Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE:

Preordained Vigilance



The Date: Late summer, Nineteen Eighty-Four

The Place: Just outside Fort Worth, Texas


Strategically crouched with her shapely rear end facing the roadway, she secretly wishes her skin-tight blue-jeans were a size or two larger, though not to dramatically alter the desired effect. She peers at the rented Jeep Wrangler’s flattened rear tire with a pinky finger lodged seductively between pouting, ruby lips, reaching with a free hand to push the narrow-framed Raybans up onto the upper edge of her forehead. If duly accused, she would argue a charge of entrapment. Her marks needed little in the way of enticement, though it clearly never hurt to ’sweeten the pot’, in a manner of speaking.

Her gold-banded wristwatch reads six-twenty-six PM. Approximately an hour of daylight remaining, ninety minutes tops. Nearly choking from a mouthful of blowing dust, she comes to the conclusion that the next mark will definitely be the last of the evening. Despite its obvious advantages, foremost being the cloaking factor, she has never liked working in the dark. There is a layer of comfort in the daylight; a sense of security that the night air wilts away. As far as production goes, it has not been a good day.

Thus far, sixteen candidates since nine AM has equaled sixteen strikes. In truth, she cannot recall the last such day, especially with weather conditions so favorable for ’good Samaritans’, be they sincere or inherently evil, to ply their merciful (or merciless) trade.As is the ritual whenever such an anomaly occurs , she allows just a flicker of hope within her fevered mind that perhaps…just perhaps, the good Lord above has deemed fit to place a permanent ’out of order’ sign within her inner circuitry, thus eliminating the very source of her ’power’. Grunting aloud as an ’oversized load’ blows by like a cloud of rolling thunder, she quickly voids such whimsical thinking. She knows better, as there have been numerous such ’false alarms’ before. If nothing else, at least the weather has been accommodating. At just over eighty-five degrees with relatively low humidity, it wasn’t your typical late summer day in West Texas. Certainly a pleasant change from Seattle’s constant rains just a week earlier, or Miami’s stifling heat and humidity from a month ago.

Bending down with a groan, she feels the vehicle’s presence even before actually seeing it pull forward and park less than a half dozen feet away.She hears the truck’s engine shut off just before a trio of semi’s blow by in a thundering wave.

"Need some help there, sweetie?" a man’s voice bellows, the word ’sweetie’ drawn out into two separate syllables (’Sweee-teeee’) in a husky Texas drawl. Before turning about and standing, she hears not one but two car doors slam shut. An adrenaline rush of epic proportions ensues, to be quickly dashed by a wave of soothing calm that reduces her pulse to near coma-status. Through the years and countless suchencounters, her ability to both control the change and subsequently harness the effects has become almost second-nature. Still, she understands the importance of ensuring that both men fit the specific criteria.Strange as it seems, this is not always assured. Scum is indeed scum as a rule, but there are varying degrees and levels involved. Such cases are few and quite unusual, but like a rare archeological find, do exist.

"Bucky’s road service, m’am," he continues, strolling over with a wide, toothy grin from which a well-gnawed toothpick protrudes, "pretty girl like you shouldn’t outta frown like that. It might end up freezin’ that’a way, am I right, Douglas?"

"Right as rain, Buck," the other man replies in a nasally tone, walking around the side of the massive truck to join his partner until they stand posed elbow to elbow less than five feet from the Wrangler’s back bumper, "that would indeed be a heckuva shame."

Allowing herself a single step forward, she performs the equivalent of a body-scan of sorts, essentially inhaling both men’s auras until they are distinctly separate entities. Sighing heavily, she is inwardly relived to have confirmed that both are indeed ripe for the picking.

"Might’ve been low when I left Arlington," she coos, still focusing on the tire but consciously aware of the men’s roving, roaming eyes as they take in the whole of her.

As is the ritual, she instantly records two distinct mental notes that might well come in handy as things progress. First, mark number one keeps his hands tucked into his back pockets, thereby hinting of a concealed weapon of some type. Secondly, mark number two walks with a decided limp, favoring the right leg and hip.

"You got a spare, darlin’?" mark one asks, having finally removed his hands from the hind pockets of his jeans in order to lean back on the truck’s massive grille.

As the initial stage of change shifts into first gear, she casually reaches up to replace the tinted Raybans. Other than the waves of intense heat her flesh will soon emit, an occurrence for which there is no precautionary measure to take, her self-checklist is now complete.

"Only one of those tiny ones…you know, the donut kind. I think it’s flat too," she concedes with a girlish giggle. As always, she allows her natural accent to flourish, having found this especially alluring to such boorish, uncouth types.

Mark number two laughs hardily, revealing several missing front teeth. Both appear the stereotypical thirty-something West Texas ’shit-kicker’ types, what with soiled baseball caps, muscle tees (though neither actually possess the build necessary to accent such a fashion choice), faded blue jeans and cowboy boots (mark number two’s appearing to be of the imitation snakeskin variety). She finds this amusing, though in a decidedly sickening fashion. She’d run across dozens of such men of all ages, from the plains of Kansas to the rolling hills of Tennessee. Though many had seemed sincerely helpful and the majority harmless in terms of setting off her inner alarm, such an appearance was hardly conspicuous if one did possess the evil seed.

"Tell you what, gorgeous. There’s a Firestone garage ’bout three miles up the road off the Hicksville exit. We’ll be more’n happy to get you set up with a new wheel or at least have ’em tow in your ride."

Mark number one nods in agreement while staring a hole through her bosom and exposed midriff.

Besides the aforementioned painted-on jeans, she sports a short-sleeved ’Dallas Cowboys’ halter that ends midway up her finely toned abdomen and two inch heels that leave her red-shaded toenails exposed while also increasing the natural curvature of her rear end. Her hair, pitch black and luminous, is tied into a tight bun at the back of her skull, held into place by a pair of tiny, mostly submerged hair-clips.

"Well, I don’t…know if that’s…I mean," she babbles, staring into the mostly clear skies with a hand poised atop each hip, "I really shouldn’t…"

Mark number one steps over and past her, kneeling as to properly inspect the damaged tire.

"Don’t see where ya got much choice, beautiful," he chides, squinting into the sun as he glances back up at her with the toothpick bobbing wildly between yellow-stained teeth, "sides, don’t judge a book by its worn-out old cover now. We’re basically harmless, right Doug?"

The other man replies while turned away to view the passing traffic.

"Right as rain once again, Buck-a-roo."

Pausing to again nibble a pinky finger, she then crosses her arms across her chest and sighs.

"All right then. I…um… sure appreciate it."

Mark number two claps his hands cheerfully while rising, shooting his partner a sly wink.

"No problem, little lady. We’ll get ’er back on the road for ya."

"Just let me grab my purse," she says, ducking inside the Honda’s minuscule interior and retrieving a tiny brown hand bag.

Moments later, she sits with her hands tucked tightly between her thighs with marks positioned on either side. While in such close proximity, as her shoulders and upper arms brush against both men, the increased body heat becomes a concern. She hopes neither questions or makes an issue of it until it’s too late in the game to matter.

Mark number one pulls out onto the highway, spitting gravel as the truck’s comically oversized tires spin out in a weaving lurch.

"Just hang on, cutie, ol’ Buck’ll get ya there in one piece," he howls, the pungent aroma of spilt beer and recently smoked marijuana permeating inside the cab’s cramped confines.

***