Dastardly Bastard (17 page)

“Ah, shut the fuck up.” Lazy-Eye reared back and slapped Sunne across the face. Her head snapped to the side.

“Hey!” Donald, taken off guard, responded a little late. “Fuck off, asshole!” He shoved Lazy-Eye hard in the gut.

He was popped in the face by what he could only guess was Scar-Lip’s fist. Donald bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.

“You first.” Lazy-Eye cackled. He threw his own punch. Donald felt something in his nose give way. “Get rid of this short shit, will ya?”

Donald, still reeling from both hits, stumbled back and landed on his rump. He felt himself being pulled off the ground, someone’s hands under his armpits.

“Get your… fucking hands… off me,” Donald wheezed.

Scar-Lip dragged him to the stairs of the brownstone across the street and tossed him onto the first step. He put a boot in Donald’s chest and pushed him back against the cold concrete.

Donald leaned around Scar-Lip’s foot and watched as Lazy-Eye disappeared into an alleyway, Sunne in tow.

“Bring her back!” Donald cried, coughing blood onto Scar-Lip’s shoe.

“See what the fuck you did?” The hood wiped the blood off his Doc Martins with his fingers and cleaned his hand on Donald’s dress shirt.

Without thinking too much about what he was doing, Donald punched the thug as hard as he could in the eye while the guy was still bent over.

Scar-Lip stumbled back, holding the side of his face. Donald tackled the guy, rolling him into the street. He pounded Scar-Lip’s throat with his fists, while kicking the man in the crotch.

The man’s flesh cracked like dropped china. A thick, gooey blackness oozed from the segmented skin, covering Donald’s hands. He kicked one more time before his foot got caught.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Donald growled. He pulled his hand away, inky strands of blackened membrane coming with it. He rolled off the man and scurried away on his hands and knees. A few feet away, he got to his feet. He hobbled to the alleyway where Lazy-Eye had retreated with Sunne.

The corridor smelled of piss, vomit, and trash. Sickly, jaundiced rays came in from the opposite end of the alley, pouring off a streetlamp with a broken cover. He stopped halfway down and did a complete three-sixty, hunting for Sunne.

Donald heard her muffled whimpering and found the two beside a dumpster. He’d ran right past them in the poor light.

Lazy-Eye had Sunne’s pants down around her ankles while he worked between her legs. The hood’s ass was pale in the yellow glow coming from the streetlight.

Scar-Lip stumbled into the alley. He was laughing—a gurgling, bubbling sound—as ropes of viscous fluid poured from his shattered face. In his right hand, the blade of his knife gleamed.

“Get back here, Midget!” Scar-Lip growled.

“Keep him… away,” Lazy-Eye grunted as he pumped. He had his hand over Sunne’s mouth. Donald could see the fear in her bulging eyes.

Ignoring Scar-Lip and his blade, Donald rushed the rapist, punching the man in the back of his head. The skull shattered, and broken pieces of porcelain-like flesh clattered across the floor of the alleyway.

Donald fell back against the brick wall. His knuckles were bleeding where the glass head had cut him. The insanity of the situation infected him. He was rooted in place, flush with the brick wall.

“I don’t know, but I’ve been told,” the headless hood sang. “Chinese pussy’s mighty cold!”

The alleyway tilted in Donald’s vision. The world had become unhinged.

Donald watched helplessly as the headless rapist shoved his jagged neck into Sunne’s throat. It dug around, widening the wound.

Donald snapped his eyes shut and screamed until his throat was sore.

When he opened them again, he was back in the cave.

“Remember me, you small, useless man!” the dead-Sunne thing roared, its hands still around Donald’s neck.

“Plea… puh… pee…”

Donald…

The thing’s head snapped to the side with a low growl.

Donald’s head swam. The damn fish had returned.

I’m right here, Donald…

“No!” the dead-Sunne thing raged.

Donald wondered who it was screaming at, but the thought was fleeting. He would be dead soon. Very soon.

Sunne’s grip on Donald’s throat loosened. He sucked in much-needed air in harsh, burning gasps.

Follow my voice, Donald…

Dead-Sunne thing roared, “You have no power here!”

Donald saw the creature raise its rotted hand and bring it down.

Everything went dark.

Donald heard a boy’s voice. “Cops!” then, quick footsteps running away.

He looked to the left. He was back in the alley.

“Why the fuck did you cut her? I didn’t get my turn.”

The words crashed in Donald’s ears like tangible objects full of weight and crushing gravity. He fell to one knee, slid in a mucky puddle, and landed on his face. The asphalt was cold and slimy. Donald threw up twice before he was able to push himself to his feet.

He leaned against the brick wall, his breath hitching in his chest, throat burning from his voided stomach. When he had his bearings again, he went to find Sunne. He hoped for the best, but expected the worst. He got the former.

Sunne was still fighting for what was left of her life. Crimson hands slid around on her neck as she tried to hold the tear closed. She saw Donald and reached for him with a bloody hand, but before he could get there, she returned the hand to her slashed throat.

Donald collapsed just two feet from Sunne and crawled the rest of the way to her side. He came to Sunne, supporting the nape of her neck in his palm. The action caused her torn throat to open further, and her fingers disappeared into the wound. Donald felt nauseous again. He laid her head down so he could vomit.

Sunne’s eyes begged for help. He couldn’t tell if she was able to breathe, but didn’t think it mattered, considering how much blood she was losing. He put his own hands over the slit and pressed down hard.

For the fourth time that night, Donald lied. “You’re gonna… be all right.”

Sunne kicked violently, gurgling on her own blood, slapping at Donald’s chest. She wasn’t trying to push him away. She only wanted help. Donald figured Sunne knew she was already gone. Her brain just hadn’t caught up with the fact.

Out of the corner of his eye, Donald saw someone watching from the mouth of the alleyway.

The black kid pointed out into the street. “Help’s on the way! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry.” Then, he ran away.

Donald wished he could do the same. When Donald looked back down, Sunne’s eyes were wide-open, and she had stopped moving. It was over. He leaned over and kissed her blood-soaked forehead.

What do you say to the dead? That you’re sorry? Does it really matter? Donald didn’t think so.

Donald…

“What?” he managed. The voice wasn’t exactly a stranger’s, but he still couldn’t place it.

You have to come back, Donald.

“Fuck off.” There was no anger in him. He didn’t have the strength to be mad. He was growing dizzy.

This isn’t real, Donald. Not anymore. They’re just memories.

“Who cares? It
was
real. A long time ago, it was
very
real.”

Donald…

He found himself under a shadow cast by a figure at his side. Donald looked up, trying not to cry. “She didn’t deserve this.”

No. She didn’t.

“She deserved better than me.” Donald whimpered. He couldn’t even look at Sunne’s body. He wouldn’t
allow
himself to look.

Donald, come back. We need you.

“Who are you?”

You don’t remember me?

Donald thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, he just might.

31

MARK SIMMONS STUDIED THE PHOTOS on the walls, looking over the scars that remained with him. The wars and the horrors men were capable of played out in front of him in stunning photographic detail. He trembled, shocked at how good he was at capturing the terrible side of the world as he knew it.

“The dead call from your work,” Annabelle said. “Do you remember these fallen brothers?”

Mark shuddered. “Yes.”

“You made a living off the trials and tribulations of others, Mr. Simmons.”

“I was telling their stories.”

“You were reaping the rewards of their deaths.”

“I did what I was called to do.”

“Ever following the voices of many and never having one of your own.”

“These men died for my freedom!” Mark slammed his fist against the wall of photos. “That means something to me!”

“Oh, does that help you sleep at night? Or is it your job security that soothes you to sleep?”

“Listen, you don’t under—” Mark turned to confront her, but the woman’s corpse was gone.

Then, he saw her walking further down the hall. Mark looked down the long corridor. At the end, it narrowed into darkness. From that place came sounds—yells, gunfire, explosions—all things he had heard over and over again in his travels. They were the sounds of the dead and dying.

“Where are you going?”

Annabelle didn’t answer. She stopped at the edge of the darkness and reached into it. The blackness began to swirl. Colonel Jorge Flemming of the 15th Cavalry stepped out of the shadows beside her. His mangled arm dangled from his side, the result of a discharged grenade. To Annabelle’s left, Private First Class Frank Murdoch emerged, crawling on his stomach, pulling himself along with bloody arms. His body had been ripped in two from the blast of an enemy’s rocket propelled grenade as he had attempted to carry the injured away in his Black Hawk. More dead followed, walking, dragging, crawling their way toward Mark. He was suspended, unable to move, as the approaching horde closed the gap.

“These men were your spoils,” Annabelle said, turning to face him again. “Remember them.”

“These men are dead, yes, but not forgotten. They live on in my photos,” Mark said. “In my memories.”

“Yes. Your memories. Your memories sustain us.” Annabelle moaned. She tilted her head back, sounds of pleasure coming from her gaping maw. “More. Remember more. Who are these fallen brothers and sisters?”

“Judge Clemens, 29th Platoon, killed by friendly fire, Baghdad. Francine Moulton, 56th Airborne, shot down over Kandahar. Denise Nunuez, Second Armored Division, tank took fire south of the Pakistani border. Greg Woolward—” Mark continued, spitting out every name, every death, reliving them as he spoke.

“Yes! Yes! More.” Annabelle jerked and twitched. “Sustain us, Mr. Simmons. Sustain me.”

Mark…

The voice was distant, but Mark somehow managed to hear it over the moans of the dead.

“Who’s there?”

“Do not listen to her, Mr. Simmons. She’s not meant to be here.”

“Who? What?” Mark’s head felt funny, full.

Ignore that thing.

“No! You shall not claim him!” Annabelle’s roar echoed down the hall. Mark felt as if his ears would bleed.

He’s mine, bitch!

Mark felt himself being pulled backward. Annabelle charged, reaching for him. What was left of her face wore an expression equal parts desperation and anger.

As Mark was tugged further away, Annabelle began to wither. She became less
there.

Pressure. Mark closed his eyes against a blinding light.

“I see you, girl!” Annabelle raged, her voice turning into a chorus of many. “And when I find you, I shall rend the flesh from your bones. You and all the rest!”

Mark shot up and out of the hallway, Annabelle’s voice fading as he left the place of the dead.

His eyes fluttered open; his temples pounded. Annabelle’s legion of voices still reverberated through his head.

Two forms hovered above him. They seemed familiar.

“Glad you could join us, Mark,” a woman’s voice said.

32

LYLE LAKE TRAVERSED THE CROWD of the Bay’s End carnival while calliope music played in the distance. He found his parents buying food at a concession stand. The sign above read
: Jaleel’s Treats
. His father stood at the counter, staring up at the menu, a large stuffed panda tucked under his arm.

“
Oh, oh, oh!
Can I have a corndog?” Lyle pulled the panda out of his dad’s grasp, hugging the fluffy thing to his chest. “Thanks for holding onto this for me.”

“No problem, Brody.” Dad smiled down at him. To the cashier, a middle-aged black man in a green shirt and khaki shorts, his father said, “A corndog for the boy, and… what did you want?”

“Just a Pepsi. Or a Coke. Whatever they have,” Mom said.

“I’ll take chili cheese fries and a Coke.” Dad pulled his wallet from his back pocket and paid the man.

“Dad, can we go on the Ferris Wheel next?”

“Whatever you want to do,” Dad said as he replaced his billfold.

Mom ruffled Lyle’s hair, and he pulled away. “Stop it. Sheesh.”

“One of these days, you won’t mind so much.” Dad chuckled. “You’ll probably grow to miss it when she stops.”

Lyle sighed. “As if.”

The man put their order on the counter, and Lyle grabbed his corndog before following his parents. Milling through the crowd, Dad found an empty table beside Trevor’s Tiny Teacups. Lyle devoured his meal to the squeal of the spinning ride.

“Can I go look around by myself?” he asked, his mouth still working on his final bite. “I mean, while you guys finish eating. I won’t be long, and I’ll come right back.”

“Well…” Dad started.

“Let him go. It’s not like we’re going anywhere soon,” Mom said.

“All right. Go on, Brody.”

“Yes!” Lyle squealed, his voice cracking. “
Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”
He erupted from his seat and dove into the crowd.

“Be back here in fifteen minutes!” Dad called after him.

“Gotcha!”

Lyle passed by The Wickedly Wondrous Willy Walters Magic Show while in search of the funhouse, which he’d been dying to see since they’d arrived. Ohh’s and ahhhh’s came from inside the tent. He’d seen the show a couple of times last year and hadn’t been all that impressed. It was just crap magic followed by a disappointing finale.