Flood of 1965

by Nancy Reil Riojas

  Without taking another step, Angela removes her cash bag, moist with sweat, food bag, water bowl, and canteen then wraps and ties them together with her head scarf to form a pillow of sorts. Angela’s long hair has fallen loose from its braid and glues to her neck. In the sunset Moonshiner stretches in dirt and watches her silhouette on a mound. The silhouette bends forward to methodically re-braid glistening hair. She forms a bun on top of her head and reattaches the hair comb, lies down, and reaches in her pocket for a small bottle of olive oil which calloused fingers apply to burned, cracked lips.

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  Before long what Moonshiner dreads could happen does. He instantly lifts his snout straight up and twitches his ears: night air moves gently, carrying the sound of swift-running coyotes. Their thick dust reaches focused Moonshiner, witnessing them thrust toward a rabbit which runs for his life. But they stop cold in their tracks when coming upon Angela resting and trade the rabbit away. Overcome with fear, wide-eyed Angela nervously snatches the pillow to protect herself and stands slowly. Moonshiner gently rises. She hustles toward him which stimulates the coyotes’ predatory responses. They freeze when they see him and lower their heads, groaning to one another in low tone.

  Moonshiner recalls accosting these killers before when their nourished pack overlapped onto his range, but now vague paw prints they leave behind assure him —no need for help. He knows regardless of distance, this pack’s signaler lifts his head to send accurate, blaring cues to their receiver, even better than the signaler in Moonshiner’s own pack. The alpha, the receiver, and the rest of their pack race toward them. To Moonshiner, all coyotes are cowards, but these cowards, he has only minutes to kill.

  He clenches their full attention by leaping to meet them eye to eye. Growls exchange. The starving wolf-like dogs realize an “alpha” wolf stares them down one at a time, but because of the group’s size, they see him as a challenge and grow daring. They must kill this big leader before they can feed on the human delicacy, and when the others arrive, they can feed on him. Suddenly one coyote viciously snaps at him yet withdraws. Moonshiner’s demeanor shifts from expectation to annihilation: his rigid back expands, head held high cocks to one side, paws stand wide apart, and leaning on back legs, he’s ready to spring. Dangerously outnumbered, Angela fears for his life and hers.

  At once, they leap toward him, latching on with their fangs like hawks with their talons. Not quick enough he struggles to break necks with his brute-force jaws which slam squirming coyotes into petrified ground. Blood-splattered, emaciated bodies abruptly bounce high for more abuse ―split in half. All through the shocking dirt storm, Moonshiner’s nervous eyes detect when Angela shifts position. She remains near. The boldest coyote approaches her; Moonshiner flings the limp one from his mouth, lunges toward the one encroaching into his jaws and hurls him several yards.

  Moments later she attempts to distract the summoned coyotes from closing in by pitching her pillow toward them. Salivating, having started acres ago, they abruptly stop, pose a brief look, oblivious of her for the moment then nosedive into the aggression. They lock firm to Moonshiner. Money from the cash bag scatters in the breeze. Coyotes usually eat anything, but Angela’s food is now unsavory, strewn about by riled coyotes. With palms pressing her temples, she anguishes behind him while gawking at the berserk and vicious, a brutal brawl in which he must prevail! How she yearns for the Winchester.

  Even though moving as if they fly, Moonshiner’s pack bolts upon the scene too late, splitting up while sniffing the ground, sniffing Angela, smelling the air. Six coyotes lie dead and severed in half. Six are long gone.

  Moonshiner steps in slow motion, drops his tense shoulders, and throws her a pleased look. He lies on his side after thoroughly unwinding and licks many leg wounds while Angela crawls and digs in the area of attack to find her money. Still terribly shaken and feeling guilty for his injuries, she sits up, planted in Texas dirt, and speaks to him as if he understands. “Moonshiner, this is a hard life, isn’t it boy? After we get this horse and carriage, I’ll be able to build up my ranch, and when I do, you and your pack must live nearer. I need your help . . . more than you need mine. In return you’ll never go hungry. And that is a promise, my friend.”

  She can barely see the paper money, but silver dollars that surface glitter even under the clouded moon. Each coin wiped free of dirt with the torn head wrap clinks into the cash bag. Tenacious drive renders her tireless until her every coin is accounted for, late into the night, night that cools the ground for Moonshiner and his pack to finally stretch and rest a distance away and for her to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

  Monster at My Window

  Sci Fi Thriller ~ Novella

  (A sequel Night Invaders will release this year)

  RANKED AND FEATURED IN ITUNES iBooks TOP CHARTS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD / FORTY-FIVE COUNTRIES

  SYNOPSIS: The story's informal tone broadens into a twisted, underlying theme, both immoral and political: fiends created by man achieve man’s detestable covert scheme under auspices of two mega corporations. The first credible child victims on Picasso Lane do not escape from unpredictable beasts which conduct devious interactions in storm drain tunnels under Brownsville, Texas where fathers band together to war with them.

  EXCERPT:

  Ortiz makes chase with ax in hand. Like a shadow Tony imitates his father’s erratic stomps and while in a highly nervous tic, squeezes his quivering lip. They hear a commotion and turn at the same moment to see the beasts shuffling between Big Daddy and the driveway fence. Ortiz hurdles up the transporter bumper, onto the hood and swiftly jerks the ax up but cannot swing for fear of harming his daughter. Cursing, he shuffles onto the windshield, onto the cab roof then grasps the ax erect. Tony and Ortiz glance at one another wide-eyed while they listen to Mary’s agonizing screams and the beasts’ lethal quills which scrape against the transporter. In moments, once free from the narrow passage, their unsurpassed momentum offers no hint to the direction of escape, apart from her screams. Now is the sudden deep sense that they can lose her. Ortiz and Tony scale fences for hours, run down driveways, race down streets; however, as night stills, they slow the pace and finally stop in the middle of Dulce Street to slouch under the bright beam of a city light pole, for they are unable to tell the direction from which her tiny scream echoes, seeming to fill the moonlit sky.

  EXCERPT:

  Fed by gutters, the excess rain from Brownsville’s streets, sidewalks, and parking lots flood the storm drain. Tons of twelve foot high water slam against tunnel walls at top speed. Before Martha answers, they are blasted off their feet. Little Mary cries out and gurgles at the water’s surface. Martha submerges an object at the mercy of the strong undertow and plunders against metal walls until she feels iron handles, grabs on and pulls herself up and above the violent waters.

  She takes a deep breath then screams, “Mary, Mary where are you?!”

  “Miss Martha!!”

  With one free arm Martha reaches toward the voice. At the moments Mary rushes by within arms’ length, Martha snatches her sleeping gown. The rude and eager current threatens to yank Mary away, yet Martha manages to hoist the heavy material, with child entrapped, into her arms. For dear life Mary clutches Martha’s waist. Water rises higher. Martha hugs Mary
tighter and scales the iron handles with one arm, up toward the tunnel ceiling where she grips an affixed center rod. There they hang until the commanding water decides their next move. For a few moments they rest while Martha’s drenched red hair whips down onto Mary’s frightened face.

  The fit woman’s loving voice says, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ve got you. Miss Martha will never let you go! We’ll get out of this awful place!”

  A sudden ruckus slams into the water and a wave douses their bodies. Female beasts accost them for the sole purpose of snatching Mary out of Martha’s hold. They jerk Martha from the center rod, pluck Mary from her, shake Martha like a long-legged rag doll, and thrash her against the tunnel ceiling which knocks her out, cold. The aggressive beasts grab hold of Mary’s arms and expediently lift into flight. Accustom to floods, they efficiently transport Mary for miles while flowing steady as arrows, miraculously within three feet of open space below the tunnel ceiling and above the surface water. Mary’s thick hair remains swept back and cries of help echo. The females tighten their hold on Mary at once when they thrust into a tunnel loop where centrifugal force blasts them into their most outrageous speed of one hundred miles per hour.

  EXCERPT:

  Every officer on the Brownsville police force awaits Lt. Hardin who swiftly walks with conviction as he enters the police station meeting room. “Alright gentlemen, let’s calm down. The forensic team diligently works on this one. This makes the third missing person on Picasso Lane, a woman and now two children. According to Ortiz, these “beasts” are about the size of a twelve year old child, but are extremely strong. They were carrying Mary when running across his kids’ beds in the backyard and left some hard evidence behind, their prints and their blood. No, No, hold it right there! Not all of you can go at once. Now, sit down and let me finish this meeting! There’s one more thing . . . Ortiz said they had a real strong sulfur odor,” reports Police Lieutenant Hardin.

  EXCERPT:

  In the still evening, Garcia hears vibration from inside the tunnel, a sound that rapidly crescendos to a roar.

  He stands, slaps the handle on a concealed nine millimeter and pulls it from the waist of his pants, “Do y’all hear that? What’s that noise?”

  In a split second, the rest of the men hear the sound and rise to their feet. Dark clouds briskly move into a dusk skyline. Drizzle begins, cooling sweaty faces that focus on the tunnel opening.

  Ortiz stuffs the newspaper under his arm and shuts the truck door. Walking back in the fine rain, he witnesses a horde of familiar beasts charging unbelievably fast toward the men.

  “Get back to the trucks!” yells Ortiz.

  But it’s too late. The friends immediately act out their defensive strategy in groups of three, standing back to back while Gabriel scurries to join one of the groups. Ortiz drops the newspaper that blows so strewn about by high wind, pages dance amongst the men and menacing beasts, all the way to the tunnel opening.

  The beasts slow and maintain their distance while forming a circle around the friends. Having heard of the odd savage attacks, the men freeze and frown at hideousness. Silent, they aim .44 Magnums and stand strong, waiting… waiting for the right moment. Created from dogs and insects, the intelligent beings instinctively sense the fortitude of the men and realize this confrontation may not compare to others when defenseless, shocked animals and humans do not defend themselves. As if they are not frightening enough, the larger, antagonized Master flies his beefy body out of the pitch dark tunnel, immediately stops in an upright stance, gently dropping spike-like wings at his sides. He inflates a massive torso, holds a large insect head high, lashes out and squirms a long forked tongue, and with bulging–half–shut–bloodshot–eyes that swiftly shift from one man’s eyes to the next, he disappointedly reads their low level of fear.

  When Ortiz reaches the men, his trailing wind falls upon the Master that instantly demonstrates disgust, spewing saliva in all directions then turns toward his small battalion and lifts his head like a howling dog to scream a shriek that can rattle glass, for he realizes not only that Ortiz is their leader but possesses the strongest urge for battle, a big fighting heart searching for its young.

  Like a disturbed mound of army ants, the attack commences toward Ortiz. Marksmen pick them off like hogs at a hunt, without wasting a shot. Bodies explode into pieces at such close range that they scatter as far away as the trucks, alarming remaining beasts to retreat into the tunnel. The flock leave a sulfurous stench behind when launching over the groups who dodge prehistoric-looking claws that dangle beneath the archenemies. Communicating a plan with their wickedly clever Master, the hideous jet toward the loop while realizing the extent of these demoniac men’s power shatters their own yet surely only on the outside of their abodes, their abodes where they reign.

  The Rabbi’s Books

  Non-Fiction ~ Novelette

  RANKED AND FEATURED IN ITUNES iBooks TOP CHARTS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD / TWENTY-FIVE COUNTRIES:

  #1 IN HUNGARY MANY TIMES

  Synopsis: Rare books in the Rabbi’s office reveal Holocaust truths not taught in schools, and thirty years later I live to see it happen.

  EXCERPT:

  As I was greatly intrigued by the facts of the Holocaust for so many years, I waited weeks, hoping for the right opportunity to ask the Rabbi my question, which surely he could satisfy. On this hot summer morning, bright sun shined thru his tall office window as he stood in the warmth of sun rays. With hands behind his back, he stared out at the meticulously maintained lawn.

  “Rabbi Stadt, I have a question for you,” I said.

  He turned to look at me, “What is it?”

  “Why did the Holocaust happen?”

  The Rabbi’s demeanor changed, folding his arms at his chest and lifting his glasses to rub his nose where they had rested. Moments were passing like minutes as I patiently sat at my desk waiting.

  He looked out the window once again and responded, “. . . I have two books here in my office that I would like for you to read, but please do not remove them from the temple. Return the books when you’re done.”

  Words could not express how disappointed I was with his answer, for was he not one who could best articulate that phenomenon, which undoubtedly touched him deeply, that phenomenon of (40) forty million deaths? When he walked toward his shelves of books that spanned the entire wall from top to bottom, he knew exactly where they were; then, while locking eyes with mine, he placed them on my desk. That was almost eerie. I believed he had his opinions, but chose not to share them. Why? At that moment, I knew the Holocaust subject would intrigue me until death.

  My father’s recollection of the Holocaust victims was horrific enough. Yet, while reading and turning the pages of these two shocking books, I realized the innocent were slaughtered, and then even more were slaughtered. Although I knew none of them, there was a firm sense of why deep-heated anger and heartache would unveil in any person of any race, particularly the relatives of the victims and the surviving victims themselves. It may have been strange to some, but I walked into the Rabbi’s office tightly hugging those books and gently set them on his desk. He glanced up and returned to placing the refill into his pen. He quickly looked up again and made a facial expression as if he wanted to ask something, but withdrew.

  He nodded, “Thank you,” said the Rabbi.

  Feeling relieved, I replied, “No, thank you, Rabbi Stadt.”

  Visiting Mary

  Fiction ~ Short Story

  RANKED AND FEATURED IN ITUNES iBooks TOP CHARTS THROUGHOUT THE WORLD

  SELECTED BY FOUR PRINTED PUBLICATIONS IN TEXAS

  Synopsis: A true story ~ (Chosen by editors in four Texas cities) Days before Christmas in 1959, a daughter and distraught mother walk to visit the mother’s best friend Mary. The mother tells Mary that she’s leaving her husband. The saddened daughter listens then finds a photo of her once happy parents in Mary’s parlor. Mary convinces the mother to . .
. .

  EXCERPT:

  No one ever embraced Mother quite like Mary, long and meaningfully. Once we removed our coats and their eyes really met, it was as if I was not there. In just moments, I felt that was okay; then Mother started to cry. Quickly, Mary caressed Mother’s shoulder and escorted her into the kitchen. I could hear Mother softly telling the story in Spanish of the bad argument she and father had had the night before. During their conversation, Mother reiterated that she was not happy living with Father. Understanding English and Spanish, I had no choice but to listen as sadness burrowed into my chest. With hands together behind my back, slowly, I stepped into Mary’s parlor to further my mind from Mother’s pain. Step by step, I made my way to the far side of the parlor. Proudly displayed, her photos of loved ones’ faces were bordered with fine lace behind beveled glass frames. In rows of half circles, they huddled on top of her organ. Among the countless grand frames, one reached out to me . . . a picture of Father and Mother cheek to cheek, smiling and hugging each other. So thrilled, my heart started pounding! I brought my hands slowly forward from behind my back and carefully reached over and between the others to grasp my parents. I felt they took me to another time and place while I stood staring into their faces. . . . . I was wishing . . . . and hoping.

  Flood of 1965

  Fiction ~ True Novelette

  RANKED AND FEATURED IN ITUNES iBooks TOP CHARTS

  THROUGHOUT THE WORLD

  Synopsis: During wee hours of morn, a panicked family tries to escape from home where violent flood waters engulf the entire subdivision. While struggling for their lives, the realization of how much they mean to each other dominates terror.

  EXCERPT:

  Soon the water level rises even higher, and the heavy car shifts and rocks side to side, side to side. It rams against our home, vibrating the walls. As it rocks, it hits . . . . rocks then hits. While riding the tumultuous water toward the back yard, the titanic car cracks a bedroom window on the last ram. Water seeps in at first, but with thin glass unable to hold back tremendous weight . . . . flood waters burst in! Mom evolves into a frantic mess, rattling off Spanish I have never heard while Rusty and I run from window to window, all the way to our back bedroom to watch the car bob and shift, seeming like a mile down the driveway. I cringe more, as the water’s force spins the car in front of the garage which siphons the garage doors open and sucks our beautiful bikes out. For what seems like a long while, they all gyrate in a whirlpool and s-c-r-e-e-c-h each time they collide – like a horror movie – all three head for my window! I grab Rusty by the collar and throw him up into my arms while I remain focused on the threatening trio that tread nearer and nearer. I walk backward until bumping into my brother’s bed. My mouth opens to scream when I clearly see the front license plate numbers through the glass. As if the car is truly running, it wobbles to an about-face, floors the gas pedal, speeds over the club house with our bikes in tow, and heads for the back fence, knocking it over. The demolition ball and our mangled bikes will surely settle down wherever it suits them.