Hello and welcome to Realms, a sci-fi and fantasy newsletter and podcast. I’m Zach Roush, the creator of Realms.
Today’s story, Brood, is part one of three, and instead of enjoying my narration (if you’re listening, that is) you will be hearing the lovely voice of my friend, Cameron Daxon. Cameron is a writer, editor and occasional creative producer who lives in Los Angeles. He can be reached via LinkedIn for freelance opportunities.
As always, this podcast is in text and podcast format. to get these stories in your inbox, subscribe for free.
The humid dawn welcomed Alphonse into her arms with a gasping, clutching desire. He sneered at it: the heavy morning smelling of something sour and old and unforgiving. He went for a cigarette, found his pocket empty, and remembered that he was trying to quit. He popped a mint into his mouth instead.
Al was on his way to Jackson, Mississippi but planned on enjoying his time in Louisville. There was good bourbon to be had and, by God, he would get it from the source. Perhaps there’d be a lady friend or two involved—he just figured out how this dating app worked. He stood there thinking about this little vacation he was on. A week off in so many years wasn’t much to ask for, but his boss had busted his balls for it, asking Al to take a shorter vacation.
“I need to get another job. Can’t go back to that,” Al said to himself as he stood there. A cool breeze broke the fierce snarl of humidity and he took that as a sign. The vacation had gone well already. He’d seen his Mom in Indianapolis, his cousins—who were more like brothers—up by Lake Michigan, and both visits had enriched him. He’d avoided the ex, though he’d been tempted to drop her a line. He didn’t want her to think less of him but after six years of hell… Well, he still felt guilty for downloading that dating app. It was time to get out there again, at the behest of his friends.
He muttered, “Doesn’t have to be serious. Something easy. Light. Fun.” He grimaced and reached for another cigarette. “Damn it all…” Another mint, then.
At that, he decided to drive a while to see if there was much going on in these parts. The motel was hidden away off Highway 64 in some forest that reminded Al of the dense Amazon jungle he’d only seen on TV. Where some thick British voice explained things in a way that put him to sleep. Like the one on the TV, this forest was thick and primordial, lying in wait for its eventual return to glory. Humankind had only dimmed its empire. Long had it grown and died, nurturing life in its boughs and soil, creating a cycle of life that had yet to be broken. The motel manager, Hanu, the only worker around as far as Al could tell, stopped him on the way out.
“Where you off to?” Hanu asked, scratching at a growing bald patch on his head.
“Anywhere with people. You know a spot?”
“Yeah, the local bar. Ain’t much special about it, but it’s cozy. Got like a thousand whiskeys on the menu, if you’re into that. Don’t drink much myself.”
“That’s right up my alley. I’ll head there.” Al pulled out his phone, hoping Hanu didn’t judge this early morning visit to a bar. “What’s it called?”
“Won’t be on your phone there. Only can find it by feel.”
“Feel?” He looked at the man, perplexed. “You joking?”
Hanu smiled. “Of course. Just head five minutes down this main road here, then you’ll see a sign to a gravel road. Called The Pharaoh.”
“Huh. Sounds interesting.”
“Just 5 minutes and take a left,” Al mocked, his voice rumbling with discontent. It had been almost an hour since he'd followed the instructions. The gravel road seemed to have no end. He’d seen the sign, of course, but had yet to see any sign of the bar itself. All around him was sheer darkness despite the rising day; the lights of his Chevy struggled to dissipate. It was noisy, too. Noisier than walking through his uncle’s chicken farm. Al cranked down his window to unveil the raucous, near-painful ringing of insects. Cicadas. But not the mindless droning Al was used to. There was a rhythm. It produced a high ringing song, growing and piercing, and then a sudden drop. It was so precise and surrounding, it sounded artificial.
He looked out into that deep, wooded place, and wondered if he’d ever heard something so loud and disconcerting. His eyes wandered off the road, to his cup. The water rippled from the sound and—
“Oh, shit!”
His tires came to a screeching halt on the gravel road, the truck skidding sideways a little. He’d almost driven right off into the woods.
“Goddamn bugs.”
He navigated the bend with a huff and shortly pulled into the parking lot. The bar’s neon sign shone through the windshield. If you looked in from the outside, you’d see its red letters flashing across Al’s broad forehead: The Pharaoh. His wasn’t the only vehicle there, but there weren’t many to speak of. Not fancy cars, either. They must have been locals or travelers like him.
As he walked up, he noticed them: the thick, crawling carpet of insects advancing up every available surface. Large as his big thumbs, their nymph eyes concealed within a fragile exoskeleton, the cicadas were preparing for the final stage of life by shedding that thin skin. So many nymphs were still breaking through the earth in places, boiling out from the ground. Al inspected a nearby tree, its roots bubbling with new life.
“Yuck,” Al said.
He went to the doors and opened them, and was shocked by the volume inside. The meat of it, the tantalizing flavor of human recreation whacked him in the face. There wasn’t anywhere to sit at all. Standing room only, and the band setting up hadn’t even begun to play. The bar was built right. It had concealed all the frivolity and joy and unscrupulous behavior within. Quite possibly, Al guessed, in an effort to keep that cicada madness out.
“What in the hell?” Al said, astonished, excited. He loved to be where things were happening. And here he was, at The Pharaoh, the place loud and wild like it was Friday night on St. Patrick’s Day and not a Tuesday morning in June.
He squeezed into the bar, hailed the bartender. “Double bourbon, on the rocks.”
“Which one? We only got seventeen hundred of them in stock.”
Al grinned. “Your choice. Nothing too fancy, though.”
The bartender ducked down to grab a bottle. She poured an amber liquid into a square glass over a square cube of ice. Looked a little too fancy at first, but…
“This is The Pharaoh’s ‘house wine’.” The bartender winked.
Al sniffed. Sipped. Malt and fire, brown sugar and desire. Exactly what he was looking for.
“Yup. That’ll do. So, why’s this place called The Pharaoh?”
“Named after the cicadas. The ones outside right now. Rising from the earth and all. S’cuse me.”
She fluttered off to serve the new flocks of thirsty folk. Al pursed his lips, sipped again at his bourbon.
He grinned, smacked his lips. “Pace yourself, Al. It ain’t water.”
The show had yet to begin, and not feeling particularly brave to start up a conversation, he flicked open his phone. Started looking at potential lady-friends to meet up with. Swipe right. Swipe right. Oh, definitely left. Yikes.
One of the right swipes matched almost immediately. He got a message.
From, Cleo: So, not to be weird. But I’m here at The Pharaoh. I’m waving at ya.
“Wow. First time’s the charm.”
Al’s brows flew up. He looked around the room, sweeping back and forth. The large bar with double-height ceilings probably held three hundred people. He couldn’t find Cleo, probably because he had a hard time picking out details in a crowd. Wait, was it that woman, waving? Didn’t quite match the picture. Al waved. The woman shook her head at him, then someone else joined her. Al felt his face flush. Somebody could point right at something and he’d never find it. Something his ex used to joke about all the—
Enough of her. Where was this woman?
“Al!”
Her voice rang out above the din. There she was, a curly-haired woman at a table. She had a seat open, gestured to it. Al’s stomach dropped and a cold sweat broke out. This was new territory. Meeting a stranger through his phone without even chatting first, no time to perfect the pick-up lines or flirt. But her smile was inviting. Thoughts raced through his mind as he smiled back, mechanically, and walked toward her.
Don’t spill my drink, don’t trip, don’t look like a goofy-ass fool, shit what are my priorities, what do I talk about, who am I, do I have BigMac particles in my teeth, did even I brush my teeth, will she hate that I still smoke sometimes, oh God, I’m here I’m sitting down.
“Alphonse, but you can call me Al,” he said, shaking her hand.
“Cleo. Not short for Cleopatra, though.” She laughed at her joke. “Pretty miraculous, us matching here and now?”
“Are you kidding me? This whole bar is a miracle. A party like this on a Tuesday morning? All those goddamn bugs outside?”
“That’s what it’s all for.”
“What’s that?”
“Those bugs out there been in the ground for 19 years. Waiting. For this very moment.” “Shit,” he said like it was two words, “you kidding me?”
“No sir,” Cleo replied and smiled. She was missing a tooth on her lower jaw. It shocked and endeared her to Al all the more. He took a longer gander. Freckles. Nice skin. Brown eyes. Not a radical, almost manufactured beauty, as some women he saw on that app were. Her eyes were earnest, searching. Or was Al imagining it? Something struck Al the same way a preacher’s words might have struck him as a child. Something momentous and wonderful and massive was occurring around him and he just happened to walk in. An accidental interloper at the birth of a star.
Was it love at first sight?
Maybe she was just Al’s kind of beautiful. And he’d caught her at a beautiful moment.
They clinked glasses. She was drinking bourbon, too.
“To auspicious moments,” Al declared, then lost Cleo’s words in the music that started playing.
What followed seemed miraculous to Al. Music that pounded and roared in the best sort of way, the band playing mostly things he loved and from many genres of rock; songs from Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, and even the Front Bottoms.
The bourbon went down easy; jamming to those tunes, a beautiful woman at his side, all the tides and troubles of his life locked away beyond the doors. When the band finished their set, Cleo and Al headed to the bar and went for something more top-shelf. The shots were over forty dollars.
She said, “You already bought the first three rounds, I’ll get this one.”
“But…this is a date, isn’t it? I should…”
“No need for that. This is a special day to be celebrated,” she clinked her glass against his, “and hopefully not forgotten.”
The bar had settled into a rumbling quiet, half the patrons gone with the band, and the rest a mix of locals and interlopers who preferred to keep to themselves. Al set his cup down on the counter and felt something squirming underneath.
“The hell?”
He pulled his hand back like he touched a hot stove. He wasn’t burned. Just terrified at the texture and wriggle of the cicada on his skin.
Cleo laughed. “Oh, they get in every once in a while. Leave their skins everywhere. It’s normal.”
“It’s kinda creepy. You don’t mind it?”
“Never.” She picked up the Nymph delicately like it was a precious gem. “They’re part of the cycle of this old place. This bar is just a bump on a log here.”
“Won’t disagree with that.” They tapped glasses again, but Al looked this time before setting it down.
“Where’re you staying?” Cleo asked.
Al gulped. “Motel down the way. Was a bitch to find this place, but I reckon it won’t be so rough gettin’ back.”
“Well, we could go there or my place. It’s just down the road half an hour. It’s quite beautiful.”
Al tried to casually down the rest of his expensive bourbon. It burned on the way down, burned away a little bit of fear and anticipation. He hadn’t been with a woman, naked or otherwise, in some time. He was lonely. He hoped she was, too, in her own way.
“Your place sounds fine if it’s okay with you.”
Thank you for reading today’s story! Next Month with be part 2.
Do you think Al can trust Cleo?
What’s going to happen next?
Subscribe to find out as soon as part II’s available.
Until next time, Realm Walkers
My name is Zach and you’re reading Realms.
Brood Part I