Dwelling Read online

  Johnathan could feel the lump in his heart become heavy. He pulled his scarf off. He choked on the dust, tasting all the nastiness of the Baghdad ghetto, but paid little heed. The soldier scanned his field of fire. Anticipation boiled in his veins. Then the yellow sand darkened again.

  The glimmer returned, taking shape, forming in the dust. His mouth fell agape. “What the fuck is that?” He screamed inside, his mind rattled and confused and terrified.

  From the alley across the road the shadows dissolved, giving form to some massive Thing with skin covered in bristle-like hair as black as tar. The bulking torso hissed, and swelled, hissed and swelled. Its thin, but otherwise muscular, fragile-looking legs twitched in the sand, protruding and stretching out, pulling down the tarps of the vender huts near it.

  How many legs does this thing have? What is this? I’m dreaming, have to be. This can’t be…

  In the dust-whipped wind what looked to be mandibles where its mouth should have been opened and then snapped shut. It was hissing, but the hissing sounded like clicking, the rattle of teeth in a glass jar or a snake poised to strike. On its head was an unmistakable shape, as frightening as it was. Bulging from its head, two swollen red eyes taking up nearly all of the creature’s face glared in the dust, compound, like the eye of a fly, gazing directly at him.

  Its antenna drooped low, and then it began talking to him with a wild rush of clicks in its throat. The sound was terrible, reminding him of spring months back home, the swarms of cicadas that blanketed the canopy in his parents’ backyard every few years or so and the eerie sound they made, the clicking, horrible hissing, just like in that one movie Ricky loved to watch when they were kids around the same part of the year, the 1950s atomic-age science fiction flick, the one with the giant ants.

  Partially hidden in the dust, the height of the hideous Thing was hard to guess, but whatever is was, it wasn’t possible. None of this was possible. It couldn’t be real, yet there it was all the same, hulking out from across the street, large and hungry looking.

  “Are you seeing this?” Johnathan croaked, his voice pained with fear and doubt.

  “What?” asked Ricky. He turned in his seat, looking out the driver’s side window. Searching. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me!” Johnathan yelled, panic stained in his voice. He kicked the driver’s seat.

  “Dude, we’re about to dibby out. Stop being so jumpy,” Ricky scolded. “I don’t see anything, man.”

  “Look, you asshole!” Johnathan kicked the driver’s seat again with his boot.

  “Dude!” Smith turned fully around and peered in the direction Steele was gesturing. He fell silent for only a moment and then he yelled, “Get down!”

  “We need to do more than—” Johnathan had started to say, but was cut short. He looked back to the alley where the Thing had been, but the monster was gone, replaced by a man with a shaved head shouting something terribly familiar and propping an equally terrifying object across his shoulder.

  Is that?

  “RPG!” Ricky screamed on the radio.

  The air sucked back. Johnathan thought he was going to puke as he watched a plume of white smoke rocket toward him. The world was motionless for a second, perhaps less. In that moment he thought of Karen and Tabitha, he thought of his childhood and his friends that filled it. Then the explosion hit, lifting his Humvee upward into the air.

  The large metal behemoth came crashing back to earth with a thunderous moan. He fell inside. His head smashed against the gunner’s platform below. He saw nothing, only white, burning light. Outside, he could hear the crackle of gunfire faintly against the ringing in his ears, like fireworks in a neighborhood a block away.

  People were shouting. His squad mates, maybe. Language seemed beyond him at the moment. He could smell sulfur and the awful hint of something else…like overcooked meat on the grill, he imagined, dazed and numb. Through the broken window he watched the battle of Al-Hurriyah with disbelieving eyes.

  Another explosion struck somewhere nearby. Pebbles or chunks of the police station perhaps rained down on his truck. The radio was abuzz with noise, fire direction, casualties. Someone yelled through the mike, “Death Blossom.” Death Blossom…? Are we under attack…? Yes…Ricky called it out, didn’t he? His head rung with the battle cry.

  Johnathan shifted his weight. One of his legs fell from the strap he used as a seat, the other felt strangely dead. He looked. Among the yellow dust and stars that filled his eyes, he could see, though blurred, the gnarled remains of what was once his right leg.

  “Shit!” he screamed, clinching at his thigh. I can’t look. I can’t look. Ricky. Ricky? “Smith? Ricky? Are you okay, man?” he winced, straining to get a look at his friend.

  No answer.

  More rattling pinged off his truck. Someone nearby yelled, “Got you, you fucking bastard!” Another voice screamed in language not entirely unfamiliar.

  Must be some of the Iraqi police, he thought vaguely caring. Death Blossom…those assholes are going to ping someone in the back…

  Something was pinching his neck. He reached and felt warmth and something hard. He dug whatever it was out and pulled his hand to see. He glared dumbfounded at what looked like a tooth.

  Not mine, he thought, testing his teeth with his tongue. He looked at Ricky, but his form was covered in haze.

  Gunfire continued to crackle outside, but in the broken and torn Humvee, the world felt like a tomb.

  He could see Ricky now, lying awkwardly in his seat, one hand still clutching the radio receiver. Smoke wafted from his body. He didn’t move. And the smell…the smell was terrible.

  Johnathan blinked. Not real. Not real. “Ricky, you son of a bitch, answer me! Are you okay?” he yelled. Hot adrenaline coursed through him like a drug, pooling in a venomous sundry of dreadful sorrow and hate, lumping together in his heart, stealing his breath. Maggie’s face flashed in front of him and then Karen’s, but he pushed them away.

  Please, God. No.

  “Ricky!”

  Still no answer.

  Loud pings ricocheted off the Humvee. Johnathan angled to get a better look at his friend. Outside, he could vaguely see the remnants of Renegades pressing the attack, a few trucks pulled in front of his, protecting him. Finally, his other leg fell from the strap, or what remained of the mangled meat. The malformed limb came down hard against the gunner’s platform in a wet and grotesque thud.

  “Shit!”

  He clutched his thigh. Eyes clamped shut. Stars filled his vision again. Biting his lip. Blood tasted like iron. The agony burned, shooting up his body like a lightning bolt. His head fell back.

  Lightheaded and heavy, darkness began to cover his vision. No! He fought to stay awake. Ricky! He fought against the clammy coldness prickling his skin. He fought against the gaseous feeling in his gut. He fought against the terrible pain, and horrifying thoughts of his friend.

  Is he…? No! He’s not. Can’t be. Not him. He’s married. Maggie is waiting. Maggie and Moxie. Bobby and Jake. We’ll get together, grill some burgers. Nope. This isn’t real. Ricky’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. Right? This can’t happen to me, to us. Not us.

  “Smith? Steele?” yelled someone from outside. The gunfire had faded away. Smoke clung to the ground like a vapor of death.

  Johnathan was fading, but he could hear voices. They were distant, as if miles away, calling his name, calling for him and for Ricky.

  “Shit, Steele…hold on.”

  Johnathan recognized Sergeant Cobbett as he peered into the ruined Humvee. “High there, serge,” he said dizzily.

  The tubby father of five yanked open the back passenger door. He heaved himself toward the gunner’s platform. Carefully avoiding the fleshy mess of what remained of Johnathan’s leg, his boots rested underneath him as he surveyed the damage done to his gunner.

  “Everything is going to be okay. Hang in there,” croaked Cobbett. His freighted eyes said everything
his words would not. His lips looked parched, his tongue lashing out in nervous licks.

  “I’m fine, serge. Check on Smith. He isn’t answering me,” Johnathan pleaded, grimacing against another surge of molten pain. He watched Cobbett’s eyes. The robust team leader glanced toward Smith, lingering for only a moment, and then fell back to Steele, apologetically, sad, telling the gunner the tragic truth of his friend.

  “What the fuck happened? What’s wrong with Smith? Ricky? Ricky! Can you hear me? Answer me, damnit! God, answer me…please…please…” Johnathan cried out.

  “The medic is coming. Hang on.” Cobbett did his best to sound reassuring. Holding Steele down, he took out his first-aid kit and began to put pressure on the gunner’s mangled leg.

  Johnathan screamed out in pain and then started to sob, touching his face to hide the tears. Pulling back he saw red. Dark, dripping crimson covered his glove. What the hell? He looked down. For the first time, he realized the extent of the damage. His right boot lay somewhere unseen in a nightmarish scene of flesh and bone and pulsing sinew. Chunks lay exposed. His uniform torn and drenched in gore.

  “My leg! My fucking leg! I can’t move it. I can’t move it.” Johnathan began to thrash. His head spun with searing pain. He clutched at his wound. “No! Save it, save my leg. Don’t make me a cripple, please, please, please!” he screamed. “Smith? Ricky, can you hear me? Smith, answer me, you asshole.”

  Darkness approached. Johnathan could feel himself fading in and out of consciousness.

  Cobbett could do nothing but hush him gently, as a father would comfort his teething babe. Until the medic came, it was all he could do. It was all anyone could do as the insurgent attack ended and the Renegades stood by, watching the horror show unfold. They waited for the medivac. Those that believed, prayed, and even those that didn’t joined. One of the gunners, Smitty perhaps, was on the ground, pushing one of the Iraqi policemen, yelling at him, calling him every vulgar word there was. He smiled at this in a dreamily, sleepily kind of way. Smitty always had a temper.

  “Smith…Ricky…please say something…” Johnathan fought to sit up. He needed to see his friend again, just again, just one more time.

  “Sit still, dammit,” Cobbett hissed, fatherly.

  Outside Johnathan could feel his squad mates watching him, praying for him, but those prayers meant nothing. In the sudden quiet, he knew his best friend was gone. He knew, and in the moment, wanted nothing more than to join him on the other side, wherever that side may be.

  “Where’s that fucking medivac?” yelled Cobbett over his shoulder.

  “Ricky…?” Johnathan lifted his head, peering past Cobbett’s large ACU clad form. He could see Ricky still sitting in his seat. A noxious fume came off him in rolling waves of rotting stink. He could see the singe marks. The soot. The blood. He could see everything. His childhood friend, limp and smoldering dead.

  There was more shouting. Jubilant, almost. Johnathan could hear the muffled swirl of fan blades, whipping at the air, but still did not care. Let me die. Just let me die. The sound was meaningless. Nothing. Mere echoes. He reached out with weak arms. And fought to touch Ricky, feebly so, then thumped back down.

  He closed his eyes and turned away. He stared with grey eyes through the ruined and shattered window opposite the medic. Outside, the Thing from before was looking in with its foul, red bulbous eyes and broad wet mandibles. Clicking. Clicking. Clicking.

  Johnathan screamed and thrashed, but was held firmly down. “Don’t you see, don’t you see?” he moaned, but no one heard. No one listened. The Thing scurried over the truck. Its eyes looked down at him from on top gunners hatch. He gazed up, panicked.

  Have you come to collect me? Have you come to take me away?

  Another thought came into his mind, a thought not entirely his own. Soon, it said.

  Soon!

  Then the sorrowful blessed black abyss of unconsciousness took him.

  CHAPTER 2

  BOBBY WEEKS

  Bobby

  Houston, 2005

  Bobby hadn’t moved from the gutter for over an hour. He was fairly certain he’d been soaking in his own piss and not just the typical street water that floated down El Dorado. He knew he’d eventually have to vacate before the restaurant, or someone else, called the cops. But for now, he had time. Besides, there was still three-fifths worth of whiskey left in his bottle of Jack Daniels, the remnants from proceeds collected at the intersection of Bay Area Boulevard and Space Center. Typically good, hearty folks would burn past him in a haze of exhaust. Today, however, in a rare turn of charity, some robust, jolly man with rosy cheeks and a white beard wearing a red t-shirt had handed him twenty big ones and had told Bobby to spend the money well.

  And spend it well I did. Bobby smiled, propping himself on the curb, dragging himself in his own waste. He took a long, biting chug, stopping only for air, watching headlights drive by in white, turning red as they passed. No need moving just yet, the homeless veteran thought. Not ’til this baby is done for. He closed his eyes against the burn.

  The burn felt wonderfully terrible. It was the best thing really, he knew the darkness inside hungered for release, and the booze often helped subdue his memory of it. So while his belly swelled from the hooch and the muck he’d eaten from the 888 Bistro dumpster, he enjoyed the momentary reprieve. The white Styrofoam box now sat beside him, scraps of Chicken Chow Mein hanging low, tickling the cement. Whisky and Chinese Food, fine living right there! No doubt about it!

  Another pair of headlights came close, casting him in a burning brightness unnatural in the night. Darkness returned, followed by the sound of doors opening. The patter of expensive shoes clicking on cement near his resting spot; it was a sound Bobby knew well enough. He didn’t bother looking up. Instead he pondered which to finish first, the booze or the food. Hushed whispers spoke in another all-too-familiar tone. Disgust, with a dash of pity.

  I don’t need your fucking pity, asshole!

  Bobby braved a look. A posh looking lady wearing some kind of designer black dress and her gentleman companion, some shmuck in a pair of trendy-worn jeans, a graphic-tee, and a sports coat, snuck a glance from over their shoulders as they walked toward the restaurant.

  Spare a dime? The veteran allowed the bottle to clank to the ground. Lifting his heavy arm, he gave a clumsy half-salute and smiled, proudly showing the bits of Chicken Chow Mein stuck between his unbrushed teeth.

  The couple gushed with a mix of vile contempt and embarrassment as they rushed for the looming wooden doors of the Chinese bistro.

  Bobby let his salute fall. He retrieved his bottle of Jack and finished the contents. He sat there for a moment—not sure what to think or do. Fucking rich assholes, he thought darkly. On unsteady feet, he stood, and sure enough, his pants were wet. He reeked of urine and God knows what else that flowed down the gutter to the storm drain. He watched for a moment as a wad of paper drifted by and flopped down into the sewer.

  Bobby gazed into the darkness. The pitch black was deep and consuming. Somewhere off in the distance, in another time and place, he could hear gunfire and shouting and the sound of an eruption of metal and earth. Snapping back into reality, he searched for his soiled ACU pattern hat.

  He brushed bits of dirt from the OIF patch, slapping it against his thigh. Satisfied, he pulled back his greasy hair and put it on. Turning to the car the posh couple had arrived in, Bobby held tight to the empty bottle of Jack.

  How’s life? Not bad, I’m guessing. I’m happy for you. I really am. He arched the bottle and chucked it into the car’s windshield. Broken glass erupted. The alarm screamed. Some far-off dog barked.

  No one came out to see the damage, but he assumed the cops were already on the way.

  My gift to you. No really, no need to thank me. Bobby grinned ear-to-ear. Turning to leave, he looked above and watched with murky pitiful eyes as a haze of dark grey clouds drifted apart, as if Moses himself had done the work with his snake like staff.
/>   The moon above was bright, but not quite full—not yet at least. A few more days… A miserably cold chill ran up his spine. Only a few more days till that damn moon is full again. Has it really been a month? Is it time already? Fuck me. Again and again and again, it never ends. It will never end, unless…

  Bobby stood on the edge of the street. A pair of large, thick yellow beams came barreling toward him. The roar of the engine was deafening. A city bus, he guessed. He watched. His feet inched closer to the edge. He could feel his body teetering forward.

  Do it. Do it. End it now. End it now before you kill again. You will. You know it. You know it. It’s only a matter of time. Do it. Do it! Jump!

  Bobby inched closer. The bus was almost upon him. He closed his eyes. The bus roared its horn. His eyes shot open. “I can’t!” he screamed and then fell backwards on the curb. The siren bellow of the passing municipal bus whipped at his hair.

  Fucking coward.

  Bobby begrudgingly picked himself off the ground and stumbled down the road, to one of the many underpasses littering Interstate 45 for a resting place to turn in and dream a sleepless night. The next morning he knew he would have to make the journey south toward La Marque, toward Hitchcock and Bayou Road, toward Luna and her cage before the next moon.

  CHAPTER 3

  MAGGIE SMITH

  Maggie

  Maggie could not sleep. Everything was hot. Her sheets were drenched, but her skin shivered, crawling with cold goosebumps. Her body cried out for rest, yet her eyes remained alert. She sat upright, her back resting against the headboard, struggling in a sea of confused and wandering thoughts. “No more dreams,” she moaned, she prayed. The alarm clock on the nightstand said 3:00 a.m. Her eyes fell on Ricky’s side of the bed. Forever empty.

  The painful memory pushed her legs over the side. Enough! Eyes on the floor. Sweat rolled down her face. She smeared the beads with a clammy, unsteady hand and snuck another glance over her shoulder to where her husband used to sleep, half hoping to find his ghost looking back at her.