The stranger stood there now. He’d gotten close to Tom and for a brief moment, his altruistic intentions seemed to be failing him.
“Buddy?” He offered the single word to the cold night as if it would shield him from what was about to happen. He seemed to have finally understood that Tom was anything but a lost cat.
Tom lunged forward, jutting both arms out. The movements didn’t quite qualify as punches. They were clumsy. But powerful. Strong.
Tom had the strength of an angry maniac.
It was anything but a coordinated, well-executed attack. It was more of a rush. More of an animalistic attack, except that an animal would have executed things better, and in a more refined way. It was more like some natural event, like a gust of wind, or a rock slide on a mountain, than anything conscious and defined.
Mere seconds later, they were both on the ground.
Tom was on top of him, digging his knees into his chest and groin.
The man screamed in pain.
Tom looked right into his eyes. The light of the headlights cut across the man’s face.
There was something in those eyes. Something that Tom had seen before.
Was it terror? Was it anger? Anguish?
When had he seen it before?
A memory came flooding back to him. A memory of today. A memory of attacking that young woman.
He’d wanted her.
He’d wanted her body.
He’d lusted after her.
He’d have done anything to have her.
The fact that she’d escaped only angered him further.
He let out an anguished cry of rage into the dark, freezing night. And as he did so, he pummeled his fists down onto the man’s face.
It felt good, letting his hard fists and knuckles connect with the facial tissue and bone. The cartilage in the nose cracked deliciously underneath his strength.
Tom felt perfect. He felt powerful. Like he was muscular, like one of those Greek statues. He felt as if what he was doing was right and good, as if there was no other way he could have acted that would have satisfied his own needs, desires, and morals.
He did, after all, have an obligation to himself. He needed to protect himself. Defend himself.
And, more importantly, he needed to make someone pay.
It didn’t matter who.
It didn’t matter why.
The world owed him something. And the fact that he didn’t have it, whatever it was, gave him all the reasons and justification he needed to pursue his violent ends with violent means.
Suddenly, something stabbed through Tom.
Pain. A strange pain.
Razor sharp.
He looked down.
His own fists were intensely bloodied.
The man’s face was wrecked. It looked more like an abstract painting than a man’s face.
Tom had always liked abstract paintings. He hadn’t understood them, but he knew that it was important to like them. He knew that those who liked abstract paintings really were something. That they were intelligent. That they were “in the know.” So he’d adjusted his own tastes accordingly, lying to himself about what his own preferences were.
So Tom liked seeing the man’s face like that. He found pleasure in the fact that his nose and eye weren’t where they ought to be. He enjoyed the new placement of the upper lip and the way it was tangled up in a newly misplaced tooth that cut through it.
Looking down, Tom also saw that something now protruded from his own stomach, which he was able to identify as the source of the pain.
“A knife handle,” he muttered, his words horribly slurred. “You tried to fight me. Good. Good for you.”
The pain was there.
He felt it.
It was something real.
He liked that.
He liked the pain.
It mixed well with his anger, matching it, suiting it.
The pain fit into his consciousness well. The stabbing, pulsing pain that seemed to take over ... it was nice. It was almost as if he, Tom, and his emotions and sensations were an abstract painting, or something resembling it.
The pain would have been blue, if it were a color.
The anger would have been red, obviously.
Tom felt something now, some sort of need for completion. It must be similar to the sensation an artist feels when his sculpture or painting is nearing completion. Something akin to that drive to succeed, that drive to put one’s mark on the world.
Tom stood up, screaming as the knife cut through him in new ways as his body stretched and his muscles activated and moved.
He threw his arms up in the air, high above his head.
His job, his wife, his car ... all of them were long gone. All that mattered was now, this moment where he could feel the way he had always wanted to feel, the way he deserved to feel.
It was almost as if everything in his life had conspired to keep him down, to keep him small, to keep him under control. Now it seemed as if all that had fallen away, the way an insect casts off its useless carapace when the season is over, when the time for skulking and hiding in the shadows is done, and the time has arrived for triumphant power to reign supreme.
Tom may have been deluded. His anger may have fully taken him over. He may have been suffering from massive brain damage.
But he was not alone.
There were others like him. Others who had been kept passive by society.
And if society were falling? What would happen to them as they unleashed themselves upon the world, their chains and binds suddenly having disappeared?
Tom raged against the world.
This was what he’d wanted all along.
He hadn’t wanted to do those anger management courses. He hadn’t wanted to listen to those stupid tapes. Hell, he hadn’t even wanted to be married, to live in that house and do the same thing day in and day out. Deep down, he was nothing but a primal man, with nothing but primal urges that he stifled, that he buried deep down because he knew he had to.
And here he was, bringing everything he’d ever wanted to culmination.
He thought of the woman he’d wanted.
He thought of the rage at not having her.
He thought of how he’d always hated the world, how he’d buried it so far down that even he couldn’t see it.
Well, now he could. Now he could see it clearly, his own anger. And he saw what he needed to do.
Tom brought his knee up high in the anger, his leg and foot rising. He aimed his foot, and brought his leg down swiftly, crashing his heel into the stranger’s already broken face.
It felt good. It felt right.
The stranger screamed one last time. Then he was quiet. Nothing but the softest of groans, the softest moans of pain.
But Tom wasn’t satisfied.
He brought his leg up again. And, as he did so, the knife dug into him. He reveled in the pain. Reveled in the fact that he was destroying himself as he destroyed this stranger.
He brought his heel down again, and then brought it up again.
With each kick down, the stranger’s face became more mutilated, more horrible, more perfect in Tom’s eyes. And each time he brought his leg up, readying himself for another kick, the knife dug deeper into his own cuts.
He would destroy himself this way.
He knew he didn’t have to.
Or did he?
Maybe he was so far gone that this was all he could do. Destroy someone already dead, and slowly kill himself.
Tom had been a respected member of society. A respected businessman. A respected neighbor.
No one would ever have suspected him capable of this, not even the anger management counselors. And that was because they hadn’t truly known him. They hadn’t truly understood what he was deep down, or what he was capable of.
But there were plenty like Tom. Plenty who had these urges. Plenty who knew how to keep it all hidden.
Tom may have been just one man but he repr
esented something more. Maybe he was a symbol, there in the freezing night, with the harsh light casting strange shadows on his demented stance ... a symbol of society itself, a society that would tear itself apart with anger, that would hurt itself and others in some deranged attempt to hold everything together. All the while knowing it was all too late for any hope.
14
Meg
The situation had gone from bad to worse. And quickly.
Meg had thought she could fight back. She thought having a gun would give her an upper hand.
But she was wrong. Sorely wrong.
Before she’d known what was happening, the gun had been wrenched from her hands by hands and arms more powerful than her own.
Both she and her dad had been forcibly dragged from her truck.
It sat there not far from them, the engine still chugging along.
She and her dad sat more or less cross-legged, facing each other. Her dad, who wasn’t as flexible in his old age, had his legs splayed messily in front of him.
An unnamed man had them at gunpoint. The muzzle was aimed squarely at her own head. There was no mistaking his intention.
The other men stood nearby, conferring with each other in low voices, occasionally glancing over at Meg and her father.
Jim, the man her dad had vaguely known, was nowhere to be seen.
How could this be? How could it be that these were her father’s neighbors? And how did they think that this was helping the neighborhood?
“If Jim were here, I’m sure he’d understand,” called out her dad. He’d tried to keep up the faux-enthusiasm, but he was having trouble and his voice was faltering, giving out on him occasionally, breaking away into nothing but raspy honest tones. “This is all just a huge misunderstanding.... can’t we just go get Jim...? I mean, come on, fella, we’re just trying to leave the neighborhood.”
“We don’t want anyone leaving if they’re not supposed to,” said the man nearest to them, the one with the gun.
“Not supposed to? What are you talking about? We were just at my house. I’ve lived here for ... I don’t even know for how many years.... my daughter was conceived in this house ... maybe that’s too much information ... my wife died here ... well, in the hospital, but you get my drift.... how are you going to tell a man he can’t leave his own home and drive down the road? What authority do you have to say this?”
“This is the only authority I need,” snarled the man, glancing down at the gun.
The ground was extremely cold, not to mention hard. Meg was freezing. Despite how cold her dad always kept the house, she’d warmed up while gathering the food and packing the truck. She’d shed her warmest layers. Her jacket was in the truck. All she had on was a fairly thin flannel shirt.
She was shivering. Her teeth were chattering.
She felt the cold deep in her bones and she silently cursed Massachusetts, the western half in particular.
“There’s been some mistake,” her dad was still calling out. “We’re just going camping.... no point in detaining us.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Meg was watching the men. They’d broken from their little huddle and were now examining the truck, shining flashlights into the bed. They leaned in, underneath the camper shell. They seemed exceedingly interested in what was in the truck.
The man who held Meg and her dad at gunpoint was glancing over at them. It was obvious that he was a little out of the loop and wanted to know what was going on. He shifted nervously, moving his weight from one leg to the other.
“You doing okay there, buddy?” said her dad, getting back that fake enthusiasm. “Looks like you could use a little rest, am I right?”
The man said nothing.
He didn’t know what to say. His eyes moved this way and that now. He was obviously nervous. He was biting his lower lip. He was shifting his tongue around in his mouth oddly.
He wasn’t a professional. He was just a regular guy. A regular guy who’d been recruited to help protect the neighborhood.
And now something else had happened. Now someone had decided they could make out pretty well for themselves, taking what Meg and her dad had.
It was painfully obvious what was about to happen. The gear and probably the truck itself, would be “confiscated.” The only question that remained was how they’d try to sell it. Would they come up with an excuse for the theft or would they simply do it?
The strange thing to Meg, was that these weren’t straight-up thugs. They weren’t even criminals. They were just normal people. Normal people who saw quite clearly now that, without an organized police presence, they were going to be responsible for the lives and safety of their own families. And in that case, they had better make sure they had what they needed in terms of supplies and gear.
The men were heading toward them. Two of them. The third stayed by the truck, rummaging through Meg’s gear.
“Hey, that stuff’s expensive, careful with it,” called out her dad, his eyes on the man at her truck.
She knew this was torture for him, having to sit there on the cold ground, watching other men take what he knew was necessary. He was hiding it well. If you looked at his face carefully, you’d have barely seen a mark of stress. He could keep up a false front when he thought it necessary. Usually. Occasionally, during her childhood, she’d seen his anger become so intense that it had burst through the pleasant facade. It had been something to see. On a couple occasions, he’d almost been arrested for smashing a man’s face in. The man had deserved it. Her dad wasn’t arbitrary or an angry maniac. He’d been protecting his wife from an assault. It had been a well-deserved beating and the cop who’d arrived on the scene had been more than understanding, and willing to brush the whole thing under the rug, the way things sometimes were done back in those days. Not so much anymore.
The tallest of the strangers was standing before them now, his hands deep in his Carhartt jacket pockets. He stared at the ground as he spoke, only occasionally glancing up at them.
“Uh,” he began. “Seems like you two are trying to make it out of our neighborhood here with stolen goods.... now we don’t appreciate that, obviously.... these are good families here, and they worked hard for these things.... what makes you think you can bluff your way in here and just take what you want? Where you do get the nerve?”
Meg’s dad wasn’t taking it. “I can tell you don’t even believe your own words,” he said. “There’s no way anyone could swallow such a pile of hot garbage.... now I may not know you, but I know for sure you know me. I’ve been in this neighborhood longer than practically anybody, and if people don’t know me personally, they’ve at least seen me and heard of me.... and, given my reputation, frankly I’m surprised that you would pick me, of all people, to blatantly steal from ... anyone from here knows I’ve never been one to shy away from conflicts.... you hang around these parts long enough and you learn it’s not such a great idea to mess with me.”
These words seemed to embolden the man. Now, he looked directly at Meg’s father, without casting his eyes away. “You want me to drop the act? Fine, I’ll drop the act. You want me to admit that I know who you are? Fine, I’ll even do that. But as far as being so important, so untouchable, I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself, if I were you, John. Maybe you’re right. Maybe people have heard of you. Maybe you do have a bit of a reputation. But you’re living in the past, John. You think you’re still something. You think you’re still in fighting form. Anyone who looks at you can see that’s not the case. And what’s more, you think you’re still relevant in the neighborhood. You haven’t taken notice. You haven’t seen that new families have come in. New men have taken their place in the community. You’re an old man. You should be happy to get out of here with your life. Now, we’re not cruel men.... we’re just looking out for our families. We’re just doing what anyone in our place would do. You can call it selfish. You can call it vicious. You can call it what you want. But it doesn’t matter, and it’s not going to affect my de
cision.”
“You’re way out of line, buddy.”
“That’s what you think. But who gets to decide where the line is? If the cops aren’t here, then who is it? It’s whoever has the power. Why don’t you do the prudent thing, the sensible thing, and take your daughter and drive away in your nice truck and not come back. That’s right, we’re going to be the good guys here and let you have the truck. So give us a few minutes, we’ll do you the favor of unloading your truck for you ... and then you can be on your way.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” spat Meg’s dad, completely abandoning his faux-jovial tone of voice.
“Dad,” muttered Meg. “Just let them have it. We’ve got the truck.”
She wanted to say more. She wanted to say that at least they were going to get away from there with their lives. But she didn’t dare, considering that anything she said was easily within earshot of everyone else. And she didn’t want to give them any ideas.
“The truck’s not enough,” said her dad loudly. “That gear is ours. And we need it. I’m not going to stand for this.”
“What are you going to do about it?” said the tall man.
The others were watching and listening. Not yet moving. They looked nervous and they shifted around. They hadn’t yet found the confidence of their self-appointed leader.
They were just regular men. Men who were thinking about their families and the bitter cold of the dead of night that their children would have to endure.
“Yeah,” sneered the man with the gun pointed at them. “What are you going to do?”
“You’re not going to scare me into submission with that gun, that’s what,” said her dad. “You really want me to believe that you’re going to shoot me? Are you really willing to go away for life for a murder rap?”
“There are no cops around,” sneered the tall man.
“No, there aren’t. Not now. But what about tomorrow? You think a dead man’s just going to disappear without a trace? I’ve never heard of a murder like that, have you, where three or four witnesses don’t come forward? Admit it, one of you will crack. One of you will sing like a canary to the cops.”
Constant Danger (Book 1): Fight The Darkness Page 12