PRODROME (ch. 3): Whoopty-Doo!

Catch up on PRODROME! Read episode 1 below:

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This space belongs to a dead man, Riley ruminated. Every time he became comfortable in the cramped, hard cot, his mind snapped back to the idea that his room was haunted by a sharpshooting, food cooking, stand-up guy this reality had so cruelly stolen from his new roommates. Is this bed cursed? Am I next?

He was paralyzed, stuck between two conflicting thoughts of either waiting out the dread that ate at his insides, or leave the claustrophobic room and pace about until the sun kissed the horizon. The young man mentally fought these two inherently negative choices, but he hadn't truly realized how little energy was left in his body after almost a decade of looking over his shoulder. He was used to breaking into houses or making the journey back to his childhood home in Paramount to sleep for the night. Something about being invited to rest filled him with great unease.

There was only Riley, and the three suffocating walls entombing him.

The ceiling was uninteresting, pardon a makeshift ventilation system that led directly to the outside. The night was much colder than it had been in recent weeks, and he savored every cool breath that exhaled from the dusty grate. Feeling the dewy wind that stuck to his flesh, he wondered about the rest of Oak Barn's denizens — how they lived in recreational vehicles, detached train cars, or other tiny homes that were constructed around the pre-existing territory that was once a shipping train yard. Curiosity kept him from sleeping even a solid hour. There were moments of falling and moments of slipping. Only once during the night did he realize he’d drifted asleep. A half-realized image painted on the back of his eyelids woke him up each time, and as soon as he blinked back to consciousness, he hated himself for succumbing to the anxiety.

Riley struggled with the concept of security and how it was given to him for free. Outside of Oak Barn was an incredible wonderland of possibility; a lawless expanse of silent structures and quiet mountains waited for him. Winding stretches of loneliness was occasionally broken by nonconsensual spats of adrenaline-fueled escapes. Creatures once considered his kin either roamed in the same way he did — alone, with feet dragging along the gravel — or in swarms of tens pushing against each other in an angry, wordless shuffle. He had existed for ten years without needing to kill a single one, and now the price for a consistent roof was a weekly, ritual slaughter.

aThe sun peeked over the window sill and warmed the interior of his new home. His eyes were trained to the subtly flowing curtain that separated him from the hallway. The heavy fabric did a great job preventing light from entering his cot, but his hyperawareness counted the moments until he could step outside, feign a satisfied yawn, and join his companions in their morning routine.

Eric was the first one awake, but Patrick was the one who knocked on his door frame to wake him. "Time to get up," his voice called. The disembodied voice waited for a handful of seconds before continuing. "A pot will be on in a few."

A pot?

When Riley joined the others, the strong, earthy scent of coffee wracked his sensitive nostrils. Upon the portable burner was a tarnished silver percolator. A shirtless Patrick leaned against the counter, its sharp edge digging into his hardened back. "There you are," he said, then pulled away. Flames licked Riley’s cheeks when it occurred to him that Patrick only appeared scrawny. Cut triceps paired with solid biceps that fit into his long, veiny arms. His chest was underdeveloped, but a few discernible abs were set above his ragged belt. "All we have is the dark stuff."

"I don't—" Riley looked away and hid a difficult strand of hair behind his ear. "I’ve never had it."

Eric's voice sounded from the living space. Its quick boom startled Riley, who hadn't even noticed the man was there. "Good!" He gave his new roommate a thumbs-up. "Do us both a favor and don't start. This shit don't grow on trees." Eric blinked and considered his statement for a second before amending it with, "I think? Whatever. Even if it does..."

"No worries." Riley thumbed at his nose and eyed the burner rather than the coffee maker. "Quick question: do you think I can use that to melt some ice? Maybe wipe myself down with some hot water?"

Patrick stuck out a finger to silence Eric, who closed his mouth and returned his focus to the science fiction novel he had placed face-down on his lap. "Stuff like ice — that's in a perpetual limited supply. We have two ice makers hooked up where the purifying plant is, right next to Marisa's office."

"Ah."

"But, hey, we'll be going out this evening, which means you should keep your eyes open for anything useful. Earn favors, cash them in for some extra water. You can do whatever you want at that point. You eat oatmeal?"

Riley scoffed and crossed his arms. An astringent waft struck his nose, and he played off being offended by his own odor. "If you put ketchup on cement, I'd probably eat it." The two heard Eric chuckle to himself.

In under an hour, he had been fed by Patrick who pleaded for him to try his cup of coffee. As soon as the vile liquid touched his tongue, he wanted to scrape away each taste bud with his whittling knife. The idea spawned a question. "Yuck. Am I ever going to get my stuff back?"

Holding his book open with one hand and balancing his mug with another, Eric looked up from the yellowing pages and said, "Not like that gun was yours to begin with."

"N-no," Riley admitted. "It wasn't."

"I think you're a good enough guy," Eric continued and dog-eared his current page before tossing it on the floor. "Really. If you were a piece of shit, I’d have known by now. To be honest, so would Marisa. No way in hell she'd let you be an operator if she thought you were guilty."

"Guilty? Guilty of what?"

Patrick hopped in when he noticed Eric's cheeks turning red. "The rumor is you were the one who killed Eddy."

Riley stared down at the mug he was given last night. There were stained rings of coffees past, a persistent odor associated with the beverage. This morning, he used it for water and nothing else. The name, Eddy, stared back. "That didn't happen." He looked to Eric with hard eyes. "I swear to God."

"I don't know your relationship with God, buddy," he shook his head. "So that don't do me a bit of good. All I know is, I trust Marisa. She's got a sixth sense for people. Psychic, or something."

Eric's words were collected and genuine, but Riley's chest was filled with an unsettling pressure. "Patrick. You said this was a rumor? Like, people around here think I killed somebody?"

His two roommates exchanged a long glance. They shared an entire conversation with just their eyes. Patrick said, "I think you're freaking out over nothing."

Eric nodded after taking a sip from his mug. "This world is death. Every facet of our lives is decided by the grim reaper. Shit, you're drinking water from a cheap-o air purifier. I almost feel bad for you, 'cause the first time you've ever had coffee, it's from a tin that expired three years ago. You know why we're drinking it? Death. We ain't got a choice. We can't be picky. We can't get attached any more."

Riley blinked a few times before asking, "Are you saying people don't actually care that when somebody dies? When they’re murdered?"

"The fuck are you talking about? Riley, buddy, you gotta listen to me." Eric leaned forward while sitting in his favored wooden chair. The pink-orange sun caught against the shiny crown of his head. "You're only here because of death."

The weight of Eric's words crashed onto Riley as if a cartoon anvil fell from the ceiling. He shook his head and frowned. Patrick offered a few words of clarification. "Eddy was a really important person in our lives. It’s not just because he was an operator, like us. That being said... We absolutely cannot spend any time in the past, especially tonight. Especially when the only thing standing between us and death is death itself. Our thoughts — our heads have to be clear, directed. There's a time to mourn, and there's a time to work."

"I'll just say this," Eric sniffed and rubbed the underside of his nose. "Marisa thinks you have enough potential to take Eddy's spot, and he was a goddamned Army vet at twenty-two. What, you've never shot a gun before, right? You've never had to kill a single thing? You got a choice to make tonight, buddy."

Riley looked at Patrick for empathy, but received the same resolute stare. The shirtless man said, "I agree with him. If you don't make the hard decisions, you're just going to be replaced with someone who can."

"But — why me?" A strong quake entered Riley's voice. "Why not someone else? Someone who actually knows what they're doing?"

"Because everyone else already has a role," Patrick raised his eyebrows and swished a pool of coffee around his mouth before swallowing. "Ah-h-h! See, if you were a doctor or something, we wouldn’t have met. I'd only run into you, like, once or twice? Whenever I need a booboo fixed?" He stood up and walked to the sink to discard his mug. "Count your blessings."

Eric seethed a laugh. "You ain't a blessing, Patty. Just 'cause your nipples are the same size... Whoopty-doo!" He scooped the novel from the floor, became comfortable, and ignored the middle finger Patrick shot his way.

Staring into the depths of Eddy's mug, Riley desperately hoped that, with every additional sip he took, he'd draw some amount of power, some form of resolve that made the deceased man so reliable and useful.

During the height of the day, when the sun screamed loud and the clouds were mere wisps, Riley was led to a man named PJ by one of his former escorts. George wore a different hat today, one that had a worn logo of maybe a car company Riley wasn't familiar with.

Their journey to PJ's shack was a short but exciting ten minutes. Where he expected glances of doubt and judgment, he found only the kindness that he witnessed the prior day. His name had entered the zeitgeist and the denizens of Oak Barn learned it overnight. A short man was carrying a crate of multicolored eggs. He nodded to both of them. "Mornin', George. Riley."

The greeting caused the newcomer to slow to a near-stop. George clicked his tongue and Riley heeled like a dog. There was a small crowd of people gathered around a table of PJ's wares. George excused himself through them.

PJ was a startlingly old man with an incredibly robust beard that draped to his solar plexus. In spite of excess, he appeared well-groomed. An unidentifiable oil slicked his hair to provide a glossy sheen. He wore patchy denim overalls and a faded yellow band tee. Once he spotted Riley’s face in the crowd, he hushed a woman who was in the middle of ranting about her latest hunt.

Riley introduced himself with a brief wave of the hand, but PJ ignored him to fetch the snub nose revolver the newcomer had arrived with. He placed it onto the tempered glass tabletop and pushed it forward, heel first. On the butt of the weapon was the number thirty-six. It was clumsily carved by some sort of blade in the near past.

"You here for this, son?"

"I, um... I think so. Am I allowed to have it back?"

"Well, ain't you number thirty-six?"

"I don't know," Riley glanced at George, who nodded once and winked with his left eye. "Yes?"

"That'd make you — huh, something like the third one! That's a good number, Riley-my-boy. Three and thirty-six. Kindred, ain't it?" PJ tapped the handle with the long nail of his pointer finger. "Loaded him up for you, too. Poor thing sure was hungry."

Riley smirked and reached out for the weapon before pausing. His fingers dangled mid-air as he asked, "What about my knife?"

"That's what you call that thing? Your knife?" PJ pushed the arm of the woman he'd interrupted and cackled. "Let me ask you this, Dede. You ever kill a ghost with a whittling knife?"

The woman cocked her bushy brows and batted her thick eyelashes at Riley, who suddenly felt as though he were an animal in a zoo. "You mean one of those knives they use for carving — see! — wood?"

"It was my grandpa's."

"Lemme tell you something, new guy. See!" Dede leaned her arm against the glass case and said, "Everything you find can kill something, depending on your — see! see! — depending on how bad you actually wanna kill it. There comes a time, though — see! — where there's a risk-reward scenario. How close do you gotta get to the thing in order to kill it?"

Riley frowned and retrieved the revolver with apathy gripping his face. "I just want to know what happened to it."

PJ said, "It's being used for its intended purpose, Riley-my-boy. Think about your paw — would he rather his beloved knife be used for carving wood or carving flesh?" The question gave Riley pause. "By the way, you ever see another dead body, you make sure you take everything off it. Eddy’s holster. That was a custom job by one of our boys."

"Oh," Riley slouched and stared at his reclaimed weapon. "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't think about it."

"From here on out, be an Eskimo," PJ reached over the counter to flick the tip of Riley's nose. He flinched and dropped his brow. "And use every part of the seal."

A second of silence dragged on before Dede exclaimed, "See!"

"Don't mind her, kiddo," PJ said while bending down to retrieve another holster. This one was weathered, the surface almost entirely frayed. "She's possessed. Use this for now. Your being here will take the town some getting used to. As sure as cherries were made to be eaten, you'll find gifts pouring your way soon enough."

Dede wrapped her arm around the silent George's shoulders. He rolled his eyes and twisted his lips into a dull smirk. She asked, "You ready for tonight, new guy?"

Riley deliberated over his response. All eyes were on him, even background figures who perused PJ's wares of handcrafted blades and repatriated weapons parts. Feeling the strain of time passing by, he dropped a sigh and said, "I have a gun, don't I?"

The three members of his audience looked amongst one another, but it was George who finally spoke. "Good answer, kid."

Riley knew it would be.