Dimorphic

by Cy Wyss

on Tour Jan 25, 2016 - Feb 29, 2016

It would be unfair to blame that crazy year on Batman. Yet who can say how much my love for the Dark Knight was responsible for the whole murderous mess? At the very least, I blame DC Comics for my lifelong hero complex and fanatic ability to take random violence personally. “Why is it,” I would ask, “people are so freaked out by the news, but no one does anything about it?”

My twin brother, Ethan, would answer, “We are doing something about it. We live our lives and make sure those stories aren’t written about us.”

He grew up into a wiry beast of a man, while I grew up into a buxom klutz of a woman. How fair is that?

Troughout our youth, Ethan gallivanted around Atlanta, branding its towering facades with fantastic graffiti. He was a wisp of smoke dissipating in the night air, leaving behind a spray of hieroglyphic taunts. I, on the other hand, spent life in a tent in our backyard nibbling cheese puffs and devouring the Justice League’s latest escapades by an upended flashlight. By twenty-three Ethan was big in the XGames and had scored a lucrative sponsorship for professional daredevilry. I, on the other hand, had dropped out of law school a week before graduating to join the police academy, from which I was ejected a mere two weeks later due to irreconcilable clumsiness and an unfortunate inability to defer to authority. It didn’t matter. If I couldn’t be a police officer, then I’d be a bounty hunter. Or a private detective. Or a fireman. I would be something heroic, even if it killed me—reality be damned.

But reality had other ideas. I like to believe the forces of the universe give as much as they take. Unfortunately they also take as much as they give, so if you are going to receive a vast and powerful boon, you have to suffer in equal measure first. Like Batman, whose parents were gunned down before his eyes.

October descended, and the worst happened. In global events, $500 million of U.S. sky supremacy suddenly and rudely vanished over Afghanistan; in regional events, Atlanta underwent a freak drought, which was promptly declared apocalyptic; and, in personal events, my beloved twin died a prosaic death. It wasn’t a hero’s demise. He simply miscalculated on his motocross. By the time they airlifted him to Brennan Memorial’s trauma center, his cerebral cortex was lifeless.

A day later, on October 31 at exactly 17:33, Ethan was declared brain-dead by the presiding neurologist. I was there. I sat in an armchair next to Ethan’s bed and stared at his spiritless body. It didn’t seem real. I watched his stomach rise and fall as artificial breath filled his muscular chest. Inside, his organs hummed right along, unaware they no longer constituted life.

* * *

I coughed and choked, struggling to sit up. I only managed to hang my head off the side of the bed. It wasn’t [my] bed. Where am I? I wondered. The flashing red light was back. I squinted at it. It was a respirator, warning me of some kind of connection problem. Below me, the face mask sat in a puddle of sour-smelling bile on the floor. I could see how that might constitute a connection problem.

I looked around. I was in a hospital room, at night. Rain splattered against the windows. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and panic twisted in my chest. It wasn’t my hand. It was too broad, and there was hair on it. I clapped those foreign hands to my face. Someone else’s stubbly jaw pulsed under my touch.

I rolled out of the bed onto unfamiliar legs. In front of me was a sink in a small alcove, illuminated with a dim night-light. Water. I would wake up if I got water. I staggered toward the sink. I whacked my knee on an armchair and stumbled over big feet. Nothing seemed to be where it was supposed to be. When I made it to the sink, I slammed my forehead into the squat mirror above the faucet on my way down to the running water. I drank voraciously, right from the tap. I shoved my head into the sink and let the water run over me. Some water got up my nose, and I sneezed and had to back off, sputtering and rubbing my face.

When my hands parted, I saw the face staring back at me from the mirror. It was my face. Or, at least, as close as possible—for someone of the opposite sex. A more prominent brow, a more angular chin beneath the shadow, darker shades of blue eyes and brown hair. . .

I was Ethan.

My eyes rolled back in my head and my knees buckled as I fainted.

The Zombie Game

by Glenn Shepard

on Tour Jan 18 - Feb 28

The Streets of Port-au-Prince, Haiti

June, 2014

10:01 p.m.

JAKJAK, THE CHAUFFEUR, PEERED through the windshield of the black Mercedes sedan, looking for danger. Haiti could be a bad place after dark. Killings, kidnappings, and armed robbery were common. Police protection was almost nonexistent in Port-au-Prince. Not only was Jakjak a driver, but he was also his employer’s bodyguard.

It had been more than four years since the terrible earthquake had destroyed the country, but massive piles of rubble remained. Jakjak dodged broken stones that had spilled onto the road from the high rows of demolished cement blocks lining the streets, and then suddenly a black cat jumped out in front of the Mercedes.

Jakjak stomped on the brakes but heard the thump of the animal striking the bottom of the car. Slamming to a halt, he looked back to see the dead cat lying in the middle of the road. His heart beat faster and he began to sweat. His mother had warned him of this. She was a Mambo, a Vodoun priestess with strong powers. According to Jakjak’s religion—Petro Vodou—the spirit embodied in black cats, Iwa, grew angry and vindictive to those who brought him harm.

Jakjak felt through his black suit coat to reassure himself that his .45 was in the holster strapped to his chest. He was a young thirty-eight, muscular from his daily workouts with heavy weights, and imposing at six-foot-two and 220 pounds.

But killing the cat had made his large hands shake.

Jakjak turned to the three men in the back seat. “Mal se nan lé a. Evil is in the air. We must turn back.”

Julien Duran answered, “No, Jakjak. Drive on.”

“Please, sir. Listen to me. No good will come of tonight’s meeting. I feel the spirit of the cat on me. We have angered him.”

Duran cleared his throat. At forty-eight, Duran was tall and thin, with prematurely gray hair. He wore a white suit, white tie with a diamond stickpin, and a heavily starched white shirt with gold cuff links and mother-of-pearl inlays. Jakjak had worked for him for twenty years, since Duran had returned from his economics studies at Yale, and law school at the University of Virginia. After only two years in a prestigious law firm in Port-au-Prince, Duran had been offered a government job as Assistant Minister of Finance, where his work gained him frequent promotions. In 2010, after the quake, he reached the top. He was made Minister of Finance.

Duran, sitting in the back of the Mercedes between his two assistant ministers, leaned toward his driver and said, “Jakjak, I respect your beliefs, but regardless of what your intuition tells you, I must go to this meeting. Charles Roche is a billionaire. I can’t keep him waiting.”

“Men lé a. But the hour ... Hooligans now rule the streets at night. The spirits say we are in danger.”

Duran folded his arms as he sat back. “Tonight, Roche is choosing between giving financial aid to Haiti or Chile for earthquake damages. I don’t want Chile to be the one to take his money.”

A few minutes later, the Mercedes cruised past the once opulent building of the Ministry of Finance. The white columns and mahogany doors had all been bulldozed after the great building had stood for months as an uninhabited ghost structure. The marble and white cement that was once a palace now lay in ruins.

Jakjak continued a short way and then parked in front of the temporary housing units that were still used from time to time as offices for the Ministry. Piles of debris covered most of the parking spaces, so Jakjak was forced to park the Mercedes a good distance away. In the aftermath of the quake, the Minister and his two assistants were used to this kind of thing. Jakjak got out, briskly opened the car doors for his passengers, and then he escorted Duran and his two assistants to the office.

The visiting group consisted of three officials and two bodyguards. They were waiting at the door of the main temporary building. Jakjak unlocked it and ushered them in.

One of the bodyguards saw Jakjak’s .45 bulging against his coat and stopped him at the door. “No guns.”

Jakjak placed his hand over his gun. “Non, Mesye. I won’t give up my gun.”

“Then no meeting.”

Duran went to Jakjak’s side. “Check these men for weapons and then wait outside.”

The five visitors raised their hands as Jakjak patted them down.

Jakjak turned to Duran. “I cannot leave you.”

“I’ll be fine. Stay in the car. I’ll be out shortly.”

As the other men made their way to the conference room, Jakjak returned to the Mercedes. But his hands began to shake. He closed his eyes. He saw the cat’s eyes; they were in the face of the devil.

The introductions were brief. The central figure was a lawyer Duran had known for years, Virgil Baccus. Baccus was the attorney for billionaire Charles Roche. He was a portly man who practiced law in St. John and often worked with foreign clients. After shaking Duran’s hand, Baccus took his seat. Duran’s heart beat fast as he thought about Baccus. He had a reputation for representing men who created their wealth by embezzling corporate funds.

To Baccus’ right was a six-foot, muscular man dressed in black; to his left was another tall, muscular man, also dressed in a black suit. The two bodyguards stood by the door. Duran recognized all the men as being from St. John and St. Croix.

Baccus spoke up immediately. “Well, I have good news. Mr. Roche has already decided to give his money to your country. I bring a check from him for five hundred million dollars.”

Baccus removed a check from an envelope and handed it to Duran.

Duran looked at the check and smiled. At the conference table were his assistants, Antoine Gabriel and Hugon Cheval. Both were small and thin. Gabriel wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Both men were dressed in black suits and black ties.

Duran showed the check to Gabriel and Cheval. Both smiled and nodded their heads in appreciation.

Duran turned to Baccus. “Please extend my sincere thanks to Mr. Roche. This will be incredibly helpful in rebuilding Haiti.”

“Indeed.” As they stood and shook hands, Baccus said, “Mr. Roche would appreciate the check being deposited right away so we can begin to allot money for building projects here on your island.”

Duran withdrew his hand. “We?”

“Yes. My client of course expects to have a say in the distribution of his generous gift.”

Baccus handed a ten-page contract to Duran.

Duran put on reading glasses and spread the papers in front of his men. His smile turned to a frown. Cheval pointed to an item on page one and shook his head. Gabriel pointed to two lines and then a third. Duran put his finger on a paragraph on another page. The three men raised their heads and locked eyes with Baccus.

Duran, looking over his glasses, asked, “Is this some sort of joke? You’re proposing we have your client serve on the board, my board, and have veto powers over everything, including my authority?”

“That seems only fair. My client has good insights into the needs of your country. He pledges to restore Haiti to an even better state than it was before the quake. But he must be in charge of the relief effort.”

“We’ll gladly accept his money, but I’ll never agree to turning over control of the funds to outsiders,” Duran said.

“You have twenty-four hours to sign these papers, or else we will withdraw all our funds.”

“We don’t need more time. My associates and I are in agreement. The answer is no. This meeting is over.”

The two bodyguards moved quickly from the door, just as Baccus broke open his briefcase. Passing by, single file, the guards reached in and removed two, tiny, .22-caliber pistols, each fitted with a silencer as hefty as a beer can.

Baccus spoke. “That is unfortunate. However, there is still time to change your vote to our favor.” He looked coldly at Duran’s assistants. “Mr. Gabriel?”

Gabriel trembled as one of the guards raised his custom-fitted gun to the terrified man’s head.

But Gabriel’s answer was firm. “No.”

Author Bio:

Glenn Shepard’s first novel, Surge, was written while he was still a surgical resident at Vanderbilt. In the following years he wrote The Hart Virus, a one-thousand-page epic about the AIDS crisis, as well as three other novels. In 2012, he created “Dr. Scott James,” his Fugitive-like action-hero, and began publishing a series. The first volume of the Dr. Scott James series was The Missile Game, followed shortly afterward by The Zombie Game. The third of the series, The Ebola Game, is due out in December, 2015. Though the books contain many of the same characters, they don’t have to be read in order. Each can be read as a stand-alone.

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Cold Revenge

by Jo A Hiestand

August 4 Book Blast

He brought the photo closer so he could stare at the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, a brunette with hazel eyes that looked amusingly at the photographer. She came up to her husband’s chin. The husband was a graying brunet and while her son had inherited her eye color, he was blond. McLaren had no time to comment on this.

Linnet said, “The others…” She leaned forward, her left arm bent and supporting her, and tapped each photo as she mentioned their names. “The group shot is Marta, her boss, and the vet for the shelter. This…” She skipped over the others in the photograph and pointed to the woman to the extreme left. “That’s Verity Dwyer.”

“The wrongly suspected coworker.” The woman in the photo had auburn hair that shone in the sunlight; her blue eyes smiled at him. Linnet nodded. “Yes. Suspected of killing Marta, though that wasn’t proved. But she was convicted of stealing money from the shelter. She’s three months into her sentence. She was… Oh, it’s extremely involved.”

“I’ve got more time than money. Tell me.”