Dwelling (8 page)

Johnathan slid into one of the stalls, found his jeans, and began to change.
If It was real, why didn’t anyone else see it? Remember Ricky? Ricky didn’t see it…remember asking…and he looked and screamed, but it wasn’t because he saw the devil, it was because he saw the RPG…I know, I know, but still…what if…what if, what, Johnny-Boy? What if Santa is real, huh? You going to believe in devils, in giant bugs, then you might as well believe in the fucking tooth-fairy!
He finished getting dressed, stuffing his basketball shorts into his luggage. The logo for Wounded Warriors beamed at him, the thread seemingly impossible white. He thought about opening his luggage, digging for his pills.

Feel worked up, Johnny-Boy? How’s about a delectable, egg-shaped benzodiazepine…no? Need something a little stronger? Feeling more blue than pink? Okay…

“You know, my cousin is deployed…Afghanistan, I think…”
Erney’s voice echoed in his skull.

How about a couple Prozac’s? No. What about Zoloft? No, again?

“Shoulda nuked that fucking country to begin with…”

Okay, how about some tasty Paxil, sounds like we better go with the green 40mg one! No? Are you sure?

“How many of our brave men have we lost over them, excuse my language, fucking ragheads…?”

Hmm…I guess we’d better go with the copper-white Zyprexa. That’ll do the job for sure…or zombify you enough to think it’s doing the job. Either way, Johnny-Boy, you’ll get results.

Johnathan popped two of the green Paxils. He wanted to be numb, but not as numb as how the Zyprexa made him feel. He’d save those for after the Wounded Warrior conference at the D.C. VA Hospital. At the sink, he washed the cocktail down in two gulps of stale tap water. The taste of metal clung to the back of his throat.
Maybe get a coffee before the flight…better make it decaf.
He splashed some the cold water on his face, gazing at his reflection, and then left to find a Starbucks.

***

Johnathan braced himself against the counter feeling the full effects from the two Paxils he’d swallowed in the bathroom. The Starbucks,
What do you call them? Coffee specialist?
girl was pretty. She was young, with a firm body he minded not in the least to look at. She smiled as he ordered his tall decaf. He paid with cash.

“No change, please,” said Johnathan fighting off a yawn.

“Oh, thanks,” said the Starbucks girl dropping the coins into an otherwise empty cup beside the register. “You flying business or pleasure?” she asked, making small talk while pouring his decaf.

“Business. I don’t see how anyone could fly for pleasure.”

“Not a fan, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Is it the heights?”

“The heights and an overactive imagination.”

She smiled and handed him his tall decaf.

“Thanks,” he said, meeting her gaze.

“My pleasure. Have a safe flight,” said the Starbucks girl, her attention drawn to the next customer in line.

Johnathan hobbled with cane and coffee in hand over to an empty table and plopped in the chair. Despite the Paxil’s numbing effect, his stump still throbbed. He sipped and watched people passing by, trying not to think about high-altitude explosions, midair collisions, and the plane mysteriously coming apart, his seat bottoming out by some supernatural cause or another. No, Johnathan was most certainly not thinking about that. And he was not thinking about Iraq or Ricky.

The crowd flowed by with a strange mix of people only an airport could bring together under one roof. A white family of six, the parents carefully herding the mob of children toward whatever terminal they were flying out from. Each had a matching Texans jersey. Business types, with smart black and grey suits and slick shoes, expensive haircuts, and clean shaven faces, discrete pantyhose and flat-bottom shoes, walked with phones in hand, either pressed against the ear or held in front, texting. An Indian couple walked by, the man was plainly dressed in what Johnathan would consider ‘American’ clothes and the woman wore traditional clothing, a sari, colorful purple and silver draped along the contours of her body loosely.

Johnathan could see ear buds in her ears and wires leading to the smartphone in her hand. The music, whatever she was listening to, was inaudible. Another couple walked by. The man, dark skinned, wore faded jeans and red and white snickers, Johnathan couldn’t tell from where he sat. His shirt was also a mystery, but looked trendy. The woman, white, clung to him; their arms interloped around each other. She wore what he assumed to be her ‘comfy clothes.’ She reminded him of Karen. Whenever Karen traveled anywhere, she always wore a pair of
Victoria’s Secret
jogging pants, ‘Pink’ scribed across her nicely shaped assets, and some sort of loose fitting top, or a hoody.

As the couple passed the Starbucks where Johnathan sat, the woman rested her head on her companion’s shoulder. Johnathan suddenly missed his wife and his daughter very much and thought about calling home before his flight.
What the heck does she do during the afternoon? Tabitha would still be in school.
He was reaching for his phone when he spotted a soldier walking by in full ACU battle-rattle, Kevlar helmet, armor-vest, ammo packs stuffed to the brim with black and worn down gold magazine clips, Oakley’s, an M4 hung limp, attached from a screw lock, the stock collapsed. The soldier was alone, walking through the airport leaving black muddy footprints in his wake. No one seemed to notice except for Johnathan. Warm thoughts of Karen and Tabitha dissolved away into cold fear.
Why is he walking around like that? Is something going on at the airport? Why is he here? Why? Why?

Johnathan stood up, forgetting his cane, coffee, and his bags he limped toward the soldier. He felt like in a dream, or trance. The room tilted as if some demi-god had rotated the world. The soldier looked around, searching, unsure. No one in the airport terminal noticed.
Odd
, Johnathan thought and continued toward him. The soldier’s face became clearer.
Is that? No, no…can’t be, just can’t…
Johnathan continued. The soldier stood motionless in the middle of the walkway. People passed him without looking, without seeing this strange sight standing alone in the airport. The soldier was scanning the area, looking, searching for someone. Johnathan reached him, touched his shoulder. The soldier flinched, as if disturbed by something painful, and then turned to face him. Johnathan froze. His soul, if he could even believe such a thing, screamed. The light in his eyes burned out. The lump in his heart that had resided there for the last year grew as heavy as lead. The beats became tired and strained. Johnathan looked into the face of his friend, Ricky, the dead member of the
Suicide Squad
club, the
one
who didn’t make it back.
But he looks so alive! Real! Or does he?
Johnathan looked closer. Ricky was pale and sickly blue, scorched black along one side, his left side. His uniform stunk horribly. Johnathan held his nose, eyes watering from the foul odor coming off his dead friend in fumes.

“Johnathan?” Ricky said.

“Ricky…how…?” Johnathan fought the lurching pull on his stomach.

“Johnathan, listen…you can’t…” Ricky’s voice faded.

Johnathan gazed miserably at his friend. “What…is it? How are you here?”

“Johnny-Boy don’t go…”

“What? Go where? I’m not going anywhere…look I’m sorry…I’m sorry for everything.” Tears came. Johnathan could not fight them, not this time.

“….don’t go…please tell Mags…tell her…”
Ricky stood there physically in front of him, but his voice sounded miles away, like shouts carried across cold walls of a vast and empty room.

Johnathan reached for him again, felt the ruined uniform. He took him by the shoulders. “What?” he asked. “What? Tell Mags what, Ricky? What? I can barely understand you,” he shook.

Ricky said nothing. Bugs crawled from his mouth. Large, worm-like things slithered down his near charcoaled chin, dark and rich as deep soil. Centipedes with thousands of tiny antennae like legs, and other such muck leaving a path of mire dripping thickly onto his dead friend’s dust coated ACU vest.

Johnathan gasped.

“Tell her…Johnny-Boy. Tell her not to listen…”

“What?” Johnathan cried. “To what?”

“
Nashirimah
…” his dead friend hissed in a deep gurgling whisper. The word sounded native and raw.

“What? I’m confused…what’s going on?” Johnathan ignored the onlookers who now stopped and stared at them, at him.

Do they not see Ricky?

“Tell Maggie to stay away…!”
Ricky screamed. His breath was horrible and hot. His eyes turned opaque. Puss ran down in tears. Monstrous smoky-brown oriental cockroaches crawled across his burns and burrowed in his nostrils.

Johnathan let go. He gazed transfixed into his dead friend’s eyes. His mind shattered. Stepping back, arms, legs—leg—shaking violently. Deep within Ricky’s foggy iris’ Johnathan could see grey smoke giving way to something impossibly large with needle-like hair. Thunder boomed without lightning. Somewhere in the milky depths he saw red, bulbous eyes and sharp hooked mandibles smiling at him
. It’s the devil
,
the devil that took my leg, and murdered Ricky, the best of us, the best of our club, our
Suicide Squad
.

He teetered, lost his footing, and fell backwards. People in the crowd began moving toward him with fear, concern, and pity written across a sea of strange faces. In the gathering herd, he lost track of his dead friend. Amidst the growing murmur, Johnathan faintly heard the echo of Ricky’s voice whispering the name
‘Nashirimah, nashirimah’
over and over before succumbing to the heavy pull of darkness.

CHAPTER 9

PRIVATE RENFIELD

Jake

St. Hubert First Presbyterian Church was a heralded structure with grey stone walls, tall, stained-glass windows, and the best landscaping money could buy. The voluminous church sat on the corner of Christopher and Mullen, just two blocks shy of Clear Lake City Boulevard. Home to some five-hundred parishioners, St. Hubert, above all else, prided itself on its strict appearance. Sharply trimmed green, American holly hedges and skillfully marble-shaped boxwood shrubs were a clear sign of a master craftsman, and the pristine serenity invoked a sight that was hard to ignore. If the exterior is managed well, so must be the interior, right? From Christopher Street, pedestrians were greeted by a beautiful arched, red and purple, oval stained-glass image of Christ on the Cross. From Mullen Street, the stained-glass images of Moses, Mary, and Gabriel were visible along the side of the church, as well as an impressive black as coal parking lot, still smoldering from last winter’s paving. The same winter Jake Williams began his priestly duties at St. Hubert, fresh from completing seminary.

Jake was inside, alone, praying, “My suffering is terrible, Father…my sin is horrendous.” He knelt at the foot of the altar, his knees padded against the thick red carpet. His eyes were sullen, at first, downcast. Now they rose to meet the wooden cross that hung above the baptistry.

“I’ve been running for a long time. If
You
could just give me a sign, tell me I should move on. Abandon my post. Seek solitude. Please, I need to know, I cannot make this decision on my own. Too many count on me to be here.” Jake stretched his arms out in a gesture similar to the image of Christ. He waited.

“Why? Do you…?” Jake trembled. “I cry out to you and still this emptiness persists inside me. I’ve waited for something, anything, but found only more evil, more vice. I’ve searched myself for light, but have found only darkness. Why? Why must I go on? Purge me of this demon…How long, Lord? How long will
You
ignore me?”

Jake dropped his arms, which flapped to his sides. His gaze turned downcast to the floor. Tears boiled. His breath quickened. He let the flood open, pouring out his sorrow onto his shirt that stunk of booze and sex. “Please, Lord, take this cup from me,” he mumbled.

Jake hid his face in his palms and then sobbed woefully. Between frantic breaths, he moaned.

“Please…are you even there? I need you…I need you…I cannot do this anymore. The booze isn’t working, or the countless women, the whores in Bayport, nothing. None of it helps…”

He fell prostrate to the floor, thrashing in uncontrollable torment. He shouted curse words and pleas, laments and alleluias of every color. His hands turned to fists and pounded the floor. Jake, in his pitiful prayer, let slip the terrible memory of the boy that died in front of him, before he had come to St. Hubert’s, before finishing seminary, before he was yet a minister.

Jake remembered telling his parents, mid-seminary, years ago now, as the family watched the frantic reports on TV about New York City and the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers how he wanted to help…in the panic felt worldwide Jake felt called by God to help. They had not been as thrilled as he would have liked, serving was not part of their plan for him. Jake believed his service in the United States Army was a calling, more important than the disapproval of his parents. He joined a few weeks after 9/11, but decided on a fruitless effort to appease both parties and enlisted as a Chaplain’s Assistant instead of infantry as he originally intended. The boys of
Suicide Squad
had snickered when they found out.

Bobby was the only one who really gave him shit about it. Ricky and Johnathan were still finishing up high school and had yet to join themselves. Maggie, Jake recalled, looked grave…

Perhaps she understood then that the last threads of their little group, their club,
Suicide Squad
, was coming apart in one final tug. The world had changed on 9/11, but so did this little group of childhood friends. The events of the world scattered them, and though they would stay in contact, it would never be the same, not as it had been when they were kids.

Renfield!

Jake’s sobs ceased. His body grew cold. The moment of dread was not far away. In his mind, Jake walked the graveyard as a spectral soldier called to relive the wrong and horrible things that happened on that terrible day. He recalled Camp Ferrin-Huggins, a camp not far outside Baghdad.
Why any XO would want to have their name plastered on that mud pit is beyond me
, he recalled. He remembered the base well enough, despite the years between.
How could I forget…if only…?

The face of the boy, the soldier, who died in front of him came without want. But that’s how memories are, or at least the ones we hate the most. They come without warrant or care, and despite our best efforts to bury them inside or drown them with booze or women or drugs or food or any other kind of vice, they come all the same.

Renfield!

Jake saw himself in his mind’s eye, leaving the DFAC, just finishing a large plate of Surf & Turf,
the best night of the week
. The sirens came as he was leaving. Jake could hear the sound of trumpets blaring in some make believe biblical battleground.
Armageddon is what the old southern preachers called it.
Bodies ran by him, other soldiers, contractors both local and KBR, everyone heading toward the large, rectangular cement bunker layered with sandbags.

Jake made his way inside before the mortars fell. He’d had his combat bible in hand. He was going to say a prayer over the herded and trembling flock, as a shepherd might during a turbulent thunderstorm. Perhaps in his mind, that’s how he imagined it all; the mortars were nothing but thunder. He had stood at the entrance, waving people inside, a John Wayne prototype, leading his
Green Berets
in the Battle of Da Nang.

Jake was about to turn and begin his offered prayer when he noticed a soldier off in the distance running towards them. Immediately the air ripped in a nightmarish and deafening whistle—
a soul harvester,
as he had later called it. The ground came apart. Mud was flung upward into the air. The soldier kept running. Stumbling. Running. Jake wanted to go out and get him, bring the soldier back safely, but froze. He stood there waving his arms in a manic-panic; “
Come on, come on, get inside,”
he’d yelled. But it was too late.

An explosion erupted in front of the troop. Jake watched as the boy’s body was tossed sideways landing somewhere in the mud soaked ground. The smack of his heavy body coming down was a chilling memory that had yet to fade. Jake recalled vomiting up his shrimp and steak meal and then running out to find the soldier. Another long and aggravated whistle loomed above and came crashing down beside him, throwing Jake to his side. He saw stars. His breath knocked out.

He struggled to his hands and knees. He was fine. No visible wounds. Everything was wet, but it was warm. Jake looked. He was crawling in the remains of the soldier he’d run after. Warm entrails squirting between his fingers like bloated purple noodles. Jake sprung back to his knees. Instinctually, he smeared the gore painted ground over his face. In shock, he looked for something alive. People were shouting in the distance, but they seemed so far-far away. Jake finally found the soldier. His body had been torn in half by the mortar. He was still breathing…somehow. Cruelly, the boy was still drawling gurgled gulps of air. Jake sat with him. Holding one hand and with the other placed on his gnarled chest. The boy soldier screamed and spit up dark red mist. He thrashed. Jake held him. The soldier grunted one last time and then lay forever still.

Within the stone grey walls of St. Hubert Episcopal Church, Jake sobbed horribly…

Renfield!

And he prayed.

And prayed.

“How much longer,” Jake screamed. He could taste the expensive fur of the carpet. “How much more? When will you take away this pain? I thought it would make me stronger, a better priest, but it hasn’t, it’s made me worse. Jesus…my God, why have you forsaken me…?”

Jake sobbed until he had nothing left inside. Numbness returned. And he welcomed it. In his mind, he was planning on where to have drinks, which bar to hop. And while he made plans to get wasted and to find some willing partner to have sex with, Jake thought of his friends, his
Suicide Squad
. The memory of his childhood was never far away, though he had yet to reach out to them, not since Ricky’s funeral.

Jake hushed. A heckling whisper vibrated off the cold stone walls. Frightened, Jake rolled to his back and searched the church pews.

No one
, he thought.

He was getting to his feet when the whispers came again.

“Who’s there?” he called.

No answer.

Jake dried his face with the coat tail of his sex stained garment, eyes still searching the shadows for some movement.

“If anyone is there…?” Jake started.

“And then what?” sung a heinous voice from the dark corners of the church. “Will you take my confession, father?”

“What…?” Jake reeled. His head spun.
The voice
, he thought.
It sounds
…

“But aren’t you tired, preacher? Tired of thousands of confessions knowing your sins are worse than theirs? Don’t you hunger for something with a little more meat?” teased the voice cruelly. “More purpose?”

“Why…? Come out so I can see you,” Jake pleaded.

“Let’s,” said the voice.

And out from the shadows came the heckler. A soldier in muddy ACU attire. His Kevlar helmet was missing. His uniform matted in mud and dark black mire. His midsection seemed cruelly sown together. His skin bluish-grey and purple. His eyes swollen, ready to burst. Across his nametag Jake was able to make out,
Renfield
. Private Renfield.

“You can’t…? This can’t be real. You’re…you’re…” Jake stuttered.

“Dead?” offered Renfield, smiling, revealing black moldy gaps where teeth should have been.

Jake backed away, bumping into the altar, spilling the contents, the candles, and the bowl for bread and the chalice for communion, clinking to the floor. He looked, unblinking, at the face of the boy soldier who had died in front of him, in his arms, gurgling on his own blood in the mud pit of Camp Ferrin-Huggins.

“Listen,” started the dead and walking Renfield, “I don’t think this is going to work out.” The corpse stepped closer, his stench becoming stronger.

“What’s not?” asked Jake, he didn’t dare breathe.

“You’re not much of a priest, Jake. You know that, right?” Renfield asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Jake. Silently, he agreed.

“You asked for a sign, well here I am.” The dead soldier smiled. His left eye finally burst. Pus ran down his grey cheek.

“
My sign
?” Jake whispered. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

“It’s the least I can do. You were kind enough to sit with me in the mud, so this is the least I can do for you,” the dead soldier heckled.

“To do what?”

Laughter echoed off the cold stone walls. Renfield, dead, but here all the same, laughed and laughed, but then the laughter sounded something like clicks, chirps almost, like the swarms that came during the summer months to suck on the sap of trees. The echo became a thunderous wail, rattling the stain-glass windows. Jake cupped his ears and watched as Renfield danced in circles amongst the torrent, watched as the pews shook against the violent storm. The dead man danced impossibly up the walls, baring all the horror that was his power, hopping from one foot to the next, gore and entrails raining down from the ceiling, out between the loosened gnarled thread stitched along his gut. And he laughed, merrily so, his voice rattling like snake in a jar.

“Renfield!”
Jake ran screaming toward the large double doors and out into the street, knocking into an elderly woman who fell to the well-maintained grass, without stopping, without looking back.

“Father?”
called out the old woman, dazed. There was pleading in her voice.

But Jake heard none of that as he ran for the church owned Volvo.