I stop hyperventilating; I’m still crying but it’s just tears falling, the sobbing stopped. I take a couple of steady breaths and pull the oxygen mask away. Fluffy goes with it. “Are you all right?” he asks in an undertone. I just look at him, then over at the people. My parents. Dick and Jane. I wipe the water from my face. I’m calm now, that cold, empty calm I’m good at; I can look at them and hope that just this once they aren’t going to turn into monsters and eat everyone.
“Zach?” Dad says uncertainly.
I don’t answer, but I meet his eyes. They’re red and tired-looking, but he’s smiling a little. It hurts, somewhere deep inside, and I blink. I thought I was used to pain, but this is a different kind of hurt, one I don’t know quite how to deal with.
The woman turns then, and I look at her. She has blue eyes, like me, but they’re red and tired, too, like his. Right now, they look more like each other than either of them does like me. Both old and tired and sad. I feel old and tired and sad too. It hurts. I sigh and close my eyes.
Something touches my hand and I open my eyes again. It’s Mom, Jane of Dick and Jane. She used to get so mad at me when I’d call them that. It’s from the old reading books kids got in school years ago—“Fun with Dick and Jane” or something like that. Their dog was called Spot, though, not Zach. Mom’s hand is cold and very small. I can feel little bird bones in it. I could crush those bones without thinking about it, even as wasted as I am. After a few days of food and rest, I’m feeling a lot stronger, stronger than when I choked the life out of Esteban. If I could do that, a few little bones is nothing. But I don’t crush them. She’s so little and frail, much smaller than I remember. I whine in dismay, and her eyes widen. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me in horror, as if I had been the one to turn into the monster and start eating people’s feet. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s me that’s the monster. After all, neither of them has strangled anyone with a leash lately, right?
She starts crying again. “Oh, Zach, my baby,” she says, and she puts her arms around me and hugs me gently, as if she thinks I’ll break. Her hand is cold but her arms are warm, and I feel like a bird in a nest.
God, I wish this wasn’t a dream.
I KNOW what reality is, and it’s not this.
Reality is cold, and hard. Reality is a place where all I know is pain and hate.
Reality is where I’ll wake up.
Some people are happy to go from their nightmares to reality; when your reality is a nightmare, there’s not much sense of improvement. I don’t sleep well anyway, never more than a few hours at a time; there doesn’t seem to be much point. I don’t get any exercise to get myself tired, and besides, when you’re asleep, you can’t see what’s out there waiting for you to let your guard down. Not that it matters; I know what’s waiting. He’s in the room behind the door a couple yards away.
It’s early, not quite light out, and Esteban’s not up yet. I creep up to the bars of the cage and piss in the bucket that’s set on the floor outside. I don’t need to do anything else, and that’s good; though the wire that forms the bottom of this dog crate sits up a couple of inches off the ground, it might be an hour or two before Esteban’s orderly comes around to move the cage on its wheels and clean underneath it. It’s not often an issue—not much fiber in my diet. But I don’t like the reminder that it’s one more thing I don’t have control over. I used to be a really clean kid. It bugs me that I’m not anymore.
The orderly and I hate each other with a sincere, almost cordial hate. He hates cleaning up after me, and I hate him because he can stand up straight. I haven’t stood in probably three or four months, whenever the last time it was that Esteban took me for a walk around the compound. I try to keep my leg muscles exercised by doing stretches when no one’s around, like now: reaching down to grab my toes and pull, stretching out the tendons and muscles in my back and legs and shoulders and arms. It hurts. It always hurts. The muscles burn and the bars of the cage floor grind against my naked butt and thighs and calves. But I keep thinking someday I’m going to have the opportunity to kill Esteban, and I need to be strong enough.
Who am I kidding?
The orderly comes in first for a change this morning. It occasionally happens, when Esteban is out raping babies, or poking the eyes out of old women, or cutting the wings off flies. There was a bit of fuss a couple of days or weeks ago—I don’t know—and I think there’s something going on. Esteban has been entirely too happy lately. I hate it when he’s happy. When he’s happy, he’s horny, and it’s my fucking ass that gets the dubious benefits. The only thing is when he’s pissy—then everything gets the benefits.
The orderly’s name is Ernesto; I call him “Che” to myself; not that he has a clue who that is, even if I’d said it out loud. He’s that stupid. He calls me “perro,” but then, everyone does. It’s what I am: Esteban’s dog. My own fault—when I first got here I was a smart-mouthed kid and called him a “dog-fucker.” He decided to make that literal.
Che sticks the little kid’s beach bucket of water in through the food door at the bottom of the cage. The bucket is pink, another commentary. As usual, there’s a plastic razor and a rag in the bucket, but no soap. I think I remember soap. I scrape the razor over my face, shaving my sparse beard; I think I’m close to twenty, but despite having black hair, I don’t have much in the way of whiskers, which is fine with me—I can’t imagine having to shave a thick beard with a ladies’ plastic razor and water. The orderly uses the ladies’ razors because they’ve got even less actual blade exposed. I tried to slit my wrist with a men’s razor once, years ago, and Esteban beat his ass because of it. But Esteban doesn’t like beards on other people—none of his men have them—though he’s got one. It’s some masculinity crap. For a guy who fucks ass daily, he’s got a big thing about masculinity. Guess a shrink would have a field day with that.
I shave and wash up with the rag using as little water as possible; whatever’s left is my drinking water for the day, and I’d rather be naked and filthy than naked and thirsty. Then I throw the razor at Che, just on principle. The rag goes into the little pile in the corner of the crate. It’s my hobby, collecting rags. Someday I’ll make a quilt. Except that every few weeks when Esteban’s got me bent over his desk with his dick in my ass, Che sneaks in and takes the pile of rags. I think that pisses me off more than the fucking. They’re my fucking rags, asshole.
I don’t talk to Che, though. I don’t talk to anyone. Nobody here I want to talk to.
I hear Esteban outside, yelling at someone, and then I hear the crack of his whip as that someone gets what’s coming to him. It’s not usual—Esteban’s not stupid—but it’s not unusual, either. Just part of life in the jungle. Esteban likes his whip, and he likes discipline. But his men are well fed. Not me, but I’m just a dog. The beating depresses me, though—Esteban likes his whip—did I say that?—and that makes him happy, and when he’s happy….
He comes in a while later, patches of sweat on his paramilitary uniform, a grin on his face and his dick making a tent at his crotch. He opens the crate, reaches in and grabs me by my collar, hauling me out onto the floor. “There’s my good dog,” he croons, “there’s my little puppy,” and he strokes my hair as he puts on my leash. “Puppy’s fur’s getting matted,” he observes. “Ernesto, remind me to take him to the groomer’s.” And he laughs like he’s said something fucking funny. A regular laugh riot, Benito Esteban. He’s not fat, but he’s big, muscular, with a thick neck. Next to his arms, my emaciated little sticks look like twigs. He shoves my face into the floor; I turn my head just in time to avoid a nosebleed, but my cheekbone cracks against the wood and it hurts. “Down, dog,” he says, and I draw my knees up, my arms tucked under my chest and my skinny ass flapping in the breeze, the picture of canine submission. He lets me stay that way while he deals with the orderly, giving him orders I don’t pay attention to anymore. I hear him say something about “hostages,” but not what exactly. It isn’t hard to figu
re out what’s making him so cheerful, even discounting the fun of whipping some poor fucker’s skin off his back. He has hostages, which means ransom, which means more funding of his little army. All is happy time in Esteban-ville.
Che finishes getting his instructions for the day, and Esteban sits down behind his desk, tugging at his end of the leash and snapping his fingers. I crawl over and sit down on my haunches beside him, waiting for his orders. I wonder if real dogs hate their masters as much as I hate mine. “Up,” he says, snapping his fingers again. If I were a real dog, I’d bite them off, but I’m not, so I get up in a half-crouch, knees bent, elbows on the desk. There are papers there, but I can’t read them; they’re in Spanish and in his handwriting. I never did learn to read Spanish, and his handwriting is for shit. I hear him rustling behind me, then the blunt pressure of his cock at my hole and he’s pushing it in, humming happily, no spit, no lube, just that fat prick. Fortunately, I don’t feel it much anymore; the muscles are torn or dead or scarred or something, and once he’s past the entrance it’s just him filling me up again, and then pulling out. He gets into a rhythm and then it’s just a matter of waiting for him to come. Once or twice years ago I reacted to him, physically, but my cock doesn’t get hard anymore, not even if he plays with me. He says I’ve been neutered. Could be. What do I care?
I’m careful not to think when he’s fucking me, though, because sometimes I suspect that he can read my mind, and when he’s fucking me he’s got me vulnerable. He’s brilliant at finding things that hurt, at wrecking good memories, memories of my life before, of my parents, of anything. I’m especially careful to never think about Taff. Taff was the only person to ever kiss me, and I’d like to keep it that way, so I don’t think about it or him when Esteban’s around, which is pretty much always. My memory of Taff’s kiss is clean, as nothing else is. Sometimes I have nightmares about Taff, but when you don’t talk, you don’t cry out in your sleep. Besides, I won’t sleep when Esteban’s in the room, and Che’s never said anything as far as I know.
Esteban doesn’t kiss me; occasionally he will make me suck him off, but he’s not big on that, for some reason. Maybe because even though I’m scared shitless of him, I still have all my teeth. I haven’t got the guts to bite him, but maybe he’s just that little bit unsure. If anything makes me happy, I think that does.
While Esteban’s fucking me, that prick Che steals my rags. Bastard.
Esteban comes loud, grunting and pounding the desk by my head, so I don’t hear the noises at first. Then I do, hollow popping sounds outside, and then yelling. Esteban jerks out of me, dragging me by the leash and throwing me in the cage. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls out the pistol he keeps in the holster at the small of his back—he doesn’t keep it anywhere I can get a hold of it—and crouches by the window. Swearing, he pushes the window sash up an inch or so and pokes the barrel of the gun out and starts shooting. Che’s nowhere around.
I reach up and unhook the leash from my collar. Then I look up and I realize Esteban latched the cage, but forgot to lock it in his haste to go shoot people. Very carefully, I unlatch the cage. He’s still shooting. I freeze when he pauses to pop the empty cartridge from his pistol and slap in a new one, but he’s forgotten that I exist.
The leash makes a handy garrote; just slide the end through the hand loop and drop it over Esteban’s head. And pull. Hard. I can’t stand all the way up, but with him in a crouch I’ve got enough leverage to yank him onto his back; he drops the pistol and I kick it away. Then I shove him back over onto his stomach and I stand on his back, pulling on the leash like some circus bareback rider. I don’t know where I get the strength. He’s got to outweigh me by a hundred pounds, but he’s down, and the leather’s thin but strong, and I find the stamina to pull. And pull. Until he stops fighting me. Until he’s lying perfectly still. Until the stench of voided bladder and bowels fills my nose, and I know he’s dead. Then I let go and stumble off him, falling exhausted onto my knees.
The popping noises outside stop. I don’t know who’s out there, but I figure it’s probably a rival paramilitary group; Esteban’s been complaining about some locals lately. I giggle a little hysterically to myself—no more complaints from that corner. But no matter who wins that little battle out there, I’m dead. Esteban’s men will kill me for what I’ve just done; a rival group will kill me because I’m here. It doesn’t matter, really, but something makes me drop the leash and crawl into the corner on the other side of the dog crate, cramming myself into as small a space as I can get into. Then I curl in on myself and wait to die.
Two years later
DAVID HAD the cab drop him off at the east gate of the compound, the private gate. The arch still displayed the twisting initials GK, belonging to the cattle baron who’d originally built the house and outbuildings back in the early twenties. The stone structure beside the road, though, had been put in about ten years ago to shelter the remote access to the computer that now managed the big, wrought-iron gates. David ducked into the shelter and keyed in his security password.
“Hello, David,” the tinny voice said from the speakers on the panel.
“Hey, Andrew,” David replied. “How they hanging?”
“They aren’t hanging at all,” the computer replied. “I possess no sexual organs, as you well know. It’s been a long time since you’ve been home.”
“It sure has,” David sighed. “Just the foot gate, Andy.”
The computer didn’t answer; it had acquired sufficient voice recognition patterns to activate David’s security access, and the smaller gate inset into the larger one swung open.
“Thanks, Andy,” David said.
“You’re welcome, David. Welcome home.”
It was all preprogrammed text; even the comment about sex organs. David had programmed it into his access codes years ago, in his smart-assed teenage years. But even preprogrammed badinage made David feel like he had been welcomed back. Too bad he wasn’t as sure of his welcome by the flesh-and-blood residents of the Tyler compound. He picked up the duffel he’d dropped on the ground and went through the small gate, giving it a push to set it back on a close trajectory. Then it was just a quarter-mile hike up the asphalt road to his destination, the two-story stone gatehouse.
Before he went in, though, he paused and looked out over the panorama, a sight that had been as familiar to him as his own face once upon a time. It had been more than three years since he’d set foot on the land where he’d grown up—he might have only been the housekeeper’s son, but the Tyler family was part of his own, and this the only home he’d known. Now he wasn’t really sure what it was, except for the place where his mother lived and worked. It looked the same, though. A half mile to the south sprawled the low buildings of Tyler Technologies, with their wood and adobe walls and tile roofs showing red through the surrounding aspens; a half mile north and west of there was the main house, a hacienda-style mansion with extensive gardens, a swimming pool, tennis courts and stables, all the amenities of the fabulously wealthy, amenities David had always been welcome to share. Before. Further north and west were the woods and in the distance, the mountains where he and Zach, and sometimes Richard and Jane, had hiked and explored and skied in the winters. He had to admit it had been pretty damn idyllic.
He hadn’t done any of that after Zach had disappeared. If he hiked or skied, he did it somewhere else. Every inch of Tyler land echoed with Zach’s laughter, every bit of shade sheltered his ghost. It was too damn lonely here without Zach. He’d lived here and worked for Richard until he’d scraped up enough money to go off to college, and then only came back occasionally, when he felt tough enough to last a few days. Every moment he was here he felt like there was something missing, something vital. And there was.
He’d had relationships in college, and since, but none of them ever lasted, not even this last one, the one he’d thought was It. His partners, to a man, accused him of being “emotionally unavailable,” whatever the hell that me
ant. But none of them had ever been able to fill the hole that Zach had left. Zach, with whom he’d shared exactly one kiss, instigated by the inexperienced fifteen-year-old boy. Who’d vanished a week later, right out of a crowded airport.
David turned his back on the grandeur that was the Tyler compound and the Rocky Mountains, and went up the steps to the porch of the gatehouse and let himself in. He dropped his duffel and set his laptop case down more carefully on the polished wood floor of the entry, and called, “Hello? Mom? You home?”
Silence greeted him. Not unexpected—it was the middle of the afternoon and she was probably at work. He went into the kitchen, got himself a drink of water, and called her cell phone from the kitchen extension.
She picked up on the second ring, her voice puzzled. “Hello?”
“Hey, lady,” David said.
“Davey!” she cried in delight. “Are you at home? I was wondering who’d be calling from there.”
“Yeah, just got here.”
“You should have told me you were coming to visit! I’d have taken the day off.”
“It’s not really a visit, Mom. I—well, I sort of got a job here. At the community college. Teaching art.”
There was a moment of confused silence, then Annie said, “But I thought you loved New York. You were so into the art scene there, and that internship at the Museum of Modern Art—I thought you were going to stay there…. Not that I’m not happy you’re home, oh, Davey, that’s wonderful, you’ll be home….”
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 3