by Ray Garton
He took two steps into the room, sweeping his flashlight beam back and forth across the blackened walls. Something shuffled before him, but he could see no movement.
—until he looked down.
The floor was shifting.
Specks of light glistened up at him.
He shone the beam at them and quickly realized that the specks of light were really eyes.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Grady spun around to face a tall, dark figure in the doorway. "Holy—" he blurted. A hand knocked the flashlight to the floor. It hit with a crack, and the beam disappeared.
Grady held the gun before him protectively, his skin crawling at the thought of what was at his feet.
"Back up!" he growled.
Must be fifty of'em, he thought, whatever the hell they are!
"I said back up, goddammit, the room's full of—of— of… goddammit, outside now!"
"I heard you." The voice was low, firm, and very deep. Deathly pale light outlined the tall man in an eerie glow, seeping through the sunburst of spiky hair that surrounded his head. "They're mine," he said with a smile in his voice.
"Don't fuck with me, man, now back the hell up!"
Grady lifted his thumb to cock the gun, but cold fingers wrapped around his wrist in a steel-like grip, tightening until his fingers loosened on the gun, dropping it to the floor. Grady made a small grunting sound in his throat, expecting to hear the thick crack of his wristbone breaking when the icy grip tightened even more. The stranger stepped forward, pushing Grady back into the room.
"No," Grady whispered, the image of those small, glistening eyes flashing in his mind. He felt something brush his pantleg, and he sucked a sharp breath into his lungs.
When the grip on his wrist loosened slightly, Grady opened his eyes.
The man's thin, finely sculpted face was bathed in the soft light of the candle, and he smiled before opening his mouth wide—wider than seemed possible—and Grady knew he was going to die, it was a feeling that cut through his gut like a razor as something shot from the stranger's mouth, something long and wet, bursting into Grady's mouth, knocking two of his front teeth from his gums with a sickening crunch as it went down his throat, deeper and deeper inside him, squirming like a fat, agitated worm, making him gag, lose his footing, and tumble backward. His arms flailed as he tried to regain his balance, but he continued falling as he heard the creatures shuffling over the floor below.
Bill Grady's last sensation was that of warm, baby-sized bodies wriggling beneath his back….
PART II
Crucifax Genesis
Seven
September 6
Jeff seated himself at the breakfast table and poured Wheat Chex into the empty bowl before him.
"Morning," Erin said sleepily, her slippered feet shooshing over the kitchen floor, then falling silent on the carpet as she brought a plate of toast to the table.
"Hi, Mom."
"Mallory still in bed?"
"She just got in the shower." He poured milk over the cereal.
"She's slow this morning. Was she up late last night?"
A spoonful of cereal froze halfway to Jeff's mouth. "Yeah," he said, then he scooped the bite in and chewed hard.
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth, either. If he could have told his mother the truth without setting off fireworks between her and Mallory, he would have. He wasn't in the mood for the shouting that would ensue. Even worse would be the days of chilly silence that would follow.
As Erin returned to the kitchen for a cup of coffee Jeff nibbled a slice of toast and let his weary eyes close.
Mallory had gone out with Kevin the night before.
"We've made up," she'd told him, "and he wants to take me out."
"Where are you going?" he'd asked, hoping she'd say they were going to a movie or out for a pizza. Something safe.
"I don't know. Out with his friends."
Her last words had kept Jeff awake all night. Lying in bed staring at his ceiling, he kept expecting the worst: a phone call from the police department maybe, or, even more horrible, from the hospital. He'd known that, if Mallory went out with Kevin and his friends, they wouldn't be having a burger and fries at DuPar's. That just wasn't Kevin's style.
Erin had come home from work around three and gone straight to bed. Jeff had heard Mallory sneak in at about five.
He'd slept for little more than an hour, and even then he'd passed through foggy dreams of his sister and Kevin Donahue rolling naked and sweaty over a dirty floor in some dark, hidden room as Kevin's leering friends looked on.
"Feel like driving?"
Jeff's eyes snapped open as Erin sat across from him with her coffee.
"What?"
"Well, I figured I'd let you take the car today. I won't need it, I'll be here working. You and Mal can drive to your first day of school in peace, skip the bus. Sound okay?"
"Sure. Thanks, Mom."
"Just make sure you lock it up."
"I will."
Erin finished her coffee, gave Jeff the car keys, and went to her room. A few minutes later, Mallory came out, hurriedly buttoning her baggy yellow shirt. It hung well below the waist of her turquoise pants, gathered in the middle by a slanted, loose-fitting black belt.
"Grab some toast," Jeff said, standing up from the table. He didn't look at her as he stuffed his wallet in the hip pocket of his blue jeans and grabbed his books and the car keys.
"You're driving?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
Mallory made an annoyed sound—a short burst of air through her nose—and followed him out of the apartment with her bag.
As Jeff pulled the car onto Laurel Canyon, the radio playing loudly, Mallory asked, "What's wrong with you?"
Jeff turned down the radio. "What?"
"I said, what's wrong with you? You're awful quiet."
"I didn't sleep very well last night."
"Yeah, well, neither did I." She sounded testy.
"Get back late?"
"Mm-hm."
"What time?"
"I don't know. Late."
"About five."
From the corner of his eye, Jeff saw her turn to him suddenly, suspiciously.
"You were awake?" she asked.
He nodded.
She turned away and looked out the window, shaking her head. "Jesus," she breathed.
The song on the radio ended and the morning disc jockey went into his Sylvester Stallone impression, getting some muted background chuckles from his a.m. Wake-Up Crew.
Mallory stared out the window silently for a few moments, her jaw working slightly. Jeff had seen her do that before, but only during heated conversations and shouting matches with their mother.
She finally turned to him and asked, "Did Mom stay up waiting for me? No. She wasn't worried, so why should you be?"
"Mom didn't know you were out when she came home, but even if she did, she doesn't know anything about Kevin Donahue."
"Neither do you," she snapped quietly, turning to the window again.
"I know enough to be worried."
Jeff suddenly wished they weren't talking about this. He was tired and could tell Mallory was more than a little annoyed. He was more concerned, at the moment, with the first day of school and being unable to stay up for the Letterman show every night. He didn't care about Kevin Donahue anymore. Mostly because it reminded him of his dreams the night before.
"You know," Mallory said without turning to him, "you really don't know anything about Kevin. You don't."
I know what you do with him, he thought, immediately regretting it. He gripped the wheel a little tighter as the memory of last night's dream came to him suddenly: boys clutching Mallory's round breasts, burying their faces between her legs and slurping like dogs, holding her hair in their fists as they plunged their stiff cocks into her mouth. … And worst of all was the warm moisture he'd felt against his legs when he woke.
Guilt washed over him in a thick, black wave, and he wrung his fist
s around the wheel. It was a familiar guilt, one that had first visited him two years before and returned with increasing regularity. It was beginning to feel like a constant, despised companion.
The week his father left had been one of the worst of his young life. It had been a bad one for Mallory and their mother, too, of course. But for Jeff, it had brought something more than just the disruption of his family.
The night after his father left, Jeff could not sleep. It was a hot summer night, and he lay atop his covers in his undershorts listening to his mother's pacing footsteps and stifled sobs in the next room, thinking that his father's absence would probably be a good thing. It would be a good thing for him, anyway; Jeff hadn't been on the best of terms with his father since he was a small boy. Dad's attention had been focused on Mallory; he'd doted on her, showered her with affection, bought her loyalty with gifts he couldn't afford. Jeff was surprised he didn't try to take Mallory with him. Jeff knew she was hurting much more than he and probably would for a while.
A timid knock on his bedroom door made him sit up on the bed. Mallory opened the door a crack and looked in.
"Can I come in?" she whispered. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks wet.
"Sure."
She closed the door quietly and stood there a moment, her face turned down. She wore a blue nightshirt that went to her knees and was split up both sides to her waist. Jeff had not noticed, until that night, how well she was filling out. The material of the shirt was stretched taut across her breasts, and her body had developed curves in places that, not long ago, had seemed boyish.
"I can't sleep," she said, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Neither can I."
"Can I… stay here awhile?"
"Sure."
She bunched a corner of his sheet between her hands and sniffled.
"Why do you think he left, Jeff?" she whispered. "What could she have done that was that bad?"
"Don't blame Mom. She's taking it pretty hard, too."
"She should," she breathed, wringing the sheet around and around in her fists.
"C'mon, don't—"
"Well, it wasn't us!" She turned her teary eyes to him as her face twisted into a mask of pain. "Was it?" she sobbed. "I mean, do you think it was because of us, Jeff?" She let go of the sheet and slowly eased toward him, suddenly falling into his arms and pressing her face to his bare shoulder. Her tears rolled down his back.
"No, it had nothing to do with us," Jeff whispered in her ear. She smelled of shampoo and toothpaste and felt warm, even feverish, in his arms. "Don't think that. And it wasn't Mom, either. He just… left. That's all."
"But he didn't even say goodbye. He didn't even—"
"That wasn't because of anything we did or didn't do. He just…" Jeff stopped to weigh his words, wondering if they would sound too harsh. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe… maybe he just didn't care enough to say goodbye?"
"How could he not care? After all the things he used to… to t-tell m-me…" Her words were lost in a storm of sobs that made her body quake in his arms.
They didn't talk any more that night. They lay on the bed, Mallory huddled in Jeff's arms, her head resting on his chest, her sobs slowly dissolving into slow, regular breaths of sleep. With each inhalation, her breasts gently pressed against Jeff's side, then slowly pulled away. Her breath was hot and moist on his skin.
As Mallory slept Jeff tried to remember their childhood summers together, the camps their father sent them to and the year they'd gone to Disneyland, Magic Mountain, and Knott's Berry Farm all in one week.
He remembered the biggest fight they'd ever had. It had been over a block of clay they'd had to split between them; Mallory wanted more than half because she was making a miniature backyard fountain for two of her dolls who had just married, and Jeff wanted more because half the block wasn't enough to make a voodoo doll of Mrs. Rhodes, his fourth-grade teacher. Their quarrel went on for days until their mother threatened to ground them if they didn't forget it.
He tried to remember Mallory and himself as children, a brother and sister who got along unusually well and depended upon one another for support, companionship, and sincere, innocent affection.
But something changed in Jeff that night. His crystal-clear vision of Mallory the child had gone from library paste and bubble gum to perfumes and powders and a subtle, darkly enticing smell that, when noticeable, made him feel warm inside, warm and guilty. This Mallory was different than any other girl; she thought differently, even spoke differently. He knew more about her—about the things she'd done, the thoughts she had, and the things she felt—than anyone else. She was his best friend, his closest companion, and he loved her more at that moment than he'd ever loved her before.
But a shadow had fallen over his love for Mallory, a shadow that made their physical closeness on the bed that night more exciting than it should have been, more intimate, and, ultimately, more shameful.
Jeff was unable to close his eyes as Mallory slept beside him. Where her breasts touched him, his skin burned. Mallory moved her leg over his knee, his thigh, until it was resting against the hardening bulge beneath his shorts. The sensation of her bare skin sliding over his made Jeff dizzy until the dark room seemed to tilt a bit.
A shaft of bluish moonlight from the window fell over them, glowing on the curve of Mallory's hip where her shirt had hiked up. Jeff's hands trembled to reach down and touch her smooth skin. He ached to press his erection against her thigh, just a little….
After lying there for a long time, Jeff slowly moved his arm across his body and held his hand an inch above her breast, cupping his palm as if he were actually touching the mound of flesh. He lowered his hand slightly, then a fraction more. He did not touch her, but after several minutes of holding his hand there, he thought he could feel heat rising from beneath her shirt.
Before he gave in to his temptation, Jeff eased out from under her. She mumbled in her sleep, rolled over, and curled herself around a pillow. Jeff put on his robe, went to the living room, and watched television until dawn.
Things had never been the same since that night. At first, it was difficult for him to be around her. He often found his eyes wandering over her body and quickly made excuses to go away. After a while, though, he learned to bury his thoughts so deep they didn't show on his face. He shared them with no one and savored them only in his dreams. He always awoke with a pounding erection, a hard, cold lump of guilt in his stomach, and one thought. It was a dreadful thought that terrified him: There's something wrong with me….
As he took a right on Chandler Jeff said, "I'm sorry. It's none of my business, really. I just… worry too much, I guess."
After a pause, he felt her eyes on him. "I know," she said quietly. "I kinda like that. But Jesus, Jeff, it's like you don't trust me at all, like you have to have your eyes on me all the time."
"It's not you I don't trust, it's—"
"I know, you don't trust him. But that's only because you don't know him. If you knew more about him…" She gave up and faced front with a sigh. "I'm meeting him after school, so I won't be going home with you. Don't wait for me.
Jeff tapped his thumb on the steering wheel as he waited for a traffic light to change. His breakfast was sitting heavily in his stomach and he looked forward to getting to school and out of the car.
When they got to school Mallory opened the car door and stepped out before Jeff turned off the ignition. She almost stopped to say goodbye and wish him a good day but decided she didn't want to give him the chance to make some remark about her after-school plans. Slamming the car door, she started across the school parking lot with her bag slung over her shoulder.
Sometimes Jeff worried her. She expected her mother's meddling and concern, but Jeff was her brother. He was supposed to be on her side. He usually was; that's what seemed so odd.
Unlike most of her friends, Mallory's strongest source of support was her brother. Most of the kids she knew couldn
't stand their siblings. She and Jeff had always been close. When they were children, he defended her if she was being treated unfairly, and he was the first to let her know if he thought she was being unfair. She'd always liked that; it made their relationship special because it was so different from those of the other brothers and sisters she knew. Jeff was like a built-in boyfriend.
That was the problem. Now she had a real boyfriend, and Jeff couldn't handle it.
Someone called her name, and she stopped on the steps in front of the school. Deidre Palmer was hurrying up the steps toward her, a fat notebook held against her chest with both arms.
"So how come you look so pissed?" Deidre asked.
"I look pissed?"
"Mm-hm."
"I just had a bad morning, is all."
"Your mom?"
"My brother."
Deidre blinked with surprise. "Your brother? What's wrong?"
Mallory found her locker and began spinning the combination lock back and forth.
"Jeff doesn't want me to see Kevin," she said, jiggling the latch. The locker wouldn't open.
"What? Why, as if it's any of his business?"
"He thinks I'm gonna get into trouble." She began spinning the lock again.
"You mean, like, pregnant?"
"Well, that, too, probably, but"—she jiggled the latch again, but with no success—"mostly he just thinks I'm gonna get into, you know, trouble. This damned locker…" She tried the combination a third time.
"What, like police trouble?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said impatiently. "Did they change the damned combination on this locker?" Clenching her teeth, she jerked on the latch a few more times until a hand reached over her shoulder.
"Here," Larry Caine said, his breath warm on her ear, "sometimes you just have to give it a really hard pull like… this." He gave it a strong downward jerk, and the locker clattered open.
Mallory looked at Deidre. Her wide-eyed smile was directed over Mallory's shoulder as she hugged her books more tightly to her chest.