by Mark Carver
He turned his face towards the glorious California sunshine for a few moments, then headed to the gray storage shed nestled in the far right corner of the yard. Conan followed closely on his heels, though the ancient dog’s age was catching up with him and Cameron could hear him wheezing slightly. He made a mental note to take him to the vet this week for a check-up.
As he fiddled with the sturdy padlock on the aluminum doors, he cast what he hoped was a casual glance towards Mrs. Goldstein’s back porch. No sign of the mystery girl.
He looked down and glanced at Conan.
“Just curious,” he stated offhandedly.
Conan sneezed.
Cameron snatched the lock away and threw the doors open wide. Warm rays of morning sunshine streamed into the workshop, and the air sparkled with the glint of brilliant steel. Countless swords and knives in various stages of completion gleamed in the glow, and several plastic garbage bins were filled with coiled silver shavings.
The aluminum shed was only eight feet wide and ten feet long. But when it stood open like this with the sunlight illuminating the weapons, lathes, bores, drills, belt sanders, chunks of foam, and shapeless mounds of modeling clay, it seemed like a soaring cathedral.
And to Cameron, that’s exactly what it was.
He breathed deeply, staring absently at the tiny dust motes drifting through the air. He loved his job, more than anything in the world. Even more than Conan, he had to admit to himself, though he threw a worried glance over his shoulder, in case the dog could hear his thoughts.
He stepped inside and tossed the padlock onto a work bench and donned a well-worn pair of leather gloves. After a moment's consideration, he took them off.
His eyes focused on a lump of clay covered by a damp piece of cheesecloth. He approached it like a hunter stalking its prey. He slowly removed the cloth, peering down at the half-finished demon head resting on the lazy Susan, its mouth open in a silent snarl, as if protesting its ignoble perch.
Cameron scooted over an ancient wooden stool and sat down, never taking his eyes off of the sculpture. He turned the lazy Susan inch by inch, studying every angle and groove of the disembodied head. He looked up at the wall covered with sketches, and he frowned.
This one was giving him a lot of trouble. He had been commissioned by the publishers of Doom Rift, a very popular graphic novel, to replicate the Sword of Abaddon, a key weapon in the story. This would normally be a piece of cake, something that Cameron had done at least half a dozen times for various clients.
But the problem was that the graphic artist who had illustrated this particular novel had a very sparse, almost sketchy artistic style, with an emphasis on movement rather than detail. This meant that it was hard to get a clear picture of the Sword of Abaddon as it sliced through angels and heavenly sentinels. And to make matters worse, the artist who had conceived of the sword died in a car accident only two months after the graphic novel’s publication. The book became an instant best-seller, but it was now impossible to request a more detailed drawing. It was up to Cameron to interpret what he saw on the page and turn it into a three-dimensional life-size weapon that would be immediately recognizable as the Sword of Abaddon.
This where he found himself today, staring at a ferocious demon head that was situated where the blade met the hilt. He had made several scans of the panels from the book where the sword was prominently featured and had them blown up and mounted on the opposite wall as references, but it was of little help. He had shown his own sketches to a few buddies who were hardcore Doom Rift fans, but all of them had differing opinions about the placement of the demon’s teeth, whether or not it had horns for eyebrows, etc.
He sighed as rubbed his temples. He knew he had to get this job right. One does not screw up the Sword of Abaddon and expect to keep one’s reputation. He turned around to look at Conan, who sat patiently outside the workshop. For some reason, the dog never came inside. Maybe it was because Cameron had once joked that he was making special dog-carving knives for restaurants in China.
The gray, lumpy demon laughed at him from atop the turntable, like some kind of magic trick from hell. Cameron glowered back and cracked his knuckles.
You know what? Forget it. I’m going to do it the way I see it, and if the fans have a problem with it, then they have a problem with it.
****
“Cameron McConnell! I love it! It’s incredible!”
Every inch of the man’s watermelon-sized face seemed to be smiling. Cameron smiled back.
“Aw, c’mon Peter, you’re just saying that because it’s true.”
Peter turned his mountainous body towards him.
“You’re damn right it’s true. Look at this thing! You know, this is exactly how I imagined the demon’s head when I read the book.”
A huge weight in the pit of Cameron’s stomach vanished. If Peter Kowalski, essentially the god of the Doom Rift universe, liked his work, then everyone else would as well, or else risk being ostracized by their peers.
“I’m really glad to hear you say that, Peter,” Cameron said. “I’ll be honest, that thing kept me up at night.”
Peter held the sword aloft, studying it like a jeweler examining a gem. “You and everybody else. I can’t tell you how many blasphemous drawings I’ve seen on the internet. One kid, probably some loser in junior high, drew it smiling. Can you believe that? Smiling? It’s a demon, for crying out loud. It’s screaming, not smiling. Even my two-year-old could tell that.”
Cameron nodded as he looked over Peter’s shoulder.
“This is going to be quite a show,” he said.
Peter turned around to glance at the hubbub behind him. A seething mass of people were scurrying about, assembling booths, hoisting banners, laying out merchandise, adjusting their costumes.
“Yeah,” Peter said proudly, swaying like a gun-slinging sheriff, “last year, RiftCon had only twenty booths. This year, it’s over sixty. Plus, the new writers are going to make a surprise appearance later tonight. Keep that on the DL.”
Cameron nodded and watched two scantily-clad Hell Sirens prance by. One of them cast a sizzling glance towards him with her blood-red eyes.
Cameron swallowed roughly and turned back to his friend. “Well, listen man, I’ve got to take off. I have some new things I’m working on…”
“What? You’re leaving? Dude, we’re going to unveil the sword in a few hours! Everyone will want to meet you and take pictures with you!”
Cameron shifted nervously from left foot to right. “Yeah, I know, but that’s not really my thing. I’m not into the whole pictures and autograph scene.”
Peter wasn’t listening. “Dude, dude, you have just immortalized a priceless piece of Doom Rift history! This is it, the end of the squabbling! You have made the definitive Sword of Abaddon. This thing is beyond wicked! You’re like that guy, what’s his name?”
“What guy?”
“You know, that dude who made those awesome motorcycles and had all those chicks and TV shows…”
“Jesse James?”
“Yes! You’re the Jesse James of Doom Rift!”
“Seriously, Peter, that sounds ridiculous. Plus, a lot of people hate that guy.”
“But he made killer bikes. Who cares about the person behind the mask; it’s all about what the hands produce.”
He clutched the sword close to his body, even though he and Cameron were tucked in a corner away from any prying eyes.
“I’m telling you, man, people would kill to get their hands on this thing. It goes up for auction at two o’clock. I’m calling ten grand, easily.”
Cameron’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t give in. “I’m sorry Peter, I like to stay in the background. You know, part of the mystique.”
Peter frowned thoughtfully as he mulled Cameron’s words.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
He slipped the sword into a sheath of black velvet and placed his hand on Cameron’s shoulder.
“Last chance, bro.
There’s going to be one hell of a party afterwards, and once people find out who made this beast, you’re going to have hordes of demon chicks fighting each other to get their hands on your other sword, if you know what I mean.”
He winked and jabbed Cameron in the ribs with his elbow. Cameron disguised his pain with a smile as he rubbed his side.
“Yeah Peter, I know what you mean. Thanks anyway, but I’m going to roll. I’ll check out the pictures online later.”
“You got it bro,” Peter said as he shook Cameron’s hand. “This is awesome man, I really mean it. I’ve seen a lot of your creations and this is the best, by far.”
Cameron felt a warm feeling swelling inside his chest. “Thanks Peter.”
“You’re welcome.” He pointed at the envelope corner sticking out of Cameron’s jeans pocket. “Don’t spend that all in once place.”
He winked lasciviously again and stalked towards the convention preparations, trying to look inconspicuous with the sword pressed against his massive thigh. Cameron chuckled to himself, then took the check out of his pocket. His face lit up like a star.
Five thousand dollars…
Not bad for three weeks’ work, and that’s along with the other well-paying projects he was working on at the same time.
He strode out of the convention center with his head held high. He surrendered his work pass at the front desk and marched out to his car in the parking lot. Peter’s words echoed in his brain.
“Don’t spend it all in one place…”
A Cheshire cat smile spread across his face as he yanked out his phone and flipped it open.
“Carl?” he said after a few rings. “Carl, it’s me…Yeah…tell me you’ve still got it… All right, that’s what I want to hear. Get her gassed and ready; I’ve got the full amount… Yep, see you tomorrow.”
He closed his eyes as he ended the call.
Tomorrow was going to be a good day.
****
“WAAAH-HOOOO!”
Cameron leaned into the curve and felt a tingle rush through his nerves. The Ducati Diavel Carbon motorcycle seemed to melt into the road, and for a moment he felt like he was gliding over the asphalt like a boat on water. Trees, signs, and cars whipping past were just indecipherable smudges of color, but Cameron’s eyes were glued to the road.
This was an absolutely awesome feeling. He’d ridden many bikes before, and even owned a couple, but nothing even close to this. The Ducati seemed to purr and roar at the same time, a gentle beast that was completely aware of its power but supple to its master’s touch. Cameron leaned right, then left, then right… Every curve was as smooth as butter.
He sliced through a swooping horseshoe curve like a razor and glanced down at the speedometer.
Sixty miles per hour!
His heart pounded as quickly as the pistons beneath his seat as he revved the throttle, blasting through a straight stretch of road and doing almost ninety. He saw another curve up ahead and he shifted down. The motorcycle seemed to sense just how much speed was necessary to take the curve at a safe yet exciting velocity.
His helmet muffled his cries of exhilaration as he zoomed down the road, a black and crimson bolt of speed and adrenaline.
Three hours later, he rumbled back into his driveway. The bike purred impatiently; it was clearly not ready to go home.
Cameron reluctantly shut off the bike and whipped the helmet off his head. He mussed his hair with an excited howl.
A voice chuckled behind him. He turned and froze.
“Hi,” his new neighbor said, squinting in the sun as she studied his bike.
“Uh, hi,” Cameron replied, holding his helmet like a thief caught shoplifting.
She was wearing a spray-on jogging outfit again. This time it was black and gray. The words “Dream Body Inc.” were stretched across her chest.
Cameron blinked rapidly. Dream body...
“Cool motorcycle,” she said. She had a strong Southern accent.
“Thanks. I, uh…I just got it.”
The woman nodded as if she already knew, but she didn’t say anything.
Cameron cleared his throat to head off the impending awkward silence.
“You, uh, you know motorcycles?”
She shook her head. “Not really. My daddy had one but I barely saw him. I had a friend in high school that got pretty banged up when she wrecked while riding her with her boyfriend, so I’ve tried to stay clear of them.”
Cameron’s face fell. “Oh.”
Strike one.
“My name’s Mindy,” the woman said as she stuck out her hand.
Cameron shook it politely.
“Cameron. Nice to meet you.”
Mindy nodded again, keeping her eyes on him without speaking. It was starting to make him a bit uncomfortable. Maybe where she came from, girls waited for the men to steer the conversation.
Cameron’s mind raced furiously. He didn’t want to bore her or come across as a dumb brute who couldn't hold a conversation, but his mind felt like a great empty cave with only a few bats flying around. He found himself wishing her jogging clothes were a little bit, well, more.
“So, uh, Mindy,” he stammered, “are you… are you related to Mrs. Goldstein?”
“Yeah, she’s my aunty. Or she was.”
Cameron nodded absently. “When I saw you before, I was wondering if you were… Wait, what do you mean ‘was?’”
Mindy squinted up at him with an odd expression. “You don’t know? You’re her next door neighbor.”
Cameron felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever the problem was, he had been derelict in his duties as a neighbor, and Mindy, coming from a long tradition of Southern hospitality, would certainly not excuse such behavior.
Strike two.
“I, well, I’ve been really, really busy, and…”
His words trailed off as he noticed Mindy looking down at his bike, then back at him. Her eyes said, Yeah, real busy.
“My aunty died last week. You didn’t know she was sick?”
Cameron grasped for the only straw he could. “Well, I did notice that her flowers weren’t looking so good, and she is borderline OCD about those things…”
Mindy cocked her hips and glared at him with a very unamused expression.
Cameron cleared his throat again.
“I’m sorry, I should have come over. I feel really bad. She was a wonderful lady with a sweet heart. She was a nurturer, taking care of anything that grew, whether it was people or flowers.”
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath as he watched Mindy and hoped for a miracle.
He must have said something right, because her expression softened immediately, and she stared wistfully over Cameron’s shoulder at her aunt's house.
“You’re right, that’s exactly the kind of person that she was. Always caring, always giving. She was Jewish, and you know what people always say about the Jews, that they’re greedy and everything, but she was completely the opposite.”
Mindy sighed as she continued to gaze off into the distance, oblivious to Cameron’s surprised expression.
She’s definitely got a lot to learn about what she can and can’t say in California.
“I’m afraid to ask, but how did you aunt die?”
“Leukemia. She’d been battling it for years, but she never told anybody. She was a trooper. I guess she didn’t want to come across as weak. Her family came to America to escape the Nazis. Did you know that?”
Cameron shook his head.
“My aunty said that when they came here, she swore she would never run from anything again. And she didn’t. Now she’s up there in heaven, surrounded by as many pretty flowers as she can imagine.”
Cameron didn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he just nodded.
Mindy’s whole body lifted, then slumped with a heavy sigh. Cameron was struck by how cute it sounded, and the thought made him blush. Mindy took notice and turned away for a moment to hide her smile
.
A cluster of birds flew by, their playful chatter disrupting the silence. Mindy turned back to Cameron, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“My aunty didn’t have any children, and most of her family is still in Europe, so she left me her house. I was always her favorite niece,” she added with a note of pride.
“Well, you shouldn’t have any trouble turning it around,” Cameron said. “The market around here is hot as jalapeños.”
Mindy nodded thoughtfully. “Good to know. But I’m not sure I want to sell it just yet. I’m not from around here, you might have guessed, and I think it would do me some good to see a different part of the country and just, you know, get away from it all and clear my head.”
Cameron wasn’t sure what she meant, but he nodded his agreement. He opened his mouth to say something but Mindy pulled out in front of him.
“After I quit my job selling insurance, I just felt this need to explore myself…“
Cameron raised his eyebrows.
“…And then I caught my deadbeat boyfriend sleeping with his old girlfriend from high school who had just moved back into town. It was like a sign from the universe, you know? Telling me to shed the old skin and see what’s out there waiting for me. So I kicked his two-timing ass to the curb, and I’m sitting alone thinking to myself, ‘What am I going to do now?’ I almost called him to see if he would take me back but this voice inside me kept telling me, ‘Mindy, girl, be strong. He’s the problem, not you.’ And then my aunty died, which is terrible…I’m not saying I’m glad or anything, but the timing was just right for both of us, I think. I got a call from the lawyer saying I had this beautiful house out in California, so I threw everything in the Jeep and hit the road.”
She locked eyes with him.
“And here I am.”
Cameron closed his mouth with a snap. “That’s…I’m sorry you had a rough time. But you’re right, the timing is good.”
He realized how that sounded and he started to get flustered. “I mean, I’m really sorry about your aunt, and you’re right, your boyfriend was a jerk to cheat on you… I mean, it’s none of my business, I just…”
Mindy smiled a bright, beaming smile. “I know what you mean. Thanks. You’re sweet.”
