Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

Steven Howe walked blindly into the hallway and up the stairs to his bedroom. Gordon Wells followed him up and unlocked the doors to the other boys’ rooms, waking them up and informing them of breakfast and their departure time.

At nine thirty all three boys were standing outside the front door, two of them enjoying the fresh morning, Steven Howe seemingly oblivious. Gordon Wells approached the group.

“Mark, any thoughts on what we discussed yesterday?”

“I’d like to take up the offer, if that’s ok. The chance of free go-karting doesn’t come along every day. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Wells said, turning to David. “Have you made a decision, David?”

“I’ve had a look at some of the jobs on the website. Who should I contact about them?”

“Just click the link in the job description, fill in your details and quote the reference number shown on the inside cover. They’ll get in touch with me and I’ll give them my personal recommendation. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

The minibus arrived and the boys climbed in the back. As it pulled away Wells saw Mark and David deep in conversation, while Steven was just staring blankly ahead.

Elias Sinden came out to join Wells. “How do you think it went? With Steven, I mean?”

Wells frowned. “I honestly don’t know. He’s petrified at the moment, but if he ever figures out that his journey back in time was nothing more than flashing lights and a sun lamp there will always be the seed of doubt to keep him straight. However, I am concerned that he’s too immature for this treatment. I should imagine the images he saw will give him nightmares for a while. Let’s keep and eye on him for the next couple of weeks.”

Sinden nodded, taking notes.

“Is anything missing from their rooms?” Wells asked him.

“Not a thing.”

“Good, good. Now then, we’ve got three more arriving on Monday morning and I want the camera that records their arrival replaced and tested by the end of the day. I noticed a couple of dead pixels in the spy hole just before Steven viewed it. It wasn’t obvious but we can’t have dead pixels in a spy hole, can we...”

_______

Alan McDermott is a software developer from the south of England, married with beautiful twin daughters. When he isn’t creating critical applications for the NHS, he is writing action thrillers.

His debut novel, Gray Justice, has been very well received. The other two books in the series - Gray Resurrection and Gray Redemption - were released in 2012. You can find out more about Alan McDermott at his website here: http://jambalian.blogspot.com

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Return of the Bride

By Micheal Maxwell

The harsh bite of Turkish cigarettes and hookah smoke filled the small café and burned Sear’s eyes. His right hand rested gently on the pocket of his khaki jacket, his left hand stretched out flat on the tabletop. He hated waiting. He’d spent the day sleeping in a filthy hotel waiting for this meeting. Fifteen minutes slipped into the river of time since he arrived and the thick black mud they called coffee was now cold.

Sear had made the trip from Abadan during the night. He’d crossed the Arvand River as the last burning rays of sun cast long-fingered shadows across the water. A bone-thin sliver of a man, with rotten stubs for teeth and a milk-white eye, took Sear across the river for two packs of Marlboros and a twenty dollar bill. His small boat took in water and smelled of rotten fish and diesel. No questions asked; no conversation made. They parted without a word.

At dawn an unsuspecting driver provided Sear a lift to Al-Qurnah in the back of his truck. He had slipped under the heavy canvas as the truck pulled away from a small warehouse, beside a rickety dock, on the edge of the riverside village that didn’t deserve even the smallest speck on a map. Al-Qurnah was about seventy-five kilometers from Basrah, a bullet-pocked scar of a town left nearly abandoned after the Iran/Iraq war.

Tradition had it that Al-Qurnah is the site of the Garden of Eden. Sear smiled at the thought and credited someone’s twisted idea of humor. The desolation of the place was severe even for the Middle East. With all His choices, Sear figured God surely must have chosen somewhere else for the site of creation.

Reaching back with his left hand, Sear felt the wall behind him. It was warm and chalky. Glancing around the room, the silence that accompanied his arrival was beginning to crack, and interrupted conversations restarted, but the eyes of the café patrons never left Sear.

Forty-five minutes after he arrived, Sear watched as two men entered the café, took in every table, and then walked straight toward where he sat.

“Phillip Sear?”

Sear nodded and motioned for the two men to sit down.

“Where is she?” Sear asked in near-native Farsi.

“Not far,” the smaller of the two men said.

The two men smelled of cheap aftershave and body odor. Sweat ringed their collars and armpits, and both were in need of a shave.

The smaller man pulled a Polaroid photo from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table toward Sear.

Sear picked up the photo and tried not to wince as he looked into the eyes of his brother’s wife. She was stripped to the waist and holding a newspaper in front of her bare breasts. The headline showed that she was still alive three days ago when the President visited the Chancellor of Germany. She showed obvious signs of bruising and both eyes were blackened.

“Where is she?” Sear said, trying to repress his rage.

“As I said, near.”

“Not good enough.”

“Within a short walk.” The smaller man gave Sear a forced smile.

Through his khaki jacket Sear squeezed the grip of his SIG P-229. Not now he thought, soon.

“Take me to her.” Sear’s voice came out dry and graveled.

“In time.” The small man waved to the waiter. “First we will enjoy your hospitality.”

Sear turned the photograph face down and pushed it back across the table. He tried to erase the picture of his brother’s wife from his mind. Try as he might, he could not bring up the image of the wedding photo that hung on the wall of their small apartment in Lansing.

Mahvash Eliaszadeh had been a doctoral candidate in Economics at the University of Michigan when Sear’s brother Aaron met her. They married a year and a half later. Sear missed the wedding and had a row of crosshatch scars from being stitched up in a Sudanese mud hut as his excuse.

They were happy, in love, and celebrating their graduation when they accepted a gift of a trip to Iran to visit Mahvash’s parents. A week later Mahvash was kidnapped from in front of her parent’s home. Four days later, Aaron was dead. Attempting to rescue him had proven fatal.

The last time Sear spoke with his brother, Aaron begged him to find Mahvash and send her back to him. Since their parents died, Sear had disappointed his little brother too many times: missed soccer games, graduations, even his wedding.

Sear stared across the table at the only thing that stood between him and keeping his last promise. This time he would be where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be there, and would not let Aaron down.

“Parviz, what will you have?” the small man asked his bulky partner.