The Outkast

by Craig Thomas

  Robert screamed from the toilet.

  As if the boy’s scream had cut him loose from his invisible bonds, Trevor launched the remaining sandwich out of his hand at the same time he spat out the one in his mouth, ready to do what he should have done a century ago. Even as he burst into a shattering scream of his own, struggling to bring the inclined chair back to horizontal level and simultaneously set his feet back on the floor—which was a very arduous task for a man in his situation—the monster at the door flung something in Trevor’s direction.

  The pain to his neck was unspeakable. Trevor didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that, at the nanosecond after the pointed object had flown towards his neck and burrowed deep down into his flesh, he felt almost paralyzed. And then there was the pain, roaring and full blown. His vision went gray, and his initial endeavor to straighten up in his seat was laid waste. With a sudden convulsion, he collapsed with his back to the floor, where he squealed like a seagull. He tried to call out for help, to let the entire world know that he had been visited and struck down by a beast, but he just couldn’t get his voice up enough to achieve that goal. As hard as he tried to communicate his urgent need for help, only faint whimpers of pain and fear issued through his lips.

  From within the toilet, Robert’s scream intensified, and then faded off.

  Trevor attempted to reach up to his neck in order to pull out the weapon of destruction that had felled him. But he couldn’t do that, either. He quickly realized he had been gravely injured. His backbone must have cracked on impact when he had tumbled onto the floor.

  He looked up and watched through gauzy eyes as the huge thing walked over to him. Trevor was still in the process of pulling the shrapnel out (or, rather, in the process of believing if he tried really hard, he could pull it out) from his neck when the monster grabbed his hair and hauled him up on his feet. The beast pressed its hairy face against Trevor’s, and then jabbed the pointed metal down Trevor’s throat even further before yanking it out. A dribble of blood—not a gush as would have been expected, but only a dribble of it—snailed out from Trevor’s neck. Nevertheless, his life was draining away—and doing so on an express lane. His vision had become gray around the edges, a blossom of darkening flowers growing inward from without.

  “You’ll need to stand on your feet,” Trevor heard the monster say in a cold, gruff voice. “All by yourself. Like a man. A man with real backbone and balls.”

  Everything had become distant to Trevor. At that moment, he had a weird feeling the huge beast was at some faraway point from him, the toilet door, beyond which the runty troll had been locked up, and the wall clock to his left were both receding into darkness now. Even his hope was fleeing away from him, and he just couldn’t match pace with it to catch it. His life, no doubt, would soon melt into nothingness.

  From some faraway place, the voice said, “Maybe you could even try to run. Run really fast for your life.”

  And then, the clamping hand released its firm grip on Trevor’s hair, whereupon he collapsed.

  The distant thump against the floor was the last thing Trevor Carter’s consciousness processed.

  ******

  The Outcast was furious.

  This time, he had chosen a very delicate place to execute his judgement. A place where anyone could barge in at any time, and where things could go quickly awry even in the face of his growing immunity.

  But that wasn’t the burning issue. After all, he was having a wild rush of ecstasy as he did his deed, so he couldn’t have cared any less about the repercussions his choice of location might draw. What inflamed him was the fact that Trevor Carter had made the whole process blow past like a tenuous wisp of smoke caught in a raging whirlwind. Fast, fast, too fast. He’d wanted a prolonged experience. Each time he had a killing to carry out, he looked forward to the adventure with feverish delight. But how could this be memorable to him when his victim had died in less than three minutes?

  He dragged the body from the foot of the desk to the vicinity of the toilet entrance, unlocked the door, and opened it.

  In the toilet, the boy curled up on the floor, snoring quietly.

  The Outcast brought him out. He would have preferred the lad to have witnessed the show, but it had been over faster than he himself had anticipated.

  He sat him on the floor, his tiny back propped against the wall, and then shook him gently until he was half-awake.

  The Outcast stepped back and brought out a knife from the pocket of his capacious outfit—about nine inches long from end to end. He slit his wrist open with it, and let the claret fluid drip onto the sparkling blade till the metallic sheen was about half-covered.

  To the boy, he said, “When they see my blood upon you, they will leave you be.”

  He wiped his bleeding wrist over the boy’s hair. With a smaller knife, he cut out a small thatch from the middle section of Robert’s head, and let the strands of hair drop onto the floor. He did the same with his own natural hair. Then, he put the bloody knife in the boy’s hand, closing his tiny fingers on the handle.

  His True Blood was still hypnotized at the time The Outcast walked out through the door.

  Chapter 11

  10:44 P.M.

  Wednesday, August 19

  Robert was in the throes of another nightmare. With his eyes closed, he walked down a quiet path in the dead of night, all by himself. He could smell greenery around him. He must be going through the woods again.

  He touched his chest and thighs. What he wore felt like his favorite red woolen pajamas. He held something in his right hand. The thing felt bulky and cold, with a glossy back.

  Like a bat in the dark, he moved on with an exceptional grace, eyes still closed, not groping, not worrying about bumping into a tree trunk or tripping over a naked root.

  What was he holding? A ping-pong paddle? No, that didn’t sound right. That was a wild guess.

  Wild or not, he didn’t care.

  And he wasn’t afraid. Not yet, anyway. Not until he reached his destination.

  What destination? He wasn’t sure.

  But then, all of a sudden, he knew every detail of his destination as understanding rushed towards him through the trees, soughing like a spirit wind, and nestled in his head.

  He was on his way to the same place he had been dragged to several times in the past. Destination of blood. And death. And wonders.

  Now, he was afraid. Very afraid. He didn’t want a part of this any longer. He had never wanted a part. Never. He would rather just have chocolate and cookies and cheese. But he couldn’t help the situation. There was not a thing he could do about it.

  Still, he strove to turn around. Turn and just walk back to his bed. Back to his bed where he could wake himself up from this nightmare.

  But it was too late. It had happened so fast. Faster than he could have imagined. He was already seated under an oak tree, by the river bank, his back against the coarse bark of the trunk.

  He sensed a movement. The man’s movement.

  The most dreadful part of the entire creepy show had finally begun.

  “Open your eyes,” the man ordered Robert, his voice a bass of terror.

  Robert did as he had been instructed, and tears flowed down his cheeks to his chest, soaking up his red pajamas. In his hand was a blood-coated scythe. And lying on the ground to his side and a little ahead of him was the body of a man. A dead man. He knew who the man had been, but he couldn’t remember his name.

  Robert wept. “I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. I want to get back to my bed. I want to wake up. Make me get out of my nightmare and back to my bed. Please, make me.”

  “My little True Blood,” the man said, touching Robert’s head. His callous hand felt rough and warm through Robert’s hair down to his scalp. “This is your destiny, not just a dream. Nor a nightmare. You’re the chosen one. Together with me, you shall reign. And you’ve been brought here to watch so you can develop. Your growth has been somewhat slow lately, a l
ittle bit disheartening. But I won’t lose sleep over it—we won’t lose sleep over it. I’m positive you’ll get there in good time.” He ruffled Robert’s shock of hair briefly, and lifted his hand off the boy’s head.

  “But I don’t wanna watch,” Robert said, gazing up at the man, who gazed back down at him with glowing eyes set against the backdrop of a creepy simian face.

  The man took two steps back. “How do you grow if you don’t watch?”

  Robert shook his head slowly. “I don’t wanna grow, either. I just wanna go, please.”

  “You truly speak as one still in embryo.” The man removed his mask, turned his face towards the sky, breathed in the night air and let it out. He put his mask back on. “This isn’t about what you want, little one. It’s about what you need. You need to be emancipated, get out of your shell, and breathe in some healthy air. You need to cut loose from the rest of them. You’re of a royal blood, and your regality must not be compromised.”

  Robert didn’t get it, and he didn’t say anything at that point. He only sat there, looking at the bloody weapon in his hand and the dead body by his side. He sobbed quietly.

  After a while, the man tugged the dead body away and dumped it into a declivity that stretched to meet the water below.

  He walked back to Robert.

  The boy said, “I’m scared.”

  “There’s no reason to be scared. I shall be watching over you. Now, you may rise and go.”

  Robert rose, and set the bloody scythe down on the ground.

  “No,” the man said. “Go with it. It’s a treasure, your trophy for tonight.”

  The man watched Robert go.

  The man—The Outcast, who was about to reign.

  ******

  With his endowed belly dancing up and down, side to side, Donnie sprinted like he had never done since he graduated high school more than two decades ago. He tore along like a cheetah, which was unusual for a man his size but absolutely apropos for the dangerous situation he was up against. Except he ran so fast he passed his closest neighbor’s apartment. “Shit,” he muttered, and kept running.

  He had planned that, if he got lucky enough to snatch an opportunity to escape the jaw of death back in his apartment, he would run straight to Susan Kenneth’s. There, with the monster locked out, and with the hope of buying sufficient time, he would place a call to the cops.

  But that plan had become history now, hadn’t it? He couldn’t turn back around and run up Susan’s porch step any more than he could run back to meet his attacker and worship at its feet.

  What’s next? he wondered as he raced across the face of the night.

  Brad Conner.

  Yes, that was his next hope—and probably his last. So, he’d better not mess it up, because doing so would mean ruining almost all of his chances and running through the wood for the next three-or-so minutes before setting eyes on another building.

  He ran, breathing like a grampus.

  Behind him, heavy footfalls pounded the ground.

  Why did he live so far away from the rest of the community—away from the core of civilization?

  And why couldn’t he have been in tune with civilization by owning a gun?

  Shortly before he raced up Brad’s porch steps, Donnie’s pursuer’s footsteps began to recede until they became inaudible altogether.

  Was that a good or bad thing?

  Did that mean he had put a good distance between the hunter and himself?

  Buzzing Brad’s intercom now.

  Then, something hit him hard in the chest—a stark realization of Brad’s inadequacy and undependability. In recent times, the short man had cultivated a less-than-acceptable idiosyncrasy of leaving his hearing aid at home when coming to school, a place where it was most needed. If Brad had become so loose-minded to botch it at work, who was to say he wasn’t in bed right now without the damn gadget attached to his ears, smiling stupidly at the ceiling?

  Or even sleeping?

  Donnie’s bladder filled up all of a sudden, not with urine but with trepidation.

  He listened to the intercom ring, and held his breath while his eyes darted in every direction in search of the impending disaster.

  Then, there was miracle.

  Brad picked up the intercom just after the first ring. “Who’s there, please?” he said, not sounding like one who’d just been aroused from sleep.

  “Brad,” Donnie shouted into the intercom, speaking as fast as he could, “come open the door for me. I’m being chased by a very dangerous hit man ... a monster, Brad. The door, quickly!”

  “What, Donnie? I can’t hear you. Could you speak up, please? And try to slow down a bit.”

  Yeah, the shit has begun to hit the fan once again. If anything can go wrong, this is the most suitable night for such to happen.

  “I’m gonna die soon,” Donnie yelled. “Damn it, Brad. Come get this fucking door ... now ... someone’s trying to kill me ... a big dangerous ape-man.”

  “What?”

  “Open the FUCKING door.”

  “Ok, Donnie. I’ve heard you now, and I’m coming. But you don’t need to scream every single time to make me understand what you’ve got to say, you know?”

  A rustling of leaves behind. Donnie cast a swift glance backwards and saw the thing approach him from the left flank of the building. Donnie literally flew off the porch, and raced down the gloomy wooded path.

  He lost his bearings a number of times.

  He stumbled twice, ran into a tree trunk once. Nose bleeding, head pounding, he tripped over a log lying across the floor, covered beneath a camouflage of leaves, and he finally nose-dove towards the foot of an oak tree. He raised his head to continue his race. To his left, just about six feet away, was Robert Smallwood. The boy sat on the leave-strewn ground, leaning his back against the trunk of another oak tree, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, his hands in his lap. He appeared to be slumbering.

  Survival was of utmost importance to Donnie. However, the sudden amazement of finding Robert here at this time of night all by himself put him off his stroke for a short moment. “Rob, is that you?” Donnie cried even as he endeavored to rise and proceed.

  He got an answer in the shape of a blow to his throbbing temple. As he took a descent back to the ground, he dreamily thought, And all I wanted to do was ask if it was Rob, and if he was doing okay.

  Damn right. He’s doing okay, Donnie the overnight caring guy.

  Donnie gazed up at the ape-man, who gazed back down at him.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” he pleaded. With blood seeping out of his nose and lips, his words issued forth in a wet, throaty voice.

  The huge monster kicked him hard, the impact flipping him face-down.

  Donnie groaned.

  The creature bent down, grabbed Donnie’s collar, and picked him up—as effortlessly as one would pick up a withered bloom. “You shall be cast out into the bottomless pit of hell, where you shall burn without end,” it said to Donnie. Its voice was raspy, the kind of quality you would very much associate with an alien inflicted with a ruptured throat. “Pit, filled with blazing fire and killing brimstone. Can you stand on your feet?”

  Donnie opened his mouth to answer, but realized only a spasm of whimper escaped his lips. This close, his appraisal of the terror that had fallen upon him was escalated.

  “Come on,” the terrible voice said. “You should be able to stand on your own two feet, big boy. Or I might as well cut them off. Can you?”

  “Oh, no, please,” Donnie blurted out, finding his voice by the power of will he thought he’d lost. “Yes, I know I can. I have to stand ... Oh, sweet Jesus, I just have to be able to stand on my own two ... oh, please, don’t cut—”

  His captor let go of its grip all of a sudden. Because the release was so abrupt, Donnie’s injured knees buckled under him. He crashed back on the ground, face-down.

  “Useless,” the ape-man shrieked, and swung its leg upward, catching Donnie’s left
flank, towards his rib cage. There was a slight crunching sound. “Can’t even stand on your own feet.” Another swing, another crunch.

  Donnie screeched in pain. “My ribs ... oh, please, stop this.”

  “I shall help you rise to your destiny,” the thing said, not paying any attention to Donnie’s petition. Then, it stabbed Donnie’s backside with its scythe, very deep. Certain the weapon had hooked securely within Donnie’s flesh, it yanked it up, hauling Donnie along with it.

  Donnie’s scream had turned delirious, almost like a wild laugh. And it grew even wilder as he felt himself levitating in the air, flesh tearing, blood spurting.

  But the bulk of Donnie’s weight was too much, and the scythe caved in, biting off more flesh as Donnie cut loose from it and dropped back to the ground.

  Weeping and screaming and writhing in pain, Donnie looked to his side. He called out to Robert, telling him to run away now and call the cops. He didn’t know if this was the way people die. Or maybe it was just a horrible kind of dream from which he would wake up soon—provided there ever could be a feeling of such severe pain in a dream of any sort. But whether he knew or not, he wanted Robert to get out quickly, and call for help.

  “Run now,” he yelled with the last reserve of his strength. But Robert was unmoving, just resting against the back of the tree like he’d done since Donnie had arrived at the scene. Perhaps the boy was dead. Donnie burst into tears, sliding on his chest towards Robert, blood trailing him. “Oh, no ... Robert, this can’t be true ...”

  The creature put one foot down in front of Donnie, making the slithering man stop in his track. “You’re a real fighter. Very brave. I like you. And you shall be rewarded. Yeah, I shall help you rise to your destiny,” the ape-man said. It grabbed Donnie’s collar again, and pulled him up. With its scythe, it hacked repeatedly into Donnie’s solar plexus until the man, who had suddenly developed a caring attitude towards Robert, became motionless.