By Marco Etheridge
Trigger Warning: Suicide is discussed. If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide or self-harm, help is out there. You can call, chat, or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline in the U.S and its territories, but there are many suicide and crisis prevention hotlines in countries around the world. You can use the following website to search for resources wherever you are: https://www.iasp.info/suicidalthoughts/
It’s a typical late Tuesday morning, or maybe Wednesday, with yours truly lounging on the couch in my faithful hoodie, sorting through my Magic: The Gathering deck, which is admittedly weak. Alas, no more powerful will it grow anytime soon, as the cash flow is not strong with this one. This one being me, Zack Yarrow. Luckily, the maternal unit left me the bungalow free and clear before she shuffled loose the mortal coil. At least I have a roof of my own.
So basically, I’m just kicking it, an impoverished Plainswalker in need of many Enchantment and Artifact cards, when the whirr-whine of a drone breaks my solemn reverie. I yank my head up to stare through the front windows, see the laden drone zing-flit in under the front porch roof, hover over the package zone, and drop out of sight. Two heartbeats later, it rises back to window height, then tilts and disappears into the sky.
A delivery, mos def, yet I am at a loss. I have no cash with which to order fripperies, as demonstrated by my weak Magic deck, nor is it my birthday or similar. In short, I am broke. And stumped. And curious.
Time to investigate further. I lever my not-really-that-pudgy ass off the couch and stomp to the front door. One quick perimeter check through the door light, just to make sure, then I twist the deadbolt.
I step out onto the porch and do a one-eighty sweep. Not a soul in sight. The neighbor kids are in school, and their parents gone to their day jobs, bless their souls. The mystery package lies dead center on the drone pad. A typical corrugated cardboard envelope, maybe ten inches by six, and not too thick. I snatch the thing up, scuttle back inside, and fasten the deadbolt. Security standards must be maintained, am I right?
After flopping myself onto the couch, I lay the package on the coffee table and give it a hard look. At first glance, everything checks out. Zack Yarrow, proper address, from a shipper I don’t recognize. Then I check the UID number, and things go wonky. Nine digits, all the right numbers, but two are transposed.
There is a disturbance on my personal event horizon. My stomach heaves, and not because of the pizza breakfast. No one gets a UID number wrong. It can’t happen. The new FedGov goes apeshit over shit like that. You want to buy milk, you need your UID. Clothes, fuel, magic cards: ditto. Unless it’s black market, your UID number is mandatory, compulsory, and woe unto you if you can’t produce it correctly and posthaste.
To open or not to open, that is now the question. Curious monkey that I am, this is a temptation I cannot resist. Still, a good player anticipates. I reach for a pair of Nitrile gloves, always a good option when in doubt. After snapping on the gloves, I pull the perforated tab. The envelope opens. I tip it up, and a transparent vacuum-sealed bag slides onto the coffee table.
I’m struck wordless except for a single noun: Ganja. And not just any ganja, but the fattest, hairiest bud I have ever seen. A very generous half at minimum. But quality trumps quantity. Droplets of oil glisten on the beautiful purple-green buds, a sure sign of grade one serious skunk weed.
I sink back into the cushions and try to think. Serendipity, yes, but doubt as well. A mysterious delivery of super skunk. My joy is tempered, sensing a trap card about to be played. Flying solo seems an unwise choice. I need a wingman for this adventure. I reach for my trusty device and tap out a text to Danny.
Dude. Have sudden windfall of chronic. Your presence + burritos required STAT.
Danny Reiter is Q to my Bond, the Chewbacca to my Han Solo, and he owns a car. He’s also my best friend.
OMW. ETA 45 min w carne asada.
Time drags, yet I resist the urge to slice open the vacuum-sealed bag. To ease the interminable wait, I scrounge up the bong and fireplace lighter. Finally, I hear the Danny mobile pull up in front of my bungalow. No need to get up since Danny has his own key. Footsteps up the stairs, the deadbolt turns, and the door opens.
“Dude.”
“Dude. So, tell me.”
Danny utters not another word as I lay out the day’s mysterious events. A silent pause follows as we both stare at the wrapped bud. Only then does he speak.
“The bad UID number is troubling.”
“It is.”
“But the bud is beautiful. I suggest we destroy the evidence with fire. Quickly.”
“Dude, this is a half. That’s a lot of bong hits.”
“The longest journey begins with but a single step, and the longest high with a single hit.”
It is difficult to argue in the face of such wisdom. I shrug, reach for a razor knife, and slit open the plastic. The room is instantly aswirl with the skunky sweetness of premium cannabis. Pungent does not begin to describe the pervasive bouquet.
Danny holds up a cautioning finger.
“I think a small hit to start.”
I pinch a bit of bud, tamp it into the bowl, and push the bong toward Danny.
“First hit to the guest.”
Danny picks up the bong, fits it to his mouth, and leans forward. I click the lighter and steady the flame. Thick white smoke curls into the bong. He takes the hit, and his eyes go wide. He manages to land the bong on the table, but only just, before sagging back in his chair. A cloud of smoke billows out of him.
“And?”
His answer comes as a rough croak.
“Holy shit, dude.”
I do not hesitate. Another pinch of bud, a quick tamp, and I fire up. I pull the whole hit into the bong, flick my finger off the carb hole, and—BANG! It’s like being smacked with a velvet sledgehammer. The blow knocks me back into the couch. It’s all I can do to cradle the empty bong in my lap. I squint over at Danny, but he’s already gone, head lolling to one side. That’s the last thing I see.
* * *
Loose rocks shift and slide under Danny Reiter’s feet. He staggers, almost falls, just manages to stay upright. Holding his arms out for balance, he gets his first look at his surroundings and instantly wishes he were anywhere else. Anywhere that isn’t here.
Danny stands on a rocky promontory overlooking a wide valley. Overhead, the sky is a swirling purple-grey bruise. The valley stretches out below his perch, a wasteland of rock and thorn. Before he can take in the full horror of the landscape, Zack materializes out of thin air.
Zack stares wide-eyed. He screams, staggers, and almost falls to the ground. Danny throws his arms around Zack, matching his friend scream for scream. There they stand, clutching each other for support, until they run out of breath.
Zack manages to croak out a question.
“Why are you in my nightmare?”
Danny pulls back to stare Zack full in the face.
“Wrong question, dude. We’re both in the same nightmare, except I don’t think this is a dream.”
Zack stares at him, disbelief smeared across his pudgy face.
Danny digs his fingers into Zack’s shoulder and sees his friend wince. Sure he has Zack’s attention, he speaks as calmly as he can.
“Listen to me, Zack. Focus. Don’t say a word. Just turn and look at this weird shit, okay?”
Zack nods. Keeping his arm tight around Zack’s shoulders, Danny swivels his friend around to face the valley below. Instead of looking out at the grim vista, Zack stares at his feet while mumbling into his chest.
“Dude, I can’t hear you.”
Zack shakes his head like he’s trying to wake himself up.
“I said, I wish I’d worn my slides. These rocks are cutting the shit outta my feet.”
Danny gives Zack a shake and points to the valley.
“Goddammit, Zack, open your eyes!”
Zack raises his head and stares out over the dark landscape. After a long moment, he recoils as if threatened. He turns his horrified eyes to Danny, who nods.
“I wanna go home, Danny.”
“Me too, dude.”
Something on the valley floor catches Danny’s eye.
“Oh shit, now what?”
What looks like coils of smoke or shadow are roiling across the rocky ground below the promontory, moving fast and all in the same direction. As his eyes adjust to the gloom, Danny sees tiny figures running ahead of the advancing shadows. Suddenly, his brain makes sense of what his eyes see. The figures are people, men and women, some clutching children, dodging past rocks and thorn bushes as they flee for their lives.
“Zack…”
“Yeah, I see it. But what the fuck am I seeing?”
Danny does not answer. His arm drops from Zack’s shoulder. Zack turns to his friend.
Danny’s just standing there, holding one hand in front of his face. With a jolt of fear, Zack realizes why his friend is staring. Danny’s hand is translucent. As Zack watches transfixed, Danny fades away to nothing. He vanishes without a word or a sound.
Gone.
An anguished howl rolls out of Zack’s chest and pushes past his throat.
“No, no, no! Don’t leave me here all alone!”
Dark clouds swirl down from the bruised sky, threatening to smash Zack into the rocks at his feet. He looks around with frantic eyes, but there is nowhere to run. Then darkness passes through him, and he is gone.
* * *
I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is Danny. He’s leaning over the coffee table, head in his hands, looking like he’s going to hurl. I’m so glad to see him, I don’t care where he pukes. I close my eyes, shake my aching head, and try again.
I’m sprawled on the couch wearing my hoodie. My feet hurt. And the bong has spilled a nasty stain over the couch cushions. Not the first time. Then a nightmare vision flashes through my brain. Suddenly Danny’s not the only one who feels like puking. I fight the bile down and look at my bro.
“Danny, you okay?”
Danny shakes his head without looking up.
“No, dude, I am definitely not okay. Not even close.”
Makes sense to me. I’m so glad to hear his voice, I forget about barfing.
“Are we going to talk about this? I mean, what the hell just happened? That was by far the worst buzz ever.”
Danny raises his head, sticks out a shaking hand, and points.
“Look at your feet, Zack.”
I strain forward, grab my ankle, and pull. It’s misery to turn my foot, but somehow, I do it. I stare at my bare sole. The rough skin is crisscrossed with scratches and welts. Exactly the sort of marks one gets from standing on sharp rocks barefoot.
“You understand, right?”
Danny’s question hangs in the air between us. An answer pushes through my foggy brain, an answer I really don’t want to acknowledge.
Danny doesn’t wait for me to say it out loud.
“That was no buzz, Zack. We went somewhere else, somewhere horrible. I don’t know where, but it was real. Those cuts on your feet aren’t imaginary. They happened. And that means whatever happens in that place stays happened here.”
A sudden realization shoves Danny’s warning right past me, and his words have to double back. Meanwhile, I’m running my mouth.
“You’re saying we were Plainswalkers for real? Like we had an actual spark, both of us?”
Danny’s staring at me like I’m stupid, but fair enough, no foul. Then he drops the reality hammer. Again.
“Hey, earth to Zack. Yeah, real Plainswalkers, real spark, and guess what? Real consequences, too. As in, you die there, you’re dead here. Really, most sincerely dead.”
The notion of not dying has some serious tug, but something else is pulling on my chain. In my head, I’m seeing those people running like hell, kids in their arms, smoke shadows chasing them, and my brain is asking questions I can’t answer. Did those people make it? And could I have done something to help them?
I look up, and there’s Danny waiting to see what I’m gonna say. Something about the way he’s looking at me, the words just tumble out of my mouth.
“Dude, we’ve got to go back.”
Danny doesn’t hesitate. He can be creepy like that—two steps ahead if you know what I mean.
“Yes, we do. But not barefoot and stupid. That’s you barefoot and me stupid, by the way. We need to gear up. We also need to figure out how to stay there longer.”
“Gear is easy. Moms never threw anything away, not even me. The basement is full of camping stuff, tools, all sorts of shit. There’s item one dealt with. Item two is how to prolong our time on the other side. I think the key is the devil weed. We take the dope with us, plus pipes and many lighters. The longer we toke up, the longer we stay.”
Danny’s on his feet before I finish my spiel. I push myself off the couch and lead the way to the basement, stopping only to slip my aching dogs into a pair of slides.
In any decent adventure flick, this would be the moment to roll the training montage. The two would-be heroes run up and down steep hills, learn to use their superpowers, and go from flabby and slack to lean and mean. Months of hard work and sweat condensed into a series of flickering images.
There’s movies, and then there’s real life. Real life doesn’t offer a lot of warning and not much in the way of advice. Maybe a quick “Heads Up!” if you’re lucky. Danny and I didn’t have two months, or even two weeks. More like two hours.
We climb out of the basement looking like refugees from a Boy Scout jamboree, bulging rucksacks hanging from our shoulders. I’m sporting a pair of hiking boots I haven’t seen in years, and Danny’s got an old cowboy hat jammed onto his head. Our weapons are simple and blunt. I’m packing a baseball bat, and Danny went for a hockey stick.
Then, we’re back in the front room, standing over the coffee table and wondering what to do next. That’s when Danny asks one of his should-have-been-obvious questions.
“Hey, how do we know our gear will come through with us?”
I’m stumped for a second, maybe longer, then a light bulb goes on.
“Good question. But our clothes went through last time, right? I mean, we didn’t arrive naked. So, we do a trial run. We strap the packs on tight and jam the weapons between us and the packs. One unit of gear each. Then we both toke at the same time and see what happens. If the gear goes with us, no problem. If not, we sit tight until we get zapped back here, then try something else.”
Danny mulls that one over, then gives me a nod.
“I got nothing better. I’m ready. Let’s give it a go.”
With the pack pulling heavy and the bat grating against my shoulder blades, I pinch off two equal hunks of sticky bud. Then I stuff the dope stash into the pocket of my cargo pants.
Danny chimes in with good advice.
“Button that pocket before you do anything else.”
“Right. Good call.”
I secure the pocket, then load two silicon pipes. I hand one to Danny and clutch the other. This is it, the moment of truth.
“We both take one big hit together. Try to hang on to your pipe. I packed extras, but still.”
“Roger that.”
“Okay, my brother, on the count of three. One, two, three.”
Lighters spark, flames leap, and dope sizzles. I pull in a huge hit and hold it while Danny does the same. He grins at me and flashes a thumbs-up. Two seconds later, my world goes black.
* * *
Two wavering figures blur into existence atop the rock hillock. The translucent figures solidify into Zack and Danny. They sway back and forth, clinging to each other for support. A purple-grey sky looms above, and the brooding valley stretches away beneath their perch. There’s no sign of pursuing shadows or fleeing people.
Zack pushes away his disorientation and tries to speak.
“You okay, Danny?”
Danny blinks like an owl. Zack gives him a shake.
“Danny?”
Another long moment, then Danny’s eyes focus.
“Whoa, dude, that was intense. Hey, look, I’ve still got my pipe.”
Zack raises his right hand as if he’s never seen such a thing.
“Huh. Me, too.”
He shoves the pipe into a pocket.
“Hold still.”
Zack reaches over Danny’s shoulder and pulls the hockey stick free. He hands it to Danny.
“Now me.”
Danny yanks the bat loose. Zack grimaces and rolls his shoulders.
“Damn thing almost broke my back.”
“Yeah, but here we are with all our gear.”
“Seems like. Now what?”
Danny looks around the top of the hillock. He grabs Zack’s shoulder and pivots until they’re both facing out over the valley.
“We were standing here.”
“Yeah, looks about right.”
Danny points up the valley.
“The people were running that way, toward those bumpy rocks at the far end. What do you think?”
Zack squints into the distance.
“It’s further than it looks. A couple miles, maybe.”
Danny turns, his eyes scanning the rough walls of the valley.
“I see two choices, bro. We head for those cliffs, then work our way along the edge of the valley, or we shoot straight up the middle.”
“The same way those poor bastards went with hell running on their heels.”
Danny pulls off his cowboy hat, finger combs his hair, then pulls the hat down tight.
“Yeah. At least with a wall at our backs, those things can’t surround us. What do you think?”
Zack smacks the baseball bat into his palm.
“I think we’re burning daylight, cowboy. Let’s head for the cliffs and hope those critters leave us alone.”
Without another word, the two friends begin scrambling down the rocky slope. A few minutes later, they step onto the valley floor and set out for the cliffs.
They walk as quickly as the broken terrain will allow, skirting thorn bushes and stray boulders. Loose rocks slide under their feet. The valley is not as flat as it appeared from the hillock. The ground is pockmarked with shallow gullies and scooped out hollows. It’s a treacherous landscape for any traveler, but perfect for predators stalking prey.
Despite their slow progress, the cliffs begin to rise as the two friends draw near. Zack quickens his pace, eager to get to the shelter of the cliffs. Danny lags a few steps behind. Then a shout rips through the air.
“Run, Zack! Don’t look back!”
Danny dashes past, grabbing Zack’s shoulder and dragging him forward. Zack staggers, finds his feet, then sprints alongside Danny. Their backpacks jounce up and down, pounding into their backs. Zack risks one quick look over his shoulder.
At least a dozen blurs of smoke are hot on their tail. Dark contrails spiral in their wake, the rank air resounds with a sinister chittering. One smoky figure leads the pack. Zack fixes his eyes on the cliffs and runs like he’s never run before. Fast, but not fast enough.
The lead demon pounces. Danny goes down in a swirl of smoke and claws. Zack skids to a halt and charges back. He sees Danny pinned flat, even though the creature is only half his size. The thing claws at Danny’s backpack, yanking its bony limbs as if to free itself. Danny scrabbles at the rocky ground, trying to push himself up. Zack is two springing steps away, raising the baseball bat above his shoulder.
“Stay down, Danny!”
Danny drops flat as Zack steps into his swing. He’s batting for the fences, swinging right through the hateful monster. The Louisville Slugger connects—CRACK—and the attacking creature disintegrates into a billowing cloud of smoke and bone. The thing’s skull rolls end over end through the air before disappearing behind a thorn bush. Dead limbs tumble this way and that. There is no flesh, no blood, only dissipating spirals of smoke and splintering bone.
Zack untwists himself, reaches for Danny, and hauls him to his feet.
“Fuck, dude, you okay?”
Danny finds his balance, nods once, then looks past Zack’s shoulder. In one swift motion, Danny hip checks Zack aside and charges. Zack stumbles, catches his footing just in time to see another smoke demon coming in low and fast. Danny loops the stick behind his back and whips it around in a vicious slapshot. The blade catches the charging demon dead center, cutting it in half.
Zack pumps the air with his fist.
“Way to go, dude!”
In response, Danny kicks the smoking bones, raises the hockey stick high, and screams his defiance. Zack steps beside him, throws his head back, and howls. Their anger echoes out over the wasteland, leaving them panting for breath. The demons are still out there, marked by their smoke, but they seem to be holding back for the moment. Danny keeps his eyes peeled on the smoke trails while whispering to Zack.
“What now, dude?”
“I think we spooked the bastards. We stick to the plan and walk to the cliffs. We do not run. No fear, right?”
“Right. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
Danny turns away. Zack sees Danny’s rucksack and his mouth drops open.
“Ummm… dude?”
“Are you coming or what?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got a demon arm stuck in your pack.”
Danny twists back and forth, trying to look over his shoulder. The naked bone swings like a grotesque tail.
“Hold still, will ya?”
Zack winces, grabs the dangling arm bone, and wrenches the curved claws out of Danny’s pack. For what seems like an eternity, he and Danny stare at the disembodied bone and its wicked talons. Then Zack spins away and hurls the arm in the direction of the smoke trails.
“Take that, you evil fucks!”
Danny sputters and starts to laugh.
“Whoa, that’s harsh, dude.”
“You think that’s harsh, just wait. I’m getting pissed, bro. C’mon, let’s hit it.”
It’s a comfort to have solid rock at their backs. Zack and Danny sit on the ground, rucksacks beside them, while Zack loads up a pipe. Danny scans the wasteland of thorn and rock. If the smoke demons are still around, they’re keeping out of sight.
Zack strikes a flame over the pipe, hits it hard, then passes it to Danny.
“Toke up, bro, before we vanish.”
Danny takes a hit and holds it, eyes still wary. They pass the bowl until the bud is roasted down to ashes.
“Got a riddle for you, Zack.”
“Okay, hit me.”
“When we smoke this shit back home, it hits like a sledgehammer. We smoke it here, nothing happens. What’s up with that?”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same. I got no answer, Danny. Total weirdness.”
Zack stows the pipe and scratches his chin. He turns to Danny.
“That’s not what’s bothering me. My worry is, what if we can’t get back? I mean, we could end up stuck here forever. And it would be my fault.”
“Like you twisted my arm. Get over it, Zack. I’m here because I go where you go. Bros, remember. No place else I’d rather be.”
Zack curls his lip and points toward the scrub.
“Really?”
“Okay, this is a bit of a dump, but I mean… shit, you’re going to make me say it.”
“Say what?”
Danny sighs, looks at the cheerless sky, then at Zack.
“We’ve known each other a long time, right?”
“Ever since the first day of junior high, my dude.”
“Zactly. A lot of history since then. You say we might get stuck here. I say, so what? At least here we’ve got, like, a mission. My life back home isn’t much to brag about. Actually, it’s depressing as shit. There’s not a week goes by I don’t consider offing myself.”
Danny drops his head. Zack stares at Danny. The silence hangs long and heavy. Finally, Zack finds his voice.
“Dude, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Danny raises his head. Tears stain the dust on his cheeks.
“I didn’t have to as long as you were there. You’re the only reason I keep hanging on.”
Zack nods his head, lays a hand on Danny’s shoulder.
“Don’t carry that shit all alone, dude. Bros forever, right? That’s why I’m here. You got to promise me you won’t bottle that dark shit up. If anything happened to you, I’d be lost, Danny, completely lost.”
Zack squeezes Danny’s shoulder, then rummages in his rucksack. He pulls out a bandana and offers it to Danny.
“C’mon, man, wipe away the tears. Like you said, we got a mission. We gotta get to the end of the valley and find those people, see what’s what.”
Danny drags the bandana across his cheeks, smearing the dust and tears. Zack looks at him and grins.
“What?”
“Dude, you got warpaint like a bona fide warrior. I wish we had a mirror.”
Danny manages a weak smile.
“I wish we had a couple shotguns.”
“Yeah, me too. Look, we should get moving. I don’t know when or if it gets dark here. Those smoky little bastards are bad enough in the daylight.”
“We got lucky, Zack. You know we did. We kicked their asses one on one, but what if they come at us all at once?”
“Then we’re fucked.”
Danny shakes his head and laughs.
“Good to know, dude. On your feet, Plainswalker. Let’s walk.”
They push themselves from the ground and shoulder their rucksacks. Skirting the cliff walls on their left, they set out on their journey to the valley.
Time passes slowly as Danny and Zack trudge over the broken ground. They move without speaking, eyes peeled for any sign of the smoke demons. Their progress is slow, yet the walls on the far side draw ever nearer as the valley narrows.
Danny whistles softly. Zack stops, leans in close. Danny holds his voice to a whisper.
“We’re close, dude. If we find these people, we gotta be cool. Calm and cool, right?”
“Good plan. You ready?”
Danny brandishes his hockey stick and winks. Zack reaches a hand behind Danny’s neck and pulls him in for a head bump. Then they walk.
Ten minutes later, the valley floor has narrowed to no more than a hundred yards across. Edging around a thicket of thorn bushes, Danny and Zack get a first glimpse of their destination. What had appeared from the promontory to be bumpy rocks are in reality a wall of huge boulders, each one as big as a house. The gaps between the boulders are hidden in shadows.
Zack stops, and Danny steps up beside him. Between them and the boulder wall is a wide swath of open ground. Not a single thorn bush blocks their view, as if the land has been cleared for a purpose.
“Okay, we go in friendly, like you said. Your hockey stick is now a staff. I’ll carry the bat under my arm.”
“Ready when you are, Zack.”
Danny turns the hockey stick blade up, stabs the butt into the ground, and steps forward. Zack follows.
They’re twenty yards from the nearest boulder when the first face appears. Then there are two, five, ten, as people emerge from the gaps between the huge boulders. All men, all dressed alike, wearing a sort of sleeveless tunic above knee-length sarongs.
Zack halts, forces a smile, and raises his free hand palm forward. Danny mimics the gesture. A stir passes through the boulder men. Heads turn this way and that. Then, more figures appear. Women and children materialize behind the men. Perhaps thirty people in all.
One man steps forward, extends his arm palm down, then pulls his hand to his chest and holds it there. Danny looks at Zack, who nods. He whispers through still smiling teeth.
“I guess that’s our cue. This dude must be the chief. Okay, slow and steady. No quick moves.”
Zack and Danny move as one, pacing forward with hands held high. They approach within ten feet of the headman and stop. No one speaks. Moving slowly, Danny slips the rucksack from his shoulders and places it on the ground at his feet. Zack follows his friend’s lead. The headman watches in silence.
Without warning, the stillness is shattered by a shrill cry. A boy darts past the cordon of men, arm raised and pointing. Ignoring Zack and Danny, he screams a string of incomprehensible words. All eyes turn to where the boy points. Out across the narrow valley, dozens of smoke trails rise above scrub thorn, bearing down on the gathering like hostile missiles.
In an instant, the boulder men move back, forming a tight cordon in front of the women. The women snatch smaller children from the ground. Danny and Zack spin to face the enemy. Danny thrusts his hockey stick at the smoke trails.
“We got company, Zack. What’s the plan?”
Zack twists his head to face Danny. His face is a grimace of rage.
“I’ll tell you the plan. No fear! No mercy!”
Zack whips the baseball bat over his head, one end in each fist. He leaps into the air, stomps a landing, and hurls a growl from his gut.
“Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH! Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH!”
His boots pound the ground in time with his war cry, two steps slow, three fast. Danny stares open-mouthed until realization dawns.
“Fuck, yeah, war dance! Haka, like those Māori dudes!”
Danny twirls his hockey stick over his head, stomps from side to side, opens his eyes grotesquely wide, and sticks out his tongue as far as it will go. He picks up Zack’s chant as the smoke trails close in. Their paired cry echoes off the hulking boulders. Feet pound the rocky ground. Then a third cry rises beside them. It’s the boy who cried the warning, sliding in beside Danny and stomping for all he’s worth. Now he adds a sharp soprano to the men’s baritone.
“Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH! Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH!”
A fourth voice joins, as the headman appears on Zack’s flank. The chant grows, gathers them in. Feet pound the ancient rhythm deep into the rock. The chant swells to a thunder as others join the dance.
The first smoke demon breaks from the thorn scrub. Zack charges to meet it, already swinging his bat. One mighty blow sends the creature’s head flying back into the thorns. Zack disappears in tendrils of smoke and scattering bones, then steps clear, his bat at the ready.
Danny cuts a second attacker in half, spinning just in time to see a third demon closing in on Zack. No time to shout a warning. The demon springs for Zack and is cut out of the air by a rock missile.
Smoking fragments of demon pelt Zack’s body, staggering him. He regains his footing, sees the headman grinning at him.
“Thanks, dude!”
The headman hefts another wicked chunk of rock, points to the wavering smoke trails.
“Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH!”
Jagged rocks fly across the battleground. One tribesman goes down with a demon on his chest. Danny slices the creature’s head off with a sweeping scythe cut. Others pull the man to his feet. Trickles of blood flow down his chest, but he’s alive and already reaching for another rock.
“Danny, look!”
Danny spins to Zack’s shout. There’s battle lust in his eyes, and his stick is poised to swing.
“No, dude, that way. The smoky fucks are giving it up!”
Danny swivels his head, but there’s no enemy in range. Then he looks where Zack points. Smoke trails are speeding away down the valley. The demons are in full flight.
Zack shoulders his bat and grins at Danny.
“You, my dude, are one serious badass.”
Danny stabs the hockey stick into the ground and sags onto it. He’s laughing, shaking his head in wonder and fatigue.
“What about you? That war dance, man, that was something. What do we do now?”
Zack looks at the clustered tribesmen, then nods to the chief.
“Got an idea, Danny. Follow me.”
Zack leads the way to where they left their backpacks.
“Time to toke up, dude. We don’t want to vanish, not after kicking ass like that. And we’ve got plenty of bud to share. Dig out all the pipes we’ve got.”
“I’m on it, Zack.”
The two friends load pipes under a circle of curious eyes. A gasp goes up as the first lighter sparks to life. Danny and Zack toke up. Smoke spirals into the air. They offer a pipe to the headman. He takes the silicon pipe, stares at it, then holds it to his lips, draws in the smoke. A moment later, he’s coughing and laughing. Then he stomps his foot and points the smoking pipe down the valley.
“Hoo-ah! ah-Ah-AH!”
Zack laughs, sparks another pipe, and hands it to the next tribesman. The cluster of men forms a circle, with pipes passing from hand to hand. Danny and Zack take turns reloading the pipes as they come back around.
The men smoke, laugh, and relive the fight, pantomiming their deeds. One man points at Danny, swings an imaginary stick, loses his balance, and almost falls. The others laugh and nod. The pipes go round. Smoke spirals into the air. Women slip in beside their men. Children weave in and out. The circle closes.
* * *
In a FedGov facility, a computer sounds an alarm. The computer station is one of many in a large room. A uniformed operator stares at the warning.
FALSE UID ALERT. IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED.
The computer operator taps a keyboard. An address appears on the monitor. The operator types in a dispatch command and waits for a response. An electronic summons goes out to an enforcement dispatch center.
Within the hour, a black van pulls up in front of a nondescript bungalow located in a run-down sector of the city. Half a dozen heavily armed agents wearing black tactical gear emerge from the van. One agent carries an Enforcer door ram.
The agents swarm onto the front porch, weapons trained on the door and windows. Without a word of warning, the agent with the ram swings forward, smashing the Enforcer into the wooden door. The doorjamb splinters under the blow, and the door flies open.
They enter in pairs, crouched low and leading with the muzzles of their weapons. The front room is empty. The team leader points two fingers. The pairs split into three, two remaining in the front room, the others fanning out through the house.
Boots clomp across the kitchen floor. Heavy footsteps descend into the basement. A few minutes pass. The footsteps return. The team reassembles in the front room. They look to the team leader and shake their heads.
The lead agent runs a gloved finger across the coffee table near his knee, tracing a line through a thick coating of dust. A deck of strange cards lies beside a dirty ashtray. He fans the cards with his fingertip, stares at the weird images, then turns his attention elsewhere.
His gaze falls on the empty couch. One cushion bears an irregular stain. Mold has colonized the dark splotch. He shakes his head, then tucks his carbine under his arm. After one last look, the leader waves his free hand at the broken doorway. He turns away and steps onto the porch. The other agents follow him out the door and back to the van.
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.