Step by Step/Issue 27

This is Issue #27 of Step by Step. This is the third issue of Volume Five.

'''NOTE: THIS IS VERY UNEDITED AND UNFINISHED. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.'''

Banshee
It was a grey dawn that oozed over the zone, moisture clung to the old walls, seeping through the air with along a breeze. As the morning had worn on and the darkness receded, the first trickle of birds smeared the sky in a stream of black. He had shuffled over to the door, then took his time to glance out a window. The soft patter of water outside grew, like a rat gnawing at Lyle's living flesh. His chest wasn't much better, stung him over and over where a layer of big green had matted his chest. Had to get that checked. Small droplets of water continued to thrash about outside, rasping on the metal sheets outside.

He had heard them just as expected. The low rumble of two voices, carried under the wind. At first he'd thought, though it was nothing more than a fool's guess, that the dead were whispering. He'd then let the door open, creak open as the two entered. One of them wore Wellington boots, slushy with mud. The other, swearing as he'd trotted in, took off into the building. The door shut and nature soon numbed, harder than when the Gulf turned a dark shade.

"You okay?" Lyle's voice was deep, every head and corner in the room turned to him. He had a baritone that reverberated through and out. He said nothing more, a cigarette between his teeth. He chuckled to himself, thunder then billowed once across the stormy dawn, then a blanket of light reached into the building from the backside.

"Like fuck we are!" That'd been god-fearing Dennis Johnson, a man well into his thirties. He was a shaky man, skittish by the edges with stiff-set eyes. One look at him, which is what Lyle gave to him, told you he was a strung-out leech. It was the true, Dennis was one who sung to the tune of Alas, Babylon and beer breweries. He'd hailed down from Chi-Town, known as Chicago to the liberals, and had caught himself scrambling for more digits on his paychecks. Though, on that night, his two eyes were the color of rich dirt flecked with blackness, a deep brown of winter trees at twilight.

The other man, who stood back in a lightening dawn, reached to his waistband and took out a gun, waving it at the Lyle. The revolver was a glossy white, which to be clear brought out the barrel's hollowness. It was compact, and no matter how many solids it held, only one would do off with Lyle. He had the right to be scared, and scared green he was. Lyle's cigarette dangled, stuck to his dry bottom lip.

"Blast me," he said.

This was to Derek Woods. The gunsmoker. "Gots five shots, so take a chill pill." Derek Woods hadn't in him to pull the trigger, and only had pulled it once before so he lowered it. He'd shot a dealer dead in the chest, and dead he became. And the months since that happened, Derek was still itching to do it again. It felt good, but what feel better was the iced Bourbon he'd bought with the deceased's wallet funds. That day, as he recounted to Lyle, he'd met up with Dennis. The boy-o was tending at the bar, and had shined him up a menu of whatever was in the What-The-Fuck category that day.

Since then, according to Derek's twisted tongue, they'd laid low.

Derek had shaken his head. "You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation–trying to put the pieces together, justifying or trying to find sense out of what could've, would've, should have happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on."

Lyle drew a breath, a damned good one. He had then said something along the lines of, well everything. The only thing he didn't speak about to them was about Summercreek. Dennis had argued for it, but Lyle sought a later time, around next morning-ish. The druggie could handle til then, or he'd just have to suck it up and be a big man. Wouldn't wanna get the McTwitches.

The man looked to have a five o'clock shadow, concealed under his maple green hoodie. His face was all cracks, engrained by hurt and nine-to-five routines. In his eyes, mystery. Lyle felt his feet drag him away and fished for his Zippo. He reeled it out, cracked up a flame, and offered Dennis a smoke. He accepted, hesitantly, with fidgety hands. "When I die, bury me upside-down, so the world can kiss my ass." The man had a family back in Chi-Town to worry about, of course. Here in Indiana, Dennis had a master of his own. It controlled every inch of him, his thoughts, body, soul, and heart. He would have to visit his master a few times a day, maybe two if the Lord was willing. It hurt to not have the snow, especially now near Christmas. It'd been three days since his last smack, and Lyle could sense it in him. The man was aware; his master was making him weak and insane. Dennis truly believed it was perfect, so he thanked Lyle for the Marlboro.