SHORT STORY: BEYOND THE FREEZER

Here's all the pieces of the story.                                                                                     BEYOND THE FREEZER  -  BEYOND THE SELF  -  BEYOND THE HERD BEYOND THE FEW  -  BEYOND THE EDGE  -  BEYOND THE STARS

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The freezers chill cut deep, down to the bone. At least, it would have if not for the fact that I didn't have any bones left; my captors had seen to their removal. And so I lay, beneath an ever growing layer of frost, trying desperately to hold on for just another day.

A light came on and a warm draft washed over me. As soon as I acclimated to the light, I saw with horror how few of us there were left. A dark figure stood, silhouetted in the doorway. The figure seemed to be impossibly tall as I watched it step closer to where I and my companions lay.

Don't see me, I thought, Leave me to freeze. The fate that awaited us outside of the freezer was countless times worse than what we faced within. Here, in the freezer at least, we had the cold numbness to ease our passing.

But still the figure drew closer, selecting more and more of my companions until only I was left.

Yes, take them, I thought, ignoring the guilt I felt for my selfishness as the figure paused to count it's overburdened load, Please, leave me.

I was not so lucky. With the glare of the freezer light all but obscuring the figures face from view, it turned to me and reached out to lift me from the cold slab on which I lay. I would have screamed out loud were it possible and, quite suddenly, something rippled through me. It wasn't a shiver, those were long since past, but even still my cold and frozen body quivered and the figure paused, inches from picking me up.

Another, more violent ripple tore through me and I thought I might split open from the force. The figure stumbled backward, unable to believe what it saw, and slipped on the icy floor. A cry, a thud and a crack before all was still and silent in the freezer once more. The door began to close. I couldn't turn to see the floor where the figure lay or where my companions had landed.

Luck, for the moment, was on my side. No grunts or groans came from the floor below. No scraping or slipping on ice. The freezer door was almost shut; the light would be going out soon. How long would it take the other figures to realize what had happened and come searching in the freezer for their fallen comrade.

A foot shot out and caught the door at the last possible moment. The light flickered but stayed on as the foot swung the door back open wide and the figure on the floor got back to its feet. It gathered up those of my companions it had dropped and then turned to me. It hesitated, then reached out and lifted me up, placing me into its arms.

The heat of the outside was like fire on my raw flesh. The hoarfrost vanished from my withered form as I was carried closer to the furnaces. The figure stumbled a bit, still dazed by its fall and passed me and my companions on to another.

Fear gripped me, though I could not help but feel some small amount of satisfaction as the figure from the freezer had to hold onto some pipework for support while it massaged its' head. The new figure carried us swiftly to the fires and, with terrible sizzles that sounded like screams, we were placed one by one onto the burning rack.

What was frozen became thawed, thawed became red, red became black. Oh, the agony. Where for days we'd been freezing, pitifully numbed by the cold, now came the utter shock of sensation, the burning and charring of what little remained of our boneless, chopped up bodies.

Right at the point when I thought I could bare it no more, I was taken from the fire. They applied creams to my body and layered chilled, moist wraps before encasing me in some absorbent material to stem the fluids that were dripping from and around my burnt form.

Why wouldn't they let it end, I wondered as they set me on a hard metal slab beneath bright lights. Most of my companions were already here and our collective juices, those that weren't caught by our absorbent outer layers, congealed around us.

One by one, we were selected and taken. So far, we knew what to expect, had seen and heard enough to surmise what awaited us beyond the freezer doors. But now we lay on the edge of our knowledge and everything beyond was unknown. None of us expected to have survived this far.

At last my turn arrived and I was placed on a wide tray with fluid containers and stacks of strange objects I'd never seen before. A new figure, one who did not look or dress like the others I'd grown accustomed to took the tray and carried me into a place where countless other, giant figures roamed. I saw my companions scattered among them; they were being eaten.

Horror as I'd never known it before swept through me but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't make my pleas known. I could only await my time when, hopefully, mercifully, it would all be over.

Someone screamed. With delight I knew that scream was from one of the figures who put us to such use. Through the pain that gripped much of what remained of my cognitive abilities, I saw them carrying the figure whom I'd somehow startled in the freezer. Blood dripped from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. He was dead.

The place where the figures had congregated to feed now emptied, the shock of seeing one of their own dead seemed too much for them to bear, never mind how much tortured flesh they had been consuming moments before.

The figure that carried me, took me outside where a cool breeze helped sap away some of the pain. The figure pulled away some of my outer wrappings. I braced myself. If I could have looked away I would have but my gaze was fixed on the opening maw.

I shuddered, and jolted, just as I had done in the freezer before. The figure paused, looking puzzled at the meal in his hands. I tried with all my might to repeat the motion, to somehow save my life, agony though it was. I quivered and the figure's eyes widened. I shook and the figure gasped. Though reason said it should have been impossible, though my bones were long gone and my body chopped, processed, frozen and burned, I could move.

The figure dropped me, the fall softened by the many layers I'd been wrapped in. Clutching its chest, the figure stumbled, fell backward and landed with a satisfying thud. It did not rise again.

I squirmed and wriggled until I was free of my wrappings and began the long trek to find my way back to my people, to warn them, to teach them. So that when the figures came for them, perhaps then we'll be ready to fight them.

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This story is about a beef patty that gains consciousness.

SHORT STORY: AFTER THOUGHT

The force exacted by an object is equal to the mass times its acceleration. Simple high school physics, I thought as I flew through the air. My body weighed just under two hundred pounds and my acceleration was zero to sixty miles per hour in less than a second. I was impressed as I crunched the numbers in my head and turned over in the air. I was getting closer to the ground now, approaching a tree at an incredible rate. I continued turning and saw, just before I hit the tree, the neon blue sports car that had hit me. The front end was crunched slightly and—

“Jim! Hey Jim!”

A voice called to me. I knew it was calling to me, though how I knew I didn't know since my name isn't Jim. Perhaps I was in heaven now and, for some reason, they' decided to change my name. I guess if anyone had a right to rename me after thirty some years of life, it was Him.

“Jim, throw us the ball already!”

Not God, then. Perhaps I was dreaming. Maybe I hadn't left for work yet and was still in bed. This could be one of those dreams where you can't open your eyes because you're half awake, half asleep and your body can't figure out what to do yet.

I opened my eyes.

I shut my eyes. I had to be dreaming.

“What, are you blind, Jim?” The voice called to me.

I opened my eyes just a sliver. The playground came into focus, as did half a dozen kids. They all looked to be between the ages of five and ten.

Elementary school, I thought, I'm at an elementary school.

I eased my eyes open a bit more so I could make out the kids faces. The one closest to me, the one who'd been shouting for me to throw the ball, was my son, Nicholas. He turned nine last month....or maybe the month before that. I wasn't sure, his mother, Cathy, and I split when he was two but she kept me up to date with pictures of him.

“Are you hurt or something?” Nicholas asked.

I sat down on the ground which, I noticed, was a lot closer than I was use to. The little blue ball that everyone seemed to be waiting for me to throw slid out of my hands and rolled away. One of the boys chased after it, calling me a name but I wasn't paying him any attention. The world felt too real, looked too real to be a dream. I wanted to cry and had to screw up my face to prevent the tears from coming. I couldn't believe how childish I was behaving. I was a grown man, a successful scientist and talented musician. I gave speeches, taught classes, wrote papers for prestigious journals. And all I wanted to do right now was ball my eyes out like a child.

“Hey, it's okay, Jim. You don't have to play if you don't want to,” Nicholas said and came and sat down beside me. He was bigger than me.

“What's going on, Nicholas?” I asked him once I knew I wasn't in danger of crying anymore.

Nicholas frowned.

“Why'd you call me Nicholas?” He asked.

“It's your name isn't it?” I asked in return.

“Nobody calls me that,” He said.

“Then what do people call you?”

Nicholas eyed me with concern.

“Maybe we should go see Ms Barrett.”

Nicholas made to stand up but I held him down.

“Really,” I said, “What do people call you?”

“Oliver,” He said, “You know that.”

“Since when?” Anger rose within me. Oliver was Cathy's maiden name.

“Everyone's always called me Oliver,” Nicholas said, “Ever since I can remember.”

“What about your dad?” I asked. I knew I had him there, I always called him Nicholas.

Nicholas shrugged.

“I don't know,” He said.

“What do mean you don't know?” I asked, fuming. “I always called you Nicholas...I mean,” I corrected myself, “I thought that's what he always called you.”

“How would you know? And besides,” Nicholas went on, getting upset himself now, “I can't even remember him.”

Nicholas got up and left to rejoin his friends in their game of dodge ball.

He couldn't even remember me. It couldn't have been that long ago that I'd visited last. Of course, when I did visit, how much time did I actually spend with him, and not out back, arguing with Cathy? In the beginning she wanted me to visit every weekend. Well, we both knew that was out of the questions since I worked most weekends but I usually made it over once a month, or every other month. After a while she stopped asking me to come by every weekend, but instead asked that I at least make it once a month, then every other month, then only on his birthdays. Looking back I can't say it's her fault, she tried to include me in Nicholas' life, or rather Oliver's.

I stood, the eight year old legs beneath me were awkward and uncoordinated, and made my way over to the dodge ball game. I may be late, but I was going to play with my son.

“He's can't play with us,” One of the kids called out.

“I can too play,” I yelled back, my face flushing and my heart beginning to pound as a childish anger welled up.

“No you can't,” Another kid said.

“Says who?” Oliver called out, coming to my rescue.

“Says me,” The first kid shouted, his mean little voice rising “He's too delicate.”

Oliver picked up the blue ball, hefted it, and then threw it at the other kid, hitting him square in the face.

“No head shots!” The mean kid cried as he scrambled for the ball.

“Says who?” Oliver taunted him, waving for me to join.

The game resumed. Every time the mean little kid got the ball he felt it was his duty to try and hit Oliver or me as hard as he could but Oliver and I kept watch out for each other and made sure he could never get his revenge. I'd forgotten how agile little bodies could be and thrilled to be young again. My heart raced every time I got the ball and Oliver and I would high five one another each time either of us got someone out.

At last, a teacher somewhere blew a whistle and kids started going back inside. Oliver and I began to make our way back to the school when the teacher called to us.

“Bring in the ball you were playing with,” she said.

I was tired from all the running and dodging, and thought a nap would do me some good. But I'd had the ball last so it was only fair that I go and get it. I turned and jogged back to get the ball from the far side of the playground where it had rolled beneath a tree.

I didn't seem to be getting any closer to the ball. I sped up and still the ball and the tree were far away. I broke out into a sprint and watched in amazement as the ground spread out before me, keeping me away from the blue little ball beneath the tree. I began taking huge, lunging jumps, trying to get ahead of the expanding ground and finally found myself getting closer to my goal. But now, the tree and the ball were speeding toward me, fast. I tried to stop but it was too late. My momentum was carrying me forward. In fact, I wasn't even touching the ground any more; my last jump had carried me high into the air. I over shot the ball and was careening onward towards the tree. At my current speed, hitting the tree would be fatal.

I spun, hoping to call back to Oliver or the teacher for help. I saw a blue sports car where the ball should have been, its front end was crunched slightly.

The car must have been going over seventy miles an hour to have thrown me this far, this fast, I thought. And with an average weight of two thousand pounds the force it mus—

IMMOLATION: Chapter 14

Samantha's head ached as though she'd drunk too much the night before. But she didn't remember drinking that much the night before...she didn't remember the night before at all. She became aware of the fact that she was sitting in a chair, her chin resting on her chest.

“Ow,” She groaned as she lifted her head slowly, neck complaining painfully.

Red shone through her eyelids; she'd either left the lights on or it was mid-day already. Either way she kept her eyes shut in an attempt to postpone the moment when she'd have to bare the sharp pain of the light. She was in for a long, sick day. It didn't matter, she didn't have to go into work today and she didn't have any plans to do anything.

She moved to rub her neck. There was a tightness around her wrists and elbows and her arm didn't move.

She opened her eyes, ignoring the pain from the rooms bright lights.

She was not in her apartment. Her apartment was clean, unlike her car, and every room had large, beautiful windows that looked out over the city from thirty floors up. This apartment, or the small room she'd been put in, was filthy. The carpet was covered in stains and cigaret burns. Cracks, holes and mold marred the walls and ceiling. Thick grime from years of smoke and who knows what else obscured the barred windows. The door of her room was ajar but beyond was darkness and she couldn't see anything.

Duct tape held her arms and legs in place, wrapped around her wrists, elbows, ankles and knees.

“Help!” She tried to scream, but could only manage a strangled whisper.

Samantha coughed from the strain on her hoarse voice. She strained against her bonds as panic continued to rise within her. The duct tape stretched but held. She tried again. The wood of her chair creaked in protest against her but she didn't let up. The tape began to dig into her flesh, first pulling on her skin, then tearing it.

Samantha gasped. Blood seeped between the tape and her arms.

She stopped struggling. The pain in her arms was not so terrible but as the full weight of her situation forced itself to the front of her mind she couldn't seem to must up the strength to resist any more.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and her chest heaved with each new ragged breath. Her father had always been so careful about teaching her how to avoid situations like this. Growing up he'd enforced them but by the time she was on her own they'd become second nature, At times she resented him for all of his rules and how silly she felt when they made her stand out awkwardly. She'd even begun to break them.

And now this had happened. Samantha could almost see her father's stern look, proving once and for all that he was right. She almost wished she could see him again, talk to him again. It had been so long since their last real conversation.

Her arms ached and she tried to shift them into a more comfortable position. To her utter shock and surprise, they moved quite easily. She slid her arms back again and the tape that had been holding them failed to keep them in place. She kept sliding her arms back, straining at the uncomfortable angles she was having to make with her shoulders to allow her forearms to keep moving.

Sound from beyond her room. It was faint, possibly from outside, but she hurried up nonetheless.

The torn sections of skin on her arms kept getting pulled back open and for once she was grateful for her lost voice. Otherwise she would have screamed out against the pain.

Her wrists slid free. Samantha breathed out in relief and it was much easier to get her arms out the rest of the way. She took no time to look over her bleeding arms. Instead, she began pulling at the tape around her knees. There was nothing for it but to pull it off layer by layer; it was too thick to tear.

Another sound outside her room and this time she knew it was from the same apartment. It sounded like a door closing, though she couldn't hear any footsteps, yet.

Her knees were almost free but the blood from her arms that had facilitated her first victory against her bonds was now slowing her down. The blood ran down her fingers, making her grip slip on the tape and prevented her from being able to pull larger sections away at a time.

Footsteps. Just outside her room, she could hear them.

With a surge of adrenaline, Samantha pulled up hard on the tape and her grip finally held. The tape came free and she jumped to her feet just the door opened. Samantha's father had also insisted on self defense lessons and she immediately went to move into a fighting stance. She only hoped her captor was unarmed.

Her ankles were still bound, she'd forgotten about that, and she tripped, falling forward. Her face connected with the floor, her arms moving too slowly to be able to brace her fall. The chair flipped over onto her back, pulling her feet into an unnatural position. A crack and flash of pain in both feet told her she'd just ruined all her future chances of escape.

The figure stood in the doorway, dark and looming over her. Samantha's tears returned, partly from the pain in her feet, but mostly from her fear. The figure began to move into the room and Samantha looked down, unable to look her captor in the eye. He stepped forward, his finely polished shoes stopping right in front of her down turned face.

“Please,” Samantha managed to gasp through her constricting throat, though what she expected him to do as a result of her plea, she didn't know.

“My dear,” Came an all-too-familiar voice, his smooth British accent drawing Samantha's gaze back upward. “What have you done?”

Tea Leaves knelt down by her side and began checking her arms before moving to her feet. Samantha was in shock, unable to move and so she let him pull her back up into a sitting position in the chair. Tea Leaves tisked when her looked, again, over her arms and he left the room.

Samantha thought back, trying to remember how she'd gotten to where she was. She remembered the meeting, remembered Tea Leaves wanting to ask her some questions. But after that, everything grew fuzzy.

Tea Leaves returned with gauze and antiseptic and he began to care for her wounds. Samantha still couldn't manage to speak. Perhaps Tea Leaves had come to rescue her, perhaps he wasn't the one who had kidnapped her. She grew excited as she caught hold on this idea but her joy was short lived. As soon as Tea Leaves finished with her arms, he reached down and lifted a roll of tape.

“NO!” Samantha shrieked, though still unable to produce any significant amount of sound.

She tried to pull away from Tea Leaves but he caught her flailing wrist with a deft hand forced her arm back down against the arm of the chair. She fought, but Tea Leaves didn't seem to notice as he held her arm down with an iron grip.

“The others won't stand for this,” Samantha warned Tea Leaves, smacking him across the face. He ignored the blow as though she had no power to inflict pain in him.

“Please my dear,” Tea Leaves said, taking hold of her other hand before she could strike him again and beginning to tape it back down. “It is because of the others that you are here.”

“What?” Samantha asked.

“You threatened their safety and so they determined that you needed to be killed. I volunteered.”

Samantha stiffened. Tea Leaves took advantage of her momentary cessation in her struggling and quickly wrapped her wrist, elbow and upper arm to the frame of the chair.

“So why am I still alive?” She asked.

Tea Leaves re-taped her legs before answering.

“I use to make it my hobby kidnap and then kill young women,” His voice was even, his eyes steady, but his body had become unnaturally ridged. “I made a promise to myself that I would never do so again.”

“You said you volunteered to kill me,” Samantha pointed out.

Tea Leaves nodded. “I did,” He said.

“So...” Samantha trailed off.

“So if they find out you're still alive, we'll both be killed,” He fell silent for a moment before nodding toward her feet. “You ankles are dislocated, if not broken. I can't tell with how swollen they are. I'll have to go down to the store to get some ice to put on them if I'm going to get the swelling to go down. Then, maybe, I'll be able to do something to help you with them.”

“Why are you doing this?” Samantha asked. “If you really wanted to save me you could have warned me and I could have gone into hiding.”

Tea Leaves was at the door and he hesitated, adjusting his hat nervously. “Old habits die hard,” He said at last. “And I am weak.”

With that he left, shutting the door behind him and leaving Samantha alone with her renewed terror.

IMMOLATION: Chapter 13

“I hate coffee,” Joan said as she and Matt stood before the row of cafes that lined the street just down from the courthouse.

“That's fine, I'm sure they'll have tea,” Matt said, not looking at her as he tried to decide which cafe would be best.

“I don't like tea, either.”

“Hot chocolate, then.”

“Same problem.”

Joan got tired of waiting for Matt to decide on a cafe and so she strode over to the nearest one and pulled open the door. Matt wavered, looking like he might object, but eventually he followed.

For such a small cafe it certainly was busy. There were, perhaps, a dozen small tables, each with a couple of spindly chairs set around them. There didn't appear to be any available seats but Matt smiled as if in approval of Joan's choice and joined the line leading up to the counter. The patrons of the cafe looked as different from Joan and Matt as any one could. Piercings, dreadlocks adorned most of them while their clothes were in varying stages of disintegration that Joan guessed either meant they were handmade or never washed.

Or both, Joan thought as they passed one sitting at a table and she got a good whiff.

“What did you mean by, 'same problem'?” Matt asked after a few silent, awkward seconds of standing in line together.

“What?” Joan asked, still distracted by the cafe's inhabitants.

“Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, you said they all had the same problem. What is it?”

“They're hot,” Joan replied, forcing herself to stop staring before anyone caught her looking at them.

“Hmm,” Matt mused, “I wouldn't have thought it possible for you to get burned.”

“It's not that,” Joan prodded Matt forward as he hadn't noticed the line moving. “If I touch anything that would burn me, I ignite,” Joan smiled mischievously, “Quite a bit of a shock to the cooking staff when I was locked up.”

Joan's smile faltered as memories of that year swept to the front of her mind. The loneliness, the depression, the letter informing her about her family abandoning her. She shivered despite the warmth of the cafe. Her breathing had become stilted and tears suddenly threatened to fall. Her surroundings became very claustrophobic and only the fact that she was surrounded by people, rather than plain walls and sealed doors, kept her from rushing back outside.

“Joan?”

She looked up, the line had moved on without her and Matt was at the counter, looking back at her, confused as to how she'd fallen so far behind. Joan regained her composure and slinked back to Matt's side.

“What can I get you?” The guy behind the counter asked.

He looked like everyone else in the cafe with his matted hair and gauged earrings. Joan could have fit a quarter through the holes in his ears.

“You like 'em?” He asked, knowing where Joan was staring.

“They're...” She didn't know what her opinion on them was, truthfully, and so she turned to the large chalk board above the counter that listed all the available drinks. “I'll have the mango smoothy.”

She knew her change in subject wouldn't go unnoticed but she didn't really care at the moment. Still, the guy behind the counter didn't seem phased by it as he ran her order.

“Alright,” He said, handing her a white plastic card with the number eight printed on it in bright red. “Put this on your table and I'll be around with your drinks. Pay when you're finished.”

Joan accepted the card and followed Matt away from the counter.

“Let's find a seat up top,” He said.

“Up where?” Joan asked, but even as she did she saw, over in the back corner, a narrow, wrought iron spiral staircase that led up to a second level.

There were fewer people up there and the smells of brewing coffee and tea wafted about more densely than below. It wasn't a bad sensation, just intense. Matt inhaled deeply, still smiling broadly as he sat down at an empty table.

“I love this place,” He said.

“Come here often, do you?” Joan asked dryly, sitting herself down across from Matt and finding the chairs to be far more comfortable than they looked.

“I may not look it,” Matt said, “But I'm quite the cafe junky.”

Joan nodded and the silence that followed began to turn awkward again.

“So, interview questions?” She asked.

“Right!” Matt exclaimed and fumbled with his large duffel bag until he came back up with his notepad and paper. “Tell me about the first time you burned.”

Joan thought back to that day, her last day of high school, her last day of real freedom.

“Burning then was the same as burning now,” She said. “I'd felt it building up inside of me for a week or so, then all of a sudden I was on fire. It's been like clock work ever since, every two weeks.” She motioned with her hands as if to demonstrate her igniting.

Matt nodded, still looking at her as he scribbled notes down.

“But it hasn't been perfect clock work,” Matt noted. “Your burns have been getting closer and closer together, haven't they?”

Joan was shocked. He shouldn't have known that. Even with him taking measurements he shouldn't have been able to tell that that was happening.

“Your court sessions have been made public record. It was pretty clear I thought that you burn a couple minutes earlier each time.” Matt said.

“Yes,” Joan said, attempting to cover her concern. “Like I said, clock work.”

“And how has it been, for you, dealing with this condition?”

“Condition?” Joan grimaced. “You make it sound like I have a disease.”

“Sorry,” Matt shrugged, “But I thought 'power' was a bit too imaginative and 'ability' wasn't quite right either.”

She'd never thought about it before. Even though it had dominated her life ever since it began she had never tried to classify what her relationship with the fire was. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

“It's just fire,” She said at last.

“Fire you create,” Matt corrected her. “Fire that needs no fuel other than the oxygen around you. Fire you can control and manipulate.”

He paused.

“Fire that doesn't touch you.”

“What do you mean? Of course it touches me, it's all over me.”

“No,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Remember when I had you pick up that piece of metal?”

“Yes.”

“That was a thermal coupling. Thermometer,” He explained when Joan's face glazed over. “It was almost at the melting point when I had you grab it but the moment you touched it, the temperature dropped to just above normal body temp. When you let go of it, the temperature shot right back up.”

“So, what does that mean?” Joan asked,

“Other than what I just said, I don't know,” Matt stated flatly. “I'm still working it all out.”

He flipped through his notebook until he came to a page with numerous illegible scribblings and diagrams.

“How have you been handling normal life since your release?” He asked, somehow able to decipher the scribblings into intelligible markings.

“All right, I guess. I've got a job interview tomorrow.”

“And is that your first since getting out?”

Joan hesitated. “I've had a few other interviews.”

“But no jobs yet?” Matt continued to press.

“I've had a few,” Joan conceded, but quickly added, “But they were all too nervous about my fire so I didn't get to stay too long.”

“But you didn't burn while at work, did you?”

She faltered. She 'umm-ed' and 'uhh-ed' but couldn't think of a way out.

“Coffee, black?”

Joan nearly jumped out of her chair. The guy from behind the counter with his piercings and dreadlocks was standing right behind her, a collection of mugs, cups and condiments arrayed on the tray in his hands.

“Mine,” Matt said, taking the mug and some creamer.

“Mango for you then, right?” He asked and Joan nodded.

He handed her the tall glass and left them with their bill.

Matt busied himself with his coffee, mixing in his creamer a little at a time, stirring it, tasting it, and then adding more. He repeated the process several times. At the same time, Joan thought frantically about how to dodge the question. If Judge Dervin found out that she'd been loosing control...

Blank walls and thick doors with small glass windows. Echoing footsteps outside her room, haunting her, becoming the stuff of nightmares. She didn't want to burn, she told them that over and over again. But still it grew inside her, welling up until she couldn't hold it back any longer and she'd explode. Fear, anguish, terror even, consumed her mind as she burned those first few times. Whatever she'd been feeling before her fire sprouted was intensified, as though fueled by the flames.

Now it seemed she could hardly wait to burn, like she was looking for excuses to burn. At times it felt wrong not to burn and she secretly hated herself for it. The more she burned, the more likely it was that they'd lock her away again.

“Earth to Joan, come in Joan,” Matt waved a hand in front of her face and she started, almost knocking over her drink. “You doing okay?”

Matt proffered her a couple of napkins.

“What are those for?” She asked.

Matt hesitated, then spoke. “Your face is covered in sweat,” He said uncomfortably. “And you're crying.”

At once Joan became aware of the wetness on her face and the pressure in her eyes. The napkins did their work well at removing any sign of her recent episode but Matt's concern didn't lessen.

“Are you okay?” He asked after she'd finished dabbing under her eyes to prevent her mascara from smearing.

“I'm fine, yeah,” Joan lied. “Like I said, I got a job interview at a book store and I think things will work out there for me.”

“A book store?” Matt asked uncertainly. “And you don't think the fact that you spontaneously combust from time to time will deter them from hiring you?”

“No.”

“You sound rather confident.”

“Well that's because I am.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the manager is dating my best friend.”

Matt cocked an eyebrow and scribbled down some notes.

“Though,” Joan said quickly, trying to cover her lapse, “I doubt your readers will be very interested in that and you probably shouldn't even bother writing it down.”

Matt laughed but continued writing.

“No, I'm serious,” Joan said, her intensity increasing “I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write that down.”

“Calm down before you burn something,” Matt muttered, looking up from his notebook only briefly.

Joan instinctively checked herself over to make sure she hadn't already caught fire. She hadn't. Matt was still writing. There was no way he had that much to write about her job situation.

“What are you doing?” Joan asked after realizing Matt had begun working on some kind of diagram.

“I'm calculating how much power you could generate in an hour,” He said.

“You're not very good at interviewing people, are you?” She asked. More and more she wanted to be done. Of course she wanted to know what Matt discovered with his measurements, she wanted to find a way to stop burning, or at least to control it. But the interview was becoming more aggravating with each new question.

Matt set aside his paper and pen and looked back to Joan.

“It's not my forte, no,” He said with a wearied expression, “And when my interviewee has the tendency to burst into flames when irritated, I find it makes me even less competent.”

Joan took a sip from her glass. The smoothy had mostly melted by then, the fruit separating from the dairy, and a thin layer of water had pooled on top. It probably tasted far better before it melted. As it was, she had to force herself to swallow the one sip she'd taken. Stirring seemed to make little difference.

“I don't want them to lock me back up,” Joan found herself saying. “I don't know if I was always like this and I just didn't notice, but ever since they locked me up, I kind of freak out if I'm left alone for too long. I can't take the isolation. I can't stand small rooms or narrow hallways either. It's like I'm trapped, like there's no way out, even if I can see out from where I'm at.

“I'm afraid that if I don't find a way to control the fire, that they'll put me away for good.”

“Have you been able to see a councilor?” Matt asked with genuine concern in his voice.

“Of course I haven't, are you crazy?”

“Well, I just thought that—

“That if they think I've become emotionally unstable that they'll be less likely to want me contained, when they already know my emotions can set me off?”

“That if you got some help controlling your emotions then perhaps you could control the fire,” Matt stated. “Maybe that's why you lose control in the first place?”

Joan checked her watch. “I have to go get ready for my interview,” She said as she got up from the table. “Let me know what you find out from the data you collected?”

Matt nodded, looking back down to the note he'd scribbled and the numbers he'd calculated. It wasn't really enough for The Bleeding Edge. But then again, he hadn't gone over the data yet.

“See you in a couple weeks?” He asked hopefully.

Joan was already over by the spiral staircase and she paused, looking thoughtful before starting downward.

She pointed to his notebook. “Let me know what you find out and we'll go from there.”

IMMOLATION: Chapter 12

Matt was fiddling with his laptop and Joan, standing behind a cinder block pillar, burned in the room beyond. Matt still seemed too eager, too excited by what he saw for Judge Dervin's liking. Still, Joan had invited him, allowed him to set up his equipment to take measurements. Joan was, after all, an adult and she could make her own decisions. As much as Judge Dervin wanted to intervene, he couldn't think of any legal way to do it.

He could at least go and ask Matt about his findings, rather than spying through the partially opened door at the back of the observation room. And given the fact that, even after a year of observation, they knew so little about Joan's fire, Judge Dervin knew he should be excited that Joan was looking for help, for understanding.

Joan's fire was reaching its peak. She'd be going out soon. Judge Dervin wavered on the threshold, gripping the doorknob in his hand, wanting to go in and yet not wanting to overstep his bounds. And so, Judge Dervin decided it was time for him to be moving on. He gently shut the door he'd been peaking through and walked off down the corridor, wringing his hands and shaking his head.

Judge Dervin often wandered the courthouse, thinking over cases and the like, and so no one bothered him as he walked, thinking about Joan and Matt. Things would probably be more straightforward if it weren't for the fact that Joan was so much like his own daughter. He tried so hard to raise her right, protect her. She turned out alright, he supposed, but they hadn't spoken in years. There was never any one moment that drove them apart, no momentous argument or fight. She just stopped calling home and he stopped calling to check up on her. Last he'd heard she was happy living and working in Texas. Though she was still unmarried and Judge Dervin lost a little more hope with each passing year of ever having grand kids. Perhaps things would have been different if his wife had been with them longer. He wasn't even sure if his daughter remembered her mother.

Judge Dervin found himself back at his own chambers. His desk was clear except for one sheet of paper. He'd been considering it before he'd been distracted by Joan and Matt. Old pictures of his family smiled down at him from the shelves that lined the walls and he finally made the decision he'd been wavering on for the last few weeks. In a few short strides, Judge Dervin reached his chair behind his desk and sat down. The paper in his hand, he picked up his phone in the other hand and dialed the number he'd been contemplating. After two rings a pleasant sounding receptionist answered the phone.

“College of Science, Physics Department,” She said. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I'm trying to get a hold of Doctor Muto,” Judge Dervin said, reading the name off the paper held in front of him.

“You may be in luck,” The receptionist said, “I believe he's in his office right now. One moment please.”

She placed him on hold and Judge Dervin listened to the prerecorded classical music that came across the phone line scratchy and distorted. At least it wasn't adverts or such things. He could never stand those. Even still, the music wasn't winning any prizes either. The piece they'd picked wasn't a particularly inspiring one. He'd have preferred something by Bach or—

“Hello?” A Japanese man spoke as the music cut out.

“Hello, Doctor Muto?” Judge Dervin asked.

“Speaking,” Dr. Muto had a very straightforward sounding voice, very business like and Judge Dervin had no trouble seeing him and Matt getting into disagreements.

“Doctor Muto, this is Judge Dervin. I have a few questions about one of your previous students. Do you have a few minutes?”

“I have an appointment in another fifteen minutes,” Doctor Muto replied curtly, “If your questions can be finished in time for me to prepare for that appointment, then yes.”

Judge Dervin smiled. So often in his work people would beat around the bush, talking in circles as they tried to get out of trouble. Having someone speak so directly was a welcomed break.

“The young man in question is Matt Wellis,” Judge Dervin explained, “Do you remember him?”

Silence on the other end.

“Doctor Muto?”

“Yes, sorry, I remember him,” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “Brilliant young man. Great potential. A most unfortunate end to an otherwise stunning educational career.”

“Yes,” Judge Dervin said, frowning. The sudden anger in Doctor Muto's voice was disturbing. “What can you tell me about his research?”

“I am sorry,” Doctor Muto said in his usual, quick manner, “But that is not a discussion that I have time for. Perhaps if you told me the situation he is in now I may be able to give you some information that would be of use.”

“Of course,” Judge Dervin replied, frowning even deeper. The straight talk was not nearly as pleasant as he had anticipated. “Are you familiar with Joan Darcy?”

“Yes. She's quite well known in the scientific community.”

“Well, Matt has begun taking an interest in her and when I questioned him on the subject he referenced some research he'd been working on while in school. Research the two of you disagreed on.”

“I see,” Doctor Muto said but did not elaborate.

“While I'm sure Matt is working under the best of intentions I would really like to hear from you your perspective on the project,” Judge Dervin worded the proverbial nudge as best he could.

“A heat reactor is like the cold fusion reactor in many ways,” Doctor Muto said through what sounded like tight lips. “You see, they both sound like great ideas, they both promise clean and efficient energy, and the sources to power each are seemingly all around us.”

“So what's different about them?” Judge Dervin asked, knowing he was taking the bate that Doctor Muto had laid for him.

“The difference,” Doctor Muto said, “Is that cold fusion doesn't work.”

Judge Dervin was confused. “But Matt said you didn't believe in his thesis. He said you were opposed to it even.”

“The mathematics and scientific theory behind heat reactors were proven long ago. This is nothing new. Where Matt and I disagreed,” Doctor Muto bit each word, “Was on matters of engineering and implementation.”

“So you just didn't think he could build it?” Judge Dervin couldn't believe that that was the reason behind it all.

“No, that is not it,” Doctor Muto said without hiding his impatience with the conversation. “I believe he could have built it, in fact I still have the prototype he designed while still a student here.”

“You mean he's already proven his ideas?” Judge Dervin interrupted.

“Again,” Doctor Muto said, “The ideas are not new, only the methods of accomplishing it. But, I can see there is not going to be enough time for us to do justice to this topic at hand and so if you'd like we can resume our conversation at a later date.”

Judge Dervin checked his clock, he should have had at least another five minutes. Still, he didn't want to press his luck.

“Very well, when shall I call back?” He asked.

Judge Dervin could hear muted voices on the other end of the line. It seemed as though Doctor Muto was already speaking with his next appointment.

“...yes, yes, Bird Feather, in a moment,” Doctor Muto said. “Judge Dervin, are you still there?”

“Yes I'm here,” He said.

“I should like to come and meet with you if that's alright? I can come down next week and if Matt wants to be there as well then go ahead and invite him,” Doctor Muto's mood had shifted drastically. He was still agitated, but now fear lined his words. “We can go over the whole thing then.”

“I'll talk with Matt and get back to you with a specific time, then?”

“Yes, yes that will be fine. Any time next week. Good bye.”

Judge Dervin sat, listening to the sound of the disconnected line.