From the Indie Side (16 page)

“Then why did you come back with me?”

“I told you, I’m old and tired. I was done
with the forest and I couldn’t take another day. When I learned she
was still alive, I thought—I thought that if I delivered you to the
authorities here in Tritan, you and your stinking, rotting,
betraying
wench
of a mother, they’d let me live the rest of
my days here, where I should’ve been all along. Maybe it doesn’t
make sense to you, but I’m back, and I’m alive, and I’m safely
inside those walls,” he said, jamming a finger at the air, “right
where I gods well
wanted
.” Rowan wiped spittle from his lips
and readjusted himself on his crutches. He glared at Cray, nostrils
flaring. “Now, we know you didn’t get inside the Consulate with the
bomb. Those two freaks over there would’ve heard it over their comm
systems. Where is it? Where, Cray?”

Cray checked the wall clock hanging behind
Caran. Two hours and fifteen minutes had passed since Meredith left
him in the alley. She was late. Did she succeed? “Right where it
should be,” he said. He hoped.

“Where?”

Cray watched the seconds tick by.

“Where?”

A low rumbling started off in the distance.
Beneath his feet, the floor vibrated softly at first, and then
shook vigorously as the shockwaves traveled through the ground.

Cray smiled. Meredith had done it. He hoped
she’d gotten out safely.

Frantic, Rowan steadied himself. “What’s
that? What’s happening? What’s that noise?”

“
That
, Rowan, is the sound of
freedom.”

Thin, electronic voices erupted from the
soldiers’ headsets, some barking orders, others screaming for help.
“The Consulate! A bomb went off in the Consulate! All hands, all
hands, report and proceed with caution!”

The first soldier whipped his weapon around,
hugged it tighter to his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The
bang deadened Cray’s hearing, and he watched as Rowan fell to the
ground.

Cray locked eyes with Caran, braced himself
for what would come next. He remembered those green eyes from so
long ago. Warm, caring. The way she looked at him with pride.
Thirty winters later, it was one of only a few things that hadn’t
changed about her.

The first soldier, who had dropped Rowan
without a hint of emotion or hesitation, now stomped toward Cray.
Pausing, inches away, he lifted his visor. The second one joined
him and did the same. He hadn’t seen as many winters, but he was
rough and hardened like his partner.

“You killed him,” Cray said. “Why?”

The first soldier said, “I did him a favor.
He’d lost hope, and no amount of the security he wished for
would’ve made for a happy life.”

“I—I—”

“The Consulate’s destroyed?”

Cray nodded.

“And you’re responsible?”

Rather than indicating he had help,
stone-faced, he said, “Yes.”

The response was unexpected. The first
soldier turned up one corner of his mouth, lifted his chin and
said, “I don’t know how you managed it, but it’s about time. You
did a brave thing. Give it ten minutes and the supply gate should
be unguarded.” He turned to his partner. “Move, Terras, to the
Consulate! By the gods, I hope we’re the ones to catch the
treacherous beast.” He winked at Cray, and they marched out the
front door and into the night, brightened by flaming rubble in the
distance.

* *
*

Ten winters passed. Cray buried his mother
beside Eryn on the hillside clearing, where they could watch the
sun rise together.

Then, a traveler arrived one summer
afternoon. Her palms were bruised and blistered, her left foot
swollen. She had withered on her journey, but the sight of him
brought a freshness to her face. “You’re the man with two legs,”
she said. “I’ve heard stories about you.” Mock sincerity in her
voice.

“Hi, Meredith.” Cray offered her some water.
“Did the bomb…did it help?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“So nothing changed?”

“Oh,
everything
changed,” she said,
lifting her shirt, her sleeves, showing him old, faded scars. She
pushed her hair back. The lower half of her left ear was missing.
Her fingers were bent at odd angles—breaks that hadn’t healed
correctly.

“Gods, is that from the bomb?”

“No.”

“
No
? What happened?”

She ignored his question and asked her own.
“Do you want to know what I learned?

“Tell me.”

“Freedom is dangerous.”

When I first began writing fiction twenty
years ago, I never imagined myself creating anything beyond the
length of a short story. Novels were too big, too intimidating, and
I didn’t think my imagination was capable of building entire worlds
in so many pages.

Now, after having written close to four
hundred thousand words in 2013 alone, I find that the real
challenge lies in crafting a well-told tale in a short amount of
space. It’s about confinement, containment, and control over your
story. You’re building a toolshed instead of a mansion. While every
word of every novel matters, being able to create and convey a
powerful scene, an overwhelming feeling, or a heart-wrenching
moment inside a few sentences takes precision and, for the author,
a maddening sense of perfectionism.

“The Man with Two Legs” began as a ridiculous
title and nothing more. I had no plot in mind, and almost scrapped
it completely, but I couldn’t let go of the underlying potential.
Why was it significant that this man had two legs? There was a
story there. I had roughly four false starts, ranging from time
travel to a southern Louisiana murder mystery, before I found what
I was looking for. What began as a simple story about being
“different” turned into an allegory that touches on freedom versus
security, societal oppression, and the “crutches” we all live with
on a daily basis. Whether you’re happy inside the walls or outside
them and on your own, it’s a beautiful thing to have a say in the
matter.

I write a little bit of everything—a little
bit of literary, a little bit of science fiction—but mostly I hang
around in the mystery and suspense-thriller genres. You can learn
more about me and my other works at my site (
http://www.ernielindsey.com
)
and please feel free to drop me a line!

Lastly, you wouldn’t be reading this without
the kind consideration of Brian Spangler. Thanks go out to Brian,
Susan May, and David Gatewood for the invitation to participate.
It’s an honor to be a part of this collection.

The children were
 watching cartoons when I left. Over breakfast I’d
told them I’d see them at lunchtime. They’d been keen to come with
me, but I had a lot to get done and I didn’t want them slowing me
down. I didn’t kiss them or say goodbye, as it would only draw
attention to my going and result in me fielding another round of
complaints. Instead I tiptoed toward the door, with Graeme close
behind me. He was trying to tell me something irrelevant about the
state of our lawn, which annoyed me, as it didn’t feature on my
current list of priorities. “Talk to me later,” I hissed at him,
and felt only relief after I’d pulled the door closed on his
irritated face.

I needed to see
my dad, but the word “escape” kept springing to mind, as though I
were a prisoner, held captive by two small children and an
exhausted G.P.

I had no
idea.

I drove toward
the highway, spending the first fifteen minutes listening to Elmo
and friends before it clicked that I was really alone, then I
turned the radio on instead. I spent another ten minutes twisting
the dial, unable to find a station. Now and then I heard snatches
of words, distant and disconnected, surfacing briefly before being
swallowed up by static. A mixture of English and other tongues. No
music at all. I tried to think back, see if I could remember a
signal problem here, but usually we’d had the kids’ CDs on. In the
end I gave up and settled for silence.

Dad had worried
me for a while now. He and Mum had moved two hours north of the
city three years ago, to grow wine and plant trees. Dad’s dream of
retirement. It was clear that Mum had been reluctant at first, but
she’d said Dad had worked hard all his life to look after us, 
and he deserved this. After two years of them struggling to get
their place up and running, Mum had a heart attack while out in the
vineyard.

“If we had been
closer to the city?” Dad asked when we were at the hospital.

And the doctor
had shrugged. “Maybe.”

A wicked truth
thrown like a flame from a stranger’s mouth, and my father’s body
sagged against the wall as his dreams withered. His plan had never
included being alone.

Now Dad hadn’t
picked up the phone in over a week. I was exasperated with him as I
drove, but I always loved heading out here. The quiet roads made it
easier to breathe. The sandy verges were punctuated by dull green
bushes and the occasional grasstree, long leaves exploding from the
tops like fireworks. But there was nothing really to focus on
except my own thoughts. And they were the same as always when I
made the long drive this way. I needed to persuade Dad to move back
closer to us. Even though I couldn’t imagine him cosseted in the
suburbs, I needed to be able to keep an eye on him, and I couldn’t
keep driving out here, not with so many other commitments of my
own, never mind shuttling the kids to and from school and
extracurricular activities and…

Me,
me, me.

Eventually I
reached the old steel gate that marked the entrance to the
property. Dad kept it carefully closed and bolted, and I always
found it tedious having to leap out of the car twice to open and
close it. A dirt track wound up to the summit of a small hill, and
as the car crested the top I took back all my thoughts of
persuading Dad to move. How could I fail to appreciate the view
from this singular summit? On the horizon was a tiny matchbox city,
the tallest towers shrunk by distance so that my outstretched
fingertips would surely tip them over like toy blocks. I thought
briefly of the children over there somewhere, wondering if Graeme
had persuaded them to get dressed yet. Then I turned to face the
house.

Usually Dad
heard the car approaching and had already emerged onto the wide
veranda by the time I parked. Not today. Not even Jefferson, his
old dog, had bounded across to see me. I walked around to the back
of the house, and looked in through one of the small windows of the
garage, to find that his car was gone. What should I do now? I
hesitated, surveying the spindly rows of vines that Mum and Dad had
spent hours nurturing, persuading them to cling to their thin
wooden posts with the same tender care with which I had eased toys
into my babies’ chubby fists. The leaves flapped gently in the
breeze, and I was heartened that the place still looked so tidy and
tended.

I knocked on
the door, not quite knowing why I was doing so. If Dad was home he
would be out here by now. I had a moment of panic at the thought of
him lying somewhere inside, perhaps needing my help while I
meandered around. That spurred me into a brisk return to my
vehicle, and a hunt through the glove compartment for my spare
key.

Once I was
inside I went through the house, calling out “Dad! Dad, where are
you?” At the sight of each empty room my relief intensified. It was
obvious he wasn’t here, and it was only to be thorough that I
decided to check the cellar. I was cursing myself as I went—why
hadn’t I called ahead? I was so used to him being home, but of
course he would have to do the occasional grocery run at least.
Perhaps he’d even made a few friends out here. I was happy at that
thought, even if it would make it harder to get him to move back to
the city.

The cellar keys
were hanging next to the door. The cellar was one reason Dad had
fallen in love with this place. Wine was Dad’s hobby. He didn’t
produce enough to do more than a few boutique local sales, but the
cellar was filled with rows and rows of the bottled fruits of his
labor. He always gave me at least a dozen when I saw him. I hadn’t
been to the bottle shop in quite some time.

I unlocked the
door and switched on the light, beginning to count the steps as I
went down—a habit ingrained since childhood. Now it was a game I
played with my children, and it was so instinctual to me that at
the same time I was wondering what I would do next, not really
expecting to find Dad down here, part of my brain was idly rolling
out numbers. Seven… eight… nine…

I was oblivious
to the final seconds of a countdown taking place somewhere, a few
lives redirecting the course of countless others. But somewhere
there must have been.