Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  “But—but, for sure I’m in tomorrow night,” Kent said quickly.

  When Tyler’s scowl remained, he added, “For sure. I promise.”

  “Whatever.”

  Tyler screwed the cap back on and then turned to Baird, who was still staring, wide-eyed. The index finger of the hand grasping the neck of the vodka bottle shot out like an arrow.

  “Baird, shut the fuck up about this. If you tell your dad, I’ll kill you.”

  Baird reached into his mouth and pulled out the retainer, thick gobs of saliva clinging to the pink-and-silver orthodontic.

  “I wasn’t going—”

  “Shut up and don’t piss the bed.”

  Tyler left without another word, leaving the tent door flapping open behind him.

  Kent frowned and leaned forward. He had zipped the tent halfway when Baird placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait,” he said in his high-pitched voice, “I have to pee.”

  7.

  Kent wasn’t sure why he had awoken.

  During his slumber, his sleeping bag had worked its way up over his mouth, and his breathing had made the top few inches of the fabric moist with condensation.

  But his ears had been out, and he could have sworn something, or someone, had jarred him awake.

  He pulled the sleeping bag down and perked his ears.

  There was Baird’s breathing, the rhythmic sound of the boy’s snoring mixed with his retainer rattling about in his slobbery mouth like loose train tracks. But that collective cacophony had been present all night—ever since the boy’s eyes had fallen shut; immediately after they had closed.

  No, there had been something else. Otherwise, the heavy sleeper that he was, he would not have awoken.

  Kent concentrated hard, trying his best to push Baird’s snores into the background.

  He picked up the typical campground noises: lapping water, leaves brushing the wind, and the hissing of various insects and creatures that were best left undiscovered.

  But there was something else, too.

  Kent waited, and a few seconds later he heard it again: a moan. Underlying all of the other sounds was the unmistakable sound of a human moan.

  Kent’s breath caught in his throat, and his wide eyes darted over to Baird. The boy, lying flat on his back, half out of his sleeping bag, arms splayed at his sides, hadn’t moved.

  He listened harder, his ears getting hot either from the effort or from the adrenaline that suddenly surged through his blood.

  There.

  Beneath the sounds of the forest was the deep rumble of a moan from somewhere outside his tent.

  Kent’s first instinct was just to go back to sleep, to close his eyes and allow the sweet, comforting blanket of slumber to once again envelope his senses. But when the moan came a third time, he found himself unable to ignore it. His heart racing now, he pulled the sleeping bag down further and sat up.

  As was his habit, he made a deal with himself: if he heard the sound again before he could count to ten in his head, he would go investigate. If not, he would ignore it the best he could and go back to sleep… if sleep were at all possible.

  One, two, three, four.

  Kent took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly.

  Fivesixseveneightnine—

  On ten he heard it again, only this time it wasn’t just a moan. This time, the moan was accompanied by a word.

  “Come.”

  For some reason, the word, so benign on its own, held more weight than it should have and a shudder ran wracked his entire body. A third glance over at Baird—please be awake, please be awake—revealed that the boy was still locked in his Christ-like pose, snoring away. There would be no support from him this night.

  Against his better judgement, but unwilling to cheat himself, Kent pulled his legs from the sleeping bag and carefully unzipped the tent.

  It was unexpectedly cold outside, and the tremor that had previously flowed through him transitioned into a full-out shiver. Even more unexpected was that without Baird’s underlying retainer chatter, the other sounds seemed to vanish as well, until the forest was almost completely silent.

  Except for the moan, of course; that was still there.

  Without a flashlight, Kent had to resort to using moonlight as his only source of illumination. Luckily the lake was like a sheet of glass, and the moon’s rays reflected off of it like a beacon. He subconsciously followed the path to the lake, and this led him directly to the source of the moan.

  Tyler, still fully dressed save his running shoes, was sitting alone on a log near the extinguished fire that they had all gathered around a few hours ago.

  If he hadn’t already been shaking, the sight of his friends hunched formed staring into nothingness would have certainly sent a chill up Kent’s spine.

  “Tyler?” he whispered, trying his best not to startle the boy. It was all he could do to get the words out without his teeth chattering.

  Tyler sat with his back to him, his shoulders hunched, elbows firmly pressed against his thighs. As Kent continued to approach, the boy slowly raised his head. When he was within a few feet of the fire pit, Tyler slowly turned and looked directly at him.

  The moonlight reflected off his scar, giving his entire face an eerie appearance. But this wasn’t what stopped Kent’s advance short.

  It was his eyes: despite the fact that the boy’s eyes were wide, they were glassy and vacant—empty. It looked like he was still asleep, but his lips were moving and as Kent watched, slurred words fell from his mouth.

  “It wants us to come,” the boy said, his words but a hushed, wet whisper. “It wants us to go to it, needs us to go to it.”

  Kent’s heart, which was already racing, kicked into overtime and he felt his fingertips begin to tingle.

  It wants us to come?

  As if Tyler had read his thoughts, the boy nodded loosely.

  “It wants us to come,” he repeated.

  Kent swallowed hard.

  “What wants us to come, Tyler?” The words were choked, as if his throat had constricted to the width of a straw. “Who, Tyler?”

  Instead of answering, Tyler’s eyes slowly rolled back into his head. A moment later, the shivering that affected Kent seemed to transfer to his friend.

  Fearing that Tyler was about to convulse, Kent forced his own fear away and rushed to the boy. He reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Tyler!”

  Kent’s concern was unfounded; as soon as his hand touched Tyler’s Metallica T-shirt, the boy’s eyes flipped forward again. Only this time the dark pupils were clear and lucid.

  Tyler immediately shoved Kent’s hand and arm away.

  “What the fuck, Kent? What are you doing?”

  Kent gaped.

  What just happened? Was he dreaming? In a trance?

  “I—I—“ Kent stuttered, unable to get the words out.

  Tyler rose from the log, his eyes narrowing.

  “Did I say something?”

  “I—“

  “Did I say something about my dad, Kent?”

  Kent shook his head slowly.

  Tyler stared at him suspiciously.

  “You sure? ‘cuz whatever I said—“

  Kent cleared his throat.

  “You didn’t say anything about your dad.”

  The boy still didn’t appear convinced, but the confusion about what he was doing outside in the cold took hold and he decided to let it go.

  “Then what the fuck are you doing here? Go to bed,” Tyler ordered before turning and heading back to his own tent.

  Kent stood there for a moment, alone in the moonlight, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

  Eventually the sounds of the forest returned.

  What the fuck just happened? Who wants us to come?

  8.

  “That’s it—you guys should be good to go,” the mechanic informed them, pulling his head out of the boat engine.

  Reggie stepped forward an
d took a rudimentary look at the man’s work.

  “Looks good,” he announced to the group with an approving nod.

  “Yep, should be good now for another couple hundred miles,” the mechanic said, wiping his hands on a red rag. When he was done, he pushed the rag into the pocket of his soiled jeans. He was a round man with extra skin that folded about his chin and neck like a loosely tied bandana.

  “Awesome, thank you.” Gregory extended his hand. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Johnny,” the man with the loose skin replied. “Johnny the Mechanic.”

  “Well, Johnny the Mechanic, thanks for the tune-up.”

  Despite the promise that the boat would be ready first thing in the morning, it was already half past nine. And if the sun that beat down on them at this early hour was any indication, it was going to be another scalding day.

  “About time,” Tyler grumbled, pulling himself onto the boat just as Johnny the Mechanic jumped off.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Sergio added.

  “Where are the life jackets?” Reggie asked.

  Johnny stopped halfway down the dock and turned back.

  “Should be in the cabin. Also, don’t push the boat too hard, now. The engine will need a complete overhaul at the end of the season.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” Tyler whispered under his breath.

  And with that, the mechanic left, making his way up the small embankment to his red pickup truck parked at the side of the road.

  Kent and Sergio hopped onto the boat next, leaving only Nick and Baird on the dock. Gregory immediately went to the cabin and began his search for the life jackets.

  “I’m going to catch me some dinner,” Reggie said, rubbing his hands together. Then he turned his attention to the tacklebox on the seat beside him.

  “Get on the boat,” Tyler instructed Baird, enjoying how the boy’s face suddenly got serious.

  Although the comment wasn’t directed at him, Nick Salvado obliged, lowering himself onto the boat. It was a sleek twelve-foot pleasure craft, with a sleeping cabin that could accommodate three, if they were willing to share. Now, with all but Baird on board, Kent could see that they would have to share some seats as well.

  Thoughts of last night in the tent with the boy flitted through his mind.

  Please don’t let me get stuck with Baird again.

  He moved to the other side of the boat and took a seat as far away from the dock as he could.

  “Baird?” Nick asked, turning to face the chubby boy.

  When Baird looked hesitantly at the dock, then the boat, and then back at the dock again, Nick extended his hand.

  “Come aboard, matey.”

  “This,” Reggie interrupted, holding up a four-inch-long bright green-and-pink-spotted lure, “is gonna catch us enough dinner for the entire weekend.”

  Nick turned away from Baird and looked at him.

  “Ha! And what are you gonna catch with that monstrosity? A whale?”

  He chuckled as Reggie held the lure up to the sun, admiring the way the light reflected off the speckled surface.

  “Nope. A Muskie; a giant muskellunge.”

  Nick shook his head and turned back to Baird, who had only taken one hesitant step toward the boat.

  “Come aboard, Baird,” he repeated.

  Like a child testing the temperature of bathwater, Baird reached forward with his toe and then extended his hand. Just as their fingers met, Gregory came out of the cabin and Baird immediately pulled his hand back.

  “Bad news, fellas,” he informed them, holding a stack of yellow life preservers in his arms. “Can only find five life jackets.”

  Kent groaned.

  “You sure?” Reggie asked, putting the massive lure back in the tacklebox.

  Gregory nodded, his face grim.

  “Looked everywhere.”

  “Lemme check,” Reggie said, and Gregory turned to allow him to pass and enter the cabin.

  Gregory tossed the life jackets on Reggie’s abandoned seat and then flopped his body on the adjacent chair, clearly dejected.

  “So?” Tyler asked, leaning forward. “Who cares?”

  “I’ll stay,” Baird said quickly, and his face, unlike everyone else’s, seemed to actually lift.

  Gregory ignored both of their comments.

  “I told them seven—seven—life jackets. Goddamn it.”

  “It’s practically a yacht,” Tyler offered. “Do we really need life jackets?”

  Kent turned to his dad.

  “Yeah, Dad, what gives? We can all swim.”

  He instinctively looked at Baird, and the boy quickly averted his eyes.

  Or atleast float.

  When Kent turned back to his father, he was surprised to see that the man was glaring at him, eyebrows furrowed.

  Structure… rules to keep him straight.

  Kent couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he remembered his father’s akward speech of a night ago. Gregory, on the other hand, was deadly serious. So serious, in fact, that he held Kent’s gaze even as he replied to Tyler’s original comment.

  “Yes, Tyler, we all need life jackets.”

  Tyler frowned and slumped back into his seat. Although he only mouthed the words, Kent read them loud and clear: Fucking life jackets.

  Reggie suddenly appeared from behind Gregory.

  “No more,” he said with a shrug. Unlike Kent’s father, however, his tone wasn’t so much languid as confused.

  Reggie looked like he was going to add something else, but he caught the stern look on Gregory’s face and decided against it.

  For a few seconds, they all just stood or sat there, none of them sure of what to say.

  Finally, it was Baird of all people who broke the silence.

  “I’ll stay,” he repeated, then added, “besides, it’s too late for fishing. They are cold-blooded, so—”

  “Baird,” his father said, and the boy’s mouth snapped closed.

  Gregory turned his gaze to the floor of the boat.

  “Boys, I know this wasn’t what we planned, but looks like you guys are gonna be stuck fishing from the dock today.”

  Kent immediately spoke up—he couldn’t help himself.

  “But Dad—”

  Gregory shook his head.

  “No, Kent, you guys have to stay here.”

  A tense silence ensued.

  Fucking rules.

  “Fine, I’ll stay,” Kent sulked.

  Reggie’s face changed as a thought came to him.

  “Listen, boys,” he began, a smile spreading on his face. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Whichever one of you catches the largest fish from the dock gets this Benjamin.”

  He pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and held it up to the sun.

  Without hesitation, Tyler reached over and snatched it from his hand.

  “I’m staying,” he said with a smile.

  * * *

  None of the boys caught anything larger than a small sunfish, but it didn’t matter; the one-hundred-dollar bill was stuffed firmly into one of Tyler’s pockets, and Kent knew that there was no way any of them would ever see it again—regardless of what size fish they caught.

  Maybe because of this, or more likely because of the heat from another day that was melting into the mid-nineties, they had all given up fishing after only about an hour. The four of them—Sergio, Kent, Baird, and Tyler—sat on the dock, all of them shirtless except for Baird. Even Tyler had removed his beloved Metallica T-shirt, his ribs poking out from beneath his thin skin like bicycle spokes.

  “Hey,” Tyler suddenly said, turning to face Baird, who was sitting on the dock only a couple paces from the shore, “how does it feel to be named Beard, and yet all you can grow is that shit smear on your upper lip?”

  Kent couldn’t help himself—he laughed. The comment had been so sudden, so unprovoked, that it even brought a smile to Sergio’s usually flat expression.


  Baird looked at the three of them, his face contorting into a pout.

  And I look like baby when I pout? Kent thought, observing Baird. The boy’s round face was like a red tennis ball—minus the furry covering, as Tyler had so acutely pointed out.

  Then Baird surprised everyone by responding.

  “Okay, first of all,” he said in his high-pitched voice, “my name is not Beard—its Baird. And who are you? Rip van Winkle? What kind of beard can you grow?”

  Tyler laughed and went back to staring out at the calm water that lapped at the dock. In the distance, Kent picked up some whitecaps that would soon make their way to shore. Despite the stillness of the air, or perhaps because of it, he thought there might be a storm on the horizon.

  “Who the fuck is Rip van Dinkle?” Tyler asked, not bothering to turn back to Baird. “That a boyfriend of yours?”

  “…van Winkle,” Baird corrected him.

  “Who gives a shit? Nice mustache.”

  Tyler pulled a cigarette out of the pack and struggled to light it in the wind.

  Kent looked at Baird. The boy actually looked like he was thinking about a witty retort, some dig to get back at Tyler. Baird’s beady eyes bounced quickly from Kent to Sergio to Tyler.

  Bad idea, Kent thought. Keep your mouth shut, Baird.

  “Stop bitching, guys,” Sergio said, spitting over the edge of the dock.

  It was hot, and they were all irritable—the whole point of the trip had been to go fishing with their fathers. Instead, they were stuck on the dock with each other, bored out of their minds.

  “Fuck you, Sergio—fuck you and your Tilley hat.”

  Sergio, who had at least ten inches and twice as many pounds on the much smaller Tyler, swore and went to stand, but Kent and grabbed his friend’s arm before he made it to his feet.

  “Fuck off, all of you,” Kent said, trying to defuse the situation. “You all sound like bitches.”

  Tyler turned to him. His eyes were dark, and his furrowed brow caused the scar on the right side of his face to crinkle. When he frowned, as he was doing now, he looked much older than his sixteen years.