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Emerging Authors Archive
Breaking Pavement by Amy Weiner, May 1999
They sat in a greasy, red booth. Flaking formica tables crowded the room; faded movie posters clung to the walls. Andrea recognized Audrey Hepburn adjusting Bogart's homburg in Sabrina, Marilyn Monroe's skirt billowing in The Seven Year Itch, James Dean astride his Harley in Rebel Without A Cause, noting that some posters were much more shabby than others. Years of handling had worn away most of the pattern on the cheap steel cutlery, which was hardly as stainless as it proclaimed.
In his teens, when he was in his devopmental stage, he noticed that he was growing hair on his palms. Not a whole lot, mind you, but enough to make him worry. Luckily, since strange things happen at that age, no one thought twice about it.
A moment passed as he figured out there was nothing on the other end of the line but a dial tone. He turned around, and I could see from his initial expression he was surprised to see me so soon, and was definitely not happy about it. Must have been arranging to have me killed, I had thought at the time. As I usually am, I was right.
Reluctantly, as if favouring the lesser of two evils, the shadowy figures shuffled to the side. By pointing his torch at strategic parts of the vehicle, Jack was able to come up with the following picture:
It looked vaguely like a sort of evolutionary descendant of his rusting Oldsmobile, but with add-ons, such as an intricate network of wires, cables and components at the rear, an odd piece of equipment on the bonnet wired to some hook-shaped objects on the roof and sides, and a lack of back seats. Apart from that, it looked exactly like a car of some description, except -
"Where are the wheels?" said Jack.
The silence this time was a little more anxious.
I really am losing my faith in British transport. OK, it was hardly the airline company’s fault that a meteorite tore one of the wings off, but they really should be more prepared for that kind of thing. I’m sure I speak for the rest of my passengers when I say how embarrassed we were when we flopped undaintily onto the Atlantic Ocean, which would have been acceptable had we not sunk like a stone.
Nightfall was a bad time. The trees would even shiver from their branches down to their roots, at the thought of it. Every flower closed its beautiful face in horror, as the sun kissed the horizon once before it final surrender of warmth. The very moon trembled in its perch; watching the ground with the same dread as everything else.
I tried to talk, to speak to the bats, but my mouth only made a screeching noise. The bats seemed to respond to my screeches. A bat flew up to my side, looked me in the eyes, and screeched. Except it wasn't just a screech, but words. Or they seemed like words, because the single screech became immediately understandable.
The crowd had moved ahead. Only the receeding voices could be heard now, and they too died after a few seconds. It was hauntingly silent again. Basha fastened his fly and the threesome started towards the gate. "You see that huge tamarind tree, just outside the gate?" Basha pointed to the huge tree standing monstrously over the gate.
"What about it?" the fat man mumbled, fear accentuating his words.
"Well, this is where people 'inhabited' by ghosts are treated. You know, they cut the ghost-occupied guy's hair and they nail it to the tree. The ghost is nailed to the tree, see my point?"
"If you don't shut up now, I am gonna nail your you know what to the tree," the fat guy warned Basha.
“We have targets coming in at 3 o’clock.”
“What’s the distance, Petey?”
“Twenty meters and closing, Rob.”
“Ten meters and closing.”
“Prepare to fire.”
It's black all around me. Like a never-ending night. A night without stars or moon. There is no sky, no clouds. Nothing. Just black all around. Black and black and black. It never changes. No variation. Nothing. No break from the mediocre black. Just the darkness. That's all there's ever been. I know there has to be something more, but I've never seen it.
The whole business was bizarre. I found it astounding, really. I’ve seen many murders in my career, but the boldness and audacity of this particular killer was unparalleled. Why would anyone want to go through the trouble of killing the lead singer of a band that was going nowhere, in the middle of a performance? The sheriff was ready to lead me through the specifics of the crime scene, as I waited and sipped hot tea. Hot tea with just a dash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar is the best way to relax when you feel stressed. And man, was I feeling stressed.
The police car turned right onto the street, and Dakota followed suit. Dakota Waters was simply driving around without too much of a destination in mind, and had seen a police car. With time to kill and nothing better to do but waste gas, Dakota had decided to follow the patrol car around and see where it went. It was one of those things Dakota always wondered. If you pick a car and follow it forever, where will it lead you? With no where to be, this was a question Dakota chose to put to rest immediately. He had already followed the law man through a series of twists and turns, and the whole experiment had Dakota’s interest piqued.
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