THE TROUBLE
IN
DOGFLAT HOLLOW
____________________
Cameron ~ Sword
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary, and the characters are either fictitious or are used fictitiously and not intended to represent specific persons, living or otherwise.
Copyright © 2015 by Cameron ~ Sword
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reprinted, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Cameron ~ Sword
[email protected]
The text of this book was set in Cambria and Perpetua Titling Mt fonts.
Book design, illustration and cover art
Copyright © 2015 Sword
Published in the United States of America
First year published, 2015
ISBN 978-1-5499-4571-7
To Mom and Dad
If you are writing any book about the end of the world, what you are really writing about is what’s worth saving about it.
– Justin Cronin –
PREFACE
A mildly irreverent satire detailing a shocking account of how the Earth was nearly annihilated on January 1, 1990. Some of the names have been changed in order to further protect the privacy of fictitious persons involved. Other names, including those belonging to biblical personalities, have also been changed in order to safeguard and preserve formal reputations.
THE TROUBLE
IN
DOGFLAT HOLLOW
Clothed in quivering evening light, a misty street shimmered and danced in twisting ribbons of haze. Above, moth-swirled lights glared in rigid suspension along a fringe of quaint shops and houses.
This could’ve been just another charming little British or New England village, but this was one of those places that didn’t really exist.
Sherlock Holmes, pipe in hand, exited a fog-shrouded tobacco shop, tearing open a fresh pouch of tobacco, frowning as he noticed a calendar for the upcoming year (1990) printed inside. Something was wrong.
Inspecting it further with his magnifier, he found that it ended on the first of January. The remainder of the calendar was blank. He pondered its significance for a moment as he lit his pipe, eyebrows twisting with a kind of melancholy hopelessness.
Dr. Watson emerged from the shadows, intercepting him. Smug. Sounding even more smug with that stuffy English accent.
“I say, Holmes. Seems you’ve finally made a rather incongruous deduction after all these years. The entire population of the planet connected electronically via some sort of worldwide web? Preposterous!”
“It’s the future, old man. But sadly, I’ve just interpreted that there will be no future.”
“Now you’re being downright queer. Explain yourself, Holmes.”
“It’s quite elementary, my dear Watson. Judgment Day is at hand.”
Jon and his sweaty face bolted up in bed, panting hard, wide-awake from his nightmare. We’ve all seen him before – in various images including some of the most famous images ever produced – but to be honest, he looked nothing like them. At all. In any case, that’s not really relevant at this moment. The important thing to know was that he was having a nightmare involving Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and now he was awake.
A thick cloud of smoke unexpectedly wafted into his face. A mysterious figure, cloaked by darkness, was sitting there by Jon’s bedside, storybook in hand, puffing on a pipe.
It’s unknown whether any words were exchanged but Jon was later overheard recalling the incident, confirming that the mysterious figure was none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and that he (Jon) leaned back in surrender, filled with angst, a gnawing sense of fatalism settling over him.
City winter hates everybody. But not in Los Angeles. It was December 24, 1989, and abundant sunshine enveloped sleeveless last minute shoppers as they bustled about with wrapped gifts, windows behind them flashing merrily.
On one corner, a Salvation Army bellman solicited donations. On another corner, a doomsday prophet flailed his arms as he barked at disinterested passersby.
“Prepare the way of the Lord and make his paths straight! Hear ye that every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be brought low!”
People didn’t just ignore him, they gave him a wide berth because of his disgusting appearance. His name was Buddy and he was in his forties, red-faced, flea-bitten, scratching himself and spitting furiously. His focus shifted to a woman exiting a department store.
“Merry Christmas, ma’am, spare some change?”
The woman continued on, tuning him out as a bus pulled up, a Forbes Magazine advertisement on its side depicting a smirking, well-dressed man. Yves LaPomme. A caption read: THE MOST POWERFUL MAN ON THE PLANET?
Grace Hallond, 28, stepped off the bus downing the remains of a burger. Or rather, hacking and spitting it up. She was a bloodshot-eyed exotic beauty in low-rent makeup with the wardrobe to match. Buddy pointed a threatening index finger in her direction.
“You! Repent, sister, before it’s too late!”
Grace eyed him with a different degree of interest as she approached.
“Quit pissing in the back of my building. It’s enough I have to smell you when you’re around.”
“Who, me?”
“What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you have a job?”
“I could’ve been a band leader once, but I wasn’t noteworthy.”
Grace hissed air, turning away. There was no talking sense to him. Buddy wasn’t done with her just yet though. He reached under his rags, producing a Polaroid camera and stepped in front of her, snapping her picture. IMPORTANT NOTE: The advertisement on the bus served as backdrop.
“What’re you doing?” she yelled, irritated by the flash that temporarily blinded her.
“Building holiday memories. In exactly thirty seconds, you’ll have the opportunity to acquire this little memento, which I point out, will last you a lifetime, all for a nominal one-time sitting fee. Now normally, that’s ten bucks, cut and dry, but it’s Christmas Eve. Slide me a fin and call me Santa.”
She brushed past him but he followed, relentless, like a car salesman trying to make quota.
“All right, you caught me at a good time. I’m trying to wrap things up out here. Half off – two fifty – and now that’s just giving it away.”
She responded by hacking and dry heaving in his face. He interpreted it as an act of continued disinterest on her part – and he was right – but the truth was she was fighting some sort of ailment. He threw out his best offer.
“Okay, look at me. I’m a defeated man. You win. Buck and a half, Gracie. That won’t even cover my overhead.”
She stopped, finally indulging him, reaching into her purse. He flashed a wide grin. A buck and a half in 1989 bought a foot long hotdog and small soda, condiments included. Or maybe he’d skip the protein altogether and opt for a strict regimen of liquid carbohydrates. The local liquor store always had a fine selection of delicious alcoholic beverages on sale. Yep, it was going to be a great Christmas Eve.
And as Buddy continued to ponder his menu choices, Grace came up with a can of mace and doused his face, sending Buddy to his knees, gagging uncontrollably. She just left him there, eventually disappearing into a police precinct.
Most large metropolitan areas are easily recognizable by their landmarks. Not this one. Truth is, nobody’s ever received a postcard from here. For purposes of identification, I’ll refer to it by the same name the Gre
eks gave it millennia ago. Ouranos.
A hillside located on the edge of town offered a spectacular panoramic vista of the city’s wide expanse. Jon sat there, eyes downcast, not enjoying the view, whittling away on a piece of wood instead.
A robed, gray-bearded man stood beside him, thumbing beads on an abacus as he quizzed him.
“All right then, if you wanted to feed five people two loaves of bread each, how many loaves would you need?”
Jon shrugged, never making eye contact. The robed man jerked away in an irritated gesture – this was futile.
Virginia, and those bright eyes of hers that framed the haggard banner of her face, approached, taking the robed man by the elbow.
“That will be all for today, Mr. Pythagoras. Thank you.”
The robed man couldn’t have left fast enough. Virginia searched for a place to sit, remaining silent for a long moment. Then...
“It’s your birthday tomorrow. I baked a pie.”
“Is Father planning on destroying Dogflat Hollow within the coming days?”
Since 1975, Dogflat Hollow, in these parts, became the descriptive term commonly used to refer to planet Earth. It happened like this. A pious coal miner from Utah arrived one ordinary day and was given permission to enter the gated city limits. As he walked through a turnstile, an alarm sounded – much like the type of alarm that goes off when a shoplifter exits a store with an item embedded with a security chip.
When security descended on him, they found a copy of a book in the back pocket of his issued clothing titled, Us Poor Folks and the Things of Dog Flat Hollow. Clearly, it was from Earth – which was supposed to be impossible – the transference of inanimate items between the two realms. To this day it’s still not known how it happened, but it did. And the name stuck – with one exception. Over the years, the locals corrupted Dog Flat into one word.
Virginia regarded Jon with a combination of surprise and alarm that he would ask such a question. Or, more accurately, that he knew to ask.
“What?”
“Is he?”
“Has Sir Arthur Conan Doyle been reading you bedtime stories again?”
Jon stopped whittling, finally gazing into her face for the first time.
“And behind my back. He’s planning on doing it behind my back.”
“I’m sorry, but I agree with your father on this one. Your work is done.”
“I know things haven’t exactly worked out well down there, but he could’ve given me one more chance. All these years I’ve been asking for one more chance.”
“Man will destroy himself regardless. That’s his nature.”
“He was created in Father’s image. How could that be his nature?”
Virginia threw out an exasperated sigh. The truth was, she had no interest in debating the issue further. She wasn’t angry, just fed up with the topic. Tired.
“Look, it’s your birthday tomorrow. I baked a pie.”
And like every good son relenting to every good mom…
“Date palm pie?”
“What do you think?”
Virginia rose, extending her hand, gesturing for Jon to take it. He did, but not before placing down the item he was whittling. A dog. He set it down beside dozens and dozens of others, all different breeds and all magnificently crafted with plenty of detail.
“Another Husky? You’re running out of breeds.” Virginia noted.
“No. Alaskan Malamute. Similar to a husky but with a friendlier disposition. Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that though.”
“You need to stop beating yourself up over what happened. It wasn’t your fault.” Virginia reminded him.
“I know.”
Together, they walked off.
Detective William Fusco was a bleak and humorless sway-backed and slump-shouldered middle-aged man, but he was cheerfully overweight. He was frowning over paperwork as Grace stepped into his office.
“Shut the door.”
Grace slowly closed the door behind her, attempting shallow breaths, trying to center herself.
“What’s up? You look terrible.” Fusco said.
“I was on the toilet when you called. Laying this sticky load that had the color and consistency of bad steak sauce. Now I’m hacking and dry heaving. Must be some sort of crazy virus going around, you hear anything about that?”
“No, and don’t come any closer. Right there.”
Grace slumped into a chair of his choosing. He dug into a drawer and extracted a jeweled cross, sliding it across his desk at her. Grace ignored it for the moment, continuing her story.
“Strange thing is, I’m always hungry. I mean, I just slammed a pair of burgers and I feel like I can down another half dozen. Sort of...”
She looked awfully pale all of a sudden, swallowing hard. Fusco grimaced.
“Jesus Christ, you’re not gonna puke, are you?”
“I also had an encounter with my parole officer this morning who’s demanding I turn tricks for his friends. Like he’s my pimp. I thought you were going to talk to him, get him off my back.”
“I will.”
“I swore at him a couple, three times – just so you know – which completely offended him. The swearing, I mean, the actual words – like he’s an altar boy. I finally asked him why people of all cultures and languages find it necessary to create words you’re not supposed to say.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me he’d pray for me.” Then, indicating the jeweled cross… “What the fuck is this?”
“I snagged it from a robbery suspect who was ripping off local churches. Read the inscription.”
“It’s in Spanish.”
“Portuguese. It promises an entire half century of good fortune to the owner. That’s fifty years. It’s yours.”
Grace slid it back across the desk at him.
“Not interested.”
“What’re you talking about? My cousin, the jeweler, he tells me these are real sapphires. Like, old world rare.”
He slid it back at her after saying that – and sure, it piqued her interest, but she didn’t take it.
“Last time you offered me a gift to go along with an assignment, that ended up costing me three months at county.”
“And I visited you every week and told you I’d make it up to you. Well, this is it. Those sapphires are Old. World. Rare.”
Grace continued to look at him suspiciously, summoning her bullshit meter, trying to gauge it.
“So this is a gift that has nothing to do with why you called me in. On Christmas Eve.”
“That’s correct.”
“I could just turn you down for whatever it is you have in mind and I could take this and walk out of here.”
“Yep. No strings. But you’d be missing out on an easy breezy, very lucrative gig.”
“Just get down to it then.”
Fusco rose from his seat, finding his jacket, holstering his gun.
“Come on. Let’s take a ride.” he said.
I’ve never actually seen a date palm pie so it’s hard to describe, but Jon and Virginia were sitting alone in an ornate dining room enjoying a slice.
“Seven more days. There’s still time.” Jon said.
“Eat.”
“I have an idea, but I’m going to need your help.”
Virginia set down her fork. This conversation was wearing on her more now – to the point where she was beginning to lose her appetite.
“Look. Whatever it is you’ve got in mind, it won’t work. Your father built a defective machine, Jon. The root of man’s evil doesn’t lie in his heart, it lies in his soul.”
“What if I managed to purge just one?”
“What do you mean? How would that change a thing?”
“Just hear me out, Mom. Father’s always said, ‘The darkest soul can harbor the brightest spirit.’ I want the chance to convert such a sinner, the person living in Dogflat Hollow right now who’s least likely to gain access to our neighborhood. I
f I can’t cleanse his polluted ways, then I’ll have wasted seven days. But if I can influence him to become pure, Father will have to concede that everyone deserves salvation. Evil loses, Mom. That’s what we’re all about, isn’t it?”
Virginia caressed Jon’s cheek. What a sweet kid.
“You’re the most thoughtful and caring being I’ve ever known. But returning to Dogflat Hollow now, your father would never allow it.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
Virginia chuckled.
“This is your father you’re talking about, honey. He knows everything. I’m sure he’s listening in right now.”
“Forgive me for saying this, Mom, but I think this whole notion about Father knowing absolutely everything might be a bit flawed.”
Virginia gasped.
“Think back. Did Father know beforehand that Eve would sample the forbidden fruit?” Jon asked.
“Well… no.”
“And after Abel was murdered and Father went looking for him and couldn’t find him, it took an angel to tell Father what Cain had done. Father was completely unaware.”
Virginia found her fork, revisiting her dessert, visibly uncomfortable now. He made valid points but this was heretical talk.
“I think I baked too many fronds into this pie.” she said. What she really meant was, Lalalalalalala. I didn’t hear any of that.
“Look at me, Mom.”
Virginia took her time but she finally found his pleading gaze.
“I need your help.” Jon said.
“Stop it. Just stop it.”
Virginia downed the rest of her wine in one huge gulp and left. At that moment, unbeknownst to either of them, Dogflat Hollow’s fate was suddenly sealed. Through a blanketed window, a shooting star rocketed across the sky.
It turns out that the main thoroughfare leading into Ouranos was guarded by an imposing gate.
A smattering of people, all wearing issued clothing, shuffled forward in single file. Some of them seemed confident and smiled proudly, but most – an epidemic of guilty faces and fearful eyes – fidgeted anxiously.
The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow Page 1
