by Unknown
“Shoot me.”
Movement.
Startled, Randy retrieved the pistol and shifted the flashlight. Dust flecks danced in the beam as it settled on a chest-high metal cage, about two feet wide, five feet long, almost the width of the space, strong and secure. But what took Randy’s breath were the eyes that reflected dully in the beam, set in a wretchedly malformed face that pleaded as much as it mocked and seethed.
“Pretty?” a voice hissed from within the twisted mass.
Randy directed the flashlight’s beam up and then down, revealing a desperate creature that should not have been alive. Smaller than a cattle dog, its bloodshot eyes stared from within a distorted deformity of human and goat features, a face gnarled with agony. Two short, foul horns protruded from the forehead, one splintered two inches above the eye. The creature’s shoulders and arms were little more than skin-clad bone. Thin flesh stretched across the chest, splitting over several ribs. Sores – oozing, black and festering – covered the emaciated body. Bone protruded from the tip of each finger, the skin peeling away.
The thing opened its mouth and howled in a despairing, chilling voice, baring the blackened remnants of teeth barely set in gray, rotting gums. Then it lowered its head, its howl languishing to silence, and drew a ragged breath, the skin across its chest sinking between the ribs. It stretched out a beckoning hand, but suddenly yanked back and turned away, head bowed, breaths rattling and shallow.
The soldier yells to someone behind him as he kneels beside the opening, “Bring some water!” He stares down at the pathetic figure in the hole. “Jesus,” he mutters, “how long you been here?”
Randy blinks back tears that form against the brightness of the day. Gunfire sounds in the distance. Another soldier arrives with a canteen and passes it down to Randy. Water splashes against his cracked lips, and it burns, but the taste is so sweet, so wonderful.
“Can you eat?”
Randy’s stomach growls viciously.
Randy rushed into the house, unable to comprehend how the thing – whatever it was – could still be alive. But it was. He thought about opening the hole further and bringing the creature out, but not yet, he decided, not until he knew more about it. He considered the revolver, but then decided it wasn’t necessary with the creature secure in the cage. He retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and rummaged through drawers and cabinets until he located a pair of long barbecue tongs, another object Claire had insisted was necessary. For once, she’d been right.
Back in the utility room, he used the tongs to ease the water bottle through the hole toward the cage where the thing waited. The creature’s cynical, wary gaze narrowed, shifting to Randy, then back to the bottle. Tentatively, it reached but abruptly stopped and looked up at Randy as though expecting the man to snatch the bottle back. Finally, it wrapped its spindly fingers around the bottle. When the tongs released their grip, the creature blenched, startled, and dropped it, cowering in fear.
Randy pulled the tongs back through the hole and directed the flashlight beam across the floor until it found the bottle. The thing whimpered. It lowered itself awkwardly to the cage floor and stretched to reach the bottle, fingers desperately grasping air. Randy shifted the beam to the creature, saw the ragged genitalia that defined it as male. He shifted the light back. The creature’s fingers touched the bottle’s side, nudging it further away. He mewled softly, managed to stretch enough to nudge the bottle again, and, this time, it rolled gingerly under his outstretched hand. The creature grabbed it and pulled it into the cage, the mesh barely large enough for it to fit through. The creature lifted itself with a groan to sit and painfully twist off the cap.
“There’s more,” Randy said softly.
The creature hissed. He raised the bottle to his lips, drank, and immediately pulled the bottle away, breaking into a rasping cough. Water sloshed out, and the creature whimpered and sprawled on the cage floor to lick up the precious liquid its tongue could reach between the cage wires.
Randy drank, but half or more of the water spilled from the sides of his mouth, his throat raw with each swallow. Such decadence, such bounty – water in a bottle. Will they believe how he’s stayed alive by licking dewdrops that seep in around the door and the hole where the rats enter? How he’s drunk his own urine and the blood of the rats he’s caught, killed, and eaten? Believe or not, they’ll be repulsed. Of that, he is certain.
The creature twisted up, peeled back his lips, and hissed again. Tattered ears hung loosely against his neck as he lifted the bottle and took measured, careful sips that grew progressively into hungry gulps. A drop dribbled from one side of his mouth. He puled, lowered the bottle, and, with a quavering finger, guided the drop from his cheek into his mouth. Then he drained the bottle, sucking until the plastic collapsed. Reluctantly, he lowered the bottle until his arms hung at his sides, head bowed, body still except for his thin chest, which rattled with each breath. The bottle slipped from his grip and bounced to the floor, coming to rest in shadow.
“More?” Randy asked tentatively.
The thing didn’t reply, didn’t move.
Randy went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with packages of bread and ham and another bottle of water, which he slipped through the hole. The creature ripped the packages from the tongs and devoured the bread and meat. He licked his lips and stared up at the hole, his glare softening somewhat with curiosity. “Poison won’t work,” he rasped.
“It isn’t poison.” Randy drew a breath and asked in a near whisper, “What are you?”
The thing cleared his throat. “Aidan,” he said, and some pride came to his eyes. “Phooka.”
Aidan was obviously his name, but the word phooka meant nothing to Randy.
The creature’s head abruptly began to morph, the splintered horns retracting into the skull, face rounding, becoming more human, the large ears shrinking.
“What the hell…?” Randy whispered.
Bones cracked and reshaped until finally the creature looked more like a badly battered child than a caged demon.
“Phooka,” the creature repeated with a heavy sigh. “As you are hu…”
“Randy?”
Randy spun so fast, he nearly fell. “Jesus, Claire.”
“Randy,” she scolded. “Not the Lord’s name…”
“Then don’t scare the hell out of me,” he snapped.
Claire shrugged in that special way that said she’d forgive him, but not forget, despite her Good Book’s instructions. She wore religion like a badge, slipping it off conveniently when it went against her desires. For Randy, though, she presented religion as his best path back into the real world. God had a reason for having put him in that desert tomb, she maintained. God has a plan for each of us. “And what would that plan be, Claire?” Randy had asked. “To do his work,” she’d replied, and he’d laughed at her.
Claire raised up on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder. “What’s with the hole?”
“Checking the space,” he said a little too quickly.
Her face brightened. “So there is space?” She tried to step past, but he didn’t move. “Let me see,” she said.
The situation suddenly felt more surreal than before, and something stirred inside Randy. He felt suddenly and inexplicably giddy with the possibility of challenging Claire’s godly babble with something she couldn’t explain away with a nod toward heaven. But would she see it if he allowed her to look? Or had he lost his mind?
Randy moved aside, and Claire stepped up to the hole. They both pressed close to peer in as Randy clicked on the flashlight and held it under their chins, directing the beam toward the cage. Claire’s breath caught, and Randy felt odd relief at her confirmation that the thing was real.
The phooka bared its teeth at the woman, and Claire backed away.
“What is it?”
“He said…”
“It can talk?”
Aidan hissed, “She’s burdened.”
Randy wa
nted to laugh as Claire’s eyes widened with fear and she fled, yelling back, “Get rid of it, Randy. Get rid of it.”
Randy spread peanut butter on two slices of bread and smoothed in dollops of cherry jam, placed the pieces together, and slipped the sandwich into a paper bag. Three days had passed since Claire had seen the creature. She hadn’t called or been back since, nor had she answered her phone or responded to Randy’s messages.
“You said Claire’s burdened,” Randy had said to Aidan. “What did you mean?” The creature offered a sardonic grin in reply. “You know she wants you dead.”
“And you have a gun.” Aidan held his gaze until Randy looked away.
The soldiers lift him from the hole, and he sees two men, their heads covered in the traditional wrap, running away in the distance. Another soldier raises his weapon, aims. One runner sprawls, his limbs twisting under his body. A second shot echoes, and Randy feels satisfaction as the second man falls dead. It was he who had killed Ahmad Ali, the only captor who’d offered help to Randy.
Randy took the sandwich to the utility room. He slipped it through the hole and tossed it to the floor beside the cage, close enough for the creature to reach. Aidan looked up questioningly at Randy.
“Peanut butter and jam,” Randy said. “Go ahead.”
Even after three days, the creature greeted Randy with suspicion at each feeding, suspicion that Randy subconsciously shared. Why did he continue to hold the thing captive? Aidan reached tentatively for the bag, nose twitching. He pulled it into the cage and squatted, fingers carefully opening the top, hand sliding in to pull out the sandwich. He held it before him for several moments. “Poison?”
“We’ve been through this,” Randy said with irritation.
The creature chuckled and drew the sandwich to his mouth, took a bite, and chewed, slowly, deliberately, savoring. When he’d finished, he squatted in the cage and rubbed his palms over his small, distended belly. The creature’s lips, healing rapidly, had more color now and curved into a mordant smile. Curiosity stirred in his eyes. “Will you shoot me? Keep me as a pet? Put back the bricks?”
Ahmad Ali asks in a heavy accent, “Hungry?”
What good is food? Randy wonders.
“Hungry?” Ahmad asks again.
“Yes,” Randy says.
Ahmad leaves, bolting the trapdoor securely. He is gone for several minutes before returning with a bowl of bland bean soup.
After moments of silence, Ahmad says, “It is necessary,” and Randy understands that he means the imprisonment.
Randy held Aidan’s accusing gaze for several long seconds, and then abruptly reached for the hammer. He struck the bricks furiously, chipping out large chunks with each swing, working out and downward. Aidan shied back into the cage, shielding himself from small bits of debris. A half-hour later, Randy had enlarged the hole to three feet. The stench almost overwhelmed him at first, but slowly dissipated to a faint fetor. The creature’s crooked fingers grasped the mesh, breaths short and rapid. Randy noted the flesh on Aidan’s hands was no longer gray and tender and was healing at a remarkable rate, now covering the bones completely.
Randy finally stopped swinging and stood at the opening, winded, arms aching. The space beyond filled with light, and Randy saw that the phooka could be no more than forty inches tall, conforming to the cage’s height. He felt a new rush of pity at the sight of the creature.
The phooka waited, patient in his silence.
“Who put you here?” Randy asked.
Aidan said nothing.
“Then tell me what the hell a phooka is.”
The creature rasped a chuckle that broke into violent coughing. He held himself weakly up on hands and knees as the coughing subsided, head hung haggardly. “Demon, angel – depends on who’s telling the story,” the phooka wheezed. “Many believe we’re good luck. A man trapped me, long ago.” He drew a deep breath. “Then someone else wanted me and killed old Bill, but when that one unlocked my box, I was too quick.”
“The guy who lived here, did he kill Bill?”
The phooka pushed himself into a sitting position and pulled his atrophied legs under one hip. “No,” he rasped.
Randy held his hands open, indicating the enclosure. “Why here?”
Aidan wheezed a laugh. “I took the baby.” The phooka bowed his head. “To be taken by beings like me, to be honored, charmed…”
“You took the baby?”
“I brought it back.” The phooka’s eyes blinked, moist and red. “They trapped me. Your kind’s so stupidly arrogant. They never fed me, never brought water, only walled me into this tomb. I fed upon myself until…” The phooka raised his arms and howled, long and mournful. Finally, the voice faded to silence, his arms lowered, and he hung his head in dejection. “I starved for nourishment, for light…” He looked up, and a momentary spark of thanks shone in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by the same suspicion as before.
Randy drew back the hammer and pounded the bricks until he’d enlarged the opening to the floor, tall and wide enough to bring out the cage. He squatted before the hole and watched the phooka creep over to the near side of the cage, bony fingers lacing through the mesh, gripping, new skin threatening to tear.
“Move back,” Randy said finally.
The phooka’s grasp loosened, and he backed up to the opposite side.
Randy decided on the garden hoe. He hooked the blade into the cage’s near corner and pulled. He wondered how Claire would react to him bringing a demon into light using the hoe she’d bought. Metal shrieked against the concrete floor. Finally in the main utility room, the phooka bowed his head, drawing himself inward, crossing his arms over his chest and grasping his shoulders with tender fingers. Most of the sores scarring the creature’s body had begun to heal.
“Jesus,” Randy whispered as he circled the cage.
“Jesus,” the sergeant whispers.
Randy feels ashamed. His hands shake uncontrollably, and he sees they’re covered with open sores and scabs. Four hours later, he is in a hospital bed, asleep, face shaved, hands grabbing at the sound of rats skittering through his nightmare.
“Your woman…”
“Sister,” Randy corrected.
“She wouldn’t like you using the Lord’s name in vain,” Aidan sneered.
Randy shrugged. He’d learned a lot about gods in the desert and what they did and didn’t care about. Claire’s god cared more about the use of its name than how the members of its flock treated one another. Her god’s sheeple had only to ask forgiveness for this or that sin, and everything would be cool in heaven – like the bumper sticker said: “I’m not perfect, just forgiven.” But Randy had met the real god in that desert hole, and it hadn’t been some old fart answering the prayers of SUV-driving boneheads, text-messaging down the highway of stupidity. God had introduced itself to be a man’s ability to swallow raw rat meat and drink blood and piss to survive. God had been the sound of gunfire and splintering bone, your name on the lips of the person saving your ass.
Randy went in to prepare more food for the creature. From the counter, he could see through the kitchen window into the utility room. The phooka sat with his face toward the door, eyes closed, scarred lips parted, perhaps in a silent prayer to its own god.
He wakes, squinting into a shaft of light as machinery rumbles in the distance. He hears voices. He’s confused and frightened until he realizes he’s in a bed, surrounded by other beds. His heart calms as he lies back, shifting to bathe in that ray of early morning sun that reaches through the window – warm, soothing, and brilliant. He prays to the desert god for strength to make the light eternal.
Randy used what was handy for sandwiches – cheese, bologna, lettuce, peanut butter, jam. He didn’t think the creature would complain as long as it was food. The phooka proved him right as it guttled every morsel. When he finished, Aidan squatted on the cage floor and licked up the crumbs. He drank his water thirstily, his stomach distending increasingly, and, st
ill, he asked for more after each bottle emptied. Randy slid all food and water across the floor to the cage, using the hoe from a safe distance just inside the doorway.
The phooka sat on the cage floor, his short legs folded loosely, and settled the water bottle against a thin thigh. Randy marveled at his recuperative ability, how his body had healed itself so rapidly, how the creature was gaining weight at an incredible rate. The improvement made Randy feel some pride and relief, the first genuine good feelings he’d experienced since the day he’d landed in that desert tomb.
The phooka looked at Randy for a full minute with unblinking eyes that drilled deep into those of his keeper, but Randy felt no threat or danger.
“Will you keep me or let me go?”
Randy sat down in the doorway and leaned back against the frame.
“Not yet.” That’s what the one wearing the black hood says. He shifts the gun, and Ahmad Ali steps closer to his side.
“When?” Randy asks.
“In time…”
“When…?” The question ends in an abrupt groan as the gun butt finds his kidney, and Randy accepts that he will not leave this place alive. He draws a breath, utters, “Idiot.”
The man spits on him and points his weapon at Randy’s forehead.
“Do it,” Randy says calmly. “I’ll get your virgins ready for you.”
Ahmad Ali lays his hand on the weapon and shakes his head. The hooded man glares at Ahmad, then drops back and fires. Ahmad Ali’s face caves in and the back of his head opens as his body collapses.. The man with the gun yanks off his own hood.
“This is my country,” he shouts at Randy. “You do not exist unless I say so.” The trapdoor falls.
Aidan’s eyes gleamed with interest, the dull, gray stare now a memory. “You’ll keep me then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Nor did your captors say it to you,” he grinned. “Rat can be a delicacy, yes?”