Deserts of Fire

by Douglas Lain

  It hit me then that he was probably very young. His fur was dark and shiny, and he was all muscle; not an ounce of fat anywhere. When he stood silent he looked very serious and stern, but when he spoke—I couldn’t help thinking, It’s a talking gorilla! but I never said that—he was very friendly and even funny.

  I asked him if he’d ever done any work as a wilderness guide. I was thinking about Drak’s invitation to visit his ranch. It was probably too far to travel on foot, but I was feeling stronger. The artificial leg will never be a part of me, but it’s not just dead weight either. It’s predictable, to an extent. I can usually tell if it’s going to slide or turn or twist. I’ve even run on it a little bit. Anyway, Kilgore said he hadn’t done a lot of that sort of work. He’d lived in Sari, before. He’d studied English and engineering at the same college where Innes taught. He asked me about some writers I’d never heard of before, and I had to tell him I didn’t pay that much attention to the names on the covers. I just liked good stories.

  Anyway, when I got back to the cabin Innes was packing. Eisenhower was passing over Sari, she said, and she had to go back to teach class. I could go with her if I wanted to, or she could send the train back for me in a few days.

  I think we both wanted the same thing. I said maybe we should spend a little time apart, and she said that might be a good idea. There were all sorts of things that I thought of to say then, and maybe she did too, but neither of us did.

  I walked her to the train. I thought about MacArthur, but I didn’t think apologizing for that again would make her like me any better. We kissed for a long time, and then she climbed on. I waved from the platform while they zoomed away.

  When I got back to the cabin I stood in the courtyard and squinted up at the sun, and I thought about all the undiscovered people on the other side of it, living lives that were quiet or dangerous or alien or all of them at the same time. I thought about the general, determined to give them solar power and equality and trains, or else.

  After that I kind of freaked out, like I was saying before. I had that panic attack. If I just think about the other side of the sun I start shaking. It was like I’d seen something big for the first time. Something that had been there all my life, but I’d never looked at it straight on. I’d kept myself from seeing it all, because it was too much to take in at once.

  When I woke up I decided to hike over here and see if I could find Kilgore. I took the rifle and a canteen and some jerky, but otherwise I packed pretty light. I wasn’t planning to stay. I wasn’t really thinking. I remember pretending that MacArthur was with me, a big ghostly dog running on ahead, then coming back to make sure I was following.

  I didn’t expect these ruins to be so big. On the surface it’s just those steps and the towers—it almost looks like a mausoleum. Once I got down inside, though, I got lost right away. Innes told me that all Pellucidareans have this directional sense that leads them back home no matter where they go. I was wishing I had that, so I could find my way back out. I wandered through passages and down stairs, past dark rooms, even through something like an arena or an amphitheater. The sunlight shone straight down through airshafts that sank deep into the city, but it was cool in the shade, and the staircases were wide and dusty.

  This was your home, right? It must have been so different, then; crowded with Mahars and Sagoths and slaves. It’s the slavery that’s really upsetting, you know. I almost wonder if I should explain it to you, the history of it, but mostly I feel like you should just know better. It’s just so goddamned obvious. You shouldn’t have to be taught about the value of… .

  I was going to say “human life.” I guess it’s not just that, anymore.

  Anyway, I was lost, and then I heard Kilgore’s voice below, speaking Pellucidarean. I’ve only learned a few words, but the rhythm of it is pretty easy to recognize. I followed his voice down, and it got louder and louder until I turned down that passage and came into this little room and found him talking to you.

  He must have heard me at the last second, because he was out of the chair and reaching for his rifle. But he froze when he saw me, just like I froze when I saw you. I … it’s hard to look at what they did to you. I knew you must be a Mahar right away, but I wasn’t thinking that. Honestly, my first thought was that this was a monster. You just look like something that should be killed. The mutilation, that’s something else. But maybe you deserved it. I don’t know how many people you killed with the bomb you dropped, but it was probably a lot. I mean, it’s not anything extraordinary, right? They did it to all the Mahar prisoners. It’s the only way they can stop you from hypnotizing them. It’s not out of cruelty.

  Anyway, when I walked in here Kilgore was talking to you and feeding you raw thag. He’s the only one you can talk to, isn’t he? Some kind of telepathic thing, he said. He stood right there and told me you dropped that bomb, and the way he said it—it was like he felt sorry for you.

  I still had the rifle. I could have shot you both. But the way he just blurted that out, without being asked … I asked him if he had helped you with the bomb, and he told me about the camps, and the books. He said his grandfather lived in this city when it belonged to the Mahars. His grandfather had hated the humans. When he got too old to serve the Mahars, he died for them.

  I knew what he meant. His grandfather had been one of the suicide bombers.

  I don’t know if you were aware of the fight. I set the rifle down first. I was still making decisions. I threw that first punch hoping to lose control, hoping to feel that rush, like in the dreams. I thought if I lost control for a while, maybe the anger would leave me alone, but that’s not what happened. I hit Kilgore a couple of times and then he put me in a hug I couldn’t get out of. He was so fast—I could never have landed a punch if he hadn’t let me. I kicked and I squirmed but I couldn’t break his hold. He didn’t even move his feet. That helped. It reminded me that I wasn’t the strongest around.

  When I was calm Kilgore sat me down and told me about his family, about you. He said you must have escaped from the humans and found your way back here. I guess you have that homing instinct, too. I can’t imagine you stumbling blind through the wilderness, knowing that you were dead if anyone spotted you. I can’t imagine how you kept going. Kilgore said you went a little crazy, you were so afraid.

  He said at first he fed you and helped you because he wanted to understand. Not just you, but his grandfather, too, and the humans. I asked him if he understands, now.

  “I think it has to do with fear,” he said. “She is afraid all the time, now, and I think my grandfather was the same. Afraid to die and be forgotten, most of all.”

  I asked him why he was still helping you, and he said:

  “Because she is alive.”

  Look at my hands; I’ve been making the fists again. The dreams are back. When I first got to this secret world, I wanted to stay. It was a vacation from my life—I thought I could escape myself if I stayed here. Was I ever wrong.

  Then I saw you, and I wondered if I should kill you. Hit you back. No one would even know if you were dead, would they? There’s no home to ship you back to. When Kilgore was holding me I told him I was going to kill you both, and he asked me what I would do afterwards. He asked it like he and you were both already dead, like I was talking to a ghost. I didn’t have an answer for him. It’s just that sometimes fighting seems like the only way to get anything across.

  We’re going to take you with us. Kilgore and I. We’re going to try and find Drak’s ranch—I have a feeling he might listen. If he won’t, we’ll go somewhere else. Innes said they’ve only explored about a third of this world. Maybe there are more Mahars living somewhere in the other two-thirds.

  Kilgore’s gathering the supplies we’ll need. Food, ammunition, and some way to hide you. He says we should be able to steer around the towns along the way, but we have to be prepared for predators and stampeding herbivores.

  I’m not stupid. But I’m not afraid. I left a note for I
nnes, told her I was going out with Kilgore to look for the stegosaurus herds and I wouldn’t be coming back.

  It’s not a lie.

  I know I might not be up for this. We could die out there. Or we could live forever. Maybe we’ll be like that war the general is fighting—if the sun never sets on us, are we endless or just a day long?

  Jon Bassoff is a writer of noir. His novels include Corrosion, Factory Town, and The Incurables. According to New York Magazine Bassoff’s writing “confronts directly the traumatic stress disorder of our world today and tears off its mask, even if the face must follow.”

  Bassoff’s first novel, Corrosion, was published by Darkfuse in 2013. It is a horror story about a disfigured veteran. It has been compared to the works of Jim Thompson and David Lynch, which seems just about right.

  excerpt from CORROSION

  JON BASSOFF

  Chapter 1

  i was less than twenty miles from the Mountain when the engine gave out, smoke billowed from the hood, and Red Sovine stopped singing. I kept on pushing the old pickup for a while, but it was no use. She’d let me down good this time. Without warning, even. I pulled her off to the side of the highway, kicked open the door, and cursed at the wind. I stared down the cracked highway; a backwater town was just up ahead, surrounded by derricks and grain elevators. I grabbed my army-issued duffel bag from the back, pulled on my camouflage jacket, and started limping down the asphalt.

  The town was called Stratton, and it wasn’t much. Just brick buildings and rotting bungalows and poor man shacks all dropped haphazardly by God after a two-week bender. Old Main was hanging on for dear life. An abandoned convenience store, abandoned gas station, abandoned motel. Rusted signs and boarded-up windows.

  The wind was blowing hard and mean; I pulled up the collar of my jacket and buried my hands in my pockets. I caught a glimpse of myself in a darkened window and shivered. It was a face that I still didn’t recognize. A face that appeared to have been molded by the devil himself… .

  Twelve hours on the road and I was in bad need of a drink. At the corner of the block stood a white stucco building with the words Del’s Lounge hand painted in red, a neon Bud sign glowing in a submarine window. I went inside.

  The floor was concrete and the tables were wooden. There was a pool table with torn blue felt, and a jukebox, twenty years old at least. A burly fellow with a red handlebar mustache sat at the counter drinking from a Coors can, his overalls smeared with paint or blood, while an old man with a rosacea nose sat in a vinyl booth, arms cradling a tumbler of bourbon. The bartender—a skinny man with sickly yellow hair and liver spotted-hands—whistled a nameless tune and wiped down the counter lethargically. Head down, floor creaking, I walked across the room and sat at a corner table, back to the bar. I placed my bag on the floor and stuck a pinch of snuff between my gums and lower lip. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps. I didn’t turn around. The bartender stood right behind me and asked me what I wanted, his voice all full of barbed wire.

  Bottle of beer, I said. Cold.

  Doncha want some food? We got hamburgers and hot dogs and the best barbecue pork in town.

  All I wanted was the beer, but he moved so that he was in front of me and handed me a menu, and then he saw my face and said, Ah, Jesus. It was an involuntary reaction.

  Just a beer, I said again.

  He muttered an apology and walked back to the bar and everybody was looking—the same curious bystanders who watch in disguised glee every time there is a car wreck on the highway or a shooting outside a nightclub. I stared straight ahead, tapping the table with my fingers. The jukebox creaked into action and Merle Haggard started singing, but the speakers were busted and his voice was warbled, drunken.

  The bartender came back a few minutes later with my beer. He could’ve left me alone, but he wanted to prove he wasn’t frightened of me. He just stood there, jaw slack. He had a full set of bottom teeth, but nothing on the top. I could smell his breath, a strange combination of bourbon and candy canes. So, uh, what’s your business here in Stratton? he said.

  I cleared my throat. No business. How much do I owe you?

  You don’t owe me a penny. Drink’s on the house.

  I was used to it. I made a living off other people’s pity. They’d bury me in a Potter’s Field.

  I took a long drink and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. I’m looking for a place to stay, I said. Some place cheap.

  The bartender smiled slyly. Everything is cheap in this town, he said, but the Hotel Paisano is cheaper than most. Just a few blocks down on Third.

  Much obliged, I said.

  I drank my beer and then another and another and then I heard a car pull up outside, the engine growling. The door slammed and I could hear a man and woman arguing outside, and the sound of a bottle shattering on the asphalt. The man shouting Goddamn slut, you are!

  A moment later, the door opened and a woman walked inside. She wasn’t very pretty, but that sort of thing never mattered to me. She was tall and skinny with bright red hair swooped up in a sort of beehive. Her face was pale and her nose was crooked. She had a stud in her lip and a tattoo of Betty Page on her arm. She wore red boots and cut-off jeans and a Misfits t-shirt.

  She stomped her way up to the bar and plopped down on a stool. Got Maker’s Mark? she asked the bartender.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. Yes, ma’am. How do you drink it?

  Quickly, she said. And give me a Michelob, too.

  The bartender pulled out a heavy looking glass, poured a fistful of whiskey, and popped open a bottle of beer. She raised the glass and made a toast to all the bastards in the world before slugging it down. Then she coughed and grimaced and reached for the beer. I was hooked.

  Not two moments later the man came charging in. He wore cowboy boots and tight blue jeans and a heavy flannel. His face was bloated and red, his mustache thick and gray. He was twice as old as the girl, easy.

  He wanted her out of the bar and he said so, but she wasn’t having any of it. Fuck you, she said. You’re not my keeper.

  This man strode to the counter with more than a little purpose. He yanked the beer out of her hand and slammed it hard on the counter. The fellow with the bloodstained overalls rose to his feet and took a couple of cautious steps back. The bartender said, Now, just take it easy, mister. We don’t want no trouble here. Me, I watched from a distance, seeing how it would all play out, because I wasn’t a violent man except when I had to be… .

  Let’s get out of here, you goddamn whore, the man said and you could tell he meant business. She tried pulling away, and that’s when he got rough with her. He grabbed a handful of her red hair and yanked her off the stool. The girl screamed. He let go of her hair but grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. She was flopping around like a rag doll.

  I rose from my seat and walked unhurriedly across the bar. The old man didn’t pay any attention to me, just kept twisting her arm tighter and tighter. I could feel the blood running in my veins.

  Let go of her, I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

  He looked up. Seeing my melted face distracted him, and he loosened his grip on the girl’s arm. She managed to twist away for a moment, but he recovered and shoved her against the wall. I grabbed the bottle of beer from the counter, came up from behind, and slammed it on the back of his head. The glass shattered and he grunted. He wobbled around for a few moments before his legs gave way and he fell to the hardwood floor.

  For a good long while he didn’t do anything but moan and groan. Then he started moving, pulling himself across the floor, but there was no real conviction to his movements. Every time he tried getting up I gave him a good hard kick to the stomach or the face. I wanted him to know a few things. His girl was pleading for me to stop but I knew she didn’t mean it, that it was all for show. By the time I got through with him, he was curled up in a ball, coughing up blood, his face a pulpy mess.

  I went back to my table, drank down the
last swallow of my beer, and slung my bag over my shoulder. Everybody was watching me. I walked slowly toward the front of the bar, graveyard boots echoing on the cement. I stepped over the man and nodded at the bartender. The Paisano, right? I said.

  Yes, sir. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they’ll treat you real good, yes they will.

  I nodded my head at the girl and pushed open the door.

  Wait! I heard her say. I turned around. She flashed a crooked grin, dark eyes filled with adulation. Who are you? What’s your name?

  My name’s Joseph Downs, I said, and I served my country proudly.

  Chapter 2

  I wandered around for a while, the wind kicking up dirt, until I came to a little worn-out brick building with The Paisano painted on the side. I walked up the crumbling steps and pulled open the door. Inside, everything smelled like rotted wood and formaldehyde. An elk’s head hung from the far wall. A baby grand stood in the corner of the room, unplayable. Behind the counter was a dwarf of a woman wearing a floral dress and sporting a rowdy blue bouffant. She had pasty white skin, cherub cheeks, and a turkey wattle. She put away the flask she’d been sipping from and stuck it beneath the counter. Then she looked up at me and smiled through gritted teeth, revulsion concealed. How can I help you, mister? she said.

  I want a room.

  Just a room? Or will there be something else? She said this with no playfulness.

  Only a room.

  Okay, she said. I can get you a room. She reached behind the counter and grabbed a key.

  I followed her up a narrow flight of stairs, the light bulb dangling from the ceiling creating menacing shadows.

  The second floor was in bad shape. Paint peeling from the ceiling, curling up on itself, lights flickering, walls covered with graffiti, gibberish all. From inside one of the rooms, I could hear somebody moaning. Against one wall there was a wooden bench, and sitting on the bench was a young woman wearing red boots and a red wig and a badly tattered wedding dress. A cigarette dangled from a lipstick-smeared mouth. She winked at me and I looked away. Ugly face, she said. Don’t bother me none. I’ll suck your cock.