A Fishy End: A Mondamin Court Adventure, #3

By R. J. Eliason

Mondamin Court is a quiet block in a typical Midwestern city. That is until Rick, Ryan and Kyle return from a Red Cross Mission to the South Seas worshiping the ancient Cult of Dagon. Holly Wheatsfield sees Dagon itself, and begins to go mad. Zoey transfers from the state university to Miskatonic and a distant relative to Dr. Herbert West appears on the block. And nothing will be typical once the action starts. 

Mondamin Court is a typical lower middle class neighborhood in a midwestern city. The people are a cross section of normal Americans. Each book starts with the same setting and characters but they face a different apocalyptic scenario. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. J. Eliason
• Release date: Oct 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536572681

R. J. Eliason

R. J. Eliason writes immersive science fiction and fantasy stories that feature diverse characters. Her writing spans many sub-genres from alien contact, apocalyptic stories and epic fantasy. She also writes in a wide variety of formats, from full length novels to an ongoing serialized adventure. Her writing can be found in digital and print formats anywhere online that books are sold. Or check out her website at rj.eliason.com and sign up for a free book. 

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ZOEY HURRIED ACROSS campus, her backpack bumping against her back. She’d just finished her last final for the year and was on her way to have lunch with her best friend, Sarah. She was distracted and had broken a fine sheen of sweat when she entered the Memorial Union.

The cafe was straight ahead, but Sarah would be coming from the far side of campus. Zoey made for the smaller back hallway to wait for her. She barely noticed the group of boys that flanked her as she turned, until a couple managed to get ahead of her.

Hey, watch out, she groused as the first one cut her off.

Fag, one boy muttered.

What? Zoey demanded angrily.

She was shoved hard against the wall. You heard! one of the boys snarled, pinning her. She struggled to break free.

We know what you are, the boy continued. "And we don’t like your type going to our school, got that?"

It’s not your school, Zoey protested. One of the boys held out a can. Before Zoey could recognise what it was, or react to it coming, the pepper spray caught her in the face. Her eyes burned. She tried to reach for them, but hands were holding hers down. She writhed, her eyes closed, trying to break free.

The first fist caught her in the gut, and she cried out. They were pushing her down the hall, shoving her, striking her, and chanting slur words about her sexuality and gender identity, along with a liberal smattering of words like freak and loser. Her head struck the wall, and she saw stars. She staggered, her heart racing. She was afraid now, on her knees, and one boy kicked her savagely. Do they mean to kill me? It had happened to other trans women.

The assault ended suddenly, to the sounds of feet scattering and to voices. It was Sarah and one of her friends, both shouting for campus security. Zoey’s ears were ringing and then the ringing abruptly stopped. She blinked and saw one of the girls held a rape whistle and had been blowing it energetically.

More voices and feet were coming down the hall. Zoey kept blinking, trying to see and make sense of what was going on. Students were crowding down that way, faces filled with concern or curiosity. A few clicked pictures on their phones.

Zoey’s face burned, from the pepper spray and from shame. Her attackers were long gone, but she remained, a spectacle for all to see. She bit back bitter tears.

A campus cop was pushing their way through the crowd. Zoey looked up at Sarah’s face, her eyes wide and full of trepidation. Get me out of here, Zoey hissed.

Sarah glanced once at the campus cop, still delayed by the crowds. She nodded and helped Zoey to her feet. They fled.

Back at Sarah’s dorm room, an entire crew of their friends, mostly kids from the school’s LGBT group, had gathered. What do you do for pepper spray? Sarah was asking.

Use milk, Mike said.

That’s an urban myth, Tina groused.

It is not.

Google says... Sherry was in the corner, reading from her phone. Huh, Mike is right, milk. Or mild dish detergent. Or Saline.

Oh! Sarah squawked. I’ve got some contact-lens stuff. That’s just saline. Bring it here.

A towel was wrapped around Zoey’s neck and saline sprayed liberally in her eyes and across her face. It did feel marginally better. She could keep her eyes open for a short time, though they still burned and itched.

Maybe you should see a doctor, someone suggested.

Or make a report, Tina growled. This was a fucking hate crime! We should protest.

Protest whom? I didn’t know any of the guys.

One of them was wearing a Theta Sigma T-shirt, Sherry said. We should totally protest them.

Multiple voices started up, talking about protests and reports and media.

No! Zoey barked, bringing the room to silence. No reports, no protests. God, it’s bad enough. I spent all of junior high being the kid who got beat up for being . . .

Transgender? Tina offered.

Different, Zoey finished. She hadn’t been out as transgender until this year. Always the one being brought in from recess with clothes torn and crying, right in front of all the other kids. As if getting beat up wasn’t embarrassing enough, they had to march you right past the lunchroom for everyone to see. I thought I’d outgrown that. Don’t make it happen again.

But what they did, Tina started angrily, but she was shushed by Sarah.

You heard her. She doesn’t want it.

But, Tina sputtered, what they did was wrong. If we don’t fight, it will happen again.

And if it happens to one of you, Sarah glared around the room, then it will be your decision, whether to be the poster child for a protest or not. Leave Zoey out, if that’s what she wants. She hugged Zoey’s head protectively as she said it.

Thank you, Zoey whispered to her. The debate was far from over, but Zoey was adamant. She didn’t want to further her own embarrassment by going to the campus police, who wouldn’t do shit anyway. She didn’t want everyone on campus knowing she was, once again, the kid who got beat up for being different. Mostly she didn’t want to give the boys the satisfaction of knowing how badly they’d hurt her. It would only make it worse, letting bullies know they had succeeded in their intimidation tactics.

Sarah and Sherry walked her home to her own single dorm room. You sure you are okay? Sarah asked at the door.

Zoey nodded. I will be. Thanks. For saving me, for . . . everything.

Finally alone after a long day, Zoey locked her door, lay on her bed, and dissolved into tears.

JACK HAVERFORD CARRIED his coffee mug out on to the porch with him. It was early but the day was already bright, and it promised to be warm. Which suited him fine, it would be a long day. He stretched, his back creaking painfully.

At the side of his house he found the garden hose and fed it over the edge of the above-ground swimming pool. He had wanted to have the pool in the back yard, but there just wasn’t room enough in the narrow confines.

Hey, Jack, a voice greeted him. Justin Smith was standing at the gate to Jack’s yard in his police uniform. He was a broad man with light-brown hair and an easy face. Makes for a good cop, Jack thought.

Officer Smith. To what do I owe the honor?

Justin, Justin corrected. On my way to work, but it’s not a business call. Curiosity, you might say. And you are free to tell me to butt out.

Wondering about the pool? Jack guessed. He placed one hand on his back. Fool is too old be swimming, eh?

Danielle thought it might be good for your back, actually. Physical therapy and all.

Naw, I’m more concerned about my pocketbook, Jack said. He snatched up a book from the porch as he came forward. That and, he paused, long-term survival, should everything goes south you know. He knew Justin did not agree with his views on society’s imminent collapse. But every man was a boy at heart and Justin could no more resist a cool toy or project than any other man.

Aquaculture, Justin said, eyeing the book. Cool. What are you going to grow?

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw the neighbour kid, Ethan Hillcrest. Mr. Hillcrest, he called. You might get a kick out of this too.

Ethan was a skinny boy of fourteen. He was barely half a head shorter than Jack and would probably be taller before he was done growing. He was lanky and angular, but Jack guessed he would become a good-looking young man soon enough. He smiled sheepishly at Jack as he came forward, seemingly glad to be called Mr. Hillcrest and included in an adult conversation.

Look, Justin said to him, pointing at the pool. Mr. Haverford’s going to be raising fish in that thing. Bet he’ll have a bunch before long. He looked at Jack. What kind?

The books says there’s a bunch of good, fast-growing species from Asia.

Tilapia, Ethan read out of the book, which he now held in his hand. Mom gets that some times. It’s cheap.

Yeah, well, I’m more of a traditionalist. Catfish are good enough for me. I’ve got a batch waiting for me at a farm store west of town. Got to fill the pool first, which will take all day. Then let the chlorine evaporate out, check the ammonia levels, all that. Be a couple days before I’m ready to stock it.

Well, I’ve got to get to work, Justin said. Be interested to see how it works out. And maybe I can talk you into selling me some fresh catfish.

Free for you, Jack replied. One cop to another. He looked to Ethan. You too. Your dad’s military. Gotta support our troops.

Yes, sir, Ethan said gravely.

You got school? Justin asked.

Couple more days, then summer break, sir.

When you’re finished with school today, you can come back and check the progress, if you want, Jack told him.

Bring my sisters too?

Sure.

Ethan paused a moment before adding. Manny might be curious. There was a hesitation in his voice.

Of course, I like the Harrishes, Jack said. Boy’s welcome.

Ethan smiled and scampered off to the sound of his mother shouting for him to hurry or they’d be late. Justin gave him a nod and headed for his police cruiser.

Jack limped back to check his progress. He stared at the slowly filling pool. The two-second pause in Ethan’s voice told him an entire story. Too many Americans couldn’t tell an Indian from an Arabic terrorist to save their lives, and it made Jack sad. There were even a few right here in Des Moines, one across the block. David Jones was nowhere to be seen when Jack glanced at the dilapidated house that was catty-corner from his. Not that you ever saw the man this early in the day, unless he was passed out on his lawn again.

I’ll be damned if one racist is going to shape how the kids experience growing up in this neighbourhood, he swore to himself. He might not be a cop anymore, not since his accident, but he could still serve in his own small way. Like making sure Manny Harrish knew he was welcome here.

THE COFFEE SHOP was dead. It was always like that midmorning. The morning rush was off to work, and the afternoon rush wouldn’t start until two or three.

There was one single group in one corner of the place, talking. Some charity group having a meeting, Holly thought. She was vaguely curious and decided to wipe down the tables, to eavesdrop on them.

How she felt about the midmorning slump, she decided, was always inversely connected to her bank account. It was easy work when they were slow, but the majority of her income as a barista was from tips, not wages. Maybe she should be enjoying the lull; she didn’t have much left in her account, but she and Nicky didn’t have any vacations planned this summer. Nicky’s work, paid for the house, their benefits, and the majority of their expenses—she was too busy this summer to afford her time off. They were rolling out some new software or something like that. Nicky’s was a corporate job in a financial company, and that was as far Holly ever got in understanding what her partner actually did for a living.

At any rate, Holly would spend most of this summer at home with Netflix for company and regular texts from Nicky: Sorry, gotta work late. But at least she wouldn’t need to worry about the quantity of her tips.

The group was starting to break up as she neared their table. Two women were left, working on laptops. The others headed for the door.

The younger of the two women wore her brown hair short. She wore a loose-fitting softball T-shirt and faded jeans, Dockers on her feet. Her purse was a hemp snapback covered in various buttons for liberal causes. A Red Cross sticker was plastered across the back of her laptop.

She looked Holly up and down speculatively. Holly blushed and smiled. According to Nicky, Holly had a mild lesbian vibe. Straight people rarely pegged Holly, but other lesbians seemed to know immediately. This woman had a strong lesbian vibe about her as well.

Red Cross, huh? Holly commented. She switched her dishrag to the other hand, making sure the woman could see her ring. She liked flirting, but the woman had to know it wasn’t going any further.

Yeah, the woman said. Internship. I’m Ashley.

Holly took the proffered hand. I’ve always thought it would be cool to do some volunteer work, she said. Especially some big-crisis sort of case.

Oh my God! the older woman interrupted. The lab coat and the severe hair bun gave the distinct impression she was a nurse or worked in one of medical programs. She was now staring at her laptop, her lips worrying on themselves.

What is it, Susan? Ashley asked.

The news. Check CNN.com.

Ashley typed the site into Google. Holly leaned over her shoulder.

Pitcairn? Never heard of it, Ashley said.

Holly read the headlines: Deep Sea Earthquakes Sends Tsunami to Rock Pitcairn Islands.

A newscaster was on video, saying, Islands throughout the South Seas are devastated as earthquakes and tsunamis sweep the region. Adamstown, a tiny island and the only known settlement in the Pitcairn Island range, best known as the site of the sinking of the HMS Bounty, is completely obliterated. Red Cross workers are trying to make it to the island, but its remoteness is hampering the early relief effort.

Holly and Ashley exchanged looks.

In a strange twist of fate, early sweeps by top US spy planes are revealing settlements previously unknown to western man. Relief organisations and anthropologists alike are planning trips to these new islands.

Wow, Holly said. That’s incredible.

Ashley giggled. You said you’d always thought of volunteering.

I couldn’t, Holly said. I’ve got... What do I have? A whole summer of waiting at home, alone, while Nicky works late.

I’M STEPPING OUT for a second, Michael Crighton said to his charge nurse. She barely looked up as she nodded. The ER was quiet. They had two patients, neither acutely ill enough to really warrant ER care. It was like that, working ER. You were either swamped with critical cases or dead slow.

A vague odor tickled Michael’s nostrils as he stepped into the ambulance garage. Through the open door he could taste the night air, fresh and clean. James and Brandon were standing behind one of the ambulances, a matching smirk on both men’s faces. They wore blue blazers with EMT patches on the arms. Their belts and pants pockets bulged with medical supplies.

Whatchya got?

A neighbour of yours, actually, James said. We drove right past your house.

He accepted the paperwork. The address was indeed on his street, but he didn’t recognise the name, not that he knew many people on the street. Martha Trumball.

Brandon opened the back of the ambulance.

Oh God, Michael groaned. That is rank. How long?

Brandon shrugged, closing the door on the corpse again. Several days. Weeks, maybe. She’s ripe all right.

Eighty-seven, lived alone. Welfare check. Found dead, Michael read. So? She was eighty-seven. Is it a suspicious death? Either way, take her around to the morgue and have Vicky inform the medical examiner.

That’s not what we called you about, James said. We were thinking, there’s a new doc in town.

Yeah, Dr. West or something. Toured today. Starting orientation on nights tonight. I’ve not met him yet, but still.

Still we thought maybe a little initiation was in order, check out his diagnostic skills. Park old Martha in one of the trauma rooms and send him in to see what’s wrong? Brandon was smiling and wagging his brows.

Michael groaned. You guys really do have a sick sense of humor. Most medical personnel, as far as Michael knew, were no better. Living with life and death daily, it bred a certain type of dark humor.

They’d done the exact opposite to the last doctor. Brandon had lain on one of the cots, covered in a sheet. Michael had sent the unsuspecting doctor in to declare the body. Brandon had rose up behind the doctor when he wasn’t looking and scared the shit out of him.

I don’t know guys, Michael said. It is, he thought, a fairly good joke. But the odor would permeate the entire ER if they so much as wheeled the body through the halls, and he hated the stench of death. It was his enemy.

Besides, a new voice joined the conversation, I can smell from here she’s dead. The voice was female and cold.

They all turned. She was tall and slender with blond hair pulled back into a neat bun. Michael’s face fell at the sight of her. His