The Dominant Hand

by Charles Martin

  “So, what was it like at the campground?” Charles mumbled to himself.

  “They were young, old, some children. It was a community, a small town off the grid. They had port-a-potties, a big dining tent, some generators and inside most of the tents were couples and families. Many of them were broken souls—they’d given up on their looks, their lives, their hopes and just settled into this womb of delusion. They seemed convinced something wonderful and monumental was going to happen, but even they weren’t sure what that was. I began to foresee big punchbowls of poisoned Kool-Aid and decided I wouldn’t drink anything they gave me.”

  Charles was distracted by the sight of a couple kissing in a nearby tent. He recognized the coffee-colored skin of the prostitute. She looked past the bearded men to Charles. She frowned and returned to the man fondling her breasts.

  “I should have just taken her to a hotel,” Charles mumbled, then looked down at his crotch. “You were right, for once.”

  “Herb Hefner the Lion will want to hear about the beast,” Firedog said, a smile beaming.

  “Okay,” Charles replied, scanning the other tents in hopes of finding the pawn shop owner’s daughter. He saw lots of bodies, many of them writhing around one another. Some were nearly passed out from a narcotic-induced apathy.

  “What are they going to do with the boy?” Charles asked, keeping his voice casual as if he didn’t care if he knew the answer.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “So, Jim really is coming back?”

  “We think so,” Firedog said solemnly, as he turned to Charles. He leaned in close. “We are not really sure, but for the sake of humanity, we must make sure that the noma … anon …”

  “Anomaly?” Charles asked.

  “Yes,” Firedog replied, embarrassed. “Brian the Lion says it must be resolved.”

  “Oh.”

  Firedog smiled, turned and continued through the campground. Charles lingered for a moment.

  “So, they were going to sacrifice the child if Jim didn’t show up,” Charles said to himself. “And then, Mr. Martin, what did you do to stop them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  ******

  Charles wiped his clammy brow, his hands trembled and he rocked back and forth as he sat in the small tent. The tent stunk with the smell of sweat and pot, and a subtle nausea rumbled in his stomach. Whatever they’d put in his system was still working its magic, making him feel sick and heavy headed, as if he’d downed a full bottle of cold medication.

  Now that Firedog was gone, his hands were untied and he was alone in the tent, he hoped his mind would finally start to unravel the knots inside so he could come up with a plan.

  His body shook and trembled. He thought of how close he had come to death. He found it hard to talk to himself anymore.

  “The lie, think about the lie,” he mumbled, but then faded off.

  Charles wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t settle down enough to find it. Instead he tried to construct the lie, the one thing that was going to save him, the fact that they believed he saw the thing, which he had not. He felt it, he saw the light, but that wouldn’t be enough. He also knew that there was a strong possibility that this might be a hoax, and anything he said would just prove he saw nothing. He was entering dark waters that had to be navigated carefully, but he couldn’t find his compass.

  “Fear is the most sincere emotion.”

  Charles shook the thought out of his mind, tapped his temples with his fingers while repeating “okay, okay.”

  “I’ve got to call my wife, do they have phones here?” Charles asked himself. He looked at the flaps of the tent, knowing that the two men outside were not as enthusiastic about his presence as Firedog.

  “I can’t worry about anyone else, not even Sean,” Charles murmured as he peered through the slim opening between the flaps. The men were sitting down, talking to others who were passing by. Charles sat back and tapped his temples again.

  “Okay, I’m a journalist, what do I need to know? What is Sean doing here? How did they get him? Where is Jim?”

  “Sean, Sean,” Charles mumbled. “Fuck! I can’t save him, I can’t!”

  Charles gripped the tarp on the ground and yanked at it, for no other reason than his lost mind told him to.

  “The lie, what is the lie? What did I see, what did I see? Where is Jim?”

  Charles’ spasms settled and his eyes steadied.

  “The stage.”

  Charles smiled and took a deep breath.

  “The stage.”

  His fingers relaxed and let the tarp settle back to the rocky ground. He leaned back to the flaps and glanced outside through a small tear in the zipper. The guards were distracted by a buxom brunette in a tube top.

  “So, then you had your plan?” Charles asked himself.

  “Yes,” Charles answered.

  A hand brushed against the tent, startling Charles. He jerked back from the flaps and sat down. The front flaps zipped open and a young woman looked in. She wore a blue dress shirt and a kahki shooting vest, as if she were a war correspondent.

  “Mr. Martin?” the woman asked. “May I come in?”

  Charles nodded and backed up farther. She crawled in and sat down. She brushed her hair back from her face, smiled and then her nose crinkled.

  “God, it smells in here,” she said.

  “Uh, that wasn’t me,” Charles mumbled. “It was like that when I got here.”

  The woman chuckled.

  “They really need to wash these tents, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  The flap opened again and a young black man ducked into the tent holding a camera. He smiled weakly.

  “My name is Cynthia Anderson and this is my cameraman. We’re doing a documentary and I was hoping I could talk to you about what you saw.”

  Anderson smiled a rigid, plastic news channel smile and motioned for her camera to shoot. The man brought the camera up, but Charles put his hand in front of the lens.

  Anderson glanced at the cameraman and nodded, so he lowered the camera. Charles could tell that the camera was still rolling from the way the cameraman casually pointed it up at him.

  “I understand that this is a stressful time for you,” Anderson said. “But we’re just trying to capture the truth here.”

  “I appreciate that,” Charles said. “But, no fucking way. With all due respect, what happened out there is between me and whoever it is that is going to get me out of this place. If you can secure my release, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Anderson narrowed her eyes, bit her lip and then motioned for the cameraman to leave. The cameraman crawled out and zipped the flaps.

  Anderson brought back the plastic smile, this time a bit warmer, but just as fake. She inched closer and leaned in.

  “I know what you’re going through. I’m kind of in the same position, but I think when they do whatever it is that they need to do, when Jim Jacobs comes back and disappears again, we’ll be free to leave. Now …”

  She touched her fingers against his arm and leaned in far enough for her hair to brush against him. He could feel her breath on him. He knew the trick, he’d used it, too.

  “If you tell me about what you saw, then we can kind of do this together,” Anderson whispered. “I don’t have financing right now, but with your connections to Spin, I would be happy to let you in on the project.”

  She nudged against him.

  “What do you think?” she asked, backing away. Her eyes drifted into his. Charles smiled coyly.

  “Fuck no,” Charles smirked, then added “ma’am.”

  Anderson tilted her head and pouted, still trying to play him. Charles knew the routine, he had publicists and musicians try it all the time. It was the advantage of being in the business and being attractive.

  “The only thing keeping me alive right now is what happened in that forest,” Charles said, projecting as much confident charm as he could muster. “If you get me out of here, I’ll get
your documentary out there, I’ll tell you everything I saw, but anything short of that, we have nothing to talk about.”

  She looked back at him, studying him like she was about to buy a car. He gave her a steady, casual grin.

  “I’ll try,” she chirped, with a wink. “Is there anything you can tell me now?”

  Charles sat back and tried to smooth out the rocks underneath the tent.

  “Yeah,” Charles answered. “For a little tit for tat, though.”

  She bit her lip, her eyes sparkled.

  “Okay, let me get Dave, the cameraman, in here,” she said.

  “No. We’ve got plenty of time for Dave the cameraman later.”

  Anderson sat back down.

  “Just answer a question for me,” Charles said. “Did you see a boy come into the camp?”

  “There are lots of boys in this camp; they’re runaways and kids of the cult members,” she replied.

  “Not this one.”

  Her eyes brightened. She looked like a bloodhound that had just found the scent. Charles leaned close to her and raised his lips to her ear.

  “It’s Jim Jacobs’ son,” Charles said.

  She gasped, and Charles could see the blend of shock and exhilaration in her eyes.

  “I’ll tell you more when you figure out how to get me out of here, okay?” Charles said.

  Anderson leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You got yourself a deal,” she whispered, letting her lips linger on his skin.

  She began to crawl out of the tent, but stopped. She turned back to him.

  “Can I at least see the cut?” she asked.

  “Do you have a phone I can use?”

  “No,” she shrugged. “They took it from me.”

  “I figured,” Charles sighed.

  He turned around to show her his neck anyway. She crawled back to him and ran her fingers along the cut, careful not to touch it.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not anymore. Is it still bleeding?”

  “Nope,” she said. She backed away and left the tent, leaving the flap wide open.

  Charles took the chance to get a better survey of the area. The buxom woman was gone and the two men in kilts were now talking to a barefoot teenage girl dressed like a gypsy. Charles poked his head out farther. A face emerged from behind a tent on the other side of the guards, about twenty feet away. It was Baby Girl, the daughter of the pawn shop owner.

  She watched Charles intently, then glanced at the guards who noticed her. She looked away and began fingering a frayed seam in a tent. The guards then looked back toward Charles.

  “Hey,” Charles said, before they could say anything. “How long until someone comes to talk to me?”

  “You just had the journalist in there,” one of the men chuckled. “You up for seconds?”

  “When’s someone coming who matters? When is Hefner coming?”

  “Soon,” the guard called. The gypsy girl had begun walking away once attention had turned from her. The man grabbed her by the hand.

  “If you’re bored, we could give you something to play with,” the guard said to Charles, while tugging at the girl.

  The gypsy girl jerked her hand away, so the guard stood and grabbed her by the neck.

  “She’s a feisty one,” the guard growled, then threw her to the ground. The other guard laughed and kicked dirt on her. The girl rolled away to her feet and ran off. One of the men began to chase her.

  “Let her go!” Charles called. “I don’t want that one anyway. How about the one over there, by the tents? You could send her in.”

  The guard smiled and waved Baby Girl over.

  “What do you think, honey?” the guard asked.

  Baby Girl looked up at them nervously. She nodded and they grabbed her arms. She pushed the guards away and walked stiffly to the tent. Charles held the flap open for her and she quickly ducked inside. Charles smirked at the guards and they laughed.

  Charles backed into the tent and zipped up the flaps. Baby Girl hid her face with her right hand as the bandaged stub on her left arm hung worthless in the air. She cried with hard, sucking moans. She shivered in between sobs. She was still sober, which he didn’t expect.

  “Baby Girl, right?” Charles asked.

  “Don’t call me that,” the woman groaned.

  “What am I supposed to call you then?” he asked, starting to pity the girl, which he also didn’t expect.

  “Victoria.”

  “Okay, Victoria, what are we going to do here?” Charles asked.

  She looked up at him, desperate.

  “I didn’t want to give them up,” she groaned. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Okay,” Charles sighed, scooting toward her and letting her fall into his arms. She held him with her only good arm, and held the stump away from him. He didn’t know if it was because she was ashamed or it still hurt.

  “What are you wanting to do?” Charles asked.

  Charles had considered that this might also be a trick, so he was going to be cautious.

  “I just want this to be over,” she whispered.

  “Me too.”

  Charles ran his hand up and down her back. He pressed her head onto his shoulder.

  “I need a knife,” Charles said softly. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you get me a phone?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll try,” she said.

  “You do that and I’ll take you with me,” Charles said.

  “Not without my family,” she countered.

  “Of course, get me that knife, try to get a phone and I’ll see what I can do from there, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go,” Charles said, helping her up. He led her out of the tent.

  “That was fast!” the guard exclaimed.

  Charles shrugged.

  “Too damn skinny.”

  Mitch the Witch

  Oct 31 0630

  Source: dictated from podcast found on www.mitchthewitch.com.

  “Well kids and kiddos, I’m up much earlier than this old body’s used to, it’s going to be a long day for Mitch. I decided to make the trip to the Panhandle state and things are looking a little hairy down there in Norman. As some of you know, there is supposedly a concert on for tonight with the second coming of Jim Jacobs, who had been written off for dead, and I quote form an email I received, “he will resolve the issue of the anomaly.’ They’re calling Mr. Jacobs a prophet. Maybe he is. Hell I don’t know, though I think that term gets thrown around way too lightly these days, but with all the talk of time abnormalities and severed limbs, something is certainly about to explode and we’ve got some guy on the line who says he’s in the thick of it. So, my advice to Normanites – don’t drink the Kool-Aid!”

  “Okay. (a grumbling cough and rattle of ice in a glass) Okay, let’s get going. You sir, Mr. Willy Wonka, is that right? Is that really your name?”

  “Of course not, but I’d rather not divulge my identity.”

  “Well, hell man, if we’re dealing with an end of the world scenario, who the hell cares?”

  “We are dealing with something much larger than I think anyone truly understands at this point, but I don’t know if it really is the end of times. And if it’s not, I’ve got a job to go back to.”

  “And, what is that, roughly? You don’t have to name names.”

  “I’m a journalist and I’ve spent the last four days with Jim Jacobs. I feel that, given everything happening tonight, people should stay away from the complex in the woods and the concert.”

  “So, Jim Jacobs is alive then, and you’re talking about the concert with the much-hyped resurrection. For the listeners, the complex is the place where his cult lives. What’s it like?”

  “I haven’t actually been out there, but it’s a little like a shanty town, from what I’ve heard. Lots of tents, a kind of self-sustained campground.”

  “You ha
ven’t actually been there? Didn’t you say you’ve been with Mr. Jacobs?”

  “I did and I have been, but Jim isn’t at the complex, he’s been hidden away in a place I can’t divulge. Only a few people know where he is.”

  “What’s he been waiting for? Why doesn’t he go out and do whatever it is that needs to be done about this anomaly?”

  “He’s been readying himself – he’s told me that there is a door between two dimensions and that he was trapped on the other side. He returned recently, but the door isn’t completely closed, and the forces on the other side are trying to infiltrate our dimension in hopes of taking it over.”

  (MW laughs hard, begins hacking, coughing and then continues to chuckle.)

  “Wow, that sounds serious. Do you believe it?”

  “I don’t know, I believe that Jim believes it’s real, he’s never lied to me before.”

  “Well, now I’m a believer.”

  “Look, I know it doesn’t sound all that convincing, but it wouldn’t do any good to lie about it. It just is what it is. I don’t particularly like that I’m the one who is making this call, and maybe it all sounds ridiculous. It all might sound small, but I guarantee that what will happen tonight will not be small.”

  “So, you think this anomaly might kill us all?”

  “I’m not sure the anomaly is the most dangerous thing in those woods right now.”

  “Then what is?”

  “The people who believe in it.”

  (silence)

  “Is Mr. Jacobs dangerous, too?”

  “He doesn’t want to be.”

  “Yes, but is he as dangerous as the people who buy into his anomaly?”

  (silence)

  “Will? Is he?”

  “Yes.”

  Oscar

  I gotta tell ya, I’d thought my joints were gonna shatter all over, but the worst part was hearing that little boy cry. His voice wasn’t one of those loud, obnoxious wails ya hear in the mall or in an airplane. It was almost like a humming, he’d suck in air and then give this faint humming cry. It just about killed me listening to him. We’d try to talk to him, but we couldn’t get him to say nothing.