“Rayne, we got one for ya,” I heard from the front desk as I entered the office.

I didn’t respond immediately, instead taking the time to knock the dirt clods from my boots.  Behind her desk, the receptionist grimaced as I soiled her pristine floors.  Look, if they want the best, they’ll have to deal with any quirks I might have.  Once my soles were satisfactory, I sauntered over to the counter.

“What have we got?” I asked.

The receptionist, a tight-haired little woman who spent most of the time perfecting her scowl, gave me one of her best.  “Magic user downtown.  At the mall.  Our reporter says he’s a wizard.”

That didn’t sound too hard.  Wizards were flesh and blood, after all, and a good crack upside the head, or a few rounds from my Glock, was as good as magic.  “Anything beyond just ‘wizard’?” I said hopefully.  “What’s he doing?”

I got a shrug in return, along with a second scowl, free of charge.  “Listen, I’m just telling what the reporter said,” she told me.  “He said, and I’m using his words here, ‘some crazy Harry Potter board game shit’.  No idea what that means.”

Board game?  Still, I couldn’t be too choosy.  Jobs weren’t always plentiful, even for a . . . specialized . . . bounty hunter like myself.  I grabbed the assignment sheet and headed for the door.

The instructions were fairly clear, and I soon found myself standing at the glass doors to an oversized shopping complex.  Flashy neon signs blared at my peripheral vision, and huge banners screamed about sales on useless doodads.  Aside from the billowing smoke and the screaming, fleeing shoppers, it seemed as normal as any other mall.  Brushing dust from my jacket, I pushed open the glass door and slipped inside.

The mall was set up like a squashed spider, with wings of stores radiating from a central food court.  As soon as I reached the large, open seating area, I knew that I had found my target.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered to myself, actually covering my face with a palm.

Floating in the center of the mall, happily shouting and flinging bolts of energy left and right, hung a wizard.  Even without the spellcasting, I would have guessed that he was the wizard.  I don’t know if it was the sky-blue robe, adorned with gold foil stars, that he wore, or the matching pointy hat.  Perhaps it was the foot-long wand gripped in one hand.  I noted, however, that he seemed to be flinging the blasts of energy from his other hand, each one with a throwing motion.  Unholstering my gun, I stepped forward.

The movement caught his attention.  “Who dares approach!?” he shouted, and although I could tell that he was going for a menacing tone, he put me in mind of an irritated hamster.  “Who dares to challenge the Word Wizard?”

Word Wizard?  I didn’t waste time wondering about this.  Bounty hunters who wondered were bounty hunters who weren’t paying attention, and they had a high likelihood of ending up dead.  “You need to disappear, now!” I yelled back.  “If not, I’m going to have to get rid of you!”

“Rid?  Hah!” he cried back at me.  “That’s only a one point word!  You’ll have to do better than that!”  With this declaration, he hurled something at me, something surrounded by the glow of energy.

I threw myself to one side, tucking into a roll, and the energy blast fizzled harmlessly behind me, instead melting several plastic chairs.  I spun around, but was caught by a sudden recognition.  I moved closer to the smoking scorch marks of the blast and, using a napkin for insulation, carefully picked up the small item at the center of the circle.

I held it up to my eyes.  Plastic, cubic, with rounded edges and a rune inscribed on each face.  It was disturbingly familiar.  “Is . . . is this a Boggle die?” I asked aloud.

Will our hero, Rayne, survive the attack of the possibly dreaded Word Wizard?  Find out next time!  To be continued!

At Dad’s funeral, I talked about our trips to the Boundary Waters.  How could I mention anything else?  They were the most meaningful experiences we shared.

Growing up, I always felt like my dad was distant.  What kid with a working father hasn’t felt that, I wonder. He would be gone all day, and when he returned home in the evenings, he would slump down in his armchair with a beer and not make eye contact.  Our conversations were brief, never straying from the mundane.  I would tell him that school was good, grades were good, sports were good.  He would let me know that work was good, ask about chores, and then drift into silence.

But every year, we would make our summer pilgrimage, heading north, just the two of us in our beat-up sedan laden down with tents and food and canoe paddles.  We would drive north for hours.  In the car, the silence would start to feel different.  As we left civilization behind, we also left behind the awkwardness.  We felt close, almost companionable.

By the time we would reach our starting campsite, we would no longer speak.  There was no need.  We would unload our canoe, pack our supplies, and set out, neither of us speaking a word.  Even on the lake, when we passed the occasional other boat in the wilderness, our voices would remain silent.

Instead, when we saw another boat, even in the distance, Dad would raise his paddle into the air.  Held sideways above his head, he would wave it back and forth, once, twice, three times.  I never knew why he did this.  Sometimes we would get a hesitant wave in return.  Sometimes not.  Dad never seemed to mind either way.

One time, on the ride home, I asked him about the name of the Boundary Waters.  Was it once the border between the States and Canada, I asked.  Was it on the edge of an old Indian territory.

Dad never turned to look at me; his eyes remained on the road.  No, he said.  The Boundary Waters are more than that.  Water has always been a boundary, between light and dark, between life and death.  Dad talked for close to an hour, then, telling me of Charon and Styx, of spirits and nature.  I don’t remember most of what he said, but I still remember his passion, his conviction.

His funeral was a quiet affair.  There was some crying, some sad speeches, but nothing too dramatic, too emotional.  I think Dad would have liked it that way.

That was one year ago.  Today, I went to the Boundary Waters with him for the last time.  He had requested that his ashes be spread on the water.  I was the one to do it.  I loaded up the supplies, the canoe, and drove, but the silence seemed emptier than I remembered.

I paddled out into the center of the lake.  The urn of ashes sat on the bottom of the canoe in front of me, held upright by my legs as I paddled.  The water was still, the woods silent.  Drifting to a gentle stop in the middle, I lifted up the urn.  I didn’t know what to say, if there was anything to say.  I opened the top and spread the ashes across the surface of the still water.

I don’t know how long I sat there, not drifting from the center of the calm waters.  I was roused from my stupor by a soft splashing, coming from the far end of the lake, where a channel led to the next body of water.  I looked up, and could see the faint outline of another canoe.  Someone else, another hiker, was passing by.

They must have looked up and seen me.  I didn’t announce my presence, but they paused in their paddling.  Then, as I watched, they lifted their paddle into the air and waved it to me, once, twice, three times.  What could I do but wave back?  Before I could call out, do anything else, they had drifted beyond my view.

In the board room, the tension was palpable.  Soft murmurs and whispers passed between the rich leather and mahogany seats.  Papers on the massive table were shuffled back and forth by nervous hands.  As the figure seated at the head of the table raised his hand for order, he could sense the concern in the minds of his colleagues.

“Everyone, let’s settle down,” he announced.  “I know there are some concerns over a bit of press we’ve received recently-“

“A bit of press!?” sputtered one of the other figures at the table.  “We’re being vilified!”

Another figure held up a newspaper article.  “They’re all but accusing us of genocide!  And on the web, they aren’t even holding back that much!”

The man at the head of the table made a soothing motion, and despite the frustration, the others quieted.  “This is all temporary,” he said, his tone level and calm.  “We have all come under fire from the press before, and know that this will quickly blow over at the next crisis.”

The leader turned to the man at his right.  “I’m sure there are some other tricks we have waiting up his sleeve,” he continued. “Perhaps Chen can elaborate?”

Chen, sitting at the leader’s right, smiled widely.  His white teeth glittered in the dark room.  “Oh, there’s some good stuff coming up,” he said.

“Any plans for Sombra Corporation?”  As the leader asked this, the other figures at the table shifted slightly, leaning forward.  Sombra had just posted record profits, and many market analysts had drawn unfavorable comparisons to their own company.

Chen grinned.  “I’ve got a mole in their R and D that tells me their latest product is riddled with bugs,” he divulged.  “The test software is ready, but they can only release a bare-bones version.  The full product won’t be ready to hit the market for at least two quarters.”

The head of the table smiled at this.  “How about TetCorp?”

At the mention of the other rival company, Chen leaned in towards the others.  “A rogue virus just happened to accidentally be released in their main lab,” he whispered.  “Complete biological contamination.  It will put them back at least a year, even assuming they can scrub all traces.”

By this point, the other people at the committee were much calmer.  Some were even joking and smiling.  The executive leaned back in his chair, a small grin playing across his features as he surveyed his underlings.  Just like the markets, people were often pushed into a panic, he mused.  But that panic was always brief and fleeting, and they could be easily distracted by somebody else’s woes.

Next to the head of the table, Chen kept his wolfish grin.  Most of what he did was unethical, some parts even illegal.  He was responsible for ensuring failure, and he was paid very well to make that happen.  He had prevented some incredible products from ever seeing the light of day, and he loved every minute of his job.

I revved the engine of my car, looking sideways at the driver sitting next to me at the red light.  A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit, most likely on the way home from work.  He didn’t stand a chance.

By keeping one eye on the lights going the opposite direction, I caught the change to yellow.  I turned my head back forward, positioning my foot over the accelerator.  I was a coiled spring, ready to leap into action.

Green.

I slammed my foot down, my car lunging ahead of the businessman.  His Cadillac wasn’t good for much if he didn’t use it, I thought triumphantly.  I watched with satisfaction as he faded into my rear view mirror.

Looking up ahead, I could see that my left lane was a sea of red lights; someone was trying to turn left, and was stuck waiting in the middle of the road.  I cut right, merging in front of my defeated Cadillac opponent, and zoomed past the jam.

I never understood how people could trudge along at ten miles below the speed limit, letting their cars idle as they sat for precious seconds at green lights or stop signs.  Didn’t people want to get to their destination sooner, rather than later?  Why were they so slow, acting like barely moving obstacles in the road for me to dodge?

Another obstacle, coming up.  This time, my opponent was a slow-moving bus, taking up a lane and a half as it pulled over haphazardly to pick up passengers at a stop.  I looked at the other lane, at oncoming traffic.  The nearest approaching car was still a good block away.  Perfect.  I jerked the wheel slightly to the left, swerving around the bus, my left wheels briefly kissing the center line.

I always remember hearing that we were supposed to drive defensively, that we were supposed to be careful and slow in our decision making when behind the wheel.  I had stuck to that policy for many years, but it had gradually changed, evolved.

There were so many dangerous drivers on the road.  Anyone who acted defensively, who merely reacted to events, would be overcome, bogged down, stuck in gridlock and brought to a standstill.

Instead, I had chosen a different strategy.  Taking a leaf from the military’s playbook, I went for the preemptive strikes.  Anticipating threats, avoiding and escaping from those who posed a danger, and being ever-ready to dodge incoming issues.  My goal was to get ahead of the bad drivers, to swerve around the slow ones, to ensure my safety by defeating my opponents.

I drive offensively.

Author’s note: I had a lot of trouble writing this.  I hope this resonates with you as strongly as it did with me.

The young man was dying.  He lay on the beach, clutching his side where the vicious staccato of gunfire had ripped indiscriminately through flesh, bone, and organs alike.  Behind him, one of the troop carriers exploded in the shallow water, screams echoing off the concrete fortifications that lay ahead of the soldiers.  Through the haze of pain and red, he could feel himself fading away.

As the other men stepped over his body, their rifles issuing oddly muted cracks, the young man felt himself pull away, rise back up until he was gazing down at himself.  The feelings of pain and agony peeled away, to be replaced by a deep and suffusing sense of loss and abandonment, sinking to his soul.

“It will pass.”

The shade of the young man turned, trying to see from where the voice came.  Unlike the other sounds, now all but background, the voice cut through reality like a tolling bell.

Behind the man, hovering just above the churning surface of the water, a dark shape faced him.  Although its features were indistinct, it resembled a man in a black cape, a hood drawn over his face.  “You have a choice,” spoke the spectre, the words ringing and distinct.

what is my choice? asked the young man.

“You are permitted one glimpse.  The past, or the future.”  The figure waited.

The young man didn’t have much of a past.  He had fond memories before the split, before his mother had refused to leave her bed and his father took out his rage on the liquor bottle, and then on those around him.  He had tried to fight back, had failed, had run away to the Army to escape.  The past held nothing for him.

the future, the young man chose.

He had no way to know, but he thought that the hooded spectre smiled.  It spread its arms wide, and white light, blinding light, streamed from the cloak.

…the white stones, each identical save for the names and dates carved upon them, stretched out over the hills.  He could see no end to them, rolling on and on into the distance.  Nearby, a young woman held the hand of a small boy as she choked back tears.  

“Mommy, why?” the boy asked plaintively, tugging at the woman’s hand.  

Through clouded eyes, the woman smiled down at her son.  “For us,” she replied, her voice hoarse.  “He gave his life for us, so that we could be free..”

The young man shook his head.  No!  This wasn’t what the other soldiers had talked of, what they had been looking forward to after the war ended.  The dark shape said nothing, but light continued to flow from its core.

…there should have been cheers, but the crowd was oddly silent.  Standing on the shores of Cape Canaveral, watching the brilliant white dot at the head of the plume of smoke rise into the air, there were a few waving flags, a few cries of happy patriotism.  But most of the watchers stood silent, as if they were waiting for what would come next.

At the explosion, as the brilliant point of white light suddenly burst into a cloud of gray and a spray of fragments, there was a murmur in the crowd.  Nothing more.  Was this supposed to happen?  It wasn’t until one child’s arm rose, pointing at the falling cabin, that the shouts and screams began.

The broken body of the shuttle plunged into the ocean.  Nobody knew how to react.  Some ran, some cried, while others simply flopped down on the beach, their legs no longer able to support their weight.  The plume of smoke still hung in the sky, a smooth arc that ended abruptly in a jagged splash…

The young man tried to scream, but nothing came out.  Another failure!  Is this all that lay ahead?  Were all of our aspirations, our goals, for nothing?  Were we always doomed to fail?  He raged at the dark shape that floated in front of him, filled with impotent fury.  The shape merely hung, waiting, as the next wave of light washed over him.

…he really didn’t need the coffee, and was now late for work.  Glancing up through the crowded streets, he could see his building ahead.  If only he could leap up to the 93rd floor in the North Tower, to his office!  

A glint of light from an adjacent skyscraper caught his eye.  He stared upward, watching as the scene turned to horror.  A massive airplane, far too close to the ground.  For a moment, it intersected the tower, a bizarre growth of glass and metal.  Then the image was gone, replaced by smoke, fire, and a hail of debris.  

As dust and chunks of masonry rained down on the streets, the man dropped his coffee and briefcase, breaking into a run.  He didn’t know why he ran towards the destruction, against the tide of bodies and into the smoke and confusion, but he ran, and would not stop…

By now, the rest of the world was quiet, dark, silent and faded into gray obscurity.  The young man slumped down on the beach.  He had given up on hope.  As his fellows still fought onward, all around him, he knew that it was in vain.  All that lay ahead, all that was to come, was darkness, failure, tragedy, pain.  He did not look up as the dark figure drew closer.

“Look once more.”

He could not resist.  The young man raised his head and gazed into the light.

Celebration.  He saw men in camouflage uniforms, the United States flag embroidered on their shoulders, smashing through the gates of Auschwitz.  Young boys, gathered around a wooden table, cheered as a tiny black-and-white television showed them grainy pictures of a man in a bulky white suit carefully descending down a ladder from his landing craft.  Thousands of people, all clutching each other, watched a glittering crystal ball descend to mark the end of a millennium.  Political leaders across the globe, standing before cameras and pledging to offer aid to the United States in its time of need.  Everywhere, after every tragedy, the people coming together to grieve, to offer help, to stand strong.  

Everything was faint now, even the shade of the young man.  is this the truth? he asked, with the last of his energy.

The figure hovered impassively above him.  “This is a truth.  Happiness and sorrow are two sides to the same coin.  There cannot be one without the other.”

As he faded, reflecting on what he had seen, the shade of the young man felt peace.  Not joy, not sorrow, but balance.

Continued from here.

I stare at the words on the computer terminal, their glow the only thing illuminating my room.  I can’t understand.  I don’t remember being trapped for years inside this room!  How can this be happening?  Fingers trembling slightly, I once again reach for the keyboard.

“How many other protected users are there?”

WARNING.  LACK OF CONNECTION DATA INDICATES DAMAGE TO EXTERIOR RELAYS.  AT TIME ZERO, THIRTY-EIGHT MILLION PROTECTED USERS WERE RECORDED.  UNABLE TO ESTABLISH CONNECTION WITH ANY OTHER CONTAINMENT CHAMBERS AT THIS TIME.

QUERY?

“When was last connection established?”

TIME LOGS SHOW LAST CONNECTION WAS ESTABLISHED TO CONTAINMENT CHAMBER #239,581 AT SIX THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY HOURS AFTER TIME ZERO.

QUERY?

Six thousand hours . . . that was a little more than nine months after the chambers had sealed.  “Where is that containment chamber located, relative to here?”

CHAMBER #239,581 IS THREE MILES FROM THIS LOCATION IN A SOUTHEAST DIRECTION.

QUERY?

I take a deep breath.  “Open the door to this containment chamber,” I type and wait, holding my breath.

ERROR.  CHAMBER CONTAINMENT LOCKS CANNOT BE RELEASED UNTIL SENSORS INDICATE A STABLE EXTERIOR ENVIRONMENT.

THIS ERROR HAS BEEN LOGGED ONE THOUSAND AND NINETY SEVEN TIMES.

QUERY?

I let out a yell of frustration.  Wait a minute.  This error had been logged before?  Does that mean that I have asked the computer to do this before?  The feeling of dread, still present in my stomach, churns and roils. “Have I asked these questions before?” I type in.

YES.  SUBROUTINES INDICATE THAT SIMILAR VARIATIONS OF THESE QUESTIONS HAVE BEEN ASKED BEFORE, FROM NINE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY TO ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT TIMES.

QUERY?

My breath is shallow in my throat.  “Why?” I manage to get out.

WHEN THE PROTECTED USER ENTERED THE CONTAINMENT CHAMBER, A MOLECULAR SNAPSHOT WAS TAKEN.  NANOBOT REJUVENATION RETURNS THE PROTECTED USER TO THE MOLECULAR STATE OF THE SNAPSHOT.  ALTHOUGH THIS PROCESS PREVENTS AGING, IT RESULTS IN SHORT TERM MEMORY ERASURE.  THIS PROCESS IS REPEATED EVERY TWENTY FOUR HOURS TO PREVENT PERMANENT CELL DAMAGE.

QUERY?

I push the chair back, grabbing at my head.  Four and a half years!  Four and a half years, I have been trapped in here, reliving the same day, over and over, never able to remember what had happened!  “Let me out!”  I scream.  “Let me out of here!”

Letters continue to appear on the screen.  ERROR.  CHAMBER CONTAINMENT LOCKS CANNOT BE RELEASED UNTIL SENSORS INDICATE A STABLE EXTERIOR ENVIRONMENT.

THIS ERROR HAS BEEN LOGGED ONE THOUSAND AND NINETY EIGHT TIMES.

INTERNAL SENSORS INDICATE A HIGH LEVEL OF STRESS IN THE PROTECTED USER.  FOR SAFETY, NANOBOT REJUVENATION PROCESS IS BEING ACTIVATED.  THIS IS THE ONE THOUSAND, SIX HUNDRED, AND SEVENTY-EIGHTH TIME NANOBOT REJUVENATION HAS BEEN TRIGGERED.

I groan as I sit up, gripping my aching head.  What happened?  I can’t seem to remember anything.  Somehow, I know that this is nothing new, that I often wake up groggy and confused.  It will all come back to me soon.

Dragging myself up to my feet, I move across the floor and settle down into the only chair in the small room, facing the computer terminal.  The screen glows blue in front of me.

QUERY?

I groan as I sit up, gripping my aching head.  What happened?  I can’t seem to remember anything.  Somehow, I know that this is nothing new, that I often wake up groggy and confused.  It will all come back to me soon.

Dragging myself up to my feet, I move across the floor and settle down into the only chair in the small room, facing the computer terminal.  The screen glows blue in front of me.

QUERY?

“What happened to me last night?” I type in, and hit enter.

UNKNOWN VARIABLE: “NIGHT”.  SENSORS INDICATE THAT YOU EXPERIENCED A PERIOD OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS LASTING SEVEN HOURS AND FORTY EIGHT MINUTES.

QUERY?

The computer didn’t recognize night?  “What time is it?” I type.

THIRTY-NINE THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY HOURS HAVE PASSED SINCE TIME ZERO.

QUERY?

This is even more confusing.  I do a bit of rough calculation in my head, and come up with slightly over four and a half years.  I put my hands on the keyboard again.  “Define “time zero”.”

TIME ZERO IS DESIGNATED AS THE MOMENT WHEN THIS CHAMBER WAS SEALED AND SCENARIO FOURTEEN WAS ACTIVATED.

QUERY?

Chamber sealed?  I stare around, suddenly realizing that, although there is the outline of a door on the far wall, it was definitely shut, and the handle appears to have retracted into the door itself.  I get up and try pushing on it, just to be certain, but it won’t even budge.  I return to the console.  “Define “scenario fourteen”,” I put in.

SCENARIO FOURTEEN ENCOMPASSES ALL MAJOR EVENTS CREATING A BIOLOGICAL CATASTROPHE OF LEVEL FOUR OR HIGHER.  PROTECTED USERS ARE SEALED IN PERSONAL CHAMBERS UNTIL THREAT LEVELS HAVE DECREASED BELOW LEVEL TWO.  DUE TO UNKNOWN TIME FRAMES, PROTECTED USERS ARE MAINTAINED AT CURRENT ENTROPIC LEVELS THROUGH NANOBOT REJUVENATION.

QUERY?

I still don’t understand quite what was happening, but I can feel a deep pit opening in my stomach, a rising wave of horror threatening to engulf me.

“What happened to trigger scenario fourteen?”

WARNING: MISSING DATA.  SUMMARY COMPILED FROM BEST FIT ANALYSIS OF DATA.  SELF-REPLICATING BIOLOGICAL FORM OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN TARGETED CARBON BONDS OF DNA, CAUSING COMPLETE BIOLOGICAL EXTINCTION LEVEL EVENT.

QUERY?

To be continued….

I thundered down the highway, the speakers in my truck blasting out AC/DC’s classic, “Highway to Hell.”  I was feeling pretty good, the wind howling along through my open windows.  Suddenly, I was forced to slam on my brakes.

“Asshole!” I shouted, as the Pontiac Aztec in front of me merged into my lane at a glacial fifteen miles per hour.  Without a turn signal, of course.

I fumed behind the wheel, my good mood completely ruined.  This guy needed to be taught a lesson.  And fortunately, thanks to my license, I was the right person for the job.

Merging over into the left lane (using my turn signal, of course), I crept up next to the green monstrosity of a car.  Looking over, I was not surprised to see that the man behind the wheel was texting on his phone, blatantly holding it up in front of the steering wheel.  I was surprised he was still on the road at all.

I reached under my seat, gripping the familiar handle.  Hitting the button to automatically roll down my passenger side window, I pulled upward, leveling the pistol across the car to point at the source of my hatred.  He, of course, was completely oblivious.  I would change that, I thought vindictively, pulling the trigger several times while an evil grin spread across my face.

As the paint pellets from the paintball pistol collided with his window, the idiot gave a gratifying jerk, dropping his phone between his feet and nearly veering out of his lane.  Revenge accomplished, I floored the accelerator in my own car, speeding past him.  “Agent of karma, asshole!” I shouted out the window.  I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I yelled it nonetheless.

On the heads-up display on my windshield, a small notification popped up, informing me that I’d picked up ten points on my karma license.  I grinned.  Sometimes, earning a living was hard work.  Other times, like right now, it was the most enjoyable activity in the world.