Lambs

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  “What was it like?” Amy, Sarah and Veronica each asked in their own way. Amy quietly, embarrassed. Sarah mortified, yet fascinated. Veronica all giggles and innuendo. Each of them stared with envious eyes as she detailed the heat and passion of what it felt like to love.

  * * *

  The Collins family usually ate dinner around six. On this particular Monday and throughout the rest of the week, dinner would come a little earlier. Everybody was exhausted from the full week of Blood Rites and they were glad to bump their family schedule so they could adjourn to their beckoning beds as early as possible.

  They were digging in by four-thirty. The family was in good spirits. It was nice to have Judy home. Most conversation centered around campus life and slipping grades and a new (potential) boyfriend who just happened to be a member of a neighboring sect. They didn’t talk much about the Blood Rites (once they passed they rarely did) and Melanie was glad to be done with them for the year, but she had some burning questions she simply couldn’t let go.

  She waited for an appropriate place to jump in. Chemistry talk seemed like just as good a place as any.

  Between mouthfuls of meatloaf her dad encouraged, “It’s all about memorization Jude.”

  “It’s not that easy, Dad. Chemistry is just like math and you know how I feel about math.” Judy hadn’t touched her food. Too many questions, her appetite ruined by the friendly interrogation.

  Melanie broke in, “Dad?”

  It was one of those moments. Not just her dad, but her mom and sister and even Louie all stopped what they were doing and looked her way. Though there had been little to no talk of the Blood Rites this evening it was obvious that everyone was still thinking about them.

  “Yes pumkin?”

  “Did everything go all right?”

  “How do you mean Mel?”

  “You know, with the sacrifice?”

  All eyes were on Dan Collins. His wife, his two daughters, his dog. “Mel, we don’t talk about these things at dinner.”

  “I know, Dad, but this is different don’t you think?” She wasn’t going to let him off that easy.

  Her dad let out a deep sigh. “There are some things I have to tell you. All of you.” The three ladies waited in silence. Louie trotted over and sat at Dan’s feet. “Edwin Parks is dead.”

  They each gasped. Even Louie let out a mournful wail.

  Her mom brought a hand to her mouth. “That’s awful Dan.”

  He nodded.

  She pressed. “What…How did it happen?”

  “Not in front of the girls Marilyn.” Before the protests could mount, he knew his girls were smart and wanted to know exactly what happened to Diviner Parks, Dan changed the subject. He didn’t want to explain the savage cuts or how the old man’s body had been sliced to ribbons. “On a nicer note,” he looked at Melanie, “How ‘bout that performance?”

  Her mom and sister took up his game and began clapping and cheering.

  Melanie blushed. “So it went okay?”

  “It went great!” Her dad’s symmetrical face beamed with pride. “It went better than great. Everybody was impressed with how well you rolled with the punches Mel. It could have been a real mess, but you held it together and followed through.”

  “Where did you find the boy?” The question just dawned on her. She didn’t think much about the Sacrifice. Once it was over with she was glad to put it behind her. It was better the way it was, the kid faceless, nameless, a means to an end and nothing more.

  “Melanie.” Her father shook his head. “I can’t—”

  She cut him off. Good. She didn’t want to know. Good. “I know, I know.”

  He clapped his hands together and addressed his girls. “So everything went smooth. Satisfied? Can we finish this delicious dinner and then get some sleep?”

  Melanie had one more question and though her dad would rather abandon the subject she couldn’t wait for an answer. “Dad?”

  His smile waned and strain played at the corners of his mouth. “Yes Mel?”

  “What about Arthur and Connor?”

  * * *

  Her dad said everything while saying nothing. She didn’t get a straight answer or any kind of answer at all—which she kind of expected. Melanie was hoping he would look her in the face and say “Arthur? Why he’s sitting in the car waiting for me to bring him in. I wasn’t sure how you ladies would react, but since you want him, he can stay with you in your room until Judy leaves and then he can take her room.”

  No dice.

  The general consensus, or her dad’s dancing, evasive words boiled down into cold, hard facts, was that Arthur and Connor were currently being pursued by the Organization. There was a bit of hesitation in his voice. He was lying about something, Melanie just couldn’t figure what. Had they both been killed? One of them? Had they been captured? Did they have something to do with Mr. Parks’ death?

  Being sixteen meant nobody was going to tell her.

  Being a woman meant nobody was going to tell her.

  And she was powerless to do anything about it.

  * * *

  After dinner everyone said “Good night” and made for their bedrooms. Melanie called Louie and the adorable behemoth waddled after her. She patted her bed and with much strain the poor guy labored through an awkward jump and then curled up on her duvet.

  Rottweilers were notorious for their bad hind legs. Louie would be fifty-five next year and his legs were barely hanging in there. What would happen without Diviner Parks to work his magic?

  She lay down next to the cutie and began petting his shovel-shaped head. She couldn’t imagine her world without the dog. Through it all, through every taxing ritual and every unsavory Blood ceremony, Louie had been there to lick her fingers or bury his head at her feet or empathize with his great, sad eyes.

  Their lifestyle, the church, the Organization, was difficult. It took courage and faith to dedicate one’s self and it wasn’t easy to turn your back on societal norms. Not that she had much choice, she was born into it and it was all she knew. But still, at times it was harder than hard and it was nice to be able to take comfort in a sentient being like Louie. Not just sentient, her gerbil Anton was sentient, but compassionate and empathetic. He had been there for her dad and mom and sister and he had been there for her, but what happened when he wasn’t there and her children had to undergo the trials?

  She couldn’t imagine a life without Louie and his calming, comforting vibes.

  Melanie petted the dog’s enormous head and stared holes into her ceiling. “What would we do without you big boy?”

  Louie yelped sweetly, softly, and burrowed his massive nuzzle into her side. She smiled and adjusted and looked down at him. His eyes glowed a fiery red.

  “What would we do without you?” She bent at the waist and leaned down and planted a kiss on his brow. Closing her eyes, a million thoughts attacked. Melanie addressed them one at a time, Blood Orgies and Love and Friendship and Loyalty and Faith, and she pushed at her frenzied teenage brain to prematurely mature and work the impossible kinks out of an uncertain future.

  13. THE PIN (REPRISE)

  Giuseppe and the Satanists followed them from the warehouse to this darkened overpass. Arthur felt that the world was closing in, like the very end was chasing him to his inevitable doom.

  It did a world of good to plan and think of something other than the pressing fears that made his heart beat twice as fast as normal.

  There they were, just like old times, but instead of laying in their beds, trading dreams during sleepless nights at Cottonwood, he and Connor were standing face to face, free, empowered, and seriously planning things. The nausea in his throat stood down and electricity tickled his brain.

  Hollywood.

  It made perfect sense.

  They talked about it in jest hundreds of times, always as a never-never fantasy, a pipe dream, but why not?

  Why not?

  Circumstance. Opportunity. Dreams.

&
nbsp; Why not?

  Arthur didn’t even mind taking care of Connor for a little while. He could picture it: the two of them running the streets like mongrel dogs, begging for scraps, getting by on their charm and tenacity until the golden day came when one of them would get their lucky break and hit it big. He didn’t know how long that would take, but between the two of them they had charisma for days and it should happen sooner than later. Perhaps they had to develop some sort of act. Whatever, upon discovery their real dreams could really flourish and real life could really get underway.

  Hopefully they would make it.

  Before he followed his fantasy west however, there was a mountain of unfinished business that needed to be taken care of here and now.

  Arthur had a strong feeling that the Satanists weren’t out to kill him. They were scary with their robes and chanting and human sacrifice and he didn’t know why, but beneath those surface fears he felt safe in his bones. Safe. He was safe. And the way the two goons followed at a Safe distance only served to reinforce his hunch. They didn’t want him dead. The Diviner guy was kind to him. They nursed and dressed his foot. Perhaps his ghosts had something to with it. Hell, maybe Melanie had something to do with it. Whatever it was, he had to find out how he fit.

  It was best to help Connor get away first though. It was clear that they didn’t have any qualms about killing him. Unless this whole thing turned out to be some elaborate hoax—was that even possible? Ridiculous. If he wanted to save Connor he couldn’t take any chances. He had to make the kid disappear.

  Going over it and over it in his mind, Arthur decided that this was good enough reason to let the goons take him (though probably not the real reason)—he should be able to cause a commotion and give Connor a large enough window to get away.

  The very idea of Satanists screamed “Evil!” and if anything this coven of religious loonies should have sent Arthur running in the opposite direction, but the old guy (his dead body yet another reason to run) could see the ghosts. He could see them. He could really, truly see them. Nobody could, ever, and as far as Arthur knew he was the only one in the world that could. But now he was gone and there was a dead spot inside, a nagging What If that would never be answered, and he had to wonder if Parks could do it, then couldn’t somebody else? There had to be somebody else in the “Organization” that could help.

  This was good enough reason to let the goons take him (though probably not the real reason)—and Arthur hoped the Satanic extremists would work with him, he hoped they would be able to tell him more about his infernal ghosts.

  His belief in God or the Devil had always been shaky. When he was little he couldn’t recall ever going to church. The group homes offered the opportunity to go on Sundays, but it wasn’t mandatory and Arthur despised getting up early if he didn’t have to. As much as he hated to entertain the idea of a higher power and an afterlife and delusional, manmade fantasy he had to admit that there was clearly something otherworldly going on here. It enshrouded him his entire life, every three years a spectral patina settled over his skin like a thin sheen of sweat and turned him into a lightning rod for all that was ethereal. Though he leaned toward the deeply agnostic, his ghosts made it difficult for him to dismiss religion, or rather the mysteries that drove people to organize religions. Despite his doubts he had to keep it real. He had to consider that these loonies might be able to harness their beliefs and help him get rid of his ghosts.

  He couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, even if it did have him working alongside a pack of crazy Satanists. What was the alternative? To walk the streets of Hollywood for three years until it happened again?

  This was good enough reason to let the goons take him (though probably not the real reason)—perhaps they could work some sort of black magic and cure him.

  If the Satanists wanted him dead, hopefully Giuseppe or Fred would strike in time to save him. That safe feeling that thickened within the cartilage of his bones had less to do with assuming the Satanists didn’t want to kill him and more to do with his ghosts. Arthur figured he had the rest of today and all of tomorrow to use them like the weapons they were. If the goons took him back beneath the warehouse and things got too hairy all he had to do was wait for Giuseppe’s gun to go off. If he missed the chance, Fred’s rope would provide a second opportunity to escape.

  This was good enough reason to let the goons take him (though probably not the real reason)—he didn’t want to kill anybody, but if it had to get bloody it might as well happen to a couple of Satanists.

  These were all good enough reasons to let the goons take him, each important in their own right, but they weren’t the real reasons. No, the real reason was ingrained much deeper and it functioned on a different level than the brainpan meanderings and surface level nervosa. It throbbed, big and thick and invisible, an esoteric muscle that wrapped itself around his heart like a soul-sucking leech and bled emotion until he couldn’t think straight. “Run!” Logic and sense screamed. It was stupid to put his trust in a group of people that worshipped the devil, even if one of them could see his ghosts, even if they might be able to help him. Perhaps in helping him the Satanists would somehow take control of the ghosts and use them for evil. Perhaps he was the key to unlocking Satan’s wrath. Perhaps…

  And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, no matter how many obfuscating reasons he piled on, it all came down to seeing Melanie one last time before fading into the grimy streets of Hollywood.

  He wanted an explanation.

  Or at least one last hug.

  Did she really love him?

  Did she know about his ghosts?

  Maybe she was being held captive? Maybe he could save her from the religious whack jobs?

  Maybe.

  Arthur thrilled to the idea of stealing her away. The two of them (and Connor) working together, scrounging what they could for a day’s worth of food, living outside of the system, free. But no, she was much too prissy for life on the streets. Arthur didn’t see her lasting two seconds—she was far better suited living the American Dream. If he wanted someone like Melanie (or rather if she wanted someone like him) he’d have to provide her with a house and a car and nice clothes. At the very least. And he would, when he could, but if she wanted him she’d just have to understand that these things took time and the struggle ahead would make the reward all the sweeter.

  There they were: he in a business suit, three buttoned sport coat, silk tie, hair gelled back, fingernails manicured—her in an A-line skirt, silk blouse, pearls round the neck, hair short and mom-mified. And at their breakfast table there were three kids eating oatmeal and making sour faces as Daddy kissed Mommy goodbye before heading off to work.

  Stupid.

  But perfect.

  And as Arthur worked at telling Connor the plan he kept trying to figure a feasible way to factor Melanie in to the equation.

  * * *

  Connor was extremely regretful (as he should be) and he spent what seemed to be forever trying to apologize for smashing the bottle. Arson and murder were biggies, but so was the kid’s crack-whore mom and her mountain of abuse. Arthur knew the score. He knew why Connor did what he did, and it was messed up and wrong but at the moment there was zero time to think things through and pass proper judgment. A few things were certain and they were good enough for Arthur.

  Did he belong in jail? No.

  Was he (currently) dangerous? No.

  Had he just nearly been sacrificed to Satan? Yes.

  So Arthur gave the shaky fucker the benefit of the doubt and moved the niceties along. It was time to get planning. Giuseppe was close. He had to get Connor away from him as quickly as possible.

  From word one he had a tough time getting things out. Connor was listening (for once), but Giuseppe’s bulk was unnerving and made it difficult for Arthur to maintain concentration. Thoughts formed and fractured while the burly ghost floated in the distance, biding his time, watching mutely with his black, empty eyes.


  Arthur first noticed him while run-limping from the warehouse. Initially he thought it was one of the Satanic thugs in hot pursuit, but then he noticed the hulking form wasn’t running after them—it was hovering, keeping the pace smooth and deliberate. With each quick glance over his shoulder, all of the familiar details came filtering in.

  The expensive suit, the expensive shoes, the expensive rings.

  Slick hair, twisted sneer.

  A large barreled gun clutched in his right hand.

  Grisly, meaty holes, mucking up his temples.

  Since they stopped, the ghost had begun closing distance. It floated incrementally nearer. Arthur tried to ignore it. Maybe it was perception, or nighttime, or the underpass dark and unlit and fucking with him. Maybe he only appeared to be getting closer. Maybe it was the exhaustion that burned his eyeballs. But no, for when they arrived at the overpass Giuseppe glided about the bottom in tight pacing circles and now he was drifting in those same tight circles a mere ten feet away. Slow as molasses he was climbing the concrete incline toward them.

  They were almost out of time, but there was still lots to explain. He had to be sure Connor understood. The kid had to get some fresh clothes, he had to eat, he had to sustain himself for two whole days. Once Fred was done with his rope, Arthur planned on hightailing it back here so the two of them could make for Hollywood. Simple. But not really, because worrying about Connor’s welfare in the interim was already beginning to give him a headache and a half.