There Is No Wheel
Page 1
Copyright © 2011 James Maxey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The author welcomes all comments and may be contacted via email at nobodynovelwriter@yahoo.com
Smashwords Edition 2015
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“A Junkie to the Max” copyright © 2011 Edmund R. Schubert; used by permission
“Empire of Dreams and Miracles” originally published in Empire of Dreams and Miracles: The Phobos Science Fiction Anthology (v. 1—Sept. 2002) edited by Orson Scott Card and Keith Olexa
“Perhaps the Snail” originally published in The Urban Bizarre anthology January 2004 edited by Nick Mamatas
“Pentacle on His Forehead, Lizard on His Breath” originally published in Modern Magic anthology August 2005 edited by W. H. Horner
“To the East, a Bright Star” originally published in Asimov’s December 2005
“Final Flight of the Blue Bee” originally published in Asimov’s April/May 2006
“To Know All Things That Are In the Earth” originally published in Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show January 2007
“Silent as Dust” originally published in Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show January 2008
“Echo of the Eye” originally published in The Blotter April 2009
“Return to Sender” originally published in Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show January 2010
“Where Their Worm Dieth Not” originally published in Masked anthology July 2010 edited by Lou Anders
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The name “E-QUALITY PRESS” and the colophon,
consisting of an open book with power cord
and the letters "EQP",
are trademarks of E-QUALITY PRESS.
For Cheryl Morgan
There may not be a wheel, but there is most certainly a ring.
CONTENTS
Introduction: A Junkie to the Max by Ed Schubert
To The East, A Bright Star
Silent As Dust
Final Flight of the Blue Bee
Empire Of Dreams And Miracles
Return to Sender
Pentacle On His Forehead, Lizard On His Breath
To Know All Things That Are In The Earth
Echo of the Eye
Where Their Worm Dieth Not
Perhaps the Snail
Notes and Acknowledgments
Introduction
A Junkie to the Max
I’ve been a huge, vocal fan of James Maxey’s stories for a long time now. If you’ve been to any science fiction convention where I’ve spoken on panels, you’ve inevitably heard me talk about James’s work and how much I admire it. Heck, three of the stories in this collection I bought and published in Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, and my only complaint is that I didn’t get first look at more of them.
One of these stories (“Silent As Dust”) I got to read an early draft of (somewhat by accident), and when I asked James about its status, he informed me that it was already submitted to another publication. However, he graciously added that if they rejected it, I would be next on the list of places to send it to. This caused a small black hole of despair to open up in my stomach because it was a brilliant story and there was no way any editor in their right mind would reject it. I really wanted it for IGMS and I wasn’t going to get it.
Imagine my surprise when the story showed up in my email a few weeks later. You can also imagine my total lack of surprise when, after appearing in IGMS, “Silent As Dust” ended up reprinted in one the Year’s Best anthologies the following year. The only thing I can say in that other editor’s defense is that sometimes a story just isn’t right for a particular publication. There are certain stories in this collection that I couldn’t have bought for IGMS because of our PG-13 guidelines. One thing about James: he pushes boundaries, and he pushes them hard.
That’s one of the things I like about James’s stories though; he’s not afraid to push, to delve, to explore dark territory. And he doesn’t pursue shock value for its own sake; he simply has an insatiable fascination with flawed characters. Actually, “flawed” doesn’t begin to scratch the surface. More like seriously, tragically, deeply, mesmerizingly, painfully fucked up characters.
These characters often make those on the Jerry Springer show seem like sane, rational people, and the first inclination is to watch them with the same wide-eyed, carnival freak-show mentality. The difference is that with James’s characters, you quickly discover that you can’t help but relate to and feel for them. They’re real people who make or made bad choices, or had bad choices made for them (or inflicted on them, as the case may be), and now those characters are dealing with the aftermath. And who can’t relate to that? Who among us isn’t dealing with the aftermath of bad choices, whether our own or someone else’s—or worse yet, some horrible combination of the two?
And to me that’s the source of the power and the magic in James’s writing. I could talk about his gorgeous prose and his spot-on dialogue and his blah blah blah, but in the final analysis, it’s his ability to make me like and root for characters without my necessarily needing them to change who they fundamentally are, that raises the bar of his work above so much other short fiction. I can embrace these characters the way they are. I can look at their flaws and say “There but for the grace of God go I, because they’re really not that much further down the fucked up path than me and a lot of people I know.”
James’s stories require a strong mind and strong stomach. They’re freaky weird and hauntingly honest at the same time. They’ll get you as high as the drugs many of his characters use and prove to be twice as addicting.
You’re going to love them.
You’re going to want more.
Then you’re going to need more. Yes, you will.
The good news is that you’ve got ten serious hits in this collection. The better news is that you can inhale them as deeply as you like and they’ll be just as potent the second time around.
The bad news—and I say this from personal experience—is that after a while you will start craving more.
Oh yes, you will, I promise you.
Yeah. Good luck with that . . .
Edmund R. Schubert, Editor
Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show
To The East, A Bright Star
THERE WAS A SHARK in the kitchen. The shark wasn’t huge, maybe four feet long, gliding across the linoleum toward the refrigerator. Tony stood motionless in the knee-deep water of the dining room. The Wolfman said that the only sharks that came in this far were bull sharks, which were highly aggressive. Tony leaned forward cautiously and shut the door to the kitchen. He’d known the exact time and date of his death for most of his adult life. With only hours to go, he wasn’t about to let the shark do something ironic.
Tony waded back to the living room. Here in the coolest part of the house, always shaded, he kept his most valuable possession in an ice-chest stashed beneath the stairs. He pulled away the wooden panel and retrieved the red plastic cooler. Inside was his cigar box, wrapped in plastic bags. He took the box, grabbed one of the jugs of rainwater cooling in the corner, and headed up the stairs to the bathroom. He climbed out the window above the tub onto the low sloping roof over the back porch.
Everything was damp from yesterday’s rain. He took out the silver case with his last three cigarettes. He went through five matches before he got one lit. He sucked down the stale smoke as a tiny voice in his head chided him about quitting. Tony wished the tiny voice would consult a calendar. It was a bit late to worry about cancer.
The sky shimmered with brilliant blue, not a cloud in it. The Wolfman had thought Tony was crazy to gamble on this day being clear. It had rained two hundred days last
year. A decade ago a comet had hit Antartica, melting half the ice cap, pumping countless tons of water vapor into the atmosphere. Cloudless skies were only a memory. And yet, in Tony’s imagination, the sky of the last day had always been crystal clear. It pleased him that reality and imagination overlapped at last.
A slight breeze set waves gently lapping at the tumbled roofs and walls that lay in all directions. This had been a nice old neighborhood full of Victorian houses before the earthquakes started. Now only a few homes remained, twisted and strangely beautiful, half submerged in a shallow green ocean, surrounded by the salt-poisoned skeletons of trees still stretching toward that amazing blue sky.
“Here’s to a gorgeous day,” he said, raising his water jug toward the sun. He brought the jug to his lips and chugged down half a gallon in careless gulps, the water running from the corners of his mouth, dripping down to soak his shirt. He no longer saw any point in being careful with fresh water. It felt good to be wasteful again.
His thirst sated, Tony capped the jug, walked to the edge of the roof, and dropped the water into his boat. He steadied himself, turned around, held his hands over his head, then flipped backward. He landed on his feet in the center of the aluminum skiff, his arms stretched for balance as the craft gently rocked.
“So what do you think, Pop?” he asked, imagining his father had been watching.
Tony knew exactly what Pop would think.
“The bit with the boat, just a gimmick,” Tony answered, his voice taking on a touch of an Italian accent. “And the back flip . . . sloppy. The people want form.”
“Whatever,” Tony said, his voice once more his own. The old bastard never had a kind word for him. Or even a truthful one. Last year he’d met up with Pete Pyro the Fire King over at the Dixie.
“God Hell,” Pete had stammered when he finally recognized him. “Rico told me you’d gone and died of AIDS.”
Which had indicated to Tony that his father wasn’t open to the idea of eventual reconciliation. But what the hell. There are only so many days in a life. You can’t get around to everything.
Tony untied the rope and pushed the boat away from the house. Taking up oars, he maneuvered through the submerged streets. The sun beat down with a terrible force. It was two hours before sunset. Normally, he never went out during the day. When it wasn’t raining, it could reach higher than the old dial thermometer back at the house could measure, and it had marks to one hundred ten. But the whole show ended only an hour after dark, and it would take a little while to reach the old Dixie Hotel, the tallest building still standing downtown. From its roof, he’d be maybe sixty feet higher than he would have been back at his house. Not much, but there was something in him which still craved heights. The higher he could get, the better the show.
Except for the splash and creak of oars, the world was silent. It had been almost a year since he’d seen a bird, three weeks since he’d had to hide from a helicopter, and six days since the Wolfman had changed his mind and headed west. He’d gone in search of the government shelter near Black Mountain, with hydroponic gardens, nuclear power, the works.
“I hear if you put all them tunnels end to end, they cover four hundred miles,” the Wolfman had said. “There’s room for one more.”
Tony shook his head. At best there were cold little cages for crazy people, or cripples, or junkies. The Wolfman was a little of all three. Tony missed him.
Ahead loomed the islands of rubble that marked the downtown. Rusted steel beams were tangled together in great heaps, and mirrored glass gleamed beneath the surface of the sea. The Dixie rose above all this, six stories of old red brick that had somehow survived the quakes, the flooding, and the terrible unending heat. A month ago, the Dixie had been a noisy place, a Mecca for those left behind by accident or choice. He and the Wolfman had come here often. They’d survived the last few years by scavenging, and the Dixie had been a place to trade canned goods and batteries for booze and fresh vegetables. Some old geezer named Doc had filled the upper floors of the Dixie with potted plants, and his horticultural prowess provided garden goodies all year round. Also, Doc had rigged up a distillery for fresh water, plus another for booze. He’d been king of his little world, one of the last defenders of the good life, while it lasted.
A month ago the helicopters had come and taken everyone, whether they wanted to go or not. They’d smashed the stills and tossed plants into the ocean and Tony still couldn’t see the sense in it. He and the Wolfman had steered clear of the place since, in case the helicopters came back. Now it would be safe. There would be no search and rescue at this late hour.
He tied off his boat on the east side, in the shade. A steady breeze was blowing in from the north, taking the teeth out of the heat. He gulped thirstily from the water jug, pouring what was left over his face and hair. He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and tossed it into the sea. He untied the tarp, and unfolded a fresh cotton shirt he’d saved for this occasion. He picked up his boom box with its missing left speaker cover and pushed in fresh batteries. Over the years he’d traded away most of the CD’s he’d found, keeping only a copy of All Hail West Texas by the Mountain Goats, a scratched-up double CD set of Mozart, and a K-Tel collection of Disco Hits. He still hadn’t made up his mind what he was going to play.
Finally, he unwrapped the four layers of trash bags from the humidor. The box’s contents would make all of his efforts worthwhile. He stepped through a window, into a shadowy room ankle-deep in brine. The Dixie moaned like a giant bassoon as the wind rushed through the open windows.
The stairs creaked with each step. Emptied of its people, the Dixie seemed haunted. A place he associated with life and light now sat dark and dead, the air foul with rot. No doubt the place had moaned and creaked just as loudly on his past visits, but then the sounds were masked with laughter and talk and . . .
He stopped. Was the wind making that sound?
He climbed three more steps.
Crying. Someone was crying, somewhere above.
He crept up to the next landing. There was no doubt now.
“Hello?” he called out.
The crying stopped short.
“Hello?” he called again.
A woman began shouting, in a rapid, nearly unintelligible rush of syllables and sobs. He followed the sound, racing up two flights of stairs. He rushed past open doors, drawing nearer, until the woman’s voice was clearly coming from the door to his left. He almost stepped through, but caught himself, grabbing the doorframe. The room beyond had no floor, and was only a pit dropping all the way back down to the water.
Across the void of the floorless room was an open door, in which Esmerelda stood, naked and filthy and thin.
He couldn’t understand what she was saying. She was spitting out words between sobs, with a little laughter mixed in. Esmerelda was a fairly new arrival at the Dixie, having been traded to Doc a few months ago in exchange for a case of booze. When he’d seen her last, she’d been a shapely young thing, with sinister eyes. She’d looked like she hated everyone on Earth, and who could blame her? Now, she just looked terrified and hungry.
“Just hold on,” Tony said, studying the situation. The light was nearly gone. It looked like a twenty-foot drop, maybe more, into a real mess of jagged rubble.
“Stay calm,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
She screamed as he left the doorway.
He made it back to the boat in less than a minute. The water danced with black shadows and red flames. Night was moments away. He found his rope and ran back up the stairs.
She waited in the far doorway, quiet now, and she’d found a sheet and draped it over her body. Her eyes were wide, glistening in the gloom.
“You’re real,” she said.
“I try,” said Tony.
She pulled the sheet tighter around her shoulders.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Soldiers came,” she said. “I hid. When it got quiet, I came out. The floor was gone.”
She looked down into the pit. He could barely understand her as she answered. “Doc said they would come for him. He said they’d kill me. I wasn’t important, like him. He told me he’d made traps.”
“Let’s get you out of there,” Tony said. “Catch.”
He tossed a coil of rope. She moved to catch it, but pulled her arms back as her sheet slipped. Fortunately, the rope landed in the room, and snagged on the floor’s jagged edge as it slid back.
“Okay,” he said. “Are you good at knots? I need you to tie that tightly to the sturdiest thing in the room.”
She slowly knelt and grabbed the rope, looking slightly dazed.
“Come on,” he said. “Time’s wasting. You gotta trust me.”
She disappeared into the room. Tony looked at his watch. There wasn’t time for this. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. He should go on, leave her to her own devices. Except he hated people who thought like that, and now was a bad time to turn into someone he hated.
“It’s tied,” she said, reappearing.
Tony took up the slack, then yanked on the rope, putting his full weight on it. It felt solid from her end. He tugged the rope to a radiator pipe in the hall and tied his end, bracing his foot against the wall to pull it as taut as possible.
Then, without stopping to think about it, he stepped into the room, onto the rope, which sagged beneath him. He kept moving. Five six seven steps—and he was across, stepping into her room. Esmerelda stood there with her mouth open.
“Let’s hurry this up,” Tony said with a glance at his watch. He began to unbutton his shirt. Esmerelda backed away.
He held the shirt out to her.
“Wear this,” he said. “I don’t want to trip over that sheet when I carry you back.”
“C-carry me?”
“I’ve walked wires with both my sisters standing on my shoulders. We’ll make it.”