Robert Duperre - The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

When I was young, I loved being alone. I would sit in my room for hours, writing stories or drawing comic books, oblivious to the outside world. I cherished those solitary moments, so much so that when my parents punished me I took it as a blessing. There was so much joy to be had in isolation, so many places my young mind could go if there werent outside influences to distract me.

Then I grew up.

After being married and having a family, I came to realize that my secluded personal time was a fleeting ideal. I longed for it, wishing, just wishing, that somehow Id be left alone for an hour, a day, a week. It wasnt until my subsequent divorce, when I had more lonely nights to wallow in depression than I could have wished for, that I realized how much of a folly my previous desire for solitude had been.

Hence I came to the dual themes of this anthology: isolation and despair. They are states of being seemingly unique to the human condition, and after going through my own dark time experiencing just how miserable life can be when youre cut off from your previous existence, it has fascinated me. Many of the stories Ive written over the years have dealt with these very same premises, and it has long been my desire to see how other authors deal with them in their own writings.

With that in mind, I was lucky enough to have twelve fantastic authors contribute to this anthology. Im extremely proud of everything theyve provided me. These are dark tales, some supernatural, some not, some slice-of-life, some true horror. This being a themed collection, I can honestly say that each and every author put their all into what they presented me, and created something great.

David Dalglish, Mercedes M. Yardley, David McAfee, and Daniel Pyle, each of whom had stories in the first book, have returned for more. The new additions are all people whose works Ive reviewed or read and thoroughly enjoyed. There are independent authors Dawn McCullough-White, J.L. Bryan, Joel Arnold, Michael Crane, and D.P. Prior. Each of these individuals has created wonderful stories that are among the best Ive read. Then there is my old friend Benjamin X. Wretlind, who I first met more than ten years ago when we were both members of the old Writers BBS and is one of the most creative and inventive authors around. Added to the mix is my pseudo-boss K. Allen Wood, owner and lead editor of Shock Totem Magazine, a publication I can proudly say my reviews appear within. And yes, hes a very talented writer in his own right, one whos been selfless enough to pony up his own cash to give unknown authors a fantastic outlet for their work, which obviously cuts down on the time he has to create his own.

And finally we have Steven Pirie, another old friend from the BBS days who also happens to be, in my personal opinion, the greatest writer of this generation. Hes hilarious and poignant, and his two published novels, Digging Up Donald and Burying Brian, are number one and two, respectively, on my list of all-time favorite books. And I mean that. To have him provide a story to this collection brings a huge smile to my face.

One final note: You will notice the subtitle of this collection states there are thirteen stories within, but I have added two bonus stories, tales written by myself that were published last year in different anthologies, because their subject matter fits beautifully with the theme. In other words, you get fifteen stories for the price of thirteen. Arent we generous?

So turn the page, and get lost in the worlds these wonderful creators have conceived.

Its so cold.

Johnny Pazarelli, the Gatekeeper, floats through the emptiness of time and space, particles of his being stretching out, growing larger, more substantial, holding back the warping walls of reality. Images flash through his mind, but he can only watch, not interact. A sinking sensation fills his ethereal stomach. Somewhere back in the real world, his physical body wretches.

What is wrong? asks the voice of Albert Mueller, his guide.

I feel loneliness. I feel sadness.

Albert laughs, and the sound vibrates through the cosmos.

You are not alone in those emotions, he says. Not at all. And for some, if they are lucky, there is light at the end of that tunnelthough I would not count on it. Open your eyes, Mr. Pazarelli, and see for yourself.

Johnny does.

Jeremy stood at the front doors of the Hazelpointe Meadows shopping mall in Hazelpointe, Ohio. The security mesh was down, blocking the row of still-fully-intact sliding glass doors. This was a good sign. All signs pointed to yes, as the Magic Eight-ball would say.

Hazelpointe itself had looked like a good prospect to him, a Rust Belt boom town with a dwindling population, small enough to stay off the radar of roving marauders, large enough that people would have fled from it when The Cough hit it big and everyone was desperate to avoid population centers.

Jeremy found the name of the mall amusing, too. Hazelpointe Meadowsa boxy, ugly concrete and glass shell, in the center of a sea of blacktop, fronted by an archipelago of restaurants like Red Lobster and Hooters facing the six-lane road. There wasnt a meadow in sight. Nor any hazel.

He shrugged the hiking pack off his shoulders and set it on the wide concrete step beside him, on top of yellowed cigarette butts and fossilized blobs of chewing gum. He opened a side pocket and lifted out a soft purple bag stitched with the Crown Royal logo, and then he opened the drawstring. The Magic Eight-ball was inside, cushioned by thick wads of tissue paper.

Jeremy lifted it out.

What do you think, Eight-ball? he asked. Should we camp here tonight?

He gave it a shake.

Ghostly letters floated up from the dark blue fluid inside: Reply hazy, try again.

Feeling cranky today? Jeremy shook it again. The Magic Eight-ball was his priest, attorney, and grief counselor. In the months hed been wandering the American hellscape alone, Jeremy had felt overwhelmed by all the decisions he faced at every moment, the endless uncertainty. There was no one to help him make any choices. Eight-ball kept him moving, and kept him mostly sane.

Ask again later, Eight-ball now advised.

Come on! Jeremy shook it harder now. Should we stay here or not?

My reply is no, Eight-ball finally answered.

Youre crazy, Eight-ball. Jeremy glanced around. The place looked secure, untouched since the Cough. From the mammoth marquee sign out front, he knew there was a Freddy Fishermans, a megastore supplying hikers, campers, and hunters as well as fishermen. All the things he needed would be there.

Jeremy carefully returned Eight-ball to the pouch, then opened the main pocket of his backpack and took out a few tools. Within twenty minutes, hed cut through the security mesh and smashed one of the doors. He stepped inside the mall.

Though it was June, and thick afternoon sun flooded in from the skylights overhead, the cavernous indoor mall felt chilly. That meant a working thermostat and HVAC systemand that meant electricity. With electrical lines falling and unmanned power plants breaking down everywhere, most places no longer had any power. He relished the rare kiss of cold air on his skin.

He strolled through the central corridor. The mall was still decorated for Christmas. Stockings and wreaths hung on the storefronts and the second-story banister overhead. He passed Santas elevated red throne, surrounded by heaps of cotton-puff snow.