Unsuspected
Joshua Winters
This written work, fictional characters, fictional locations, and cover art are,
Copyright Joshua Winters 2013
Version1.4*
Dedication
This novelette is dedicated to Jaiden Noah Gilbert-Winters, my son who has given me reason to live and write, to try to make a better life for both of us.
The Epilogue is dedicated to the late storm chasing team of Tim Samaras, Paul Samaras, and Carl Young, who are hopefully chasing their love of tornadoes and weather in the afterlife.
Thanks
A hearty thanks to Ellie Riley-Winters for helping me with an issue on the cover art.
More thanks to my mother who has had to put up with me more than she should have.
And a special thanks to all my friends and family who came to read and my fans from my former life of fan fiction on the internet.
Prologue: Twelve Hours
It was noon, the sun baked the semi-humid early November day of San Antonio Texas. Harry spent most the Saturday cruising the highways, a way he found peace, to be reclusive and ignore most people in the world. Sometimes he became so sick of people, of how they pestered him to do things, to get things, or needed to chat. He was in retail and that was sometimes too overwhelming, the spewing of words and spit, sir can you this, sir may I buy this?
Or even worse the foul smelling ones that got real intimate and wanted you to know their whole life story beginning to end. It sickened him, it drove him mad, it made him want to scream “Get your shit and leave!”
But he couldn’t, not and still be able to keep his job, earn the money which he needed if he wanted to move out and get his own place where he could be alone. Oh his parents weren’t so bad, they knew when to give him his space, but he imagined a world in which he lived in a place where nobody interacted with him, a time of peace as infinite as his time away from work allowed.
Today he’d head home to do chores as his parents disappeared for their monthly night out, for now though it was just him and the purr of his little white Mercury Cougar's well kept eight-cylinder engine. A semi roared by his open driver side window, snapping him awake by blaring its obnoxiously loud air horn to warn him he had been drifting out of his lane.
Thoughts broken he looked around, his destination undecided. To the west large clouds that bubbled in their cotton appearance promised a night of strong showers. He’d made the mistake of being caught in one of south Texas’s super thunderstorms before, where rain poured so heavy sight was reduced to just beyond the windshield and being in it created a sense of breathless claustrophobia. With a sigh, he made his way for the next off ramp, planning to grab bar-b-q before he hit home. He just hoped the waitress wouldn’t speak all over his food.
****
One rolled around as James stepped out of his day job and into the sultry, humid day, a day where you the wetness upon your head might be sweat or condensation. As he walked from one of the dozen of bars he helped manage, swiping the sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief, he played over his list of afternoon activities. He had Sunday and Monday off, so he could spend those days recovering, tonight the plan was to get blasted. What better way to party than inviting a group of your friends to a bar you manage and can get any drink for dirt cheap, or often for free? He flipped open his Kyocera, the little bronze phone opened to a secondary screen and qwerty keyboard, a keyboard named after its shape, modeled to have its letters arranged the same as a computer’s keyboard, starting with the first six letters, which where, not by coincidence, its name. He couldn’t stand those touch screens without a physical keyboard, how could you tell what you where typing without looking? No wonder so many kids died these days from texting and driving.
James walked and felt the texture of the keyboard, without looking he texted his friends reminders before closing it and bringing up his contact list on the phone’s face. He used the arrow keys to select a saved number and brought the phone to his ear, “Yes, this is Mr. Sundry” he waited as they transferred him, a young man answered in an apologetic tone despite that, to his knowledge, nothing had gone wrong. “Is everything going to be ready at its time?” the man said it would, “Good. Hey, it looks like it may rain tonight, hell, we need it, any reason that would be trouble for your driver?”
The man said no, James thanked him and hung up the phone, running his hand through his slicked back, short, black hair, as another one reached for his packet of Camels, tonight would be a good night, he could feel it.
****
Alex was an arcade addict, since dawn he'd been at is usual joint to get his fix of aging digital games and he’d be here till they closed around midnight. Sometimes he’d come with friends, often he’d come alone. One of his closer friends asked him once that instead of spending that much cash in this old street side arcade why not get a Playstation or Xbox? The truth was no home consoles left him as satisfied as a good old arcade game with a stick and a few buttons, nor was he as good at them as he was at these. Lanky, thirteen, a future school dropout, gaming became his only call in life years ago. If he became good enough to join live tournaments on certain arcade games and win, he'd be set for life, never having to work a day within it.
As thunder rumbled far, far away, Alex glanced at his pale, skinny arm to the old watch from his late father, the second hand pulled the minute and hour hands to two, leaving him a while to keep practicing.
****
Travis was old, so old remembering was trouble for him, yesterday, the day before, or hell, breakfast was but a blur. At three he passed water as he watched the first wall of a line of “moderate thunderstorms” approach through the small window in his nursing home’s restroom. A nurse announced through the speaker system that outside activity, which typically included the residents walking through the courtyard with care or reading and sleeping on one of the lawn furniture, would be canceled and everyone needed to be kept indoors for safety concerns. Moderate thunderstorms posed little a threat to regular people, but he knew old people like himself might die from a simple slip and fall. Travis didn't want to think of himself as that fragile, but he didn't remember his last doctor’s visit.
He zipped his fly, just remembering to put everything away before closing upon it, and turned to open the small window in the wall by sliding it to the side, allowing a small square of cool air to rush in. If there was one thing he remembered, it was that he loved the aroma of freshness right before the rain. Good Texas downpours killed humidity, and his bones where telling him this would be a doozy.
Turning back to the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror, his skin wrinkled and tightened with so many years of age, paled with time away from the sun, and with such a failing memory sometimes his own children where strangers to him. All he had left of himself was long silver hair pulled into a ponytail he often remembered to keep clean.
He turned from his restroom to pass through his plane white walled bedroom to the hall door. At the community center he’d try to watch the storm on the news, but when he opened the door into the hall, with its floral patterns lined in rows upon the wallpaper, Travis couldn’t remember which way lead to it.
****
Four was dinner for Michael and his lovely wife where they shared four glasses of Champaign, with a steak for Michael topped in blue cheese, a little too rare for his taste, and sushi for his wife, way too rare for him. They both enjoyed a dessert liquor from Korea, bombed by shot glasses of sake’, it brought tears to his eyes, Wendy chocked on it. With his wife red faced and slurring by the end of desert he called it a night.
In the car his face felt warm, his head swam thickly through a light buzz, but not such a buzz he couldn’t drive. After he buckled, and did the same to his wife, Michael tu
ned the radio to Jack F.M., an odd station that would play an almost random selection of music that now played California Girls, an oldie but goodie.
He pulled out of the mall’s parking lot as thunder rumbled overhead, and glanced towards his wife, who had passed out in the passenger’s seat, snoring loudly. Warmed by both love and the sake bomb, he smiled at her, he had the most wonderful life in the world, so wonderful nothing could go wrong.
At forty with his wife on his coattails both where in such good fitness and health they passed for the early end of thirties. Curly black hair topped Michael's head and a shaggy black beard stretched ear to ear. Sporting a pair of wide ears he was often poked fun at for looking like Billy Crystal. Instead of acting he had found his call being a real-estate mogul, one who hit so many big venues that retirement was a possibility, however selling a house cost him so little and made him so much there didn't seem to be a point in not continuing with it.
His wife looked more like Jodi Foster than anyone, though just because of her bony cheeks and gaunt face. Unlike Jodi she was a natural brunet and had never changed that color, nor did he ever ask her to. He had fallen in love with Wendy, not anyone she looked like, and would love her to the end of time. Sure, as he glanced up into the darkening cloudy evening, that she would do the same for him.
****
Ben held Gil, staring into his blue eyes, ignoring the wind as it picked up to push the humid day away. He knew they were displaying their affection, and he realized they gathered odd looks as they did so in the middle of downtown San Antonio, not blocks from a conservative patriot's favorite destination, the Alamo.
He liked the looks, some attributed to their age, but most due to their sexuality. Two young boys in love, love no one that passed them could ever understand in the gut of one of the biggest Bible belt states. His concentration broke when their friends, Claudia and Leon, came back from shopping in the River Center Mall.
“You two get a room” Claudia smirked, being eighteen she was the oldest of the group and flaunted it by lighting up a Marlboro, drawing in a breath before letting it filter out the side of her mouth. To Ben her brand of smokes smelt like burning trash, the non organic kind. A tall yet thick woman, bulky, butch, Claudia somehow kept the air and slight curves of a lady, with medium length blond hair she parted in the middle like a middle school Hanson look alike.
Leon was thirteen himself, and had just come out a few months ago, hanging with them to get into the “roll of things” as he said, which to Ben sounded hilariously straight. His parents were Hispanic and strong Christians, not the kind to show him how to be queer, or support him in his endeavors. Ben thought him lucky they now knew and seemed to just ignore it when a lot of conservative Christian parents sent their gay children to the street where many still lived, a plague of homeless youth in the southern states.
Leon sported the Emo look, his dark hair short aside from a five inch row of bangs which hid his left eye, eyes that where smeared in much too much shadow and liner over pale sun starved skin that hid his Hispanic heritage.
They ducked as a blade of light cut across the sky, before disappearing back into the cloud, followed by the clash and rumble. “Looks like home is postponed” Gil said as he broke his embrace with Ben, something Ben let happen with reluctance, “We may need to find a place to sit this out.”
People said Gil and Ben where awfully similar, they where both built like jocks, because they had been. The sports teams in Texas frowned upon gay players, and while high school football couldn’t bar them, they doubted the NFL would come crawling up their legs for a contract, so they had gotten out to focus on other careers.
Gil sported the strong chin of Channing Tatum yet the narrow witch of face of David Tennant, along with a pair of perfectly aligned blue eyes. Built like a tank Gil pressed two ten at least once a day.
Ben looked softer, his chin not as prominent, his cheeks sunken, his stomach more of a roll, but what he had was hair. His arms, legs, and chest where covered in black curls. Long black hair that curled at the tips covered his scalp to match the rest of him. Having shaved at an early age, he already sported a three days grace of going without, and the fuzz upon his face ate away at the soft exterior to make him look rugged, like Hugh Jackman, without the meat.
Leon pointed down the road towards the storm “There’s an IHOP that way,” he said in his nasally voice, which became worse with the seasons as his sinus problem grew, “We could eat and chill till we can get home.” Another flash of lightning and clash of thunder sped them on their way. As they walked Ben pulled out his cell which chimed to warn him it was five and they where late.
****
It was six when Heather woke to the sound of thunder and a small tremor that shivered across the apartment, sending her tuxedo cat running in fits of hissing and rattling the windows. Rain only trickled outside, but the lightning turned the sky into a strobe disco, all she needed was a good beat.
She snickered at her own dry humor while she rose from her bed. Nude, twenty seven, heavy set, aside from her bird and cats she was alone in the world, her family either gone to another country, or just gone. No one found any love in their heart for one she considered the sweet red head.
She knew it was her weight, heavy due to a problem with her thyroidal gland it wasn't something she could just run off no matter how hard she tried, and she did. Still, with only herself plus a small one-room apartment, she found having a low-wage job worked well enough, limiting the stress of one of those forty hour office jobs.
She walked to get into a shower, but another close hit caused her to think twice. It wouldn't matter, her overnight job comprised of being around nothing more than a dozen dogs and maybe a few cats, a group of creature's who wouldn't be offended by her slight odor. To mask her stink, for the few moments she might be forced to share the building with her coworkers before they headed home for the night, she bathed herself in a mist of fruity perfume branded by Britney Spears
After dressing into a dark Guns' n Roses T and a pair of ripped jeans, she made her way to her door, attempting not to trip over Lynx, her gray tabby, as he ran in-between her legs. Her handbag in hand, an orange and pink thing with tropical floral design, a top of the line Kate Spade rip off, she stepped out into the night where the light rain carried by a quick wind stung her skin.
Chapter 1: A night on the town
At seven James entered the only nightclub he managed, the rest having been regular bars. The Patron Saint was a conservative club, with its red velvet walls and matching tables and leather booths. It tended to the rich of the right wing in San Antonio and its TV’s often sported Fox News or sports. He had another conservative bar, but it was wooden, small, lined in dead animals and filled with truckers, hunters, bikers and Tea Party members. While conservatives weren't a crowd he usually participated with, the bunch of rich crooks they where, he thought his other bars where politics and money didn't stink up the air were in less than good taste for a night out with friends.
Ted, Steve, and John where all in awe at how nice this place seemed as they walked through the golden doors as a group behind him up to a VIP section where a busty waitress in a uniform dress of a black vest, short skirt, and dress shirt unbuttoned to show just enough of her cleavage awaited them. “Welcome sir, are these your friends?” she asked, and he introduced them to the waitress known by her waitressing name, Tiffany.
They sat at a large round table covered in a green faux leather cloth, a TV on the far wall flickered and fuzzed out as lightning lit the windows, followed by all of the TVs changing into a blue error message. That was satellite TV for you. The staff looked around anxious, many of the customers here came to watch the TVs, their sports, the movies, news, whatever was on, and they even offered booths with personal TVs to tune for yourself.
He rose to shout, “Extended happy hour until the TVs come back on,” with a friendly grin pulled away from his white teeth, hoping getting his patrons blasted might make them forget
their shows where missing.
Most patrons recognized his voice and took his word as one of God, raising a light cheer, so did the staff, including the grim looking young bartender. James cracked his knuckles, running his hands through his greased hair, “How about a friendly card game?” he asked as his employees cranked the aging swing tunes a little louder for the few on the dance floor.
****
Eight hit according to the old clock on the wall by them and they were not halfway through their game of poker. Steven found himself about to fall while the rest remained with their hands full and their piles high. Only because he liked to take unnecessary risks, such as checking when he knew his hand was shit, did Steven usually lose first. It was his luck the group couldn't play for cash within the facility due to local federal laws, or he'd be in deep.
They were breaking other laws though, with patrons leaving, having no TV, and only the regulars staying, most the room, including his whole table and a few of the staff, lit up.
Like James most smoked cigarettes, he preferred the smoothness of Camels, a group of well dressed businessmen he knew from the oil fields just south of San Antonio puffed clouds of smoke around fat cigars, while an old man and his lady shared a tobacco pipe, which was the most aromatic device in the building besides the grill. Had an inspector, or hell, law officer come in they’d be screwed, but the rain now poured like a river, the lightning only became more frequent, sometimes striking the large buildings around the River Walk and shaking the bar enough to force the barman to keep watch of his rattling stock of liquor. No one with any sanity was out in this. He hoped it’d let up before they had to spend the night.
Eight thirty rolled around and Steven bet away the last of his chips before excusing himself to the restroom. Their second round of drinks came, which they where spacing out with cheesy appetizers, each a personal order. James fancied an amaretto cherry sour, Jack Daniels for Ted, straight and no ice, a Coke and Wild Turkey was placed in front of Steve’s vacated seat, while John took his martini Bond style, shaken, not stirred.
By the time Steven returned to the table James had begun to lose, the booze made him more tired than relaxed. The lights flickered with the storm and the trio left playing called the game in favor for real food, preparing for what looked to become to be a long night.