Sweat. Paddle. Propelling forward through the thin, rusty river.
How much loss can a man take?
He paddles on one side, then the other, determined to find his son.
Sweat. Muscles screaming.
We’ll talk. About where I come from. What he means to me. We’ll talk, father and son, and we’ll fish and canoe together. I won’t be afraid to share my pain with him. He’ll understand. We’ll be friends. We’ll be together. We will survive.
I will not lose you.
A wooden flute. Voices through the trees. Tab feels eyes all around, piercing his skin. He sees torch-light in the distance.
Murmuring. Whispers. His paddling has no effect on the canoe. It slows. Drifts.
Altar. On the river. The cold, rusty river.
The canoe turns toward shore.
Chanting. The sound of the flute close by. Figures in black robes appear and pull the canoe onto gravel. The gravel scrapes the aluminum hull like bony fingers.
“Where is my son?” Tab asks, his voice unable to conceal his fear.
Pale arms appear from beneath the black robes and lift him from the canoe. He struggles, but has little strength left. They carry him to an altar made from rough planks of knotted pine and lay him on his back.
“Stop this,” Tab says. “I just want my son.”
They secure his wrists and ankles to the altar with copper wire. Stuff a rag in his mouth.
The chanting intensifies. Tab grows dizzy. This can’t be real.
A figure leans over Tab and pulls back a deep, black hood.
Carl.
He pulls the rag out of his father’s mouth.
“Carl,” Tab whispers. “You don’t have to do this. Please. I have so much to tell you. So much you need to know.” He’ll tell him of Cambodia, of the Mekong, the family who died there. He’ll show Tab the bullet wounds on his back and shoulder. Then he’ll understand. He’ll see how much his father loves him.
“We can survive this,” Tab whispers. “You and me.” He smiles encouragement at his son. Nods. “We’ll survive.”
Carl blinks. Slowly stands. He pulls the hood back over his head, his face disappearing in shadow.
“I don’t want to survive, Father.” He steps back. “I want to belong.” He lifts an axe high into the air. “I want to belong.”
Joel Arnold's writing has appeared in dozens of publications, with work accepted by venues ranging from Weird Tales and Nodin Press' Resort to Murder anthology, to Amercian Road Magazine and Cemetery Dance's Shivers VII anthology. Many of his short stories are available as free podcasts at Pseudopod.org, and all of his short story collections have been made available for ereaders. His horror novel Northwoods Deep is available in both print and electronic form. Check out his blog at http://authorjoelarnold.blogspot.com.
DESTINATION
by Benjamin X. Wretlind
The ship swam through space, oblivious to the emptiness or the immeasurable cold that created crystalline patterns on its hull. It silently slid among the stars, between the planets, occasionally coming into contact with a stray comet or asteroid and ignoring their existence.
Inside, the atmosphere was cold, but not so immeasurable that the thermostat didn’t register. Twenty-two degrees, and that was with the heating system working nonstop.
Norahc stood at the entrance to the holding bay, his fingers poised above the numbers. He lightly touched the keypad in sequence—five numbers that meant nothing, but ushered in a world of feeling.
He’d been here before…
…behind the door…
…accepting the pain unlike all the others that fought against their circumstances.
The lights above the keypad turned red. The door slid open, like a flower in spring, asking for the life-giving rain but accepting the pesky insect just the same.
The corridor in front of Norahc was lined with stasis tubes. The liquid inside glowed green, more an indication of health and wellness than an indication of operability. He methodically walked past each tube and tried his best to keep his eyes forward, away from their faces.
They were all afraid, and despite their confines and their closed eyes, he knew they waited for signs of life on the other side of the glass.
He knew what it felt like…
….behind the glass…
…accepting the loneliness and isolation that deep space offered.
Norahc stopped at the end of a row of fifty bodies, their naked, pathetic physical forms held constant in a horrific state of unrest. He’d come to ask a favor of the last—and most recent—of the travelers.
He’d come to ask for Reprieve.
The release mechanism was more secure than the door. A glowing pad registered fingerprints, a touchpad accepted his identification numbers, and a laser pointed toward his eye agreed with his last retina scan.
All of this, at least to someone so accustomed to the security, was mindless—an action performed without thought. Norahc punched in his identification, slapped his palm on the pad, and stuck his eye up to the lens. It was too routine, too comfortable, too easy to release one of the passengers.
Anyone with half a brain could do it.
Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t want to do it.
The water in the stasis tube quickly withdrew with a sick sucking sound that reverberated through the holding area. The body inside collapsed into the glass in front of him. Within seconds, his eyes opened and the Panic began.
The Panic was something Norahc expected, and again he was glad the glass was thick enough to keep the body behind it at bay. The man inside screamed and pounded, kicked and screamed some more.
Norahc sat back and waited.
They had waited for him, once. When the Awakening begins and the Panic sets in, it’s only natural to expect the worst but wait for the best. Father said the best never comes.
It didn’t take long.
The body relaxed. The man rubbed his eyes and looked up at Norahc. His expression was less than excited, but more than nonexistent. It was, in fact, just an expression. Eyes held open, nose not flared, mouth in a state of relaxation.
No words needed to be spoken.
The man behind the glass weakly raised a finger and pointed to the door lock. Norahc held his hand over the pad one more time and waited for the green light to turn red.
Norahc was more than happy to have Reprieve. At least someone in charge was thinking clearly.
“Sleep well?” Norahc said as he studied his passenger.
“Not really, but what can you expect?”
“What’s your name?”
“Don’t you have that on some manifest someplace?” The passenger squirmed in his seat and sipped on a cup of coffee.
“Reginald Bruce Haywood.” Narohc sighed. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Bruce, please. What else does it say?”
“Thirty-two years old. Cleveland native.”
“Actually it’s Maple Heights, but close enough.”
Norahc smiled. They were always so cocky when they were released. It was almost like they expected to be treated differently just because they weren’t in stasis anymore.
Arrogance was something he knew all too well, especially during Interview.
“Manifest says you killed a few people. Do you want to tell me about it?”
Bruce smiled and set his coffee cup down on the counter. The Interview room was small, but not so isolated that the outside world was nonexistent. In fact, the walls were glass, the windows nothing more than perforations.