On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  “I, um, they’re uh, what’s the word I’m looking for -- frightening.”

  “I know. I love them so much. It’s like they possess me and make me buy them and all their cuddly little friends’ right up.”

  “Have you ever thought about counseling?” Satan said, trying to overt his eyes from the demonic little creatures.

  “Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Plough took him by the arm and led him over to the sofa where Dana Plough sat trying to avert the gazes of what her mother had affectionately deemed her brothers and sisters. “Now you just sit here. The refreshments are coming out in a sec. I made Rice Krispy Treats!”

  “I think I lost my appetite,” said Dana Plough.

  “You are a silly one, aren’t you,” Mrs. Plough disappeared into the kitchen, but her shrill shriek could still be heard as she yelled from the other room, “Larry, get in here!”

  “I have to go now.” Said Mr. Plough, a man who had been beaten over forty seven years of marriage into a life of servitude and quiet despair just waiting for the day when he would have the courage to take out his gun and shoot himself in the head.

  Satan and Dana Plough were left alone in the room and sat quietly transfixed on anything they could find around the room that didn’t have a fishing pole or a pair of ice skates in its glassy hands.

  Satan sat and tapped his fingers on his knees, giving out a noticeable sigh every few seconds. In return for his sighs Dana Plough would answer with a slight whimper.

  “So,” said Satan trying to find something to talk about while they awaited the rich smooth goodness of the chocolaty milk concoction.

  “So--.” Dana Plough said tapping her fingers nervously.

  “Those are your folks, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Your mom seems-uh- what’s the word? Happy?”

  “Very happy. Happy, happy, happy.”

  “That’s a good quality. Nothing wrong with happy.”

  “Nope. Nothing wrong with it at all. Happy is good. Happy is sound. Happy’s what makes the world go round.”

  “What?”

  “Something my mother would say like a war anthem.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yep.”

  The conversation fizzled into a black hole of half-hearted smiles and shrugs of shoulders. The silence was broken up by the ticking of a large wooden clock on the wall and by the intermittent screaming of Mrs. Plough at Mr. Plough about how much marshmallow substitute they should dole out to their guests.

  “Wanna go?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” exclaimed Satan as he leapt off the couch and bounded over the coffee table in one fell swoop.

  Before Dana Plough could pull herself off the couch the kitchen doors flung open and Mrs. Plough, carrying a large tray with an assortment of goodies, came wobbling in.

  Dana Plough struggled against hope to pry herself up from the sunken cushions and try a desperate attempt at escape, but it was no use; she was just too big and immobile to get any kind of running start.

  She formulated a quick plan that involved plowing down her elderly, beaming-with-pride mother and strewing the tray of chocolate milk and school fundraiser snacks into the air as a distraction tactic.

  Those plans went out the window as she came to the conclusion that she had sunk too far into the sofa and remembered that her mother had always been built like a human Weeble; you could knock her over but she wouldn’t fall down.

  Mrs. Plough sat the tray down and slipped into the space next to her daughter. She grabbed Dana Plough’s knee and clinched tight, causing Dana Plough to give a yelp of pain. The face of her little tank of a mother was absolutely glowing with pride that the fruit of her seventy six hours of labor had finally returned to the nest and brought along a child and an utterly gorgeous hunk of man meat. The family dynamic was complete after so many years of being pulled apart. Mrs. Plough wasn’t going to let it go and had the grip to ensure that it stayed that way.

  “Now, everyone sit down and we’ll get better acquainted, Mr. uh--?” Her smile traveled to the desperate face of Satan who was standing by the door, his hand frozen to the knob.

  “Mr. Campbell.”

  “I don’t see a ring on my daughter’s finger, but I do see a bun in the oven. I’m not sure how they do things where you’re from, but here in state’s capitol we don’t make the children whose seed we planted into bastards.”

  “Frankness. Good. Um, we haven’t gotten around to that discussion yet.”

  “Mr. Campbell, there is no time quite like the present.” Her smiling eyes never taking their penetrating gaze from his, even though he tried hard to find a hiding spot from it.

  “Um--”

  “It’s not that hard,” beamed Mrs. Plough, “just ask my daughter to marry you and we’ll get to the snacks.”

  *****

  Claudel King was not where most twelve year old boys should be during a school day. But to be fair, most twelve year old boys didn’t have their own business.

  Claudel’s Maps to the Stars was a start-up but he was sure that it would be hitting the big time with a few more suckers, er, sales. People wanted to know where all their favorite celebrities lived and had no sympathy or regard for them when it came to intruding in on their privacy. Besides, if you didn’t want strangers muddling through your garbage and taking photos of you in the shower with telescopic lenses you shouldn’t have signed that three picture deal with Sony.

  He had what he felt was a nice little operation. He had a good corner with a lot of traffic, an umbrella hooked up to a lawn chair, a folding table he had borrowed from the local youth center and a cooler filled with sodas and beer to sell to customers on hot summer days.

  He was fanning himself and swatting flies with one of his homemade maps when a car screeched its tires and came to a smoky stop in front of him. He put on his best innocent little kid face, patted his hair into a nice coif, and walked up to the car.

  A man rolled down the passenger side window while arguing with the woman seated next to him. It seemed to be a heated discussion about child labor laws and whether or not it was a good idea to buy a map from someone who looked more shifty and underhanded at twelve than most adult used car salesmen.

  Claudel waited patiently, preparing to give his best sales pitch, while the squabbling in the car died down. After a moment of silence Barnaby stuck his head out of the window and exchanged polite smiles with the twelve year old entrepreneur, whom on closer inspection did have a certain worldly look about him.

  “How much?”

  “Well, depends on what kind of a man you are sir.” Claudel said in what he deemed his best air of sweet speaking haggler. “I can see you’re a man of well defined qualities and predilections. I believe you don’t want to ask the question how much, but rather the question; how much is the enjoyment of a Claudel’s Map to the Stars going to provide me?”

  “I see.”

  “For God’s sake-- How much is the damn map?” Ketty screamed out frustrated by the little salesman’s propriety for selling more bull than crap.

  “Five bucks.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Barnaby.

  He handed the boy a five and took the map, handing it to Ketty. She opened it up and perused the siesta-red crayoned, hand drawn houses on the map.

  Claudel had seen this look before and slowly started to back off towards his stand. Ketty closed the map and waved a finger, calling over the pre-teen Donald Trump. Claudel inched closer to the car, a rehearsed smile pursed to his lips.

  “Any troubles, ma’am?”

  “Well, I have a few.” Her eyes never left the gaze of her targeted pitchman “Who are these people? I’ve never heard of most of these stars.”

  “Oh very big stars,” pleaded Claudel in his worst sales pitch, “Past, present and future, they’re all there. Take a look and find your favorite, or perhaps you’ll find someone who soon will be.”

  “Let’s cut out the prepared presentation for the tourists, m
ister. I didn’t fall off a turnip truck and I didn’t pay five bucks to find out where Tom Humlow lived, whoever the hell he is.”

  “Fine actor, played Sleestak warrior number five in three episodes of Land of the Lost. Next Olivier many people were to have said about, um- Tim?”

  “Tom Humlow?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I want our money back.”

  “Sorry, no refunds after you’ve opened it up.”

  “Why you little--!”

  “Never mind,” said Barnaby, “Her house is on here.”

  “You see, the man knows what a good map it is.” He smugly grinned.

  “I suggest you head back to school as soon as possible. I’m calling social services as soon as we leave here young man.”

  “No you can’t,” barked Barnaby, “we have to get to Dana Plough’s house.”

  “You heard the man, now drive”. Shouted Claudel, although he knew he was pushing buttons that would launch nuclear missiles of a major ass kicking.

  The car sped off, trailing with the sounds of unhappy customers. Claudel headed back to his wicker office, keeping an eye on the vehicle to see if it made any sign of doing a u-turn. The car pulled around the block and out of sight.

  After a few minutes Claudel settled back and cracked open a beer, resting his feet on top of his makeshift desk. This was turning out to be a pretty good day; he had sold one of his maps and didn’t need to find another corner because of it.

  *****

  Satan had half-heartedly proposed and Dana Plough had half-heartedly accepted in order to bate the appeasement of the browbeating mother hovering over her. Her mother’s hand clenched her thigh squeezing tighter with every ‘um’ and ‘I don’t know’ that stumbled from her daughter’s mouth.

  Glasses of chocolaty Ovaltine were clinked and Larry Plough was slapped upside of the head on account of as mediocre as her daughter’s engagement had been, it had been hundreds of times better than what she had gotten out of her man.

  “You see, wasn’t that nice? Now we can get down to having fun.”

  Mrs. Plough had an almost psychotic way of changing both the mood of the room and of herself in a split second. If she had believed in drugs she would be a pharmacist’s best bet for sending his kids to Ivy League colleges.

  Dana Plough pried her mom’s hand off her thigh and shook life back into the veins that had died being pinned under the tree of her grip. She turned to her mother and took her hands, making as much eye contact as she could manage. “Mom, the reason I came here, I wanted to say something to you and dad.”

  Mrs. Plough leapt up and threw open her arms. A thick glaze poured over eyes as she contorted her round face into something resembling an obsessively clean raccoon at a garbage can feast.

  “Come with me; I have something to show everyone!”

  “Mom, really, I have to--“

  “Nonsense! Now, if you’ll just head this way. Believe me it’s something you do not want to miss. I’ve been working on it for years now. It’s almost complete!” She had a giddy exuberance that bounced each syllable around the room.

  Dana Plough’s face was becoming a twisted mess of spittle and a deep shade of red. “Mom! Will you please listen to me for once in your life!” She had become, after just few minutes in her childhood home, a raging bubbling kettle about to explode with furious vengeance.

  Through the crimson sea of broken blood vessels that flushed her scalp she stared at the woman whose greatest joy was the day she had given birth to her daughter. She had yet to reach the surface of what had been kept bottled up so deep for so long. She had spent a lifetime under the unwavering blindness of a woman who, if life had given her lemons, she would have denied their existence and made a cherry pie.

  “Now is that any way to speak to your parents? You use your emotion scale and count to ten. Once you’re able to talk like a lady we’ll continue the conversation. It’s childish, all this hoping around the room like a mad kangaroo.”

  “I’m sitting!”

  “Come with me Mr. Campbell, I’ll show you, and Dana can join us when she’s ready to be an adult.” She put her arm around Satan and led him through the kitchen door, “Why you ever chose to marry that girl, I have no idea.”

  *****

  The Death was the first to arrive; he stood looking over the vast emptiness of windblown sand dunes as his scythe melted into the hot sand beneath him.

  Famine was dressed in a very chic riding outfit, her helmet by her side so as not mess up her new hairdo. Her long black locks fluttered in the breeze as she took her place beside The Death watching the sand dance over her newly painted toenails.

  Conquest came next to the top of the dune and lifted his palm over her eyes to shield the sun from its glare and sighed. She was decked out head to toe as if she was auditioning for the role of Brunhilde in the Royal Opera’s production of Wagner’s Ring, complete with long golden braids and a helmet of horns. She was a large woman with a buxom figure and bosoms that heaved out from under her silvery breast plate.

  War was last to arrive. He was dressed from top to bottom in brilliant reds and blacks that glistened like a rainbow in an oil slick under the hot African sun. He towered above Famine like a sequoia as he looked down and smiled under a massive skull helmet made up of some unidentified but obviously dangerous animal, which he wore as more set decoration than anything else [When your job is to inspire wars it usually helps not to be wearing a beanie]. His eyes glowed as he surveyed the landscape and stroked his thick ebony beard with his forefingers, stopping to purse his lips before turning to the others.

  The four looked at each other and nodded. No words needed to be spoken, they had been anticipating this day for many years, but none of them were actually prepared for this to be it. It had been a good ride and now it was time for the ride to come to crashing halt. They set out across the dessert, the hot sand seeming to part in reverence as they walked. War stopped and pulled a magnificent silver sword out of his robe, holding it up to reflect the rays of the sun.

  “Could you please tell me why we have to walk?”

  “Because,” said The Death, “That’s where we need to go.” pointing a bony finger across the flickering sepia landscape.

  “I know that, but couldn’t we have just met there? What’s the point of all this walking anyway? We’re Horsemen, for Pete’s sake, not walk-men.”

  Famine picked up a scorpion that had been scurrying by and held it in her palm. She allowed the arachnid to scurry around her delicately slender arm until it succumbed to its primal urges and pierced its stinger through her milky skin. She pinched it between her forefingers and held it up even with her stare, then tossed it into her mouth and swallowed it whole. “Because the journey is part of the job.” She said dabbing her lips with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

  “Rubbish! This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever been a part of.” War said smoldering under a simmering fury of lost time and blistered feet.

  “Would you like to add?” said The Death to Conquest.

  “Nope, let’s just walk.” Conquest said cherubically. Conquest, to no avail, had been trying to make the time between sand dunes as bearable as possible with the art of small talk. She had learned the practice while guiding Mongolian armies through Europe, a group not known for their academic exploits, but fine fellows to sit down and chat with over a cup of coffee.

  She had never quite perfected it, which was okay since most armies nowadays weren’t interested in how many rabbits one could fit into an average Carthaginian on a really humid day after their bodies were nice and bloated. So she did the best she could with, “How’s Whiskers?”

  “Same as always,” replied Famine serendipitously. “Hungry.”

  *****

  Dana Plough’s house sat out in the midst of rolling green grass and neatly trimmed shrubbery that lined the yard. She would often sit and muse over her morning cup of coffee, gazing over the manicured fields of green, about how
much a twenty five hundred dollar a week lawn really brightened up the place.

  Of course she felt better in the knowledge that she paid a guy known only as ‘Joe’ when he unloaded a truck-load of Illegals who would work from day to night for just twenty dollars a day to feed, clothe and house their families. A stone driveway wound its way through to the massive iron gates, which were fettered between the tall, ivied brick walls that screamed ‘STAY OUT!’ accented by the large sign that read: STAY OUT!

  The car idled across the street as Barnaby watched the tiny sliver of house he could make out through the trees. He held the binoculars examining the Agents inside the home and wondered aloud to himself if they were indeed doing what he thought they were doing. After a few minutes of curious peeks from behind his puzzled brow he decided that they were indeed dancing. And actually doing it quite well.

  “What exactly are we doing here again?” asked Ketty.

  “We are doing recon work, which stands for reconnaissance; it’s what the military uses for gaining information about-”

  “I know what recon is!”

  If Ketty had not been taking three days a week yoga classes at Missy’s Easitorium for the past three years she would have burst a heart vessel from the stress of the last two days spent with this supposed savior of the universe.

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I meant, why are we just sitting in the car doing nothing? We can’t see a thing from here. I’m no expert, but wouldn’t we be better served if we actually went in the house to look for whatever the hell it is we’re looking for?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly what?”

  “We are looking for whatever the Hell it is.”

  “Listen, this has been wonderful, but I’m going inside.”

  “No, we can’t go in yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have to wait until dark. Recon happens at night.” Barnaby was adamant about sticking to the reconnaissance handbook, even though he hadn’t read it. “We’ll be hidden under the darkness of night.”

  “So your brilliant plan is that we’re just going to sit here in this car for six hours until the sun goes down. Is that it?”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll wait eight hours.” He thought for a moment, and reconsidered his crazy notion of sitting in a car 8 hours so he could sneak into a house full of large killing machines and do something he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Maybe nine. That way we’ll know its dark enough.”