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  Water

  A B-Sides Story

  Dan O’Brien

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Water is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Dan O’Brien

  All rights reserved.

  Original Cover Photo:

  “Ojito Rosado” © John Fowler

  ISBN-10: 149276017X

  ISBN-13: 978-1492760177

  Other books by Dan O’Brien

  The Path of the Fallen

  Book of Seth

  The Path of the Fallen: Unabridged

  Bitten

  Cerulean Dreams

  The End of the World Playlist

  The Journey

  The Twins of Devonshire and the Curse of the Widow

  Mondays with Mephistopheles: 9am––Rhys

  The Conspirators of the Lost Sock Army and the Loose Change Collection Agency

  The Portent

  Drained

  The Ocean and the Hourglass

  Steam City Samurai

  Publish Your Dreams

  Hobbes Family

  Dedicated to my family

  Day Zero

  T

  he horse drank from the pool of water in loud splashes. A face drawn thin from the heat and the sun watched the mount with a kind of detached interest. His clothes were torn and ravaged, rife with blackened holes as if the fabric had been set afire. Bright colors adorned the heavy shawl wrapped around his torso; hanging loosely, it gave his body shade.

  The sombrero that encircled his head was sullen, drooping from lack of moisture. His features––haggard and unkempt––were centered on bright blue eyes; they were cold rivers reminiscent of once sprawling oceans and bodies of water.

  There were houses in the desert, shambles of wood and stone that looked as if they had been there for hundreds of years. Uneven windows shrouded only darkness; splintered doors hung from their hinges lazily.

  He got up with a slow, protracted movement.

  The possibility of water was such that he would brave the pain in his chest and the sense of disorientation that swept over him. A toe poked through a shoe––a dirty and broken nail covered in dried blood. His feet dragged through the dusty earth as he bridged the distance to the partly open door.

  Gripping the rusted handle, he pulled hard.

  The door would not budge.

  Breathing raggedly, he hung his head, leaning against the splintered door. “Dios Mio,” he whispered as he grabbed the handle once more. Fighting against the knobby protrusion, he gritted his teeth and pressed his eyes together tightly.

  With a wide arc it opened, revealing a darkened interior. There was a musty smell mixed with a heavy acerbic taste lingering in the air that stung his mouth. Reaching against the rough walls of the home, he searched for a light switch. It was a search that yielded nothing. Taking a precautionary step inside, he flicked his foot out, searching for something in his path.

  Breathing quickly, he covered his face with a dirty sleeve of the thin coat he wore to combat the unrelenting heat and sun that beat upon his tired frame. The darkness dulled as his eyes adjusted. He waited, watching as the shadows revealed lines and shapes in the darkness.

  “Que sucedio aqui?” he mumbled.

  The house was small.

  There was one room with a sink on the far side. A dry, painful-looking cot and a traditional oven––the uneven, broken stacks climbed into the ceiling––were situated in the corner. There were shelves: some erected unevenly, and some broken.

  Shards of ceramics littered the floor.

  And then there was the growl, low and haunting.

  He moved against the wall just next to the door.

  Lowering his body into a defensive posture, he anticipated the sudden lunging of something from the darkness. The shadows intersected, forming a figure lowered to the ground. The flicker of gray eyes appeared, and then disappeared, as it slid sideways into the darkness away from the covered window.

  “Dios me concede seguridad,” he whispered.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  The growl continued.

  Faltering for a moment, the creature drew breath.

  Reaching beside him, he felt around for something: a bludgeon of some kind. His fingers wrapped around a long cylinder; frayed tape scratched his palm. He stood quickly, holding the pipe like a designated hitter in the late innings of a game.

  He watched the shadows.

  A heavy sound echoed in the small home.

  The suddenness of it made him jump farther into the darkness of the house. Realizing immediately that this placed him closer to the growling, he moved once more.

  Dropping the pipe, his hands frantically grabbed at the dried-out sheet that hung across the only window. Filthy fingernails dug through the heavy paper. Splotches of light inundated the room. He turned as he pulled down the final piece, revealing the horror of the room.

  There were three bodies.

  Two of them were huddled against one another.

  The other was close to the door.

  His outstretched hand was opened, as if he had been holding something: the pipe. Looking down, the man saw that the pipe he had previously held was covered in dried blood. The tape was soaked nearly brown. Its previous owner looked as if he had been trapped in this home, in the heat, for many days. His face was drawn thin, heavy veins pushed to the surface.

  The skin had begun to pale grotesquely.

  A growl had turned into a whimper.

  The light revealed not Cerberus, but instead a mangy dog that was no larger than a jack rabbit. The hair was discolored, clumps twisted in unnatural braids. Bloodshot eyes––one nearly crimson––looked at the man with fear. The whimpers intensified as it cowered back into what little darkness still adhered to the corners of the room.

  “Calme abajo, su autorizacion,” he murmured.

  His voice cracked from thirst.

  The mutt tucked his tail and wavered forward slightly–– moving in that sideways manner that in the darkness had felt so disarming. He looked beyond the dog into the kitchen and saw a woman holding a small child. The face of the young girl was hidden in her mother’s clothes.

  He moved forward, inspecting the broken glasses that had once held the poisoned water. The tap had been broken off. There was only a gaping hole where the faucet should have been. Every glass had been smashed, every bowl purposely destroyed. He could not blame them. Dehydration would take over and then the thirst would become too much, too painful.

  The hallucinations would come, and eventually death.

  This place was death.

  There was no refrigerator, nor a cooler of any kind.

  He did not expect to find any.

  Plastic could not remain as a boundary between the poison of the earth and what clean water remained. Moving into the kitchen, he stepped over the mother and daughter carefully. He did not want to stir their spirits, lest he be condemned to death in this place as well.

  Opening cabinets, slowly at first, it built with intensity as thirst gnawed at him. Exhaling with frustration, he turned and surveyed the room again. The bodies had begun to rot in the heat. The smell had evaded him at first. But in conjunction with the increasing effects of dehydration, he had begun to become angrier and angrier.

  He stepped over the bodies.

  Taking less care this time, he knocked his foot against the mother and ch
ild. Their bodies fell aside, drawing his attention. The body of the child fell free. Her face was drawn thin. Pale like the others, there was still something life-like about her.

  She must have died last.

  He blinked several times, his mouth twitching. His tongue felt like sandpaper as it slithered around in his mouth. As he watched the child, he could have sworn she moved. Her body convulsed again, an arm reaching out.

  Fingers dug into the floor of the home.

  Stepping away, he crossed himself vigorously, mumbling prayers as he backpedaled. She continued to rise, her back arching as only a dead child born of madness could. He closed his eyes rapidly. Licking his lips over and over again, he watched as the raven-haired child crawled across the ground.

  “No,” he whispered desperately. “Esto no esta sucediendo.”

  She continued to stagger, her face never revealed. Her head looked at the ground as she bowed and twisted. Pushing over her mother, she stepped forward.

  He shook his head, closing his eyes. Squeezing them tightly, he rubbed his hands over them. “No es verdadero. No es verdadero. No es verdadero,” he repeated.

  As he opened his eyes once more, she was gone.

  The room was as it had been.

  The mother and child were no longer locked in a loving embrace in the face of death. The man who was sprawled on the floor was splayed out, his graven look hidden by the shadows as the light from the window did not reach.

  The vagrant pushed his way through the half-opened door, covering his eyes as the powerful reach of the sun struck his body once more. It was overwhelming––the desert in his mouth and the tickling, crawling feeling on his skin as dehydration reached a critical point.

  His vision blurred at the edges.

  Slowly consuming his sight, it forced him to his knees.

  He found no moisture as he blinked his eyes several times.

  The heat of the open desert seemed to eviscerate him.

  His insides felt as if they would burst through his skin. Breathing came shorter, his chest heaved desperately. Falling to his knees, he looked out to where his horse had stood before the river.

  Lying on its side, dark black eyes watched the man as he slumped to the ground. Pulling his shawl over his head, he desperately sought darkness. His mind spiraled into the unknown––a great hope that what came after death would bring cool winds and miles of water in which he could forever bathe himself.

  Monday

  E

  very day of his life he had turned right. Today, he turned left. James Foster had the kind of day that made you question what it is your life is truly about. Was it your dreams that guided your hand, helped you choose your path? Or was it external circumstances that created walls and forced your hand such that you had no choice in what you become?

  The rust-colored trees and endless expanse of desert was the same as if he had turned right. His revelation had been anti-climactic, much like the life that he had lived to this point: a cautious, over-planned life that left him unfulfilled each night he laid his head on his pillow.

  It was dark out.

  A smiling, broad moon in the sky juxtaposed against a perfect shadow canvas. Headlights flashed out ahead of the gray jeep. Air rushed through the open top of the vehicle, brushing his brown hair back.

  Blue eyes watched the road.

  The hills that surrounded the valley opened and swerved like a great snake baking in the desert heat. His mind wandered as he drove, the lights of the small town of Miranda coming into view just ahead.

  Miranda sat in a valley, stone and sand mountains rising around it. Sparse copses of trees were scattered far into the distance and vagrant mammalian thieves skittered about in the night. The outskirts of town were littered with mini-malls and heavily lit gas stations. No one walked about the darkened, pristine pavement. The commercial real estate soon gave way to rows upon rows of rose-colored adobe homes, similar in appearance and occupants.

  As Foster passed by, the alternating lights in the windows of the homes created a rhythm. It was a song in his mind, as if they were notes and bars of music. He hummed softly. The radio in the jeep had been broken for some time.

  There was only the symphony in his mind and the whistling of the air as it cavorted through the open space and filled his ears. The recently built structures sluiced into where Miranda had begun as an old stone bridge over a narrow, shallow river that drained into a vast lake.

  The other side of which was California.

  He slowed the jeep as the street light rolled to red.

  The streets were perpetually empty, the sign of a small place. Near eighty thousand strong, it was not the bustling metropolis that many people wished. Yet, it remained the retirement community on which it was founded. The lull of the crimson passed and was replaced with green. Shifting the jeep into gear, Foster pushed his jeep forward slowly, watching the store windows. Most were dark, outlines of signs and store names washed clean. Left behind was the vague reminder of someone’s dreams.

  Such was the times.

  People had to watch what they worked for all their lives washed away in a torrent of unfortunate circumstances and lack of responsibility. These were the things that haunted the young man’s mind. Though he was neither an investor nor a politician, there was much in the world he saw as wrong.

  It was his way.

  He turned right, moving away from the lake and up the darkened hill. Animal shadows darting in and out at a distance, the desert still teemed with life. The street names were a mixture of Hispanic origin and bastardization of foreign concepts into strange English hybrids. As he neared a poorly spelled version of green road, he immediately pulled up into a driveway. He followed the cement path to a parking structure behind it.

  With a sigh, he turned off the engine.

  The ticking light on the dash reminded him that the jeep was indeed off and it was probably a prudent idea to exit the vehicle. As he slammed the door behind him, rocks rustled in the distance. There was always something sneaking about in the night. Be it coyotes, rattlesnakes, drunks, creatures in general.

  The screen door bounced against its hinges as it always did. He stopped on the enclosed porch, looking out across the town. The lake was just below, the mountains in the distance marking another region.

  The moon was brilliant.

  Powerful and large, it loomed in the night sky.

  The front door of the home creaked open.

  James knew who it was.

  “Hey, pop,” he spoke without turning.

  Robert Foster was a muscular man even at sixty-five.

  His hair was cropped short. The wide, spreading arcs of crow’s feet framed green eyes. A beard covered his face, the salt-and-pepper color of gray and slightly less gray that was common in many older men.

  “What are you doing out here, puppy?”

  Even at the age of twenty-nine, his father maintained the pet names of a boy half his age. James didn’t mind so much. Mostly, he was sad these days––sad about a great many things.

  “Another long day.”

  James hesitated.

  “I can’t stand that place.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Robert joined his son looking out upon Miranda. His arms were crossed over his chest. The flannel shirt he wore had been worn nearly to disintegration, which was Robert’s way. “There’s always another shitty job. World is full of them, even in tough times.”

  There were howls in the distance, roaming coyotes of the desert seeking a midnight snack. Miranda was on the unfortunate precipice that many American cities were: the dissolution of discretionary monies and a slowing, crab-walking economy that punished those who seemed to require the most.

  Father and son lived alone now.

  They were an estranged kind of odd couple who were as diametrically opposed as two people could be. But, they had such an immense similarity in manner and care. Their attitudes mirror images of each other, with their values strangely in sync.

&nbs
p; James moved away from the screen that separated the cool desert night from the front porch and entered his father’s home, his home. Robert’s wife––and James’ mother––had passed five years earlier, yet the house remained as she had decorated it. And as such, knickknacks and odd paintings remained. The kitchen was sparse. An empty sink and the glowing yellow lights of a microwave hardly used.

  Robert followed his son in.

  Closing the door behind him, he placed a nearby chair under the handle. In his mind, safety was paramount. Sadness and a desire to belong lingered, haunted him in many ways, but the old man never showed it. There was only the occasional glimmer in his eyes when he watched something heart-wrenching. Or it was one of those rare moments where the kind man––the infinitely giving man beneath––shone through.

  Knowing this, the son felt greater sadness.

  His father, despite his gruff and often curt exterior, was a man capable of great charity and benevolence. The living room was occupied by only a solitary couch that had not been set upon at great length since the passing of his mother. Rounding out the room were the two recliners where father and son often took up residence. Robert sat into his chair, reclining it in one smooth movement.

  The television droned on at low volume.

  Forever was it on, scanning between sports and news: the ever-present back and forth was the foundation of his knowledge. Robert fancied himself a connoisseur of all things political and athletic, with a twinge of historic relevance as it applied to Rome and the founding of the colonies.

  “Have you seen the news?”

  It was a leading question to be certain.

  That was like asking a person if they had seen the sky this morning. To his father, the news was the crux of knowledge. Everything snaked through the air waves and into vibrant images that contained modicums of certainty.

  “What’s it this time, old man?”