by Austin Bates
The phone began buzzing in the glove box. He turned the radio on to drown out the sound, and began counting the beats in the music. He couldn’t help it. He was just glad there was no one in the car with him. Losing count when he felt this way made it difficult to stay focused, and he desperately needed to keep his cool.
“We’re on the road,” he told himself. “No need to panic now. Nobody can find us now. We’re in the wind.”
He sighed, relieved, as he heard the words. He relaxed just a little, and counted twelve beats before he felt compelled to check the road behind him. At least he managed to count in his head now. That had taken him years to accomplish, and he was still proud of the achievement. His school years had been hell on earth, between his habit of counting out loud and his inability to keep still. He’d spent half his time in trouble for disturbing class, and the other half killing the curve with his high marks; he’d been an outcast on all sides, and the feeling that he was an impostor in his own life had carried over into adulthood.
It didn’t help that they wanted him to pretend to be something he wasn’t. At school, and now with his work; the pests were constantly riding him to make an effort to appear to be someone else. He’d imagined, back when he was young and innocent, that his chosen career would allow him to be exactly who he was, that he wouldn’t have to face the pressure to be interesting in public once he’d achieved success. He’d only recently learned the truth; no matter who he was or what he did, somebody, somewhere, would expect him to put on a show.
He couldn’t face it, so he ran. He would continue his work in solitude, cut off from the rest of humanity and all of their expectations. They could have what he produced, but he would be damned if he let them have him.
He’d counted two-thousand, five-hundred, and twenty-two beats by the time he pulled onto the narrow snow-packed road that led to his cabin. The trees enveloped him in front and behind, shutting out everything else. The silence penetrated the car, and he shut off the radio to listen to it. Nothing but the crunch of his tires on the icy snow and the gentle rumble of his engine.
Once he turned off the engine, there were no sounds at all. He closed his eyes and absorbed the silence, pulling it into his head, inviting it to shut off the noise within. It couldn’t, of course; nothing really could. But it could muffle it, just a little, just enough for him to breathe deeply enough to pop the bubble of anxiety that lived in his chest.
It would be back, soon enough. For now, it was time for Rick to take refuge in his tiny, quiet cabin. He picked up his jacket, uncovering the only possession he actually cared about, and slipped it on. Winter was clinging to the year with ferocious determination, and it was sixteen degrees outside despite the calendar’s insistence that spring had arrived.
He swept his fingers lovingly over the laptop case, and unbuckled the seatbelt. He cradled the computer carefully against him as he grabbed his duffel bag from the car, and walked up to the tiny cabin. He’d fallen in love with the cabin the moment he’d seen it; it was built in a cube, sixteen feet wide, sixteen feet deep, and sixteen feet tall. A little screened-in porch on the front of the house doubled as firewood storage, and it was full to bursting. He knew before he entered that the tiny basement was also filled with supplies. Food, consumables, alcohol, and, of course, coffee; everything he would need over the next three months. It was his little cube of perfection, lost in the woods. The cabin door objected loudly when he opened it and repeated its complaint as he closed it.
“Okay, okay, okay,” he told it.
He dropped the duffel bag and set his computer on top so he could pull his sticky notes and a pen from his breast pocket, where they stayed at all times. He wrote oil please in block letters and stuck the note to the door. The cabin smelled of cold wood and emptiness. It was a depressing smell and was emphasized by the chill he felt in his bones; so he switched the heater on and stood over a vent in the floor, letting the hot air thaw his frozen feet.
“Much better,” he said wryly. “Now it just smells like baked mouse poop.”
The room slowly warmed, and he turned the light on to take in the room. It was just as he’d left it; the antique vanity he used as a writing desk sat elegantly against the wall, framed by the couch on one side and the fireplace on the other. The tiny kitchenette sparkled dully in the yellow light, its white surfaces contrasting comfortingly with the deep browns of the walls and floor. The little round wrought-iron patio table he used as a dining table sat invitingly in the little breakfast nook, its glass reflecting the latticework of frost creeping over the window.
To his right, the stairs rose to the loft. He placed his laptop on the vanity and climbed the stairs, duffel bag in hand. He sighed happily as he stepped onto the platform. His big captain’s bed took up the majority of the space, snugly tucked under the window between bookcases. The wrought-iron railing sat two feet from the end of the bed, lending an unobstructed view of the kitchen. He tossed the bag into the tiny closet, eager to get to work now that he was home.
He hurried down the stairs to the bathroom, which was tucked away beneath them. That need handled, he moved to the kitchen for coffee and a snack. He’d discovered years ago that if he handled his immediate physical needs first, he could stay at his desk for hours a stretch, enabling him to fall completely into the story.
Food and drink in hand, he returned to the writing desk. He slid his precious laptop out of its case and gazed at the shiny chrome for a moment, appreciating the way the low light reflected off of it. It seemed almost molten sometimes, the way it shimmered and gleamed. He plugged it in and set the case aside. He watched, apparently with great interest, as the computer booted up. It took a few seconds longer than it usually did, and he bounced in his chair impatiently.
The instant it was up and running, he got to work. He opened the document he’d been working on for several weeks, and read back eight paragraphs. That was all it took for the anxiety to settle into its comfortable corner in the back of his mind. He wasn’t in his body anymore, he was in the body of Luther Van Weissan, vampire hunter extraordinaire.
Luther Van Weissan feared nothing and no one. He lived in the moment, killing beasts and bedding beautiful (and grateful) maidens throughout the world. He didn’t worry about what anyone thought, nor did he need to; men idolized him, women lusted after him, and vampires feared him. He was a god in his time.
Rick lost himself in the world he created. Time became meaningless, and his sandwich sat uneaten at his elbow. The moon rose on Luther as it rose on Rick, and the battles began in earnest. Every anxious little tic, every quirky little habit, every stray obsessive thought fell away in favor of the powerful vampire slayer and his imaginary world. Rick sat, typing, until his legs cramped and his fingers trembled. He couldn’t type like that, so he stood, stretching, feeling every joint pop across his body. He checked the time. He’d written the night away, and the sun had risen without him noticing.
He tossed the stale sandwich in the trash and made another. The coffee had burnt in its pot, and he wrinkled his nose at it. He cleaned it out and made another. He glanced out the window as the coffee brewed and realized the snow had begun in earnest. It caked up on the windowsill outside of the breakfast nook and blew past the window at a high velocity. He considered wading through the snow to get his phone out of the glove box and decided against it. That would just make him cold, which would mean he would want a shower, which would take time he didn’t care to spend away from his book. Restocked and eager to get back to the story, he took his seat. He read back eight paragraphs. Luther was inside the castle now, seeking out the king.
Rick sent him down a long, dank passageway, his crossbow at the ready. He placed eyes in the dark, just out of Luther’s sight. Something bugged Rick’s senses, but he ignored it. Luther was in danger. Not too much, of course. Luther knew the beasts were there. He could smell them. Rick made the hair on his arms stand up, and twirled him around, leaving the chapter on a cliffhanger as the beast launched itself
through the air.
Rick took a breath and heard something pounding rhythmically. He decided it wasn’t important and went back to the story. An epic battle scene left him breathless, and he sent the magnificent Luther down the hall, beastly, bloody bodies in his wake. They were no match for him! Rick chewed his lip. Had it been too easy? Should Luther have been injured? He pondered the problem as he continued the story. No, he decided. Luther needed his strength for what was coming. Tension rose in the spaces between the words on the page, as he wrote in a heartbeat rhythm, increasing the pace, increasing the danger….
The door blew open with a resounding bang, bringing a blast of cold air with it. Rick jumped out of his chair, knocking it over, and immediately tripped over it. He scrambled up, cursing his big clumsy feet. He pushed the mop of curly brown hair out of his face and glared at the mass of outerwear stomping its boots on the mat by the door.
“Nice work,” a voice said from within it.
“Who the hell are you?” Rick demanded. “And what’s the big idea? You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“I don’t know why,” the man said, peeling out of his scarf and coat. “I was beating on the door for fifteen minutes.”
Rick recognized him then, as he stripped out of his remaining outerwear and brushed his shining blonde hair back. His green eyes glittered like fire under his aristocratic brow, and he turned his Grecian nose up at his surroundings as his full lips curled into a sneer. Jules, his agent, and the bane of his existence.
“Is this where you come to hide?” he asked, brushing stray snow out of his closely trimmed moustache and beard.
“This is where I come to work,” Rick said, annoyed. “Which is why I didn’t hear you knock. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“You’ve been ignoring my calls for a week,” Jules said, exasperated. “Where is your phone?”
“In the car,” Rick told him.
“Why is it in the car?”
“Because it was annoying me. I couldn’t focus with it buzzing all the time.”
Jules raised an eyebrow.
“You do know that the buzzing means someone wants to talk to you, right?”
“Yeah, that’s why I left it in the car,” Rick said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away, now.”
“Not a chance,” Jules told him firmly. “I thought you died out here. If you stay any longer you probably will.”
“Why?”
“Why? There’s a storm coming, biggest storm on record. You need to get back into town, you’ll be smothered out here.”
“I have supplies,” Rick told him.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jules said sarcastically. “Enough coffee and laptop batteries to last a lifetime.”
“There’s food too,” Rick said defensively.
“Uh-huh. Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that there’s enough food. That doesn’t change the fact that you getting snowed in means you won’t be able to go on your tour.”
Ice filled Rick’s belly, and he took a step back.
“You weren’t serious about that,” he said, shaking his head.
“Dead serious,” Jules said firmly. “Your fans are dying to see Enrique R. Dominguez in the flesh, and they’ll pay big money for the privilege.”
“Enrique R. Dominguez doesn’t exist,” Rick pointed out.
“Of course he does,” Jules said, waving his hand dismissively.
“No, he doesn’t,” Rick insisted. “I saw the bio, Jules. I don’t hunt or fish, I don’t have lots of A-list celebrity girlfriends… or any girlfriends, you know that… I don’t go skydiving, and nobody will ever run into me on Sunset Boulevard. I don’t even know where that is.”
“Los Angeles,” Jules told him, his mouth twitching in amusement.
“Okay, so now I know, and I can tell you for doubly certain that I’ll never be there,” he said adamantly. “Enrique R. Dominguez lives a life I would never, ever, ever live. What are people gonna think when they see me? Wow, that’s the skinniest skydiving hunter I’ve ever seen?”
“You look fine,” Jules said, rolling his big, green eyes. “They’ll think you look like a risk taker.”
“Nuh-uh,” Rick said, shaking his head. “Risk takers are expected to take risks. The biggest risk I took this week was drinking expired milk.”
“Exactly! That’s why this will be good for you. Come on, we gotta go. The storm’s picking up speed and if we don’t get to the airport in the next couple hours we’ll be stuck here for ten days.”
“Ten days? The storm won’t last ten days, will it?”
“No, but they’re looking at twelve feet of snow up here, and then it’s supposed to rain. Do you know what that means?”
“The drought is over?”
“It means flooding, Rick. Your little… house? Is sitting at the base of an incline. This whole place will get washed out.”
“It’s sturdy,” Rick said stubbornly. “And there’s a kayak around here somewhere.”
Jules glared at him in frustration.
“You’d risk your life to avoid going on tour?” he asked angrily.
“Going on tour is risking my life, it’s kind of a lose-lose situation,” Rick said matter-of-factly.
“That’s ridiculous,” Jules said, exasperated. “You’ll have people with you. Nobody has made any death threats. You don’t even have a stalker! How could this possibly be a risk equal to crashing down the hill on a wave of water? Getting crushed under a landslide? Freezing to death? Explain this to me.”
“People,” Rick said, shuddering. “You want me to talk to the people.”
Chapter Three
Jules stared at him in disbelief. All of this trouble, disappearing off the face of the earth, leading him on a wild goose chase… because he didn’t want to talk to people?
“Talking to people,” Jules repeated. “You’ll risk your life and your job because you don’t want to talk to people?”
“Can’t,” Rick corrected. “Can’t talk to people. Won’t talk to people. Define it however you like, I’m not going.”
“Talking to me right now must be quite the superhuman feat,” Jules said wryly.
The ridiculousness of it all nearly brought a smile to Jules’s face, though his dark mood wouldn’t allow it to break through. Rick crossed his arms tightly over his stomach as though it had suddenly soured and glared at Jules.
“You’re making fun of me,” he said.
“No, no! Not at all,” Jules said, too quickly.
“Yes, you are. You’re making fun of me, which makes me angry, which makes me sick, which makes me not write. I need to write. You told me to write. You gave me a deadline. Go away now and let me meet my deadline.”
“The deadline isn’t important anymore,” Jules told him impatiently. “What’s important is getting this tour going. I’ve got three months’ worth of bookings, and the dates will all be finalized tonight. If you aren’t on that plane, we’re going to have to reschedule everything and it will cost us.”
“Then reschedule,” Rick said coldly.
“To when?”
“The eighth of never.”
“That’s not funny, Rick.”
“I’m not laughing, Jules.”
Jules sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding, and he didn’t have the patience for this conversation.
“Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about here?” he said, almost pleadingly.
“Nope,” Rick said carelessly.
“We’re looking at clearing three-hundred thousand dollars in sales, minimum. Half of that is yours. We’ll forfeit a huge chunk of that if we reschedule.”
“What am I going to do with one-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars?” Rick asked. “I’ve got more money than I know what to do with already. I keep giving it away, but there’s always more of it, and more after that. I don’t want more money, Jules, it makes me anxious.”
“Everything makes you anxious,” Jules s
napped. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t mean that. If you don’t want the money I won’t make you take it. But you still have to go on this tour.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve already made a lot of promises to a lot of people, and you’re expected to make an appearance.”
“I didn’t make the promises, you did. Hire an actor.”
“You did make a promise,” Jules reminded him.
“When?” Rick asked, looking startled.
“When you signed your contract. There’s a clause in there which states, ‘any marketing endeavors will be supported by the artist in forms including, but not limited to: recorded or physical appearances, autographs, and/or interviews, whichever is determined necessary for success by the Ernest & Jules Agency.’”
“You memorized the clause?”
“Of course I did,” Jules said. “I didn’t want to have to use it, but there it is. You signed it, you are beholden to it.”
Rick touched each of the fingers of his right hand to his thumb, one after the other, back and forth. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He rocked back and forth onto his toes, looking for a loophole, any loophole.
“Record me!” he burst. “Record me and play a video for them. You can even take videos of other people hunting and skydiving and stuff and just say it’s me. I could talk to a camera.”
Jules shook his head.
“But the contract says….” Rick began.
“The contract says that I get to determine what’s necessary, and I have determined that your physical presence is necessary.”
Rick paced the floor, counting his steps under his breath, playing with his fingers. His twitchiness irritated Jules, and Jules was irritated enough as it was.
