Pride

The image shows a pencil drawing of a roaring lion.
Eduardo Suré; Roaring Lion, 2018; Graphite

The sun is set, and stars begin to appear brighter in the African sky above the camp. Roaring fires surround and illuminate a laughing quartet made up of two men and two women sitting at a table together. One man is the safari’s guide. His damp hair is flat against his head, he wears a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he uses his fedora to fan himself as he leans back in his chair. The other man in the group and the two women are photographers. They enjoy dinner together, recall their day, and tease each other.

“And while the bird chased Nicole, Katherine and I took some amazing photos of it in action!” Brandon says. He is dressed like the guide, but his clothes are new and make him look like he is wearing a costume.

“I don’t know why you just watched it chase me all the way to the truck, Raymond,” Nicole says. “You could have fired a round into the air or something to scare it away. Aren’t you supposed to keep us safe?” Nicole has a kind face and the gentleness of a mother holding her newborn.

“She has a point, Raymond,” Katherine says. Her clothes are soiled and worn as if she had been crawling on the ground all day. She speaks to everyone as if she’s their older sister who always knows better. “You carry all those scary guns with you.”

“Why do you have all those guns?” Brandon asks as he leans forward on the table. “You really only need one, right? We’re on a reserve. All we’re doing is driving around, shooting photos, and camping.”

“I only have one,” Raymond says as he glances at his gun. “And it only looks big because it is a double-rifle.”

“All of your assistants have one too,” Nicole says. When her large eyes make contact with Raymond, he has to resist the urge to look away.

“They are for you protection,” Raymond says. He fans himself with his hat and closes his eyes.

“Protection from what?” Katherine asks. “Not birds, obviously.” She and Brandon chuckle, and Nicole pretends to be very embarrassed. After laughing, they settle down and watch Raymond quietly. They use silence to pressure him to answer.

“Lions,” Raymond finally says. He looks up into the night sky and fans himself briskly. He means for this to be the final answer that completely satisfies them.

“Oh, come on!” Katherine scoffs. “Lions? We haven’t even seen any, which – by the way – may cost you a star on my review.”

“Well, there is a dangerous lion out there,” Raymond says. “Didn’t you read your waiver before signing it?”

“Nobody reads those” Brandon says. “But it sounds like you have an anecdote for us. Let’s hear it.”

“Yes, please tell us about this murderous lion,” Katherine says as she leans back into her chair. “If it’s good, I’ll give you all five stars.” The three photographers use silence to pressure Raymond again.

“All right. If it helps my review-” Raymond says breaking the silence. He fans his face with his hat briskly for a moment, then stops abruptly and says, “Back in 2057 – I remember the year because it was the year I graduated – an eccentric millionaire named Frank Lewis decided he was done being human. He’d done everything he’d wanted to do, he had more money than anyone needed, but – like all of us – he had a limited lifespan. He estimated that he had about fifteen years left. He wanted to them as a lion. It’s a little more than the lifespan of a lion in the wild. So, he decided to have his brain transplanted into a lion.”

“Shut up!” Katherine scoffs. She looks at Nicole and Brandon to see if they find what Raymond said believable.

“Please go on,” Nicole says.

Raymond continues, “Whether the surgery failed and he died or it succeeded, he considered both a win. I don’t know where he found the team of unethical doctors, but they were actually good enough to make it work. At the end of the operation, the lucky old man’s brain was transplanted into an unlucky three-year-old lion.”

“I hear a truck backing up. Beep, beep, beep,” Katherine says. “It’s loaded with bull-“

“Katherine! Let the man finish!” Brandon says.

“Katherine already guessed what I was going to say: the lion was placed in this reserve,” Raymond says. “In fact, nearly all of our operating costs are still paid by the income from Mr. Lewis’s endowment fund. You can verify that online. Mr. Lewis thrived here. Soon after he arrived, he fought another lion for a pride and won. He kept the pride for years.” Raymond places his hat on his head and stands. He looks out into the darkness as he speaks.

“One day, poachers snuck into the reserve to harvest rhino horns,” Raymond says. “They got what they came for, but they didn’t leave right away. As they rode out, the poachers saw a pride of lions and shot at them for fun.”

“Oh, no!” Nicole exclaims. “Was it Mr. Lewis’s pride?”

Raymond nods his head to Nicole and says, “They killed several lions.” Raymond takes his hat off his head and fans himself. He squints as he searches beyond camp for something. “Mr. Lewis tracked the men to their camp. Now, understand that lions aren’t the best hunters. Most lions don’t even take the wind into consideration when they hunt, so prey knows they’re coming. But Mr. Lewis was not an ordinary lion. He planned things out like a human. He tracked the men until he found their camp. Then, he waited hidden in the tall grass for the sun to go down. After it was dark and the poachers went to sleep, he mauled them through their tents. All of them, but one. The sole survivor was the one who told the story. He said he didn’t hear anything and only woke up when the lion destroyed his leg.”

“You wouldn’t have a spare rifle?” Brandon asks.

“You are safer without one,” Raymond says. “Mr. Lewis does not like anyone who looks like a hunter.”

“Raymond is just pulling our leg,” Katherine says as she playfully swats a hand at him through the air. “Nice try. I’ll give him five stars for his horror story anyway.”

“You had me worried for a minute, Raymond,” Nicole said.

The quartet stays up a few hours more. They take turns sharing anecdotes from their travels. Darkness surrounds them as the campfires die down. As the last fire begins to go out, fatigue compels them to go to bed. They wish each other good night, split up, and go to their tents.

Raymond wakes up in the middle of the night. He needs to go to the bathroom. The moonlight is so bright that he can see without a flashlight. He crawls out of his sleeping bag, slips on his boots, and unzips his tent to exit. He quietly walks out to the edge of the camp and looks out into the savannah. He watches the wind sweep over the tall grass. As his eyes move over the quiet landscape, he makes eye contact with a very large male lion. Raymond freezes. His rifle is in his tent. He cannot outrun the lion. He knows he will not survive the lions charge. The two stare at each other intensely for what seems like minutes to Raymond. Then, the lion turns around and walks away disappearing into the tall grass.

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Subway Zombies

The image shows a pencil drawing of a zombie woman.
Eduardo Suré; Zombie Woman, 2018; Graphite

I keep telling myself, ‘Scott, the zombies are going to get you in those subway tunnels if you keep using them!’ But I don’t listen to myself. The tunnels are just too convenient! There are maps to everywhere I want to go. It can be hot, cold, rainy, or snowing outside; but it’s always nice inside the tunnels. There are also less places for zombies to hide. If I’m walking through the city streets; they can come out of an alley, a store, or reach out from under a car and grab my ankle. That’s why I like the subway tunnels.

The zombies almost got me the other day though. I was caught by surprise by a group of them at a transfer station. They must have been turned into zombies on their way to a hockey game because they were all wearing red team jerseys. I ended up on an upper level platform surrounded by zombie sports fans on the platform below. I was safe because there was a sealed entrance behind me, and I had switched the direction of the escalators leading from the bottom level where the zombies were to the level I was on. I made all of the escalators leading up to my level run in the downstairs direction. Zombies are clumsy and uncoordinated, so they couldn’t climb up fast enough to reach the top of the stairs. I was able to do that using some keys I had scavenged off the body of a subway station manager. I was safe, but I was also trapped.

As I thought about what I could do to get myself out of the situation, I heard footsteps. It was like tapping in eighth notes: tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw a man run into the subway station. You can tell when a man is running toward something and when he is running away from something. The man had a look of horror on his face and ran clumsily. Fear makes a person dumb. The man was definitely being chased.

I couldn’t see the zombies he ran from right away because the entrance he had used was around a corner, but I could hear them. They were groaning and growling and yelling. It is normally a horrible sound, but there were little pauses as they fell down the stairs that made it a little bit funny to me. I have seen them fall downstairs and just break apart or burst open. It’s disgusting because their meat is all tenderized and beat up and they are oozing all over when they finally reach the landing. It gets really interesting when there’s a group of zombies because they gather up like idiotic fire ants in water as they roll down.

I was stuck myself at the time, so there was not much I could do to help the man. The most I could do was tell him where things were from my higher point of view. The zombies that were chasing him finally came around the corner. They looked like they had been turned into zombies at work. There were men in suits and women in modest dresses limping after the man. I had to do something to help him. So, I called to him to let him know where I was.

I yelled, “Hey, Mr! Up here!” He looked up, saw me, and started running toward me. I remembered there were zombies surrounding the escalators that led up to my level. I tried to tell him not to come to me, but it was too late: the Zombies that had trapped me spotted him and began to chase him. So, he ended up pursued by two groups of zombies: zombie fans and zombie office workers.

From where he was, the man only saw one choice. There was an exit all the way on the other side of the station. He sprinted down the platform to try to get to that exit. The two groups of zombies merged and blended into one big group and proceeded to chase him. I counted about thirteen zombies in the mob.

I thought he could outrun them. It looked to me for about a minute like he might get away. Then, more zombies emerged from the other end. The new group looked like former subway employees. They stumbled comically down the stairs leading to the exit the man intended to use. He probably didn’t laugh.

The man almost fell over when he tried to stop after seeing the new group of zombies. Since there were zombies in front and behind him, it looked to me like he only had one choice: he had to jump inside of the trench where the train tracks were and try to cross to the other side of the station. I think he figured that out too. I saw him move to the edge of the platform and look down at the tracks. If he was going to do it, he needed to act quickly because I heard the rumble of an arriving train. The trains were automated, so many of them continued to run even after the zombies had infested everything.

To my surprise, the man ran toward the smaller group of zombies. It was easy to become infected; so, I thought this was the end for him. Maybe he wanted to go out fighting. When he reached the first zombie in the group, he grabbed it by the shirt and threw it into the trench of subway tracks. He grabbed a zombie woman by the hair and flung her off the platform too. Then, he pushed a zombie man who was already near the edge of the platform onto the tracks. I watched him wrestle, push, and kick the entire group off the platform and into the trench. At the same time, he kicked the faces of the zombies who tried to crawl back up onto the platform.

As promised by the rumble I had heard earlier, a train arrived. It rolled right over the zombies. I could not see under the train, but there was no way they survived. It probably looked like someone had spilled meat soup under the train.

I had to jump for joy and let out a cheer for the man after he triumphed. He saved both of us. And he did it without getting a scratch! I expected him to walk over to me afterward, or wave and walk out of the station, or even board the train when it stopped. Instead, I watched him cemented to the floor staring openmouthed at the train in front of him. I could only see the top of the train from where I stood, so I didn’t know what happened to make him pause like that.

When the train doors opened, a new group of zombies stumbled out and went after the man. The man snapped out of his shock, ran down the platform, skated around the corner, and stumbled up the stairs he used to come into the station. Since the zombies coming off the train chased after him, I ran in the opposite direction and escaped.

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Pup

The image shows a pencil drawing of a full moon.
Eduardo Suré; Full Moon, 2018; Graphite

One bright and clear Saturday afternoon, Pamela was at the playground at the park in her neighborhood. The nine-year-old girl was surrounded by younger children; but she climbed over, under, and through the playground equipment alone.

Pamela stayed there for a long time and did not give any sign that she was getting tired of playing. Parents gathered up their children and left. More children arrived. Then, children went home. There were times as groups of people arrived and left that no one was at the park, but her. It was during one of those gaps between crowds that a stranger approached her.

“Hi, little girl,” the man excitedly said as he walked toward her. The overweight man wore a scraggly beard, a worn brown cap, and a stained black polo tucked into his blue jeans. “Have you seen a puppy come through here? Chocolate color. Super cute.”

“No,” she replied. “Sorry.”

“Maybe you can help me find him,” he said. “Would you?”

“There isn’t a puppy here, Mr.,” she said.

“I bet you’re right,” he said. “He’s probably back at the parking lot waiting by my car. You’re so smart! Please help me catch him before he gets run over. C’mon! Let’s hurry!” The man jogged toward the lot and Pamela followed.

The parking lot was empty when they arrived, except for a van. The heat of the afternoon may have sent people inside or perhaps it was dinner time, but no one was out. There were no kids at the park. There were no adults taking a walk. Pamela was alone with the man.

“Little girl!” he exclaimed, “I think I see my puppy under the van.”

“I don’t think so, Mr.,” Pamela replied.

“Sure, I do,” he said. “I bet if we look behind the tire, he’s right there. He’s probably scared.”

Pamela’s face conveyed doubt as she walked toward the back of the van. She squatted down to look under it. There was not a puppy by the tire. Suddenly; the man swung the van’s back door open, picked Pamela up, and roughly tossed her into the back. He slammed the doors shut before she could stand. She pounded the doors and yelled from inside, but she was too quiet for anyone to hear. The man looked around, saw no one, stepped into the driver’s seat, and left the park with Pamela.

It was pitch black in the back of the van. The cab and the cargo area were separated by a solid wall. Pamela stumbled around trying to find a way to escape. The back doors, were locked from the outside. They were the only possible exit. Finally, the heat exhausted her and she sat on the floor wet from her own sweat and tears.

When the van stopped, Pamela prepared herself to run out after the doors opened. She heard the driver’s door slam shut and she readied herself. However, the man did not open the back doors. He left her sitting alone and blind from absence of light.

It was night when the man finally opened the doors. Even with the doors open, it remained dark inside of the van. The van was inside of a barn, which was a little more illuminated. The most illumination was outside of the barn where the full moon lit up the night. Since the light source was behind the man, Pamela could not see his face. She could tell that he held in his right hand something that looked like a pipe with a forked end. After seeing it, she quickly scooted back into a dark corner in the van.

“Come sit over here,” the man said as he patted the floor at the open end of the van. Pamela did not move. “I can make you sit here, but it’s really going to hurt.” She saw an electric arc flash at the end of the pipe.

“I want to go home,” Pamela said weakly.

“You’re home now,” he said. He tapped the van’s floor with the rod he was holding. Pamela crawled over and sat at the edge of the van. “Extend your arms out with your wrists together like this.” She complied. He wrapped duct tape around her wrists.

“Please let me go, Mr.” Pamela said before he put duct tape over her mouth. He reached out with his left hand to direct her toward the house. After she did not move, he tapped her shoulder with the rod.

Pamela jumped from where she sat onto the floor. She walked out of the shadow inside of the barn and into the light of the full moon. The weight of it seemed to be too much. She stumbled to the ground onto her bound hands and knees as if she meant to crawl.

“Get up, girl,” he ordered. Pamela’s back rose and fell as she took fast shallow breaths. She clenched her fists. He placed the cattle prod against her back. “I said, ‘get up!’”

Pamela turned her head and faced him. She no longer had a human face: she had a wolf’s. The duct tape the man had put over her mouth was in her snout and muffled her menacing growl.

The man dropped the cattle prod, turned, and ran behind the barn. Pamela continued her transformation. Fur grew over her body. Her muscles grew. She became strong enough to rip the duct tape around her wrists. She used her sharp claws to remove the duct tape from her mouth and revealed large sharp teeth. When she stood up, she looked ridiculous wearing a little girl’s dress many sizes too small.

Pamela bent over to sniff the cattle prod. Then, she sniffed the air. She followed the man’s route to the back of the barn. There were woods behind it, but no clear path into them. It did not matter: she had his scent.

Pamela moved quickly through the woods. Her fur protected her from branches and thorns. When she spotted the man, she slowed down and moved quietly. She remained close to him without his noticing her. He stopped running and walked. She stalked him easily. When he began to cross a meadow, she closed the gap between them.

Pamela moved quietly behind him and got as close as she could. The man turned to look back and saw her. She growled. The man stood his ground, so she intensified her growl and snapped at him. She wanted his heart to race.  The man turned and ran. She chased him. She caught him. She bit his neck and ended him.

It took Pamela most of the night, but she found her way home before the moon set. The lights in her house were on when she arrived. She hesitated to announce herself and sat at the back door for a few minutes. Then, she scratched at the door until an older woman came to open it.

“Where have you been?” the old woman asked. “Your parents are still out looking for you. Get yourself inside right now, young lady.” She closed the door after Pamela went inside. Using a higher pitched voice she asked, “Look at what you’ve done to that dress! Whose blood is that?”

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Two Minutes at Midnight

The image shows a pencil sketch of a full moon surrounded by clouds.
Eduardo Suré; Sketch of Moon and Clouds, 2018; Graphite

The moon shines down on an affluent middle class neighborhood. It illuminates a beautiful two story craftsman style home that is visible through a clearing. Its owner keeps trees away from the structure allowing light to reflect off the snow. It looks like dusk outside the home rather than what it actually is: midnight.

The light from outside spills into a bedroom on the second floor. There, Justin Clark lies awake staring at the ceiling. Several worries chafe his brain. Chief among them is Brenda’s, his wife’s, depression. He wonders if he is doing all he can to help her. He reviews his responses to her illness: he is supportive of her feelings; he helps with chores and with the children; he finds ways to pay for the frequent counseling, psychiatrists, and medications. He even installed special lighting in the bedroom to simulate sunlight to combat seasonal affective disorder. It sounds to him like he has been doing his part, but he worries he may not be doing enough to save her.

The doorbell rings. Justin looks at his alarm clock. It is 12:30 AM. It is 12:30 AM on a Tuesday. He backhands his bedcovers off and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He does not put his slippers on or retrieve his bathrobe. He intends to have words with whoever rung his doorbell behind a closed door. He walks down the hall with crossed arms and taking quick short steps. He climbs down the stairs glaring at the front door as if annoyance will give him the power to see through it. He cannot, so he looks through one of the narrow windows decorating the sides of the door. He sees his neighbor and exhales a low growl.

Justin opens the door and asks with exasperated calm, “Mr. Rodriguez, is everything alright?”

“I was wondering if I could come in,” he replies. The young man wears an elegant suit without a coat even though it is winter.

“Mr. Rodriguez, you know very well that I can’t invite you in: you’re a vampire,” Justin says.

“In that case,” he says as he tosses a device into the house. It looks like a round bathroom scale with a calculator attached to the top.

“Mr. Rodriguez, what is that?” Justin asks as he walks toward the device lying on the floor in a spot between his living room and foyer.

“That is a bomb,” he replies. “Well, it is a bomb and a mine. If you pick it up, your house and its contents will be scattered everywhere. It will be quite a mess.”

“It’s not a bomb,” Justin says as he reaches it. He bends over to inspect the device, and it is too convincing to handle. “What good does it do you to toss a bomb into my house?”

“It makes our interaction brief. You have two minutes to decide whether you will invite me into your house so I can disarm the bomb and then dine on a family member of your choice,” he allows his words to hang in the air. Justin shivers from the cold or fear, he cannot tell. “Or, the Clarks can all die leaving me hungry, but free of witnesses.”

“Why don’t you just tell me the code before I throw it at you?” Justin says.

“You know how fast I can move,” he replies. “You only have a minute to decide now.”

Justin considers covering the bomb with his body, but that amount of power will just go through him. He thinks he can push the refrigerator onto it, but he cannot drag it over in less than a minute. He looks at the timer on the bomb. It reads thirty seconds. He tries to dig his nails into a gap between floor boards.

“Good thinking. Only, if you tilt the bomb, it will go off,” he says. It reads fifteen seconds. Justin considers his alternatives. They all end badly.

“All right!” Justin whispers loudly. “Please come in!” Mr. Rodriguez rushes past Justin in a blur and with the force of a train arriving at a platform. He enters a four digit code and the timer stops. The bomb is disarmed.

“My conditions,” he says. He is elegant and grinning.

“My wife,” Justin says. “Just please don’t wake her up before you do it.”

“Reasonable,” he replies.

“Follow me,” Justin says. He and the vampire walk up the stairs. Justin can only hear his own footsteps. When they are on the second floor, he continues walking quietly down the hall. He is afraid that one of the children will walk out and see them marching toward their mother’s bedroom. There would be no questions, only the screams of horrified children.

They reach the door. Justin turns toward Mr. Rodriguez and puts his index finger against his lips requesting silence. Mr. Rodriguez smiles broadly and mockingly mimics the gesture. His fangs glow even in the faint light of the hall.

Justin walks into the bedroom first. He steps aside at the doorway and motions for Mr. Rodriguez to come in. Mr. Rodriguez appears to glide silently across the room to Mrs. Clark’s side of the bed. He observes her as she sleeps. He turns toward Justin and mockingly puts his finger against his lips signing silence. Justin maintains eye contact with Mr. Rodriguez, feels the wall for the light switch, and then flips on the bedroom lights.

Mr. Rodriguez can only hiss loudly as he turns into ash. His clothes fall empty to the floor. The sound wakes Mrs. Clark.

“What was that?” Brenda asks with a voice modified by the effect of waking and irritation.

“Mr. Rodriguez got in the house,” Justin replies. “I just turned on the sun lamps we installed.”

“Are the kids OK?” she asks.

“They’re fine,” Justin replies. “Do you want to go sleep in one of their bedrooms while I vacuum up the ashes?”

“I’ll vacuum it up in the morning,” Brenda says. “I’m finally getting some good sleep.” Justin is happy to hear her say that. He turns off the light and remembers the bomb Mr. Rodriguez left disarmed downstairs.

“Thanks, honey. I’m going to check on the kids real quick and then I’ll come back to bed.”

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Men, Like Mice

The image shows a pencil sketch of a cave.
Eduardo Suré; Sketch of a Cave, 2018; Graphite

As I hike through the canyon alone and exhausted from carrying my heavy backpack, I am simultaneously stressed and comforted. I hear my feet crunching the gravel of the dry creek I’m using as a trail, and I fear I am giving away my location. However; when I look about the vast and arid land I’m traveling through, I don’t see anything hunting me. I can imagine I’m safe.

I follow the dry creek bed uphill hoping I will find some fruit. Evolution has allowed pomegranates and figs to grow in this desert. I have found enough of them to keep me hungry. I have also found just enough water to keep me thirsty. Hunger and thirst give me purpose. They also remind me that I’m still alive, so I welcome them.

As the sun beats down on the back of my neck, the creek trail evaporates. I find myself on the side of a mountain. I see a trail I assume was made by animals during their seasonal migrations. I am too far from where civilization used to be for the trail to be manmade. It could have been made by deer. Deer are herbivores. I travel using it hoping to find food.

The trail leads me to a cave. I remember having found water in caves, but also unfriendly animals. What is certain is that I will have shade. I look around the opening for snakes. Seeing none, I step inside. I am momentarily blind because of the darkness. As my eyes adapt, I see a man sitting inside the cave against the wall. He is pointing a shotgun at me.

“Don’t shoot,” I say as calmly as I can after the unpleasant surprise. “I’m human.”

“I’m can see that,” he says.

“Please stop pointing the gun at me,” I say.

“I’ll point my gun where I want,” he says.

“I just came in to get out of the sun and maybe find some water,” I say. “I can leave.”

“There’s some water in the caverns below if you want to fill your canteen,” he says. “You’ll need a headlamp and some courage to climb down. Then you can be on your way. I’ll even point the way back to civilization.”

“I don’t want to go back to civilization,” I say. He shrugs his shoulders, and it occurs to me he does not know. “You don’t know about the aliens, do you?”

“How much sun did you say you got today?” he asks.

“I’m not crazy,” I say.

“Alright, then,” he says. “Tell me about the aliens.”

“You think I’m crazy, but it would be wrong for me not to tell you. About three years ago, a huge alien ship arrived and parked just outside high-earth orbit.” I realize I’m too animated as I’m telling the story.

“High-earth orbit?” he asks as he lowers his shotgun.

“It’s a term the media used. It’s in space beyond our satellites. The ship did nothing when it arrived. Some expected it to shoot lasers at us, others expected ambassadors. It just floated out there. At first, there was a lot of emotion. Some were excited, others were angry. There was happiness and fear – lots of talk and speculation; but the alien ship did nothing. People lost interest. Soon, everyone went back to their routine with this big ship just orbiting the planet.”

“So this ship was just another thing out in space?” he asks.

“Yeah, nobody cared about the ship after a while. What everyone did care about was the world economy. It boomed. It boomed at a rate no one had seen before. And in a way no one had experienced – I mean, it wasn’t just the rich getting richer. Everyone got a piece of the pie.”

“Sounds like a world party,” he says. “Sad I missed it.”

“Yeah, big party – until everyone started to die,” I say.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks.

“People began dying at an alarming rate,” I say. I feel the weight of my backpack. I take it off and set it down slowly as he watches me. “We didn’t even notice at first because the old and the sick died first. Then the weak and the frail died. When healthier and younger people began to die, the cases were spread out over a wide area. There wasn’t a cluster or common illness that made the deaths stand out to doctors or the government. When someone finally noticed, we didn’t know why people were dying – much less what we should do. All we could do was bury our dead.”

“It was the aliens,” he says.

“Some people said that, but there was no proof. We didn’t know it was them until we were unable to keep up with our dead. When we started falling behind at the morgues, that’s when the ship did something. That’s when the aliens came down.”

“What did they look like?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“What?” he scoffs. I begin to fear I might lose his interest.

“They were just too good at getting us. Anyone who saw them was gone. There were news reports, but those crews brave enough to go out only captured enough footage for us to know we should run. We should grab whatever we can and go hide. Many people went underground, but I knew I’d be better off in the backcountry.”

“It was the money,” he says.

“What do you mean it was the money?” I ask.

“Beings advanced enough to travel through space and find new worlds – we’re nothing but mice to them,” he says. “They put poison in the money. It was the bait. They put it in the thing people could not resist. People took the poisoned bait and just spread it around – handing it to each other. The poison entered through our skin and we started dropping off. Then they let us clean ourselves up until we couldn’t do it anymore. They didn’t want the mice dying in the walls of their new home, do you understand? They didn’t want us stinking up the place. So once we couldn’t clean up after ourselves, they came down to get rid of us. Like mice.”

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

iCoroner

Image shows a pencil sketch of a robot standing.
Eduardo Suré; Sketch of a Robot, 2018; Graphite

In 2043, Hurricane Angela battered New Orleans. Even the dead suffered. The storm raised the water table so high that air tight coffins popped out of the ground. Concrete vaults weighing tons floated away from cemeteries like haunted ships. Dead bodies made their way into neighborhoods and were found spread out on lawns and entangled in trees when the flood waters receded.

To spare the living from the horror and for public health, robots were deployed to recover the dead. The robots were incredibly capable at recovering bodies and coffins. They were gentle enough to keep the remains intact, but powerful enough to recover vaults. They solved problems on their own, such as how to retrieve a body from a tree and how to carry a large awkwardly shaped coffin back to its place in the cemetery without damaging it or other tombs along the way.

As one of the robots carried a concrete vault, half of it broke. Part of the vault that was not held by the robot fell and hit the control pack mounted on the robot’s back. The strike caused a crack in the metal and allowed water to leak into the pack. The moisture damaged the robot’s hardware. Detecting the damage, the robot’s trouble shooting subsystem sent a message to the operations control center to notify them that it required repair.

The contractor sent two technicians to repair the unit. Because of the weight of the robots, two people were required to lift them. Therefore, the company always sent two technicians into the field.

“Let’s split up,” Ruth said as Larry put their company maintenance vehicle in park. “I’ll do a quick check of the tombs Unit 219 has serviced since the call. Then, I’ll go find you.”

“As long as it’s quick,” Larry said. “I don’t want to do all of the repairs just to have you show up at the end to sign the maintenance log.”

“I’m not you,” Ruth joked.

Larry walked alone through the above-ground tombs. Some were the size of garden sheds and stood alone surrounded by iron fences. Others were long sun-bleached walls of stone where people were filed away in their final resting place. The city of dead was quiet and the wueee-hueee-wueee-hueee-wueee from the robot’s movement was audible in the distance.

Having heard the robot, Larry walked in the direction of the sounds it made. The echoes off the stone caused him to take a few wrong turns, but he soon saw the back of the robot as it walked in a direction away from him as it worked.

Larry had to jog to close the distance between them, and he was out of breath when he caught up to the robot. He was not used to running and the added weight from his standard tool bag made it additionally difficult for him.

Larry saw the damage to the robot’s control box, pulled out his tablet, and tried to shut Unit 219 down; but the robot would not receive the signal. Therefore, he would need to shut down the robot manually. That required him to walk up to the robot, insert a metal key in its control box, and turn it to the off position. Robots could identify company maintainers, so Unit 219 would stop moving once it saw Larry.

Larry retrieved his key from his tool bag and walked to the robot. The robot continued to work. He placed the key inside the control box, turned it to the off position, but the robot did not begin to shut down. Instead, it turned toward Larry, grabbed him firmly, and stuffed him into a body bag. As the robot zipped the bag up, Larry shouted for it to stop; but it did not. The robot took Larry and placed him on a pile of other occupied human remains pouches. Its software ran a feature recognition and identification algorithm to determine in which tomb it should put Larry.

Larry struggled in the bag to move his arms and take his phone out of his pocket. He unlocked it with his thumbprint, opened the calling application, and selected Ruth from his favorites. There was no signal, so the call failed. He tried again, and failed again.

Larry could tell he was running out of air in the bag. He fumbled around in his pockets to find a small knife he always carried. After he found it, he contorted his arms to pull the knife out of his pocket and open it. Then, he quietly cut a slit in the body bag so he could breathe.

Larry tried to call Ruth again. The phone’s virtual assistant said, “Sorry, we are not connected to a network. I see you have tried to call several times. Please record a message, and I will send it when we have a network connection. Say ‘record’ to record, or ‘cancel’ to cancel the call.”

“Record,” Larry said.

“I’m sorry, I did not understand that,” the virtual assistant said.

“RE-cord!” Larry shouted.

“Please begin to speak after the tone,” the virtual assistant said.

After a tone; Larry said, “Ruth, Unit 219 forced me into a body bag. I don’t think it can tell the difference between a living person and a corpse. I couldn’t connect to it from my tablet to shut it down. It grabbed me when I tried to shut it down manually. Leave the site, call headquarters, and ask them to disable it.” He hit send.

Ruth had inspected the tombs and had found that Unit 219 had been performing his tasks as programmed. She walked through the city of tombs and looked for Larry. Abruptly, she stopped walking as if to listen. There was a faint sound in the distance: wueee-hueee-wueee-hueee-wueee. She began walking again in the direction of the source of the sound and it became louder.

When Ruth turned the corner, she saw Unit 219 placing a human remains pouch in a tomb. A puzzled look appeared on her face. The robot was dirty, and units are usually cleaned as a part of service and maintenance.

“Larry!” Ruth called out. “Larry?” Unit 219 sealed the tomb and turned toward her after she yelled. Ruth observed the robot as it looked at her. “That’s an extra-long scan, Unit 219. Aren’t you going to say, ‘hello’?” Her phone began to ring. She reached into her pocket, but then the robot began walking toward her. “Stop immediately, Unit 219!” The robot did not stop.

Ruth’s eyes opened wide as she guessed what the robot was going to do to her. She could not outrun it, so she thrust her hand into her tool bag and pulled out a short cylinder. It was the size of a hockey puck and had three buttons which she pressed at the same time. While holding down the buttons with her fingers, she gripped the device firmly as Unit 219 closed the distance between them.

Unit 219 stopped within reach. It extended its arms to grab Ruth. She dodged the robots gripping hand and struck it in the chest with the device. It stuck. When she unclutched the device, it released a powerful electromagnetic pulse and shut the robot down.

Larry ripped the body bag open and crawled out. While dusting himself off he said, “I thought he almost had you.”

“Yeah, Larry. Thanks for the warning,” Ruth said as she recovered her tool bag from the ground.

“I did call you,” Larry said.

“You just hush, and help me disconnect the power before the unit reboots,” Ruth said.

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Running Storm

This image is a pencil drawing of a fallen tree.
Eduardo Suré; Sketch of Fallen Tree, 2018; Graphite

Mr. Robinson is content as he hears his three grandchildren’s shoes crunch behind him on the gravely trail. The four hikers are quiet as they pass peach-colored mountains and waterfalls under the cool shade of cottonwood trees. Mr. Robinson leads the group. Jonathan, who is ten, follows at his heels. Anna, the youngest, is next. Shirley, who is sixteen and the oldest, is at the rear. The group is very tired after hiking nine miles into the backcountry. No one had complained during the long hike, so Mr. Robinson is very proud of his grandchildren. They know it is almost time to set up camp and they look about for a comfortable spot as they walk. On their left, they see a clearing of high flat ground surrounded by trees. A stream has cut into the land over the years forming a beautiful valley next to it.

“Let’s camp there, Grandpa,” Jonathan says with excitement.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Mr. Robinson is apologetic. “We can’t camp there.”

“Why not?” Jonathan asks. “The ground looks level and soft. It’s high ground and we wouldn’t be under any trees.”

“Sorry, Jon,” Mr. Robinson replies calmly. “It’s just not a good spot.”

Jonathan is upset that his grandfather did not agree with his suggestion. Being the middle child, he feels like his opinions are always inferior to Shirley’s or secondary to whatever Anna’s needs are at the time. He had given good reasons for camping at that site, but his grandfather had not provided reasons against it. He had only said it was not a good spot. Jonathan had been taught by his parents to only insist once, but then follow an adult’s instructions. However, he feels badly because his grandfather ordinarily agrees with him more than his parents.

Mr. Robinson notices the weight of the silence as they walk. He suspects that Jonathan is upset that he shot down his suggestion without an adequate explanation. He is eager to make the group cheerful again.

“Sorry we didn’t set up camp where you suggested, Jon,” Mr. Robinson says. “Once we are out of sight of that ground, I can explain why. Is that OK?”

“OK, grandpa,” Jonathan says.

As they hike, Mr. Robinson treats the ground Jon pointed out as if it were a person on the street he’d caught intending to harm them. He frequently looks behind the group toward it and makes everyone nervous. As it begins to fade out of sight in the distance behind them, he checks one last time as if to ensure it is not following them.

“Shirley, let’s switch places for a little while,” Mr. Robinson says. “You lead, and I’ll walk behind you guys so you can hear me.”

“OK, grandpa,” Shirley says as she jogs past everyone to get to the front of the group.

Mr. Robinson waits for the children to walk by him. Once behind them he says, “Before there were horses in America, native people walked wherever they went. They carried everything they needed, just like we are doing.”

“Like homeless people, grandpa?” Anna asks.

“Shut up and listen, Anna,” Jonathan snaps.

Mr. Robinson continued, “Back then, there was a warrior named Running Storm. He was the best hunter in his tribe. He was known for running after game until it was too exhausted to go on. He was also fierce in battle and, being the fastest runner, was the first to engage the enemy.”

“What is game?” Anna asks.

“Wild animals people hunt for food,” Shirley answers.

“One day, Running Storm and the other men in the clan left to hunt,” Mr. Robinson continues. “The women and children stayed behind at camp. There was nothing extraordinary about the hunt that day. They were successful and began to make their way back to camp with their trophies. As they neared their camp, they saw from their distance that something was wrong. There were too many people moving around the camp. Their movement was erratic. The camp was being attacked. The men dropped the animals and ran to camp as fast as they could. Running Storm led the charge. The men soon arrived at the camp and defeated the attackers, but they were too late to save their families.”

“Oh no!” Anna shouts.

“As you might imagine, the men were devastated,” Mr. Robinson says. “Running Storm’s sorrow was exceptionally great. His grief was so abundant, the Spirits took notice of it. And when he cried out that he wished he had been as fast as the wind so that he would have saved his family, the Spirits granted his wish: they turned him into wind.”

“Jerk Spirits! That was so Monkey’s Paw!” Shirley comments.

Mr. Robinson continues, “Running Storm could not protect his family in life. So in death, he fiercely protects his family’s burial ground.”

“Is it where I wanted us to camp?” Jonathan asks.

“Yes,” Mr. Robinson replies.

“I’m not scared by ghost stories, Grandpa,” Jonathan declares.

“It’s not just about a ghost story,” Mr. Robinson says. “The Ranger asks park visitors not to camp there. Not too long ago, a man hiked into this backcountry alone. He saw the beautiful place we saw and, like you, thought it would be a great place to camp for the night. As he would try to set up his tent, the wind would blow it away. He gave up on it and set up to sleep under the stars. He tried to have dinner before going to bed, but he could not start a campfire because the wind would blow it out. He gave up a hot meal and, after having some trail mix, tucked himself into his sleeping bag. During that summer night, he got so cold that he thought he was going to freeze to death. He finally had the good sense to leave. He was too cold to pack, so he left anything he couldn’t use as a coat behind. When he was rescued, he told the Rangers what happened. The Rangers don’t tell everyone that story, they just mark it as a hazardous area on the maps.”

Jonathan is satisfied by his grandfather’s story. True or not, he had gone through the trouble of explaining why he had shot down his suggestion. He forgives his grandfather.

The family soon sets up camp at another location. It is not as beautiful as the one they had seen, but it is beautiful indeed. After setting up camp, Mr. Robinson and Jonathan retire to one tent; and Shirley and Anna sleep in another. Later that night, a big tree that had rotted to the core falls toward their tents. A powerful gust of wind blows suddenly and changes where the tree kands. The crash as the tree hits the ground wakes everyone. They exit their tents.

“That was lucky,” Jonathan says. “Just few yards to the left and the tree would have killed all of us.”

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Fire Bear

fire bear - 2018
Eduardo Suré; Fire Bear Sketch, 2018; Graphite

Dr. Amy Garcia planned to work off the anger that night. She thought it was the most productive thing she could do. It was better than going home, being alone, and eating junk until her stomach hurt. She would take the energy generated by her terrible feelings, put it toward lab work, and maybe even advance knowledge in biology.

Dr. Garcia went to a wall in the lab to retrieve her protective clothing and equipment. As she gathered it, it began to drain the energy out of her. The company logo was all over the safety gear she had to wear. She had worked at Animalia Labs for so long, that her personal brand and reputation were intertwined with the company’s. She may as well have been tattooed with their logo too. It was one of the reasons she was so angry that night to hear that she was passed over for a promotion. She took a deep breath and, with great effort and resentment, she tied back her hair, jerked on a lab apron, and snapped on her safety goggles.

Dr. Garcia prepared a workstation with a live materials observation container and a special microscope. As she prepared it for the tiny creature she was going to study, she thought about all the ways she was a better choice for management than the man their senior executive picked. She had definitely put her time in at the lab. She had worked through lunch, had stayed late, and had gone into the lab on weekends to finish special projects. She was an internationally recognized biologist, but Dr. Stephen Martinez had not accomplished anything significant in the field.

Dr. Garcia’s thoughts were on the unfairness of her current situation, not on proper laboratory procedures. To her distracted mind, everything around her workstation appeared setup correctly. She glanced over the live materials observation container, microscope, and measurement equipment before leaving the workstation to retrieve a specimen. She had actually neglected a few safeguards, but that would not be the worst of her problems.

Dr. Garcia retrieved an unknown species of tardigrade from another room. Tardigrades, also known as Water Bears, were extremely tough. The animals could survive extreme cold, heat, radiation, and even the vacuum of space. They were tiny and, when seen under a microscope, looked like grubs with many legs, claws, and round horrible mouths. She was going to record some physical descriptions and run some routine tests on the specimen.

As Dr. Garcia worked, it was clear she was not herself. She was angry and her mind was on her past and future at the lab. Subconsciously, she took out her frustrations on the tardigrade. She exposed it to higher extremes than the species was known to tolerate. Yet, the specimen survived.

In her growing rage, Dr. Garcia saw the animal as a symbol of the company. She went from subconsciously trying to hurt it to trying to hurt it on purpose. The animal bore the extremes until she tested its heat tolerance. Many tardigrades were known to tolerate heat as high as 300 degrees Fahrenheit. She exceeded that in her testing. She turned up the temperature little by little at first. As the animal survived, it challenged her frustration and she raised the temperature higher and higher in response. The tardigrade refused to die.

When Dr. Garcia saw the temperature displayed on her lab equipment, she realized how unethically she had behaved. She stopped turning up the heat and examined the specimen. She expected it to be dead. She saw the tardigrade sustain a smoldering reaction. The slow, low-temperature, flameless combustion did not surprise her: what surprised her was that the tardigrade moved.

Dr. Garcia felt terribly about what she had done. She thought the animal was suffering, and she was going to end it. She reached for the thermal control to quickly incinerate the animal; but, before she touched it, a display showing the tardigrade’s temperature began to go up. The animal was self-heating.

Dr. Garcia watched the tardigrade change to a deep red and began to panic. As if sensing her state, the tardigrade’s self-heat rapidly accelerated. The doctor never expected to observe thermal runaway in a living creature; but it was happening. Then, the tardigrade ignited.

Dr. Garcia froze with shock. The flame from the tardigrade grew quickly. She felt the heat from it hit her face and she winced. That is when she unfroze and ran to the nearest fire extinguisher. She stopped momentarily to review the label on the extinguisher and determine whether she could use it on the equipment she was using. She quickly glanced back at the specimen. It was moving out of the container.

The tardigrade took flight like a wasp on fire. Dr. Garcia abandoned the extinguisher. She swung the lab door open, flew through the doorway, and slammed the lab door closed behind her. She thought she was out of danger.

Dr. Garcia looked into the lab through the door’s tempered glass window. She looked around for the creature and could not spot it. Suddenly, the flaming tardigrade landed on the glass. The doctor jumped back and yelled. The tardigrade stuck to the glass and rapidly accelerated to a higher temperature. The glass began to melt.

Dr. Garcia took another step back and watched in disbelief. When the tardigrade began to crawl through a hole in the glass, the doctor ran away down the hall.

As Dr. Garcia ran, an idea lit up her mind. There were marine life units in the facility. If she jumped into a tank and the tardigrade followed, it might be extinguished.

Dr. Garcia followed the signs to the marine lab as she ran through the halls. Her lab coat flew behind her like a cape. She slid as she went around corners. She thought she heard buzzing as if a bumble bee was behind her, but she did not dare stop to look back. She only stopped when she arrived at the door leading into the marine labs. It was locked.

Dr. Garcia turned the doorknob and shook it violently, but the door was solid and would not open. She looked back, and the flaming, flying tardigrade had followed her. The flames around it grew as if it was preparing to torch her.

The doctor was suddenly aware of the necklace hanging from her neck that displayed her badge which also served as a key card. She slammed her badge against the key pad. It unlocked the door. She jerked the door open and fled through. She did not have an opportunity to close the door, and the flaming tardigrade flew through it.

The tardigrade followed Dr. Garcia as she ran through marine life offices. She ran through a lab. She ran through a room with small marine specimens in tanks. She ran through some double doors, felt cold air, and stopped. She saw a pool.

Dr. Garcia did not know if the poolwas empty, if it held dolphins, or sharks; but she jumped in. It was deep enough that the doctor did not touch the bottom. She swam up and looked toward the light emitted by the animal on fire. The tardigrade hovered over the edge of the pool as if deciding what to do.

The doctor noticed that part of the pool was as under a roof, but the other part was open to the night sky. The tardigrade flew over her head and the pool and left the facility. Dr. Garcia watched it go and thought to herself, ‘What have I done?’

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Corrupted Water

sketch of water monster - 2018 - 4x3
Eduardo Suré; Sketch of a Water Monster, 2018; Graphite

Deputy Nicholas Martin found himself repeatedly dialing up the air conditioning of his county government SUV. He placed his palm over a vent to verify cold air was coming out. The daytime temperatures had been high, and he had looked forward to a cool desert night; but it was hot. The air conditioning in the deputy’s personal truck did not work, so he appreciated being able to drive around in a cool vehicle. He was especially glad to be able to drive around during that hot night with the windows rolled up and keep the dust and bugs from the farm roads outside where they belonged.

The deputy was rarely in this part of the county. He found himself becoming anxious in the darkness, on an endless dirt road, surrounded by vast fields of cotton. On most nights, the sky was full of stars and he felt like he was with somebody or like someone was keeping an eye on him. It did not feel that way tonight. He felt as if he was in an abandoned warehouse, with the lights out, and did not know the direction of the doors.

The deputy tried to remember the name of the farmer who had called. He did not recall meeting him in all the years he had worked as a deputy. The records showed that Farmer Eric Thompson lived alone and was an older man. He probably worked hard all the time and kept to himself like most people in the county.

The deputy saw a single light beam in the distance among the cotton. After driving further down the dirt road, he saw a figure in the darkness. It stood with its back bent, crooked limbs, and the long shadows cast behind it from the SUV’s headlights made it look sinister. It was an older man, and he was signaling the deputy to stop. He held a flashlight and knew enough to keep it pointed down so as not to blind the deputy. The deputy slowed down and pulled up next to the man.

“Are you Mr. Eric Thompson?” the Deputy asked.

“Yes, sir,” the farmer replied simply. His face was apologetic, and he was no longer an evil figure menacing the deputy from the darkness. “I called about someone wreckin’ my crops. I can show you.” Before the deputy could reply, the farmer was walking down the dirt road ahead of him.

The deputy did not like the farmer taking the lead, so he waited in his SUV. He hoped the farmer would return after noticing he was not following, but he did not. He continued to walk away and was nearly out of sight; so, the deputy drove after him.

Farmer Thompson walked surprisingly fast. The deputy guessed that working alone all that time, he never had to wait for anyone and moved as fast as he could. Without any indication as to why, the farmer stopped walking and looked out into the cotton fields. The deputy parked his SUV, got out, and walked hurriedly to the farmer as if to catch him before he wandered off again.

“Where’s the trouble, Mr. Thompson?” the deputy asked trying to keep him in one place with the question.

“Look out there,” the farmer replied pointing with his flashlight. “Do you see how the cotton plants are smashed? Makes me so mad. I needed every one of ‘em to repay my loans and stay in the black this year.”

“It looks as if someone drove a steam roller over them,” the deputy said. “How far back does that path go?”

“All the way to the river,” the farmer answered.

“It’s an odd track,” the deputy said. “Could someone have drug a flat-bottom boat through your fields to the river? Maybe a jon boat?”

“Probably not,” the farmer replied. “See how the mounds and the plants are crushed in a direction away from the river? I don’t think anyone’d come from the river anyway. No one goes in there since WorldChem Co. built upriver. I’m surprised my cotton grows after all the chemicals they dump in there.”

“They don’t dump in the river,” the deputy said.

“Not while the government is looking they don’t,” the farmer answered. “The government can’t test for everything; especially not the new stuff.”

Deputy Martin moved his eyes over the long path of flattened cotton plants. It began beyond the reach of his flashlight’s beam. He turned to look behind them to see where it led. In the distance, he saw pecan trees. It looked like the track led to them. He did not want to go into the forest-like darkness of the pecan crop; he easily imagined himself lost among the identical trees.

“Do you know where this ends?” the deputy asked.

“Nope,” answered the farmer, “but they appear to lead to my crop of pecans.”

The deputy and the farmer followed the path to the pecan trees. They followed the track into the wood. As he had feared, everything looked the same in the dark – especially with the crop of pecan trees planted so evenly spaced. He was grateful to have the farmer as a guide and a track to follow back out.

To help himself calm, the deputy looked back at the farmer and said, “It’s easy to get lost in here, isn’t it?” When the deputy looked at the farmer, he saw the farmer frozen as if scared.

“Did you see that!” the farmer whispered loudly.

The deputy turned to look in the direction of the farmer’s frightened eyes. He aimed the beam of his flashlight around trying to spot what the farmer had seen. Every tree made a shadow which moved as the flashlight passed over it. “What did it look like?” the deputy asked.

“It looked like a big blob of water,” the farmer answered. “It was the size of a tractor. Translucent, but cloudy. Kind a’ brown.”

The deputy thought the farmer might be tired. “Let’s go back to my truck so I can write this down before I forget the details,” the deputy said.

The two men followed the track out of the trees and walked quickly through the cotton. Once they were back on the dirt road, they saw the vehicle. The farmer followed the deputy back to his government vehicle. The deputy invited the farmer to sit inside. He set up his computer and asked questions for the form he had to fill out. The farmer did not have his identification with him for the deputy to scan; so the deputy had to manually enter his full name, date of birth, and address.

It quickly became hot in the SUV. Wanting relief from the heat, the deputy turned the vehicle on. The headlights illuminated automatically. As he looked up and out of the windshield at the vast cotton fields wondering what he should include and exclude from the report, he saw a large brown figure cross the beams of the SUV’s headlights.

“Did you say you saw a big brown blob?” the deputy asked.

“Yes, sir,” the farmer answered. “Why?”

“I think I just saw it,” the deputy replied and, without warning, something slammed into the side of the SUV. The deputy saw the fields outside spin as the vehicle rolled. Neither he nor the farmer had buckled up: they tumbled around, hit the insides of the SUV, and knocked into each other.

When the SUV stopped rolling, the farmer let out a yelp. “My back ain’t gonna be right after that.” The deputy was glad the farmer was conscious. The SUV was on its side. The passenger door was against the ground. To get out, they would need to break the windshield or climb up and out through the driver’s door.

The deputy reached out for the radio receiver. He placed it near his mouth, pushed a button, and said, “Code one. Deputy needs assistance.” When the operator responded, the deputy was speechless. The creature had moved into the path of the SUV’s headlights. He saw it clearly. It looked like an enormous, shapeless, and muddy blob of water had not flattened after falling on the ground. It was clear from its appearance that there was something wrong with the water. It was impure. It was beyond contaminated. It was corrupt.

It appeared to the deputy that the monster was aware of the two men. It looked back at the deputy and studied him. It began to move toward the SUV. It seemed to flatten the ground as it moved slowly over it. It flowed deliberately. When it reached the hood, its dirty water began to sweep over it. The water went over the top. It poured down the sides. As it began to spill inside of the SUV through cracks, the deputy pushed the button on the radio and said, “Make that a code 10. Send everyone.”

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Kathleen, the Little Brown Bat

chiaroscuro bat - 2018 - 7x5
Eduardo Suré; Chiaroscuro Bat, 2018; Graphite

I know what you’re asking yourself as you walk through this cave. No; not, “Why did I pay to walk through a dirty hole?” – the other thing! You’re asking yourself, “Where are all the bats?”

If you look up, you’ll see me hanging from the cave’s ceiling. I’m the little brown bump and you can see a shadow behind me when your light source hits me. I know I look like I swallowed a golf ball – and I’ll address that later – but my species is called little brown bat.

So let’s get back to the question, “Where are all the bats?” Well, I murdered them.

I’m only kidding! But really, they’re all dead.

Take a seat on the floor covered by my soft guano, and I’ll tell you what happened.

Has your momma ever told you, “Stay away from those broad nosed, rat faced, mangy furred boys?” Well, that’s what mommas around here used to say when they were around. I think too many girls didn’t listen to their mommas.

One night, the bug eating was so good that I stayed out until dawn. That’s when I met a smooth talker named Nic. He had the blackest eyes, sleekest wings, and a neck tattoo. It was really just a birthmark, but the aesthetic effect was the same.

He looked at me. I looked at him. I flew SMACK into a tree. I was out cold.

Nic came to my assistance. That’s when I knew I wanted him to be mine. But I should have listened to my momma.

I knew something was wrong sometime between September and May. Come to think of it, it was in May. So; on Cinco de Mayo, I woke up.

I know it doesn’t sound like a bad thing, but it was: I wasn’t done hibernating. I was woken when I coughed. As I breathed, the air going in and out of my throat flowed through mucous. I felt fluid in my lungs.

So, there I was: hanging from the ceiling, full of postnasal, tired, hungry, and ready to get me some breakfast insects.

I let go of the ceiling, dropped into flight, and flew out of the cave. I saw trees, bare trees, no bears though, but snow on the ground, and no insects. That’s important: there was nothing to eat! There were as many insects outside as there are people who look good wearing a fanny pack. Did I mentioned it was still cold enough to freeze to death?

My father always said the best time to give up on your goals is when they’re killing you. So, I flew back home.

As I flew through the cave and back to my spot, I saw Nic roosting at the top of the cave. What a fine piece of bat! I thought I would surprise him when he woke. I hung upside down next to him. I looked at his handsome sleeping face. And there was rabies on that face! I nearly fell all the way to the ground before I took flight. I should have listened to my momma!

Later, I found out Nic didn’t actually have rabies. I found out from some humans. They walked through the cave one day looking at us. They shone their lights at us as we slept. Like jerks. Like creepy jerks – watching us sleeping! One of them flashed a light on Nic. I heard the person say Nic had something called white-nose syndrome.

White-nose syndrome comes from a fungus. It stresses a bat while she sleeps. Eventually, she dies.

I was not going to die! I was not going to freeze! I was not going to starve! I was not going to get back together with Nic!

If there was no food outside, I had to conserve my energy. The best way to do that was to sleep. I had to sleep through the hunger. I had to sleep through the congestion. I had to sleep through the rotting egg smell from thousands of bats farting in their sleep.

I am not going to candy coat it: it was horrible. The fungus was eating through me. It was draining the life out of me. So, I drained the life right back into myself. I saved myself with gluttony. As soon as there were bugs outside to eat, I pigged out! That’s how I survived: by replacing everything the fungus drained and more. Many bats weren’t as lucky.

So, now you know why I’m alone, but present, fat, alive, and single. You can turn off your light and get out.

© 2018 EDUARDO SURÉ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED