“Yes and no,” He said.
“Meaning?”
“Yes, he originated from one of my litters—initially different than no other. No, he no longer resembles the ones you saw years ago; the one you saw today.”
I tried to wrap my head around it. “Wait, the ones I saw…they grow up?”
He gave me an odd look. “Of course they do.”
“No—that’s not what I meant. I’m sure they age, but do they ever, like…physically grow? End up looking like you?”
“The majority? The vast majority? No.”
“But there are some that do end up like you,” I said.
“No—not like me. More like you.”
“Say what?”
“Shall I give you the simple version?” He asked.
“That would be nice.”
“It happens rarely. So rarely that it has been a non-issue for the majority of time I’ve existed.”
“Which is how long?”
He gave me a sly look. “Long—but I’m not eternal. I will have my day.”
And I’ll dance and piss on your fucking grave if I’m still around to see it, I thought before suddenly becoming aware that He was capable of reading me like a book.
“You know what I was thinking just now, don’t you?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Are you going to hurt me again?”
“Would you like me to?”
“No.”
“May I continue now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve existed for some time. As a result, my seed no longer carries the potency it once did. In the past couple of decades there have been two anomalies within my brood.”
“Okay…”
“Those anomalies carry my genes, and the genes of my host.”
“Don’t they all?”
He closed His eyes and shook His head as though annoyed, as if I should have known better. “No. The hosts I choose are just that—hosts; nothing more.”
I was starting to get it. “Okay. But now you’re saying that in the past two decades, some of your offspring have shared the DNA of your hosts.”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you spot this the moment they were born? Didn’t the host? I’d imagine they’d look…different.”
“They looked no different than the remaining litter—at first. But their rate of growth, despite their refusal for human sustenance…”
“They wouldn’t eat?” I asked.
“Correct,” He said. “The first time this happened—fifteen years ago, I believe—the host suspected problems. She assumed he was a reject; product of certain unavoidable truths when birthing so many at once. She slaughtered him before he grew much larger. She then fed him to the others.
“I admired her fortitude and willingness to take matters into her own hands. But he was still my child, and she acted without my approval. I broke open her skull and ate her brain. The rest of her body was given to my children.”
I tried to will the image away: Him, face buried deep into the top of the woman’s skull, ravenously devouring her brain like a man in a pie-eating contest, but the second he spoke it stuck.
Curse of being a writer, I tried to kid myself.
And then Mr. Water Balloon Brain expanded a little more and had his say: Curse of actually having seen him and his kiddies in all their gory action. Nice try, Señor Suppression—I don’t envy your nightmares tonight.
I eventually found my voice and asked: “What about the other one? The other anomaly?”
“Recent—a little over a year ago. This host also suspected something wrong. But at the risk of upsetting me—I suppose rumor might have gotten around about the status of the last host who had encountered such an ordeal—she secretly compensated for his lack of appetite. She gave him food she herself would eat.”
“You mean real food?”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Semantics.”
“Fair enough.”
He continued. “When I arrived to check in on the host for my litter’s final offering, I found her very dead.” He lowered His head for a moment, sighed and added: “My children too.”
“So then how did you find out what happened?” I asked.
“Funnily enough, the offering was still alive—shackled and gagged inside his cage. He told me what had happened.”
“How many of your children were killed?”
“Eight.”
“How was only one of your children able to kill so many? Including the host? You said this was only a year ago, right? Wouldn’t he be…I don’t know how it works, but wouldn’t he be considered an infant or something?”
“According to the offering, the half-breed grew by the day. By the time he had slaughtered the host and my children he was the size of a grown man.”
“And the host didn’t find this unbelievably odd? Or downright scary?”
“Perhaps rumors of the prior host kept her discreet. Usually the women I work with gossip exclusively amongst themselves. This woman never said a word. Besides, according to the offering, the half-breed hardly moved. Just ate what he was given…and waited.”
“What does he look like?”
He didn’t answer.
I tried to envision some mutated result of a human and one of His children.
His children: the things that continue to gather at the foot of my bed. The dark corners of my room. Crawl across my ceiling in the dead of night. Pale white skin glowing in the surrounding black of either my room or mind. Their small bodies contorted, behavior primitive like a monkey’s, their actual features anything but a monkey’s—the hundreds of serrated teeth, so small and razor sharp; the eyes changing colors uncontrollably, product of their youthful vigor, lack of control. Their calls to one another strangely nature-like—a cross between a bird and a cricket…unless extreme arousal took hold; and then any similarities to something natural ceased: anticipation of their excesses producing something like chirping blasts from a smoke detector—frightening and alarming.
A half-breed.
More human, or more…His?
The size of a man…
One of His the size of a man…
The prospect was paralyzing.
“You call him a half-breed,” I said. “You say he murdered your children. So then why are you claiming loyalty to him? Why the conflict over killing him yourself?”
“It’s still my child.”
“A child you claim wants you dead.”
He only nodded.
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t need to. My motives are my own. You need only worry about one thing.”
“How do you know he’s capable of killing you?” I asked.
“We share the same bloodline. My kind are only susceptible to each other.”
“There’s more of you?”
“Did you think I was the only one?”
“I think I was too terrified to even consider it.”
He smirked.
“How do you know he’s trying to kill you?” I said. “Better still: why would he try and kill you?”
“I suspect he’s more human than me—” He then rolled His eyes in disgust. “Cursed with innate morals perhaps.”
“Okay fine—but once again: how do you know he’s trying to kill you?”
“The man that came to see you after your reading…?” He said.
“Yeah?”
“There are two others.”
“So you said.”
He leered, eyes blood red, a slight smirk itching to be a grin. “There used to be more.”
I looked away. “Gotcha.”
There was a pause.
I eventually said, “I still don’t understand a few things.”
He started to look annoyed, His eyes shifting back and forth between black and red. “As I’ve said, your absolute knowledge on this matter is superfluous.”
“You’ve made that very clear. But you’re asking me to do something I still don’t be
lieve I’m capable of doing. You can’t indulge me?”
He gave a frustrated sigh.
I took this as an invite to continue. “Okay—what I’m not totally grasping here is…well, there’s a lot of shit I’m not grasping…”
“Please make it quick.”
“How did guys like that geek who approached me ever get in contact with the half-breed to begin with? In fact, why did a geek approach me? You implied that you killed off a bunch of them already. Why was that guy still alive? Why didn’t you kill him too?”
“As to how the ‘geeks’—as you call them—contacted the half-breed, it is the other way around. The half-breed contacted them. The geeks were more than willing to believe: their desperately hopeful nature in all things other-worldly, coupled with a demonstration of ability from the half-breed was more than enough to have them all collectively…killing kittens?” He smirked, eyes flashing a zillion colors like a slot machine.
Apparently my previous envisioning of this half-breed merely being a giant version of His children was way off. It was beginning to sound more like they resembled Him. Which of course raised more questions. Not the least one being the question that has plagued me from the moment I had encountered Him and His supernatural brood: why did His kids look and act nothing like Him? I mean, even in the movie Alien, the queen alien gave birth to those giant spider things, but at least the spider things laid eggs in people’s stomachs and produced more aliens. What’s this guy’s grand scheme? How does He procreate? What’s the advantage of producing and feeding a zillion little ravenous freaks that apparently never amount to anything but…a zillion little ravenous freaks?
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying this thing can do what you can do? It can…fuck people up without even touching them?”
“Exactly like me?” He said. “No. Of course, he shares my blood, and is therefore gifted with certain capabilities, but his strength is diluted.”
“How diluted?”
“Enough to make him vulnerable to the likes of you.”
“How vulnerable? If this thing possesses even one-tenth of the abilities you possess, then that’s still a million times more than anything I’ve got.” I waved a hand over my torso. “I may look reasonably slim and fit, but that’s only because my diet is mostly ethanol and pills. I probably couldn’t even manage five minutes on a treadmill.”
“You needn’t worry—I’ll help you incapacitate him. But the final deed? That’s you.”
Hooray.
“So he’s not invincible when it comes to humans,” I said. “The way you are.”
“Correct.”
“And he’s the one who’s capable of seeing you, whether you want to or not—the one you alluded to earlier.”
“Correct.”
“I’m assuming you got all of this information—the half-breed hanging with the geeks; their plan to kill you—from the geeks you killed?”
“Correct. Are you finished now?”
“Almost. You never answered me as to why you didn’t kill all the geeks.”
“They’re devoted fools,” He said. “Always best to have a few around to lead you in the right direction.”
“Last question.”
He sighed again. “Who would have thought that it would be you making me suffer?”
“Why me?” I asked. “You’ve got legions of hosts who would be willing to die for you at the drop of a hat. One of them even took it upon herself to dispose of a half-breed without any provocation whatsoever. Granted, things didn’t turn out too well for her, but still, now you want the half-breeds dead. Why not use one of the hosts to do the deed? Why not leave me alone like you promised?”
He appeared undeterred by my promise comment and said, “They would never trust a woman—they are more than privy to my legion of hosts.”
“So get a smokin’ hot host to help you! Guarantee at least one of those three guys is a virgin. UFOs, aliens, Bigfoot…I don’t care how devoted they are; none of that stuff can compete with first-time pussy.”
“I’d have to agree with you. But the issue is not finding a way to eliminate the geeks; the half-breed is our target—he would have no interest in procreating with a woman.”
“You sure? Maybe its human side would.”
He gave me a look. “Quite sure.”
“Okay, fine…but still, why me—?”
But I stopped right there. It was suddenly all too obvious.
They had contacted me. Likely expecting me to contact them. I was the perfect
(idiot)
candidate for what He was demanding. I was a public figure; a celebrity of sorts; a guy who was given the metaphorical key to the front door of Castle Half-Breed and The Geeks. I was as unassuming as unassuming gets.
I gave him a defeated glance.
He returned a thin, unapologetic smile. He knew I got it now. The son of a bitch knew. Always knows.
“If I help you, my mother is safe?” I said.
“Yes.”
“At this point, I’m not sure it means anything; but do I have your word?”
“Yes.”
“So then what now?”
“Go visit your mother,” He said. “In case you get second thoughts once I’m gone. I’ll find you when it’s time.”
* * *
I dig into my coat and pop a Klonopin this time. Unlike Xanax—which kicks in damn fast, but wears off pretty damn fast—Klonopin takes its time before having an effect. And that effect isn’t in a hurry to leave like Xanax’s is. I tend to use Klonopin when I anticipate a stressful situation (like having to visit my mother after being told she might be killed unless I kill), and I tend to use Xanax when my anxiety feels as though an anvil has suddenly dropped onto my chest (like right after a visit from Him).
I start the car and head towards my mother’s house.
3
My mother and I didn’t have much of a rapport until after the incident. It wasn’t for her lack of trying though. She did. I was just too much of an asshole kid who, like most asshole kids, thought he knew everything by the time he was eighteen.
My mother had me when she was just a kid herself. Seventeen. I resented this for some reason. Looking back, she could have easily given me away like the majority did in the shit-hole town I grew up in, but she didn’t. She kept me. And with my ‘father’ (still don’t know who the prick is) doing an Usain Bolt the moment he got news about the impending me, Mom had to work two jobs to support us; sometimes three if the opportunity came about.
And yet I still refused to warm to her. And I now hate myself for it. Despise myself for it. Hindsight now, sure, but I guess if I can rationalize my line of thinking at the time, my mother represented everything I was desperate to escape from in my miserable little world. Had my stubborn idiocy not been so strong, I might have seen that she too was desperately trying to transcend the norm of our shit life in that shit town. But really, what chance did she have? She had to drop out of school to raise me, and no matter how hard you scrubbed floors and waited tables, the prospects in promotion for a high school dropout were akin to getting your allowance raised from a dollar a week, to a dollar twenty-five.
But she kept at it. Kept scrubbing, kept waiting in dives. She’d come home at all hours, her clothes stinking of stale smoke, stale beer, and rotten God-knows-what. And I’d turn my nose up at it all and cringe. Even at fourteen I can remember creeping into her room at 8 a.m., her sprawled out on the bed, face down, on top of the blankets, too exhausted to even crawl under them, and I can remember feeling revulsion for what I thought she was.
Want another reason to think me an even bigger douche? My mother was one of maybe two percent in our town who didn’t drink. She didn’t even smoke—because that was money that could have been better spent elsewhere. Christ, with the life she had to live, you’d think she’d almost be justified in pickling her liver whenever she pleased, going through two packs a day.
Nope. No booze, no drugs, no cigarettes—she bare
ly even ate; it was all for me. Yet still the idiot glasses I wore kept her fixed in time. What do I mean by that? Ever notice how people in your life often become fixed at a certain age? No matter how grown your cousin might be—college graduate, engaged, maybe married with a kid on the way—you’ll always see him as that Ritalin-now!!! kid who fell from the monkey bars and broke his arm when he was six.
Or how about the friend you see maybe once a year? He’ll always be that buddy you raised hell with back in the day: full head of wild hair; constant exuberant and optimistic shimmer to his eye; fit and full of life.
And then, on one of your yearly get-togethers, the timeless filter vanishes without warning, and you’re looking at a stranger: thinning hair with more than a mild peppering of gray; the shimmer in the eye, long since dwindled to a dull, lethargic flame; the once fit body now a flabby gut and sunken chest.
It took me awhile to peel the timeless filter off and look at my mother for the wonderful woman she was. And like I said; it was only after “the incident.” You’d think with what a dick I’d been to her my whole life that she might have dropped by the hospital after I had escaped the crazy bitch on Elmwood and given me a simple pat and a “get better,” but no, she stayed bedside the entire time. Even insisted on holding my hand (the one that wasn’t broken into eight million pieces, of course) when they had trouble popping my shoulders back in.
When the police came? She backed my lie without pause. I never told her it was a lie, but I suspected she knew something was amiss. Four people just don’t vanish after a supposed late night “mugging,” never to be seen from again. And while the police couldn’t necessarily corroborate my story—I claimed I was knocked unconscious by the marauding group of thugs, and when I awoke, everyone was gone—they couldn’t necessarily disprove it either: my injuries, the doctor confirmed, could not have been self-inflicted; I was most assuredly attacked.
The public had not been so kind. The families of my friends especially. They held me under a deeper suspicion than the police. For a while it had been a good old witch hunt. People stood outside my mother’s house—in a town like that, there are no secrets; everyone knew where I was—hollering, picketing, occasionally throwing things at the house. One fucker even shattered my mother’s window with a brick.
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