Foreword

Foreword

This is basically a sequel to “Zero Main Street.” If you did not peruse the first book, it will make little sense to you. At the time of this introduction – March 2008 – I am still planning a third narrative. We’ll see what happens, I suppose.

I trust that if you are reading “Baptists,” you either have nothing better to do…or you have perhaps taken an interest in the fates of one or more of the characters from the previous story. Thus, I will not needlessly usurp your time with pointless background tales.

Instead, I wanted to publicly thank the two individuals without which “Baptists” might not have been written – and definitely not so soon: Ruth and Ubu. Each, in their own charming manner, contributed heavily to the composition of the text.

Happy reading!

Prologue

He was screaming.

It felt like he had been doing such for an eternity.

Or longer.

No one heard.

In the darkness, he could sense his brother somewhere close by.

He had to be helped.

He had to be saved.

And it was up to him somehow to ensure it.

So he screamed.

Still no one heard.

And nobody came.

At first.

One

To say that it had been a long while since Bud had been “topside” was not only an understatement, it was also an exercise in absurdity. Chronology had no meaning where he was “from.” Like many other intangibles.

He nursed a muddy-looking drink at a yellowed Formica table in a diner that the rest of the world had apparently forgotten about. Mountain Dew was still around, but FD&C Red No. 40 food colouring had been outlawed some time ago. As had most “artificial” ingredients. So the cherry flavouring he had sweet-talked the waitress into turned the “all natural” beverage chalky-brown. The taste is almost right…if you don’t mind looking like you’re sucking down liquid shit.

Bud didn’t mind. He’d been through worse.

Nobody else was in the restaurant. He’d secured a back booth so he could watch all angles. Bud was leaning against the wall with his legs crossed lengthwise along the formed-plastic bench seat when his “mark” waltzed in. Though he was fairly certain it would go unnoticed, he tensed ever so slightly.

The lone waitress was glancing at a flickering holo-paper, actively ignoring the new arrival. A short-order cook was barely visible, hunched over a grill. Noisy scraping belied what was occupying his attention. Two flies played grab-ass on the various grimy surfaces of the stainless steel prep area.

He returned the favour and bypassed any non-existent offer of hospitality as he shuffled through to join his host. Bud swung his feet to the floor to sit properly, but he did not rise to greet him. And it was not expected. The old man sat down without ceremony.

Although he had a rough idea of how events had progressed in the time-conscious plane, Bud was definitely impressed by the graceful aging of his guest. Things were not good for significant segments of society. Science and medicine had advanced exponentially, but so had poverty and class separation. He supposed that status in the Church was the only reason that had spared his contact from a life of toil and drudgery. Especially in these parts.

“The Deacon spoke highly of you. Yet you look like a Mormon missionary. Not that too many folks even know of them anymore.”

Bud grinned. Right down to business. No time wasted on niceties. “Looks can be deceiving. You already know that.” He put a twenty on the table.

Their server materialized as if by magic. “Need somethin’ else, hon?” She refused to look at Bud’s acquaintance, possibly alarmed that his extremely geriatric nature might be contagious. Bud nodded at the old man.

“Hot tea, please. With lemon. Extra lemon.”

She scratched his request on a greasy pad and turned to go. Bud’s chuckling competed with the gentle slapping of her orthopedic shoes as she went to process the order.

“Tea, huh? You trying to break me?” He added another twenty on the table.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a limit.”

“There’s not. I thought most people would have asked first before ordering something that outrageous.”

“I’m not ‘most people.’”

“Obviously.”

They sat in silence. An alarm blared in the distance, likely a burglary. “Eat” – the actual name of the restaurant - was smack dab in one of the worst parts of town, though it had not been so when it first opened, more than a century prior. Even in mid-afternoon, the district was a dangerous place. At night, it was under a strict curfew – allowing for violators to be shot on sight. Yet for now, it was one of the few places to meet without prying Eyes or Ears.

An antiquated cup and saucer combo was just shy of slammed onto the table. The waitress continued to shun the new customer and looked only at Bud. “Will that be all, hon?”

Bud brushed his stringy hair out of his eyes and put on his best smile. “You bet…uh…” he read her nametag “…Roberta. And here’s an extra ten if you keep busy over by the register for a bit.”

She winked and collected all three banknotes.

Then Roberta was gone.

“My lemon. The dumb bitch forgot my lemon.”

“You’ll live. As if you haven’t already. Now let’s talk about what you’re gonna do for me.”

The old man risked a sip and crinkled up his nose. He started to voice his opinion, then changed his mind when he saw the expression on Bud’s face. “Okay. What do you want?”

“Information. We want information.”

A parked car exploded out front. One of the picture windows shattered in response. Roberta started screaming. The cook was nowhere to be seen.

Bud took a long drink of his soda and grinned.

His “informant” did likewise.

It was shaping up to be a good day.

He had awakened some time ago, and the images were taking forever to fade. His throat felt raw and broken, as did his fragile mind.

It’s no use. I have failed him. Why can’t I rid myself of these horrors? Why must I suffer so? Oh God…

The bed felt cool on his fevered back. Yet the solace of comfort escaped him.

He turned over and stared into the dim shapelessness of the room. It was familiar and alien to him all at once. I have had this sensation before.

As if on cue, the remnants of the nightmare packed up their belongings and prepared to disembark. One by one, the last vestiges of the terrible visions made for the open door and scurried out of sight into the welcoming depths of distant Déjà Vu.

A final thought trotted afterwards before disappearing along with the rest.

Guess we have to do this all over again.

Clearly, it was up to HIM now.

She stood and waited.

This shit feels so…rehearsed. The wind whipped through her hair, and she shivered reflexively. Down in the dark recesses, almost on a cellular level, she knew this had happened before. She also knew that none of it was real. But these notions couldn’t easily make the transition to “hunch.”

So she lingered – chilled, confused…yet certain.

Something was going to happen. But what and when were not quite on the menu.

She rubbed her arms as if she was cold. Shifting her weight from one foot to another, she again drank in her surroundings. Or lack thereof.

Looks like the set of one of those stupid movies that –

The thought derailed into a fiery wreck somewhere down the cranial ravine. She was capable of much – even in such a hideous place – but occasionally, certain things had to simmer on the back burner for a piece. Like the unfinished mental rambling.

And who you’re gonna blame.

Even here you will not leave me alone.

Gusts whistled through the barren trees nearby, proving insufficient to overcome soundless interior noise. Denial is the first step of coping. The mirthless laugh was quickly lost to the gale. She leaned on a lone boulder and waited. An inkling of an aura of an echo of a gut feeling kept her eyes on the distant horizon. Not that there is anything else to look at.

It wouldn’t be long.

Hopefully, the low-level pall of sickening familiarity would pass soon. She reckoned time was short. If it applies here. Though the musing was indeed her own, she was startled by the ramifications of it. Why would I even think that? Why would it not?

Years had trudged by since she had worn a watch; she glanced at her naked wrist nevertheless. Well, it isn’t like I have anything else to do right this minute.

Besides, it’s up to ME now.

Stan plopped down on the couch.

A cloud of dust was his only greeting. Kay was still gone.

He shook the disappointment out and lit a cigarette. A renewed social movement was afoot to quash the addiction once and for all. Fuck ‘em. It’ll never happen. The Baptists think they’re big shit, but even they don’t have the deep pockets of the tobacco guys. He had promised himself that he would quit “this time” if he got a real job. Now he wondered if he should find another bullshit milestone or simply give up the fight. At my fuckin’ age, whatzit gonna matter. Maybe when I get Kay flying right…

She had disappeared a few days ago. Kay was not famous for reliability, even with all that Stan had done for her. And he realized that it was only about the Work itself – not the results. Those were never mine to begin with. Yet he was worried this time. He wasn’t certain why. Once, she had been gone almost two weeks, and NONE of his “street contacts” had any word on her. It turned out that she had hitchhiked north somewhere to look up long-lost relatives. Or something like that. Now…

Now it’s the old hunch-thingy. Shit.

Dragging deeply on the smoke, he picked up the day’s mail with his free hand. Most everything came electronically nowadays. But Stan had no console. He had to pay a silly monthly fee, yet he was a proud member of a dying breed as a consequence. The majority of his “neighbours” received nothing whatsoever. So would he, had it not been for the scandal at work.

Junk, junk, junk…what the fuck am I paying for again? Stan accumulated a grand total of two bills each month. He could just pay them in person like the rest of the downtrodden. But something below the surface of the sub-basement of his mind had directed him to get a mail service.

As he came to the end of the stack, he thought he might finally know why.

The boy had been troubled since birth, yet this was uncharted territory as far as she was concerned. He was approaching thirteen months of age, and – save for some choleric crying and a few tantrums – he had uttered nary a peep until tonight.

And this was something else. Nothing I have ever seen – from my oldest, to my friends’ babies, to PBS – nothing prepared me for this shit. She sat at the table, working on a cigarette. No sleep was in her future. She didn’t want to disturb her husband, and she wasn’t convinced that her youngest was done yet. He had calmed down somewhat after almost an hour of rocking. She knew he was desperately tired. But sometimes that doesn’t mean anything with him.

Not to mention that she hadn’t been sleeping well either. Despite that, she had incorporated the screaming into her own nightmare; subsequently, she hadn’t awakened right away. Amazingly, no one else in the house had at all. It was almost like, with all the noise he was making, no one could hear him. But how could that be – a boisterous baby yelling at the top of his lungs? As loud as he was, he…wasn’t. Somehow.

She stubbed out her smoke and arose from the dining room table. It was one of those monstrous Home Interior wrought-iron-and-dark-somber-colours sets that were all the rage. Her wonderful “other half” had insisted that she get it. Probably one of his cohorts at the office has the same damned thing. A sharp pain agreed, reminding her of one of the other many joys of marriage – and the likely reason for her restlessness. “’Til death do us part.” How much longer is THAT gonna be, I wonder?

A short trip to the kitchen cabinets – equally solemn and depressing shades – found the refuge that she sought after. Couple shots of whiskey will fix it all up. Maybe I should even give some to the baby. AND the hubby.

But the mean streak just wasn’t in her tonight. She had seen something in her son’s infant face that she couldn’t really explain. To herself or anyone else. She filled a glass tumbler halfway and took it to the table. Then she stopped, turned around, and grabbed the bottle also. Just in case.

She sat down and lit another cigarette, intending to keep the booze and her troubled thoughts company. No matter what, it was going to be a long night.

Earlier, when she had rushed into the bedroom, her first impression was that the baby was trying to say something. When the screaming and yelling initially roused her, she feared the worst: maybe an ear infection or an upset tummy. Perhaps something that would require a late-night trip to the hospital. But as she ran down the hallway, she realized that it was notpain she was hearing. It was alarm.

The baby was standing upright, beating on the crib rail with one hand, and wildly gesturing with the other. Yet not at her.

He seemed to be focused entirely on her older son, who was miraculously sleeping soundly on the other side of the room in his own bed – apparently oblivious to the commotion. And if that was not confusing enough, the blossoming toddler had an expression on his face that was far beyond his age.

It was far beyond her age, too.

While she tried to comprehend the scenario – futilely, no less – he noticed her. But he did not reach for her as she expected. Instead, the boy quit beating on the rail and used his arm to summon her as he switched his other hand to point at his brother. The hollering changed pitch, and his mouth worked furiously – quite like it would not do what he wanted it to.

She picked him up and cradled him against her shoulder, but he pushed back to see her face. One hand tried to turn his mother’s head, and the other continued pointing. At the older child sleeping peacefully in the corner.

An hour of hushing sounds and soft coos in the living room rocking chair had eventually worked its magic. Eventually. And when she had finally decided to put him back to bed, he continued to point over at his brother, though with much less zeal and eyes that were barely open.

It was almost like he was trying to tell us something. Me AND his brother.

She poured more liquid heat into the glass and broomed what was surely sleep-deprived nonsense from her head. Firing up another smoke, she resolved to return to bed herself when both booze and nicotine had been depleted.

Yeah. There’s no way that really happened. My imagination is definitely getting the best of me. Who would believe it all anyway? The hubby?

She snorted in disgust.

Penny, who had been lounging under the table, sighed in agreement.