Mach 16

Today was also the Sixth of August…and I wondered if that was merely coincidental. This day would either prove to be a victory over my debts and obligations, or the nuclear holocaust of all my efforts to date. I again turned my gaze toward the setting sun, inwardly fearing terrible symbolism as it sank beneath the desert rim, leaving only a glowing imprint that today had ever existed. An hour later, shadows crept between crumbling barracks, and the air felt heavy and haunted. I leaned against the corner of a shoddy building, just listening to the desert evening. I imagined lively poker games of long ago—or the sounds of envelopes ripping open when letters arrived from home. I heard laughter, and curse words, bragging, boasting, and quiet prayers uttered in apprehensive moments. I imagined the aromas of potatoes boiling in the mess hall, and the noisy clatter of trays and silverware. I stirred from my thoughts when I heard the whine of a plane engine, but it was fleeting, and as I peered toward the puny airport runway, I saw nothing. I stepped onto the over-grown road, searching the sky to gauge the source of the sound, but no lights came into view. I chalked it up to my imagination, but the same sound clip of a whining plane happened four more times in succession. I was so lost in my lonesome curiosity I didn’t hear the approach of shoes against the gritty soil. “It’s creepy as hell out here.” I jumped a good foot from where I was rooted, cursing as I whirled. Frisco Nixx grinned, holding a lighter to the cigarette between his lips. The momentary glow reflected off a broken barrack window, adding another eerie tattering to the night. “It is that,” I said. Frisco arched a brow. “Well brother, I didn’t know you knew how to talk. That’ the first thing you’ve said since I’ve known ya.” “I didn’t think you knew how to listen.” The wiry guy grinned before taking a long drag on the cigarette. Little curls of white smoke disseminated into the thick air, making it thicker still. “You think we’ve been played?” “Well—I’ve been here the better part of six hours now, no word, and no contact. I’m standing on the outskirts of a five-casino town, in the middle of nowhere, wondering if I should pawn my watch, and put it all on red.” “If my watch was worth anything, I’d put it all on black,” he said. “So one or the other of us would lose. As it stands now, maybe we both have anyway. That’s what I’m thinkin’.” We shared a pathetic chuckle, and I realized I might have misjudged him. My nerves had been too tight all day; tight to the point of snapping. I heard the whining plane sound again, and Frisco’s head jerked toward the runway. Nothing came of it, and his brows knit together in a troubled manner. “That’s the fifth time I’ve heard it out here,” I whispered. “Too much energy here,” he mused lowly. “There’s too much energy for a ghost-airbase to handle.” He exhaled slowly, blowing smoke from his nostrils like miniature jet trails. “Damn,” he whispered hoarsely. “I hate when the hair on the back of my neck bristles like that.” A couple of dogs began barking about five hundred yards away, across the rickety base, where two or three barracks had been converted into living quarters. I assumed Mexican families lived there--probably worked at the casinos. The town didn’t seem big enough to staff even one of the gambling halls, and these tumble-down buildings provided an affordable option to a housing crisis. One of the barracks had been converted into an auto body shop, another one or two were storage units. The majority, however, stood like forgotten headstones in an obscure cemetery--except for the one we’d sat around in all afternoon. It was neatly renovated, resembling a real estate office from the outside, and a blank canvas on the inside. It boasted neatly painted beige walls, five or six chairs, and a folding table that leaned against a portable whiteboard. Oh, and those two women.