Emergence

by William Vitka

  Patrick nudges Jack when Catarina isn’t looking. He motions for his friend to go with her. Jack deflects. Patrick keeps pushing.

  After enough elbow jabs, Jack follows her. “Catarina, I’ll walk with you.” He opens the door.

  “My hero,” she says.

  Patrick gives Jack a silent thumbs-up and starts killing ravenous hordes of the undead.

  * * *

  It’s chilly outside. Jack wears his army surplus shirt, jeans and boots. He lights a cigarette. Shivers a little. Thinks he’s kind of an idiot—which wasn’t totally inaccurate.

  Catarina was smart enough to pack a hoodie.

  They head up Third Avenue, away from the Svoboda house at Ninety-ninth Street and Harbor Court, toward the Schriebers’ at Eighty-eighth and Fort Hamilton Parkway.

  Catarina juts her chin at Jack’s stogie. “Can I have one?”

  “One what?”

  “A cigarette.”

  “You smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t start.”

  Jack thrusts his hands in his pockets. He wonders if he just committed some horrible faux pas. Should he give Catarina a cigarette? She might get addicted. And then she might not smell like Catarina anymore. He loves the way she smells. No, smoking’s more of a “guy thing,” Jack decides.

  But he asks her anyway to break the awkward quiet. “Do you really want one?”

  “Nah. I have no idea why I asked. Seemed like something to say, I guess.”

  Jack’s not good at this. He’s got no idea what to say to her when they’re alone and not talking about monster movies or politics or whatever.

  They amble through the dark and peaceful night. People mill around the bodegas that litter Third Avenue. Smokers fire up outside the bars. Delivery men tote Chinese food on their bicycles. It’s too normal. There’s nothing that Jack can create a conversation out of. Everyone’s got some place to go, something to do, and Jack’s trying to figure out if now is a good time to tell Catarina that he really—really really—likes her.

  He feels like a little kid. With regards to everything else, he’s pretty sure he’s awesome. Or so he tells himself. He knows science. He knows cars. He’s a dude. He shouldn’t worry about this. He’s—

  “Jack.”

  —the—

  “Jack!”

  —man.

  “Jack!”

  Jack looks up to Catarina. Confusion marks his face.

  Catarina says, “You see that guy?” She uses her eyes to point out a man across the street. The stranger stands in the shadows of the giant, decrepit dumpsters for a 7-Eleven on the corner of Eighty-ninth and Fourth.

  “I swear I saw him a few blocks back,” Catarina says as they march toward Eighty-eighth. “He’s following us.”

  Jack strains to see.

  The figure’s near six-feet tall. He wears a long dark coat and a tie. Business attire. He’s either bald or balding. Jack can’t tell much else about his features. The creep isn’t moving, but the guy’s head does follow them as they walk.

  “Now I want a cigarette,” Catarina says. “Between the bird shit and this...”

  Jack grabs Catarina’s hand. Now that there’s a potential threat, Jack feels like he knows how to deal with the situation. “Don’t look back. Just keep walking. I’m gonna get you home, and then your dad and I are gonna kick this prick’s ass.”

  Catarina reaches into her backpack and retrieved a can of mace. “I can take care of myself.” She tightens her grip on Jack’s hand. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

  * * *

  Caleb doesn’t wanna go to bed.

  He tried with protest, “It’s only ten o’clock!”

  And with eagerness, “I wanna learn about string theory!”

  But word comes down from his parents that, like it or not, bedtime is nigh.

  In truth, Caleb’s totally freaked out and he needs either Jack to be in the house or to have the lights on. He needs comforting.

  His mother knows that.

  “Okay,” Dierdra says, “tell you what. You don’t need to have your lights off until Jack comes home. Is that better?”

  Caleb nods.

  She says, “You can leave your stuff on. Once Jack gets back, everything off.”

  Caleb nods.

  His walls are covered with posters of the cartoon characters he adores. Bugs Bunny. Daffy Duck. Wile E. Coyote. His desk is a monument to action figures and Star Wars and Star Trek models. His bookshelf holds a colorful mix of comic books. Calvin and Hobbes. Some high-school books on space and astronomy—stuff that’s years ahead of his age.

  Dierdra tucks her son in. Hands him the remote to his little Sony TV. She plants a kiss on his forehead and waves as she closes his bedroom door. “Love you, kiddo.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  Caleb listens to his mom descend the carpeted stairs. He flips over to Cartoon Network. Pulls his solar system comforter up to his neck. Smiles.

  In that moment of quiet elation, Caleb becomes acutely aware of something—some presence watching him. He trembles. His eyes water.

  He hops up. Turns off his lights. Hopes that if something is outside, he won’t see it and it won’t see him without illumination.

  The TV bathes the room with flashes of color.

  Caleb turns to the window.

  And sees it.

  He screams.

  Chapter 5: THEY LIVE...Sorta

  Jack regrets his smoking habit. He wheezes a little after a block. His lungs don’t have the same capacity for air that Catarina’s do. But at the moment, he doesn’t really give a shit about looking out of shape.

  He glances over his shoulder. Sees the shadowy figure following them.

  It stays out of reach of the street lights along Fifth Avenue and Fort Hamilton Parkway. Jack never gets a good look—even when the thing peeks out from the darkness.

  The bastard makes no noise. Never calls out to them. Never reaches for them.

  It just watches. Pursues.

  “Dad’s home,” Catarina says. She bounds up the stairs to her father’s house. Twists the door knob and throws herself inside. She slams it shut after Jack stumbles in behind her.

  Elie Schrieber stands in the kitchen. He’s cooking salmon over spinach. “Wondered when you’d get home, Cat.” He turns away from his meal. “Oh, hey, Jack, too huh? Double trouble.” He pats Jack on the shoulder. “Just got in from work.” He takes a swig from his beer. Rubs his stomach. “These late shifts are killing me. I’ve got a headache like a Mack truck drove through my brain.”

  Catarina doesn’t acknowledge her father. She stares out the blinds of the front door.

  Elie looks to Jack.

  Jack pants. He raises his eyebrows at Elie. Tries his best to hint that something’s terribly wrong, even though the teen can’t quite find the words until his lungs have refilled themselves with delicious oxygen.

  Elie purses his lips. “So... Cops chasing you or what?”

  Catarina jumps at that. She grabs her father by the front of his shirt and shakes him. “Someone was following us. He was staring at us and then he started following us. If Jack hadn’t been there, I don’t know what might have happened. I don’t know what that guy might have tried to do... He followed even though Jack was there. Followed us all the way here.”

  Elie puts an arm around his daughter.

  She shivers into his chest.

  Elie glances at Jack.

  Jack rubs his temples. A terrible headache chews through his brain.

  When Jack catches Mr. Schrieber’s gaze, he nods. “Catarina noticed the guy on Eighty-ninth. Something off about him. When we were sure he was watching us, we ran. He stayed on our asses. Block after block. Real quiet, too. Never shouted. Never said word one. I never even heard his footsteps. If the sonuvabitch was moving as fast as he needed to keep up with us, we should have heard something.” Jack’s eyes start to water. “Can I have a beer? Please.”

  Elie nods. “You smoke
? Out the window. If I’m stuck doing it, so are you.” He tries to smile in a reassuring way, but it’s lost on Jack.

  Elie slides around Catarina. He approaches the door. Yanks back the blinds. The sidewalks are clear. The street’s dark and vacant. The only movement is a random car passing. The trees on the block sway in the breeze.

  “I don’t see anybody,” Elie says.

  Jack claps his thighs. “They never do in horror movies.”

  Catarina hugs herself. “But there’s always something there... You believe us, right, Dad?”

  “Of course,” Elie says. He puts his arm around her again. “There’s a lot of scary shit out there. I’d never doubt you. Especially considering how shaken up you both are.”

  Catarina buries her head in Elie’s arms.

  Jack takes a swig of Coors Light. Not a great beer, but he’ll take what he can get. He cracks the kitchen window open. Lights a smoke.

  “Jack can’t go back outside, Dad,” Catarina says. “That thing might be waiting. Is it okay if he stays here tonight?”

  Jack’s heart stutters in his chest. Even the horror of the stalker outside gets shoved aside by his fear of Catarina’s protective father. He wants to assure Elie that under no circumstances would he put the moves on Catarina in the house. No way will he smooch or grope. There’s almost definitely no way that Jack’ll try to elicit even a peck on the cheek.

  Elie stares into Catarina’s wet, pleading grey eyes. “Of course. He can take the couch. We’ll stay down here anyway just in case your watcher comes back.”

  Catarina smiles. She hugs her father and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I’m gonna get cleaned up. I’ll come back down once I’m feeling normal. Today’s just been...fucked up.” She waves to Jack. Turns and heads up the stairs.

  Elie gestures to Jack. “Make yourself at home. I’ll call your folks.” He walks to the kitchen phone. “They sure as shit need to know what’s going on. Especially with that freak out there.”

  Jack nods. Flicks the ash off his cigarette. Looks outside.

  The street’s still. No passersby. He sees the outlines of people in a few split-level homes nearby. A few cars whizz past. Their high beams distort the landscape. Jack watches shadows move.

  The guy who’d been following them. He was too quiet, Jack thinks. And the bastard almost glided over the ground. No footsteps. No panting. What the dick?

  Elie breaks into those thoughts. “Hey, Jack, talk to your folks.”

  Jack peels himself away from the window. Grabs the phone. “Dad?”

  Viktor says, “You all right?”

  “So far. You?”

  “Mostly.” There’s a long pause. A breath. “Caleb says he saw something. Went nuts. He’s better now. Mom’s taking care of him... He was screaming bloody murder a little while ago. Talking about someone or something staring in his bedroom window at him. He said it had a dead face.”

  “Dead face?”

  “Dead person. Staring at him.”

  Jack draws a hiss through his teeth. “What do you think?”

  “I think the second floor of the house is nearly impossible to get to. Without a ladder, anyway. Especially tough for a corpse.”

  Jack smiles. Hopes this was all some weird joke.

  “On the other hand,” Viktor says, “I believe him when he says he saw something.”

  “You should.”

  “We do, we do. The O’Connors are still here, so me and Bill and Patrick went outside to look.” Viktor whispers into the phone. “We found... well, stuff. Marks like little scratches. And something else: A dirty hand print on his window.”

  Jack’s stomach goes cold. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  Jack wants to run home to his family. Stalker be damned, he wants to be there.

  Viktor says, “We’re gonna stay up until daylight. Patrick is going to take his mom home. Bill is going to stay here with me. Caleb is going to sleep with Mom in our bedroom. We’ll be okay.”

  “Hope so,” Jack says. “And I’ll be fine here. Mr. Schrieber told you about the guy who followed me and Catarina here, right?”

  “Yeah. What a night.”

  “Take care of everyone, Dad.”

  “And you take care of everyone there.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too, champ.”

  Jack hangs the phone up. He tugs at his hair. I should be home, he tells himself. Home with his little brother to make sure that nothing bad happened. He snatches up his beer and wanders into the living room where Elie’s waiting.

  He slumps onto the Schreiber’s couch. Stares at the wood floor between his boots. He looks around. Notices old family portraits and books on mechanical engineering. The high definition TV screen is off. His eyes pass over a Star of David that’s dusty next to a framed portrait of Einstein that shines like new. He puts his head in his hands and cocks an eye at Elie.

  “I’m not a religious fellow,” Elie says. He reaches behind the bookcase near his black armchair. “But I’ve got enough sense to be cautious.” He pulls out a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun with a wooden stock. Pats it. “Family heirloom.”

  Jack’s face freezes. Terror-stricken. Oh shit, he thinks, he’s gonna kill me because I wanna have sex with his daughter.

  Elie notices the look. “Whoa, Jack, what’s wrong?”

  “Uh...” Jack glances at the shotgun.

  “Ah... No, this isn’t for you. I’m well aware of the fact that you and Catarina are sweet on each other. Who isn’t? You might as well be screaming hormonal frustration at each other over dinner it’s so obvious. And it’s all right. I like you, Jack. I like your folks. I know you look out for Cat when I’m not around. But this isn’t for you. Less you do something really stupid. No. This is in case we get an unwelcome visitor.” Elie pats the weapon again.

  Jack looks at the gun’s stock and notices etches down its side. “What’re those marks?”

  Elie smiles. “Dead Nazis.”

  This impresses Jack.

  Elie says, “Your dad knows the story. You probably don’t. Guess there’s no better time than the present. You know where I got my name?”

  Jack doesn’t. He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Well. My dad was friends with Elie Wiesel.”

  “Holocaust survivor. Wrote that book.”

  Elie chugs some beer. “Yeah. my old man was an Allied infantryman. He got into the business of hunting those evil cocksucker Nazis. Tracked them. When the courts weren’t enough, buckshot handed out judgment. Dunno if you can get away with that nowadays.

  “These notches on the stock all came from South America, where a shitload of them fled after the war, thanks in no small part to the goddamned Vatican. Fascist-friendly countries in South America had no qualms about hiding good Christians.

  “And my dad had no qualms about going where they were. The legacy of Brazilian dictator Getulio Vargas led him—duh—to Brazil. Once he finished some business there, he did what seems to happen to a lot of guys. He fell in love.”

  Neither man hears the faint scratching at the front door.

  Elie reclines in his chair. “She was beautiful. My mom, I mean. She was pure Brazilian. Dark skinned. Bright eyes. My dad was smitten. They begat me. My daddy trained me. I learned how to fight and how to fix things. He had a heart for engineering and that rubbed off.” Elie points to the books around the room.

  “I spent my first twenty-three years in Brazil. Some weird half-Jew half-Brazilian. I went to school there. I worked my way through a degree in mechanical engineering and, like it was a family tradition, fell in love with a Brazilian woman named Catarina.”

  Jack’s pretty sure where this was going. He doesn’t like it. He furrow his brow when Elie coughs. Looks away and pretends the widowed father’s eyes aren’t glistening.

  “She was smart, Jack. And tough as nails. My mom and dad loved her. We married and...” Elie coughs again. “And then while my wife was giving birth to our daughter, somet
hing happened. I don’t know what. The doctors weren’t sure.” Another cough. “I held my baby girl in my arms while my wife died.

  “I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t stay where she had died. Little Catarina and I came to New York. I put my degree to good use and bought all the wonders you see before you.”

  Then the men are quiet.

  One heartbeat. Maybe two.

  Jack holds out his beer.

  The two clink bottles and finish their drinks.

  In the new silence, they hear it.

  A clumsy scratching.

  Elie and Jack stand up. The older man motions for Jack to duck.

  Jack mouths, Give me a gun.

  Elie shakes his head. No. He gestures for the teenager to stay put while he makes his way through the living room and to the door in the kitchen.

  The doorknob jumps like a bumbling drunk is on the other side.

  Elie hefts the shotgun with his right hand. Grabs the knob with his left. He can feel the thing on the other side bump into it.

  Elie throws the door open. Jumps back. Aims the 12-gauge.

  The thing on the doorstep gurgles.

  It is—or had been at some point—a man in a business suit. The loafers it wears never quite touch the floor. Its face is fleshless. Wisps of rotten skin hang from a bony jaw. It’s got no gums. Just the perpetual smile of dead teeth. The eyes are shriveled balls at the end of stalks that lay limp in skull sockets. The stink of carrion fills the air. Goo drips from the creature in an irregular pitter-patter.

  Elie says, “Pal, I don’t know what your problem is, but you better get off my property before I paint the pavement with your brains.”

  The once-man doesn’t move.

  Elie pushes the shotgun forward. Places the double-barrel against the thing’s chest. He hears a squish. Tendrils of black slime come away, attached to the tip of the weapon in looping swirls.

  “No goddamn way,” Elie says.

  The figure moves into the house.

  A heavy baseball bat crashes down onto its head.

  The thing’s cranium explodes. It makes a sound like a pumpkin popping. Ichor and chunks of bone splatter against the floor in a tremendous show of gore. The body drops with a wet thud. It leaks putrefaction. Organic sludge flows.