Conceiving (Subdue Book 3)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Bobby clutched his stomach as it grumbled, searching, eyes darting to and fro for an empty place at any of the thousands of tables. But all the seats were full.

  He walked.

  And ran.

  Searching for a place.

  “Excuse me.” Bobby hovered over one table, but the soldiers there did not seem to notice.

  He ran to another.

  “Do you have room?” His voice pleading. Weak. But he cared not, for his stomach ached and turned inside itself. Crying out for some bread.

  The soldiers laughed and ate and ate from dripping spoons of brown gravy, not a one seeming to notice Bobby. He ran to another and another, gathering not a single nod or glance or sneer. He was a ghost hustling among shadows.

  “Please, somebody. Let me sit. Let me eat.” Bobby wailed, collapsing on to the tiled floor. Eyes burning with tears. Weeping, groveling on his belly as he listened to them dine. Shoulder to shoulder, hundreds of thousands of military men and women. Uniformed and battle worn. Merrily going about their plates.

  “Just…want to eat. So. Hungry.”

  Prostrate, Bobby flinched as something wet dripped on the back of his neck. Something cold and awful feeling. Some sort of amorphous substance. Running down the side of his face. He turned over. A soldier he did not recognize stood over him, lips smacking as if still chewing some bit of food. Drool dribbling down his chin, black but partially translucent. At the tables, the soldiers had stopped eating. And talking. And making merry. Silence. All eyes were on him now.

  Bobby squirmed on the floor. Watching them watching him with pale dead eyes. Milky vacant expressions. Jaws slowly grinding on whatever remained of their meals, reminding him of cows in a pasture, chewing cud.

  Silence hung in the air. The only sounds came from the rhythmic smacking and chewing and gulping. The pleasant aroma turned sour. And odd smell wafted over Bobby like diesel fumes. Gasping and gagging, he coughed and wheezed.

  “What is that smell?” he asked.

  The stink had a tartness about it, but there was something else there too. Something wrong and horrifyingly familiar, of decay and rot and mildew.

  The smell was death.

  Gazing around him, those vacant expressions seem to grin as if some practical joke had unfolded. Their faces turned waxy, slick almost, puffing and swelling. Around him, fixed glares burst horrible clear liquid, spilling onto their food. Uniforms welted as if rose petals picked from the thorn and held in a flame, becoming tattered and destroyed by some unseen inferno. Many of them had wounds, horrible wounds, jagged bones sticking out resembling sharp branches on a fallen tree the likes of which no one could hope to survive. Others had burns, crisped black and scored blue flesh. Many more were mangled, missing chunks of red meat. Tongues whipping around spoonfuls of food with gouged hungry mouths. Absent limbs and bygone lips. Sleeves left dangling like torn flags in the wind. Puffed and swollen abrasions. Rips in uniforms. Splattered in black blood.

  They chewed.

  And they watched.

  Rotting.

  They ate.

  “Can I sit with you?” Bobby stood, taking the shoulder of the mutilated ghost in front of him. The soldier simply glared vacantly and turned to find its own place among humanities lost children. Corpses. Living or dead, who would know.

  And the smell.

  Oh God, the smell.

  Running again, tearing shrinking down his cheeks.

  Bobby came upon another table he knew. There was Murdock sitting next to Pierce, laughing and eating with Johnson. Oh. Sergeant Johnson. His old squad. His Army unit. They were chowing down without any care of the food that slipped through their open wounds, necks gutted, exposing tissues and purple nerves and ribbed opaque bone.

  “Hey, Murdock! Sergeant Johnson.” Bobby danced and waved at them, but they did not take notice of him. They ate and laughed and goofed, just like in the old days when they were still alive. Before Kurdistan. Before the mission. Before the wolf.

  Standing behind them, Bobby watched and remembered, of days long ago, it seemed. Days he missed terribly. Days he wished he could get back. But that’s not how things work. Time, as they say, marches on. He couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t change their fate. Or his own.

  Unable to bear the sight of his dead battle buddies, he pressed on. Walking between the tables. Listening as they talked and as they ate, trying to ignore the smell of sweet soured milk.

  He walked.

  For how long?

  He did not know.

  Forever, maybe.

  On another row, far away, he spotted another familiar table.

  His friends.

  Yes. There they were. His childhood friends.

  Ricky sat next to Maggie, and across from them sat Johnathan. Cheerfully talking amongst each other. Sharing a joke, Bobby imagined. Or maybe Ricky was talking horror movies again, as he was known to do…when he was alive. And Maggie…Mags, she was—normal. Not at all the way he last saw her, when her skin molted away revealing the monstrous insect inside.

  She’s beautiful…Bobby fell to his knees, watching them.

  But where’s—

  “Hey, Bobby.”

  Bobby looked up. beside him, as if in passing to rejoin the table with the rest of Suicide Squad, was Jake holding a tray of surf’n’turf.

  “Hi, Jake.” Bobby remained on his knees. Eyes wet and on fire. Stomach growling.

  “What are you doing here?” Jake gestured at the room with his chin.

  “I’m hungry, Jake. Can I join you guys?”

  “Bobby.”

  “Please.”

  “You gotta let go, buddy or you’ll end up killing yourself.” Jake turned to leave, his polo and khakis were coated in dust, as if he was painted in chalk. Otherwise, he looked as he always did, just like when they were kids, before the night they all disappeared. The night they died and left him behind.

  And that’s the rub, wasn’t it?

  That’s the truth.

  Why keep pretending?

  They died.

  He didn’t.

  And now he was alone.

  Fuck it.

  Jake turned back to Bobby before sitting back at the table with Mags and Ricky and Jonathan.

  “Don’t look so glum, buddy.” He reached and though there was a great distance between them, his hand rested on his shoulder. If there had been any warmth there, he would have welcomed the respite gladly. No. There was no warmth. Nor was his touch cold. It was void of feeling entirely, as if he wasn’t really there at all.

  “Please. I want to sit with you. I miss you all.” Bobby wept. He gestured at the table with a trembling hand. His friends took no notice, just like the rest in this unpleasant place.

  Jake looked at the table and back to Bobby. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  “When?”

  Jake shrugged. Giving one final smile, he sat and seemed undisturbed by Bobby’s moans of protest. They all seemed to fade away, rejoining the rest of the soldiers who sat and ate and laughed and rotted. Faded back into the gloom and the sound of spoons clanking on dinner plates heaping meals of purple plum bacilli and white maggots rolling over each other. Munching. Munching. Syrupy mucus dribbling down bone chewed chins. And the stink of sweet foulness.

  Munching.

  Munching.

  God, he could bear it no more.

  Bobby screamed.

  And screamed.

  Not a damned soul batted an eye.

  Outside this place, something rattled the walls. A deep and large sound, booming loudly in rhythmic bursts, reminding Bobby of machine gun fire.

  The cackling blast roared.

  The whistle came after.

  A high screech somewhere far above.

  Coming closer.

  Closer.

  Louder.

  Louder.

  And the horns.

  —INCOMING

  —INCOMING

  Bobby hit the floor.

  Birds chirped
in his ear.

  Birds?

  Here?

  In this place?

  There was a breeze. Warm and smelling of browning leaves.

  Pushing up from the floor, Bobby peered around. The soldiers were gone. The tables were gone. His friends and those he served with were all gone. The chow hall was gone was well. In its place, he tasted soil and damp grass. His flesh felt cold and weak. Trembling he opened his eyes.

  Daylight flooded over him.

  He was in a ditch next to a road.

  Naked, except for a pair of ruined jeans.

  Skin covered in grime and blood.

  Bobby held his face in his dirty palms.

  Shuddering against the dream as it faded away from memory.

  Rolling into a fetal ball, he wept.

  “I miss you guys.”

  Chapter 14

  Moving Day

  Neville

  There was something very strange in seeing her entire life boxed up. It was moving day, and now everything she and Boris had collected over the years was being put away, labeled in black maker, with destinations such as Kitchen, Bedroom, Pantry, Toiletries, Dining, Garage, and so on. And it was equally strange to see Boris humming delightfully as he went from room to room, supervising the sweaty men in back braces and dirty shirts with the Moving Bros logo stenciled on the front. This is really happening. We are actually moving to Texas. If more proof was needed, all Neville had to do was inspect the box marked China, wrapped and ready for one of the movers to take outside. Or the Macy’s silverware. Or the countless lounge blankets she kept on the couch religiously for winter snuggles or plain everyday simple comfort. It was a subject of teasing between the Petrys, but what could she say in her defense, she loved her blankets, the soft twill fabric, the cotton mesh, the patterned afghans and quilts passed down from her mother and her mother’s mother, who, as she thought about it now, also favored blankets just as much, if not more. In fact, she could recall vividly, at their old family house out in Jackson, way on the other side of Ole Miss, every piece of furniture, draped or wrapped in a kaleidoscope of color. Homemaker? Blanket fetish? God help her, she was becoming more like her mother every day.

  “Easy with the bedframe, gentlemen. It’s a sleigh.” Boris stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up with an expression of dread magnified by his thick glasses. He had on one of his famous red bow ties contrasting against his denim button up shirt. A box of what looked most likely books held in his hands. Neville knew his anguish, the frame, part of their bedroom set, had cost a small fortune, especially on an associate professor’s salary. But that was all about to change, wasn’t it. The entire reason for the move. A promotion at a new school in another state. 800 miles away. Baelo University. Jotham. Texas.

  The Moving Bros. men grunted and repositioned the frame to satisfy perhaps both the staircase wall and Boris’ constant moaning.

  Exhaling his relief, Boris went out to load his box of books into the moving van.

  Neville watched from one of the overlooking beams at the top of the stairs. Rolling her eyes gleefully she retreated back into the bedroom to see what was next. The dressers had already been loaded. The clothes packed. All that remained was her vanity. The tall standing mirror on the wall would stay with the townhouse, courtesy of the Petry’s and Boris’ unwillingness to unhinge the glue for fear of ruining the paint. She stood for a while, gazing at herself, tracing her still young face and long sandy curly hair. She’d abandoned her typical Ole Miss t-shirt for a lace trim tee and light blue jeans. More reflexively than anything else, she turned to look at herself sideways, to look at the shape of her midsection in the reflection. Pushing outward with her abs, she gave a weak looking hump to her otherwise flat stomach.

  Her smile was undeniable. Though as soon as she relaxed her muscles, vanquishing the fantasy, the pleasantness quickly vanished too. Neville touched the spot she wished and prayed countless night’s life would take hold. Maybe, she thought, the move would do us some good. Her mother wouldn’t be around to mention if she was ever going to get pregnant and perhaps, by some magic, without the unnecessary pressure a change of air could bring about some kind of answer or miracle for her own unanswered prayers for motherhood.

  Maybe…

  Two hours later, the van was loaded. And the house was empty. Boris crammed the last few bags into the back of his red and white striped and dented Peugeot. The engine rattled somewhat disturbingly. Settling down, he turned and smiled with his bug eyes at Neville.

  “Ready, Mrs. Petry?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be, Mr. Petry.”

  Neville returned his hopeful expression. The moving van in front of them pulled away from the townhouse. Boris shifted in drive and followed.

  “Okay. Here we go,” Boris announced.

  Turning to look out the passenger window, Neville watched as they drifted away from their old life, unsure for what the new one would bring.

  “Jotham here we come,” she whispered.

  Chapter 15

  Hello Darkness

  Bobby

  The sound of traffic roared nearby, waking Bobby from a restless sleep. The rumble from the ground and the whip of the air was too close to be near Luna’s house, he wagered. And if this wasn’t Luna’s, then this wasn’t the cage, the old batting cage in the backyard. No. This was a ditch covered with weeds and dandelions and the taste of bitter iron in the back of his throat and on his lips. He’d turned. Out in the open. Shivering, he sat upright, keeping low as possible, eyes darting to the road and the passing traffic, he dared not blink. Hands and bare chest covered in pasted black muck and dark blood. Feet naked, but mercifully his jeans remained, though ripped and shredded. Across the street was a Valero gas station, bright and brand new. Farther down, an old time candy-striped barbershop and beside that a Mexican Cafe. This was Highway 6, he was sure. Not far from home. Not far from—

  Rudy’s.

  They shot Rudy.

  A couple, man and woman.

  And there was another. Some boy.

  Justin Gotaas that was his name. And he knew Bobby, somehow, he mentioned…Jotham. He fucking was from Jotham. And what?

  He’d threatened him.

  With a knife.

  A silver blade.

  The boy knew about Bobby, knew what he was. But how did he know?

  The boy was trying to prove something of himself that much Bobby could remember. He came to Rudy’s young dumb and, as the saying goes, full of cum, seeking some kind of retribution, right? He came looking for a fight. Said Bobby hurt his family. And a bunch of other nonsense about fate.

  And then what?

  They shot Rudy. The woman with the revolver, she shot Rudy in the stomach. And those girls, they screamed. And the boy came at me. But I jumped out the door. To get away. Or draw them away maybe.

  Then what?

  The anger.

  The rage.

  And fear too.

  Yellow eyes.

  Devil eyes.

  From the ditch and scattered memory, Bobby had enough to figure out what had happened. He’d transformed. He turned into that damned wolf. But how? There was no full moon. Only the growling in his pit, the same growling he felt pummeling the face of that sleaze-ball good for nothing over at the warehouse on the island. What’s his name? The same itching desire…no, more than desire, lust, lust to see the man’s insides on the outside. To see what his red and purple heart looked in his claw stretched hand. To taste the flesh off his bone.

  Jesus H. Christ!

  I’m smiling…

  Running a hand through his scruffy hair, Bobby surveyed his attire. The smiley Nirvana t-shirt he’d saved from Maggie’s was gone, ruined somewhere back at Rudy’s, no doubt. His boots were also gone. Leather jacket too. By some miracle, though ripped along the seams, his jeans remained remarkably intact, enough at least to keep himself from being exposed. And in his back pocket, the remnants of the last remaining cash Bryant had paid him before laying hi
m off from the warehouse. How had it survived? He could scarcely imagine. Somethings you just took with a grain of salt and be thankful for what it was.

  What now? he wondered.

  If he headed west, he could be at Luna’s before lunch.

  East, Rudy’s Tavern.

  Standing on shaky legs, Bobby trotted across the Highway, heading east. Despite the discomforts of his body, his weakness the morning after a transformation, the ache and pain and soreness of not only his flesh, but his brittle bones as well, despite the thunder bolts running through him, he needed to know what happened. He needed to see what he’d done.

  ***

  He’d skirted behind the Valero without taking much notice. Only one person saw him, an obese forty-ish looking woman in pink who turned slack-jawed watching Bobby’s near naked shape running across the parking lot. Behind the Valero, he could see Rudy’s snaking out between the wood lines. Resuming his trot, he made his way through the back yards that separated the gas station from the tavern. Back yards full of random junk. Grills and kiddie pools and weather-worn dog houses and broken bird houses nailed into barren tree trunks and faded flamingoes and evil looking gnomes and clothes lines, most of which were free of clothing, except for one. On the last matchbox lot a pair of black baggy basketball shorts and a dark orange Hook’em Horns t-shirt had been left out. Thankful for the find, he snatched them off the line as he ran past.