Amber

by Dan-Dwayne Spencer

  To my surprise, the big vandal got up. He staggered, holding his face. The entire group turned tail and ran into the woods with Jimmy hot on their trail. I had seen Jimmy fight many times before, but I’d never seen him hit anyone as hard as he did that guy. It was like watching a superhero come to the rescue.

  In a few minutes, Jimmy returned alone with three more sledgehammers and a ripped piece of flannel shirt in his right fist. For a moment smoke irritated my eyes and my vision blurred. Looking through my stinging tears, I could swear Jimmy was wearing glowing-blue medieval armor and carrying swords instead of sledgehammers. I blinked, the tears cleared, and he was back to normal.

  One of the commune residents shoved a wet piece of what looked like a cotton tarp in my hands and told me to slap the flames with it. To my surprise, wherever I struck into the fire with it, the flames seemed to diminish. Several hippies with sixteen-gallon drums full of water carried on wheelbarrows placed their cargo along the edge of the flaming field. The same guy then showed me how to dip it into the water, and for lack of a better word, reload my tarp—ready to slap out more of the fire. Beating the fire back, I swung and swung. I looked to my right. There Rose and Flower were throwing bags of sand in the air and letting it filter down on the flames.

  The silent voice of Mr. Dark filled my head, “Get away from the fire. There’s danger here. Move away. Run. Flee.”

  “Shut up,” I yelled as I flung the tarp piece over my shoulder and into the flame again. “Shut up…shut up.” The guy beside me gave me an odd glance, but there was no time to stop. He too continued to pound at the flames with the wet cloth.

  “If not for your safety, then get Rose away from here. She is too near the flames and her dress might catch fire.”

  “Why are you so all-fired worried about my friend’s safety?”

  “What’s important to you is important to me too.”

  “I don’t believe you, so shut up.”

  “Let the hippies take care of this fire. It’s none of your business.”

  “I said, shut up. Understand? Shut it.”

  The wind changed direction, and the fire licked at my face. All the hippies stepped back, and the field where that portion of photovoltaic collectors stood went up in white fiery blazes.

  Flower yelled, “Beat the fire back. Don’t let all our work go up in flames.”

  The wheelbarrow crew brought more water, and I pounded the flames with my tarp harder than before.

  From the river, Stoney came running toward us with a large roll of flat tubing similar to what’s folded into one of those break-glass-in-case-of-emergency boxes I’d seen in hotels. The roll was getting smaller as it trailed on the ground behind him. Finally, the length of flat tubing unrolled to its end, right by the fire. He lifted a walkie-talkie and said something I couldn’t understand. Suddenly, unfurled ribbon trailing behind Stoney filled with water and the pressure expanded the tube into a six-inch diameter fire hose, spraying water over the field.

  Back and forth, the hippies sprayed, pounded, and threw sand at the fire for hours. Flower, Rose, and Roger threw bucket after bucket of sand and water onto the flaming cornfield. Finally, the blaze subsided and clouds of gray smoke streamed from the smoldering embers and blackened remains of what only hours ago were corn stalks. The gray streamers floated up like ghosts into the inky remnants of the night. On the horizon, twilight threatened the darkness. The glow, little by little, chased the weighty darkness away. Before us, in dawn’s light, a worthless and charred, half-burned field of corn lay in smoldering ruins.

  Roger leaned over sideways and rested his forearm on my shoulder. With the other, he wiped his brow and eyes with his shirttail. Seeing his hazel eyes through the cleaned streak was like watching him peer through a smoke-colored mask.

  As for myself, I wore smutty soot from head to toe. It seemed, my destiny decreed, I would only be clean for minutes at a time before another crisis required me to wear some kind of yucky coating. I didn’t even try to scrape at it; I figured it would be hopeless. Out of nowhere, a blast of water hit me and almost knocked me off my feet. Not fifteen feet away, Stoney held the cone-shaped brass nozzle and sprayed us all with the fire hose. He had adjusted it to minimum pressure, so the jet of water was nothing to compare with the torrential spray he used on the field. The soot ran off my arms like mascara in a rainstorm.

  Roger called, “Jimmy, come join us.”

  Hearing his name, he turned, a severe expression still commanding his demeanor. Then he saw us splashing in the spray. He came running. He peeled his shirt off over his head, without unbuttoning it, and positioned himself in front of me and Roger. We egged Stoney on, and he was more than happy to oblige us with another dousing.

  Roger rolled his wet shirt into a make-shift towel-whip and snapped at us, making the fabric pop loudly as it lashed the air.

  I danced. No, we all danced in the raining stream of water like we were eight-years-old again—stomping and whirling.

  “More. More, spray us again,” Roger called.

  Others joined in as he sprayed. Everyone took turns under the hose’s nozzle until we were clean again. When we were done, he spoke into the walkie-talkie and the water pressure dropped. He took hold of a crank attached to the brass sprayer head and began rolling the tubing back into a coil.

  In the distance, sirens finally blared. Getting louder by the minute, they were heading our way.

  Flower called out, “Come, meet together at the Roundhouse. We have much to discuss.” Everyone nodded and began walking in the general direction of the trailers. Except for Stoney, who slowly wound the hose and step by step inched closer to the river.

  “Stoney,” Flower called, “Will you be joining us?”

  The sirens stopped.

  “Yes. After I get this put away properly, I will. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Jimmy asked, “Where is he going?”

  I retorted, “What’s it to you? You’re leaving right away to get to the concert.” I slowly headed toward the Roundhouse. “You better get everyone and head out or you’ll miss the whole thing.”

  Jimmy fell in step. “We’ve no hope of getting there in time now. What was I supposed to do, run off when these guys had everything on the line? That was one hot fire. And they needed everyone they could get.” He tapped a cigarette out of the Dorel pack and lit it.

  “You’re right. Thanks for sticking around long enough to help, but seriously, if you hurry you might get to see at least one rock star.” I stopped and put my hand out so he would have to hear me. “Before you leave, I want to say I’m sorry all this weird crap has come down. You know, I didn’t ask for it and I’d give anything to change things and make them go back like they were, but I can’t. This is something I have no control over.” Looking up at him, I smiled gratefully. “I want you to know it was a privilege being your friend, even if it was only for a day.” With nothing else to say, I headed for the Roundhouse.

  “Yeah, I was thinking...I mean, about how you didn’t ask for this thing they call a gift.” He called out, making me stop. “Arland. Tell me you can’t control it. You get these flashes or whatever you want to call them, but you can’t stop them from coming on you?”

  “No, Jimmy, there’s no controlling them.” I wheeled around, facing him again. “I tried to make that clear from the start. It’s like…,” I stammered. “There’s no actual word for it. It’s like I’m here and somewhere else at the same time.” I wheeled back around, facing the Roundhouse. “It’s like my mind is being split in two. A part of me is here and the other part has gone traveling without permission—like it has run away from me.”

  “I was thinking. You know the council might not let you stay here. You being only fifteen and all. They might say you have to go home.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’d rather be here than home.”

  “Well, what if we hung out here… That is until you knew for sure?”

  “You don’t have to. I don’t want to freak you ou
t any more than you already are.”

  “Rose told me it wasn’t spooky, the gift Flower has, I mean. Maybe if I stayed then it might not seem so weird.”

  “And, if it gets weirder than it already is?” I faced him again. “I can’t guarantee this won’t get more freaking crazy before it’s all over.” I bore down on him with my crazy amber-yellow eyes. “What if it gets worse?”

  He reached up and rubbed the black stubble growing on his cheeks. “Well, Loveless, why don’t you tell me the freakiest thing you’ve experienced so far and I’ll see if I can take it.”

  “Okay. Here it comes. You ready?”

  He nodded.

  “You remember I told you I saw Roger looking like a zombie?”

  His jaw clinched, and the muscles flexed in his face. He nodded again.

  “In my vision—Roger’s eyes, his irises, went bloodshot; they turned red as blood, and in a gravelly voice he chanted, holy hell, holy hell, holy hell. It freaked me out, so, I asked him why he said that…and, he replied he had said nothing. I knew right then, all the zombie crap was in my head. I thought I was going crazy. And that’s why staying here is my only option. Flower has already helped make sense of some of the crap going on in my head. If they make me leave, I’m pretty sure I’ll go completely mad.” Our eyes met again. “There. Can you handle that?”

  He stepped back. Every muscle in his big arms flexed tight. It certainly didn’t look like he could handle it. He was right about one thing. I started this mess. If I hadn’t opened my big trap, none of this would have happened. At the very least, he deserved an explanation—whether he liked what I said or not. Really, nothing he said changed how I felt; I had no choice; I had to stay at the commune.

  His muscles were still all clenched, but he answered in a civil tone. “I think I’m okay with it—at least for now.”

  Roger came over to where we were. He was walking with Rose and holding her arm, much like Stoney had when we arrived. Jimmy shot him an intimidating glare.

  “What? This is how people show friendship here,” Roger responded.

  Rose wore a reluctant smile. “Are you ready? We better leave now.”

  Jimmy announced, “I decided to wait here and see if Arland needs a ride home. What would he do if the Elders didn’t accept his petition for residency? After all, we are his friends.” He slugged me hard on the shoulder. “Yep, what are friends for, anyway?”

  I grimaced.

  Rose threw her arms around Jimmy’s neck and shook with glee. “Oh, Jimmy, I think that’s a great idea.” Then she gave him one of those kisses like Deborah Kerr gave Burt Lancaster in the movie From Here to Eternity, and I’m pretty sure there was some tongue action going on.

  Roger stood staring with his mouth hanging open when I poked him in the ribs and said, “Let’s go on to the meeting. They can catch up.” Without taking his eyes off them, he nodded and followed me into the Roundhouse.

  Inside, the tables were full, and the Sheriff was giving some kind of talk. We climbed halfway up the stairs spiraling around the eastern oak tree and sat on a step overlooking the gathering while our feet dangled off the side. From where we were, I could see out into the meadow, and I was confused by what I saw. They hadn’t brought any firetrucks with them. The only emergency vehicles out there were the Fire Chief’s pickup truck, the Sheriff’s patrol cruiser, and a couple of police cars belonging to his deputies. These were strange first responders. They hadn’t intended on helping with the fire.

  The Sheriff was in the middle of his lecture. “…and all I can say is holy hell, holy hell, what were you, hippies, thinking?”

  White as a bleached sheet, Roger sat beside me chanting under his breath, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” He stared over at me. “He said Holy hell. He’s a zombie. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  I think all the blood drained from Roger’s head. “I don’t know. Maybe,” I used the calmest voice I could muster. “Let’s see what else he has to say.”

  The Sherriff loudly accused, “The Fire Chief and my men have inspected the field including those firetraps you folks call solar pho-poop-ic collectors and they have determined this fire was caused by a spark made from those infernal contraptions. They are all fire hazards and either you put gravel under them, or cover them with asbestos, or we will be forced to come out and destroy them. There will be no further warning. We’ll be extra lenient this time and allow you seventy-two hours to comply. So, early Tuesday morning we will be here to see if you have made the necessary changes to your stupid electric gizmos. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more fires started by those unsafe….” He turned to Flower and asked, “What are those things called?”

  Flower replied to the Sheriff, “They are called photovoltaic collectors.” She lifted her chin. “And, we know how the fire got started.” Her focus bore down on him. It reminded me of how I used to glare at my competitors right before a swim meet.

  “Yeah, Missy, you’re not as smart as you think you are. My men know what caused the fire, and it was definitely those collector things. I bet you also knew they were unsafe from the start.”

  Flower answered, “Sheriff, I assure you they are completely safe and could not have started this fire.”

  “My men and the Fire Chief say otherwise, and they know a bit more about fires than you do.”

  “Yes, I bet they do,” Flower’s posture stiffened as she spoke. “However, I am just as certain they know nothing about photovoltaic collectors.”

  “I have spoken,” he yelled. “Get your makeshift electro gadgetry off the field by Tuesday, or else.”

  “Sheriff,”—Flower’s tone turned calm and collected—“we will comply. When you return, we will have the collectors insulated as per your instructions. There will be no need to remove them.”

  “Impossible, where do you think you’ll get enough asbestos in time to insulate all of those contraptions?”

  “Where we get it, is not your concern. Come back on Tuesday as you said and see for yourself.”

  We were sitting above and slightly behind the Sheriff who began waving his fists in outrage. He shook his head and inadvertently glanced up at us. I could swear his eyes glowed red and were bleeding. The entire eye, white and all, was a fluorescent, angry red with bloody tears dripping down. Still facing upward, he stopped shaking his fists. Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them, they were normal.

  The sun went behind a cloud and the Roundhouse tenting darkened. Pains streaked through my chest. It felt like an icy hand had reached in and squeezed my heart with powerful frozen fingers. Chill bumps raised on my skin, and I slowly exhaled, expecting to see my breath as a foggy mist. Flooded by dizziness, the room spun around and I gripped the railing until my knuckles turned white. I panted, trying to catch my breath. An overpowering sense of doom filled the air—choking me. My warning system went to DEFCON one, and I sat there holding the staircase railing, gasping for breath. As suddenly as it came on me, it passed when the sun emerged from behind the cloud.

  “I’ll be back on Tuesday. Be expecting me.” The Sheriff’s voice sounded more gravelly than before.

  Roger huffed another, “Oh shit,” and quickly pulled his dangling knees up to his face—peering over them.

  Struggling to get enough control of my emotions to speak without freaking out; I paused and gathered my courage, trying not to alarm Roger by telling him what I saw. I’d seen a lot of scary crap in the last couple of days, but this was over the top. I’m sure my voice quivered when I asked, “Roger, what are you saying?”

  He lifted his head. “Did you see that too?”

  I didn’t know how to answer and not send him screaming into the woods. It had scared me spit-less, and I could only imagine how Roger would take it if I confessed to seeing those horrific, glowing eyes.

  “Maybe I’m seeing prophetic shit too. I don’t know, but the Sheriff’s eyes were glowing like the rear end of a 1959 Impala, all almond-shaped and evil.”<
br />
  It should have been completely shocking to hear Roger admit to seeing weird crap like I did, but I sighed a breath of relief. For once, I wasn’t the only one who saw it. I moved up onto the next step of the staircase. “If we both saw it, that means it wasn’t a vision.”

  “What?” Roger looked puzzled.

  “Yeah, if someone other than me saw it, then his eyes were actually glowing freaky red?”

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Roger took a breath and repeated, “Shit, shit, shit, shit. He’s a zombie. I knew it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Appropriate Clothing

  Sitting above the crowd on the steps, I overheard several people comment on what they thought they saw when the Sheriff’s anger flared. Everything considered, I didn’t want to scare Roger any more than necessary. “No, I don’t think he’s a zombie. There’s no such thing. Anyway, he’s too well-spoken to be a brain-eating, mindless zombie.”

  “Then what? If he’s not, then why was he saying holy Hell and his eyes all bloodshot to the max?”

  “I don’t know.” Lately, that seemed to be my go-to phrase—I don’t know.

  I looked down and Jimmy was standing by the door as the Sheriff passed him on his way out. Dugan had taken on a ghostly appearance. The same horrified expression he wore when he first learned about the gifts had returned. Around him, everyone started gathering in small groups and discussing their unfortunate situation and the Sheriff’s unusual eyes.

  Jimmy walked straight over and stood under the step where Roger and I sat. Ironically, the big guy’s arms and hands shook with fright. “He’s the one.”

  Thinking I could calm him down, I stood and leaned over the stair rail as I asked, “What do you mean, he’s the one?”

  Roger said, “Damned right, he’s the one.”

  “He’s the one your vision warned you about. It wasn’t Roger who was zombified, it’s this guy,” Jimmy exclaimed.

  Flower stepped closer and stopped directly behind Jimmy. “I heard what you said about there being no such thing as a zombie, but I agree with Roger.”