Fiction River Presents: Readers' Choice: Fiction River Presents, #6

Fiction River Presents

Readers’ Choice

Edited by Allyson Longueira

Contents

Introduction

Introduction to Combat Medic

Combat Medic

Introduction to Sisters in Suffrage

Sisters in Suffrage

Introduction to Stolen in Passing

Stolen in Passing

Introduction to The White Game

The White Game

Introduction to The F Factor

The F Factor

Introduction to The Chair

The Chair

Introduction to The Flare

The Flare

Introduction to Suppose They Gave a Ragnarok and Nobody Came?

Suppose They Gave a Ragnarok and Nobody Came?

Introduction to Jelly’s Heroes

Jelly’s Heroes

Introduction to A Countess for Christmas

A Countess for Christmas

About The Editor

Acknowledgments

Fiction River: Year Four

Fiction River Presents

Introduction

The Highest Honor

This Fiction River Presents volume came to life thanks to a Kickstarter campaign. Our third such campaign,

in

fact

.

You see, we conduct our subscription drives via Kickstarter instead of the old-fashioned way of doing them. It’s more fun for our readers, more fun for us, and much less obtrusive than papering mailboxes or littering inboxes with subscription notices.

In our latest campaign, we set a series of stretch goals—a wish list of sorts for things we’d love to do if we made that much more money—and we blew through all

of

them

.

The book you hold in your hands is the result of one such stretch goal. We asked our readers to choose their favorite stories, and the top ten vote-getting stories appear in this volume.

Whenever I think of a Readers’ Choice volume, I always hear Kristine Kathryn Rusch (series co-editor of Fiction River) in my head. She has won numerous awards, including a good number of readers’ choice awards. She always says that the readers’ choice awards mean the very most to her. And I have to agree with that sentiment.

Because readers are at the heart of everything we do here at Fiction River.

I hope you enjoy reading this volume as much as I did editing it together. It was a challenge finding the right flow for the stories, but I’ve tried to take you on a journey rather than just throw the stories at you. We start in some dark and serious places, lighten it up a bit with humor, and end on a

happy

note

.

Thank you to our readers for making this volume possible. I look forward to another Readers’ Choice volume in the future.

—Allyson Longueira

Lincoln City, Oregon

April

11

,

2017

Introduction to Combat Medic

Kris Nelscott writes award-winning historical mysteries. Most of those stories revolve around Smokey Dalton, an African-American detective in the late 1960s. The latest book in that series, Street Justice, received a Shamus nomination.

She has slowly been developing related series, including one about a group of women in Berkeley in 1969. One story in that series, Blaming the Arsonist, appeared in the January/February 2017 issue of Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. That story features Pamela Griffin, who runs A Gym of Her Own on Telegraph Avenue. Pammy receives help from a former Army nurse named June Eagleton.

Kris says: "Eagle showed up unannounced in the arsonist story, so I decided to find out more about her. She arrived in my subconscious with the laws that make her angry in tow. Those laws make no sense to us today, but they were prevalent as recently as 1969 when this story, ‘Combat Medic,’ takes place.

"Back then, women needed a husband or father or other male relative to sign off on common-sense things such as opening a bank account or checking into the hospital. If you equate the way that children are treated now with the way women were treated then, you have some idea of how pernicious these

laws

were

."

Kris writes the perfect short story, which should tell the reader about a defining moment in that character’s life. But be warned: You’ll want to read more about this dynamic woman. And you’ll get your chance in October when the novel A Gym of Her Own hits the stands.

I think the story of Eagle, the reluctant warrior, makes an excellent entry point into this readers’ choice volume.

Combat Medic

Kris Nelscott

The whap-whap-whap of helicopter rotors invaded her dreams. Eagle blinked awake, and the sound remained. Sikorsky U-9 getting close.

Incoming. Wounded.

Her breath caught and her entire body tensed. She threw back covers (soft, woven blanket—um, what?) and swung her legs off the bunk, banging her feet on the floor. The bunk was shorter than she expected, but she didn’t have time to think

about

that

.

She groped for her fatigues, couldn’t find them within easy reach, grabbed a loose t-shirt and jeans (civilian clothes? Where’d they come from?), slid them on, found bunched-up dirty socks, pulled on two, and then her boots, familiar and comfortable.

She tripped heading for the door, listening for the other nurses, hearing only the drumbeat of rotors, closer, closer, closer, almost as fast as her heartbeat. Stepped through the door, expecting it to bang back as she emerged into the harsh sunlight.

Instead

—

Living room, green sofa, blanket on top, large 16-inch TV, her only splurge, canted coffee table with a bong in plain sight, magazines slightly out of order, pale sunlight through the thin curtains.

She took a breath, inhaled the greasy odor of last night’s hamburger lingering in the air—even though the cast-iron skillet had been wiped and replaced in the cabinet, dinner plate scrubbed and back on the shelf.

As usual, the galley kitchen, attached to the living room, was the cleanest room in the house.

But the whap-whap-whap grew closer. No incoming, no wounded.

She was home, Berkeley, not Nam, been home for two years, dammit, the dreams should have been over, but they weren’t, no matter how much pot she smoked before bed (self-medicating, Eagle, not good, you

know

that

).

But this was the first time—the very first, ever—that the sound stayed after the dream had ended. She’d awakened hundreds of times with the stench of truck exhaust mixed with burned skin trapped in her nose, hearing ’copters, bringing in wounded, bringing the dead, and she’d always run forward, always headed toward the crisis, and here, in Berkeley, she always stopped in the kitchen.

Usually the hum of the refrigerator grounded her but she couldn’t hear that

right

now

.

Helicopter. Sikorsky, she knew it was a Sikorsky, and most of the wounded, at least from her dreams, came in Hueys, right off the battlefield (if you want to call that goddamn jungle a field), so why had she been dreaming about a Sikorsky….?

She ran a hand down her shirt, reflexive, nervous movement, then realized the shirt was stiff with blood. She looked down, saw the rounded top of a peace symbol peaking out of dried black blood.

Blinked, shivered, remembered five days

before

—

Stumbling down the stairs to the street. Kids screaming, cops everywhere, in riot gear—Jesus Fucking Christ, riot gear, on Dwight, what

the

hell

?

Little explosions in the distance, and the smell—gun powder, a hint of ash at the back of her throat. Brain registers gas masks, on the faces of

the

cops

.

Gas masks.

She moves, and rifles swivel toward her, and for a minute, the screaming fades, except for one voice: Help! Help! He’s been shot! Oh, dear God! He’s been shot! and it galvanizes her into action.

She turns, retreats up the stairs—not to hide like her neighbors, but to get her bag, and the gas mask from the gear she never quite managed to return. She slaps it on, feeling like an alien herself as the world browns from the mask’s goggles, then back to the street, and through the chaos, the clouds of tear gas rolling toward her, the shiny guns, the scared cops, she can still hear the voice:

Help! Help! Please,

someone

help

!

At the corner of Telegraph and Dwight, a girl maybe 19, seven years and an entire century younger than Eagle, crouches over a man (boy?), legs splayed, left hand fluttering helplessly. The girl’s the one screaming, and Eagle crouches beside her. The girl starts. Eagle realizes the girl’s reacted badly to

the

mask

.

Calm the fuck down, Eagle says, voice echoy and odd through the filter. "I’m a nurse. You need

my

help

."

The girl tears up—whether it’s the gas blowing toward them or the relief, Eagle doesn’t know, doesn’t care. She’s not about to give up her mask to this girl. She needs to deal with

the

boy

.

A blood trail on the sidewalk—he’d been hit in the street. Eagle moves his shirt slightly, sees a gaping gunshot wound on the left—open on his torso, so he was hit in

the

back

.

What the hell? she asks out loud, and the girl says, "We were just protesting the park. They took over

the

park

…."

And it takes Eagle a minute to realize the girl’s talking about the damn parking lot that the hippies have been turning into a green space not too far from her apartment.

Realizes it doesn’t matter, realizes that the cops are in no mood to call an ambulance, realizes this kid needs assistance, and digs in, right there, streetside, like she’d done a thousand times in Nam. Hands moving, concentrating only on the next step, not worrying about the guns or the floating clouds of chemicals.

Thinks for a half second of moving him to her apartment, worries he won’t make it, treats him right there—triage, really, just making sure he doesn’t bleed out, wishing she was three people—one to call for an ambulance with some fucking authority, one to help her close up this wound, and one to yell at the goddamn police: I didn’t patch up kids in Nam so you could shoot more kids in fucking Berkeley. What the hell are you thinking? What the

bloody

hell

?

But she is one person, just one. Former Captain June Eagleton, former in theory, but there is no theory, not a single one, because you don’t retire, not when you live in a battle zone. Not when you have skills. Not when someone’s dying near your

doorstep

—

Battle zone. She had forgotten which battle zone she was in. She was in the People’s Republic of Berkeley, moved here for school (thank you, GI Bill), dropped out, stayed for the cheap rent and the even cheaper dope (helps her sleep. Yet another theory. Helps her sleep), and now, a goddamn Sikorsky hovered outside her window, making

her

deaf

.

The building was shaking and she pulled the curtain back just enough to see the ’copter bank and head toward campus. Again. Campus.

What the hell would a ’copter like that—military grade—be doing over the campus? She ran to the other side of the apartment, with a sideways view of Telegraph and UC-Berkeley in time to see the ’copter discharge white gas. It looked like CS gas, an entire load of it, dumped on campus—God, like Nam. Just like Nam. Only then the VC got gassed, civilians too, but Jesus, they were the enemy not people in the center of a goddamn city, an

American

city

.

Her brain was racing. She whirled, grabbed the gas mask again, put it on, then stripped off the bloody shirt and jeans, promising herself again that she’d wash them or toss them or do something with them, thought about putting on her fatigues so the cops in the street (there had to be cops in the street, right?) would know she wasn’t a student, but if the cops were anything like the group she saw five days ago, anything like the baby-faced National Guard troops who pitched tents in the park yesterday, they weren’t going to care that she served.

They were going to think she was a traitor to it all, if they even believe that a woman could serve. How many times was she forced to explain the fatigues, the uniform, the pride she still feels (and feels guilty about).

So she slipped on an old denim shirt, ripped jeans, grabbed her bag and headed into the street for the second time in five days, off to save lives in her own country.

If she even got the chance.

She burst out of her building, made herself stop and look up, trying to get a sense of what direction the wind was blowing. Clothes, drying on a balcony, rippled slightly, and a white flag with Che Guevara’s face on it flapped in the breeze.

An easterly breeze.

Shit.

She bolted up the street, screaming at pedestrians to get out, get out, they’re dumping gas on the city, and everyone looked at her in fright.

Damn

mask

.

She didn’t have time to stop, to tell them more. She hoped they would be smart enough to leave the neighborhood, but she wasn’t sure they were. She didn’t even recognize most

of

them

.

It was May and students were still here, and she made it a point not to get to know them. She already knew too many people, and son of a bitch, they were weighing on her heart.

A block and a half, that was all she had to cover, and it felt like a fucking effort, particularly since she was watching the sidewalk and the sky, and imagining wisps of white gas floating

toward

her

.

Or maybe not imagining. She would probably be able to smell the gas when it hit, not even her mask could keep out all of that burned bleach odor—she’d learned that in training, then on the battle-fucking-field, treating village children for godssake, something she never talked about, not to anyone, not ever. She’d have to burn her clothes when this day was over. This wasn’t wimpy-ass tear gas. This was military grade

heavy

shit

.

She made it to A Gym of Her Own, saw a class under way through the plate glass window, six women wearing loose-fitting clothes, trying to learn how to block a punch. Pamela Griffin had a mission: she wanted women to learn how to defend themselves, how to fight back and while Eagle didn’t want to support that mission, she somehow did, providing medical services almost since the gym opened.

She burst through the door, and a dimwit to her right screamed.

Eagle turned slightly to her left away from the useless screaming meemie, heard the gasps, saw women covering their mouths, frightened of her and

her

mask

.

You’ve got to get out of here, she said, voice hollow. They’re dumping CS gas on campus. It’s blowing this way, and when it gets here, you’re going to have serious problems.

Eagle? Pammy, muscular and blonde, the all-American girl gone butch, was standing at the edge of a mat, boxing gloves taped around her hands.

Yes, goddammit, Eagle said, confirming her identity, even though she shouldn’t have to. "Now, get out before this shit

hits

us

."

She didn’t have to tell them twice. Not after the riots on Thursday. She was amazed there were that many people in the gym, in the neighborhood, considering the entire city was under martial law, and there was a planned vigil for James Rector

at

noon

.

Rector, the only person who’d died. Rector wasn’t her kid. Her kid, whom she’d guarded for hours, still lived, from what she could tell. Rector got shot on a roof, lingered for days, died last night.

And now they were having a vigil for him. Organizing at Sproul Plaza on campus.

On campus. Only a few

blocks

away

.

That’s what the copter was spraying with CS gas. The fucking vigil.

She whirled, looked out the plate glass window, saw tendrils of gas, floating like fingers in the air, and swore.

Never mind running, she said. It’s too late. Get to the showers. Right now. The showers.

Why? someone asked.

Just do it! Eagle shuffled them—eight women total—toward the make-shift locker room. Two showers and a damn door that didn’t close as tightly as she wanted.

Pammy helped Eagle herd the women toward that locker room. The ones who got there first were peeling off their clothes.

Forget the clothes, Eagle said. Just turn on the water and get under it. Try not to breathe.

She tossed towels

at

them

.

Hold these over your faces, she said, and keep your eyes closed.

The water wouldn’t get rid of all the effects, but it would help. It would keep the worst of the gas off everyone.

She shoved Pammy toward the showers. "

You

too

."

Pammy was good. Pammy was tough, but Pammy had never been in a situation like this one, and it showed. She

started

, "

But

—

"

Go! Eagle shoved her again, then grabbed an armload of towels, and left the room, hoping Pammy would listen.

Eagle ran to the makeshift kitchen, with dirty cups and a few donuts on the sideboard. She flicked on the water, and dumped the towels in the sink. Then she took two soaking wet towels, and shoved them between the bottom of the locker room door and the floor, trying to fill that space.

Her gaze caught the small opening between the door and the jamb, realized she could do nothing about that, not without losing

precious

time

.

Hurried back into the kitchen, grabbed more towels, saw the water slopping over the edge of the sink and didn’t care. The ice-cold towels were soaking her clothes, freezing her fingers.

She ran to the back door first, shoved towels against the jamb. The entire building had to be canted, just like her damn coffee table, because none of the doors were level, not a

goddamn

one

.

She grabbed more towels and dirty clothes, anything cloth, and brought them back to the kitchen. She pulled out her towels, shoved the new towels in the sink, broke a coffee cup and didn’t have time to remove it. Hoped she wouldn’t cut herself, because tear gas in open wounds was not only grounds for infection, but it hurt like

fucking

hell

.

Whirled, ran to the front of the building, grateful there was only the plate glass window now, because other windows would’ve been other entry points. (Of course if the building was canted, god knew what cracks would let the

gas

in

.)

The street was white, like the famous Bay fog had drifted over the city, only she knew it wasn’t fog, and the ocean had nothing to do with this. She shoved towels around all the cracks in the door, knowing it was too late, but having a little gas in this giant space was better than having the entire place fill

with

gas

.

She finished with the door and the window, headed back to the kitchen. The floor was slippery with water and probably damaged and she didn’t