The Hollow Men (Book 1): Crave

by Jonathan Teague

  He arrived home three days ago. Yesterday, Katie got sick. Very sick. The nasty illness that attacked Katie devoured the energy of the usually vibrant little eight-year-old, dampening her broad smile and snuffing out the sparkle in her brown eyes. She whimpered as her fever surged to 104 degrees and her skin turned sickly white.

  It wasn’t that Tom regularly and purposely kept the details of his travels secret from Ridley; he simply traveled so much that neither of them had much interest in talking about the specifics of experiences in airlines and airports. Katie got sicker and the pandemic that originated in Thailand began to spread quickly. Tom suspected that he’d brought Thapp home to his little girl.

  When he told Ridley about where he’d been and what was happening there, it felt as though he were confessing to an extramarital affair, like he’d severely broken trust with her and with his family.

  Ridley was self-programmed to take charge when crisis hit her family. Part of feeling in control meant she needed to be the only one contemplating the worst. Despite her own fear, she reassured him with carefully deliberate exasperation in her voice, implying that Tom worried needlessly.

  “Tom, there are a lot of sicknesses in the world. You flew through Cambodia, not Thailand, and since I haven’t heard of it, it can’t be a world-ending plague that’s already reached our doorstep. Plus, if it’s bad as you say, I doubt you’d still be standing no matter how invincible your immune system seems to be.”

  And then she frantically researched everything known about the Thapp virus as she held vigil at Katie’s side. In spite of its rapid spread, it did seem too early for it to have found her daughter.

  Tom spelled Ridley while she ate some food and took a shower. Katie’s breathing became so weak that Tom had a difficult time detecting it. After each exhalation, her body paused for a few heart-stopping seconds. At each of these moments Katie fought for her life. Virus winning: breath halted, her head lolled, and her eyes rolled into the back of her skull. Katie winning: a tiny shudder, and she took in shallow sips of air.

  Ridley spent the night sitting on the floor beside Katie’s bed, her head resting close to Katie’s torso, monitoring each rise and fall of her chest. She picked at the cuticles on her fingers until they bled while she watched for telltale seizures that indicated the onset of the Thapp virus.

  Her rational mind reasoned that the chances of her daughter having that specific virus were a hundred-million to one. Her lips moved in a prayer-like chant, trying to convince herself there was no way her daughter contracted Thapp. After three in the morning, she stopped, knowing those extreme improbabilities were no consolation to the unfortunate hundred-millionth person.

  Tom checked on Katie throughout the night. An exhausted Ridley whispered reassurances to him in exchanges that had the tone of a heated argument rather than soothing confidence. She told him wearily to get over himself, that he couldn’t be the cause of every bad thing in the world.

  By morning, Katie’s fever had eased and her skin was less pale. Cautiously optimistic, the family discussed what to do about the game. Chase was torn, concerned about his sister but excited about playing in the championship. He felt guilty for wanting to go.

  Ridley had supported Chase’s love of football from his very first little league practice at the age of four—his thigh pads had been the same length as her hand. Now, she put her arms around her tall son and told him she would be with Katie every second, and everything would work out fine whether Chase stayed home or not.

  As if choreographed to help him accept the decision, Katie chose that moment to get up. They heard her fumbling steps to her bedroom door. They waited to see if she’d come downstairs to see them off and instead heard her say something hoarsely which sounded something like, “Good luck, big brother”, before she returned to bed.

  It made them all feel better to know she’d gotten up without help and had the strength to speak.

  One of Chase’s friends pulled up to drive him to the bus that would carry the team to the Dome. Even from the driveway, the harsh sound of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” rang in Ridley’s ears. She hugged her son and said, “Good luck! Katie and I will be watching you on TV. You’ll be great!” and pushed him out the door.

  After Chase left, Tom had little choice other than to go. He threw a few snacks and some fan gear into his Escalade and went to say goodbye to Katie. She looked better, if still pale and weak, and slowly sipped some chicken broth while her dad sat at her bedside. “Get some rest,” he whispered, and kissed her on the forehead. He hesitated at the door, his forehead creased in worry and his lips puckered. He shook his head and pivoted to head downstairs and out the door.

  Ridley gave him a cheerful goodbye, radiating confidence and promising Katie would be fine. After she closed the door, her frozen smile collapsed and she returned to her vigil. An hour after Tom left, Katie’s temperature ramped up. Her dark, beautiful hair was matted and damp with sweat, and she shivered under thick blankets, groaning with pain.

  CHAPTER 6

  CLASH BY NIGHT

  Tom didn’t like cutting things this close. He reached the Harrison Street exit only fifteen minutes before game time. He pulled his truck into a small paid lot two miles away from the Dome to avoid the inevitable traffic congestion that could make him miss the kick-off. Even in this suffocating heat, running two miles in fewer than fifteen minutes was easy. He reached his seat just in time for the coin toss.

  The microcosm of the stadium was manic, people dancing to their own thunderous accompaniment of stomping feet on metal bleachers, losing themselves in the cacophony that boomed and reverberated against the roof. The “Loud House” deserved its nickname. A rolling tide of team colors spilled across signs, hoodies, and painted bodies. Red on black and purple on gold clashed against the backdrop of the orange-painted walls and decks.

  Carrier Corporation, the named sponsor of the Carrier Dome, enjoyed a global reputation for being one of the top heating and air conditioning manufacturers in the world. It was ironic then that there was no air conditioning in the Carrier Dome. It had never been needed during the cold months of college football and basketball season.

  Massive portable air conditioning units were brought in to stir and cool the indoor air the night before the game. When the doors opened, the air had cooled to seventy-one degrees, at kickoff it was eighty-four degrees, at halftime the digital scoreboard showed the temperature at ninety-two degrees. Whether the air conditioners reached equilibrium or stadium officials decided to hold the thermometer display steady as a visual placebo, it mattered little. Spectators and players were crammed into a massive box and bombarded with bowel-shaking noise and hot, stuffy air laced with the aromas of concession food and people’s sweat.

  It was now 21-17 in favor of the Eagles, who were expected to win, having entered the championship game with a perfect win record. In the first half, Chase racked up seventy rushing yards and scored a touchdown against the monster defensive line of the Eagles. The underdog Warriors were inexorably advancing the ball toward the end zone and victory.

  Both teams had gotten sloppy in the fourth quarter. Handoffs were poorly timed and players’ movements were stuttered. One defensive back stood motionless for an entire down. His teammates were angry at first, grabbing his facemask and yelling at him to snap out of it. He was completely unresponsive so they waved the coaches in, who then called for a stretcher. The boy’s limbs were jerking uncontrollably as he was carted off the field.

  Needing to keep their intensity up, players beat on each other’s helmets and shoulder pads, pushing each other to stay hungry and focused on the win.

  “Let’s go, 32!” Tom had shouted himself almost hoarse early in the first half, calling Chase by his jersey number.

  He drew glances from the people around him, who were surprised to see a big Korean when they expected to find Steve Erwin, the Crocodile Hunter. Tom’s single-focus cheering for number 32 had converted his entire section of fans to bolster hi
s son.

  “Let’s go 32!”

  Chase glanced up from the huddle to where he heard his number being chanted, wondering if that was the section where his father sat. Being on the field brought a rush of exhilaration unlike anything Chase had ever experienced. He felt invincible.

  He’d already carried the ball twice in the fourth quarter for a total of thirty yards, each time expertly diving out of bounds to conserve precious remaining seconds. The crowd grew wilder with less than a minute remaining, the Warriors still down by a touchdown.

  It was the fourth down. There would be no punting.

  The quarterback called a running play. Chase lined up behind him, rehearsing the mantra that his dad and every one of his coaches had drilled into him over the years. “Stay low and forward. Eyes up. Protect the ball.”

  Snap. The quarterback pivoted and executed a beautiful hand-off to Chase. The freshman fullback powered through a hole in the line, driving past the linebackers and running down the field. The safeties ran forward to stop him. They didn’t stand a chance against Chase, who was bigger and faster than they were.

  He already pictured himself reaching the end zone, scoring the game-winning touchdown in the state championship. He would dedicate the win to his sick sister Katie. His family would be so proud. He would be the most popular kid in school. He imagined pushing through the crowds that would cluster in the end zone where he would find Maddy Hale waiting for him, beautiful with her honey blond hair and radiant smile. She would throw her arms around him and…

  Chase felt a hand from behind, brushing into the gap between the football and the center of his ribs. At that moment, he felt his mistake. Too late, he tightened his grip on the ball. Fumble.

  The linebacker who had yanked the football from Chase fell on top of it. Six bodies piled on top of him, hands raking the turf in a desperate though meaningless attempt to recover possession before the referees could pull everyone away from the scrum. Their quarterback took a knee twice and a gleaming trophy would make its way to the impressive glass display case in the Eagles’ school’s front entrance.

  Chase stood motionless by the pile of players. His head wobbled on his shoulders and his arms hung limp from the despair that sapped his strength. He couldn’t shake the mantra that echoed in his mind “Protect the ball. Protect the ball. Protect the ball.” He wished for a huge rock he could crawl under. There was nowhere to hide at the Dome.

  Chase heard every groan and jeer that bounced around the stadium. He shuffled to the sideline, feet barely leaving the ground, past the halfhearted claps of consolation on his shoulder pads. After the gauntlet of his disappointed teammates, Chase collapsed on an empty bench, undid his chinstrap, and slumped forward, eyes down, finding it unbearable to watch the clock tick down to zero.

  Despite the certain outcome, spectators, players, and coaches kept their attention riveted on the field. Not everyone was focused on the game, however. A crazed female fan in her fifties blindsided Chase from the stands, knocking him off the bench. Her fists and knees rapped against his shoulder pads. She scrabbled at his helmet, tugging at it, then lunged and bit at his facemask. Malodorous saliva slid from her mouth and dripped on his cheek. He gagged from the stench of it.

  Under her barrage, his helmet twisted sideways, obscuring part of his vision and partially exposing his neck and shoulder, where a sharp pain stung him. But Chase was down, not dead, and now upset besides a lot bigger than she was. He grabbed her torso and pitched her away from him.

  His attacker stood unsteadily on stiff legs. She looked too small to have had much of an impact, but her size belied her physical strength. Dark pulpy crescents drooped below her unfocused eyes. She rocked slightly and a fit of seizures shook her body. She stretched her arms out toward Chase in a way no one could mistake for affection.

  Before she could launch herself again, a bulky security guard wearing a yellow golf shirt grabbed her in a chokehold. She bit the man’s arm, drawing blood, and scratched at him. He dragged her away, purposely dragging her so her tailbone struck the ground repeatedly. She never stopped fighting.

  She had been hauled out of sight before Chase saw that his father had made it to the lower bleachers. He waved to show that he was at least physically OK, so Tom didn’t force his way onto the field. He imagined what would have happened if his mother had come. She was a tigress when it came to keeping her family from any harm – physical or emotional. The big security guard would only have been able to watch since Ridley would have been at her son’s side in the blink of an eye, stomping the crazy lady into the turf.

  CHAPTER 7

  HERO’S PRIDE

  Taking his time, waiting for the choppy sea of humanity to ebb, Tom stepped down from the seats and considered the best way to help his son get past this. “Live to play another day.” “Focus on the wins this year.” “Man up.” None of it seemed right. He decided to play it by ear.

  A familiar voice came from behind Tom, and he felt a hard clap on the shoulder, “It won’t matter that he had a record-breaking season, that carried his team here, or that he had the only touchdown of the game. You know he’s going to torture himself. He’s just like his old man, holding himself personally responsible for saving the world.”

  His best friend Scott Hale stood next to him. He was tall and gangly; his face a leathery tan from being outside most of the year, leading wilderness programs for troubled youth. Scott’s sun bleached hair matched white teeth in a wry grin.

  Scott and Tom had known each other for ten years. Their families had moved into the neighborhood on the same Saturday. They’d shaken hands as the moving trucks arrived. Over the years that followed, the Parks and Hales had grown very close.

  The two families had done a lot together over the years—celebrated holidays, took vacations, shared babysitters, and always helped each other, no matter the need. If Scott were stranded two hundred miles from home at one in the morning, Tom would be out the door to pick him up before he finished asking. Scott knew Tom would do the same for him.

  “So, who should we hunt down first? The left tackle who took the cheap shot in the second quarter? The lunatic woman who jumped him at the end of the game? Or should we just take wild swings at anyone wearing the Eagles’ colors?”

  Scott was quick witted, blurting out jokes and sometimes offending people by doing so at inappropriate times. He always shrugged it off. “Life is too short to worry what other people think of me,” he’d say.

  A line of fans rudely pushed their way past Scott and Tom, interrupting their conversation. Tom was annoyed. Scott took a step backward, grandly sweeping his hand in front of him. “Please, after you,” he said with a smile.

  As Tom had often seen, the line of fans dismissed Scott as someone to push out of their way without apology, a person too passive to stand up for himself in even the smallest way.

  Tom knew the truth. Scott was, in fact, a very dangerous man. After one tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan, Tom had become sensitized to a particular type of dangerous person. What they possessed went beyond training, beyond willpower, tapping an invisible force within them. They were rare, exceptionally hard to kill, seeming to exceed the limits of what was physically possible. Relentless. In the right circumstances, merciless. They kept pounding and pounding and pounding until they were dead.

  Tom was proud to have led a few of these special kind of men in his Marine platoon. He’d faced only one in battle. Though the enemy combatant was already severely wounded, the man had nearly killed him. As a result of the confrontation, his body was puckered with scars. He’d stared into that man’s eyes until the life slipped out of them, eyes that held a blackness that had nothing to do with color.

  Tom had seen the same blackness behind Scott’s green eyes. He felt sorry for whatever unfortunate soul did something stupid enough to release that beast.

  “It’s tempting to take some frustration out on anyone wearing Eagles colors. Go ahead. I’m right behind you,” Tom replied with a
grin of his own then changed the subject. “Hey, is Laura here? Are the girls?”

  Scott pretended a scowl, “Oh, you mean is Maddy here? Is that what all this is about? Did Chase do all of this just to make a move on my little girl?”

  Tom played along. “Easy big fella. The tactic is to get Maddy’s sympathy, maybe get a hug out of this or at least a comforting word. No kisses. It’s a pretty dramatic play for a little bit of attention, wouldn’t you say? It doesn’t impress you?”

  Chase and Maddy had grown up together and were extraordinarily close. As they grew into young adults, it seemed like romance might someday blossom. Both fathers recognized it and were generally supportive, though Scott preferred a long, slow growing season.

  Scott answered with a wink, “Not sure how Maddy will see things. She’s a tough nut to crack. But he’s impressed me. Where can I find him to give him my ‘oh poor baby?’” Then he added, “Seriously, how is Chase going to react to this?”

  “He’ll take this pretty hard. You know him. He feels like he’s responsible for everyone. Really though, I think it would do him good to talk to Maddy. Is she here?”

  “Yes, along with Laura and the baby. Emily claimed she was getting sick with the same symptoms as Katie. Laura asked Ridley to have a look, and she didn’t think it was anything to worry about. Just in case, Ridley promised to check on her. But we think she’s faking it so she can stay home and read. We decided it wasn’t worth the fight it would be to take her out of the house. By now she’s probably through her tenth book for the day.”

  Tom chuckled. Scott’s daughter Emily gorged herself on books the way tornadoes consumed neighborhoods – voraciously, completely, and quickly. Her eyes always had a faraway look, her thoughts immersed in whatever she had read the night before.