In Idaho we’ve endured our first 99 degree day. (I’m sure all the banks were showing 100+.) You know what that means. The watermelon days of summer have begun. Around these parts, finding a delicious, ripe melon before July 4th can be…trying. I have a hard time growing melons in Idaho that ripen before Labor Day. I suppose I got spoiled in Texas.
But farming melons and grocery-storing melons are entirely different things. Picking a ripe melon on the vine requires a different skillset that most of you probably aren’t concerned with. As for the rest of us, there ain’t nothing worse (except for all the much worse things) than gathering around the young-uns after returning from the grocery store only to discover that your save-the-afternoon-from-total-destruction-watermelon is a bitter disaster unworthy of a seed-spitting contest (because it doesn’t even have seeds!).
All there is to do at this point is hang your head in shame and inform your family that you’ll be soaking in the tub for the remainder of the day. If they want any ice for their drinks, too bad. It’s about to be icing your injured self-esteem in a cold bath of guilt. But this doesn’t have to be your fate. Selecting a sweet, sweet melon dripping with summer love-nectar is within your grasp.
How to find a ripe melon at your local grocery? First off, it’s more about feel than sound. But they go together. You have to feel the sound of ripeness in your bosom or your loins. Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me. I don’t make the rules, I’m just relaying them to you. You want a ripe melon or not?
The best way to learn the feel is to play those melons like bongos. You play ‘em as if the bongos were going out of style. No thumping. You gotta slap those melons. Just like any instrument, the pitch will change due to size and shape of the melons you are playing for ripeness. So don’t get too caught up on the pitch or timbre. Early in the melon season you don’t have to be overly concerned about overripe melons. This makes the process much simpler. You bongo all the melons you can reach until you find the one that feels like if you slapped it a bit harder it would split open under your palm.
You DON’T want a tight, high-strung melon. You want a loose, floppy melon so bursting with deliciousness that letting it roll around in the trunk on the way home is gonna equal one messy trunk. If you whack a ripe melon with your melon knife (after you get home of course. Stores frown on you wielding large knives these days) it should split open and part like the red sea. You’re looking for the differences between slapping a yoga ball and slapping a fatty, water balloon. You want the fatty, water balloon vibe from your melon. No exercise permitted. Your melon should look like it’s been doing nothing but sitting around and getting fat just for you. It should have a yellow, faded section of rind for sure.
That’s it. The last thing I’ll say is that if you strike out the first time you buy a melon this way, do a U-turn and head right back to that store. Don’t let those lazy melon growers win...by refusing to buy another melon from them…hmmm. I suppose they’re gonna win either way. But once you feel the sound of ripeness and confirm it that first time, you’ll quickly become a pro. Next thing you know, your friends will be asking you to bring the watermelon to the cookout because they know you’ll always bring the perfect melon.
At the Desk This Week
I took the family camping. So…the desk had to stay at home. I was able to get in some mental brainstorming and dreaming. That mental prep will pay off once I’m able to get back to writing. I’ll double down this coming week to see what I can squeeze into the gaps while also wrangling the kids. Life keeps on happening, as you all know it does. The wife will be heading out of town for a week, so I’ll assume her duties (and by “assume” I mean let them mostly fall through the cracks) while attempting to stick to my own schedule. As long as my feral kids don’t catch the eye of law enforcement or social services, we should be all good.
Twitch and Die! Scratching the Surface, Scenes 1-4
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Vezzoni had been asleep in his recliner when the call had come in over the radio, not the telephone. Never a good sign. He growled into the receiver, “What is it now?” He let go of the button. After seconds of crackling static, a response rose above the white noise.
“Visitors, sir… Big Lake…” The signal broke up and Vezzoni ground the stub of an extinct cigar between his teeth. “…sounded like a donkey.”
Vezzoni closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He’d already wrapped his wounds for the night. The left side of his head and shoulders had been chewed up like steak in the jaws of a mongrel—a gift from Doc Quick. And now Angel Tucci. He depressed the button. “Lay low. Meet me west of the hill. I’m coming now.” He let off and waited for acknowledgement. He got nothing but static. “Not a damn peep, you hear me! Wait until I arrive!”
This time the static subsided enough for him to hear an echo as both men barked in response, “Yessir!” He slammed the receiver down.
“Honey?” His wife’s voice accused him from the bedroom.
The way she added a question mark to the end of every accusation infuriated him. “Go back to bed, Marta. I’ll be working late.” He didn’t wait to hear her reprimand. Kicking open the back door, he clutched his winter coat and let the door slam shut behind him. He waited until he’d reached the safety of his office, a converted barn, before stringing together a tapestry of Italian curses.
Finally, he shook out his shoulders and cleared his mind. He radioed Picard from his desk, informing his right-hand to be ready and waiting in five, and to bring a plus one—anyone up for a nighttime graveside. Vezzoni lived just east of Ranger. Using the cattle path that served as a road, it would take the three men over an hour to reach New York Hill and join up with the two scouts on duty.
The five of them would be plenty to get the jump on Angel, the grappa-running midget. Vezzoni had wanted a shot at the dirty albino for over a year, since getting stunned by a cheap sucker punch. Public embarrassment would have been better, but a quiet burial would suffice. Prize-winning booze or not, the pressure had gotten too high around Thurber.
Vezzoni lifted the lid to the box behind the back seat. He loaded two gun belts, a few shotguns, and the experimental night goggles he’d recently gotten hold of. This would be a good test of their abilities. He ran through a mental checklist and slammed the box shut. Jamming his fedora on his head, he jumped behind the wheel. After cranking the Single-Six to life, he primed the lights, gave it gas, and popped the clutch. He peppered the side of the barn with gravel as he bounced onto the road and hit the carbide lights.
After Doc busted up his Company T, along with his face, he’d upgraded to the 1920 Packard as a signal. People so high up Vezzoni hadn’t even known they’d existed a month ago had started calling for his head. Since he wasn’t willing to part with it yet, he redoubled his presence and uglied his temper. Nobody called his efficiency into question. Besides, the T didn’t suit him. The cabin cramped his shoulders.
For twenty years he’d served the Company, multiplied their production and profits ten times over. He’d motivated their worthless rabble of a workforce. He’d given them the licenses to his inventions. Now they threatened him over a damn outbreak caused by their own damn insistence to run a laboratory too damn close to live mining operations. Idiots.
He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop less than three feet in front of a tall, lanky Frenchman dressed in a wool pea coat. Picard stood motionless for another second before walking around. A second man had scampered clear before the Packard got within ten yards. Vezzoni laughed as Picard climbed in the passenger side. “Never can get you to flinch.”
Picard shrugged. “Maybe I’m just slow.”
“Now where did the rabbit run?”
A second man crawled into the back and slammed the door behind him.
“Watch the glass,” Vezzoni roared while casting a sideways grin at Picard.
“Sorry, sir.”
Vezzoni stomped the gas and turned onto a rugged path heading east.
“Who’s the service for tonight, boss?” Picard dangled a cigarette from his lips while he flicked his lighter to life.
“A little angel named Tucci.”
“Ha.” Picard puffed. He slipped the lighter beneath his coat with a nearly imperceptible movement. “Make sure he whips up a final batch. Damn fine grappa.”
“And you call yourself French.” Vezzoni nudged him, his wide shoulders already encroaching into the passenger side.
Picard sniffed. “These are desperate times.”
“Indeed they are, my friend. Indeed.” Vezzoni tried to itch the skin beneath his bandages. He stopped after making the tingling worse. He stretched his neck and shoulders until he was facing the back seat. “Hey, Rabbit, you like donkeys?”
“How many did you say?”
“Four.”
“I’ll be damned if there’s anyone other than Angel Tucci packing donkeys around here. But that midget doesn’t have three friends to pull together.”
“Why would he be running shine out here now?”
McCutchen stood motionless on a roof with his back against the chimney. The conversation between Vezzoni and his goons should have been his main focus. Instead, the flatlands of Thurber held him transfixed. For the first time since accepting his grim assignment, McCutchen had come close enough to the epicenter at night to witness the inexplicable—flickering lights. Signs of life, in a town that should have been completely dead.
A gravelly voice rose from the sidewalk directly below him. “You tell me.”
Shaken, McCutchen struggled to focus. Why hadn’t he confirmed the effects of the contagion? Turning his back on the ghosts of Thurber, he focused on the voices. He’d never met the superintendent of the mines, a man named Vezzoni. But the ire in the gravelly voice indicated he was the man in charge.
“I got no idea, honest.”
“No side operation run out of an abandoned home?”
A gust rustled McCutchen’s duster and washed away the rest of the argument. No matter. He’d wait until just before they made their move and take away their element of surprise. Then they’d be equal-numbered and out-maneuvered. On a night like tonight, the odds suggested that no one would even get shot. He certainly wouldn’t.
Through the corner of his eye he glanced toward the Thurber flat. How could people have survived the contagion right at its heart? If the sickness hadn’t killed ‘em, the infected—
The wind shifted back in his direction, “…see if these goggles work. Which one?”
“The brick one.”
“You sure?”
“I seen a lamp through the winder. At first I wasn’t sure. I could see ‘em standing in the middle of the road one minute, then the next they was gone. It’s so damn dark—”
“Stop your yammering.”
“Yessir.”
“Hmmm, interesting. These things actually make it brighter, but they block your peripheral.”
“Sir?”
“Bah. Rabbit, you’re with me. Picard, you take these imbeciles. You men know what’s at stake here. Word gets out and it’s all our asses.”
A swirling gust from the north tugged at McCutchen’s hat. He tightened the strap around the back of his neck and closed his eyes. The infected. The infected were living in Thurber, but how?
McCutchen clutched the top of the chimney for balance. He lost his grip. The surface was covered in a cold slime—pisquachie. Damn it all, he’d chosen a buzzard roost. Again the wind picked up, swirling around him and tipping him further off balance. He shifted a boot too loudly on the surface of the cedar shakes.
“What was that?”
Blasting him from the other direction, the wind forced him to hands and knees. The heat of his skin slicked the frozen surface of the manure-covered shingles, creating a ski slope out of the steep pitch. He slipped several feet and rolled onto his back before he caught the gutter with his boots.
“Someone’s on the roof.”
“It’s a trap. Shut up and scatter!”
McCutchen swore. Before he could lift himself up, a rifle crack split the curtain of night wide open. The roar reverberated from deep inside the house beneath him, not from Vezzoni or any of his crew. Swears in a potpourri of languages swarmed from the porch like hornets out of a pipe as Vezzoni and his men poured into the street and scattered.
McCutchen scrambled for a purchase on the slickened shingles before finally giving up. He clutched the gutter with both hands, swung over the edge of the roof, and dropped to the ground below. From his knee, he caught a glimpse into the darkened house.
A second flare of gunpowder lit up a face blacker than the night. He spun and leapt off the porch. As his boots hit the ground, the bark of the rifle flooded the front porch with wave after wave of gunfire. Beneath the echo of the sundering blasts he heard a familiar angry babble. Nanette.
Chancho shuffled toward the only window in the study and found it closed like the rest of them. He drew the curtains shut after staring into the empty street for over a minute. The abandoned houses felt like props in a film. He pondered his role in the story.
Conscious of being the lone actor on stage, he placed the battery-powered lamp under an overturned wicker wastebasket before switching it on. A subdued glow swelled within the room, creating shadows and pushing darkness into the corners. His breath shone like crystalline clouds in the dim light.
He rubbed his arms beneath his serape and shivered. The room was too tidy. Who cleans their study before an emergency evacuation? Nothing had been in the wastebasket either.
He lowered his gaze to the surface of the desk. It was covered with a thin layer of dust, save a ragged swath sweeping from one side to the other. On the far end of the desktop, a rectangular shape devoid of dust had been disrupted by the irregular path—possibly a hand brushing across the surface.
Chancho closed his eyes. He imagined groping for an object, looking for something in the dark. But what had the person found? What had been resting on the edge of the desk? A book? He scanned the bookshelf for a gap in the neatly arranged spines, but didn’t find any clear evidence. What would that prove anyway?
He swiveled the chair from side to side before taking a seat. Another thought occurred to him, and he bent to inspect the floor beside the desk. Coming up empty at first, his eyes finally seized on a small object—an ink pen. He picked it up, tapped it on the surface of the desk. A journal.
Before his mind could carry the thought further, a faint scratching pricked his ears. He held his breath. The sound seemed omnipresent—so slight it could be drifting on the wind from miles away. Or it could be coming from directly beneath his feet. He peered at the floorboards and strained his ears. It came again, like teeth or fingernails scraping a wooden surface.
It has to be mice. He clutched the thought like a drowning man would cling to a lifesaver. But his body continued to act of its own volition. He scooted the chair back and sank noiselessly to his knees. For a long moment the sound stopped. Then again, a muffled scratching—from beneath the floor—accompanied by tiny vibrations in the wood. Each shudder was no bigger than the pulse of his heart. Digging?
As he lowered his ear all the way to the floor gunfire erupted from outside. Jolting upwards, he slammed his head into the underside of the desk and toppled backwards into the chair. He clutched his pistol. Bounding from the chair, he pressed himself against the wall and threw back the curtain.
Two more shots thundered from across the street. A handful of human shapes scattered from the porch—one in his direction. He bolted for the front door, stumbling over the sofa on the way. He caught the knob enough to release the latch and burst through the doorway with his pistol drawn.
A shadow crouching at the base of the porch spun in his direction. A dull glint appeared at the end of an extended arm. Chancho squeezed the trigger. Dual explosions battered the porch as a pinch gripped Chancho’s left shoulder. The shadow beyond his barrel pitched forward, smacked its head on the porch, and disappeared.
He edged toward where he’d last seen it.
“What de devil is going on out here?” Angelo braced himself against the door jam, his pistol aimed at nothing but the darkness beyond.
Chancho snatched a quick peek over the front edge of the porch. The human shadow lay motionless. “I don’t know, mi amigo, but—”
Brick fragments ricocheted over their heads as the echo of two more gunshots rolled across the blanket of night.
Starr and Angelo lunged forward, each offering Chancho a hand. Together they yanked him inside and slammed the door. Each taking a different window, they watched for signs of movement—anything to gain a clue as to what was carrying on.
“Chloe, watch the back!”
“On it.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and the house fell silent, save their heavy breathing. Chancho watched the porch and the small section of road he could see from his vantage. Nothing moved. After he began to stiffen and chill from drying sweat, he broke the silence, “Anything, mis amigos?”
“Nothing.”
Chloe returned from the back door. “Not a peep.”
Starr stretched his leg tenderly. “What do you reckon that was all about?”
“Vezzoni, the bastard.” Angelo turned toward Chancho. “I hope you gave him a brain window.”
Chancho shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone’s at the base of the porch, but I don’t think it’s Vezzoni.”
Chloe sat on the sofa. “How did it start?”
“No sé.”
“You weren’t awake?”
“I was awake, but the shooting…” Chancho remembered the men scattering from across the street. “It wasn’t at us.”
“I beg to differ,” Angelo interrupted.
“Not at first. By the time I got to the window I saw men scattering from gunfire,” he brushed the curtain out of the way, “coming from that house.”
Chloe exclaimed, “Someone’s still living there?”
Chancho shrugged and then winced at the wound to his shoulder. “Is everyone alright? I mean, was anyone shot? Because, I think I might have been.”
“Might? You Mexicans must be a tough sort.” Angelo attempted to inspect the wound in the dark. “I cannot say for sure, but it looks like just a scratch.”
“Yeah,” Starr sat stiffly. “I think I have a bullet in my leg.”
“This is a fine bunch.” Chloe stood. “For goodness sake, let’s get some light in here before someone bleeds to death from an ‘I think so.’ Where’s the lamp?”
“Ah, I left it in the study.”
“The study?” Starr tried to stand, but Chloe shoved him back into his chair.
“I’ll get it.” She moved carefully toward the darkened doorway.
Chancho met her at the entrance. “I couldn’t sleep. Here,” he held her by the shoulders as he entered in front of her. “I left it on the floor, but it should still be on.” The handheld lamp was in fact not on.
Chloe tutted. “Upscale neighborhoods ain’t what they used to be.”
“Not much of a first date, eh señorita.” Crouched at the base of the desk, he remembered the scratching from before the shootout. He flipped over the wastebasket, found the lamp, and slapped it lightly in the palm of his hand. He tried the switch in both directions. Nothing. “Lo siento, but I’m afraid it’s dead.”
Each of them accumulated a few hours’ worth of sleep in fits and spurts. Chancho had slept with his back against the front door until around four in the morning. He figured he’d been awake for almost two hours when the first streaks of day shone through the slit in the curtains.
Motionless, he watched the slice of light intensify and shift along the back of the sofa where Chloe’s regular breathing indicated she still slept. He’d awoken to a dream of blood spattering from a shadowy man’s shoulder. A toothy grimace had slashed across the man’s face—his eyes piercing into his own.
It’d been a few years since Chancho had shot a man, much less killed one. He’d never killed anyone that close, and the darkness left more details to his imagination. The worst part had been not knowing. He didn’t have the slightest idea who the man was, or even why they were trying to kill each other. Both had tried.
The dead man’s bullet had only grazed Chancho. The bleeding had stopped before he’d fallen asleep. His own bullet had sent the stranger to his final home. Chancho was all too familiar with the odor and taste left behind by a fleeing spirit—one startled by violence. He rubbed the missing notch of his ear lobe between his thumb and finger.
Chloe shifted in her sleep, bringing Chancho back to the who, what, and why of the moment. Who had jumped them? What were they hiding, and why was it worth killing over? Someone had been watching them. But someone else had been watching the people watching them. Chancho could think of only one individual so paranoid and shifty. The rinche.
The thought left him dizzier than before. Maybe mother sun would bring answers along with the new day.
“Chancho?” Chloe peeked over the back of the sofa.
“Buenos días, señorita.” He pushed against the closed door and rose to his feet.
“Did you sleep?”
“Un poco.”
She shook her head but kept smiling. “I thought the sun would never come up.”
“I know the feeling.” He offered her a hand. “Come. Let’s wake the others and get some answers.”
“We’re awake.” Starr limped from the bedroom, Angelo right behind him.
“Yup. We have just been awaiting for you sleepy heads to stir.”
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Twitch and Die!, Season Four of the Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from the Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy the Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!