by P. J. Day
“What’d the doctor say?” the man asked.
“He’s not smiling like when I first got here. He smiles, but not the same kind of smiles. They seemed kinda forced.”
The man shot a glance toward a corner of the room where a rolling entertainment kiosk holding a television and a video game console sat unplugged and unused. “Haven’t been playing much?”
“No,” the boy said. “Not really into it.”
“How about we fire up a game? You and me. I’ll let you have the rocket launcher this time.”
“No, thanks. It’s all right.”
“I’m surprised. You’re always itching to play.”
“I’m just worried about my mom and dad and Natalie.”
The man got up from the pastel blue chair and took a seat at the foot of the bed. He flashed the occasional glance toward the door. The nurse hadn’t been scheduled to come in yet, but the last thing the man wanted was to get caught in Isaac’s room past visiting hours. That would’ve just complicated everything.
“What worries you the most?” asked the man.
“That they’ll be sad if, or when, you know—” the boy said, eyes tilting downward, and shaking his head, “I can’t say that word, I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to say it,” interrupted the man. “That’s noble of you. You’re the only kid in this entire hospital who’s expressed that thought. I want you to know that.”
“Really? My family is the most important thing. Shouldn’t it be?”
“But you don’t think you’re going to beat this?”
“After the doctor told my parents he had to stop treatment—chemotherapy, he took my Mom and Dad outside the door to talk. I saw them through the window. It wasn’t just Mom who cried. Dad cried. That’s how I knew.”
“Things changed since then?” asked the man.
“Yeah. It’s different. They bought me more stuff. Now I have every first-person shooter on that system. I got Disneyland passes. I only want to talk to them more...about everything, but they just buy me stuff. They give it to me and leave kinda soon. They don’t stay and talk as much as they used to.”
“Grownups cope differently. You’re handling the situation better than most kids in this hospital. You’re tough.”
“Thanks,” said Isaac. “They ask me how I am, but every time I tell Mom it hurts, she cries and leaves. Now, when she asks, I just say, ‘Fine.’”
The man nodded. “If you beat this, besides Disneyland, what would be the first thing you’d do?”
“You... you think I’m going to get better?”
“Where do you think you’ll go if you don’t?”
“I don’t know... heaven?”
“Which would you want more? To be with your family, or go to heaven?”
“My family. I make them laugh, they make me laugh. I’m not perfect. I get in trouble sometimes, but Mom... Dad, they always make me feel safe,” said Isaac.
“So, why not heaven?” the man asked.
Pensively, the boy lowered his eyes. When he raised them, he said, “Everybody seems to want to go there, but I don’t know what it’s like. They don’t seem to know either.”
“From what I hear, it’s pretty swell there, but hard to get into, kinda like an Ivy League school—you know what the Ivy League is, right?”
Isaac shook his head.
The young man stood up from the end of the bed. He walked toward the door and glanced out the small window. He looked left and right, and then walked back toward Isaac. He leaned next to the boy’s bedside, and patted the back of his head. “Don’t change. Don’t ever change, you got me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your loyalty to those who truly love you is a gift. Spread that around.”
“Okay.”
“You hold grudges?”
“No. People have their bad days about stuff. Next day, everything’s okay again.”
“Good.”
The man put his thin hand on the boy’s forehead, as if he were checking his temperature and closed his eyes. Isaac felt a little hot. A pleasant fizzle—as if a warm electric eel slithered in and around his vertebrae—traveled throughout his body. A strange electrical current surged through him, all the way to his fingertips and toes.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked.
The man took his hand away from Isaac’s forehead, stood straight and said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For convincing me.”
“Of what?” Isaac laughed.
“To do the right thing.”
“Okay? You’re welcome, I guess.”
The young man stretched out his arm and offered a horizontal fist. Isaac hesitated at first. It looked like a salute, but eventually gave it a light fist bump.
“Harder,” the man said.
Isaac cocked his arm back and smacked the man’s fist.
“There you go... you look better.”
“Yeah?” Isaac said. “I do feel a bit better.”
“Tomorrow, when they discharge you, have your father call the insurance company. Have him ask for Rick Baird. Don’t forget that name now. It’s similar to the lead character’s name from X-Wars—you know, Harold Baird.”
“Okay,” said the boy.
“Tell your father to tell Baird to shred the denial letter.”
“Rick Baird. Denial letter… shred it. Got it.”
The man walked to the door and again looked out the window. He quickly glanced back at Isaac. “Make sure your dad tells him he’s on notice, too, okay?”
Isaac nodded.
The man opened the door, stuck out his head and looked both ways.
“You never told me your name,” said Isaac.
The man turned around with a sly grin. “Batman.”
“Batman? Really?”
“No, but I like Batman.”
“Okay,” the boy chuckled.
He smiled at Isaac and slipped through the door and into the hallway.
The young man in the black hoodie and the Pumas disappeared.
So did the pain in young Isaac’s leg.
Chapter One
The Maledicted Transformation
Lying in bed with his eyes closed, Adam Cagle gripped his white cotton sheets and waited for a reply, a twitch, or the warmth of a finely contoured blonde. Unfortunately for him, the sudden onset of stomach acid that raced up his esophagus was the only thing that greeted him that morning, the same morning where, suddenly and catastrophically, his life as the most successful and handsome fashion editor in the U.S. of A. was about to be cast into chaos.
It appeared that Adam had been quite neglectful of his role in the grand, multi-dimensional scheme of things. Seduced by flesh and purses, lipstick and heels, and the occasional line of nose candy, he was about to be reminded of his ordained function within the universe, and clearly one that he had not fulfilled.
He lifted his heavy head from one of his pillows and groaned loudly. The inside of his skull felt as if it were filled with a fistful of marbles, marbles that collectively bashed against the walls of his cranium whenever he’d tilt his head.
Last flippin’ time you mix wine and fruity spirits.
His eyes opened slowly. His bedroom appeared blurry, as if he were looking at it through a pair of Vaseline-smeared bifocals. He raised his heavy arms and examined his hands—through the fogged lenses of his eyes, his fingers seemed thick and meaty.
A loss of control resonated in his voice as he said out loud, “Heather? Heather, are you there?”
No one responded.
Clumsily, he scooted out of his bed and staggered through his bedroom, catching himself on one of the solid oak bedposts. He paused and scanned his room. Shadows filtered against the wall as light splashed in from the skylight in the hallway. Adam narrowed his eyes, attempting to decipher the Lascaux-like forms that played with his head.
With renewed resolve, he took another step toward the bathroom and stumbled again,
this time landing against a nightstand where he kept his trusty bottle of potassium chloride, which he used to mask his $5,000-a-month coke habit. He squirted a couple of drops in each eye and blinked. The solution didn’t help clear his mirage-like shimmering vision.
“Heather, where are you?” he whined while stepping into the bathroom. “My eyes are stinging; I kinda need your help here.”
Inside Adams’s luxurious bathroom, Heather sat on a small stool by the sink, staring at the floor in deep thought; her naked back faced him as she brushed her long, Fructis-sponsored locks.
Upon seeing the obscured siren-like form, Adam walked up right behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder so he could gather his balance.
Eventually, his glazed eyeballs adjusted. He looked down, and to his astonishment, he noticed a swollen pink hand blotched with diabetic rashes, contrasting against her young, bronzed and smooth skin.
Adam snapped his head toward the large mirror.
The man he knew was gone.
Heather peered at Adam in the mirror and screamed. She sprang from her stool and raced toward one of the robes that hung by the bathroom door. “Adam?” she asked, bewildered and shocked, quickly covering her naked body. “Oh my God, what happened to you? Was it the lobster?”
Adam shook his head as he stared at a pock-marked, slightly hunchbacked, 450-pound version of himself in the mirror. He smoothed over his third chin with his hand, then the belly that overlapped his crotch and finally, the love handles that meshed with his rotund backside.
“Adam, do you want me to call 911?”
He didn’t reply, but he instinctively knew what he had done to deserve his sudden bout of cursed bloat.
Adam stormed out of the bathroom and clambered through the multiple high arches that separated each of his rooms. He made his way to the living room where he stopped in front of the fireplace. With controlled haste, he grabbed the scented logs from the gold-plated cradle and tossed them into the hearth.
Heather came running into the living room. “Adam, sweetie, what the hell are you doing building a fire? You need to see a doctor immediately.”
Adam snapped his head toward Heather. “Get out!”
“What?”
“Heather, just leave.”
“But—”
“Now!” he screamed.
Heather grabbed the dress and heels she’d willingly shed last night in the living room. Her last pleasant memory of Adam was that of a fit man who owned a six-pack, toned arms, barrel chest, eyes colored like the bluest sea and wavy hair like a wind-spun field of wheat.
“Adam, you need help,” she shrieked, her eyes watering.
Adam glared menacingly. “Out!”
All Heather saw was a stranger who dismissed her concern with callous, brutish indifference. An injured beast had implored for her sudden exit so he could marinate in his own pain.
Sobbing, she exited the penthouse, slamming the door behind her.
Adam didn’t flinch at Heather’s reaction. Instead, he grabbed a match from the top of the fireplace, lit it and calmly tossed it onto the logs. He sat in his chair, bowed his head and waited for the fire to take hold. “Jrue, I submit, for you are my one true lord and father. I succumb to your overreaching power and guidance,” he breathed through his clenched teeth.
Embers whirled through the air; cinders glowed, illuminating the walls of the salon with color, overwhelming the morning sunlight that blazed through the wooden blinds. The fiery grate flashed its traditional red and yellow glow and then flickered into a haunting blue splendor.
“Lelantos,” remarked the gruff and sonorous voice from the flames.
“Why have you cursed me like this, Father? I still serve you,” Adam said, his voice cracking with restraint.
“You have succumbed to the lesser plane of existence.”
“I haven’t forgotten why I’m here,” Adam said. He then grabbed one of the rolls from his belly, which popped out as he sat on his chair. “This punishment is inequitable.”
“You have been searching for three years now. You are distracted. You must find Theolodus before it is too late.”
“I know... I know in my heart he’s here in L.A., which is why I took this job. I’m going to eventually find him, while maintaining our end of the bargain. The traitorous bastard has a taste for supermodels, actresses and art.”
The flame was skeptical. “I don’t trust your judgment, Lelantos.”
“Lord, I have met women who have his mark on their necks. Beautiful women… connected women. The trail leads to Los Angeles. He’s here. Grant me more time, please.”
The sapphiric blaze erupted with laughter. “Three years, Lelantos. The only success you have accrued in that time has been your own.”
The embers grew larger as they spit out of the fireplace like the tracers of a nocturnal battlefield.
“If Theolodus stays on this plane, war is all but guaranteed. The course of the Prophecy cannot be altered.”
Adam crouched. His meaty knee hit the floor like Atlas balancing two Earths on his shoulder. He asked, “Is there any way you can grant me my previous form as I continue my search?”
“Your current form is sufficient to locate Theolodus. You say his presence is near. We do not need the excesses of Earth bestowing further distractions upon you.”
“But I need every advantage I can get for my search. I ask one last time to grant me my old form.”
The flame remained silent.
Adam wobbled upright and reached down for more logs.
“No need to feed my flame,” Jrue said. “I’ve said my piece. Your commitment is no longer tied to the temptations of Earth. You must find Theolodus before the Ides of May.”
“That is just a few weeks from now,” declared Adam.
The flame flickered down to its last remaining crimson cinder and Jrue’s voice echoed one final time before trailing off into the empty chasm between dimensions: “Don’t be tempted by humanity. It is a fleeting moment in time,” he said. “The preservation of Pit is your priority.”
Adam stared at the fireplace as it grew dark. His fists tightly closed as he realized his final days on Earth were going to be spent inside this grotesque vessel.
He lumbered toward the solid oak desk by the large archway and picked up the cordless phone. He activated the speaker function and dialed his assistant. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a long cloth tape measure and wrapped it around his waist.
“Spencer,” he said. “...Spencer, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Mr. Cagle,” replied the soft male voice on the line.
“How come you don’t say something right away when you answer the phone? That’s really annoying.”
“I... I was toasting a bagel, sir.”
“Listen, I need you to go to the nearest Big and Tall and get me a suit. Make sure the waist is 54 inches.”
“Is this for a new feature or did all those days of ignoring your personal trainers finally get to you?” Spencer said, with a light chuckle.
“Spencer, I don’t know... of course not… just don’t ask any questions. Do what I say, please,” Adam commanded, as he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“...enough, Spencer. Bad morning.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have those, too. Inseam, sir?”
“The same as always. And a dress shirt. Long sleeves.”
“Very good, sir. What color should the suit be?”
“Dammit!” he said, growing angrier, the longer he stared in the mirror. “Any stupid color will do, all right?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be over as fast as I can.”
Adam hung up the phone and flung it across the salon, breaking the mirror into several pieces, as his fractured and distorted image reflected back at him.
The Sunset Prophecy
is available at:
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback
Also available:
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Mercy’s Magic
A novel by P.J. Day
and Elizabeth Basque
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
Mercy downed her coffee and poured herself another cup as she watched the drama unfold on her favorite telenovela, Ámamame, Maldito, whose translation in English of Love me, Bastard always put a smile on Mercy’s face. The curvy, vivacious, raven-haired Carmen just found out that her daughter, Teresa, was pregnant, with none other than Marco the mechanic, son of Carmen’s nemesis, Margarita! This handed the catty rivals an ironic and fateful twist: both were now grandmothers and both were now related by blood.
“I knew it... this is so predictable, but I can’t stop watching,” Mercy muttered to herself, as she leaned over the island counter, watching the living room TV from afar.
“Mercy!”
She tore her eyes away from the television and faced her young daughter, Terra. “Call me Mom, please,” Mercy said gently.
“I did,” Terra countered. “I called you three times, but you didn’t answer.”
Mercy smiled. Terra was eating a bowl of oatmeal, the homemade kind, that Mercy had prepared for her right before the telenovela’s revelation of Carmen and Margarita’s cursed entwinement. “What is it?” she asked her daughter.
“Did you sign my homework?” Terra’s beautiful, dark, chocolate-colored eyes gazed up at her mother’s.
“Of course I did,” Mercy answered. “You did a great job.”
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Burke wants to talk with you again,” she said.
“Why, Terra?”
“I got in trouble at school yesterday...”
Mercy rolled her eyes. She had been up all night working on a case and had just started her new P.I. business at the start of summer. Like clockwork and on weeknights, Mercy had been burning the midnight oil on a case. She kept odd hours, maintaining deadlines for clients and Orange P.D., and doing research, which sometimes meant just staring at a faded black and white government-issued photograph of someone’s expressionless face for hours. It was certainly a skill that sounded easy enough and ridiculous to most, but to someone with Mercy’s talents, this required hours of unfettered concentration.
