Sad Stats

• “Most U.S. youths unfit to serve, data shows” Pentagon study reveals 35% age 18-34 physically unfit, was 6% in 1987.
• Obesity.org says “no state met the Healthy People 2010 objective of 15 percent”
• “Study Finds that Sitting May Increase Risk of Disease” (2007) stating, “Only 28 percent of Americans are getting the minimal amount of recommended exercise” and “exercising, even for an hour a day, was not sufficient to reverse the effect [of physical inactivity.]“
• “Rising obesity will cost U.S. health care $344 billion a year” by 2018 eating 21% of costs for the physically unfit.

Background

A few months ago I sought out a new desk with adjustable legs so I could ensure proper keyboard height. The thought of standing while working crossed my mind, but table heights never reach high enough. I purchased a Gallant desk with extension from Ikea. Besides adjustable height, I liked the ability to connect parts to vary length including corners. The maximum height of the tabletop is 32 inches, too short for anyone standing taller than 66 inches.

My primary job places me at a desk working on a computer for 9 hours each weekday and sometimes a few hours on weekends. I also write stories and do artwork placing me at a desk in my free time which quickly loses appeal. My previous positions kept me moving about, so my current occupation is my first experience at office lifestyle. Even though I bicycle every day, I’ve noticed my health declining during the last 4 years. My cholesterol is up, my weight increased, and I’m tired more often. To compensate for a sore rear, cramped legs, and increasing tiredness I find myself walking around interrupting work. I sometimes kneel at my desk or march up and down the stairs trying to save my body from breaking down.

The article “Stand Up While You Read This” on New York Times points out that “your chair is your enemy.” At the bottom the opinion article sites studies that show that even daily jogging fails to offset the heart problems and obesity of sitting for too long. After my recent work experience, I agree. Bicycling everyday fails to offset the negative impact of sitting for 9 hours.

Modern jobs place many of us at a desk. American’s are in poor physical condition (not just obesity) driving up the cost of health care. Just look at the statistics. From 6% to 35% physically unfit youth in less than 30 years? We are a nation in poor health depending on older citizens to defend our country.

Do something about it. Get off your butt!

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I accept the uniform, folded neat upon my arms. The soldier tells me blue is my color. Or is it gray? Another war, another battle—it is always the same—another uniform, nothing ever changes. A warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray, I don my uniform holding me hot and tight. I stand in line with the others, mercenaries carrying scars of battle upon their faces. Some pale, some dark, the warriors hold two traits in common, their color and death in their eyes.

The mercenaries march, boots crushing the ground. The slinking centipede cuts through the army into the front line. Musket in left hand, sword in my right, I stand gazing over rolling green. A mercenary tells us to remember our color. Remember, the man beside me says tugging at his uniform.

Darkness arrives with the thunder of boots. I hold no argument, no ill between warriors. This is our way. The one beside me speaks again. He wishes me luck, find death at last. I thank him and shake my head. Another field, nothing ever changes. Perhaps my time passed me long ago. I wish him a good death and to remember our color.

Cannon fire announces the battle. Blue meets gray. Cries of war twist into howls of dread. I dance to the music of anguish, the beat of torment. I attack blue. Or is it gray? Dropping the musket, I carry my sword, cutting my way up the hill.

The soldiers are farmers and masons, not warriors. Blue and gray are their colors before the reaping. Some turn away in fear, others stand frozen clenching weapons. I clear first the ones with strength in their eyes. Weapons falling, death calling, a warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray I forget, but their faces burn into memory. Color flees their cheeks, light departs their eyes. They shed crimson tears upon my dress. Even the mercenaries cry for me. I envy them, their freedom.

On the hilltop I stand alone gazing down over the field. Blue or gray matter no more. All of the fallen wear the same color—my color—flowing down the hill. Death and carrion are my companions.

Red is my color, the only color I know.

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The breeze chilled Sebastian. He tried to pull his gaze away. Gunpowder consumed his nostrils, and a ringing swarmed inside his ear. His gaze traced the tufts of fabric. He stared at the stump of a neck sliced clean, blood pooling around shoulders. A crimson trail fled out the door, splotches on the snow.

“All wrong from the start,” said Sebastian. Sweat dripped down his brow. The floor tilting towards him then away. From the shotgun welcome at Dunston, hurrying off in search of Tabitha meeting Father Young, the riddle, Tabitha teasing his gun away. Even the weather had been against him, beyond the turning point forcing him here, Roan, the killer.

“I should have stayed with her.” Glancing back he spotted the innkeeper crouching at the corner of the bar. “I should have asked more questions at Dunston. More insistent. More protective of my gun.”

Running fingers back through his hair, Sebastian gazed down at the headless body. He recalled the hellfire. “But you were right, Tabitha.” He pictured her sharp teeth. Tears flooded his eyes blurring vision. “They would have executed you without a trail.”

“But if I had done better,” said Sebastian. He remembered the moonlight kissing her smiling face. “Same result, only sooner.”

With the killer on the loose, there was still a chance for justice. Leaning down over the body, he snatched the shotgun. “Where’s my hat?” He felt naked without his hat.

Creeping around the bar, Balmer held it up, shaking.

Sebastian snatched the hat, smashed it on his head, and tugged the brim down. His boots thumped across the floor and over the body. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at Balmer. “Fetch the lawman.”

The nearly pristine snow beneath the hanging lanterns made the trail easy to follow. The blood droplets made it obvious. Turning a corner, boots skidding over slick cobblestone, Sebastian found a narrow street between stone buildings. Light spilled a few meters into the street before being swallowed by darkness. At the other end of the chasm, the red horizon outlined the forest, dark spindly fingers reaching for the sky. Before the trees, a white mist, nearly glowing beneath the moonlight, grasped at the air.

Sebastian inspected the shotgun, a double barrel with a single shot remaining. Entering the shadows, Sebastian held his breath. Snow crunched beneath boots. The cold gripped him, icy fingers digging into his back. He searched the white ground. Every shadowy divot leaped out at him, his mind turning them into footprints and blood drops.

Then he saw him, a silhouette of a slender figure surrounded by burning red around the flat brim of the hat, white mist surrounding torso and legs. At his side, something hung from his hand, long threads reaching to the bulbous mass at the man’s knee; the killer held the head by the hair.

Sebastian stepped, one foot in front of the other, and raised the shotgun taking aim. His heart thundered in his chest. Beyond range, he continued. “Conrad,” he said, “show me your hands!”

Conrad released the hair. The head fell and thumped in the snow.

Red pressed through spindly trees turning the mist into a dance of writhing white tendrils, and painted the far end of the street.

Shotgun level, finger over trigger, Sebastian crept placing one foot before the other, heart slamming his chest. Keeping his eye on the shadowy figure, he heard the crunching and clacking of his boots, a morning bird singing to the coming sun, heartbeat in his ears. Ten paces from the corner, he stopped.

A bird tweeted. Another answered. Distant boots clomped over cobblestone.

Conrad stood motionless. Behind him, the horizon brightened.

“Your hands, Conrad!” Sebastian squinted into the light.

Flutter of shadow, and the shotgun slipped from his grasp. Conrad stood before him his parted duster revealing weapons hanging from belt. At the end of an extended arm, slender fingers held the barrel of a revolver, wood handle outward. It appeared very similar to the one lost to the river.

Heart slowing, Sebastian stared at his father’s other revolver held out to him. Confused, he peered at the face. Blood dripped from thin lips onto the pale chin. High cheekbones, slender nose, the face nearly appeared feminine. The narrow eyes, confident cold blue steel gaze pierced into him. A shiver scrambled down his backside. He felt small, naked. He tried to hold the gaze, but his eyes deceived him and he peered down at the revolver in the hand.

“Your father,” said Conrad, whispering through clenched teeth. “A great warrior.”

Sebastian gulped down saliva, and licked his lips. He felt like a child, small and helpless.

“His,” said Conrad, “death.” He peered down at the revolver. “A good death.”

Reaching out, Sebastian grabbed the revolver by the handle and held it against his chest. Peering down at the offering, he understood the words. The two warriors had fought with honor. Conrad respected Rhemus the Giant.

His father felt closer.

Sebastian looked up finding the street empty. Sunlight struck his face, and he held up his hand blocking the light. Glancing back, he searched the empty street. Before him the empty meadow cradled pristine snow. Somehow he knew, no matter how improbable, the creature had departed with the night.

Tabitha’s head rested in the snow, dark hairs fanned over cheek. Dropping to a knee, Sebastian brushed the hair aside revealing the wound. Instead of a clean cut, he found a gash, torn flesh hanging from the back, and within, broken skull fragments slick with blood. It appeared as though Conrad had chewed his way into the back of the skull.

Hearing footsteps, a cane tapping cobblestone, he twirled around finding Father Young.

“No. I’m not following you, boy.” Father Young pointed his cane towards the building on the left. “My church.”

“That’s how you knew how to find Conrad.” Sebastian slipped his father’s revolver—his revolver—into his holster. “What is he? A vampire?” It sounded too much like folklore, but he had no other explanation.

“Nonsense, boy.” Father Young rubbed his balding head and peered down at the head. “Something old. Older than I even.”

Sebastian peered at the dark glasses picturing the strange gold orbs within. Father Young was something not quite human, and he wanted to know more. “Father, I’ve seen evil.”

Father Young peered up and wrinkled his nose. Sunlight glimmered on the dark lenses. “Conrad?”

“Ignorance,” said Sebastian. “We all choose our path, Father Young, and sometimes that path offers very few forks.” He shook his head at the limited choices along the way. “How can I help anyone? With all these secrets! I must learn about your people. Tabitha’s people.”

“You truly are your father’s son.” Father Young shook his head. “A hunter.”

“A defender.” Sebastian held his head high. He felt refreshed knowing his path. “I must return to university.”

Father Young nodded. “I’ll message Father Gustav.”

“But first I must visit Dunston. Let them know their monster is gone.”

“And Conrad?”

“Didn’t you notice? He’s a demon hunter.” Sebastian scowled. “My father’s final assignment. You sent my father after Conrad, didn’t you?”

Father Young cringed.

“I’d sleep with a gold eye open if I were you, Father Young.” Sebastian grinned. “Conrad is still out there.”

Picking up the Dunston Monster’s head, Sebastian held it to his chest. He brushed the dark hair aside finding the serpentine teeth within gaping jaw. Vision blurred. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Recalling their talk in the woods, sitting in the trees, his tears became a shower.

“No,” said Sebastian. “You’re not evil, Tabitha.” He took a step, wobbling. He pictured the moonlight splashing off her cheeks, her smile, and peered down at her dead eyes. The hellfire was gone. Clenching teeth, he marched into town.

“No more evil than the rest of us monsters.”

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Sebastian left Tabitha in the care of the local lawman, Jasper, until morning when they could sort everything out. No sign of Sheriff Haas.

Roan was not a big town, but the snow covered cobblestone streets snaking on either side of the river made the town seem larger. Nearly empty in the predawn twilight, the streets echoed boots throughout the town. Twice Sebastian stopped at an intersection sniffing the scent of fresh bread, the direction elusive.

Above a door, hanging from a post, a sign boasted hot meals and warm beds, The Roan Inn.

Sebastian opened the door and ducked inside. Standing tall, he peered around the dim room. Four empty tables lined the front, two on each side nearly hidden in shadows. Beside him, a coatrack held a single tan duster. At the back, a lantern on the bar illuminated the side of a man facing him. To the left, the light reached a staircase leading to the floor above. Behind the bar, a doorway released the only other source of light and the scent of fresh baked bread.

Breathing in the aroma, Sebastian smiled recalling a spring day, sneaking into the kitchen for a bite of bread before it had cooled, and his mother appearing to swat his hand. Somehow his mother had always known whenever trouble arrived. He wished for her skill.

Sebastian removed his hat and approached the bar.

A clatter in the back, a man wearing an apron appeared in the doorway. He froze staring at Sebastian. Slowly, his look of surprise turned into a grin. “Rhemus?”

“Yes, Sebastian Rhemus.” He nodded.

“I knew your father,” said the man, his smile growing larger. “I’m Balmer, the keeper of this inn.” He reached over the bar.

Stunned, Sebastian stared at the hand. He knew the day would come, an outside connection to his father. He shook the hand.

“Strong like your father,” said Balmer. Releasing the shake, he raised his hand holding it a little higher than Sebastian’s head. “But not as big.” He clapped his hands. “Your father liked my omelet. I fetch.” Spinning around, he disappeared into the back. Pans clanged.

Sebastian peered over at the man beside him.

A flat brimmed hat worn by weather blocked the man’s eyes. Unkempt dark hair fell to the shoulder. A tin mug spilled its contents between cracked lips. Slender fingers pulled the mug away tapping onto the bar. Tall, the man’s hat came to Sebastian’s shoulder. The buttoned shirt hung loose form his slender frame, sleeves too short, collar too wide making him appear gaunt.

Pivoting on a toe, the man turned like a whisper facing Sebastian. He hooked his thumbs into his belt hanging low, weighted down by weapons. Leather thongs held the holsters against thighs, two knives with white handles surrounded the brass buckle, and a sword rested in dark scabbard hanging on his left side. The man appeared like war waiting to happen.

A chill raced down Sebastian’s backside, and he shook. He did not need a mother’s sense. Trouble stood before him.

Balmer returned with steaming omelet and a warm bread roll. Sebastian wanted to ask about his father, but hunger took over, and he chomped into the meal. The innkeeper filled the gaunt fellow’s mug and returned to his baking in the back.

“Frightful weather,” said Sebastian. He glanced over at the slender man, and took another gulp of eggs. “Nearly froze my fingers out there.”

The man raised his mug to his lips and held it there breathing in the caffeinated fumes.

Balmer’s voice boomed from the back. “Your father was a good man.”

Door creaked, and a cold breeze sent the lantern flame swirling.

Still holding the tin mug high, the man glanced at the door.

Sebastian peered over his shoulder and found a woman in a dress standing in the open door just beyond the reach of the lantern. He spotted the twin hellfire sparks.

Tabitha stepped into the light. Her eyes returned to a normal brown, but they glared with hate. She held a shotgun aimed at the bar. It was the third time in the same number of days Sebastian found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

“That’s him,” said Tabitha. Her flesh nearly as white as her dress, she stood at the edge of death. “Joseph Conrad. The killer.”

Facing the gun, Sebastian held out his hands. “Please, Tabitha.”

“Step aside, Sebastian!” Her face wrenched with hate. “Shoot you both I will!”

“You’re ill,” said Sebastian. He stepped diagonally away from the line of fire and closer to the gun. Spotting red droplets on the dress, he froze. “Jasper. How is he?”

Snarling, she exposed her serpentine fangs. “I never hurt anyone, Sebastian. You believe me, don’t you?”

Seeing her like this, Sebastian felt uncertain. Two dead and the missing sheriff, the Dunston residents had demanded the return of their monster—Tabitha, a school teacher with terrible teeth.

“That night Joseph Conrad arrived. I saw it!” Her aim swayed, and she squeezed the gun tighter. “I watched him take my brother’s head!”

“We’ll go together,” said Sebastian. He crept closer and stood halfway between Tabitha and the bar. Glancing over, he spotted Conrad standing calm still holding the mug. “Explain everything at a fair trial.”

“No trials for my people,” said Tabitha. “Only the gallows for us.”

Tabitha pulled the trigger, the boom crashed throughout the inn sending Sebastian stumbling back onto a table, crashing of wood lost to the piercing ring in his ears, and the explosion of another gun. Bits of ceiling fell. Conrad held two revolvers shooting repeatedly, and Tabitha stumbled back, blood sloshing out her backside. Shotgun fell to the ground. Speeding across the floor, Conrad fell upon Tabitha like a hawk swooping for the kill, sword slashing.

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, but the image burned into him, the head falling one way and the body slumping in the other. Opening his eyes, he found himself sitting on the table wreckage breathing in dust. He gazed at the open door. On the floor, the body lay on its back, the head missing.

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“We should take shelter. Wait out the storm.” Sebastian could barely hear his own voice over the river crashing around the rocks.

Tabitha yelled something about Roan. Holding up her hands, she indicated distance: close. They were already wet. Everything was too damp for a fire. Sebastian realized the town was their best chance. He offered to carry her. She refused indicating with the revolver that he should go first. He took the first step, a small one for him. Water spray attacked his trousers, the cold squeezing his muscles sending pins rippling up his legs. A stretch carried him to the next rock.

Loudest in the center of the river, the banks funneled the river’s roar.

Arms out wide, revolver in her right hand, Tabitha jumped to the first rock. A gust of wind sent her swaying, but she pulled herself upright. She gripped the revolver like death.

Sebastian wished she would put the gun away, or give it back. It was all he had of his father.

A stretch to the next rock carried Sebastian within two steps of the shore. Water splashed over his boot. He checked his footing. The rock felt slick. Looking back, he found Tabitha waiting on the rock behind him.

Sliding to the edge of the stone, making room, Sebastian turned and offered his hand.

Tabitha appeared frozen. Frost coated her hair. The fur coat was no longer black, more of a mottled white and gray with dark streaks. Her face appeared even paler, almost blue. Her demon eyes blazed.

As her foot left the rock, there was no question in Sebastian’s mind that her leap was short, and the frightened face told him, she knew it as well. He reached for her outstretched hand. Her boot disappeared into the river, and she dropped, her hand falling away.

Tabitha splashed face-down into the river, the current pulling her from the rocks. Sebastian stepped into the cold water and grasped her shoulder. He watched his father’s revolver disappear into the river. Gazing into the pleading eyes, into the hellfire, he saw hate and distrust. Tabitha expected him to release her, leave the monster behind.

Sebastian pulled her from the current’s grasp, the soaked coat weighing her down. He lifted her into his arms. Spotting a wall of rocks, he carried her into the protection from the wind.

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