The Creepers (Book 2): From the Past

by Dixon, Norman

  Baylor plucked the root from his mouth and turned to face Bobby. From behind the clouds, the moon cut patterns on his face. His eyes were wide and wet. “I failed him. I . . . I was supposed to keep watch while he slept. Supposed to watch for the Creepers, but I was so tired, Bobby. My hands. . . the blood and screams were too much. That night sucked it out of me. I had the perimeter checked, but we weren’t in the most ideal spot. We were just too damn tired from making a difference in this fucked up world.”

  Tossing the root over the side, Baylor said, “I woke to his screams. They were already tearing him apart. I put him down and ran. I’ve put so much distance between myself and that night. A lot of miles. A lot of differences. I can’t hold the emotions and neither should you. I’ll never forget Dante. But all I need is the name to remind me. I don’t need the guilt, or doubt, or any of that shit to comes bubbling up. Maybe Jamie’s right, and I’m full of shit and I’ve buried it all too deep. I’d like to think not. And I hope you listen, kid. I hope you don’t let what they did, what they took from you, bury you in burdens that can never be lifted.”

  Bobby sucked on the root one last time before spitting it overboard. “I’ll try, Mr. Baylor. I’ll try to make a difference too.”

  “You already have.” Baylor smiled and ruffled Bobby’s hair. “We get to the coast, I swim in that water, and then we head back East. And when we get there, and the rest of the people get to meet you, get to know of your gift, then we start really taking the fight to them.”

  “We already have,” Bobby said, remembering the thousands he’d helped relieve of their second lives.

  “A drop of sand in the bucket, but fair enough.” Baylor squeezed Bobby’s shoulder.

  It felt strange to be loved, and there was no doubt in Bobby’s mind that the man next to him harbored a fatherly love for him. He could feel it in the man’s touch, like a calming, reassuring warmth that spread from his shoulder and flooded his heart. It reminded him of Ecky, and it reminded him of Ol’ Randy. But even surrounded by such love, he couldn’t help but feel the four vacancies he would always carry with him. Cold reminders.

  “You two will catch the death of cold up here in this chill. Both of you looking skinnier than either of you ought to. We got food. We’re not some rotten mongrels fighting for scraps. Now get your asses down here so I can feed you,” Jamie shouted from the ladder. “There’s a discussion to be had too. It’s rather important.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bobby hollered back over the roar of the beast.

  “Kid, be careful. She hates that shit.”

  * * * * *

  The biscuits smelled of honey and buttermilk. Bobby’s mouth watered. Jamie wore flour dust like war heroes wore medals. He gladly accepted the warm treat. After the food he and Pathos One shared, the biscuits were like fluffy dreams. Their time on the road was not kind to them and there were some lean months in between.

  “What’s this discussion that needs to happen? And where did that come from?” Baylor said, pointing at the old CB radio strapped to the counter.

  The pots and pans crashed and banged as the train jostled. Bobby’s gaze settled on the CB radio. Chills ran through him, as if Ecky’s ghost had slipped into the car with them. He took a sip of water to wash the biscuit down. His heart began to pound.

  “I brought it to barter my passage,” Bobby said timidly.

  “We can crack it open for parts. I know Doc Collins could use them somehow,” Baylor said. He drummed his fingers on the small table, flowing with the movement of the train. “Not like anyone uses them anymore. In the early days, people were all over the air waves, but as the years passed so did the voices.”

  “That’s what I thought too.” Jamie gulped. “Until I plugged it into the solar array just before we picked Bobby and the stranger back up.”

  Baylor’s eyes were wider than Bobby had ever seen them get. He looked utterly insane. “What are you on about, woman?”

  Bobby couldn’t shake the image of Ecky coughing up blood, clutching at his gut. The grinning faces of the old couple flashed vividly—shadows cast in the moonlight. He gripped the table so hard one of his nails cracked. The sting broke him from a very dangerous series of thoughts. He’d been fighting the demons, but they were gaining ground.

  “Kid, you all right?”

  “Fine. Just tired.”

  “Dear, you look drained. Let me—”

  “I’m fine. What did you hear?” Bobby asked, hoping it would take the focus off him. He felt like he was about to pass out.

  “I heard a song. At first I thought I was just going nuts from being up so late. Haven’t been able to sleep lately.”

  “The hell are you talking about, Jamie? You’re just as bad as the kid when it comes to lack of sleep. The two of you are going to wear yourselves out if you don’t cut that shit out.”

  “Shush, you vile man. I can’t even count the number of nights you’ve kept me up well past my bedtime.”

  “Hey keep it PG for the kid.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Baylor,” Bobby and Jamie said in unison.

  Baylor just stared at them with his crazy eyes. His nostrils flared and then he broke into a fit of laughter.

  They all laughed long and hard, expelling the stresses each of them held tight to their chests. They laughed, and for a moment forgot everything but their friendship. The horrors of the world were somewhere beyond the walls of the car, slipping by slowly in the night.

  Then Jamie turned on the old CB radio.

  CHAPTER 3

  Doc Danielson broke the seal on the pristine white box. Nearly twenty-two years, by his best estimate, this device sat untouched. He slipped the delicate piece of technology, with its iconic symbol, into his pocket. He grabbed his laptop from the table then pulled the blanket closer, but no matter how hard he tried, the chill would not leave him.

  It wouldn’t be long now. Death crept about the edge of his vision—a smoky dancer twirling above the fading flame of life. His chest rattled.

  He watched Howard twitch in the throes of some dream he’d never live to hear about. The years already etched across his son’s young face had the tears flowing freely. He never wanted it to end like this, but really, what parent did? The end was always imagined as some drawn out, scripted thing, where all the ills of the past were resolved, and everything was right as rain when the time came. A peaceful end on a bed with all family present and accounted for.

  Doc Danielson knew better. Nothing got out of the fall unscathed, not even the dead.

  He knelt beside his son. The boy was in sore need of a shower. His hair matted to his sweating face. Even in the darkness of the empty building, the heat still found a way. Doc Danielson brushed the greasy strands from Howard’s face and kissed him gently on the forehead. This was about as peaceful as it would get. He did not want to wake the boy. It would be too hard on both of them. With one last guilt-inducing look, Doc Danielson went to the roof for the final time.

  * * * * *

  The late afternoon sun cast swords of light along the dark hallway. Dust motes spun about their chaotic paths. One of the green runner lights flickered at a rapid pace. But all else was swept in a somber shadow. All was quiet. So quiet that Howard thought the slight ringing in his ears was ten times that.

  His father’s bed was neat and crisp on the other side of the room. After the ordeal in the thunder dome, Howard thought for sure his father would be resting well into the night. He slid off the bed. Using a crumpled towel, he wiped the dampness from his brow. He shook his head and had a sip of water from a weather-beaten plastic bottle. His body was sore beyond reason. How was his father up already?

  The long dark hallways of the building never bothered him before. He spent all of his life wandering in them with next to no light. He knew what to fear in the dark. But the Creepers were nearly all gone from the city. There was nothing left to fear. Howard couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt terrified by the thick shadows.

  He went to the st
airwell. The door creaked open, echoing into the pit of blackness above and below. Several tracking lights buzzed, but they barely illuminated anything beyond a few feet. In fact they proceeded to drive the fear farther up his spine. He stood over the railing, staring down into that black throat. Was that a face looking up at him? Did he hear something shuffle below? He knew such notions were complete nonsense, just his mind finding meaning, recognizing learned patterns, but that did not erase his fear. He bolted for the openness of the roof as if there were footsteps chasing him from below.

  The sunlight blinded him as he stepped onto the roof. His father sat in his favorite chair, facing the setting sun. The blanket was down around his ankles. Wires and pieces of technology lay scattered about the small table. A pigeon perched bravely on the open laptop screen.

  “Father, it’s getting late. You should eat something.” Howard laid his hand on his father’s cold shoulder. Something was wrong. He tried to shake his father but the man was stiff. Howard dared not look at this face. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

  No, no, no, he thought. He had been preparing himself for the inevitability of his father’s death for some time now. He’d lived the dreary day out countless times: how he would prepare the body, what he would say. He imagined it all, planned it all, but now that the hour was at hand, he broke apart. The burden had not been lifted. It was only just beginning.

  Howard screamed. His voice carried through the empty city and he paused for a second as if expecting an answer, but only the pervasive silence remained. He couldn’t look at his father. Head turned away, he managed to grab the blanket and cover him.

  The thought of the coming night, of the building empty save for him and his father’s body, the thought of what he had to do, destroyed him. Images of the millions of Creepers he’d killed gnawed at the back of his mind. For a long time, he thought those acts had not been easy, but in comparison to his father under the blanket, they were downright cakewalks. He could sense them but he did not know them. The dead man under the blanket gave him life, showed him the ways of the world, and now…

  Howard moved without thinking. He remembered his father telling him to keep occupied to trick the emotions, to focus them on other things in order to make the grim work easier. He thought of the other children. He wondered about their lives, about their hardships, and he kept at it, concocting elaborate fantasies.

  He removed the blanket and slipped the long metal spike from his belt. “I hope you are with mother now,” he said, holding his father’s face against his chest. He drove the spike through the temple and into the brain. It was the only way to be sure.

  He did not allow himself time to fathom what might lurk in his father’s mind after death. The possibilities had him distraught. Among all the confused thoughts in his head, one stood out. His father’s wish that he not come back in any form. If Howard found solace in anything, it was that.

  Then he shocked himself. With the sun falling fast behind the hills, he looked at his father’s weary face. The doctor’s eyes were closed. His beard was in need of a shave, but Howard thought he saw a hint of a smile on the stubborn man’s lips. He gathered his father’s things in the blanket, looping it around his shoulder. He looked to the door with a sense of dread, but kept his mind elsewhere.

  With calm hands, he picked his father’s frail body up out of the chair and stepped into the dark stairwell.

  * * * * *

  Howard leaned into the low light of the desk lamp, examining his father’s things. He woke the laptop from its slumber and started to browse through his father’s files. Notes, music, photos, but nothing out of the ordinary. He tried to stay as occupied as possible. His father’s body rested only a few rooms away. The night was well underway. The place never felt so terrifying in all his life, even when it was surrounded by Creepers and he had yet to develop his gift.

  He opened the music file and quickly loaded his favorite song. It was one his father played often, one that the good doctor went to on especially tough nights. He opened the picture folder and began to flip through the images of his life.

  “This song is about war, about the aftermath of war, about not wanting to be a part of it. It was your mother’s favorite and it became mine too,” his father said, the night Terrance took his life.

  As Howard flipped through the images, the years, the faces began to fade. One by one the images became less crowded. Howard remembered each and every one of their deaths. Most of the men had taken their own lives. They simply couldn’t bear the guilt of what they’d signed up for.

  “We held on to our history too tightly, Howard. I’ll never understand it, but we couldn’t let it go. There was this fascination with it, and even now, somewhere out there, I bet there are some who still linger with thoughts of what had been in their heads. It’s just like the garden from the song. It’s all tombstone reminders. We’ll never learn.” His father was terribly drunk that night. Terrance’s suicide impacted him on a level Howard would never understand, but he remembered the conversation well. It seemed important at the time, but it wasn’t until much later that he realized what his father was saying.

  “All it did was hold us back. People would always throw around the phrase, learn from the past so you don’t repeat it or some variation thereof, but every fucking one of them wore a liar’s mask. The past is a shackle, Howard. It keeps you tethered to doom. Am I discounting that events took place? No, not at all. But we can’t be bound by something we are not living through. We held on too tightly.

  “All that holding nourished our hate for what was done. To us, by us, against us. It didn’t matter. It was one big boiling pot and we kept filling it as the water evaporated. Even in schools, all we taught our students was the mistakes of the past. Instead of developing young minds, without clouding them with the sins that had befallen their ancestors. We were all guilty of it. Even when the dead started to walk. It was blamed on many things. Fictional writing from thousands of years ago. Cultural differences, sexual preferences, and it all pointed to the past. You have to promise me, Howard, promise me you won’t live like that. Take my words and learn, and then I beg you forget if you can. Don’t hold on to this. This is but a moment. Take the knowledge and begin something new. Don’t linger here.”

  His father’s words echoed in his mind. The end of the photo folder had him and his dad before a deep blue Los Angeles sky, a never-ending day. But he couldn’t remember it. There was nothing significant attached to that moment to crowbar the memory free. He wished there had been. He wished it so hard that it hurt. His hands shook, rattling the keyboard. He began to sob.

  The child of an accident. The accident that changed everything. So many lives impacted. The suicides. The sacrificial deaths. The burden. Howard fought to keep them at bay. He gulped for breath. What a price they all paid. For what? Howard slammed his fists into the table, cracking it.

  Now he was the only one left in the city. Like the man with the glasses from the Twilight Zone episode he watched with his father until the disk wore out. That little old man all alone and so happy about it, so happy, but then he broke his glasses.

  The wind whistled through the buildings, rattled the blinds, and on its tail the coyotes yipped and yelped and howled. They owned the night now.

  Howard thought of the warmth of his father, of their bond, and he wept, releasing all of his emotions. The fear, the anger, the sorrow, all of them poured out in tears and growls. He shook uncontrollably. He imagined his father’s corpse stumbling from the room, blindly groping his way along the hall. He imagined seeing his father’s last thoughts. He fell from the chair, burying his face in his hands.

  He had to leave. His father wanted him to leave. But he couldn’t, not like this, not like this, he told himself, until it became an active mantra. He rolled over. Through blurred vision, the laptop played a lightshow on the ceiling. Explosions of blue and red shimmered along the yellowed and crumbling tiles, creating bizarre color patterns. All around him were reminders of
the past. The walls with their portraits of smiling faces, platinum and gold records, things that used to mean so much, but meant nothing now. All the glitz was gone, all the stars were dead, and all the dreams of lavish lives were forgotten beneath the dust and decay.

  The world was wide open. He only needed to let go. Why did he find that so hard? He thought of his father’s words, of not holding on to the past, but he couldn’t obey them. He knew their hypocrisy. He knew his father held on to the thought of his mother for far too long, and it had worn the man down, ground him under weighted thumb, until the very life left him. He couldn’t bear to live like that. He couldn’t carry the man on his back the remainder of his days.

  He had to get out of the city. Howard rubbed the tears from his face and got up. The flood was over. He breathed like Ruth taught him. In and out and in and out, calming the body, then the mind. Something buzzed on the table. The sound made him jump back. In the emotional collapse, he’d forgotten to check the small device and now it was reminding him. The small screen flashed. He went to pick it up.