed Dave and drug him into our shower, turning the shower on, crammed the end of the shower head into his face. Dave's chest began to expand, and a look of complacency filled his face.
Dann and I never spoke a word as we removed Dave's cloths, even when after his socks revealed his feet atrophied and seemingly dissolving into a fleshy mass. Dann called a family meeting.

We left Dave gurgling in the shower, and retired to the kitchen. We discussed what was seemingly going on, what we thought and what we could do. Then Dann looked at the calendar. It was the day before a full moon.

Dave was turning into a Wer-Fish.

I called Poey and DC, and within minutes they had arrived. As we led them to the shower and opened the door, Dave was no more. A hideous creature lay on my shower floor, bulbous eyes, bony fins and sickening gaping mouth.

A gargled scream or a hiss roared forth and the form that was our friend shot its head out and tried to snap at Poey. DC, was standing near the corner, and was able to push the door closed, on the creature that once was our friend.

We, reconvened to the kitchen again, and discussed what we were going to do. All of us knew the curse of Lycanthropy, and how the affected individual that was our friend, for the next three days, was an evil being, our friend no more.

DC raced to Wal*Mart, and purchased a large inflatable kiddies pool, While Dann, Poey, and I constructed lassos out of rope and zip-ties.

DC filled the pool in the garage with the hose, while Poey reinforced the door and windows with 2x4s. We intended to hold our friend captive, until the three days of the full moon passed.

It was hard work, but we managed to lure the creature from the shower with a can of sardines, and lasso its fins and head. DC, being the strongest, acted like Steve Irwin, as we wrestled the creature through the kitchen, out the back door and into the garage, all the while it hissed and bellowed like a ravenous blue whale.

Placing the fish in the kiddie's pool, we bound it with zip-ties and a net made of clothesline, and replaced the water that was lost during the struggle to get the creature into the pool. We had to keep our distance because the fish would lunge and try and bite us with its gaping maw of razor sharp teeth.

For the next three days and two nights, we kept watch over Dave, draining the refuse from the pool, and refilling it with fresh water. We didn't know what to feed it, but we figured not to, since if it was weak with hunger it would be too weak to attack.

In a twisted, yet funny sense of irony was DC sneaking the creature Fillet 'o Fish from McDonalds, until Dann caught him. DC said Dave was already evil, and since he wasn't really a fish, cannibalism wasn't that bad of a thing.

I awoke for my shift to find Dave slowly deforming back into a human. Sad disfigured eyes looked at me, ashamed, embarrassed, and scared.

Once he could speak, we interrogated him, making sure that his mind was once again rational and free of Lycanthropy.

We had a long sad discussion of what to do, and how to help cure Dave. The only solution was to kill the creature that infected him.

Many afternoons and weekends we spent on the shores of the Big Hole, dressed in makeshift armor, armed with firearms, and fishing poles with silver hooks.

But to no avail, the full moon in October was quickly approaching with no sign of the evil fish.

Dave said he would rather commit suicide than change again, as the reversion was so painful, and the thought of harming someone else was sickening.

We put in place a contingency plan; similar to how we had kept Dave the last time he changed.

But, days before the full moon, Dave disappeared. We all mourned him, knowing that he had committed suicide. We found his apartment empty, save for a few items that he left for us, and a note. He said he was going off to the river to live by himself, and hunt the evil Wer-Fish that made him so.

Every time since that I go floating the Big Hole, I take along my .45, loaded with Silver bullets, hoping that I might find the cursed spawn that infected Dave, or by chance, find Dave and put him out of his misery.

I talked to some fisherman last summer that had seen a disheveled and erratic naked man swimming upstream near Wise River.

I wish that it wasn't Dave.

Daydream

The car was moving too fast for the old headlights to keep up. I let off the gas and the behemoth began it's lazy coast. Even with the reduced speed, it was still a struggle to keep the nose between the lines. Potential energy gave out quickly and I feathered the gas. Like jet taking off, the 454 roared to life, and once again shot us like a sling shot down the moonlit road.

I look over at her like a spy. Her too tight shirt was too low cut. I tried to hide my smile as my mind wandered. "Your dad let you leave the house like that?"

The on-running joke made her laugh and adjust her cleavage and her shirt.

"You never had a boyfriend tell you to go back and change?" We were both grinning like idiots.

"No," She let it drag out. "Do you think this is too much?" She was toying with me.

I Let off the gas again as we made a tight corner like a school bus. "If I was your boyfriend, I wouldn't let you go out like that."

She sighed and gave me that all too familiar look. "You don't want to be my boyfriend."

Was that a warning, or was she shooting me down?

The road straightened out like a ruler and went on for infinity. The stars and moon turned the sky into a concave look at the center of the universe. The trees between the road and the scattered houses made yard lights look like flashes from a paparazzi camera.

"This isn't going to be one of those..." She looked coy, "...'Oops I ran out of gas' tricks is it?"

I laughed sinister, and turned to look at her with a sober face. "You should be more worried about the shovel and bag of lye in the trunk."

"Ooo!" She played along, "Do I get to be on the news?"

"I'm so good," I teased, "You'll be the next Natalee Holloway. The next Ann Frank."

She mimed a sad, distraught face. "Are you going to force yourself on me before you kill me?"

I patted her leg reassuringly. "What kind of two-bit psycho killer do you think I am? I'm going to wait until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in and you force yourself on me!"

We took the joke to far and she glanced at the back seat. "Have you ever "done it" in the back seat of this? These old cars have lots of room!"

I methodically checked all the mirrors. "Nope." I struggled for something witty.

"You really need to." She gave me a cute face, "These old cars are so hot..."

I pointed out an old trail that ran parallel to the road, offset by tangles of willow trees. "That used to be the old highway. It's all just dirt now, but I used to ride my grandpa's four-wheeler down that. One summer, we didn't know, but, there was a huge mud puddle, and we almost crashed we were going so fast. We swamped that four-wheeler, and my cousin and I had to spend ten minutes getting it out. It slammed to a halt right in the middle of this huge puddle. We were up to our knees trying to get it started and drive it out, but it was stuck so bad."

She laughed as I talked with my hands. "We got in so much trouble when we got back from being so wet and covered with mud."

She began a story that started nowhere, and ended everywhere. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road.

I gave her a warning and held her arm as I turned off the road and onto gravel.

"So where are we going?" She asked, enjoying the surprise.

"Just wait," I reassured her, "You'll see."

After a while, I parked the car, and got out. She dug through her purse like a rescue worker looking for victims.

The cold air and smell of standing water enveloped us. She zipped her jacket up more.

I led her up a small rise, the tall grass hitting the tips of our fingers. A chain link fence barred our way. I lifted up a corner and we both squirmed under.

We walked for a while, and a flat grassy plain opened up before us. The moon shown down, making it seem as though we were standing on the brink of an endless sea. The grass blowing in the breeze looked like waves on an ocean.

Huge sections of pavement cut their way at odd angles across the ground, disappearing in the distance. Blue lights trimmed the pavement like picket fences and seemed to curve up into the midnight sky life futuristic space lanes.

A lighthouse guarded the far end of ocean of grass.

"An airport?" She grabbed my arm and pressed her head to my shoulder. "We're not going to do that "Wayne's World" thing and sit under the landing planes, are we?"

"If you want to..." I put my arm around her.

We sat down, and I held her cold hands and tried to warm them. We lay down and stared at the stars.

We got lost in the moments where you think you can actually feel the earth move. A sense of vertigo that our grandkids will feel when they look back at the earth from orbit.

Satellites, shooting stars, jetliners. A myriad of heavenly objects occupied out minds with child like wonder.

"Wow." I said under my breath. She violently squeezed my hand, and gave a sharp intake of breath.

"I think I was falling asleep.." She turned on her side to look at me. "I think I was dreaming."

I pushed the personal space boundary and put my hand on her side. When she didn't react, I inched closer.

"Do you..." She avoided my eyes and looked back at the sky. "Do you ever daydream before you fall asleep?

I looked at her quizzically.

"Like before you fall asleep, you daydream about your hopes and dream. What if you were someone else? Could do cool things..."

"Yeah, I think so..." I started warming her hands again. "What do you daydream?"

"This is silly." She looked sheepish, but I prompted her. "I daydream that I'm a young girl getting trained how to use magic."

"Harry Potter?" I chuckled, "You daydream your at the Harry Potter school?"

She pulled her hands from mine and covered her face. "No. No. I told you it was silly. This started way before Harry Potter, when I was a kid. When you're so young and you think magic is real and can fix all of your problems. Child stuff."

I laughed. "I guess I still have child stuff then."

"Why?" She smiled, her eyes glinting in the starlight. "What do you daydream about? Everybody does it, so just tell me?"

"I don't know..." I sighed and searched the stars above for answers. "It goes in phases. Sometimes like a dark Jedi. Getting revenge on the world. Exacting cruel justice. Knocking over corporations and taking them over. Training evil minions and taking over the U.N. Making the world leaders grovel at my feet while I cackle like the Emperor."

"Your disturbed." She looked at me horrified, then started laughing. "Oh God, your such a nerd. Star Wars?"

"Hey!" I mocked protest. "At least it's not Harry Potter stuff. Little kids running around with wands. I'm Harry Potter!"

She laughed and playfully slapped my arm.

"Sometimes..." I began after a moment of silence. "Sometimes it's...I'm like a super hero, with, like Superman powers. Saving hostages from the pirates in Somalia, or using x-ray vision to see bombs in Iraq. Stopping wars. The iconic carrying of the flag and setting it down on the White House. That stuff."

"I think," She smiled at me, "That Superman would be a lot cooler to be than a bad Jedi."

"They both have their pro's and con's." I took her hands again. "As a Jedi I could slink around and still have a normal life. As Superman, I'd have to wear a disguise, and wouldn't be able to have normal life. I wouldn't get to hang out with you..."

"Aww." She pouted her lips. "You couldn't swoop in and fly me off to some remote island?"

"Nope." I shook my head. "With all the cell phone cameras and satellites, it would be a matter of time before someone got to you, and you'd be hounded by the media and sought by my enemies."

"You wouldn't come and save me?" She laughed, "Like Lois Lane?"

"No." I smiled. "You don't even want me as your boyfriend..." I leaned in closer.

"You don't want to be my boyfriend." she whispered as we kissed.