Rain Shadow (Book 4)

CHAPTER ONE

Kwin wakes up slowly, wondering why his mother had come to him with a chocolate buddha with a limb broken off, forty dollars in cash, and a cube of cheese, all of them wrapped up in little plastic bags. As sleep evaporates, he thinks, that is typical of my mother, she’s always trimming bags to reuse them. But plastic? There are no plastic bags, haven’t been for fifty years.

Dreams. His nights are littered with dreams. He wakes up more exhausted than when he fell asleep. He rolls over and acts falling asleep. If he could convince an audience, maybe he could convince himself. Instead he drifts into a speech that runs on a tape in his head over and over again. Your honor, my sister, age 7, fell into a sinkhole and broke her leg. Her little cousins found her and she was alright. Cause of sinkhole: mining in our mountain. Five years later my sister, age 12, died of leukemia. So did Petey Denver down the road. So did Petey’s cousin, Sam. So did Alice Groves who lived behind us and Franklin Watts on Barton’s Way. Cause of leukemia: mining rare earth elements in our mountain. What’s that, Your Honor? Proof? There is no proof, Your Honor, that’s the problem.

“Wha?” Slap!! Kwin’s neck stings where he has just smacked his sternum notch, trying to silence the tiny button embedded there that is right now demanding he get out of bed.

“Shit!” he hisses. The 4 a.m. alarm. “I swear I just fell asleep, and it’s already time to – “Slap! He can’t get the buzzer to stop. It zaps him ever so lightly once every minute until he is standing upright.

I’m up, I’m up! You got your way! I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, see? Kwin stares at the notch – that’s what the button is called – while the flashing and buzzing die down. Now it glows a cool pearlescent. Smug little bastard.

This is the worst thing about Appalachia, this gizmo in my sternum notch. Won’t quit until it reads that I’m standing upright and my pulse rate has increased. Can’t outsmart the notch. If I ignore it – as if I could, like ignoring a mosquito – it will after ten minutes issue a 9-1-1 and the medics will show up at my door to see whether I’m in a coma. I should know. They did once.

That coy little button does everything technological offered to mankind, but it ruins my life. Can’t wait to get rid of it. Can’t get rid of it. It’s the Rolex watch of the modern age, symbol of success, or at least intention to succeed.

Kwin hurriedly dresses. Brushes his teeth telling himself in the mirror the least I can do for Omar is brush my teeth. Actually, it’s the most I can do. The rest Omar will have to take care of. Hell of a way to start a day. Gotta be at the studio in less than an hour. Drink some gawdawful jitter juice. Autocar’s outside waiting. I’m out the door. I’m in the car. Close my eyes for a few but notenoughtosetoffthenotchagain Jeeze! this thing’s worse than living with my mother. Already at the studio door Kait opening the door scowling at me and I’m hustling my hind end to make-up.

“Tight schedule today, Kwin,” says Omar, Kwin’s make-up artist. Like I don’t know this. Be kind to Omar; he’s the only nice person in the studio. Omar’s gentle. He never blames me for the rush. He does his make-up faster to get me to the set on time. Under his soft hands I could go back to sleep, except that I have to pay attention to his whispered orders. “Tilt left… Chin up… Smile… Turn to the side….”

“All done, Kwin. See you later,” Omar says giving Kwin a friendly pat. Kwin glances in the mirror: perfect. “I’m outta here.”

Hustle to Studio A. Check in. Kait scowls at me AGAIN, hands me today’s call sheet. Settle hind end into chair. Now I will sleep with my eyes open until I’m called.

“Wha? OK, yeah. I’m on it,” says Kwin hauling himself out of the chair and lurching forward.

“Easy does it there, man,” says the gaffer. “I got here an hour earlier than you did to get these lights in the right places.”

I’m a little woozy. Gotta get a grip, pop two of these Tranquilins. Could use some more j juice, maybe clear my head. As soon as we break, I’m grabbing another cup. It’s going better now, now that I’m moving. This scene is easy, me in the background, thank god, and getting easier as we do it over and over and over again. Boring stress. Sleepy jazzitude. The life of an actor.

“Kwin, front and center! You gotta climb OUT the window!” barks the director. Helmy, everyone calls him.

“Can’t Everett do it?” Kwin shouts back. Everett’s the stunt double. He’s not stiff from yesterday, sleep deprived, stumbling from dizziness, and wired.

“He’ll do all the rest, you lazy injun. You just gotta get yer ass out the window,” Helmy shouts back.

Helmy calls everyone a lazy injun. He can do that because he’s Native American, as are all the rest of the cast. They’re all Native American, filming a Native American movie about Native Americans in the Rockies, even though they are here in a studio in Pittsburgh, Appalachia, 1500 miles away from the country of Native Americans. I would have shot this in The Cordilleras. We have studios in The Cordilleras, lots of them in Salt Lake City, but the producer calls the shots. I could use a shot right now.

Kwin is determined to get this right, so he can quit doing it. He’s got to stare into the camera, glance right, run to the window and dive out. What’s so hard about that, Kwinno? It just has to be smooth and fast. I am neither smooth nor fast today. The rule is, the more you screw up, the more you have to repeat it, the more everyone hates you.

“Come on, Kwin! Don’t make me cut Everett into this! No one’s asking that much of you, Stud Buns,” Helmy bawls in exasperation. Then to himself he mutters, “Goddam Y, thinks we’re his adoring teen fans.”

“I heard that, Helmy. I’m not a pampered Y. I’m an easy-going Z who didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“Who did?” he shouts back. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get to work.”

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Stop for break. Thank god.

“Mizz Thomas, have a seat,” offers a crewmember Kwin has never noticed before. He smiles gratefully and sinks into the chair. Would that it were a bed with a downy mattress and a heap of pillows. “Can you get me a soda?” he asks flashing a million-dollar smile. I may be a bit drooly on this production, but I will never be a prima donna. Not me. The crew wizz hands him a diet soda, he swallows another Tranq, checks himself in the mirror.

Kwin’s eyes pop open. Look surprisingly good, all things considered. Tall, dark, and handsome. Coppery skin, shiny black hair, an 18-year-old wild stallion. Wish I felt anywhere near this good on the inside. Flash those teeth and the world adores you, looka that! I’m the Native American celebrity. I’m the love of your life. THE “Cordillera Kid,” the living embodiment of the –

“Wha? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Kwin yells. “Whoa! Didn’t see that cable! Shit! That hurts!” He’s lying on the ground. He’s looking into the lights. Helmy is screaming at him. The gaffer is scowling at him.

“Kwin! Get your shit together! Do you need a doctor? Anybody call a doctor?” shouts Helmy.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Kwin says, scrambling to get upright. “I tripped over the cable. Sorry, Mizz,” He’s apologizing to no one, to everyone. Omar is in his face, checking his make-up, though as he looks into Kwin’s eyes, he’s checking the status of Kwin’s soul. Omar knows and Kwin knows that it’s a messy room in there, with clothing scattered about on all the furniture, dirty dishes on the floor, dust bunnies under the bed, and cobwebs dangling from the corners. Omar’s light fingers touch Kwin’s face, then he squeezes his arm and sends him out onto the floor.

Helmy works on the foreground action until he’s satisfied, then focuses on his star. “OK, Kwin, you’ve done the window exit now about 100 times. You should be pretty good at it. Let’s get a close-up of Kwin in the window, and we’ll get the double to do the fall tomorrow. Kwin. Hang in there a little bit longer.”

The other actors roll their eyes: if the guy would make an effort, we’ll all be done, we can go home, put feet up and have a drink. Kwin glares at them: it’s not easy being the star that postpones your drink.

Kwin’s crouching in the window frame. The instructions are to glance right and left, consider his options, and make the decision to jump, which means tensing his leg and arm muscles and pushing off, but not going anywhere because that’s the cut.

Only Kwin’s leg muscles are cramping from sitting in this damned window frame for too long and it’s getting harder and harder to push off, so Kwin urges himself push harder in a valiant effort to get us all home and drink in hand, and my leg is slipping, and my arms grabbing for purchase, and there’s nothing there and oh my god! I’m falling,

“GER-AAAAAHN-IMO!”

CHAPTER TWO

TRIB

Did that guy just yell Geronimo?

“—This just in. The actor Kwineechka Thomas appears to have fallen from a 15th floor window! And it wasn’t planned --,” the newsman is breathlessly shouting.

An unpublished manuscript by Jennifer Loustau, the fourth book in the Scud Series.

Fans of The Rage by Lassiter Williams will recognize the same two principle characters, Trib and Kwin, only now they are meeting in the year 2100.

Here is the beginning of the book.