Rob Vagle is a long-time professional writer who is becoming a regular contributor to these pages, something I am very happy about. I feel lucky to have his work here.

His stories are all different and all powerful in a Pulphouse sort of way.

I suggest you go to https://robvagle.com/ to find out a lot more about his fantastic stories and books.

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The good life was spending your vacation in the Bahamas in February when the rest of the northern United States was in the middle of what the weatherheads were calling an Arctic Flurry. Blizzards and temperatures below zero across the Great Plains, upper Midwest, and the East Coast. Even the southern states and California could feel the freak weather. Temperature near freezing and heavy rains in Florida. California, Benjamin’s home state, had the freezing temperatures, what a rarity that was, in LA.

Instead, Benjamin had his feet in the sand, splaying his toes and grinding his heels deeper into the sand out of pure giddiness. He was a child again, playing in a sandbox. But instead of sand and dirt inside of a tractor tire in his parents’ backyard (born and raised in Wisconsin—he wasn’t a California native) when he was six years old, Benjamin had a stretch of beach sand all to himself. The sand was gold and silky, running smooth between his fingers when he picked up clumps of it. It was the most beautiful sand in the world and he wanted a ton of it sent to his home in the Hollywood Hills.

He could dream, couldn’t he? He knew it would be expensive, but it didn’t stop him from dreaming. After all, when your production company had the top three rated shows on the streaming service, PicFlex, you can afford to dream big. He might decide to ship sand to himself, he might not. That’s the beauty of dreaming—he could afford to.

Here he was, in the Bahamas, under a clear blue sky, the kind of blue you dreamed about with fancy names like azure and cerulean. The deep blue made him teary-eyed. The blue-green ocean stretched to the horizon as placid as a sheet of blue-green Jello. Yes, Jello. Benjamin saw the ocean wiggle. There were no huge waves rolling in and crashing against the beach like on the US West Coast. Yet the ocean here rippled, calm and collected. If he stared at the horizon, where the cerulean sky met the blue-green sea, he’d get the sense the ocean was wiggling. Like Jello.

He’d been on this private beach for two full days playing in the sand. This sand wasn’t as good for making sandcastles like the Midwest sand in the old tractor wheel of his childhood. Not all sand was the same. But here he found the secret was keeping the sand wet and the art he created retained their shape. He also used a spray bottle to keep the older structures intact, but he understood it was only a matter of time before the sand dried and loosened, and entire structures would slide and collapse. Dreams made of sand never lasted.

The sand coated his knees and his shins, which he didn’t bother brushing off when he stood. The sand was cool on his skin underneath the warm sun. The afternoon was hot, the temperature somewhere around the mid-eighties. His skin was golden after two full days playing on this beach. It was the best tan he’d ever had. His gut hung over the waistband of his swim trunks and he slapped it with his hands, leaving sandy hand prints on his skin and in his belly hair. He had the option to go nude on this private vacation island, but he was too modest to take it that far.

The air smelled sweet and salty, a combination he marveled at. A breeze came off the ocean tousling his hair and wiping the light sweat from his brow.

With the ocean caressing the shore not more than thirty feet away with a light swishing sound, he surveyed what he had created in the sand. There were two sandcastles with turrets, and one of them had a moat of the blue-green ocean. A conglomeration of skyscrapers to rival LA and New York City, and a little Titanic with an iceberg just off the bow. In the middle of all that was a mountain (the first thing he had created), a huge mound of sand with a sculpted face of his late wife, Monica, who had died from ovarian cancer five years earlier. He liked to think he’d captured both the shape of her face perfectly and look on her face when she was sleeping.

“Sleep in peace, love,” he said to her.

He was glad to have her there with him, in some form, instead of the usual ghost that hung around his memories, thoughts, and dreams. The image of her shaped in the sand, while never permanent, had given her substance for now. He gave thanks for that, gratitude aimed at the sand, the ocean, and the universe at large.

He bent over to gather up the plastic cups and pails of different sizes and in array of colors, gathered up the little plastic shovels and scoops. He shoved it all in his canvas tote bag, a vintage sort of thing with an image of the old cartoon cat, Garfield, talking about lasagna.

He rented this island, with its beautiful sandy beach and its luxurious bungalow because he wanted the privacy. He wanted to be alone. After working long days with endless phone calls and meetings, getting production set up for multiple projects was daunting and it had wrung him out.

Sometimes he wished he had done more on the creative side of things instead of the business. Because running a production company was more business than creative. The ones who created the television shows and movies, they were the creative ones. Benjamin only approved their creations and found ways to finance them.

Plus there was the part of the business, the business of talking to people. Sometimes he felt like a Chatty Cathy doll, his string being pulled and he continued to talk and he couldn’t stop because there was always someone pulling on his string.

There had been a lot of noise in his life. Too many voices calling for his attention. He just wanted a break from it all. Alone time on his very own island for five nights would do the trick. He’d recharge like a smartphone. And he could be creative his own self, like building things in the sand.

At nights, in his bungalow, he wrote ideas on paper, plots and ideas for series or movies. Focusing on ideas instead of numbers was just as much a vacation as the island away from everything.

He had found it was easy leaving everything behind for five days. His company, Starling Productions, had good people working for it. He’d put his trust in Addison and Antonio, knowing full well they could handle anything the biz would throw at them.

He didn’t even bring his smartphone as he’d expected not to get cell phone service, let alone 5G, but the place had wi-fi. He had had an old-fashioned notion the Bahamas were in the middle of nowhere, but he had been wrong. This little island was top shelf and high class. The rich rented this island and they certainly would want the Internet and cell service. Benjamin felt foolish for believing this would be an ordinary, workingman’s vacation like he’d gone ice fishing in Minnesota.

This was Benjamin being privileged. He had the means and money to have this vacation while other people couldn’t pay their medical bills.

Now that he was on the island, he felt like a glutton. He certainly felt privileged. How did he deserve such extravagance? True, he had worked hard for his production company, worked hard for his money, so he had certainly earned it.

And he knew he should give himself a pat on the back, but that lacked feeling. He actually felt embarrassed about his wealth. Benjamin Starling, the son of a dairy farmer in Midwest America. He had been raised blue collar and now the sky was the limit, he was as fancy blue as azure and cerulean.

He pulled the Garfield tote bag over his shoulder and before he turned back to the bungalow, he took one last look at the ocean.

A sliver of light on the ocean caught his eye. It was a reflection of sunlight off of metal or glass. He spied a raft out there in the ocean, maybe a hundred yards out, but Benjamin wasn’t good at judging distances, let alone anything spatial. Eyes bigger than his stomach, that’s what he had.

But there was definitely a raft out there. He had to squint from the sunlight on the water and there were two people on a raft made of sheet metal with something on the underside to keep it afloat. A raft. The two people were hunkered down, almost flat against the raft. They didn’t wave and Benjamin had no indication they were in trouble or trying to get his attention.

Then he saw the two rafters put poles in the water and used them like oars to pull them closer to the island.

He felt intruded upon, his private getaway would probably be interrupted by emergency responders and strangers in his space. In the next instant, he felt guilty thinking that way. Yes, he liked his space and his alone time. Yet, here might be a couple people in dire straits and in need of rescue. And all he was concerned about was an interruption in his vacation, one he was privileged to have.

He stood where he was on the beach, unable to turn back to the bungalow. Dread and guilt fighting for dominance inside him. He knew the right thing to do. The right thing to do was to help them, even if they were strangers. Who knew who they were? Victims of a shipwreck? Maybe a plane crash?

He shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand to his brow as if saluting the ocean. That relieved some of the sun glare. The two people on the raft, now closer, were easier to see. Two men dressed in overalls that looked baggy as if they were two sizes too big.

They were probably thirsty and hungry. They needed protection from the sun and they needed shelter. Benjamin knew this. They needed it more than his need to get away from it all.

He slid the tote bag from his shoulder, letting it drop to the sand, the plastic tools lightly rattling. He walked towards the water, the sand sticking between his toes (and he smiled at the sensation). The water was rolling across the sand onto the shore and when he reached the wet portion, his feet sank and the water washed the sand from the tops of his feet. Then the water rolled in again, flowing around his ankles, a cool sensation under the warm sun.

The men on that piece of sheet metal were closer to the shore now and Benjamin walked farther into the surf, the water climbing up beyond his knees. The poles he assumed they had were actually wood boards. One person rowed enthusiastically, or maybe urgently, to get them to the shore. The other person looked weak, lying flat on the metal, making a weak attempt to help row.

Now that they were closer he saw they were actually wearing strange-looking jumpsuits. The man rowing had one fuzzy ball on his chest. Their sleeves were in tatters, exposing their forearms to the sun. The one lying low had ruffles around his neck.

They could see Benjamin in the surf and they didn’t shout anything as they rowed right for him. The surf now was up to Benjamin’s waist and he waved his hands at the men. When they were close enough and he could see their eyes, they were wide, red-rimmed, and Benjamin had a sinking feeling in his gut because the those eyes looked kind of crazed.

“Do you need help?” Benjamin asked, thinking it was a stupid thing to say.

The healthy one of the two continued to row. The closer one raised up and balanced on his knees, the board in his hands. The front of his jumpsuit was streaked with red. It looked like blood and he wondered if they were injured.

“I’m here to help,” Benjamin said, a wave nearly knocking him over.

He stumbled and looked down, bracing himself in the sand under the water. When he looked up the two strangers on the sheet metal raft were upon him. The one on his knees swung the board and struck Benjamin across the head.

He collapsed in the water, a bright white light exploding behind his closed eyes. The top of his head hurt and he felt dizzy. There was blood in the blue-green water—his own—floating like a thick, red spiderweb.

Water flooded his mouth and nose, and he coughed and choked. His feet lifted off the sandy bottom and his first instinct was to swim to shore, get away from the two strangers. For a second, he hated himself for being a fool.

The two men were upon him again. This time both of them had been rowing rapidly with their boards and they were right next to him. One of them used his board to strike him on the back.

Benjamin howled and more water filled his mouth. His hands and feet brushed the sand under the water. When he got his feet underneath him, he attempted to stand again, but before he could turn around he was struck in the back of the head.

He fell face first into the water and blacked out.

He came to a moment later, coughing up water. The two strangers were dragging him ashore, their arms hooked around his, their hands high up in his armpits. He felt his toes drag along the sand. He saw his sand creations (thinking of the face of his late wife) and instead of panic, wondered if he’d be joining her shortly wherever she was.

“Don’t hurt me,” he said. “I was only trying to help you.”

He hadn’t looked at their faces yet, only knew they were pulling him across the beach. His head ached and his mouth tasted like salt water. He wondered if he was bleeding from head wounds.

They dropped him and he face-planted in the sand. The one on his left kicked him in his side and he jolted as if he was shocked with electricity. He rolled over and the world seemed to spin, so he closed his eyes.

One of them finally spoke. “Don’t give up so easy, lass.”

He opened his eyes to find the two men staring down at him and above was that beautiful blue sky and he longed to be alone under that cerulean blue again.

He realized what the two men were wearing. They weren’t wearing baggy jumpsuits. What they were wearing were clown suits. Without makeup, probably washed off by the ocean. One suit still had one cotton ball button on the front. Both of their suits had remnants of ruffles. The suits were rather bland and not very colorful. They might have been baby blue but the color had faded and the suits were filthy, and wet. Not to mention the blood on the front of one the suits.

Benjamin’s head ached as he lay on the cool sand, but he managed to utter in surprise, “You’re clowns.”

The two men looked at each other and broke out in laughter. The man on Benjamin’s left (the one who had hit him with the board) was a redhead with stubble on his face and buzz cut on his head. He had an overbite and when he laughed, his two front teeth were prominent as if he were a half-man, half-beaver.

The other man had the one poofy button in the center of his chest which he occasionally squeezed. His hair was almost cut to the scalp. And judging by the thicker black beard, his head might have been shaved at one point, before they had been stranded at sea. And the sun had burned his scalp and the side of his head. His skin peeled on the ear and nose.

“I’m Red,” said the one with the red stubble. “This is Pee Wee.”

Benjamin didn’t believe those were their real names. “What do you want? Take anything you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

This time only Red laughed. And he said, “Too late for that. The hurting, that is.”

“I only wanted to help you,” Benjamin said. “I thought you needed help. Where did you come from?”

“Don’t get too curious, cat,” Red said. “This is a puny island. Your house looks nice.”

“It’s a rental,” Benjamin said. “I don’t live here.”

“You here all alone?”

“Just me.”

Red looked at the other man. “You believe him, Pee Wee?”

“Eh, he might be telling the truth. I haven’s seen any movement from the house,” Pee Wee said.

Benjamin wanted to sink into the sand. Maybe get buried under sand like how some kids would bury their father with just their head exposed. There was an innocence to that image running through his head and it had nothing to do with the reality of the situation. These two men would likely bury him alive.

“You watch him, Pee Wee, and I’ll check out the house. Make sure he doesn’t move.”

“I told you the house looked empty. I haven’t seen anything move over there. Why do you need to look? Let’s just take this dude to the house.”

“One thing at a time,” Red said.

The sun was hot against Benjamin’s face. The two men were having an argument and he thought about interrupting and assuring them he was the only one here on the island, but he didn’t want to be kicked again.

When Red finally ran to the bungalow, Benjamin closed his eyes for a moment.

He was alone on this island for three more days. Nobody would be coming for him until then. They might contact him in two days to finalize the departure from the island and he didn’t think these men would allow him to talk to anyone. He was a victim of their every whim.

The bungalow did have a satphone to communicate with the resort and for emergencies. He would love to use it to call for help without the clowns around. It was on the kitchen counter, plainly in view. He didn’t think he could get to it before they did.

He lay in the sand, baking under the hot sun. Sweat ran down his temples and pooled into his ears. That tickled and he shook his head. If Pee Wee noticed, he gave no indication.

His scalp itched with sweat and he had a sore spot at the top of his head. He raised a hand and touched the spot where the board had hit him. When he lowered his hand to his eyes, he saw blood on his fingertips.

“I didn’t tell you to move,” Pee Wee said. “Put your arm down like you had it.”

“You and your friend hungry and thirsty? There’s plenty of food and water inside,” Benjamin said. He meant it as a friendly gesture, not one out of fear, or at least that’s what he told himself. Maybe sustenance would balance their minds.

“Shut up,” Pee Wee said.

He couldn’t let go of the curiosity about them dressed in weathered clown suits. He wanted to ask them where they’d come from and why the clown suits, but he didn’t dare.

Oddly, his curiosity was as great as the fear for his life. It was a combination of feelings he’d never had before. It was interesting. And disquieting. Inside his head, he was trying to figure out a way to live, to shelter and shutter himself away from these two men. While at the same time, his imagination was running wild as to why somebody would be at sea dressed in a clown suit. Benjamin imagined a circus ship full of performers and animals and tents and the circus accouterments on their way around the world performing for audiences. However, he was not aware of any such circus that traveled by ship.

Then there was the question as to what had happened. Did their ship sink? What about the rest of their circus troupe—were they not concerned about them? What about the blood on Red’s suit?

It was likely they were not part of a circus at all. More than likely they were criminals. Which still begged the question, where did they get the clown suits?

He looked at Pee Wee’s feet. His pant legs had been ripped as if there were more to the jumpsuit, like footsies. The right pant leg ran higher than the left. And his shins were sunburned and blistered. The tops of his feet were red and as Pee Wee stood there he curled his toes in the sand, squeezing sand oozing between his toes. Looked like the fellow was enjoying it. Again, Benjamin wondered how long they had been out there.

He thought of his wife, Monica, whenever the fear of dying overtook the curiosity. She had been the fearless one, and not just because she had battled with cancer for two years and refused to let it keep her down for long. She had been fearless for the simple fact she didn’t let it get in the way. She acknowledged the fear and why she felt it. Then she planned to move around it. He saw her move around that fear in her career as a brain surgeon, and when she’d taken up parachuting early in their relationship. Fear wasn’t an obstacle. It was a piece of furniture and she moved around it.

When he asked her once how she did it, she said curiosity never killed anyone, but fear did.

Benjamin recognized a flippant answer when he heard one and when he pressed her more, she said the best way to get by fear is quiet the mind, calm yourself, and use your imagination to see how to get around that fear.

On his back in the sand of that beach, Benjamin had a hard time imagining a way around this fear. The only thing he had was his curiosity and the memory of Monica.

From the bungalow he heard Red whoop and holler. Something crashed and he called Pee Wee and the “beached whale” to come on in.

“Get up,” Pee Wee said.

Benjamin was pleased the man let him climb to his feet on his own.

The bungalow was only a thousand square feet with one bedroom, fully stocked kitchen, fireplace, and a veranda. Out in front of the place there was the dock where the resort company had dropped him off by water taxi. It was a small island, the footprint of a convenience store, including the parking lot and fuel pumps.

They walked across the veranda, the wood creaking under their feet, and through the open glass door. The place was a mess and Red had only been inside for five minutes. He had gone through the cupboards, piling the contents on the counter and, in some instances, dumping them on the tiled floor. The refrigerator door was open, exposing the bottles of Modelo inside. He had thrown the leather sofa pillows around, overturned the coffee table and smashed a lamp against a wall.

There was an empty Modelo bottle near the sink and Benjamin hadn’t been the one to drink it.

He nearly tripped over a horizontal leg of the coffee table when Pee Wee pushed him onto the leather sofa, where he went sprawling into the cool genuine burgundy leather. The ceiling fan was on, the air wafting across his bare shoulders. He had gotten sand on the sofa and he saw some blood from his head wound. When he looked closer, he found some of his sandy hair sticking to it. He felt nauseous and wondered if he had a concussion.

The two fake clowns had the contents of the fridge piled on the granite center island, eating with their hands from the Tupperware of barbecued ribs he had made on the grill the night before. They used their hands to dig up clumps of potato salad and smeared it on their faces as they ate. They belched and Benjamin hoped they would throw up from eating so fast and on such empty stomachs.

They had left the glass door open and an ocean breezed came through. The sweet ocean smell cut the body odor of the two men and for that Benjamin was thankful. The curtains billowed some in the breeze and instead of looking at the two men gorging themselves on his food and drink, he looked at the palm trees outside, the fronds bristling in the breeze.

After they got their fill, which didn’t take long, the two clowns each took a bottle of Modelo and a bag of sweet potato chips and came into the living room with bounce in their steps. Red also carried the satphone that had been on the kitchen counter. Red raised his leg and used his foot to push the coffee table back down on all four legs. The legs landed on the tile with a bang. Benjamin winced.

They placed their food and drink on the table and sat on the couch, on each side of Benjamin. Their suits were still wet.

Red, his jaw working and crunching on a chip, paused, and said, “You don’t have a way off this island. Expecting someone to pick you up?”

“That’s right,” he said, but he didn’t want to offer up when they’d be coming.

“We have people to call,” Red said, tapping the bottom of the satphone on the coffee table.

“The rest of your circus troop,” Benjamin said. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to feel brave and being sarcastic was one way to cultivate that.

It was good idea, until Red backhanded him across the face. The slap cracked like a whip inside the bungalow and his head snapped to the side so he was staring at Pee Wee. The look on that man’s face was empathetic one, as if he didn’t approve of Red’s tactics, but it quickly vanished into a fake-looking grin as Red started to laugh.

“We’re the entertainers around here, lass. Don’t try to be funny,” Red said.

Benjamin’s cheek buzzed from the slap.

“Who we gonna call?” Red asked, and bounced his eyebrows.

“We can’t call anyone, Red. We’re in deep trouble the way it is.” Pee Wee said.

“Shut your mouth. There’s nobody around to speak of it,” Red said.

Benjamin didn’t like the sound of that.

“Just tell me how you’re going to fix this. We’re done for, man,” Pee Wee said. “We should just call the Coast Guard or—”

“I said shut your mouth,” Red said. “You’re just as guilty as I am. No getting past that.”

Benjamin shuddered.

Red looked at him and grinned. He patted him on the knee and said, “This isn’t our first rodeo. Isn’t my first, anyway.”

That didn’t make Benjamin feel any better.

“Well, you figure this out,” Pee Wee said. He pulled at his wet clown suit from the fuzzy button. “I’m building a fire to dry out.”

“I’ll do better then that,” Red said. “I’m taking a hot shower.”

“Knock yourself out,” Pee Wee said.

Red took a long swig of the Modelo as Pee Wee moved to the fireplace and began to throw the pre-split wood inside. There was a box of matches next to the small stack of wood and the man struck a match and got the fire going.

After Pee Wee was finished, Red held out the satphone over the coffee table. “Hold on to this. Watch this guy while I’m in the shower.”

“Don’t use up all the hot water,” Pee Wee said.

Red snickered.

The fire snapped and Benjamin could feel the heat beginning to build. He thought it was too warm for a fire, but he couldn’t blame the man for wanting to be comfortable in his wet clothes.

Pee Wee sat on the sofa next to him. Benjamin eased himself slowly over to the other side of the couch.

“Woo!” Red proclaimed from the shower. He whopped and hollered over the sound of the spray from the shower head. “That’s the stuff!”

Pee Wee held on to the satphone, propped up on his right thigh. Benjamin looked at it and then looked at him, but he was staring outside at the beach just as Benjamin had done earlier. He had a faraway look in the eye and he didn’t look like he was having a good time. He looked scared without the facade of bravado whenever Red was around.

“You’re not like him,” Benjamin said.

Pee Wee turned his head, the cold, tough facade back up again.

“Red,” Benjamin said. “You’d rather not be here doing this. What the hell else have you done with him?”

“Shut your mouth,” Pee Wee said.

“Use that phone in your hand. Call for help. Nothing else bad needs to happen.”

“You don’t know half of what you’re talking about,” Pee Wee said, and he got up, shaking the satphone in his hand. The wood floor creaked as he walked across it and through the open glass door and onto the veranda.

Red was humming a tune now in the shower, the water hitting the bottom of the tub. The air in the whole bungalow was already feeling humid from the added steam.

Outside on the veranda, Pee Wee, next to the railing, had his back turned, arms crossed, looking at the ocean. Benjamin was certain the man went out there for a reason and that man was considering using the satphone. While that man was outside and Red in the shower, Benjamin didn’t want to sit still. He needed to do something.

He wanted a backup plan if Pee Wee didn’t make an emergency call, a backup plan that would at least secure his safety. He had no weapons, except anything that he could get his hands on to use. There was iron poker by the fireplace.

It occurred to him that Red’s humming from the shower had stopped. The water was still running, buzzing along like static. When he turned his head, he saw Red standing in the bathroom door. His hair was dripping wet, and he was wearing a towel around his waist, steam billowing over his shoulders.

Red stared at Pee Wee on the veranda and, without even glancing at Benjamin, he walked around the sofa to the open glass door. An enormous tattoo spread the entirety of Red’s upper back: feathered wings and the words Circus Of Flying Death in cursive script.

Outside, Pee Wee, still with his back turned, lifted the satphone to his ear.

“Hey, Pee,” said Red, “What are you doing with that phone, planning on making a call?”

Pee Wee dropped the satphone from his ear and turned around. He didn’t have his facade on. In fact, he looked guilty, caught red-handed. Benjamin shook his head and shifted to the edge of the sofa. He didn’t want to see anything bad happen to the other man and hoped Pee Wee could talk his way out of it.

“Just thinking, is all,” Pee Wee said. “Our host inside won’t shut up.”

“I don’t like you thinking,” Red said. “How hard is it just to keep your eye on him?”

“I’m going back in,” Pee Wee said. “Calm down.”

He walked across the veranda to the open doorway, but the other man didn’t move. Red tightened the towel around his waist and held out his hand, pointed at the satphone, and curled his fingers.

Pee Wee glared at him and looked annoyed, but he handed off the satphone. And then Red stepped out on the veranda to let Pee Wee pass.

Once he stepped inside the bungalow, Red said, “I’m having my doubts about you.”

Pee Wee stopped just inside the doorway of the bungalow and he looked to the open bathroom door where the shower was still running. Benjamin saw the man’s face go white and he probably understood Red had been having doubts for quite some time. Benjamin could only guess.

The satphone clunked on the wood veranda outside and Benjamin caught sight of the white towel behind Pee Wee snapping out and up.

And before Pee Wee could turn all the way around, Red had that towel wrapped around the other man’s neck.

Red pulled the man out onto the veranda, Pee Wee’s heels banging on the floor. Red sat himself down with Pee Wee’s head in his lap as he tightened the towel around the neck. Pee Wee’s face turned turned red and his eyes bugged out of their sockets. Meanwhile he kicked his legs and squirmed, his heels bouncing on the wood veranda. His hands fluttered like birds, throwing them up and scrambling for Red’s face, and all Red did was snap his teeth at the other man’s hands.

The satphone was kicked once by Pee Wee’s flailing feet. He had caught it by the antennae and it spun a one-eighty.

A nail of fear pressed him against the couch and Benjamin didn’t move. The ferocity or Red’s attack made his bowels curdle and his breath stop. Monica had always liked to sprout the motivational things like fear is the mind killer. She had always said that the fear will stop you dead.

He had never truly listened to her little nuggets of wisdom, a man in the business of helping creating bullshit in Hollywood. What sort of fear had he ever expected he would encounter there? Nothing like this.

After a moment too long sitting frozen there, Benjamin leapt up from the sofa, walked over the coffee table by stepping on top of it. Smashing a bag of chips and the bottles of Modelo fell over and rolled off.

He ran onto the veranda where Pee Wee was still struggling. Now Red had his head down, staring Pee Wee in the face which was going purple and his eyelids fluttering.

Benjamin reached for the satphone and Red slowly raised his head and saw him. He froze again. Red shook his head, slowly.

Benjamin picked it up and backed into the bungalow. Red was just staring at him, not paying attention to dying Pee Wee in his grips. There had been hope that Red would stop choking Pee Wee and follow him for the satphone. The fact Red continued sent a shiver up Benjamin’s spine.

He slid the glass door shut and locked it. That wouldn’t hold Red for long, but at least he had access to communication.

He couldn’t watch the other man dying out there. He turned around and staggered towards the kitchen as he stared at the satphone. He switched it on and all he needed to do was dial a three digit code.

The glass door behind him shattered, sending shards of glass around his bare feet and something heavy hit the ground. Pee Wee was face down on the floor with the towel still around his neck. And Red, stepping in glass, slapped the satphone out of his hands.

The satphone flew towards the sofa, bounced off the top back and vanished behind the sofa with a thud.

Pee Wee began coughing and wheezing. His head (his scalp bleeding) raised up once, twice, three times as if he were bobbing at sea. This distracted Red as he stepped over the down man, walked through glass again, and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. He gripped the poker with both hands, looked at Pee Wee, and raised it up.

Benjamin stepped forward, feeling the glass cut into the soles of his feet. The pain was clarity from the fear mind killer. From that point on, he knew there was no turning back. He had to follow through. He was bleeding now and wanted to survive, and if he could save Pee Wee, he would do that too.

He plowed into Red just as he was beginning the downstroke. Benjamin shrieked as he drove his shoulder into Red’s sternum.

Red fell backwards, the poker in his hands arching through the hair and into the fireplace. The poker struck the flaming logs, sending up ash and embers, as the two of them thudded on the floor. Red used one hand and gripped Benjamin’s face and pressed his head against the floor.

Red’s hand covered Benjamin’s eyes and his fingers dug into his temples. The pain was excruciating and Benjamin groaned. He heard the poker digging around in the fireplace. Something hot, an ember, fell onto his arm and sizzled.

There was shuffling and Red’s hand moved away. Pee Wee, with blood on his forehead, was standing up staggering towards Red.

Benjamin rolled away towards the coffee table as Red pulled the poker from the fire, sending logs tumbling out of the fireplace onto the floor. Red was on his feet in an instant.

Benjamin’s hand brushed against one of the bottles of Modelo, a miracle it hadn’t been broken. He picked it up and threw it at Red.

The bottle shattered against Red’s head. Pee Wee collapsed over Red, sending them both towards the spreading fire in front of the fireplace. Red landed on his back against the opening to the fireplace, sending another cloud of ash and embers into the air. Red howled in agony and Pee Wee was still, dead weight on top of him.

Red dropped the poker and reached back into the fireplace, gripped a burning log, and flung it out in the living room, howling as he did it.

The log struck Benjamin in the chest and the flame bit at his face. He reacted as if he were playing hot potato and deflected the flaming log away from him and, unintentionally, onto the leather sofa.

There was a soft whomp! The sofa caught fire, surprising him with its quickness. Smoke, smelling putrid and like burning meat.

At the fireplace, Pee Wee’s clown suit caught fire. Red was still squirming underneath, his groans now moans as the fire ate away at his back.

Benjamin got up and ran across the floor, glass cutting his feet again, and went into the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. It was under the sink and he had to pull hard three times before it came out of its wire-encased holder.

By the time he got back into the living room the flames had grown tall over the two men in the fireplace. Pee Wee was not moving and obviously dead. Red’s left foot moved back and forth like metronome. The rest of him was still.

Benjamin watched as the flames danced off the burning couch and onto the coffee table. The bungalow was hot and sweat broke out on his forehead. The smell of burning flesh made him nauseated.

He pulled the pin from the fire extinguisher, grabbed the hose, and squeezed the trigger. A sorry little white stream of foam floated out and into the fire, drying up in five seconds as he waved the hose back and forth.

Smoke was getting thick and he realized he hadn’t heard the smoke alarms go off.

Then he realized the satphone was on the floor behind the couch and he dropped the depleted fire extinguisher on the floor. He ran around the burning couch and saw the phone just out of reach of the flames. He picked it up, gripping it in his hand like it was gold.

He ran for the veranda, but stopped before walking over broken glass again. He looked for a pathway where he might not cut his feet and realized he just needed to get the hell out of there.

He ran through the glass, out onto the veranda. His feet thumped on the wood, yet his bloody feet were slick on the wood. He jumped down the stairs and ran for the beach to where his sandcastles were. He made sure the satphone was working and he punched in the number.

Back at the bungalow the fire had caught the drapes. The entire inside of the house was on fire now. Black smoke billowed out of the open door. The place would be gutted from the inside out.

A voice finally spoke from the satphone. “What is your emergency?”

“The place is on fire and I’m injured. Two men inside. They’re dead.” He suddenly found it hard to breathe and he panted for a moment. “I’m hurt. Send help quick.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he dropped the satphone to the sand. Then he followed, but fell the opposite way, onto the sand skyscrapers and castles. He crushed them into the grains of sand they’d always been and the sand was comfortable. It was fine.

His head was near the mound of sand with the carving of Monica’s face.

“I made it, love,” he said to her. “It wasn’t pretty, but I made it.”

In the sand, under the fancy blue sky with the burning bungalow, that would be enough.