The Dead Parade James Roy Daley

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THE DEAD PARADE

A Novel by

JAMES ROY DALEY

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

THE DEAD PARADE

Survival is not an Option

Book Design by James Roy Daley

Cover Design by Cynthia Gould

Cover Art by Nicolas Caesar

FIRST EBOOK EDITION

EXTENDED VERSION

BOOKS of the DEAD

For more information subscribe to: booksofthedead.blogspot.com

For direct sales and inquiries contact:

besthorror@gmail.com

* * *

Great books from:

BOOKS of the DEAD

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 1)

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 2)

BEST NEW ZOMBIE TALES (VOL. 3)

CLASSIC VAMPIRE TALES (VOL.1)

BEST NEW VAMPIRE TALES (VOL. 1)

MATT HULTS - HUSK

MATT HULTS - ANYTHING CAN BE DANGEROUS

JAMES ROY DALEY - TERROR TOWN

JAMES ROY DALEY - 13 DROPS OF BLOOD

JAMES ROY DALEY - INTO HELL

JAMES ROY DALEY - THE DEAD PARADE

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING II

GARY BRANDNER - THE HOWLING III

PAUL KANE - PAIN CAGES

* * *

Table of Contents

The Dead Parade

Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling

Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling II

Preview: Gary Brandner’s - The Howling III

Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Terror Town

Preview: Matt Hults’ - Husk

Preview: James Roy Daley’s - Into Hell

Preview: Paul Kane’s - Pain Cages

* * *

This novel is dedicated to my Mom and Dad.

Thank you for always being there for me.

I love you both very much.

I suggest you stop reading now.

In a few pages all hell breaks loose.

THE DEAD PARADE

Survival is not an Option

Prologue

Joseph gripped the wheel and Penny screamed. Headlights, larger than most, blinded both of them. Joseph tried to say something, anything, but his mouth opened and the words stayed locked inside his throat. It didn’t matter. There was nothing to say and no one would have heard him anyhow. Penny’s voice had become a high-pitched siren that dominated all potential discussion.

In the backseat of the car was little Mathew. A moment before he was juggling between singing and drinking. Sing––slurp. Sing––slurp. Then came the grim sound of his mother’s bellow. This caused his concentration to falter and his juice box to slip from his fingers. The box slid along his t-shirt and bounced over the strap that held him. The straw designed to pierce the box hung from Mathew’s lips, dripping purple sap.

He wondered if there was a monster in the front seat. Somehow it seemed very possible. If there was a monster, maybe it was eating his mother. Monsters can do that, he considered. Every kid worth two cents plus three cents knows that.

Being too small see over the front seat, the headlights of the oncoming vehicle did not blind Mathew. His eyes, round and bulging, remained sheltered from the glare as they danced between his mother and father. He didn’t comprehend the problem, but knew something was wrong. Mommy never sounded like that before. She never sounded like she was being eaten alive.

Joseph cranked the wheel to his left, which seemed to be his best option. His decision came a little too late; the truck would not be avoided. Impact was imminent.

Mathew’s hands moved towards his ears, knocking the straw from his lips. He inhaled deeply, preparing his throat for a cry that would never come.

The vehicles collided with a CRUNCH and the world became a blur.

Mathew’s body lunged forward and his seatbelt locked, strangling him like it hated him.

On Joseph’s side of the car the steering wheel folded into a strange and misshapen zero. On Penny’s side, her intense and dominating scream came to an abrupt and horrific halt. The windshield shattered as both parents went through. The pavement would be stained red for weeks.

After the accident came darkness. And for what seemed like a long time, Mathew was lost in nothing.

PART ONE:

JOHNNY’S GIFT

Anne handed James a tissue. He took it and thanked her. A sniff and a sigh later he stood up and walked across the clinical room, telling himself that he wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. Not for a second longer, dammit. He was thirty-three years old, not thirteen, and this was no way for a thirty-three year old man to act. Not here. Not now. Not in front of his mother.

The bullshit self-declaration seemed to work and his sniveling briefly subsided. But even as James pulled his act together he could feel another wave of grief coming. The gloomy hand of misery was peeking its fingers around the corners of his mind, squashing his half-hearted vow like a steamroller over a sandcastle. The circumstances were dreadful: Joseph and Penny were dead. Mathew’s life was hanging by a very thin thread.

He began to cry again.

* * *

A minute came and went. James took a deep breath, listening to the sounds of the hospital as he glanced at his mother.

Anne looked traumatized and pale. Her depressing and confounded stature was tragic. Just seeing a person this way made James feel miserable. He thought his heart would break.

She lost her first-born son, he thought. Wow.

Anne said, “There, there,” giving James motherly comfort the way she always had––with queer, half-thought sentences that didn’t mean much. There, there. Lordie, lordie. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Anne had a million of them.

“I’m okay,” James said.

“Of course you are,” Anne replied, and before she could say anything more, James and Anne were interrupted by a phone call.

James pulled his cell from his pocket. “Hello.”

“Hi James. It’s me, Johnny.” His voice was cold, almost businesslike.

“Oh, hi Johnny.”

“I need you to come over here right now. It’s an emergency.”

James expelled an exaggerated mouthful of air. “I’m sorry John, but I can’t. I have an emergency of my own. A big one.” He felt his tears brimming, and he was about to go on, explain the accident, piece the tragedy together the best way he could.

Johnny didn’t allow it. He said, “If you don’t come to my place I’ll kill myself. I swear it. I’ll kill myself and it’ll be your fault.”

Johnny hung up. And when James called back, Johnny didn’t answer.

Anne sat in the corner of the room, beneath a television that was attached to a bracket that was bolted to the concrete wall, far away from the IV, the perfectly sterile sheets of the hospital bed, and an off-white curtain that divided the room in half. Seeing the expression James made at the end of the call, she knew something was up. Something troublesome.

She said, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” James responded broodingly.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Maybe.”

In Anne’s left hand she held a tattered copy of the Bible. A rosary strangled the fingers on her right. Her knuckles were colorless. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun showcasing ears without jewelry. Her eyes looked tired and swollen. Worse of all, they looked defeated.

But it seemed to James––as his mother rocked back and forth in her chair, knocking her heels together fretfully––that she was being the strong one this morning, defeated eyes and all. Mother had finished her crying. Oh yes. She let it out in one big bawl. Now her emotions were under control, fully managed, and completely organized. James figured she’d stay that way ‘til the day was done.

* * *

Anne prayed, initiating a silence that lasted ten minutes. Finishing her twenty-first Hail Mary, her swollen-knuckle fingers shifted from one rosary bead to the next. “You’re going to take care of him, James,” she said, after finishing a prayer. “I can’t. I’m too old. I can’t raise another. Not now. Not again.”

James nodded his head and closed his eyes. His hands became fists.

“He needs someone young,” she continued, “and Lord knows he needs to be with someone that loves him, with family. You know the boy needs a father. It’s as clear as the walls around us. It’s as clear as the sky above. He needs you, James. Mathew needs you. It’s time to step up and do what’s right. It’s time to act like a man and do what you were born to do. It’s time for you to raise that boy.”

James felt his nerves giving. “Let’s talk about it later.”

“There’s nothing more to talk about.”

James sighed. “Sure Mom. Whatever you say. But let’s talk later, okay?”

Anne closed her eyes and lowered her head.

Unrolling his fists, James eyed the boy in the hospital bed solemnly––the boy with the bruises on his face, two broken legs, a crushed hand, five broken ribs, a bruised spine, a dead mother, a dead father, and all of his front teeth smashed from his mouth; his six-year-old nephew––Mathew––the only person expected to survive the accident.

He kissed his mother and said good-bye.

He would never see her again.

James stepped into the hallway. Like a single-minded herd, his family and friends approached him with fake-smile faces and slumped shoulders. They hugged him, shook his hand, and offered condolences. They said things like, It isn’t fair and I can’t believe this is happening. James countered with, Thanks for coming and I can’t believe it either. Soon the condolences turned to questions and questions turned to inquiry. James found himself wishing he had stayed in the room. Oh well. Out of the frying pan and all that jazz.

Once the questioning settled, James walked past the nurse’s station, an open concept waiting room, and a row of vending machines. He considered buying some chocolate, decided against it, and approached an elevator with his eyes sweeping the patterned floor. He hit a button. Before long he was in-and-out of the elevator and standing on the main floor. Then he was outside. Then he was inside his car, driving across the hospital parking lot and away from it all.

He checked his watch: 11 am.

The day was warm, the sun was shining, and the wind blew with considerable strength. James remembered the weatherman mentioning a storm. Somehow it didn’t fit; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

It was time to visit Johnny.

* * *

James knocked two times, waited a few seconds, and was about to knock again when the front door swung open.

Standing in the doorway, Johnny looked at James with a blank stare and little emotion. He didn’t look good. His sunken red eyes seemed to be glossed-over from a lack of sleep. His hair was matted, crusted to the side of his head in a greased, savage frenzy. His skin was pale and his clothing was dirty. His teeth were grimy and stained. He had cuts around his eyes that seemed to create a design of some kind.

James wondered if the wounds were self-inflicted.

Johnny’s image gave James a discomfited feeling, making him feel like an unwanted guest. But James wasn’t unwanted, was he? With his mind shifting gears, James re-evaluated his visit. What’s going on? he wondered. Is Johnny upset with me?

After a confused bout of reflection, James came to a conclusion: he sized things up incorrectly. After all, Johnny invited him over––forced him over, actually. And it couldn’t be time to go already. He hadn’t even said hello.

“Johnny,” James whispered, sounding apologetic. “You okay?”

Johnny exhaled; his eyes became puffed slits. He leaned against a wall, listening to something. But what was it?

Soon enough James was listening too. He listened to the sounds of the house, the street behind, and the birds in the sky. But there was nothing to hear––nothing unusual that is, just small-town silence and the everyday sounds that surrounded it.

“Johnny?”

Five full seconds passed before Johnny’s eyelids opened wide enough to let the late-morning sunshine in. He rubbed his face, cleared his throat, and said, “James, I’m glad you came.”

James fabricated half a smile. “Of course I came, buddy,” he said, wondering if beneath his white shirt and his black tie he looked as ghastly as Johnny. It was possible. He had a rough morning that he hadn’t even begun to come to terms with. “Are you okay? You look a little…”

The wind blew stronger, causing the trees to sway, the grass to rustle, and the door to swing open. Once the door was open it squeaked and rattled inside its rusty hinges.

“I’m tired.” Johnny said unresponsively, letting the door sway.

“I was going to say that. You look tired. Have you been sleeping?”

Ignoring the question, Johnny said, “I’m hungry, did you bring food?”

James felt his nerves give and he laughed uncomfortably, sounding like a fool. “No,” he said. “I don’t have food. But I’m thinking… I might be hungry too. I could eat. You want to order a pizza, or go somewhere… a restaurant maybe? What do you think? Wanna do lunch?”

“Pizza.” Johnny said, unleashing a miserable grin.

“Yeah?”

Johnny pulled away from the wall and rolled his head in a half-circle. He looked over his shoulder and down the well-lit corridor. He eyed the crooks and curves in the floorboards, and the dust-puppies that crept from corner to corner when nobody was looking. He stretched his back and tightened his stomach. It seemed as though something cold had crawled across his skin, and into his ear––whispering, warning him to behave. Then his face transformed, becoming a hideous scowl. For a moment he looked like he would scream. “We shouldn’t go out,” he managed. “It doesn’t like to go out.”

Like a zombie, Johnny walked an unbalanced line inside the house; he left the door blowing in the wind. And all the while his eyes crept along the walls: the wall on his right, the wall on his left, the hardwood beneath his feet…

Grudgingly, James stepped inside.

With the doorknob in hand he looked across the vacant, small-town street. He glanced at the swaying trees, the blowing leaves, the empty driveways. He heard a dog bark and the faint sound of a beeping horn. And feeling like a condemned man, he shrugged his shoulders, disregarded the yapping animal, and the beeping horn, and he closed the rattling door.

James expected Johnny’s house to be a disaster but it wasn’t. It was perfect; too perfect. The tables were gone. The plants were gone. The bookcase and all of his books were missing too. The TV was still there along with a couch, which sat next to an antique chair that had large holes in the fabric. And, aside from some dirty dishes, that was about it.

“Hey Johnny. You changed the room around, did you? Got rid of a few things?”

Johnny fell into the old chair. The chair moaned and creaked as dust puffed out of it. Its wooden legs screeched against the hardwood.

“Pizza?” Johnny said. “Did you bring a pizza? You did, right?”

The statement was absurd, of course. And at first, James thought Johnny was kidding. “No man, I didn’t bring food.” There was a moment of silence. James swallowed uneasily. “But I’ll phone. You want pizza, huh?”

James reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He scanned the address book, closing his eyes when his dead brother’s phone number rolled across the screen. Then he found the number: Tony’s Big-Topping Pizzeria: the best pizza in town.

He glanced into the backyard through the large garden window. The backyard was loaded with Johnny’s furnishings: dressers and beds, tables and chairs, bookshelves and clothing––plus boxes and boxes and boxes. James, confused, shook his head. He wondered what had happened and why.

Did Johnny snap?

Without wanting an answer, he walked down the hallway. If he was going to order food he needed Johnny’s address. He opened the front door. Against the brick wall was the house number: 1342. He dialed the number and the phone began ringing. Once, twice…

“Hello, Tony’s Pizza.”

“I’d like to order a pizza for delivery.”

“Address?”

“1342 Tecumseh Street.”

“Name?”

“James McGee.”

“And you’d like to order?”

James stepped into the living room and realized that Johnny had frayed newspaper clippings attached to a wall. He approached the clippings and ran his eyes across the headlines. One headline read: TWO MORE FOUND DEAD. Another: MURDER IN HIGH PARK. A third was: 4 BODIES, 24 HOURS.

After reading the headlines he glanced at Johnny.

Something was horribly wrong. He knew those stories, those headlines on the wall. Everyone did. The string of deaths was puzzling the police. Evidence suggested that the killer might be some kind of animal. But they didn’t know for sure.

Maybe it was Johnny.

James stepped away from the wall, lost in thought. He approached his friend, noticing that the room was cold. Really cold. Johnny was curled up on the chair with his legs pulled high, hiding his face beneath his arms. Eyes peeked above kneecaps.

“It’s here.” Johnny whispered with a raspy voice. “Oh my God, it’s here again. It’s inside the room with us. Why won’t it leave me alone?”

James stopped dead in his tracks. Then he heard a distant voice, “Excuse me? Sir? You’d like to order? Yes? No?”

“Uh…”

“Sir?”

James focused. Somehow he had forgotten that he was in the middle of a phone call. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I’d like to order a large pepperoni pizza. Thin crust, extra cheese… and I’ll pay cash. But I’ve got to go, there’s an emergency. I’m at 1342 Tecumseh. See you soon.”

He hung up, hoping he had given enough information. Then he slid his phone into his pocket and said, “What is it, Johnny?”

“It’s here.”

“What’s here?”

James took a step towards the couch.

Johnny pulled away from James and crushed his body deeper into the chair. His fingers curled and his toes squeezed together. His stomach, which felt empty and rotten, clenched like a fist. “Oh God. Don’t move,” he said, with his lips pulled into a bizarre snarl. “Whatever you do, don’t move.”

James looked over his shoulder. Again, there was nothing to see. “Johnny?”

James slowly made his way to the couch and sat down as if the chair had been set with explosives. He had forgotten all about the drama that surrounded his family. Joseph’s death, Penny’s death, Mathew’s injuries––all had been temporarily washed from his thoughts. His focus was on Johnny now, who seemed to be one small step away from madness.

“John.” He said with a flat but kind tone. “We should talk, man. We should talk.”

Johnny looked up. His eyes were beyond wild. Drool had formed in the corners of his lips, which were cracked and dirty and a perfect fit with his unhinged smile.

“What the fuck, Johnny?”

James wondered where the old Johnny was––the Johnny that liked soulful house music, extreme boxing, and getting drunk with his friends; the Johnny who had a big smile and a hearty laugh; the Johnny that went to college to be a chef and was excited about cooking; the Johnny he knew; the Johnny he loved; the Johnny he came to visit.

“What’s going on, bro? You’re scaring me; you’re freaking me out.”

“I wish we had more time,” Johnny said. “‘Cause I sure am hungry. That pizza would hit the spot right about now. Don’t you think? If only we had more time.”

“The pizza will be here in thirty minutes,” James tried to reason. “But who cares? Johnny, what’s going on? You’re being a weirdo today. Why’s your stuff outside, and what’s with the clippings on the wall? You don’t know something about the murders, do you? Dear God man, tell me you’re not involved!”

Johnny didn’t speak.

“Are you? Are you involved?”

“Do you have it with you?”

James shook his head. “What… the pizza?”

“Yeah.”

James felt the sharp prick of annoyance. It was a mild irritation, but it seemed like something that could get out of hand quickly. Like a gift from the anger fairy, a thought blasted his thinking: slap Johnny across the face, wake the son-of-a-bitch up and snap him from his daze.

James resisted the urge. The physical approach didn’t seem appropriate, at least, not yet. “No man, I don’t have a pizza. But it’s coming.”

Johnny nodded as he reached a hand into the crease of the chair. He pushed down, hunting inside. “That’s too bad,” he said, shifting in his seat.

He jerked something free.

“What is it, Johnny?” James asked. But then he knew.

It was a gun.

The wave of danger hit James in the chest like it was a material thing. His head began spinning. He became dizzy. Everything seemed surreal.

“Oh God, Johnny. What are you doing?”

“Shhh. It’s okay,” Johnny said. “Trust me, it’s the only way.”

As Johnny raised the weapon, James thought about running, but then what? He’d take a bullet in the back? No thanks. James didn’t need a slug tearing a hole into his ribcage, his heart, or his lung. What he needed was a paid vacation and a couple of weeks lounging around on a tropical beach loaded with beautiful, intelligent women. Or better yet, a plan––a good plan, a plan that didn’t have him screaming in pain and dying a coward’s death with a bullet in his spine.

Johnny put the barrel beneath his jaw. His finger tightened and the trigger moved slightly. Apparently James wasn’t in danger; Johnny was about to kill himself.

“Oh shit,” James said without hesitation. “Don’t do it. Don’t even think it!”

Johnny cackled twice and sneered. “I’ll tell you what Suzy told me, if you’d like.”

“Suzy?” James said, puzzled. He noticed the room getting colder. “Suzy Rae?”

Suzy Rae was a mutual friend. She was a nice girl––kind, considerate; she knew how to make people feel welcome. She was born in Haiti and still had the accent in her voice. Her dark and curly hair seemed to draw attention to her strong jaw line and full lips. She had a pretty face that made guys look twice. James knew her; he liked her quite a bit.

“Yeah, Suzy Rae.”

“What about her?”

“Want to know what she told me?”

“Sure Johnny, whatever. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“Stupid?”

“Yeah. Be cool, man. Be cool.”

Johnny lowered the gun two inches and his smile widened. “This was Suzy’s gun,” he said. “And now she’s dead.”

“What did you say?”

Johnny laughed. “Sue shot herself a couple of weeks ago. I went to visit and found her curled up in the basement. She had her arms stretched out and a shotgun pointed at her chest. I’m not sure if she’d be able to pull the trigger. Not the way she was sitting, but she was trying. That’s the important thing, I suppose. It’s the trying that counts. She was acting crazier than shit, too. Like a loon, so I talked her into giving me the gun and I brought her upstairs. The next thing I knew the dumb cunt had a handgun. I thought she was going to kill me.” Johnny waved the gun carelessly. “She didn’t. Kill me, that is. She did herself in instead. Well, after that, I guess you could say that I was dazed. Dazed and confused, if you catch my drift. And the blood was drainin’ from her head like something from a movie. It was squirting too, if you want me to be honest with you. Squirting in the air. I grabbed the gun from her, as her body settled into place. I don’t know what I was thinking exactly, but I took it and ran as fast as my legs would carry me.”

James couldn’t believe his ears. Sure as dirt on a rock, Johnny had gone insane. Maybe running wasn’t such a bad idea, James thought. He was quick and athletic. He could probably be out the door before Johnny realized what was happening.

“I know you think I killed her,” Johnny said, reading James with his eyes. “But I didn’t kill anyone… I should have, but I didn’t.”

James felt his patience running thin. “Johnny, I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. It’s just that… I tell you what.” Johnny made an expression that seemed thoughtful, heroic, and scared shitless, all at the same time. “You can kill me. I won’t stop you.”

Up until that moment James thought he had heard it all. Turned out he hadn’t. “I don’t want to kill you,” James said cautiously. “We’re friends, remember? You’re one of my closest buddies. You’re my boy. And you’re just fucking around, right? Aren’t you Johnny? Aren’t you?”

Johnny shrugged. “Sorry man. I’m sorry it’s you. But if I don’t pass it on it’ll be with me forever. I don’t want that. God, can you imagine? It hurts just thinking about it.”

“This isn’t happening.”

Johnny smiled. “Oh yes it is. Don’t think for a minute that it isn’t. Just remember to pass it on, ‘kay? And don’t get it mad. You don’t want it mad. Know what I’m saying? It’ll get the best of you. Trust me. It’ll get even. I know. I got it mad a few times and… just don’t do it. That means don’t tell anyone.”

Johnny put the gun to his temple. He pulled the trigger, just a little. His eyes scanned the floor. “Is this okay?”

“What’re you talking about Johnny?” James said, and he noticed the strangest thing. His breath hung frozen in the ice-cold air. The room was officially freezing.

“I’m talking about a Bokor Incantation,” Johnny said. “And it’s not my fault.”

“What the hell is that?”

Johnny shook his head. “Too late.”

“Can’t we work this out?”

“I am working this out James. See you on the other side.”

“But—”

“But nothing. See you soon. Try not to dream.”

On the floor, a shadow moved.

Johnny opened his mouth and dragged the gun along his face. He slid the barrel past his lips and rested it on his front teeth. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

There was no pain.

But Mathew was screaming for Uncle James.

James was sitting inside the Demon’s lair, completely oblivious. He didn’t know he was in danger. Not real danger. But Mathew did. He could see it––see the demon hiding in the shadows. See the demon with the black skin, the long fingers, and the glistening eyes; the demon that had lived a thousand lifetimes and slain a hundred thousand men.

Mathew could see this, and Mathew was screaming. But to the outside world the child looked the same. He was lying on the hospital bed, silent and unmoving. To the outside world he was a boy, like all boys. No different. Only his injuries and experiences distinguished him from the rest. Nobody knew he was a unique child with an unrecognized gift, a special talent. Nobody knew his biological chemistry was uncommon. Not Anne. Not the doctors. Nobody.

Mathew could see things, things that are not often seen.

It was a gift.

Given time––two or three years perhaps––Mathew would develop a large tumor in his brain. The tumor would be diagnosed as cancerous. The doctors would say the cause of the tumor would be unknown, but likely genetic. They would tell his family that Mathew had a rough road ahead. A short while later, after the medical community punished his body with cell destroying chemotherapy, they would say he had less than a month to live. And they would be correct. But the tumor that eventually kills its host comes with a flipside that is rarely seen. In a way, it is the gift of sight, and the accident-induced trauma had exposed it.

Mathew’s eyes were opening now. He was seeing things, seeing into the lives of the people he loved. He didn’t like what he was seeing.

And inside his tiny, broken body, Mathew was screaming.

CLICK. The chamber was empty.

“WAIT!” James shouted, as his stomach started doing back-flips. “FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

Johnny pulled the gun from his mouth and eyed the weapon suspiciously.

“Let me talk a minute,” James said. “Please!”

Keeping his fingers ready, Johnny lowered his hand. “It won’t do any good. There’s nothing you can say.”

“Fine. But give me a chance, will you? Can we talk a little before you blow your friggin’ head off?”

Johnny exposed his dirty teeth. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“Yeah.”

James thought about his nephew lying on the hospital bed, a thick circle of bandages around his mouth, both of his legs in casts, suspended in the air, looking like something from a discovery channel emergency program. He didn’t know where the thought had come from. Somehow it didn’t seem like the obvious thing to think about when your buddy sticks a gun into his mouth and yanks on the trigger.

He said, “My brother Joe died last night. So did his wife Penny. My nephew Mathew is in the hospital. He might not make it. Things haven’t been good.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Car accident.”

The insanity drained from Johnny’s eyes a little. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, I am. It happened on the highway around eleven-thirty. We got the call early this morning. My mom is at the hospital now; she’s with Mathew. You remember Mathew, right? Joe’s five-year-old… blonde hair, built like a baby lumberjack.”

“I remember.” Johnny said. His eyes lost their ultra focused lunacy. His shoulders, which had been raised, came down an inch and his voice softened a notch. “Honest? You’re telling me the truth?”

“Honest.”

“Damn, James. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.”

“No, really. I’m sorry.”

The two men looked at each other, each feeling ashamed of the moment.

“Do you mind if we talk about it?” James asked, wondering if the sympathy angle would hold.

“Go ahead.”

James cleared his throat. “But what am I supposed to do here, have a heart-to-heart with you, then watch as you blow your head off? Jesus man. We both have problems, but I was thinking we could help each other, make things right.”

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, James. I’m backed into a corner here. This is my way out.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“No man, it’s not. Is that gun loaded?”

Johnny shuffled the gun from one hand to the other. “Yeah, it is. The next time I pull the trigger, it’ll be the money shot.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“And why the hell is it so cold in here? I’m freezing.”

“Is this really the way you want to spend the last minutes of my life? Talking about the fuckin’ temperature?”

“But Johnny… it’s August.”

“So?”

James shook his head. The small talk wasn’t working, however, Johnny was more coherent now. Much more. He wasn’t mumbling, rolling his eyes, or talking crazy. That had to be worth something.

“My mother’s pretty upset,” James said. “In fact, she’s a bloody mess.”

“That’s understandable.”

“She says I’ll have to adopt Mathew. Between you and me, I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can be a father. I mean… I love the little guy, but I’m not ready. Mathew is such a handful and I can be… well, you know me.”

Johnny didn’t respond so James kept talking.

“You know me,” he repeated. “I’m scattered at the best of times. Always have been; always will be. I’m the guy that walks to the store to buy milk and comes home with a loaf of bread.”

With an expression, Johnny agreed.

“But you know what?” James said, considering a new approach. He figured he could dilute Johnny’s issues with his own. Maybe it would work, maybe not. It was worth a try. “Once upon a time, I wasn’t such an idiot and my head was on a little tighter. And at that time, I wanted children. I wanted to be a father. But then something happened, something bad. I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. And there was this guy. Harold was his name. I guess Harold would have been eighteen or nineteen, maybe twenty.” James smiled unexpectedly, remembering his old friend. “Harold had these big, awful sideburns that ran down his neck. When he wasn’t around we made fun of him a great deal. Muttonchops, we called him. Of course, he didn’t know that. We didn’t think Harold would appreciate being called ‘Mutton-chop Harold’. But that’s who he was to us. Mutton-chop Harold, the youngest father we knew.”

Johnny nodded.

“Harold wasn’t ready. He wasn’t prepared inside his mind, you know? And his girlfriend at the time–d thwho was a few years younger than Mutton-chop––she wasn’t much of a thinker, and she didn’t care about him. Didn’t care what he thought or what he wanted. You see… this girl wanted a baby, end of story. And if the kid grew up inside a broken home with fighting parents and nothing in the cupboard, well… so be it.”

“You know what we call girls like that, don’t you?” Johnny said.

“No, what?”

“White-trash bitches.”

James smiled insincerely. “Well, I don’t know if the girl was a white-trash bitch or not, but she lied all the time and she always played the victim. She also smoked a pack a day throughout the pregnancy. At least, that’s what Harold said. If that’s a white-trash bitch, so be it.”

“I hear ya.”

James noticed that his knees were shaking. He made an effort to keep them still. He made an effort to keep calm. He made an effort to keep talking. “The smoking drove Harold nuts,” he said nervously. “He complained all the time. But what could he do? You know the law. The mother’s right even when she’s not. Even if she’s a self-righteous idiot with a grade eight education.”

“That’s a bullshit law,” Johnny said.

“It’s a bullshit world,” James granted. “Anyways, trying to be a dad while dealing with this bitch was upsetting. I mean, from what Harold said, she got pregnant on purpose two weeks after they started dating. You clearly don’t give a shit about anything if you pull that move.”

“Some people aren’t very bright,” Johnny agreed. “They don’t think about the lives they fuck up.” As soon as he finished speaking he thought about shooting James. Shooting him right in the Goddamn face. He wanted to do it. Oh hell, he almost needed to do it. The thought of shooting James made him smile from ear to ear.

“Yeah,” James said. Then he smiled because Johnny was smiling.

Maybe it was time to pull the gun from Johnny’s hand.

“They broke up a couple months after the baby was born,” James said. “It was a boy, I think. Can’t remember the name. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Point is… Harold couldn’t take the bitch any longer and they broke up. Then came the babysitting. He’d have the kid a day or two, and she’d have the kid a day or two. This went back and forth a while without any screw-ups. Then one day Harold makes a mistake. It was February and he was going… wherever. It doesn’t really matter and I don’t honestly know. For arguments sake let’s say he was going to the mall. So Harold gets the kid ready, he bundles the little feller up in his snow-pants and whatnot, and he takes him to the car. And the baby is strapped inside one of those baby seats… sleeping or whatever. Knowing Harold, the baby-seat is probably two sizes too small with three pounds of dried puke on it. Anyways, Harold sits the baby on the ground. He unlocks the car, opens the door, and gets inside. He puts on his seatbelt, turns up the radio… then he drives away, leaving the baby sitting at the side of the road.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah. And it gets worse. Harold’s not thinking about the baby, see? ‘Cause deep down, he’s not ready for the baby. He was never ready for the baby. So now the little feller is sitting outside and it’s February. And it’s as cold as tits on a seal out there and Harold’s gone to the mall. After a while he realizes what he’s done and holy shit does he feel bad. Real bad. So he comes racing home as fast as he can, but the guy lives downtown, you know? And when he gets home the cops are everywhere. The baby’s dead, got run over by a truck.”

“Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right. And when the smoke finally clears, Harold gets two years. Needless to say, the girl hates him and her family hates him. In fact, both families hate him. And worst of all, he hates himself. So guess what? After he’s released from jail the first thing he does is get drunk. Then he phones his mother, says goodbye, and jumps off a fucking bridge. He kills himself.”

“Oh man, that’s hard,” Johnny said.

“Tell me about it.”

James looked at the gun. It was inches away, hanging loosely in Johnny’s hand. Johnny seemed lost in thought. If James wanted the gun bad enough he could take it. He could reach right out and snatch it up. But James wasn’t snatching anything. He was so worried he was trembling. Talking. Keep talking, he told himself. Talking seems best.

He said, “After the funeral I realized something. I’m not ready to be a dad. I decided that I’d never be a dad. And now this happens, and my mom expects me to take care of Mathew. She expects me to be a father. And I’m not ready, Johnny. I love the little guy, but I’m scared shitless. I’m scared I’ll make a mistake, a big mistake. I’m scared I’ll fuck up, like Harold did. I’m telling you, I’m not ready for this. The idea of caring for that kid scares me half to death.”

The two men sat in silence.

Looking at the gun, James ran both hands along his arms. He was cold. The house was freezing.

“You know what?” Johnny said, suddenly smirking.

“No, what?”

“Your five minutes are up.”

Johnny didn’t shoot James. Instead, he slid the gun into his own mouth and tried his luck again. This time, the blast was deafening.

Anne sat with Mathew.

A nurse named Patricia––who had a face like a mule if Anne ever did see one––entered the room asking Anne if she would like something to eat.

“A tea would be nice,” Anne said, offering a smile. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is.”

Patricia took a quick glance at Mathew’s chart, which was attached to a board at the front of the bed. She checked the IV, tilted her head to one side, and returned the smile. “No trouble at all, Mrs. McGee.” She spoke with that low-level cheer all nurses seem to be naturally equipped with. She sounded happy, but not too happy. She sounded like she cared but probably didn’t. “Is there a tea you’d like best, any particular flavor?”

Anne considered her options, while running a finger along her rosary beads. “Earl Gray?”

Patricia nodded. “I drink that myself, first thing in the morning. Can’t start my day without it. You like milk? Sugar?”

“Milk please. I don’t take sugar.”

“That’s the way I take it too, with a shot of milk. You and I are peas in a pod, Mrs. McGee. Oh yes we are. We’re two of a kind. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Anne smiled kindly. She noticed, for the first time since she had arrived, how medical everything smelled. She wondered if the woman had brought the medicinal smell in with her somehow. She wondered if something had been spilled in the hallway. The aroma was way beyond strong; it was almost science fiction. “No dear. The tea will be just fine.”

Pat glanced at Mathew one last time with eyes that had seen it all. “One tea, coming up. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll bring cookies. Sometimes I like to have a lemon cookie with my tea.”

Again, Anne smiled. “Thank you,” she said, thinking, forget the cookies; I won’t eat them.

With her shoes skimming the floor, Pat made for the door. Then she hesitated. “Oh, by the way. I met your son earlier. James, is it? He seems very nice.”

“Yes,” Anne said. “He is. James is as nice as they come.”

“Well dressed too.” Patricia smiled, seemly lost in thought.

Anne wondered if the nurse had developed a bit of a crush. It was possible. Lots of women found James attractive. Girls had been chasing him around since he was eight years old.

“Well,” Anne said. “I suppose he is well dressed.”

Patricia laughed lightly and showed her dimples. They made her look younger, and perhaps, they almost made her look pretty. “I’ll see you in a moment Mrs. McGee. I won’t be long.”

“That’s fine. Take your time, dear.”

Patricia left the room and Anne stood up. She placed her rosary on the chair and opened the window. She stood beside the bed and took Mathew’s small fingers in her hand. His skin felt cold and thin. Shallow breathing came from his open lips in slow moving gasps. The bandages around his head needed to be changed once more; his blood and sweat had soaked through.

Anne wondered if Mathew would ever laugh again, or smile again, or be a happy little boy again. She expected that he would, trusting that when this terrible tragedy had passed him by he’d be able to pick up the pieces of his life and continue on without too much sorrow. She knew it would be hard. No child should lose both mother and father in a single stroke. No child should endure such pain.

She squeezed Mathew’s hand and the boy opened his eyes unexpectedly. His fingers wrapped around hers.

“Run James,” he managed to say with a dry voice. Then he fell silent and closed his eyes.

Anne stood above the child, voiceless and distressed. She watched his shallow breathing and waited for him to speak again. But Mathew did not speak. He didn’t budge. He lay unmoving, laboring shallow breaths as if nothing had happened. He looked terrible, like the saddest child in the world.

PART TWO:

RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL

After the gun went off Johnny’s head fell back. His suddenly darkened eyes faced the ceiling. A cloud of smoke puffed through the bubbling hole in the back of his skull, and rose up through his nose and mouth. His body slouched; his knees knocked together. Then Johnny’s balance shifted and his shoulders fell forward. His hand slid down his chest and the gun slipped from his fingers. As the gun slapped the floor Johnny’s head slumped and fell to one side. A stream of blood, teeth, and charred tongue, ran over his gums and down his chin. His legs slid apart and his body leaned forward. When he fell, his body hit the floor with a wet, grim thud.

Then a shadow shifted; the hardwood creaked.

James held his breath.

The shadow, James could clearly see, was the size of a small tombstone. It shaped like some type of animal, a raccoon maybe. James questioned how this was possible. He wondered if was imagining things, if his eyes were playing tricks. Was stress causing him to hallucinate?

He saw it again, and this time there was no denying it. There was a shadow on the floor and it was moving. But how could this be? James was alone in the ice-cold room, with Johnny—who lay dead and bleeding on the floor.

James got up from the couch and walked towards the door. He moved slowly. The shadow followed so he walked faster. Tiny footsteps could be heard beneath the sound of his own. Part of him wanted to run. Another part wanted to wave his hands in the air the way a child does when a wasp gets close. Things felt that way now––like a wasp was buzzing, or ten wasps, or an entire hive had come together in battle. And Johnny’s words, which sounded crazy less than five minutes earlier, began haunting him.

Sorry man, Johnny had said. I’m sorry it’s you. But if I don’t pass it on, it’ll be with me forever.

What the hell did that mean? Did Johnny pass something on to him; something worse than angry wasps, something cold and invisible, something so bad that Johnny put the business end of a gun inside his mouth before pulling the trigger?

James walked faster. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted his wrist, and pushed. The door swung open. Wind grabbed it and slammed it against the wall. Brass plated house numbers rattled against the brick.

James was running now, he realized—running down the steps and across the driveway. He threw open the car door and leapt inside. After ramming a hand into his pocket he fumbled with his keys, shifted through them, and slammed a key into the ignition. The car started and James backed out of the driveway at a racer’s pace. Air blew through both open windows. The radio spewed annoying commercials. Changing gears, he tore down Tecumseh Street like a…

A madman, James thought. Jesus have mercy… now I’m the crazy one.

As he followed a bend in the road he turned the radio off. The temperature inside the car dropped five notches and something became crystal clear:

Like it or not, James was not alone.

James slapped a hand against the passenger seat like a schoolgirl. He wanted to squish it, kill it; destroy it—whatever it was. But there was nothing to get rid of. How could there be? He was alone––alone with the ice-cold air, the empty seat, and the eerie moving shadow. Fucking hell. Maybe he wasn’t alone! He pounded his fist against the cushion, shouting obscenities. The outline was certainly there, racing in circles and evading his assault.

He pounded his fist again.

James swerved the car left and right. The book inside his mind turned a page and a new bolt of fear hit. He stopped shouting and stopped hammering the seat. His frantic behavior all but vanished. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight enough to be in the army.

The car was colder now; he had made it angry.

“And whatever you do, James,” Johnny had said. “Don’t get it mad. You don’t want it mad. It’ll get the best of you. Trust me. It’ll get even. I know. I got it mad a few times.”

The creature hissed.

Oh shit.

In the corner of his eye he saw a tiny alien; it was foreign in every conceivable way.

Then it was gone.

James wanted to believe that his eyes were playing tricks on him. He wanted to believe it, but he didn’t. His eyes weren’t playing tricks. His eyesight was top notch. He could read a street sign from two blocks away. So what did that mean? What did he see?

James wasn’t sure, but whatever it was—its skin was black and its eyes were huge. James knew that much. Past that, he had no idea what the creature looked like. It came and went too quickly. And it didn’t matter. Not really. The important thing was this: he made the demon angry and now he’d pay for it.

He hit the brake. It didn’t respond.

In fact, the car moved faster and faster.

Mathew floated in a sky filled with balloons inside the endless scenery of his mind. He knew things now. He knew that once Johnny died, things would become bad for Uncle James.

And Johnny died.

And things changed.

But time was funny inside Mathew’s mind. Time had become askew. He wasn’t part of the system now; he wasn’t part of the game. He was in a coma and he wandered the compositions of linear time at his own pace, in his own way. He didn’t know how to control this time flux; minutes could be days; hours could be lifetimes; years could be seconds.

Mathew followed a green balloon along an empty street. The balloon floated up a driveway and in through an open door. This was Johnny’s house. He saw Johnny sitting in an old chair. James was sitting beside him. Mathew saw the primordial beast crouched in the corner. The beast grew dull and its shadow lightened. Then came the sudden movement of Johnny’s hand. A red cloud exploded in the air above Johnny’s head. Mathew watched Johnny’s head move back and forth like a pendulum. He saw Johnny grin.

Then the balloon turned red and popped. James was suddenly gone.

Mathew was confused. He didn’t see James leave the room. He didn’t see him run for the door, or disappear, or fade away. In one moment James was there, and in the next moment the reality of the situation had been altered. It seemed possible that James had never been there at all. The room had darkened and the edges of Mathew’s perception felt crusted with a metallic tinge. Like the fabric––the very molecules of the room and everything that was within it––had become alive. And was moving. Slowly. Twisting and turning, changing Mathew’s visuals while keeping everything miraculously unaltered.

He heard the walls creaking around him. He heard voices in the distance that sounded like crying. And there was an odor. He couldn’t put his finger on it but it reminded him of soda in the can.

Motion stood still.

Mathew saw another balloon, a red one. As he reached for it time began rolling again. He watched events happen through the eyes of James. He watched Johnny kill himself. And although time was rolling along now, rolling faster with each implicit second, this was the hang-time between life and death, between here and there, between this world and the next.

Johnny had a never-ending river of blood pouring from his chin. And while the blood bubbled he lifted his head and smiled through a mouthful of jagged teeth fragments.

He said, “Mathew,” his voice sounded unrefined and deep. “He’s with us now, child. James is with us. Soon enough, you’ll be with us too.”

And with that, Johnny laughed. But his laughter sounded a lot like screaming.

James drove past crosswalks and driveways and a house his parents considered buying when he was just a boy. He soared by small homes with large yards and trees that were older than the town. He drove under a bridge that was under construction and through an intersection with a STOP sign clearly posted near the corner. He entered a subdivision that was just being developed. Most of the houses were still empty. Unsure of the situation, he looked over his shoulder and gazed into the backseat. Like the houses in developing subdivision, the backseat seemed to be empty too.

The fake leather steering wheel slid through his fingers and James snapped his head around faster than his eyes widened. The car accelerated, the engine revved. The seat shook beneath him. The radio turned on and off.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the car was haunted.

James slammed his foot on the brake pedal again and again; it was no use. The pedal went up and down but the car wouldn’t respond. He put a hand on his face and rubbed his eyes. Long moments of dread rolled through his mind. There was an intersection with a stoplight getting larger by the second. The light was green. James closed his eyes and held on tight, wondering if he was about to die. The car ripped along and a few seconds later the intersection was behind him. But it wasn’t over, not by a long shot. There was another intersection coming and without a doubt, another one after that. He drove in a straight line and a squirrel ran in front of the car, did a little dance, and went back the way it came. He zipped past a kid that was tossing a plastic football in the air while leaning against a corner mailbox. Up ahead a green light was changing to yellow.

A bee squashed against the window. It was big; might have been a queen.

The speedometer read: 79 MPH.

The light changed again: RED.

I’m jumping out of the car, he thought. Oh mother of mohair and shit on a stick… help me! I’m jumping out! I’m jumping out of the car!

He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard on the lever. He strained his fingers but the handle didn’t budge. There was no escape.

“FUCK!”

The crossroads drew closer.

James pulled on the handle again. The corner was less than 100 feet away now and he was going to drive right through it. There was no question; physics demanded it.

On his left, James spotted a surprised mother pushing a pink stroller along the sidewalk. She had been reading Vogue magazine, which had a well-dressed, under-fed, teenager on the cover. Their eyes met and her jaw dropped. The woman waved both hands wildly as the carriage came to a rolling stop. The magazine flapped and fluttered around her head with pages blowing in the wind. It looked like a bird was attacking.

James began screaming. His wasn’t a high-pitched siren––not like his sister-in-law’s had been the moment before her face slammed against the windshield. His was a machinegun blast, a burst of screams packed tighter than a roll of American quarters.

The shadow leapt from the seat and landed between his legs. Long, unseen fingers wrapped around his ankles, and although James didn’t know it, the beast opened its mouth, preparing its attack.

Cars, trees, lights, and signs––the essence of the small town intersection––flew past James in one swift blur. He had gotten lucky. Then his luck ended. Less than two seconds later, tiny, razor-sharp teeth ripped a piece from his leg. Blood soaked through his dress-pants and ran a line to his shoe.

James held back his shriek; his face pinched into a ball and tears rolled down his cheeks. He pulled his wounded legs together and lifted his feet high.

The creature shifted its weight, repositioned itself, and primed for another assault.

Keep your eyes on the road, James thought, with his fingers choking the steering wheel. Keep your eyes on that fucking road.

But James wasn’t in control of the car, and his eyes weren’t on the road. He was looking at the blood pooling beneath his legs, the living shadow at his feet, the steering column, his lap, his shoes, the floor––he was looking at everything except the road. Then the car forged a new path. It drifted off the road and up a curb. It ran over a man: Doctor Anson. He had just come home from work.

Anson slammed against the ground. Wheels rolled over his chest and kept on rolling. A second later the car hit a tricycle. The tricycle went flying through the air, spinning end over end in a blur of imitation chrome and red colored paint. As the tricycle was reintroduced to the planet the car connected with a young and slender elm tree, cutting it in half. Tree branches dusted the hood and smashed the window before spinning through the air. They bounced off the curb and rolled onto the street in broken fragments. Leaves scattered. Splinters flew.

James was in a state of panic now. His hands were in front of his face and his eyes were crushed tight. He whispered, “I just killed a man. Oh shit… I killed him for sure.”

The car kept going.

James maneuvered his way back onto the road for several blocks before he lost control again. The car ripped through bushes, driveways, flowerbeds and lawns. It hit a fence and white pickets exploded. A barking dog gave chase. A young boy ran. A man yelled.

And again, the creature opened its gapping maw.

James looked down, feeling new pressure around his legs. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU––”

The invisible intruder bit down again, tearing another hole in his leg. Fresh pain sent a shock through his system. His feet jerked away from the pedals and blood squirted across the floor. With his teeth clenched tight James kicked hard, accomplishing nothing. And in the top corner of his eye he saw something. Something big.

He looked up and the color fell from his face.

James understood that it was only a matter of time before the car ride would end, only a matter of time.

Time was up. The car was about to hit a house.

And a moment later, it did.

Anne stepped away from Mathew and picked up the phone, which was sitting on a table beside the bed. She dialed nine and waited patiently. The line clicked over and she dialed James’s cell phone number. The phone rang but no one answered.

Dialed again, still no answer.

She hung up the phone and walked across the room. She was thinking about James now. Not Mathew, James. She was worried and confused.

Why did Mathew speak? Why did he say, ‘Run James?’

This seemed to be a mystery without an answer, without logic or reason––unless James was in serious trouble. But even if James was in trouble, how could Mathew know? The answer was simple enough: he couldn’t know. Knowing was impossible. Besides, what dilemma could her son James be in?

She picked up the phone a second time and dialed again. Same result. James must have turned his phone off, she thought. And he’s probably at his girlfriend’s place.

Debra.

Anne cringed. She didn’t want to call Debra. She hated that two-faced, lying slut.

Just around the time Anne was phoning James, Debra––the two-faced lying slut––opened her eyes. She had just finished a nasty dream about a zombie, which was a first. Debra rarely dreamt, and had never known the joys of an unsettling nightmare. She wondered where the nightmare had originated. She never watched zombie movies or read scary books. She considered all forms of horror entertainment stupid and adolescent.

But the corpse within her dream wasn’t stupid. It was… Johnny?

The nightmare faded away. She put a hand to her face and rolled on her side. Her eyes opened and closed, opened and closed. Her breathing calmed.

At the side of her bed was a table. On the table was a small stack of fashion magazines. Behind the magazines was a love letter, written by James. It was in plain view and had been read by all of Debra’s friends. Keeping the letter exposed was important to Debra. It kept James wrapped around her finger. Just looking at it brought a smile to her face.

Boys could be so dumb; so easy.

Next to the letter was a retro style alarm clock. It was stylish and expensive, a Christmas gift from her mother. Debra didn’t like the clock or her mother, but the clock sustained impeccably accurate time. And the time was 11:35 am.

Her mouth was dry. The taste of last night’s alcohol coated the grime of her teeth. She sat up and thought, what happened? Then it came to her and a whore’s grin crept upon her face.

Oh yeah, girls-night.

Girls-night was a pussy-pass for Debra and her tight-lipped friends. It was the perfect slut move, the one night she could keep her boyfriend away, the one night she could justify being angry if he called or dropped by. Girls-night afforded Debra the freedom to do what she wanted––with anyone, with everyone.

There were always plenty of boys at girls-night.

Although her mind was fuzzy, Debra remembered most of the evening. She remembered having dinner at a restaurant and drinking a few pints of beer before changing her drink to vodka and OJ. She remembered going into a bar, doing some shots, flirting with men, and women, flashing her tits a couple times, and sitting on some guy’s lap. She remembered telling her friends not to say anything, like always. And her friends laughed, like always. As if they’d tell. She remembered one of her girlfriends kissing a hip-hop thug, which pissed everyone off. The guy was a first-rate loser that wouldn’t fuck off, which threw a downbeat twist into the party. She remembered going back to a friend’s house, making out with some dude, getting felt-up, and scoring a phone number. Then the night gets blurry.

If Debra had been asked why she acted this way, she’d say, “I was drunk.”

Being drunk was the only excuse Debra needed. Besides, as long as James was kept in the dark, it was no big deal. No big deal at all.

In fact, Debra got drunk all the time. She had lots of girls-nights.

It was no big deal.

James lifted his head and opened his eyes.

The car doors were open. The back tires were spinning and the front tires were flat. A sea of bricks sat across the crumpled hood. The windshield had a spider-web design imbedded in the glass. The smell of gasoline was strong and a small fire was aflame beneath the hood.

James coughed. “What the hell—?”

A few seconds slipped by before he started thinking the car would explode. The thought seemed logical, perhaps likely.

A few feet back, a brick fell from the hole in the wall, followed by another. He could see dust rising and settling, turning and falling. Beyond the dust he could see that the bricks, framework, drywall, and furniture, were slammed together in a splintered mess. Beneath the car more rumbling and settling occurred. It seemed that everything was finding its place.

He lifted his foot from the pedal; the back tires stopped spinning.

Memories came: his family, the gun, Johnny’s suicide, the creature inside the car, the vicious attack on his legs––it was a lot to swallow. He wasn’t sure what to think.

Suddenly the fire beneath the car doubled in size. If the car were going to explode, it would do so soon. He needed to escape. Running––that was the important thing now. But James couldn’t move; he couldn’t run. Something was holding him down. After a moment of panic he looked at his chest.

The seatbelt was on.

James muttered something negative. He didn’t remember putting a seatbelt on but then again, everything happened so fast. He probably clicked the belt without thinking. And he always wore his seatbelt, just in case.

James unbuckled. The belt slithered across his waist.

Blood dripped from his nose.

Then he heard a voice inside his head. Run James, the voice said. And for some reason he thought of Mathew.

He put a hand on the door and pulled himself from the vehicle. He dragged his feet through a heavy pile of broken brick. Hot pain burned both shins. He coughed twice and noticed that his lungs hurt. Then he rubbed a hand across his face and small stream of red smudged across his cheek; the wound was minor, but throbbed once he noticed it.

On the other side of the room a middle-aged woman wearing a scarlet flowered dress emerged with two young boys. She had dark skin, dark hair, and wore a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.

“Dios mió,” she said, panic-stricken.

James shook his head. Aside from ‘hola’ and ‘gracias,’ he didn’t know Spanish. Only English.

“¡Mira lo que has hecho, has destruido mi casa!”

“I don’t know what you’re telling me.”

“¿Estas loco? ¡Mira a tu alrededor, todo está arruinado!”

“I don’t understand,” James said. But then he did understand; it was so obvious.

He was inside the woman’s house, inside her living room. The car had destroyed her home and the woman was frantic. Of course she was. Who wouldn’t be?

The oldest boy rubbed his eyes and held his body against his mother’s waist. His fingers grappled the fabric of her dress. He had a dirty face, watering eyes, and chocolate ice cream stains on his shirt. Snot ran from his nose to his upper lip.

The youngest boy pointed at the bricks and screamed, “¡Mama! ¡Mama! ¡Miro! ¡Hay un monstruo! ¡Veámonos de aquí!”

James wondered if he had killed someone, a child perhaps. He hoped not. The last thing he wanted to do was kill somebody.

The air turned cold and he realized what the child was saying. Children are more perceptive than adults. And they could see it—see the black skinned demon with eyes like sunken pits of coal. See the beast that was responsible for this nightmare.

And they were afraid.

They were right to be afraid.

He was afraid too.

James edged towards the family. He saw a mangled tricycle at his feet and the urge hit: he needed to get out of the house. He needed to get away from the smoke, the car, the family, and everything else that was around him. He needed an open space. He needed to find a place where he didn’t feel trapped, a place he hadn’t destroyed. It was time to run, time to hide, time to go.

The youngest boy was standing in a hallway. The hallway had to lead somewhere: a window, a door, outside.

As James approached the boy, the Spanish woman grabbed his tie and pulled on it. She yelled something he didn’t understand and shook the tie angrily.

“Stop that!” James barked. “I don’t know what you’re saying!” He slapped the woman’s hand and pushed her aside angrily. He stepped into the hallway, and said, “I don’t have time for this!”

But he couldn’t help wondering: what was the family doing before the car arrived? Watching television? Eating ice cream? Playing video games?

Damn. This wasn’t fair and he knew it.

James took a deep breath and coughed.

Then he thought about Debra. He loved her so much, maybe too much. He thought she was beautiful; he thought she was fun, and he wished they were together. He believed––the way all foolish lovers do––that without her he couldn’t go on. He needed Debra to hold him, to love and comfort him. He needed the woman he had fallen in love with now, in this, his time of need, to make things better.

I wish I were lying next to you, he thought. I love you and I need you more than you’ll ever know. You complete me.

He heard a child scream.

And on the heels of that, the car exploded.

Debra’s hangover came in throbbing waves of sickness. She mumbled, “My brain is killing me.” Then she wondered if she was alone. Looking over her shoulder, she found the other half of the bed empty.

Praise Allah for small miracles.

After a minor struggle with her anally pleated sheets, she got out of bed and ran her fingers through her steel-wool hair. She pushed her drooping chest out and made dirty-girl faces in the mirror. This usually invoked a smile but today her heart wasn’t in it. The veins in her pale breasts seemed more noticeable this morning; Debra looked and felt like shit.

There was a low-cut shirt on the floor. She pulled it over her skin and made her way to the kitchen. She drank a glass of water and popped a couple Tylenols.

More memories came:

She took a cab home with friends. Her friends came inside. They listened to house music, had a couple drinks of whatever was in the liquor cabinet, and hooked up with her dealer. (The dealer was a guy named Gary she nailed more times than she cared to remember.) They cranked a few lines of ketamine and Gary invited some friends over.

And then…?

Debra turned the kettle on and stepped into the living room, expecting a sleeping body on the couch. The couch was empty but the coffee table was a different story. It was loaded with beer cans, wine glasses, tumblers, ashtrays, cigarette butts, remnants of powder and assorted rubbish that included everything from eyeliner pencils and lipstick, to an eight-inch ribbed dildo.

“Huh.” She said, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. The aftermath of girls-night was always interesting.

The kettle screeched and Debra turned it off. She made tea, sat on the couch, and pushed her feet into the heart of the mess. With the push of a button she turned on the television. Her fingers tapped the controller. Tap; tap; tap. She lifted a pencil from the table, put it into her mouth and nibbled on the end. She flipped channels until she found Dr. Phil talking to a girl that had run away from home to become a prostitute. The girl was saying she loved getting attention and hated her parents. Dr. Phil was saying she needed to get her act together.

Debra could relate with the girl.

Tap; tap; tap. After twenty minutes, Debra finished her tea, turned off the TV and returned to bed.

Two minutes later the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi Debra. This is Anne.”

After the explosion, James was on his hands and knees, disoriented. His white dress shirt hung from his body, black with dirt and ash. His tie sat low, resting in a pile of rubble. His hair was ashen with powder and his eyes were thick with dirt. The car was on fire and the heat was unquestionable, six hundred degrees and rising. Black smoke filled the air like smog over Los Angeles.

James endured a long bout of coughing and pulled himself to his knees. Sound had become a constant ring, like a chiming bell that wouldn’t fade. And there was something inside that sound, a noise of some type hidden beneath the ringing.

He coughed again, tasting filth and blood. But what about that sound, he wondered. Was a phone ringing? Was it the fire? Was it a siren?

The fire was loud, but no, that wasn’t it. This sound cut through the fire. It was a high-pitched noise, different than everything else, an unrefined echo. It sounded like screaming.

No—

It was screaming.

The family was burning.

James had been standing inside the hallway when the explosion occurred and the walls had protected him. But the family was standing at the doorway and now they were paying for it. Now they were ablaze.

A dancing inferno of arms and legs could be seen: a head swaying, feet kicking, hands grabbing at nothing. It was the woman. She was alive and burning, burning and screaming.

And the boys, where were they?

The youngest boy was lying face up on the floor. His legs were in flames and a huge chunk of metal impaled his chest. Along the side of his nose the gray matter from his brain oozed, producing a small mound near his upper lip. The other boy was missing entirely. James wondered if he had escaped but he knew it was unlikely. He was probably lying on the floor, buried in the rubble.

I need to get out of here, James reminded himself. The temperature was increasing and the flames were expanding. Plus the smoke was getting thicker, blacker. Deadlier.

He pulled himself to his feet.

The burning woman fell against the wall, twitching and screeching. Her mouth opened and closed as she hit the floor. Fingers curled and legs contracted. Her dress opened, exposing the bubbling skin beneath the flames on her chest.

James turned away. The image was madness but the grilled, barbequed stench was worse. It made him feel nauseous and revolted at the same time. There’s nothing I can do for the woman, he thought. And he was right. He was in no position to help, not while the blaze was eating the walls and broiling him alive. He was right about another thing too: he needed to get out of the house.

Avoiding the flames, James placed his hands on the shredded drywall, which was plagued with many holes. Some of the holes were big enough to crawl through. Others were like bullet holes.

I’m in a hallway, James thought. Follow the walls… find my way out.

James stumbled away from the room. The smoke thinned and the heat dissipated. He staggered past a pile of rubble, a box filled with plastic toys, and a small table with a rotary phone on it. He walked past a family portrait, a messy stack of newspapers and a closet. He found a doorway that led to the kitchen and heard a child crying.

That sounds like a baby, he thought. Someone is in here.

He dismissed the baby’s cry (But why? That’s not like me…) and kept moving.

On the other side of the room was a pile of shoes, a long rack of coats and jackets, and a doorway that led outside.

“Safe at last,” James whispered. But he was wrong. Dead wrong.

The day had just begun.

As James made his way into the front yard a man in his late forties with grey hair and brilliant green eyes came running. The man ran gracelessly, like it had been awhile since he moved with any urgency. His feet dragged against the pavement. His arms flopped around like they were made of rubber.

“Are you alright?” Green-eyes said. He put a hand on his chest and swallowed a huge breath; he was panting and wheezing.

James nodded.

Green-eyes continued battling for air. “That family,” he said. “The family with the five children, oh dear Lord, they’re not in there, are they? Are they? Please tell me they’re not inside the house!”

James turned away; he thought about the baby. But he had nothing for this man––nothing to give, nothing to say. He considered running down the street.

“The children!” Green-eyes barked angrily. He knocked his heels against the ground and swallowed his gum. “Who do you think you are? Don’t you care about anything? Can’t you see that the house is––”

“I don’t know!” James interrupted rudely. “I don’t know what to tell you, mister. I’m sorry!”

“But… my God, son, what happened? This isn’t right! What were you thinking? What did you do, drive into the house at full speed? Were you alone? Are you high on drugs? Talk to me son, talk to me!”

James looked away from Green-eyes, having grown tired of his bickering and questioning. He lowered his head and noticed that his shoes, which had been purchased three days earlier, had smoke drifting from the toes. They looked almost comical: it was the amazing adventures of Smokey the Shoe and his sidekick Puff.

Still ignoring the man, James suffered another bout of coughing—six in a row. When he finished his throat felt raw and his eyes burned. He glanced into the heart of the fire. The car was blazing. It looked like someone had thrown a giant fireball through the front door of the house.

Green-eyes moaned. He was completely distraught.

Finally James said, “Go into the backyard. Go inside the house, break the windows if you must, but get inside. If anyone’s alive they’re ‘round back. The front of the house is finished. Trust me, there’s nothing you can do around front.”

Green-eyes had his feet glued to the ground. He didn’t understand the command. He didn’t understand that he was the one that needed to look inside the inferno. The lives of the children were resting on him now.

“But the fire…”

“Go!” James demanded. “Go now, dammit! Before it’s too late! Shit man… look for survivors, people are dying, children are dying. Get them out of there!”

“But—”

“But nothing! I can’t do it! I’m wounded!”

James coughed again. This time he faked it, demonstrating that he was in no condition to play hero.

Green-eyes rubbed a hand across his face and scurried around in a broken loop. “Oh damn!” he said, putting a finger against his temple. “Oh shit, mister! Oh shit! You really want me to go back there? Oh man! Do I hafta?”

Reluctantly the man ran up the driveway and disappeared into the backyard. As he did this, the first of several fire trucks came down the street with sirens blaring. It wouldn’t be long until the police arrived.

James lowered his head and assembled his thoughts.

This is a sticky moment, he thought. How do I explain this one?

Shuffling her fat, pastel-white body across the road in an overly frayed nightdress, was a woman named Tina Comfrey. “What happened?” she asked. “A fire?”

James nodded.

“That looks like a car in there. You the driver or somethin’?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatcha do?”

James didn’t want to talk because––what could he say? There was a gremlin gnawing at my leg and I lost control of the car, sorry for the inconvenience? And if not that, what? What lie could he sell? His car was on fire, forty-five feet from where he was standing.

“I don’t know what happened,” James mumbled. “Guess I lost control.”

“Should pay more attention,” Tina said with an ugly smirk. Then her attitude changed. “This is total bullshit, you know. Total bullshit. Drivers like you, I always say. You’re the reason my insurance bill is bad. Guys like you, driving around the town like maniacs. You shouldn’t have a license in the first place. If people like you weren’t allowed to drive it’d be one safe country. Mark my words. It would be safe. Fucking asshole drivers are making things tough for the working class, every fuckin’ time. You fuck-knucklers should be lined up and shot. You should have your eyes pulled from your head.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Bullshit. You’re a crappy driver… probably the worst driver around. How many accidents have you been in? Be honest now, Sunshine… three? Four? You’re a fuck-knuckler and you shouldn’t have a license. The proof is in the puddin’, honey. The proof is right there, burning down my friggin’ neighborhood.”

Tina pulled a tissue from her tattered handbag and foolishly, James thought it was for him. It wasn’t. Tina blew her nose, licked her lips sloppily, and eyeballed the excrement. Then she tucked the rag into the folds of her purse and waited for James to say something. When he kept quiet she called him a fuck-knuckler again and spat on the ground near his feet.

James forced another batch of coughs free and looked for Green-eyes. There was no sign of him.

The fire seemed bigger.

And—

The demon was coming. James couldn’t see it but he could feel it. Oh yes. The air had become as cold as winter.

It was time to get moving.

James limped down the street holding a hand against his forehead. As he glanced over his shoulder Tina hollered: “Hey asshole, whatcha doin’? Where ya goin’?”

She waddled after him. Her huge naked feet slapped the pavement and her nightgown flapped in the wind, but she couldn’t bridge the ever-increasing gap that James was creating so she spun her husk in a circle, yelling, “That’s the driver! Stop ‘em! Somebody stop ‘em!”

Tina had become judge, jury, and would soon be executioner if possible. James considered telling her to shut-up but it was too late, way too late. Several people were already upset, and soon they would gather in greater numbers––men, women, and children––pointing and shouting, alive with judgment and accusations.

With nothing to be gained by sticking around and arguing, James kept moving. He felt like a character from the twilight zone––the businessman singled out as a fresh meal, the housewife unlucky enough to win the lottery. It wasn’t a great feeling.

Tina raised her hand in testimony, and with her index finger angled outwards she pointed straight at James. “He’s responsible!” she yelled. “I know it! That’s the guy! That fuck-knuckler is responsible for everything! He’s no good! Somebody should stop him before he gets away!”

James stopped moving and looked back, but only for a second. He eyed Tina. He eyed the fire. He eyed the crowd. The unruly mob seemed to be growing. There were twelve of them now, a perfect dozen. Plus another twenty were on their way. They looked like protesters, angry and upset with the situation. And they were protesters, although most of them had not yet realized it.

A lanky black man was dialing a number on his cell phone and two teenagers were looking at the fire, then at Tina, then at James. They seemed ready to fight. A woman had her arms crossed. A fat man with lots of tattoos rubbed his giant knuckles into an open fist. A boy wearing a t-shirt that said: WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? THE JOKE’S IN YOUR PANTS, held a long, sharp stick. A dog barked and leapt from person to person. It was the same dog James had almost run down. In the area behind the crowd a fire engine parked in front of the house. Firemen were unraveling hoses and scrambling about like troops.

And Tina stood in the heart of it all, yelling and pointing and steering the mob with her poisonous tongue.

James was beaten. He limped on, but where was he going?

I’m running away from here, he thought. Away from Tecumseh Street, the fire, and the swarm of people that want to see a good man hang.

But am I really a good man?

Up ahead, two police cars raced towards the scene.

James crossed the boulevard in front of them and limped over a well-kept lawn. He moved up a driveway, zipping past a tall wooden gate, which separated the backyard from the driveway. He shut the gate loudly. With his hands on his knees he breathed deeply, stealing a moment. The August sun was baking him alive.

After James calmed himself he sized up the backyard. The yard was big and pleasant. A swimming pool sat between two rows of Easter Red Cedar trees, which were thirty-five feet high. Each row of thick evergreens was likely hiding a fence.

It would be tough to escape through those, James figured. Impossible even.

On the other side of the swimming pool long healthy grass was a day away from needing a cut. The grass was infiltrated with several gardens, flowerbeds, fountains, benches, and statues. The statues appeared to be Italian in design. At the very back of the property line, which was a considerable distance away, a mid-sized fence divided the posh yard from a schoolyard. James understood why the fence was exposed. It allowed a nice view and made things less claustrophobic.

With school being out for another few weeks the schoolyard was quiet. Only a few scattered people could be seen. Three twelve-year-old girls were grouped together: two blondes and a redhead. A rubber skipping rope dangled from the redhead’s hand; the blondes were bickering about make-up. Behind the trio, a small boy raced in circles on his bicycle. He sang tunelessly and couldn’t have been more than five. There was an old man with a grey hat, which was pushed to the very back of his egg-shaped head. He sat on a bench reading the paper. His glasses hung off his large, age-freckled nose almost magically.

And that was it.

Okay, James thought. The schoolyard it is.

A man with dark hair and a strong upper body opened a sliding door at the back of the house. He held a margarita in a fancy glass and wore nothing more than a red-and-white striped bathing suit, if you didn’t take into account the cherry patterned towel that was draped over his left shoulder. When he stepped onto the patio and noticed that he wasn’t alone, his eyes sprung open. A healthy blend of irritation and embarrassment washed his face clean.

“May I help you?” the man said, pulling his baby finger away from his tumbler in a feminine manner.

“I’m sorry.” James replied. “But this thing is chasing me.”

“Pfft. Of course it is.” The unimpressed man rolled his eyes. It was clear that he didn’t believe a word James was saying.

Then suddenly––as if scripted––cold air flooded the yard. Margarita-man staggered and his eyes watered. His mouth popped open and his towel fell from his shoulder. He screamed––not in pain, but in shock. The cocktail slipped from his fingers and the glass fell. It shattered on the stone patio. Liquid sprayed, a slice of lime rolled, a straw went flying and ice-cubes bounced in the air.

The man—Stan was his name—stumbled against the side of the house and slid to the ground. His back scraped against the unforgiving brick, grinding a handful of skin free in a loosely curled ball. He toppled onto his side and reached for his legs. Then the skin around his knee wiggled and stretched. Blood sprayed into the air. As his meat was being ripped from his body and hurled across the deck, pain engulfed him.

The demon began crushing his throat.

Stan’s eyes bulged and his feet kicked. He said something but the words were hard to make out. It sounded like ‘save me,’ or perhaps ‘kill me.’

James covered his gasp with a hand. He didn’t want more bloodshed. He wanted everything to stop, but what could he do? What would he do? A man was dying here, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not after losing Joseph, and Penny, and Johnny, and the woman in the house, and her two children (or was it three?), and Sue, and the man he had run over with the car.

Oh God—

Did I run someone over?

Once he counted the probable death-toll terror seized him.

How much time had passed since Johnny pulled the trigger? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Jesus bum-fuck, thirty-five minutes ago James was ordering a pizza. How had things gotten so bad, so fast?

Everything was wrong today. Humanity, life, and the nature of things had all changed in the blink of an eye. What breed of world was this? Was anything possible? Was anything safe?

James staggered, much like Stan had. He had no beliefs now, none he would truly stand behind and defend enthusiastically.

Logic and reason had fallen.

“Anne?”

“Yes. It’s me.” Anne felt like a phony talking to Debra with a pleasant tone; she hated this girl. Her son deserved so much better, if only he could see it. But like most men, James was easily swayed by the charms of a smiling whore. And Anne didn’t want to fight with this whore. Not again. She didn’t want to spark up new problems or fuel the old ones. She didn’t have the energy. She didn’t have the need.

“Do you know where James is?” she said flatly. “Is he with you?”

“No.”

“Have you talked with him today?”

“No, why… is everything alright? Did something happen?”

Anne hesitated. A mother knows the difference between a rose and a thorn and Debra was no rose. She was probably lying. James was probably standing right beside her with his thumb up his ass, oblivious. “If he’s there put him on the phone, Deb. This is important.”

“He’s not here. Why? What happened, Anne? Is James hurt?”

With a deep breath, Anne began speaking. “There was an accident,” she said, but then she stopped herself. She didn’t want to cough up any details. Debra had a way of turning information into weaponry. Her tongue was a sword. Her thoughts were a verdict. “You haven’t talked to James at all?”

“No. I’m just waking up.”

“Oh.”

“Anne, are you telling me that James was in an accident? Is that what you’re saying? If it is, I’d like to know. I’d like to know if he’s okay.”

Anne tuned Debra’s words out. She watched Mathew’s shallow breathing. The boy looked more research exploration than child, being held by tubes, cords, bandages, and machines. He looked like something from Modern Science Magazine: the boy that should not be.

“Oh, I don’t know Deb. I’m at the hospital now, and I’m busy. I don’t have time for details.”

“The hospital!”

“Yes.” Anne rubbed a hand across her face and discovered that she was crying. She said, “Tell James to call.”

“But I haven’t seen him!”

“I’m sure you will,” Anne said. She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, whispering, “You always do.”

The demon showed itself. It was a foot-and-a-half tall; it had dark ears and long strangely twisted teeth. Its huge black eyes took one-third of its skull. Its thin fingers had too many knuckles; they looked like broken sticks capable of moving swiftly. Turning its head, the demon’s eyes widened. Its mouth opened. Then it snapped its mouth shut and disappeared.

Stan—the man that wanted nothing more then a quick dip in the pool and an afternoon cocktail—screamed again. Something like a gulp was heard and Stan’s larynx––along with half his thyroid gland––was pulled across the patio. His eyes rolled back and locked into place. His arms and legs trembled. His hands opened for the last time.

As far as James could tell, the death toll had just reached nine. Or ten.

James ran past the pool, the Easter Red Cedar trees, the flowerbeds, and the fountains. He ran to the back of the yard where the fence stood tall. He threw himself upon it and the metal cage shook back and forth; it accidentally clipped his face. His fingers found openings in the fence and he pushed upwards. His shoes didn’t quite fit the holes but it didn’t seem to matter. His tongue skimmed across his teeth; he could almost taste the iron-copper flavor of Stan’s throat on his lips.

Or maybe it was the fence. His mouth was bleeding again.

James looked over his shoulder; there was nothing new to see. Nothing—but then Stan’s wife Emily appeared at the door. She had an oversized t-shirt from Disneyland covering the top half of her green bathing suit. She wore lime colored flip-flops beneath her well-manicured feet. She looked at her husband, the corpse. His blood had grown into a thick puddle. Her eyes expanded, her face turned pale and her shoulders slumped. A lock of hair fell across her pretty face. As she stepped through the doorway she saw James crawling over her fence.

James wanted to explain. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a sick, murderous fiend. It wasn’t his fault. He would never kill anyone—ever. Honest.

Emily started to cry.

James crawled to the top of the fence. Cold, hard, barbs ripped his clothes and skewered his skin. Little dots of blood began forming on his shirt. He didn’t care about the pain. He cared about escaping.

He tossed himself over the wire and landed hard. His knees gave and his legs crashed into his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs. His arms spun in circles and he landed flat on his ass. Then he was standing. And limping. He limped across the yard, past the trees, the sandbox, and the swings. He limped towards the school and noticed that the gymnasium doors were wide open. He wondered why, but didn’t really care. Maybe they were airing the place out. Maybe they were moving new lockers inside, or getting rid of the old ones.

But if that was the case, why was the parking lot loaded with cars?

Without much thought he ran inside the school and found himself standing in the middle of a woman’s basketball game.

A whistle blew. From the stands, three hundred and eleven pairs of confused eyes turned towards him. A strange, uncomfortable silence came. Then the people started yelling. The competitors began complaining. The referee blew the whistle twice more and approached James with quick steps and a sour frown. When he spoke, James didn’t hear the colorful words, only the angry roar of the audience.

James raised his hands in defense and opened his mouth. But again––what could he say? How could he possibly explain?

“Whadaya think your doin’, huh?” A ballplayer said with a huff, looking down at James from six two.

“I’m sorry.” James replied.

“Then get off the square!”

James began walking, thinking that the girl was perfect for Springer. She was sixteen, big, and likely dumb as a stump.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going.”

Fans began booing and people threw things—nothing big, just cups and stuff. It’s the thought that counts.

Before long he was across the gym. He passed through double doors and made his way down a hall. He could see another hall and decided to turn left. But then came the shrieks and the screams.

He stopped cold and turned around.

The gymnasium doors blasted open and people poured into the hallway. Before long the hallway was loaded with spectators and ballplayers alike. Some people pushed in one direction, some in another. A woman tripped and was quickly trampled. Another got shoved into a water fountain.

Smart people hustled outside; others didn’t. Some wanted to see what was happening. These were the gawkers, the rubber-neckers; the idiots that created traffic jams every time someone had a flat. These were the local halfwits that could host a mob mentality in the blink of an eye. These were the people that watched seven hours of television a night and had a mouthful to say about everything; it was only a matter of time before they demanded answers.

What then? James wondered. Will they blame me for the horrors inside the gym?

The answer, of course, was yes. They’d blame him for everything they could. And if the mob had its way, he’d go home in a body bag.

A pair of teenage eyes caught his.

James had been recognized.

A girl with short pigtails ran past. James followed her into a crowd of hostile men, frantic ladies, and crying children. He made his way outside and discovered car doors opening, engines starting, people driving.

James ran into the parking lot.

A young woman jumped into a car and slammed the door. She drove over a curb and onto the street. Other cars followed. A Chevy truck sped past a group of distraught people and became locked together with a Sunbird in a congested huddle near the exit. A small accident occurred at the nearest intersection. Angry drivers jumped from their cars and shouted obscenities; the street became instantly impassable.

A few feet from the intersection two men began shoving. One punched the other. The other punched back. They began fighting. Another joined the battle before two brawlers––cloaked in the shroud of peacekeeping––stepped in, making matters worse.

A street-war was quickly brewing.

Then came screaming––not shouting, but screaming––and people turned their heads. Mouths opened and eyes widened. A scattered few began crying. Some began praying.

A boy that was lying on his back battled something nobody could see. He was sixteen, maybe seventeen. His arms were swinging and his feet were kicking. He had blood on his face and terror washing across his features like water. One of his arms suddenly locked in place, high above his head. His face turned pale and for a moment things seemed surreal.

Then his arm snapped, loudly.

People gasped.

And suddenly the crowd was moving away from the boy like a frightened flock geese, with arms flapping and their heads held low. No one wanted to lend a hand; very few considered the notion an option.

James heard his cell phone ringing; he ignored it.

Then a man with a tattoo on his neck shook James with a strong hand. “You can come with me if you want,” he said.

James nodded. “Sounds good.”

The man sat down behind the wheel of a classic 1978, two-door Mustang. Without hesitation James tossed himself into the passengers seat and they were off.

The man cranked the wheel and his arms flexed. The muscles on his tattooed neck bulged and the car spun ninety degrees. The car bounced over a curb; he drove through a soccer field. Tires shredded the lawn.

“My name is Nash,” the driver said. He looked like a wrestler.

“I’m James.”

“What happened back there, man?” Nash said. “What the fuck is going on? I saw that woman getting killed in the gym… you saw that, right? Oh man, that was so fucked up. I think her head twisted in a circle. Did you see that? How is that possible?”

James coughed and looked the man in the eye. Then he looked down. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Just keep driving. Don’t stop.”

They drove in silence for five seconds before Nash slammed on the brake. The lawn beneath the two back wheels tore apart.

“What are you doing?” James asked.

“You’re that guy!”

“What guy?”

“The guy that ran into the gym! You’re the one that made this happen!”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes you are! Look at you! You’re him! This is YOUR fault!”

“No!”

“YOU’RE HIM!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Let me explain!”

“Fuck that,” Nash shouted, pushing James with his large hand. “Get the hell out! Get out of my car, man! I don’t want you in here!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Get out!”

“Wait a minute,” James said. He could hear his phone ringing again.

“No! Either you get out of my car or I’ll drag you out by the scruff of your neck.”

“Just listen to—”

“NOW!”

“I’M NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS FUCKING CAR!”

Just as James screamed the window on the driver’s side exploded. Glass flew like tiny diamonds.

Nash shielded his face and said, “What the fuck?”

The car leapt a half-foot and stalled. Then the invisible demon grabbed Nash by the hair and pulled him through the broken window.

The shattered glass treated him poorly.

Anne called James one last time. There was no answer.

Calling him was pointless. He was probably sleeping or watching TV. Or maybe he turned his phone off because he needed time to think. Or maybe he was with the whore. She had no way of knowing and it didn’t really matter.

She looked at Mathew, lying quietly on the bed. Did he really mumble the words, ‘Run James?’

Yes, Anne decided. He did.

But did the words mean anything?

After a long while Anne decided no, of course not. The words didn’t mean a thing. The boy was dreaming. That’s all. He was probably having a terrible nightmare, the poor kid. Mumbling ‘Run James’ didn’t mean anything.

Anne whispered, “James is okay.”

And for the next while, she forced herself to believe it.

James ran across the schoolyard, leaving the man and his Mustang behind. The girls with the skipping rope watched him run. Heading straight for them, he wondered about the boy on the bicycle and the old man with the grey hat. Where had they gone? Were they at the school now? Is pandemonium a magnet for the flesh?

The redheaded shouted, “What’s happening?”

James dismissed the redhead, and her friends, and he ran past them. Then he realized that these girls would be the next people to die and he didn’t want to have that hanging over his head. He had enough hanging there already.

James stopped running and turned around.

The girls stood together, watching the tattooed man being dragged—kicking and screaming—through the car’s broken window. James wondered how the little creature managed to break the window and pull a grown man through it. But this question––like many others––would have to wait. Now wasn’t the time for philosophy; it was time for action.

James screamed at the girls, “Get out of here, now!”

The redhead’s mouth dropped open, and the taller of the two blondes began running towards the school. It seemed that running was exactly what she wanted to do. Her strides were long and powerful. She ran as fast as her little legs would manage, faster than James ever could. The other two girls hesitated for a moment before following.

“Thank God,” James whispered, watching them move. And when he heard his cell phone ringing again, he decided to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey lover,” Debra said, faking a sexy voice. “It’s me.”

“Shit babe,” James said. “I can’t talk now.”

Debra’s manner hardened abruptly. “Why? What’s the matter? Are you at the hospital? Are you hurt? You’re mother said you were in trouble. What’s going on?”

James began limping through the schoolyard. He couldn’t run; he wasn’t even sure how he did it before. Adrenaline, he guessed. But his legs felt like they had been through a meat grinder, which was getting hard to ignore.

Needing an escape route, he explored his options: he could jump the fence again and return to Tecumseh Street, but he didn’t want to be near the fire. He also didn’t want to go near the school. That could only bring more bloodshed. So what was left?

James looked around. The girls were gone now and the tattooed man had stopped fighting. The little monster is following me again, he thought. “Shit.”

“What? What is it?”

“Debra, listen. I love you lots but I can’t talk right now. I’ve got to get going.”

“Where?”

“I can’t explain. I’ve got to go.”

“Come on, James… tell me what’s happening.”

He walked faster. His eyes shifted left and right. Blood ran down his face and leg. “I don’t have time for this, okay? Give me a break, will ya?”

“Just tell me.”

James huffed. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Fuckin’ hell. I love you, okay? I love you lots. But I can’t talk on this fucking phone right now!”

Debra was infuriated. “Sure. Whatever. Don’t tell me. See if I care, ‘cause I don’t. I don’t care. I don’t care about us at all. I don’t even know why I bother having a relationship with you. Frankly, it’s not worth it.”

James hated it when Debra got her bitch on. It made him frustrated and annoyed. He said, “I don’t know what to say, Debra. People are being killed here; you get it? I love you but I can’t talk right now so please stop being a pain in the fucking ass.”

James killed the connection and slid the phone into his pocket, grinding his teeth as he did it. On top of everything else he was bitter now. He was bitter and aggravated by his domestic dispute. Sometimes that chick made him crazy.

He limped past a row of freshly cut shrubbery and over a small bridge. He followed a shaded path that led onto a street: Baldwin Street.

As his shoes touched the sidewalk a police car race by him. He stopped walking; there was a decision to be made: If he walked straight he would move towards Johnny’s house. If he turned right he would be heading towards home. If he turned left he’d move towards Debra’s condo, the hospital, and the police station.

But did he want the police involved?

Getting help seemed right, but being held for questioning seemed wrong. And he’d have lots of explaining to do. What would happen then, he wondered––when the demon arrived at the police station?

“I’ll die,” he whispered. “And so will a lot of other people.”

With a sigh, James turned right.

He decided to go home.

He managed to jog a half block on his wounded legs before spotting a bicycle that was leaning against someone’s front porch. It was a woman’s bike with a purple basket on the front, which looked completely idiotic in his book, but the bike was just his size. He approached it optimistically before his heart sank like a stone.

The bicycle’s frame was locked to a railing that was attached to the house.

Frustrated, James blew a breath of air and kicked the tire, knowing he couldn’t steal the bike. Then he noticed a second bicycle lying on someone’s lawn. With a great deal of haste James made his way towards it. Sure enough, the bike was unlocked. He grabbed the frame in his hands and lifted it to its wheels. The bicycle was a five speed. His threw his leg over the seat and dropped his foot on the pedal. With a push he was off, speeding down the road.

Theft was easy––nobody even noticed.

He hoped.

As James made his way home he could hear the sirens blaring. He wondered which disaster he was listening to. Perhaps it was a combination of both: the Tecumseh Street house-fire and the Dolan Street High School evacuation crisis. He found himself wondering how many police officers, ambulance drivers, and firemen had their hands full.

All of them, he supposed… every last one of them.

Martinsville was not a big town.

A swarm of police cars surrounded his house.

Oh my God, James thought. They’ve come for me… but how? Why?

It was obvious. His car was imbedded in someone’s house, and the car had a license plate, and the license plate defined the owner, and the owner was…

“Shit!”

James squeezed the hand brakes and spun the bike around. Going home was not an option, at least not yet. So where could he go?

His first thought was Debra’s condo. That’s where he had spent most nights anyhow, but… no. He didn’t want to go there. Actually he did want to go there but that was beside the point.

He peddled a little slower.

Where am I going?

In front of him was Cortez Street. He turned onto it peddled hard as he could. The bike wobbled from side to side as it gained speed. Driveways, lawns, houses, and trees zipped by. Leaning back, he let the bicycle coast. He could hear the hum of the tires rolling over the pavement.

Where am I going, he wondered again. What do I need? What do I want?

One thing James needed was a restroom. The pressure inside him was mounting. But what else did he need, a weapon?

Johnny’s gun?

The idea of retrieving Johnny’s gun was intriguing. But returning to Johnny’s house didn’t seem like much fun. But, he thought, if I kill the demon everything could return to normal. James shook his head. Normal. Yeah right. Nothing would be normal after this. He peddled again; he coasted again. When everything was said and done James had some explaining to do. He had police to deal with and apologies to make. Not that saying ‘I’m sorry’ was an appropriate solution for causing a string of deaths. It wasn’t. But still, what alternatives were there?

He rode another block and came to his conclusion: he would return to Johnny’s house. Getting the gun was a good idea, he decided. Defending himself was a good idea. Having a destination was a good idea.

A plan had been set. He turned left on the next street.

There was a police cruiser and James failed to look at it. Had he looked, chances were, he would have panicked. His nerves were wound tighter then a drum core snare and the odds of him doing something incriminating were greater than he would like to admit. Luckily for James, he steered the bike to the side of the road and let the cruiser pass by. When it did the sirens didn’t spring to life. They stayed quiet. A moment later the car turned a corner and was gone.

I dodged a bullet, James thought. And he was right.

His description had been sent over the wire fifteen minutes earlier: James McGee. White male, 30’s, 5’ 10”, medium built, short brown hair, white dress shirt, black dress pants, black dress shoes, black tie, last seen fleeing 216 Tecumseh Street on foot, which is located at the corner of Tecumseh Street and Spalding. Suspect may/or may not be covered in dirt and ash, and may/or may not be showing signs of injury. It is not believed that the subject is armed, but he is considered dangerous. Approach with caution.

The description was meticulous. And yes, he had dodged a bullet. Had the two officers in the police cruiser not been bickering as they passed by, odds were, they would have noticed him. And arrested him.

James stood up on the bicycle and he pressed his weight against the pedals. The ground soared beneath him. The wind pushed against his face and chest. He zipped around a corner, pushing hard as he leaned over the handlebars. A bug hit his knuckles as he went over the roll on a hill; he felt his stomach lift into his chest. He had always liked that feeling; it reminded him of being on a rollercoaster. He kept peddling and his legs burned. He rolled over a sewer; the handlebars rattled and his feet threatened to slip from the pedals. He moved past a STOP sign that someone had vandalized. Now it said: STOP - EATING MEAT. Sitting on the curb not ten feet from the sign, three boys––all of them between five and seven years old––were wasting the day away. The boys stopped talking and watched James go. He offered them a fake smile. In return a boy with spiky hair tossed a rock at him and sneered.

James turned corners twice more and peddled for three minutes. Then he found himself on Tecumseh Street looking at police cars, an ambulance, and what he figured to be a car belonging to the coroner.

James stopped cold.

It was Johnny’s house. The authorities had the place enclosed, but why?

Suddenly, James remembered the gunshot. Somebody must have heard the gun go off and called the police. Or maybe it was the pizza. He ordered pizza and gave the operator his name and address. Did he leave Johnny’s door open? Did the pizza guy step inside?

Did reasons even matter?

James was the prime suspect in a string of deaths; nothing else was relevant. Maybe it was time to come clean.

James put a hand over his face and rode away from the scene. He turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he felt his muscles tighten. The stress was getting to him.

No, he thought. Coming clean is a bad idea. The demon––

James slowed down and looked over his shoulder. The demon was gone.

Holy shit, he thought. I did it!

With animated eyes James pedaled hard. For the first time all day he was smiling; he felt like he was in charge again. The sensation sparked an idea designed to put him in an offensive position. It wasn’t a good idea. In fact, the idea was absolutely terrible.

He was going to Suzy’s house to get the shotgun.

* * *

And in the hospital room Mathew whispered, “No.”

But nobody heard a thing.

PART THREE:

BECOMING THE BEAST

James knocked two times, waited a few seconds and was about to knock again when he sensed déjà vu. He felt like he had done this before, and he had… at Johnny’s house. But this time things were different. For one, James didn’t look fresh; he looked haggard and beaten, like he had strolled through a war zone on the way over. And James didn’t feel the way he had this morning, numb. He felt energized, almost exhilarated.

As he waited, he noticed that Sue’s lawn needed to be cut and her shrubs needed to be groomed. He wondered if the backyard was loaded with junk. It probably was. Instead of knocking a third time James opened the door and stepped inside.

“Hello?”

The house seemed to be deserted; he could hear flies buzzing and smell rotting meat. As he walked through the door he eyed the floor and the walls the same way Johnny had earlier. But there was nothing here this time, he hoped. And the house wasn’t cold; the August sun had turned the place into an oven.

He walked through a near-empty living room and entered the kitchen. He found the refrigerator door wide open. On the counter he could see unwashed dishes piled next to a basket of bananas, which had melted into rot and decay. On the floor several bags of garbage had been stacked into a heap. A dead cat lay facing the corner. Dishes on the dinner table sat together with a stack of unopened mail. Flies crawled on top of everything.

He closed the refrigerator door, which was a big mistake. The flies became airborne and circled the room annoyingly. There must have been a thousand of them.

James walked down a hall and entered a bedroom. The room was completely empty.

Then he entered a bathroom and relieved himself. After washing his hands and face he checked another bedroom. The room had wall-to-wall furniture, reminiscent of Johnny’s backyard. He wondered why, and then it came to him: Johnny didn’t want to give the creature a place to hide. And either did Sue.

Shaking his head, James entered another bedroom.

He found Sue dead, as he knew she would be. The bullet had entered the temple on her right side and circled endlessly, never finding its way out. He wondered how it felt to have a bullet doing donuts inside your head as blood squirted into the air; he wondered how long she managed to keep on living.

James rubbed his eyes. Of course, Sue’s handgun was missing; Johnny had taken it. And the shotgun was nowhere in sight.

But James knew where to look; he had known all along.

It was time to check the basement.

James slid a hand along a dirty wall and found a light switch. After a single bulb came to life he walked down an old wooden staircase, eying the ridged shadows that cut the rooms into sections. Even with the light on the basement was dark. It was also damp and gloomy. The walls were an off yellow color. The ceiling was oppressively low, home to a long metal heating duct that weaved its way through the center of the room. As James followed the duct his stomach began to turn. The basement smelled like a nasty synthetic grade of cheese that had gone bad.

At the far side of the room was a door.

James approached it covering his mouth.

He clicked another switch and the glow of sixty-watts blanketed the room. He saw a workbench and some tools, a desk and a bookshelf, a small beer fridge and something that ran shivers up his spine. He stood very still, looking at three bodies lying next to each other on the floor. Each body was covered with a dirty a white sheet.

James couldn’t pull his eyes away. The sheets were game-show mystery boxes, the answers to all his questions.

He lifted the first sheet and found Sue’s sixty-year-old father.

The man had not been shot, but attacked. Half his face was missing. His skin color had changed from a warm coffee tan to a hard moldy black. His single eye was swollen and closed. His lips had been torn off. His mouth resembled a large wormhole of broken teeth, tattered gums, and a thick web that housed a sack of spiders.

James imagined the body sitting up and grinning as tiny white arachnids scurried from inside his throat. He imagined the corpse gurgling, “It’s not over. It’ll never be over. Not for you James, not for you.”

Feeling a moment of dizziness, James put the sheet over the corpse and placed a hand on a wall. A heavy spider scurried across his fingers.

He noticed a packet of shotgun shells sitting next to a pile of books. There were books on Voodoo (and Vodoun), books on Bokor, two on Haiti witchcraft, one on Nkisi and several loose articles printed in a language he didn’t recognize. He also spotted several seashells and cornhusks, an animal horn and a large hoof, which was turned upside down and stuffed with black soil.

James turned away. His eyes narrowed slightly.

The spider was crawling up his arm now; James knocked it to the floor.

He looked at the bodies again and felt disgusted. He imagined the swollen eyes of the dead opening. He imagined the bodies standing one at a time, like something from a vampire movie, with arms reaching and faces white.

But the faces under those sheets aren’t white, James reminded himself. They’re black and moldy. They’re covered with bugs.

A mouse scurried from one corner to another.

He followed the mouse with his eyes and noticed Suzy’s shotgun sitting on top of a wooden box, just beyond the bodies. The box itself was large: two feet by three feet. He didn’t notice it originally; the white sheets had overshadowed everything.

On the side of the box eccentric letters formed archaic words. They seemed antediluvian, like a bastardized version of Egyptian script. Below the mysterious markings in small faded letters were four words written in English: CONGO, BASIN, MINKISI and BAKISI. The words had been burned into the wood with an unskilled hand. He didn’t know what the words meant, but Congo—that was a river, wasn’t it?

He reached across the desk, picked up a pencil and wrote Congo, Basin, Minkisi and Bakisi on the back of an envelope. Then he stuffed the paper into his pocket, grabbed the shotgun and the shells and made for the exit.

James stood near the front door. He leaned the shotgun against a wall, placed the shells on the floor, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Debra’s number.

The phone rang once.

“Hello?”

“Debra, it’s me.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“Why not? You called me a bitch, you remember that, don’t you?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“Well you did.”

James shrugged. “Debra, listen to me. This is important, ‘kay? My brother is dead and Penny is dead. Johnny’s dead. And Sue’s dead too… in fact, her entire family is dead.”

“What?”

“Honest. I’m not kidding. I’d never make jokes like this. I couldn’t talk earlier ‘cause everything was going crazy.”

“Joseph and Penny are dead? How?”

“Car accident.”

“And Johnny?”

“He shot himself.”

“Oh my God, why?”

“I don’t know. Actually I do know, but I can’t explain it now.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, it’s a huge story that I don’t really understand. I’ll tell you everything I know later.”

“Well… where the hell are you? Can you tell me that much?”

“I’m at Sue’s house. I might stay here a while.”

“Which Sue are you talking about? You don’t mean—?”

“Suzy, the cute black chick. The one that throws those parties… you know who I’m talking about, right? We were at her place for––”

“The Christmas party! She has that little Siamese cat.”

James nodded thinking, not anymore she doesn’t. She has a Siamese cat corpse. “Yeah. That’s her.”

“Oh shit. She’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened? Did Sue kill herself too?”

“I think so.”

Debra expelled a large mouthful of air. She was speechless. A moment ago she wanted to yell at James but now her thoughts were spinning. She still felt angry but she couldn’t yell. Not now. She wanted more information.

“Oh man,” she said. “This is bad.”

James opened his mouth but said nothing. He wanted to explain it all: the car, the fire, the incident at the school, the disturbing things he had seen in the basement, the things he had done and the reason he was standing in Suzy house. But as soon as he tried to put his day into words he broke down. Suddenly his chest was heaving and his bottom lip was trembling. His fingers strangled the phone, turning white around the knuckles.

“Oh my God, I don’t know what happened,” he said. Then he cried for a few seconds, and in-between breaths he spat out, “My brother is dead and I don’t know what to do!” After that, tears ran down his face and dropped to the floor like rain.

Thirty odd seconds passed before Debra said, “Shit baby, you’re scaring me. Are you okay?” Her voice was calm and soothing.

“No, I’m not okay! Everything is so fucked up!”

“Have you called the police? They can figure this stuff out for you. If people are dead it’s a police matter.”

“I can’t call them.”

“Why?”

“They’ll think that I did it!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No it’s not!” James barked. Then he slammed an open hand against the wall. A photograph of Sue’s grandparents rattled, threatening to fall.

Debra let him have his moment. When he was finished, she said, “Why would the police think you’re involved?” There was an uncomfortable silence followed by a moment of uncertainty. “Are you involved, James? Why are you at Sue’s house?”

“Something’s chasing me.”

“What’s chasing you? You’re not making any sense.”

“I don’t know what it is… no… wait!” James wiped the tears from his eyes; he reached into his pocket and retrieved the paper that he had scribbled on. “I need you to check something for me.”

“James, listen to me. I’ve got to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Did you do something wrong? Tell me the truth now, okay? I want to help you but I need to know what the situation is.”

“No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Honest?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause in the conversation. “Okay then,” she said. “I’m calling the police. Sorry James, but it’s for the best.”

“No!” James barked.

“Why not?”

“Because the police will think I’m responsible! And…”

“And?”

The words got caught in his throat. He wondered if he should tell her. He wondered if he should explain.

“Who cares what the police think?” Debra said. “You didn’t do anything wrong, remember? Just tell them what happened and sooner or later they’ll believe you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain, what don’t I understand? What are you not telling me?”

James couldn’t go on. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill himself. “Fuck Debra!” He screamed abruptly. “Don’t call the police! I mean it!”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“But you’re not listening to me!”

“Well come to my place so we can talk about it, alright?” Her words were soft like butter, like she cared a great deal.

James shook his head and hung it low. “Oh God, I don’t know. You have no idea what you’re asking me.”

“I’m asking you to come to my place. Is that so bad?”

“I don’t know…”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? If you don’t come over, sooner or later I’m calling the police. You know that, right? I’ll have no choice.”

“Debra, don’t.”

“What else can I do?”

“If you call the cops we’re finished.”

“Yeah right,” Debra said, completely unthreatened.

“I mean it.”

She wondered if he did. He probably was being truthful, but that didn’t mean anything. She could always bring him around again. All she had to do was caress him physically and give him the affection he rarely received. He would come around, he always did. James was an easy instrument to play. And when it came to playing men, Debra had developed her fair share of skills.

“Come to my place and talk to me,” she said. “I’ll make lunch for the two of us. We can cuddle up on the couch and have a drink and find our way through this together, okay? Don’t force me to do something we’ll both regret, James. I want to help; you know that, don’t you? Please let me help you.”

“Stay away from the bloody phone, is that so fucking hard?”

“You told me that people are dying. This is a police matter. You know it and I know it.”

“Okay,” James huffed. “Fine. I’ll come over. But don’t get mad when something bad happens.”

“‘Something bad’ is not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Are you coming over?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you coming, yes or no?”

James expelled a deep, displeased breath. “Okay, I’ll come.”

“That’s all that matters.”

“Alright, whatever. Whatever you want. We’ll do it your way… we always do it your way.”

“That’s not true,” Debra said, knowing that it was true. They always did things her way. She often wondered why he allowed it. “Don’t say that.”

James felt conquered. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just stressed out and I’ve had a bad day, a very bad day. God. I can’t even believe this is happening, and I need a favor. I need you to do something for me.”

“Okay baby. Whatever you want.”

“Is your internet working?”

Debra raised an eyebrow. She wondered if someone had posted some photos of girls-night online. She wondered what photographs had been taken. Did James see something incriminating? Did someone write a party review on a message board? Did someone tell him something? She hoped not. Sooner or later he’d find out the truth about her, sure. It was inevitable. It’s hard to keep people fooled forever; it’s a full time job, really. But she didn’t want the relationship over. Not yet. Not today. She didn’t want the relationship over until she had another man lined up. And she hadn’t soured James completely. He was still good for a while; he could still buy her things and take her places. Plus her condo needed to be painted and her bathroom could use a renovation. She wasn’t finished with him yet.

Cautiously, Debra said, “I think my internet’s working. Why?”

“I need you to check something.”

“Oh, okay. What is it?”

James unfolded the paper that was in his hand. He said, “Congo Basin Minkisi Bakisi.”

James rode his bicycle with a loaded shotgun and a box of shells sitting across his lap. It was an awkward journey, but in time he learned to pedal comfortably and balance his belongings like an acrobat. He didn’t rush. He didn’t feel the need. Keeping aware, that was the important thing now. Seeing things clearly was job number one.

A car turned a corner and trouble arrived, showing its face in the form of a woman: Tina Comfrey. He had met her earlier. She was the large woman in the overly frayed nightdress, the one that called James a bastard.

Passing James inside a Honda Civic, Tina shouted, “Stop the car!”

Without inquiring, the man behind the wheel did what he was told; he parked the car a short distance in front of James. He looked very bookish.

James predicted trouble and decided to face it head on. He stopped peddling and slammed on the brakes.

Tina stepped out of the car and faced James.

Her outfit had changed. It now consisted of Nike shoes, faded gray track-pants, and an oversized t-shirt with the words NEW YORK CITY printed in glittery letters on the front. A fashion queen she was not.

“That’s him.” Tina said, announcing her findings to the world. “That’s the guy the cops are after. I should know. I’m the star witness and I watched the bastard run away. This son-of-a-bitch should hang. Mark my words, he killed five people.”

James was stunned; he didn’t know what to do. Should he run? Should he hide? Should he try to explain himself? As he struggled for answers, Tina said, “Hand me your cell phone, Elmer. I’m calling the cops on this asshole.”

Everything became crystal clear: James was at war, and this was a war he could win. He said, “You’re calling the cops on me?”

“Of course I am. The cops are looking for you and I found you. You’re a murdering prick. It’s my duty.”

“I’m not a killer.” James challenged.

“Yes you are, and you’re going to jail. That’s what happens when you kill people and run away like a coward. You go to jail.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Yes it is. I should know. I saw it with my own two eyes. Mark my words, asshole… you murdered five people and like it or not, you’re going to pay for it.”

James grinned. “You positive?”

Elmer handed Tina his phone. He could feel the tension mounting, but he couldn’t see what James had sitting on his lap. Neither of them could.

“Yeah,” Tina said, hesitantly. I’m positive… you’re a killer, all right, and I’m phoning the cops. What do you think of that?”

James dropped the bike and the ammunition together. The bike did that thing that bicycles do: it bounced and settled and the front wheel went spinning. The box of ammo broke open and shells spilled across the pavement. James raised the shotgun to his shoulder and walked towards the car, pointing the barrels straight at Tina’s face. From less than twenty feet and closing the odds of missing his target were almost non-existent.

Tina suddenly realized who was in charge, and it wasn’t her. She gasped at her new revelation and held the phone out in front of her, proffering it to James unconditionally. It was a peace offering. Her feet seemed to be glued in place.

The man inside the car didn’t move.

James saw the phone and the nervous look in Tina’s big round eyes. He didn’t care; he enjoyed watching her squirm. He bridged the gap between them until he was close enough to press the gun against her head, and then he forced her to step back.

“What are you doing?” Tina said. “You can’t be serious! You can’t shoot me! Tell me you’re not serious!”

James grinned. “I’m a murdering prick, remember? It’s what I do.”

“No, no you don’t, I made a mistake… that’s all!”

“Oh, now you’ve made a mistake. Five seconds ago you didn’t care what my story was and now you’ve found compassion? Now you’re ready to talk about it? Is that it?”

“Yes! That’s it, that’s it!”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is!”

“Fuck you.”

Tina’s eyes opened wider than before. She gained a deeper understanding of her predicament. “Oh God,” she said. “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”

“But I’ve already murdered five people, remember? What’s one or two more?”

“It was an accident, right? That’s what you’re sayin’ isn’t it?”

“No.” James said, sarcastically. “You were right the first time. I’m a dangerous killer that needs to be locked away. You should call the cops. It’s your duty… it doesn’t matter what my day has been like. It doesn’t matter what I’ve been through. As long as you do your duty, right? Is that the way it is? You don’t care about me at all, do you? You don’t care about my situation. No, you don’t. You don’t care if my brother is dead, so why shouldn’t I pull the trigger? You’re not my friend. You don’t care about me.”

Tina began panicking. “What the hell, man? What do want from me? You drove a car into somebody’s house! It’s my responsibility to call the cops! People died! This is a job for the police! Everybody knows that!”

“Then why are you involved? Huh? Can you tell me that?”

Feeling almost embarrassed, Tina quietly said, “I’m the star witness. You know… I saw it happen. I was there first.”

For a split second James felt bad. This was the biggest, most important chuck of worthless crap this woman had ever seen. And now, her good times had turned bad.

He considered letting her off the hook.

But then––

“No,” James whispered. “No fucking way.” He looked at Elmer. “If you drive away I’ll blow her fat fucking head clean off her cow-shaped body. You understand me?”

“Yes,” Elmer said with a smile.

“You sure?”

“Oh yes. You’re the boss.”

“Then wipe that stupid grin off your face before I wipe if off for you.”

The man in the car changed his expression and James looked Tina in the eye. “Move away from the car and hand me the phone.”

Tina did what she was told.

“Well done. Now go get the shotgun shells for me… all of them. And you… stupid driver, make some room. I’m getting in the car.”

James sat in the back seat on the passenger’s side with his knees crammed against the seat. His feet hung down, not quite touching the floor. The nose of the shotgun sat comfortably on the passenger’s seat headrest, snuggled against the back of Tina’s head. If he pulled the trigger, her head would likely explode.

“Turn left on Baldwin Street,” he said, and the driver followed the order. “What’s your name?”

Tina turned her head and opened her mouth.

“I’m not talking to you!” James said, pushing the weapon forward. “I know what your name is. It’s ‘Stupid Bitch Fatso Slut’. So shut your fucking pie-hole.”

With the statement stinging her ears, Tina’s eyes watered up. Her bottom lip trembled and her shoulders began to shake. She was crying now, and James didn’t like it.

He said, “Shut up, Fatso. I mean it.”

Tina snorted back her tears and pulled herself together.

It wasn’t long before James started feeling bad. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t. If James showed compassion, weakness, or understanding, Tina would have James for dinner. He knew it. There were no equals in Tina’s life. There were only those she dominated, those that dominated her, and a huge pool of unknowns that fit into one slot or the other.

“You,” James said. “Driver. What’s your name?”

“Elmer.”

“Is that what your friends call you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Wright.”

“Okay. Listen here, Elmer Wright. Up ahead is that big fancy condo they put up a few years ago, and I want to go there. If you live around here you know the place I’m talking about. You also know how busy that area can get. That little coffee shop turned the street upside down. Some days it’s like New York City. Point is… I want you to circle the block. Look for cops. Any questions?”

“No.”

“Can you do this without forcing me to blow your wife’s head off?”

“I think so.”

“Great. The condo, you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Good. Give me your wallet.”

“Come again?”

“Your wallet, give it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it, that’s why.”

Debra’s condo drifted past them. Elmer reached into his back pocket, pulled his wallet free, and handed it to James. James took the wallet, opened it and quickly looked inside. Elmer had a little more than eight hundred dollars and a couple pieces of identification. Surprised by the cash, James slid the wallet into his front pocket. Payday or rent day, he thought. It had to be one or the other.

“I suppose you want my purse?” Tina said, unimpressed.

James shook his head. “Nope.”

Tina shrugged, somewhat insulted.

James kept his eyes fixed on Elmer.

Elmer, James decided, was something of a mystery. He only spoke when spoken to and his tone never wavered. His age was hard to define. He might have been as young as thirty, or as old as fifty. His shoulders were neither broad nor wide. His face was slim. A clean looking moustache sat low on his lip. His dark hair had begun to recede, or maybe it had always sat high on his forehead, giving him a timeless look that worked very well with his demeanor.

“What do you do for a living, Elmer?”

“I work.”

“Where do you work?”

As if embarrassed, Elmer nodded his head twice and said, “At a coffee shop. Not this one here; I work just off highway nine.”

“Coopers?”

“Yep.”

“You the manager or something?”

“I’m the night manager.”

“Is that where you met Fatso?”

Elmer drove the car around a corner and said, “More or less.”

“Let me guess. She hung out there night after night, slurping coffee and gobbling donuts.”

Elmer briefly closed his eyes. “Something like that, yes.”

“She probably still comes by, is that right?”

“No. Not like she did before.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“She has bingo three nights a week and we have two children.”

Tina shot Elmer a funny glance.

“Is that right?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re trying to feed a family of four, plus pay her coffee and bingo habit on a single salary?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that’s fair?”

Elmer paused. “No. I guess not.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because I have to, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“For the children.”

“Do you really think you’re doing them a favor, keeping them locked in poverty and yourself locked in misery?”

“What else can I do? If I did anything else she would take the children away from me.”

James nodded. “Yeah, this self-righteous bitch probably would. She’d probably go out of her way to make your life a living hell, too. But you know what? You’d get your life back. And it wouldn’t be long before your children loved you for it.”

“Do you really believe that?”

James shrugged. No, he almost certainly didn’t believe it. The children would probably grow up bitter and resentful, poisoned by every negative comment and emotion Tina had subjected them to. And as the days went on, and she quietly and secretly pushed Elmer away from the family, they would almost certainly blame him, forgetting about his love, his efforts, and what lay within his heart. They would most likely become a tool of their mother’s selfishness and never learn the truth about her actions.

“Do I turn here?” Elmer asked.

“Yes.”

Elmer turned the corner and they drove a half block in silence. Then James asked, “Do you love her?”

“Yes,” Elmer said without hesitation. “Of course I do.”

“No,” James said with a soiled tone. “Don’t feed me bullshit ‘cause Fatso wants to hear it. Tell me the truth now. If you’re lying, I’ll pull the trigger. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Okay.”

“Do you love her? I mean, really still love her?”

James watched Elmer’s expression change. He looked like he was thinking. Finally, after a moment of thoughtful silence, Elmer weaved the car around another corner, and said, “I used to love her a lot. But now… things are pretty routine, as I’m sure you can understand. This is the way my life turned out, if that makes any sense to you.”

“What made things change? Did she change?”

“No, I did. She hasn’t changed a bit.”

“Really.” James glanced out the window. The streets looked good; he didn’t see any police. “And how did you change?”

Again, Elmer was lost in thought. He said, “When we got together I was very lonely, and very unhappy. I was glad to have found someone. But now I think I’d be happier with this relationship behind me. I don’t wish that we had never met… I’m glad we got together. It’s just that… I wish I didn’t have Danny and Beth to think about all the time. I’ve taken all I can from our relationship, and now it seems like I’m tied to it forever.”

Tina was as cold as stone.

James said, “Danny and Beth?”

“My son and daughter. They’re such good kids, and I love them so much. I don’t want to leave them, and I don’t want them sitting in the middle of a custody battle. Trust me, I’ve thought about all the angles. There’s no easy answer.”

“How old are they?”

“Beth is six. Danny is eight.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re gone to summer camp for the week.”

“When will they be back?”

“Thursday.”

Elmer drove past an old lady standing on the curb, and around another corner. James was surprised to see Debra’s building so soon.

“Stop here,” he said. “We’re going inside.”

They sat in the car waiting for the people on the sidewalk to thin out. While waiting, James said, “Okay Elmer, this is the plan. I’m going to give you a set of keys.” Still sitting in the back seat, he reached into his pocket and pulled the keys out. “Here, take them.”

Elmer opened his hand.

For the first time since James entered the car, Elmer’s eyes met his. They locked. Both men were trying to read each other. With a smirk, James dropped the ball of unorganized keys in Elmer’s hand, which Elmer immediately clinched.

“See the biggest key?”

Elmer looked into the ball. “Yes.”

“The one that’s twice the size of the others?”

Elmer shuffled through the set and held the appropriate key from the bundle. “This one?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. That key opens the building’s front door. I want you to get out, leave the car door open. I want you to walk across the sidewalk to the front of the building. I want you to open the door with the big key. Once the door is open, I want you to hold it open and wait for us. Don’t try anything funny or I’ll shoot the stupid bitch in the head. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now listen Elmer, and listen well. Maybe you’re thinking that a shotgun shell in your wife’s brain is exactly what your relationship needs, is it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I would never think that.”

“You better not, because if you do something foolish here, Fatso won’t be the only one dead. Oh no. I’ll come hunting, and before you know it, little Danny and Beth will be dead too. Their smiling faces will be splashed against the nearest wall and you’ll be the one to blame. Not me. You. Get what I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“I have your wallet and I know where you live. I’ll murder both of your children without hesitation, first the boy, then the girl, one after another. I’ll do it slow, and I’ll make sure you’re alive to know it. I’ll write ‘this is Elmer’s fault’ on the wall, in blood. Get me?”

“If you do anything to my kids, I’ll kill you.”

James grinned. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

Tina squealed something incoherent. This prompted James to push the double barrel against her head with more force then he intended. Her neck snapped forward. It looked like it hurt.

“OUCH!”

“Shut up!” James said with an evil grin, really driving the boundaries of this ‘character’ he was developing.

As the bookish man and the slob woman waited for more instructions, James admired his own untapped acting skills, which were not bad for a beginner. If he were exploiting them on stage his friends would say he had a future. At least, that’s what he was thinking.

The tough-guy image of Clint Eastwood came to mind, almost making James giggle. And that’s who he was now, inside his own traumatized head: Clint fucking Eastwood.

In character, James said, “I’m ready to kill you right now, bitch… so shut your fat fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for good!”

Tina whimpered.

Then James laughed. In a way, he felt amazing. He was living the adventures of the classic anti-hero. And everyone loves the anti-hero, right? If this were a movie the public would be all over it.

It could happen, James thought.

And even if it couldn’t happen, James was beaming now. He failed to see that his thoughts weren’t logical. They were his defense; he couldn’t handle the situation. He had no game plan, only the odd play or two. And sooner or later (probably sooner) things would catch up with him.

Elmer watched James spinning his mental wheels and wondered if the man had snapped a cable. This notion didn’t sit well with Elmer. It made him nervous, made him think.

“So Elmer.” James said, rubbing the side of his face with an open hand. “Are you ready for this?”

With a grave tone, Elmer said, “I think so.”

“You think so? You better know so, brother. Are you ready for this, or not?”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

“Good.” James turned his eyes on Tina. “Hey slut, you still with us?”

Whining, Tina said, “Yeah?”

“Good. You’re going to stay right where you are until I tell you to move. Then you’re going to open the door, slowly, without drawing attention. You’re going to step outside. You’re going to walk to the building in a calm and cool manner. Let me repeat that… a calm and cool manner. You’re going to wait for me inside. Nothing else. If you decide to start yelling, or if you decide to run, or do anything you shouldn’t be doing, I’m going to shoot you. And guess what? I’m not going to shoot you in the head. I’m going pump two shells into your back, halfway up your spine. Then I’ll blow one of your hands off at the wrist. Maybe you’ll live, or maybe you’ll die. I don’t know. I don’t care. But either way you’ll spend the rest of you life with a broken back and a missing limb, wishing you had done exactly what I said. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Expelling a giant mouthful of air, Tina asked, “Why are you doing this to me?”

Elmer closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged, thinking James would pull the trigger.

James didn’t. Instead he made a sound like ‘pfft’ and said, “No, you stupid dry-cunt whore. Any questions regarding what I’ve told you?”

“No.”

“Good. Elmer, open the door.”

Without looking at Tina or James, Elmer opened the door.

“Now go.”

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