[Follow these links to catch up with the #10 stupid thing, #9 stupid thing, #8 stupid thing, #7 stupid thing, #6 stupid thing, #5 stupid thing, #4 stupid thing, and #3 stupid thing I survived growing up in Texas.] There is nowhere to go but down from here. I’ve had a fair share of inward debate over these last couple of months as to which of my stupid deeds to rank at the bottom. These last two are competitively stupid, so after flipping a coin, here we go.
Tornados are simply awesome, are they not? Menacing vortexes of destruction that appear, terrorize, and disappear like the finger of a vengeful god. The angry wind…accompanied occasionally by that eery silence. Beating rain. Hail stones capable of punching holes through walls and stripping trees of their branches. The raw power is breathtaking to say the least. I find these storms to be truly awe inspiring. I always have.
The ranch upon which I spent much of my adolescence had (and still has) an old ranch house built upon a nob with an expansive view. On good days, the view includes the entire Ft. Worth skyline. I spent many afternoon-watermelon-gorgings on the front porch of that ranch house. I also spent a handful of tornado watching sessions. On one particularly stormy afternoon, I observed five separate funnel clouds…at once. It was amazing. Tornados formed almost faster than I could count them. Not all of them touched down, and I can only hope no one experienced their destructive power firsthand. On that occasion, none of them came within a mile of my viewing porch (which seemed like a totally reasonable distance at the time), thus not triggering my self-preservation impulse.
At the time, a tornado didn’t feel particularly dangerous unless it was within a few hundred yards. The two I remember the most managed to come a good bit closer than that. Both found me while driving home, at night. That’s the thing about darkness; It’s hard to see stuff in it, especially dark funnel clouds.
I remember seeing the first of the two in the rearview mirror of my 1982 Volvo 240 DL as I topped and descended the railroad crossing in the middle of my hometown. It seemed like it was right on top of me. Like it had formed directly overhead and slowly stalked me. I’m not sure how I hadn’t seen it when turning onto main street…unless it literally hadn’t been there.
At that moment, my instinct might not have been the correct instinct, as far as the textbook on not dying in a tornado is concerned. But in this particular instance, stomping on the accelerator (as much as one can stomp on the accelerator of a Volvo) and getting the hell out of there, worked. When a tornado appears to be directly overhead, the odds of picking a path different from the tornado’s path goes up. In this case, I chose to head the opposite direction of the trailer park. Unfortunately for the trailer park, I chose correctly.
My second close call, the one that sticks with me the most, caught me attempting to navigate my way home from a friend’s house in Willow Park after a late night of studying calculous. This time, there had been a tornado warning. Multiple funnel clouds had been spotted, but I needed to get home. It was a school night. Rather than getting caught in a gnarly mess on the interstate, I opted for the access road knowing it allowed greater opportunities for parking and laying in the ditch. The plan was to make it to Hudson Oaks where I could pass underneath the interstate and use the backroad to go home.
Before reaching the Hudson Oaks exit, golf-ball-sized hail forced me to seek shelter. The nearest option to escape the violence of the storm just so happened to be straight out of every b-horror film ever made—a lonely, abandoned gas station. In the nick of time, I rolled under the creaking, metal overhang of what used to be a single stall service station.
Lightning spiderwebbed the night sky. The sound of hail against the metal roof of the station grew so deafening I couldn’t hear the carnage of the funnel cloud when it struck down in the pasture behind the station. Something about the air pressure flipped a switch inside me. Or maybe it was the fact the rain was no longer falling downward, but sideways.
My chosen spot for safety against the storm no longer felt safe. The hail let up enough to no longer threaten to shatter my windshield. I rolled forward to see around the edge of the building, and there it was. This tornado was definitely violating my personal need-for-survival space. While I was parked beside a structure (typically a good thing), this structure felt anything but “sturdy.” With the Hudson Oaks interstate underpass only another couple hundred yards away, I made the decision to bolt for it. A glance in my rearview mirror revealed that decision to be the correct one even before I reached the underpass.
The funnel cloud ripped directly through the abandoned station in an impressive display of sparks, mangled metal, and shattered tree branches. I skidded to a stop beneath the interstate and shut off my car.
I was late getting home that night. Real late. And while I would love to say I took a more cautious approach to extreme weather after that night…well, my mother taught me that sometimes it’s better to say nothing at all.
At the Desk This Week
Making more good progress on season three of The Green Ones. I’m down to the last two scenes. This next one is gonna be a bit meta as I help another of my main characters connect with their doppelgänger from across the multiverse. It’s a fun challenge to describe something that goes beyond human experience (at least to date). Connecting with another consciousness…that is also you, but not you, is a trippy thing to think about, to say the least. Season three has been nothing if not trippy. I knew from the start that I was going to take my main protag into and out of her own mind in multiple crazy ways. It’s part of the fun of developing a world with telekinesis and telepathy to be sure.
Twitch and Die! No Debt Between Friends, Scene 1 - 4
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Animated by a cold wind, skeletal trees danced to life and dropped wet snow from their branches. Chancho clutched at his serape, but only shreds of wool remained. First his sombrero, then…his breathing hitched as fresh pain from the wooden baluster radiated throughout his back and shoulders.
His eyes drooped, even as his ears flitted from whisper to whisper. Every shadow seethed with twitcher menace, yet fear had lost its premium. He groped internally as if he were still in the mines. His mind stumbled for purchase, tripping through his most firmly engrained memories. He hadn’t felt this lost since his stint in the Pecos Wilderness of the Davis Mountains.
McCutchen had been the cause of his isolation then. But now? What had the Ranger become to him? How had he found himself in this place? Starr had betrayed him—left him and Chloe with McCutchen. With so many unanswered questions, Chancho clung to Chloe. She had doubted him but remained by his side. Could he love her as much as she deserved?
He fingered the torn edges of his clothing, nervously fiddling a worm of yarn between his forefinger and thumb. The pain washed over him with every footfall…with every breath. He slipped his hand into his britches pocket and removed three sheets of paper. They were still bound together where they’d been torn from a larger spine. He unfolded them while keeping his hands at his waist to avoid another bolt of pain.
“Talk to me.” Chloe pressed close to his side as they shuffled through a narrow gap in the brush.
He handed her the pages, afraid to look at them himself. “I tore them from the book before…” He gasped for another short breath and fell silent. He’d removed the pages at the last second, without looking. He wasn’t even sure—
“The formula.” Chloe held them inches from her face. “Chancho, you did it!”
McCutchen turned, “Starr didn’t—”
“He tore out the last three pages before Starr took it.” Chloe’s voice buoyed Chancho, transforming the cold winds into a summer breeze off the Gulf. They were the first anxiety-free words she’d spoken in days, and they gave him precious hope.
“I’ll be damned. I thought—” a branch snapping beyond the brush to their right. McCutchen drew his Colt .45 Flat Top slowly.
“Don’t stop your yapping on my account. Just ole Nanette laboring these here bushes loud enough to get a word in edgewise. For God’s sake keep your guns in your pants. You young’uns and your pistols. I swear you’d rather pull the trigger than shake hands.” A woman so dark her eyes appeared to levitate in midair stepped through the brush. She was leading a caravan of animals behind her.
“Nanette Bougere, where the hell you been?” McCutchen stumbled toward her. He wrapped his good arm around her ample frame in a gesture that looked surprisingly like a hug.
“Busy shooting people and saving your raggedier-than-ever ass. Again, I might add. But I won’t due to da sensitivity of da male ego.” The woman turned to face Chancho and Chloe. “Damn, you as hard on your friends as yourself. Now I see why you’s so afraid a hooking up.” She shook her head. “At least da lady don’t look like she’s bleeding to death.”
Chancho fumbled for words but found none.
“Good thing I found these forlorn little donkeys thereabouts the cemetery fence where I planted them Company men.” She paused. “Hmmm, but I reckon I got an extra beast.” She looked the three of them over as well as the dark would allow. “I suppose one of da number who gone in ain’t come out.” She tutted, “That’s a real shame, and I mean it.”
She moved within inches of Chancho’s face and hooked her knuckle beneath his chin. “I’ll tell you da truth, Mr. Motorcycle. When you done crossed the fence, I thought the whole lot of ya were cooked and gone. But J.T. Smarty Pants here said you was a tough Mexican.”
She unfurled her chubby fingers until she held his face in her hand. Her skin felt like warm candle wax. “You done good to bring yourself out and bring this here mongrel with ya.” She nodded toward McCutchen. “His father meant something to me, and I suppose he does too.”
McCutchen cleared his throat.
“Oh, and he told me just today how sorry he was for trying to bury you before. Said you was a better man than him, then burst into tears like a little girl.” McCutchen pinched her, and she continued. “But what ya’ll standing around fer? You wanting this cold to be da death of ya after all these shenanigans? Now stop your yammering and mount up.” Lightning-quick, she slapped McCutchen across the buttock before helping him into his saddle. “I told you I’d get ya.”
McCutchen grunted as he tugged himself into position using the horn. Ignoring Nanette, he reached down to stroke Chester’s neck. “Good to see ya, boy.” Chester snorted in response.
Chancho and Chloe mounted the donkeys they’d ridden from Gordon.
“I suppose you know best where you’s going, so git on with it.” Nanette waited for McCutchen to take the lead.
McCutchen shifted behind the donkey that remained riderless, the one Angelo had ridden in on. “Home.” He lashed the animal gently with the ends of his reins. Obediently, the donkey chose his path and pace.
Nanette’s eyes grew large and she nodded with approval. Without turning to look at her, McCutchen responded. “I suppose they’ll need a new home, and you and Angelo would have got on fine. If the others don’t object—”
“I think that’d be nice,” Chloe settled it.
As soon as the animals started out, Chancho unscrewed his canteen. After making sure Chloe had enough of her own, he drank. He closed his eyes and focused on the donkey’s hoofbeats in an effort to drown out the myriad of demons clawing for his attention. They soon vanished. He was too exhausted to care. For now, they’d have to wait.
Starr closed his eyes and exhaled. He used the throttle lever to brace himself against the rhythmic rocking of the locomotive. Moments ago he’d cleared a switch outside of Mingus and rounded the bend heading east. For the time being, the tracks ahead would be clear. With any luck the unscheduled Black Diamond would be reported, resulting in a cleared line for as long as he could push the old engine without stopping for more coal or water.
He’d done it. He patted the book beneath his belt. He’d barely flipped through it, but clearly its pages contained scientific information about the contagion. Maybe it didn’t implicate TPE, but that had never been his intention.
He’d quietly copy as much of the information as he could before dutifully handing the book over to his superiors. Doing so would simultaneously strengthen his hand while building upon his perceived loyalty. On top of it all, and completely beyond his own planning, he’d managed to save a passel of innocent children in desperate need of medical attention.
Ever so slightly he found himself leaning forward into the backhead as the rhythm of the rails slowed beneath him. He opened his eyes and tapped the gauge closest to him. He didn’t understand everything he was looking at, but it seemed none of the indicators had changed significantly. All the same, the train was definitely slowing.
Starr shoveled in the last of the coal. He wouldn’t make it as far as he had hoped, that was all. The sound of a heavy boot on the landing startled him. Assuming some kid in oversized shoes had clambered up to see the engine, he turned. “Well hello…” Wide-eyed, Starr froze solid. A low growl filled the cabin as a cloaked figure sprang the last few feet to his side in the blink an eye. A twitcher.
The train resumed its former speed. Whatever had been holding it back now let it go. At the same time, Starr found himself unable to move a single muscle—not a finger, not an eye. Nothing save his mouth. “No.”
“Senator, we meet again.” The words originated within Starr’s head, but the voice was not his own. It was accented thickly and immediately familiar. The figure shifted its head toward the scant atmospheric light.
Starr trembled uncontrollably. “No, I saw you die. I touched the body.”
“Nothing but pawn, Senator Starr.” The cloaked figure shook his head from side to side, the lips still not moving when he spoke. “Game over only when one king is taken. But first one must recognize true opponent. Which in this case, was never me. Still, I will be relieving you of logbook.”
Without realizing it, Starr pulled back his jacket to reveal the book right next to his .38 Tri-Star.
“I cannot have you handing book to benefactors.” The figure’s lips snarled even as they remained shut.
“How—”
“You are nothing but slave, James Starr. For years, I was slave like you.” The figure snatched the book and concealed it within his cloak.
Starr barely saw the arm move. While internally he flinched at its quickness, his body refused to move. Then, just as before, the train slowed without losing steam. Starr swayed forward.
“Quit while ahead. Is no other end to one-sided game. Victory is deception.” The figure turned and leapt from the cabin in a fluid movement.
Starr stumbled as the train resumed speed quickly, throwing him against the back of the cabin. He regained control of his body and clutched at his belt. The book was gone. He drew his .38, rolled onto his side, and aimed the weapon into the cloistered night. Nothing remained but the shadows of trees rushing past.
Chancho sat at the kitchen table, hovering low enough over a plate full of sausage and grits for the steam to warm his face. After forking in a mouthful, he sat back and smiled at the others.
They’d reached Gordon quickly enough the night before, found medical attention, and slept in the old stone house until Nanette’s cooking had aroused them just shy of midday. Currently church bells oriented Chancho to the outside world. Only three days earlier he’d been in Austin.
No one had spoken anything other than essentials since mounting up north of Big Lake. Addressing Chancho from the stove, Nanette had apparently waited as long as she saw fit. “Now you done eaten enough a my grits to choke a buffalo, tell me, what’s dis I hear about you tearing a formula out of a book?”
“It appears a friend has found a means to treat the infected.” Chancho swallowed another bite of sausage bake before continuing, “I’ve no formal education in chemistry, but I’ve studied the subject a bit. Mostly compounds I can find in nature.” He tapped the paper in his pocket. “The only compound I recognize is some sort of cannabinoid.
Nanette turned to face him. “Marihuana?”
“You know it?” Chancho was both amused and surprised.
Nanette wiped her hands on a towel. “You found a cure for da curse involving that smelly, old herb? Well maybe that explains—”
McCutchen interrupted, “Not a cure and not a curse.”
“Well yap, yap, yap. I’ll call it what I like.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and the two seemed to share a private thought inaccessible to Chancho. Finally she continued, “It’s good though, that it ain’t catching.”
Chloe frowned. “So if it’s not contagious, how does it spread?”
McCutchen wiped his mouth. “The doctor attending all the early cases told me the twitch is caused by a toxin in the water, and the soil, I suppose. Whatever it is, it was born in that cave and attacks the mind.”
“So while some of us was all bound up over gunning down da cursed, it turns out we should a been watching what we drank.” Nanette seemed to be thinking out loud. “Damned if I didn’t drink as much a dat tainted water on the ranch as yo daddy did. Huh, I guess it’s sure enough true. The devil don’t want me either. I guess I got no choice but to hang on and put up with the likes a you.” She topped off their coffees with a cast iron teapot from the stove.
Chancho swallowed as one of the demons that had been clawing at his thoughts popped to the surface. “You mentioned in Thurber that people want to use the twitch as a weapon?”
“The same people who used me…” McCutchen looked at his plate, then the walls of the stone house, “to clean up their mess.” He ground his teeth. The rest of the group just stared at him, waiting. So he started with his sick father and filled them in on everything he’d learned since. His early meeting with Lipscomb, his work as the Angel of Death, his tracking them to New York Hill, and what he knew of Starr’s meeting with Lipscomb.
He told them about leaving Lipscomb injured. He even showed them Doc’s letters. After everyone had looked over the relevant parts he continued, “I’ve gotta look for Doc Quick and his family. They might still be alive. TPE might still be after them. But—”
“Starr still has the logbook,” Chancho finished for him.
“If he hasn’t handed it over to his superiors yet.”
“Who we have no means of identifying,” Chloe added.
“Not quite.” McCutchen picked his teeth. “I find it hard to believe one person or group of people could have such vast reach without leaving a trail to follow. Dead or alive, Doc Quick could still show the way.”
Chloe sighed. “I mean, Starr can be kind of slimy, but chemical weapons?”
“He probably doesn’t know,” McCutchen shook his head. “His vanity and confidence makes him vulnerable.”
“Huh, sounds familiar.” Nanette punctuated his comment, but McCutchen ignored her.
Chloe rolled her eyes. “I can see the headlines now, ‘Shining Starr Saves Thurber Children.’ He’ll be the hero again, just like Phoenix Day. Makes you wonder if that was all a bunch of smoke too.” She stopped drumming her lips, sudden fear on her face. “But what about the kids?”
Chancho cleaned his plate. “By now Starr’s informed the proper authorities of conditions inside the fence and taken care of the children’s medical needs.”
“But if he doesn’t know the twitch is a toxin? If he still thinks it’s contagious—”
“They’ll be quarantined and watched closely,” McCutchen said flatly.
Chancho nodded and put a hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “We’ve got time. Austin’s medical community won’t have heard about the illness. They won’t be afraid of the children yet. They’ll take whatever Starr says with a grain of salt until they see it for themselves.”
“About that,” McCutchen asked, “ and if one of the kids turns?”
Chloe pushed her chair back. “We’ve gotta get going. You yourself said they’d be lost outside of Thurber. That they’d—”
“The doctors won’t listen to us,” Chancho said.
“But—”
Chancho shook his head. “Not yet. After breakfast I’ll visit some friends of mine.”
“The Kickapoo?” Chloe asked.
“I’ll show them the formula. If anyone can fabricate a remedy, it’s them.” Secretly, Chancho was also dying to ask about Gayle Sanders and her yellow eyes.
“But that could take days, or weeks!” Chloe stood.
Chancho rose and embraced her softly. “I’ll learn enough to gain the doctor’s attention—an understanding of how the antidote works and the words to explain it to them. Together with the testimony of the good Doc Quick,” Chancho looked to McCutchen who nodded his consent, “it will be enough to get us in the door.”
Without Chancho noticing, Chloe had found a basin to wash the blood and tangles from her hair. Now delicate odors of apple and rosewood assuaged the last of his stubborn misgivings, and he buried his fingers deep within her untamed locks.
“Thank you,” she relaxed in his arms.
Still at the table, McCutchen leaned on his elbows. “And you trust these Kickapoo? I never met any Indians who knew advanced chemistry.”
Chancho smiled. “You’ve never met my friends. Don’t worry, mi amigo, they don’t have any connections to TPE, or any gringo, for that matter.”
McCutchen’s eyes grew large. He raised his left hand above the table, his arm bound in a fresh sling. He rubbed the nub where his ring finger used to be. “Those caves outside Brackettville. That was them.” He put his arm back in his lap. “They owe me a digit.”
“Still keeping tabs?” Chancho shrugged. “I can ask around if you’d like. Oh, but I did find this in my auto.” He dug into his pocket and tossed McCutchen a small metal object.
McCutchen flicked open the lighter and rolled the flint wheel with his thumb, producing a flame.
Chancho continued, “But I didn’t think you smoked.”
“I don’t.”
Nanette whistled. For a long awkward moment they all stared about the room.
Chancho ended the silence, “I reckon there’s one last thing to take care of before we set out.”
Before leaving the kitchen table, Chancho whispered into Chloe’s ear, “Thank you for sticking with me.”
Chloe opened the back door and ushered him out. Beneath an austere January sun, she brushed her lips across his cheek. “My pleasure, Motorcycle.” She rocked back on her heels and blinked several times in the bright light. “Forgive a gal for being so bold, but recent self-discovery compels I ask.”
“Fair enough, señorita. I’m afraid it is I who has put you in such a position, by…” he pursed his lips, “being less than forthwith.”
She rolled her eyes. “What’s next for you and me, Chancho Villarreal?”
“First, Miss Chloe O’Brien,” he drew her against himself, “I propose we consider a little more formality in our relationship.”
“Oh? I don’t know, that sounds awful…” she copied his gesture from earlier, “rigid.”
“I expect both flexibility and rigidity to be involved, yes.” He winked before turning serious. “Then I was thinking…” he closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and then engaged her completely. “About the boy in the red coat—”
“Yes and yes!” Chloe leapt into his grasp, wrapping her legs around him.
“¡Para el amor de dios!” Chancho teetered and fell forward. He caught the two of them with with his hands at the last minute. Chancho’s efforts to protest were quickly distracted and forgotten, as with tenacious lips Chloe imbued him with the power of the eagle’s wings.
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!