Gerald Dean Rice's Blog, page 87

Dead Right, ep XX

They'd be relatively safe if they could get there. But getting there was the problem. Wenton was certain the man was following them. He hadn't yet abandoned the casual stroll through a parking garage act yet and Wenton realized he'd done the opposite of what he'd intended. Instead of immersing themselves into a crowd he'd trapped them in a nigh empty, half-filled parking garage.

Wenton was pretty sure they were near the skywalk. He had to be sure of where he was going before breaking out into a run. That guy behind them was older, but he couldn't assume he couldn't chase them down. Had to wait for the right moment.

They rounded to the next incline and there was the entrance to the skywalk, straight ahead. Wenton checked behind them. Midway up the incline they were just on was the man. Wenton couldn't tell if his eyes were locked on them from beneath the brim of his hat and he had a hand inside his black leather jacket. His mouth was set in a grim line.

Up ahead, an older woman exited through the skywalk entrance. She was skinny and tall, her mostly salted hair pulled back into a bun. The old woman pulled her cream cardigan across the front of her. The way she staggered in their direction, it was obvious she was drunk. Wenton had an idea.

They headed straight at her. She didn't seem to have noticed them and when he was about a foot away he stepped around her, but led the veman directly into her, knocking the old woman over.

"Ohhhh! Sweet Jesus!" the woman called, landing on her butt on the cold concrete. It wasn't the right thing to do, but other than surprise, the woman didn't seem hurt. Wenton didn't stop to ask.

She whipped her head left and right, trying to locate the offender. The man following them had gotten much, much closer and as he tried to pass her she stopped him.

"Young man," she said. "Help me up!" Here was the proof in the pudding. If he stopped to help her they could slip away. If he ignored her and followed then Wenton would know.

"Why not up the ante?" he said, jerking the veman into a run. They blasted through the door to the skywalk and pass the bank of elevators. They went through another set of double doors and into the skywalk proper. The street below was to either side of them, but he didn't stop to take in the scenery. Somewhere down there a man was playing a saxophone.

The doors behind them flung open again. Wenton pushed past a couple people and then they were through the doors and into Trapper's Alley. They were on a two-person wide walkway, with a rail to the right of them. Past the rail and below was the dining area for Fishbone's with a giant, man-made waterfall in the far wall.

It yanked its hand away from him and dropped to a knee.

"Keep going," it said. Wenton turned to say something, but there was a familiar look in its eyes. He'd seen that many times from Cara. It meant, 'trust me, I'm up to something'. He turned and kept going, his pace slowing somewhat. He hoped she wasn't sacrificing herself. They might still be able to get away.

He heard the inner doors swing open and a moment later the brief scream of a man and an echoing, loud slap that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Wenton stopped at the stairs, a chill going down his spine. He knew what had just happened, but he didn't want to believe it. He turned back and jogged back to the walkway. It—she—whatever—walked slowly back to him, a feral intelligence burning in eyes that glowed in the soft yellowish fishlights above.

Dead Right, ep XIX

They turned around a corner, light jogging down the street in the rain. It was starting to pick up. At the end of the block they turned left and he spotted the parking garage to Greektown casino. There were people up ahead.

The last time Wenton was here, he remembered seeing signs of many of the restaurants windows declaring 'No Vemans'. He'd never really paid attention to it before and couldn't remember which stores in particular. Couldn't take it in the casino. Had to have ID for that.

Wenton glanced behind them. He didn't see anybody who looked like they were following, but that didn't mean anything. People were trained to do that sort of stuff and look natural at it.

He had to figure something. Whoever was looking—Wenton didn't have the luxury to believe nobody was—would be looking for two people. They'd be that much easier to spot in a crowd. He couldn't afford to have her—it—lag behind. Even though it had spoken, it still had that glass-eyed look.

He pulled it behind him into the parking garage. They could go up to the level where they could cross into Trapper's Alley through the bridge. It would be dry at least and they'd be off the street.

It followed without resistance.

It occurred to Wenton that it must be significantly strong. When he'd pulled it and it resisted, it was like a stone. Would it defend itself if need be? Were they all that strong.

They walked up the incline and turned around at the top. Wenton hid them behind a pylon and looked out onto the street. It only took a few minutes before a man in a black leather jacket down to his mid-thigh meandered into view. He was mid fifty-ish, glasses, salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee, and a black hat. He looked like he belonged here. For a moment he seemed to hover as if he might continue down the street or turn into the garage. He looked behind him as if someone was with him. No one joined him and he turned his head to look up and down the street.

Now he was looking like he was lost and that didn't feel right to Wenton. It was the sudden lack of confidence that didn't seem genuine. He peered into the garage and Wenton pulled back when the man's eyes landed on the very spot where they were. Like someone who knew what nooks and crannies to look into when somebody was hiding from him.

"Dammit," Wenton muttered. They had to move. He spun around and led it up the next incline. If they were being followed, they'd have to get into a crowd quick and have some other place to go.

He had the other place to go. Dwight's. They worked at ThinkBox together. Dwight was single and always wanted to hang out. It would be an imposition, but Wenton was pretty sure he could manage. Dwight wasn't even far away. He had an apartment not too far away. Seven Mile. Dwight had worked at ThinkBox even longer than him, so it couldn't have been for lack of money that had him living on the East side. He was one of those people who thought their mere presence in neighborhood would make it better. In a way he was right—there were several others who thought like him who'd bought houses nearby and they'd created their own kind of community.

Dead Right, ep XVIII

Wenton dug around until he produced a prescription bottle of nitrogen pills. He quickly scanned the directions and opened it, dropping two in the man's mouth.

Wenton put the lid on the man's chest and put the bottle in his other hand, but before he got up he fished the man's wallet out his pocket and ran back down the stairs.

She was gone.

He clutched the wallet, feeling a moment of panic until he realized the only way she could have gone was downstairs. He took the stairs two at a time. She was walking at a steady pace when he caught up to her coming off the stairs at the fourth floor.

She was mumbling.

She hadn't spoken before.

Wenton felt his heart skip. He wanted to leap in the air and high-five somebody, but contained the emotion. They still had to make it out of here. There was still the possibility Nibor had placed another guard they hadn't seen. Had to play this smart.

"There's a man on the stairwell," he began, talking to the security guard at the desk. "He was fighting with someone—somebody's hurt, I think."

"I'll make a call," the man behind the desk said. He picked up the desk phone and clapped it to his ear, but other than his head swiveling as his eyes followed Wenton and the veman out the door he didn't move.

No doubt, the man was memorizing their faces.

Couldn't worry about that now. Had to put as much distance between them and this place as possible.

They stepped out into the cool early air, a light sprinkling of rain peppering his face. To the right would take them deeper downtown. That meant more faces and more opportunities for them to disappear. Wenton needed to make it as hard as possible to find them until he thought of something.

He pulled it by the arm, but it yanked back. He looked at it, still with that impassive face and pulled again. It wouldn't move.

"C'mon, we need to go!" he whispered. "They could be here any second."

"No," it said. He dropped its hand and took an involuntary step back.

"What?" he said. "What did you just say?"

It rotated its head to look at him. "No. We go east. To the left."

That makes no sense, he thought. The only thing to east was… was…

Greektown!

There was always foot traffic there, even at this ungodly hour. He wondered a moment what time it was as he took it by the wrist again and began moving.

He didn't know all the names of the streets around here. That was Jefferson straight ahead of them, bordering the riverfront. If they'd had a car they could have taken the tunnel to Windsor. Well, could have, had it been an actual human being and they both had passports. Canada had passed legislation banning vemans years ago, which had driven many Canadiens into southeast Detroit and upstate New York, looking for organ transplants. If he did manage to get over the border, it and maybe even he, would be shot on sight.

They crossed the street, passing by a courthouse on the right. There was all kinds of talk of laws being passed about vemans. So far, the Federal government had stayed out of it. A dozen states had banned the manufacture of vemans for any purposes. The State of Michigan had banned it as well, but it had been overturned on a Constitutional challenge.

Editing a Manuscript

After my post about how I published my novella, Fleshbags, an astute reader made the point that there's a lot more to editing. And he's right. I glossed over it originally, assuming that anyone who wrote would know you need some keen editing to polish up a manuscript.

There was something I learned years ago (back in my poetry days) that applies to prose as well. You have to know the rules before you can break the rules. It may not make too much sense but that's all the difference between a beginning writer who uses poor grammar and punctuation as opposed to a seasoned writer who does the same thing. Case in point, Cormac McCarthy. It took a little bit for me to get into The Road simply because he never uses quotation marks when characters speak and he frequently uses fragmented sentences. But once you get over that minor hump, you realize it works.

Grammar and punctuation are the easiest mistakes to make, but they are also the easiest mistakes to fix. One of the most common mistakes I see is the improper close of a sentence after a character is speaking. For instance, "Leslie is never going to make it out of here." he said.

By no means do I know everything. I was at a convention last year when I learned what a gerund was. I've sense learned and incorporated it into my writing (or rather, incorporated not using gerunds).

For this initial post on editing I'm going to keep it simple. There's a whole world of editing, but first the basics should be followed. Editing actually begins in the first draft. Or a better way of stating it, not editing. In an initial draft, everything that comes into your brain should fall onto the page. It's a huge temptation to go back and fix that word that was bugging you in the last paragraph, but trust me, it's more important to keep going forward.

After you have that first draft, the very beginning of your novel should read like new to you and ideas of how you could better word phrases, paragraphs, and ideas will be so much more fluid to you. You'll appreciate things you've written in a greater context and you'll also see things that make absolutely no sense to you. Guess what—they'll make absolutely no sense to your reader as well. Change it.

After you've done a second draft you aren't done. It is your baby, you're way too close to see all the errors. If you can line one up, it'd be great to get your story to someone who can give you a completely impartial opinion (probably not your mother). You may need to pay someone or you may have a buddy who writes and the two of you switch off. Whoever this person is, try not to take what they send back to you personally.

If you can afford to wait, let your manuscript marinate on a shelf for 3 months or so. Once you pick it up again, you'll be able to read it again with fresh eyes. Some people draft several more times, but it's really a matter of personal preference. I read an article where this one author said she drafts 70+ times. She's published, so I can say her method is wrong, but I wouldn't have the patience to do such a thing.

I'll post more as it comes to me, but if you remember nothing else, keep in mind: write-write-write. That's the most important thing you can do.

Dead Right, ep XVII

Wenton had no doubt this wasn't over. That had been an expensive-looking facility where that Nibor guy was. They probably had plenty funds to spare to sit on this apartment building and scour the city looking for a man with a veman in tow. All the more reason for him to get this solved as quickly as possible.

He looked at her—it. Man, it didn't look like his wife physically, but there was something about the way she held her face. The look of her eyes. Cara had always had that same sad look, even when she was happy. And the way she'd held him before on the stairs… was that just from a collection of memories? Was he just wanting to see something, regardless of whether or not it was there?

"Okay, let's go," he said, wondering why he was speaking to it. With a gentle tug on the wrist she followed him and they went back out onto the stairwell.

"Aw, hell," Wenton said. The guard was laid out on the stairs. Worse yet, he was clutching at his chest. The tiniest part of him said to leave the man there, but he couldn't do that. It might not be murder, but it would have sure felt like it. This time she was able to walk down the stairs on her own and he left her there and dragged the man down the rest of the stairs to the lower landing.

He was red-faced and sweating, clutching at the area over his heart.

"Are you on any medication?" Wenton asked him.

"Nnn-nnno," the man grunted.

"Look, I'm gonna call 911 for you. It's gonna be okay." But the man had gone slack. Wenton checked and felt a weak pulse in his neck. Had to give him chest compressions. He doubted the man was choking on anything, so Wenton didn't bother sweeping his mouth first. He turned the man's head to the side, but before he could begin CPR, she wedged between them and got on her knees. She laced one hand overtop the other and began pressing on his chest.

In about a half minute the man's face returned to a more normal color. She stopped CPR and looked at him. He opened his eyes, his hand reaching up to touch the side of her head. He dug his fingers into her hair in a way that almost seemed fatherly, but then he yanked his hand back and she screamed, falling backward.

"What was that?" Wenton looked between the two of them. The man had passed out again, but on his index finger was some kind of ring with a long plastic strip attached to it.

Wenton helped her up and she seemed passive again. No, passive wasn't quite the word. When she'd pushed him back and delivered chest compressions on the man it was like she'd been on autopilot. She'd still had that same emptiness in her eyes. But that had been Cara to a T. She'd always jumped in when someone needed help, regardless of personal risk.

He scanned her eyes, looking for a spark of anything that had been his wife. There was nothing there. Wenton walked her down the stairs and this time she was able to manage them on her own. They had to make it out onto the street and disappear somewhere.

Wenton stopped. Whatever the man had just done, he still couldn't just leave him to die. He ran back up the stairs and dug in the guard's pockets until he found his cell phone. Wenton thumbed 911, grabbed him by the wrist and closed his hand around the phone, placing it back on his chest.

"P-pills," the man managed to say. "Pocket."

Dead Right, ep XVI

It was probably because it was even cheaper to do absolutely nothing. They were completely non-violent, supposedly, and seemed to only mill around where ever they'd been left.

But he had to wake her up somehow, had to get to that mind. Wenton took her by the hand and pulled her gently away. She didn't resist and he carefully steered her around the coffee table on their way to the door. He mentally counted how much cash he had in his wallet as he stopped and she bumped into him.

"Oof!" Wenton bumped into the wall. He looked over his shoulder and the guard hadn't stirred. Good. He put his hand on the lock and began turning it. It creaked, but didn't make too much noise. Wenton let go of his breath and smiled. Getting out of here was going to be easier than he thought.

But as soon as he opened the door, the alarm went off.

The guard jumped off the couch, looking left and right and then turned and saw them at the door.

"Run!" Wenton yanked her out the door.

He heard the door open when they were halfway down the hall.

"Stop!" the guard yelled. She matched Wenton step-for-step and they easily outpaced the guard. The trouble was stopping and corners. He knew Vemans weren't flesh-and-bone like human beings, but whatever they were made of was heavy and hurt like hell when parts of them smashed into a person.

They crashed through the door to the stairs, Wenton almost falling when she hesitated as he went down. Her eyes were locked at some distant point ahead of her, but she must have recognized something was different because she stopped at the top.

He tugged on her arm. "We gotta… we have to go. Down." Wenton pointed.

Her mouth worked open. They had to move or the guard would be on them in seconds. A memory flashed of when they were in college together, working late in the computer lab, and she'd been too tired to walk back to the dorms and he'd carried her all the way on his back. Cara had been petite back then. But this thing was almost as tall as him and probably fifty pounds heavier.

"On my back," he said and it leapt on him, cradling its arms around his upper chest and hitching its thighs up to his hips the same way Cara had all those years ago. His bones crackled as he managed his way downstairs as quick as he could, but still being cautious not to fall.

They made it to the landing and then he turned to take the rest of the stairs. He dared to go a little faster this time and when they got to the bottom he twisted his ankle in a rush and dragged her to the door.

The door upstairs burst open and Wenton could hear the guard panting heavily. He'd looked to be in good shape, but he was older. They probably weren't anticipating there would be a foot chase.

He punched in the code and yanked the door open, hustling her inside and pulling it closed behind them. Hopefully, the guard hadn't seen or heard the door closed or they were caught. Wenton didn't know if he could do it, but he waited just for the guard to open the door, ready to kick him in the chest if need be.

Instead, the man's staggering footsteps passed the door and continued down the stairs.

Dead Right, ep XV

Wenton nodded and reached to hug his brother. He couldn't help himself, he'd become a hugger ever since Cara's funeral. Dell took a step back.

"I'd rather have another fist fight." Wenton ducked his head and smiled. Dell would always be Dell. His brother followed him to the door. The EPU guy was gone, probably already in the limo.

"Give him a kiss for me when he wakes up, okay?" Dell nodded. "He knows what to do to get himself ready. Don't let him wear the Spider-Man pajamas. That's for Friday. I'll call in the morning."

"Okay," Dell said.

Wenton was hesitant to leave. As scared as he was, the look of absolute terror on his brother's face was priceless.

Day 1

Wenton couldn't sleep. It was that thing in the spare bedroom that had the mind of his dead wife, but it was also his brother's waterbed. The thing had been in constant motion throughout the night to the point he'd almost gotten seasick. Wenton had given up trying to sleep on it and fled to a big chair in the corner of the room.

He had no idea how Dell afforded his lifestyle, but he certainly had a sense of style. The whole apartment was a piece of art. The cream-colored walls in the living room and the dark brown furniture. The egg-white walls of the kitchen and the wood cabinets—Wenton didn't know about any of this stuff, but it looked expensive.

He'd left her out there after trying to talk to her, but she hadn't responded. Even when the guard had taken that helmet thing off she'd had this faraway look like she'd already checked out.

He pulled himself out of the chair and stretched, his spine crackling. His knees ached from being curled up, but it was preferable to the bed. Wenton wondered if she slept at all, mulling over talking to her again.

If sleep wasn't coming he might as well. He wrapped himself in the blanket he'd been using and headed for the door. Even the carpet felt expensive as he treaded to the living room barefoot.

Wenton stopped at the end of the hallway. There she was, standing by the window. She wasn't staring outside, just had her head down, looking off into space. He looked at the guard, passed out on the couch. The man had said all of two words since they'd met and he wasn't to live her side.

Wenton had to get her away from him. He charged back into the bedroom and threw on his clothes. He went back in the other room, shoes in hand. The guard was snoring and didn't seem on the verge of waking up anytime soon.

She hadn't spoken to him in the tank, but for the briefest of moments he saw her in there; his wife. He had to get her somewhere alone. Somewhere to jog her memory, to bring enough of her back so she could tell him what had happened. Wenton was hesitant to touch her, realizing he was afraid. This thing only had his wife's memories, it wasn't really her. He'd always avoided vemans he'd seen on the street. They were a societal plague, a dirty secret the world tried to pretend didn't exist. He'd often wondered why no one had rounded them up and exterminated them.

Dead Right, ep XIV

There was hardly any conversation as they drove and in twenty minutes or so they were pulling up to Wenton's house. Once again, only Dell and Wenton got out and they walked up to the house.

"Any chance that security guy is watching us? Seeing if anything is out of place?" Wenton asked.

"Oh, I'd bet on it. Try to take your keys out, nonchalant-like, and drop them on the floor when we get to the door."

"Right."

"I'll drop off clothes to you in the morning before I go into the office."

"Okay."

They stood on the porch together and Wenton wasn't sure what to do next. He reached in his pocket.

"Not yet!" his brother said. "Shake my hand. Then drop the keys." Wenton grabbed his brother's outstretched hand and gave it two enthusiastic pumps, fishing the keys out with his free hand. He dropped the keys and took a step back. Dell made a show of fishing in his own pocket for his keys and if he hadn't know what he was doing, Wenton would have thought his brother's keys really had slipped out of his hand and onto the floor.

Dell picked up both sets and fished through Wenton's.

"Which one is it?"

"The silver one," Wenton said. "Has 'Access' or something on it."

Dell unlocked the door and Wenton followed his brother inside. Hanson-Henson—whatever his name was, was knocked out on the couch with his suit jacket draped over his upper body like a blankie.

"Go give the kiddie a kiss g'night and get out of here," Dell said. Wenton nodded and went in his son's bedroom.

Todd was snoring softly, his comforter pulled up to the top of his head. Wenton folded it back as gently as he could and kissed his son on the temple. Dell was right; he had neglected his son when Cara had died. He might even think Wenton was doing the same thing again, but this would be different. Wenton was going to find the peace his wife deserved and once he had that he could truly move on and be the father his child deserved.

Wenton felt himself welling up. If only Cara hadn't been on that side of the city none of this would have ever happened. And she and the baby she'd never told him she was carrying would still be alive.

He could feel the anger bubbling up inside him again. Tears began streaming from his eyes as a reminder of his constant impotence to do anything about what had already happened.

Wenton turned and left the room and almost ran over his brother.

"Whoa, you cool?" he whispered.

"Yeah." Wenton swiped his hand down his face and nodded. "Yeah."

Dell was holding a folder in his hand and Wenton took it.

"What's this?"

"I don't know. I figured you should leave with something official-looking. You know, a reason for you coming inside. You'd better get going."

The Best Night of the Year

My two Halloween shorts are now available for purchase on Kindle.  The Best Night of the Year is two stories I wrote for anthologies a few years ago.  Soon to be on Smashwords and everywhere else.  Just 99 cents!

 

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Dead Right, ep XIII

"There-there," Dell said, patting him on the back. Was that what you were supposed to say? Wenton turned to him and before he could react, had him wrapped up in a bear hug.

"I miss her so much, Dell." The ache in the pit of his gut reawakened as his brother squeezed him, but that wasn't the bad part. He'd do anything to get out of this… whatever this was.

"Look," Dell managed to squeak out, "you've got three days." Wenton let him go and slipped back a couple feet. He sniffed the snot back in his nose a couple times and Dell was grateful he couldn't see him. "You go do whatever the hell it is you need to do with it—her. But don't get all sentimental. I don't think they install vaginas on those things."

Wenton barked out a laugh a little louder than necessary. He grabbed him by the shoulders and Dell winced, thinking for a second he was about to get head-butted.

"You're a bastard for doing it, Dell, but thank you. Thank you."

"I know. Now let's get back to the limo before they think we're psychos and call the whole thing off."

They walked back in silence, Dell wiping at his eye. The air was stinging them for some reason.

The shock and the adrenaline were starting to wear off. His crotch still ached up to his ears—maybe the pain was a reprieve to his complete lack of logic. What was he doing? She wasn't his wife. Wenton looked at her, sitting across from him. He hadn't thought of Todd until Dell had mentioned him. But was that his fault? It was a huge surprise when he'd walked into that tank and seen her. The skin was different, the hair was different, but he could see it in the eyes, through that mask thing on its head.

"Could you… take that thing off?" he said to the guard. The man nodded and fished a key out of his shirt pocket. He worked it into the back and something clicked twice and it fell into her lap.

He didn't realize he was staring until his brother called out to him. "Went, you all right?" Wenton looked at his brother and clapped his mouth shut. He'd forgotten everything he'd thought before about how it was different from his wife the pain receded to a pinprick at the base of his scrotum.

"It's her," he whispered.

"What?"

He blinked. "Nothing. Nothing. I'm just tired. They'd worked out what they would do from here. Wenton couldn't believe his brother had suggested it, but he was going to take care of Todd for the next three days while Wenton stayed at Dell's place and searched for his wife's killer.

His wife.

Sitting right in front of him.

No.

He had to keep it together. That wasn't her. He looked at her again, almost out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes bore straight ahead; directly at him, but it didn't seem like it was him she was seeing. But somewhere in there that was definitely Cara.