by R. W. Ridley
I stepped away from him as my stomach grumbled. “I… saw something.” I clamped my hand on my gut and fought the hunger.
“Saw what?”
Before I could answer, the dark figure I had seen in the corridor showed itself. It was the Flish. The gray man glared and snarled.
“He with you?” Archie asked looking as uneasy as I felt.
I shook my head.
The Flish sniffed the air. “I smell a little one. Meat so tender. Meat so sweat.”
“Old man,” Archie said, “you come any closer and I’ll plant my foot right up that bony ass of yours.”
The gray man focused on Archie. “My meat! My meat! My meat to eat! That be Storyteller meat! I gnaw on Creyshaw bones after I eat the Storyteller boy!”
Archie shivered and stomped his foot. “This one of them things… the destruction things?”
“Destroyer,” I corrected. “And yes.”
The Flish moved toward the corner where Bobby was hiding. Archie turned and placed himself between Bobby and the gray man. I couldn’t move. It was as if I was stuck in a time warp. I watched as the Flish closed in on Bobby and… hoped that he would. I wanted to watch him drag little Bobby off. I wanted to follow them. I wanted to watch the gray man strangle him and then cook him. “Sweet meat,” I whispered.
Archie crouched and balled his hands into tight fists and readied himself for the fight of his life. “Little help,” he said.
I nodded but still didn’t move. I was afraid if I did I would help the Flish.
The old gray man stopped just out of their reach. “She kissed me on the cheek. That’s when I knew I would eat her!”
Archie barked, “Back up, old man!”
“I eat the sweet Storyteller!”
Kimball started barking wildly.
“I kill the dog to eat the meat!”
No one threatens my dog. I suddenly didn’t have difficulty moving. I jumped into action. “Joshua 19:9,” I said rushing toward the Flish.
He turned to me. “That’s my favorite.”
“You told me already,” I replied. I cocked my fists and was ready to fight for my dog until my last ounce of strength was gone.
The Flish backed away. “I’ve been gone too long. I don’t have time for this. Give me the sweet Storyteller. Now!”
“Not a chance, old man,” Archie said. “You want him. Come and get him.”
“I do not have time!” The old gray man started to look worried. “I want the sweet meat, but I cannot stay. I cannot stay, but I want the sweet meat. I…” He smiled. “Nine days and the sweet, sweet meat is mine!” He crept backwards.
“Old man,” Archie said. “If you say ‘sweet meat’ one more time, I’m going to…”
The Flish was gone. Vanished into the shadows.
“Where’d he…,” Archie started to ask, but stopped when he noticed Tall Boy. Only Tall Boy wasn’t Tall Boy any more. He was half his size, and his facial features were changing. “What’s happening to him?”
I growled. “Stop! I told you not to do that.”
“I am not,” Tall Boy answered. His voice was much higher pitched.
“What’s going on?” Archie demanded.
“What do you mean you’re not doing it?” I asked.
Tall Boy raised his arm and pointed at Archie. “It is the warrior with two hearts.”
The color drained from Archie’s face. “Don’t call me that.” He turned to me. “Damn it! Tell me what’s going on here.”
Ignoring his plea, I asked, “Why did he call you that?”
He hesitated. “It’s… Kavi called me that before… the warrior with two hearts…” He struggled to explain. “My son…”
His therapy sessions back at the facility flashed through my mind. “They took him,” I said out loud, although it wasn’t my intention. I was just repeating a memory… his description of what happened. “You hid in the garage… behind the hot water heater, I believe.”
The blood rushed back to his face and his cheeks were almost incandescent. All he did was nod.
“You heard them screaming.”
He dropped to a knee and covered his face. “I let them be take my wife and son. I did nothing.”
I watched as Tall Boy continued to shrink. His face became more round. His arms chubbier. “Can’t you stop this?”
Tall Boy shook his head. “It is not up to me.”
“Tell me what’s happening,” Archie said. His eyes were red and swollen.
I cleared my throat. “Your son… He’ll be with us soon.”
His face froze in a look that was a cross between horrified and hopeful.
“How old was he?”
It took a long time before Archie could answer. Finally he stuttered, “Four… fo… Fourteen months.”
I shook my head and glared at Tall Boy who was anything but tall by now. “You’ve got be kidding me. We don’t have enough to deal with, and now you’re going to saddle us with a fourteen-month old kid.”
Archie stood. “Saddle us with… wait a minute, are you seriously saying that… that thing is turning into my son?”
I shook my head and walked as far away from them as possible. “He’s your responsibility. I’ve got enough going on trying not to eat my friends.”
“My responsibility? I’ve got Bobby to worry about.”
“So,” I said. “Now you have Bobby and… what was your son’s name.”
I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. “It doesn’t matter because that’s not my son.”
“I’ll watch him,” Bobby said. “I’m good with babies.”
“No!” Archie shouted. “Turn him back.”
I laughed. “It’s not up to me.”
“Turn back!” Archie screamed at Tall Boy.
Tall Boy had morphed into what looked like a five-year-old kid, and he was continuing to get smaller. His face was completely different. By the look on Archie’s face, he must have taken on the general features of his son.
Archie stepped back, eyes glazed over, forehead wrinkled, and his face began to contort. I recognized that look. It was shame. He took one deep breath and whispered the name. “Max.”
ELEVEN
I was hungry… no, that’s not the word for it. I was fixated on eating. My every thought began with me stuffing a hunk of food in my mouth and ended with me chewing frantically, a smile on my face, grease from the fat in the meat outlining my lips. I was insane with hunger, which didn’t bother me as much as what I always pictured myself eating. The meat was human… deliciously human.
I thought these thoughts as I stared at Archie. He was wiry and didn’t appear to have a whole lot of meat, but I had seen the Skinner Dead eat. They always found enough meat on the bones. And all those zombie movies I had seen when the world was still normal; all those zombies loved the guts and the… brains.
Brains! The thought stuck in my head. I had forgotten about the brains. My stomach growled. I would eat the brains first… no last. Yes, last. That would be my dessert. That is how I would finish my meal.
“Stop!” I roared.
Archie looked puzzled while Little Bobby was just terrified. He held onto what was once Tall Boy but was now a baby about a year and a half old.
“Stop what?” Archie asked.
I tried to think of a believable lie to tell him because I wasn’t sure how to break it to him gently that I planned on eating his brains as a sweet, scrumptious dessert. “I… can’t stop… I think I was talking to myself.”
“You think?”
“Forget it.” I picked up my backpack and crossbow. “I have to go.” Archie motioned toward me, but I halted him in his tracks by raising my hand. “Alone.”
“Alone?” He grimaced. “Look, there ain’t no guide book on this whole Creyshaw-warrior thing. I got no idea what I’m doing.”
“None of us do.”
“Yeah, but you’re the only one that got your Storyteller to your Keeper.”
“I was lucky.” I
started to exit the room.
“I need to know what to do!”
I stopped. “Stay away from me. That’s what you do.” I caught a glimpse of little Bobby holding the baby, and Nate’s face shot up from my memory banks. “We’re bad people, Archie. That’s why we’re here.”
“What are you talking about?”
I shook my head. “You want to know how to be a good Creyshaw?”
He nodded.
“Don’t matter.”
He waited for me to elaborate. Finally, he threw up his hands. “That’s it? Could you maybe be a little more cryptic?”
I sighed. “The way I treated Tommy, the way I made fun of him, the way I made him feel like he didn’t matter… that’s why he created the monsters. I mattered so much I caused the end of the world.”
“But…”
“Creyshaw’s don’t matter, Archie. Our job is to become unnecessary. When you come up against it, when you have a decision to make, make the decision that gets you closer to not mattering.”
I paused, hoping he would interject, but he was still too busy trying to process my advice.
“Lou, Wes, and the others, they want to bring back our old world. They want everything to be the way it used to be. I do, too, but…”
“But, what?” he asked.
“It scares me, too. We bring back the world and everything is how it used to be. Why would we want that? That’s what got us here.”
He looked at me saddened and stunned. “That is the most depressing pep talk I have ever heard.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m too hungry to be inspirational.” I left the room with Kimball leading the way.
It took me twice as long to reach the stairs as it should have. I stopped every ten feet and fought the urge to turn around. I even made it half way back at one point. The old man had said the Storyteller’s meat was sweet and tasty and… oh, how I wanted to find out. I fell into a deep trance. My mind totally focused on my hunger, and the one way I knew how to satisfy it.
“Eat the Storyteller.” I said it out loud without even realizing it. Kimball barked. I heard him once, but judging by his clearly frustrated demeanor, he must have been barking for quite a while. He could sense that I wasn’t myself. I was something he didn’t like, but he wasn’t going to give up on me. He nudged me away from the door leading back to the observation deck.
I struggled to shake the thoughts from my head and walked toward the stairs. As I walked, I got the sense that I was being followed. Archie, no doubt. He obviously didn’t understand how dangerous the situation had become. I kept walking without acknowledging him. I didn’t trust myself to see him and not kill him. I would be free to eat the Storyteller…
I heard the floor creak when I stopped to rub my growling stomach. “Go back, Archie.”
There was no answer.
Another creak.
“Archie!”
I stumbled forward. A large painting hung on the wall in front of me. The frame was gold and ornate. The glass protecting the painting of a Blue Ridge landscape was cracked. The crack held my attention as I followed it with my eyes from one corner to the other. That’s when I saw who was following me. The pale little brunette girl dressed in black. My heart leapt up into my throat. I felt her icy cold fingers touch my arm and yelped. I rushed forward and nearly fell twice before I reached the stairs.
I sighed, relieved I had put some distance between us, but my relief was short-lived as I felt her touch again.
“What?” I shouted. I don’t know why. It was as if I had heard her call my name.
She held out her hand, and I forced myself to look at her face. She wanted me to go with her. I hesitated and then slowly took her hand. The floor fell away instantly, and I slipped into a horrible darkness followed by an ultra-bright flash of light. With a thud, I hit a slab of pavement. My knees buckled and I heard a crack. The air was forced from my lungs. I wheezed and fought to catch my breath. Several seconds passed before I was able to breathe freely.
My hand on my lower back, I stretched and worked to clear the pain out of my body. That’s when I first took in my new surroundings.
I was outside, but not outside the mansion. I was on a sidewalk on a busy city street. There were people everywhere. Four- and five-story buildings stretched down both sides of the block. Cars were parked along every inch of the curb. The cars were none like I had ever seen before, not in real life. I had seen them in history books. They were old… old-timey old.
People passed me on the sidewalk. It was boiling hot, but the men all wore suits and the women wore long dark dresses. The children I saw were dressed the same way. No one took any notice of me, even though I obviously didn’t fit in. It was as if they didn’t see me.
I walked to the corner and examined the street signs, Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. A ridiculously loud car horn startled me. I turned quickly in its direction and watched the car drive down the street. I and fixated on it until I saw him. The old gray man was buying a newspaper at a newsstand. He had a small enamel pail by his feet, a box of strawberries in one hand, and something wrapped in a red and white canvas cloth tucked under his arm.
He was not the scary man from the basement. It was him, but he was different here. By the looks of it, he was having a pleasant conversation with the guy at the newsstand. I worked my way closer to the two of them so I could hear what they were saying.
“Looks like you have quite a load there, mister,” the newsstand guy said.
“I can manage,” the old man replied. “Although you could do me a favor.”
“How so?”
The old man took the canvas-wrapped package from underneath his arm. “I’m just going up the street to a friend’s house for lunch. Could I leave this package with you and then retrieve it on my way back?”
The man considered the request.
“I’ll only be an hour or so,” the old man said with a wink.
The man smiled and nodded. He took the package from the old man and hid it behind the newsstand. The Flish patted the man on the shoulder, picked up his pail, and turned on his heels.
I stumbled back as his eyes fell on me. My heart began to pound. I worked to find my balance and then set out in a sprint to get as far away from him as I could. Three steps into my getaway I ran into a large man dressed in a black wool suit. Actually, I ran through him. The man took no notice of me. He continued as if I wasn’t there. A girl of about seven came skipping down the sidewalk begging for her daddy to wait for her. In a single hop, she too passed through me. I wasn’t there. I was a ghost, but I wasn’t dead. I looked at the people on the street and in the shops and in their cars from another time. They were dead. I was in the Land of the Dead.
The old man passed me, and I glanced at his newspaper. The New York Daily News, June 3, 1928.
I watched him turn the corner and resisted the urge to follow him. I didn’t want to know more about him. Everything about him told me he was evil, more evil than anything I had encountered so far. I had fought a bunch of monsters and man-eating freaks, but those things were imagined into reality by tortured minds. The old gray man was different. He wasn’t the invention of someone’s imagination. He was real, and he lived for only one thing: his need to feed.
A little boy came around the corner in the opposite direction. He was dressed in his Sunday best. His brown hair was plastered to his skull with a thick coating of oil. It took me several seconds to recognize him as the dead boy from the pool.
He stopped a few feet in front of me, but did not acknowledge me. He just stood there.
“Can you see me?” I asked.
He turned and walked back the way he had just come.
“Why am I here?”
He stopped and turned to me, but still did not look at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he wanted me to follow him.
“I don’t want to go that way.”
He looked me in the eyes. I had to follow him. I nervously tapped my hand against my le
g, and then finally took the first step in his direction, followed by another and then another. Before I knew it, the boy and I had rounded the corner and we were headed up the street.
I couldn’t see the old man anymore. I was relieved until I heard someone knocking on the door of a house just in front of us. The Flish stood on the front stoop, posture stiff and dignified, the paper under the arm where he had kept the package, the small crate of strawberries in his hand, the pail on the porch next to him.
The door opened and I heard a man’s voice singing something about my blue heaven. I saw the silhouette of a heavyset woman standing in the doorway.
As if I were standing next to the old gray man, I heard him say, “Aw, Mr. Gene Autry and My Blue Heaven. This is the picture perfect day for such a melody, Mrs. Budd.” He bent down and picked up his pail.
“Mr. Howard, so nice of you to come.” She backed away and let him enter.
“Brought some of my favorite pot cheese and strawberries.”
She closed the door.
It was only then I realized I was holding my breath. I let out a sigh. If only she hadn’t let him in, I thought. She let the monster in.
The boy moved up the walkway to the apartment building and made his way to the front window. I milled about, not wanting to follow, but knowing I had to. I cleared my throat and joined him.
The old gray man sat in a cushioned chair across from a mild mannered man. The two men chatted while a five-year-old the woman called Beatrice read a picture book.
“How goes the farm, Mr. Howard?” The younger man asked.
“Busy, busy, busy, Mr. Budd. I’ll be glad to have your boy helping me out this season.”
“Well, Eddie’s excited about having the work and earning some money. Good of you to make the trip out here to escort him out to the country.”
“Nonsense. Glad to do it. Looking forward to Mrs. Budd’s cooking.”
“His name’s not Howard,” I said to the dead boy.
He didn’t answer. He just shook his head.
I heard footsteps coming up the sidewalk and turned to see… her. The little girl from the basement. Grace. Only like the old gray man, she was different. She was happy and carefree. She hadn’t seen horrible things. Hadn’t lived through hell. She opened the door and entered the house.