by David Beers
“No, but that isn’t important. His will is. Isn’t that what we committed to?” She wiped under her eyelids, making sure no tears fell out.
Alex reached over and grabbed Lucas’s finger. Alex smiled back at his father.
“Yeah it is,” Lucas answered her. He smiled at Alex, but Julianne focused on his eyes instead of his mouth, and in them she didn’t see joy—only fear.
They needed blood and both knew it. How much, they weren’t sure about—but whatever amount He called for, they would give.
The blankets, pillows, sheets, and covers all lay piled inside the bathroom, leaving a stripped bed. In the middle of it sat a small, white cereal bowl with a knife inside.
She looked across the room at Lucas, who stood at the window gazing down upon the city. He thought of Alex now, and why shouldn’t he? His only son and the last of his blood. Alex slept in the bathroom on top of all those blankets and sheets; Julianne hadn’t wanted to give him the sleeping pill either, but what choice was there? They only fed him a quarter, nothing that would hurt him. He had to sleep, though; he couldn’t distract them now. In a few hours, he would wake up fine—but the pill had thrown Lucas a bit more. Julianne watched him, wondering how much he wanted this—whether he believed it should be accomplished. Are we giving up more than we’re willing to? A ridiculous question for her, akin to asking the ocean whether fish need die inside its waters. If He willed death, than it need happen. The good brought on by all three of their deaths wasn’t comparable. Her life was not hers, but His.
Did Lucas believe that anymore?
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He watched the people below, filtering through the shops and carts on the street. It was a dirty city, with too many people—beautiful not in spite of these things, but because of them. He didn’t turn away from the scene below, even after she asked her question.
“This is what you want?” he said to the window.
He was changed. The time invested, the longing for their God, the righteousness of it all, none of it appeared to matter anymore. He no longer trusted in their God; the one who set their people as masters of the Americas. He only felt the danger in Him, the power, and he ran from it—from their destiny.
“I have no other choice, Lucas.”
He nodded, finally turning from the window. “Okay, let’s get started.”
He walked to the bed and picked up the knife.
Julianne closed her eyes, a smile bursting open inside of her, even as her face remained solemn. He would come now, and never have to leave again.
They moved to their positions on opposite sides of the bed. Clothes came off, one article at a time, until they stood as they had been born.
Julianne raised her hand over the bed, shoulder height, so that the bowl sat beneath her palm. The knife came next, and Lucas put the blade under her hand. She looked in his eyes, and he met her there. No love possessed him, though. Granite did, stone.
He drug the blade across her skin. Pain erupted immediately, spreading as the knife moved. Blood fell, her arm starting to shake as she struggled to hold her hand above the bowl instead of clutching it to her chest. The knife went back to her skin, and pulled across again, fast. Then twice more, making her hand feel more flame than flesh. Blood flowed now, staining the white mattress and splattering into the bowl.
They needed more.
Julianne breathed quick, ragged breaths from her mouth. Bright dots danced in her vision; she knew she might black out. “Do it. Now.”
“You're sure?”
“Do it.”
He pulled the lighter from his pocket—his hand wavering no more than his eyes. Julianne’s hand drained onto the bed as he positioned the lighter underneath.
A small spark, then warmth for a second.
That changed quickly: from warmth to pain, from pain to agony—every nerve screaming to pull her hand away. She squinted her eyes against the tears forcing their way out.
Then she began to scream. She shut her eyes completely, cutting off the world; no longer able to see the room around her or that it glowed with blackness from the floor and walls. She couldn’t see her husband, whose eyes had changed from hard stone to wide open fear. She could only see the brilliant pain consuming her hand.
“Juliannnnnne,” the word whispered from everywhere, filling the room like oxygen.
Her scream cut off, the pain vanished, and she opened her eyes.
She saw then, oh-fucking-God, did she.
7
Present Day
James
James Allison had little choice but to climb on the grimiest bed he’d ever encountered. He didn’t take his clothes off to get in—rather lay fully clothed on top of the covers. Reruns of Friends played on a small, two decades old television. James stared at the coffee shop, hoping sleep or morning would arrive soon.
He brought the idea to Samuel Taylor one hour before his flight took off. Credit card records showed every stop Alex Valdez made on his three day trip to Mexico. Following that would take longer than flying, but if they wanted to figure out what happened—wouldn’t it make sense to start at the beginning. Taylor agreed, stipulating James had two days to make it to Mexico City.
He would reach Mexico City tomorrow morning, but after twenty-four hours on the road, he decided to try and sleep a few hours, although that looked unlikely now.
Alex Valdez stopped at three hotels, two diners, and four gas stations over a three day period. If he wanted to, James could see how much he spent at each but that was irrelevant. He wanted to hear what people had to say about Valdez, wanted to feel the rooms he felt and maybe understand more of the man through these things.
Valdez had been quiet at all these spots, only speaking enough to get what he wanted.
“He looked exhausted,” a waiter told James. A badge and a picture of Valdez brought out memories fairly quick. “His eyes were…I don’t know, I don’t want to say dead, but that’s what they looked like. Like he’d been beaten the hell up and didn’t care to go on. Does that make sense? I know that’s a lot to say about someone when you just serve ‘em a hamburger, but I felt sorry for the guy. I never meet anyone on death row, but I would think you might look something like that the night before they fry ya.”
The hotels were different. James began to think of them as artifacts, getting stranger the farther along he went. It always took the badge, the picture, and some pressure to see the rooms Valdez slept in.
He lived in one of those rooms now. The TV prattled on at the front, and even though James tried to watch it, he couldn’t stop thinking about the wall to his right. The manager said the repair would come from Valdez’s credit card.
James wasn’t afraid of the carving.
He didn’t want to look at it though.
Had to have used a knife. He never actually poked through the drywall, just cut a little past the paint. The carving, or vandalism, stood from the floor to the ceiling—nearing ten feet. Valdez must have used a chair, because the detail could not have been accomplished by a man reaching up. James stood next to it when he first entered the room; he couldn’t touch the ends of the mural even when stretching his hands to both sides.
Valdez could not have slept; not enough time for that and this.
The carving lay inside a circle, much more crudely made than the actual picture inside. Valdez’s paperwork held no mention of an artist, but despite James’s dislike—the excellence radiated from it. A face filled the circle, red eyes staring from the wall. The red was dark, maroon even, and James thought he knew what covered those eyes. Valdez left no room for the white, only red orbs looked upon the room. Runes, or perhaps only random lines, were carved from the forehead to the chin—covering it like a jigsaw puzzle. No lips, just thin lines that revealed sharp teeth, shark’s teeth, a mouth made for chewing. The runes (scribbles, that’s all) covered the teeth as well.
The face looked over James, unblinking.
“Fucking psycho,” the manager ha
d said. “I swear to God, I’m lucky he didn’t carve me up and try to feed me to that monster he drew in there.”
James watched the television, unable to forget that the monster was ‘watching’ him.
Valdez is dead. Gone forever, and what you’re lying next to is nothing more than the shit that ran through his head. Just another Timothy Mcveigh. No monsters, no midnight creatures, only a deranged man.
He knew it was true, but still couldn’t sleep.
He started his car in the morning—heading to Mexico, and the final chapter of Alex Valdez’s life.
8
Days Past
Alex, Brittany, & Daniel
Alex sat on a wooden chair—no padding and two arm rests to either side of him. At one-thirty in the afternoon, his lunch break expired thirty minutes ago, but Alex wasn’t moving. A cooling cup stood on the table, but Alex left it be. No cream or sugar packets, only his briefcase and the coffee accompanied him.
His hands in his lap, his body still, his mind storming. He took double the prescribed dosage today—hoping it might help, but doubting it. He figured he could take all the remaining pills at once and still sleep no more than an hour. Red veins crisscrossed Alex’s eyes, and bags were beginning to show underneath. He could fall asleep easy, though—could probably sleep in this coffee shop if he didn’t try to fight it—but soon after slouching down in the chair, he would wake up screaming. Perhaps crying, too.
He could go back to work, but why? It didn’t matter if he stared at the wall opposite his desk there, or at the wall opposite the table here. His thoughts would remain the same, and this plague wouldn’t change any. Whether any of this was real, Alex couldn’t shake it. He was unsure if Brittany knew, unsure if the bags under his eyes told her how serious it was. Did she know he couldn’t close his eyes without witnessing It, without seeing those teeth?
Staying awake forever wasn’t possible, thus why he came for coffee. He would drink it, cold or hot, trying to push off sleep for just a few more hours. Because…
Because you can’t run anymore, Alex. Because the goddamn pills have worn off, and I’m coming now. Because you believe now, don’t you, Alex?
“No I don’t,” he said to himself. His eyes moved to the coffee then; like a cross before a vampire, it was all the protection he had.
He took a sip, letting the warm liquid run over his tongue.
In two days they would see Dr. Nayek, and all Alex could say was he had a bottle that once held pills and a head that once held sanity. Both were empty now. What next? Another prescription? Another month of doing his best to not believe? Sooner or later, logic always broke when a belief persisted—and these dreams showed no signs of weakening. Its voice showed no signs of softening.
Alex put the coffee back to his lips, understanding what he would do. In two days, he would see Dr. Nayek, but first he would finish this coffee and then open his mother’s diary again.
Daniel Nayek looked at the untouched sandwich on his desk. If not for his metabolism, he would weigh easily two hundred and fifty pounds—at five foot ten, that would be a little much. He rarely missed a meal, and when he did, he made up for it at others…and then some. Gluttony was one of his vices, but you couldn’t tell unless you ate with him. The Gift of Genetics.
He once read a Stephen King novel about a man who lost weight, no matter how much he actually ate. Lost weight until he died, if Daniel remembered correctly. He wondered, while looking at his sandwich, if that could happen to him?
You’re not hungry for two meals and suddenly Stephen King is writing your fucking life?
He reached for the sandwich and took a bite. He wanted to force a laugh, but could only chew. This was no gypsy curse, only an appointment that somehow lingered over Daniel’s entire life. An appointment he wanted no part in.
What the hell am I talking about?
He wasn’t sure. He should eat his lunch and drink his cola, finish his appointments then drive home and think no more of Alex Valdez and the problems he faced. Alex would walk through his office doors soon enough and Daniel could try to help him then.
How? With what?
This fear, when looked at rationally, was idiocy. Virtually unlimited drugs existed—varieties he could try for years. He could recommend Valdez to other doctors. Clinics, wards, and researchers would love to help a patient of this magnitude. The point Daniel couldn’t truly internalize was that Alex Valdez was not his duty; only a part of his job. More, the new prescription probably took. He couldn’t think of a reason it wouldn’t (but no reason for the other to stop either, huh?) and regardless, he was worrying for nothing. Friday would come, they would speak, and he would send Valdez out with another script, or the same one. Or maybe a referral.
Do you want to send him away because he isn’t yours—because ‘He’s Mine’?
“Let it go,” he said, the anger he felt at himself showing through the words.
The phone spoke to Daniel as much as his own thoughts during the past twenty-four hours: begging him to call, to check in, to just see what was happening. Calling a patient wasn’t unheard of, and it wouldn’t be his first—but it would be—
“It’d be fucking insane. You’re a fucking doctor, not his boyfriend.”
The phone waited in front of him, Valdez’s number already loaded on the computer screen. Waiting two days might be too long—because no matter what Daniel said aloud or worried inside—doubt pervaded all.
He picked the phone up from the receiver.
“Dr. Nayek?” Brittany’s stomach clenched when she saw the caller ID display his name, becoming slightly dizzy. He shouldn’t be calling; there were two days left.
“Hi, Mrs. Valdez,” he responded, his voice confident.
“Is something wrong?” she asked before he could speak again, her mind expected the worst…expecting…what? His doctor simply can’t call?
“No, nothing like that. I’m just calling to check in and see how things have been the past month.”
Brittany said nothing, unsure of how to answer. Things were getting worse, even since their last visit. Even if Alex didn’t talk about it.
“Just looking for a heads up about Friday. I’d like to start thinking about what might be next for us.”
Something’s wrong. The two words wanted to spring from her lips—summing up her worries. Because something was wrong; because anytime she awoke at night, even if just to piss, her husband’s eyes were open.
“Mrs. Valdez?”
“Alex isn’t sleeping.”
Now the other side of the call went silent for a second.
“At all?”
Brittany heard it, felt it even. A fracture developed in the wall of confidence that was Dr. Nayek’s voice.
“I…” She swallowed, pausing briefly. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything about it, but I’ve seen him. He—” Her voice broke, and she felt her control loosening. She breathed in, letting the rest of the sentence die in her mind.
“Hey, hey—no worries. That could simply be a side effect of the medicine; no reason to believe it has anything to do with the dreams. We’ll figure it all out Friday, so don’t worry about it right now, okay?”
The fracture underlying his voice disappeared. Brittany closed her eyes. Things were okay; that’s what his voice said and she wanted to believe it.
“You’re right,” she said, hoping he was.
“I’m sorry for upsetting you, Mrs. Valdez. Sure wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll see you guys Friday.”
Daniel put the phone down. He began scratching his chin.
Are you worried now?
Why?
Back and forth on his chin, his fingers moved. Knowing that he didn’t want to know why. Not wanting to confront it. Two years ago, they shook hands and Alex Valdez walked away.
And then…
Well then you became a bit nervous about Mr. Alex Valdez.
Alex’s eyes were open, b
ut he took in nothing. The fan twirled above him in the darkness. His clock on the nightstand next to him said there were about seven hours until the appointment. Seven hours until he told Dr. Nayek that this wasn’t insomnia, but insanity.
No dreams came tonight and Alex thought, strangely, it was because he had seen enough today—by any measurement.
He could have gone on refusing to believe in the dreams and the thing chasing him—gone on until the lack of sleep caused a breakdown. For Brittany, he wanted to. She deserved more than that, more than any of this. Going on though, well, that was out of the picture now.
If he had not answered his cell phone, would anything be different? He couldn’t bring himself to actually think so: It would not relent. He understood the phone call as simply the next step in this, followed by—
By nothing. Because you won’t let it get there.
He had looked down as the phone rang. He forgot about ordering another coffee as the fifteen digit number appeared on the display. Alex had never seen something like it, otherwise he would have continued sipping his coffee and wondering how long he could fight off sleep.
Instead, he answered.
“Hello?”
“Allllexxxxx,” his name rolled from a female’s mouth, full of lust. “How are you?” She whispered and Alex felt his cock move, because this voice was meant for movies and not the kind Paramount produced.
“Who is this?” he asked, nearly whispering as well.
“Is your dick hard yet? You like this little voice, don’t you? Want to fuck my mouth, Alex?”
Alex’s heart felt like it might break his chest open. “Who…” he said, still whispering in spite of his growing panic.