Agent Blake nodded. “Our forensic guys are going over everything, but yes. It looks like it was a very small suicide bomb. Meant to only kill himself. Probably just in case he was captured.”
“But why would he run from you guys? You are the good guys, aren’t you?”
Blake gave him a wan smile as he stood to leave. “Last time I checked, son.” He patted his shoulder. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
****
Justin sat through the end of his 11:00 o’clock physics class and stared at the lab door. It had taken some explaining to Dr. Arlen and many, many strings pulled, but a natural magnet containment system was set up to house the golden golf ball that Justin had brought him. He stared through the glass of the lab door and he felt the edges of his mouth curl at the sight of the device.
They had dipped the golf ball in liquid nitrogen to immediately cool it and to halt any further growth in density. They then placed it inside an acrylic box with natural magnets on all sides, holding the golf ball suspended precisely in the middle.
From a distance, it appeared as though the golden sphere was hovering in mid-air. No contact with any matter allowed. The vacuum inside the vessel was set at absolute zero.
Justin could almost imagine hearing the screams of Samael through the vacuum and the inch thick, bullet-proof acrylic.
“Looks like I win.” He turned and exited the classroom.
****
Within the blackness of the sphere, Samael waited. He couldn’t see the human who had thwarted his plans, but he sensed him close by. He could feel the smugness emanating from him as he gloated over his minor victory.
Enjoy your win for now. But realize, your trap won’t hold me forever. Eventually I will find a way out. Or I will find a way to make contact with one greedy enough to free me.
Even magnets don’t hold their strength forever.
I’ve waited millennia for my vengeance. I can wait longer.
12
Please Don't Die
By Lonnie Bricker
Tim grimaced from behind their living room window as Josh threw a tennis ball for their dog, Jake. The moment the natural prey of family dogs around the world left his son's hand, Tim knew it was destined for the street.
The boy froze, arm still extended, fingers open. "Jake, no!" Ignoring the ten-year-old's command, as always, the dog rocketed down the driveway.
The fluorescent green ball struck the hood of Tim's Buick parked at the end of the drive and, with a metallic thud that shook free a layer of orange rust, cleared the rest of the LeSabre with a foot to spare. Claws scraping on the asphalt, forty pounds of black lab skidded around the car.
Josh lurched forward. The ball struck the street with a happy squeak. The dog timed its leap perfectly to snatch the ball at the peak of its arc, if it hadn't been for the interference of a grill attached to a full-size Dodge pickup. From Tim's vantage point, it looked like the silver beast swallowed Jake then, screeching to a halt, spit the chewed up morsel out on the pavement. The dog's broken body crumpled to the street with a wet thud, followed by the ticking of plastic grill pieces raining down around it.
Neighborhood kids stood in their yards, on the sidewalks, and in their own drives. Those armed with cell phones aimed them at the accident, filming the developing scene. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing khaki cargo shorts, climbed from the cab of the truck. His eyes were so wide that Tim could see their whites against the man's tanned face.
Tim blew through the front door. Not bothering with the three steps, he hit the drive at a run.
From the garage behind him, his wife shouted. "Josh! Stop!" Hysteria edged Margaret's already shrill voice. Tim heard her drop something and follow him at a run.
Similar to the dog, the boy rarely responded to the first command. He raced into the street, falling to his knees in front of the stopped truck, at the unmoving dog's side. Cradling Jake's head in his lap, Josh stroked the dog's black fur.
Tim came to a panting halt beside his son.
"It came out of nowhere." The driver looked around, possibly hoping for someone to assuage his guilt.
"Josh, come away from there, honey," Margaret said, hovering over their son.
Don't ask, just pull him away, Tim thought. "Listen to your mother, buddy."
"Jake—" Josh sobbed.
"I didn't see it." The driver dug in a side pocket of his cargo shorts, finally pulling out a cell phone. "I want to do the right thing here. I'll call the police."
Something rolled from under truck. The tennis ball came to a stop against Josh's skinny knee. "Here boy, it's the ball." His son placed it in Jake's slack mouth. It hit the pavement with a pathetic squeak, bringing a fresh flood of tears to the boy's eyes.
"Come on, honey. Your father will handle Jake." Margaret bent over, sliding her hands under their son's shoulders. Her long red hair fell over her face.
Tim caught a couple of the neighborhood kids aiming their camera phones at his wife's ass. He had to admit, it was a great view, but it was also his. He stepped behind her, blocking their shots.
"Please don't die, Jake, please don't die." Josh stroked the dog's side. His hands came away wet with blood. His mother pulled him to his feet. "Please," the boy sobbed.
"What the?" Several onlookers echoed Tim's exclamation while others gasped with Margaret.
Jake took the ball in its mouth and hopped around, tail whipping back and forth at speeds approaching hurricane force.
"Jake!" Josh fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the dog.
"What just happened?" Margaret stepped toward their son then hesitated, apparently unable to decide whether Josh needed protection.
"I asked him not to die," Josh said around a flailing tongue only found on family dogs.
Tim squatted next to the dog and felt its sides. Though the blood was still wet on the black fur, he found no punctures, and no crushed bones. Jake felt whole.
****
"Over two million views." Tim spun the laptop around on the kitchen table, trying again to make Margaret watch the video. He couldn't understand how she could not be interested in the most amazing thing to ever happen. She refused to bite, instead remaining focused on the sliding glass doors that offered a to-die-for view of their backyard, their chain link fence, and the railroad tracks just beyond. In the yard, their son threw the ball. Jake jumped over a plastic lawn chair in pursuit of the renegade squeak toy.
"Yeah, our dog's a viral sensation. It's been a week. Can we please stop talking about it?" She took a long drag from her cigarette. The smoke smelled like someone had buried menthol in an ashtray.
Tim reclaimed the laptop. "It won't go away just because we stop talking about it. That dog was smashed." He clicked on the play button.
From its speaker, voices seemed to echo the discussion taking place in their kitchen. "That dog just came back to life," was followed by, "Nu-uh. It wasn't dead, assmunch."
Margaret hung her head. "Fine, if I admit our son may have performed a miracle, will you stop playing it?"
Tim closed the laptop. "I don't understand you. Our son could be a saint or Jesus Christ reincarnated."
"Reincarnation is Hindu or something."
"You know what I meant. Imagine raising the son of God." Tim pictured all the televangelists he'd ever seen: tailored suits, nice cars, mansions, and more money than they could ever spend, legally. Then he tried to imagine how much more of everything Christ would have.
"They killed Christ." Margaret fiddled with her cigarette absently. "Please, Tim, can't we take down the video?"
"I paid that kid for this. I ain't taking it down. Even if I did, there are half a dozen others out there."
"We could ask them—" The shush of the door sliding open cut Margaret off. Josh barged in with Jake cavorting around him. Every time the dog's paws struck the linoleum, they left a dirty print behind.
"Jake, no!" Margaret pointed with her cigarette, emphasizing her command. Tim pretended not t
o see the ashes flitter across the table.
Jake hopped around, barking and licking Josh's face. Laughing, Josh spun in a circle, either attempting to escape or trying to get licked, it was impossible to tell.
"Joshua Chamberlain, get that muddy dog outside."
Josh stopped spinning, and, after the first attempt ended in giggles provoked by Jake's unrelenting licking, managed to obey. "Go on, buddy. Go clean your paws." The black lab stopped mid-hop and trotted outside. Margaret and Tim watched in silence. The dog sat down in the backyard and began licking it paws clean.
Tim snorted, and not because Jake looked like some genetic cross between Gene Simmons and a black lab. "What just happened?" He couldn't believe it. That dog never did what anyone told it to do.
Josh's smile lifted his heels from the ground, leaving him bouncing on his toes. "Mom wanted him outside."
Accompanied by the harsh scraping of his chair's metal legs against the linoleum, Tim slid back from the table. Margaret had told him how much she hated it when he didn't pick his chair up, claiming it marred the floor. Her shoulders sagged a little more with each step he took without an apology. It would take her weeks to build up enough courage to confront him again. He watched as the dog, finished with its front paws, moved to the rear. "How long has he been doing what you tell him, Buddy?"
His son's smile swelled until the edges of his mouth threatened to touch his ears. "Since that day. Watch! Jake, rollover."
Jake rolled over.
Tim slapped his thigh and called to the dog. "Jake, c'mere boy." The black lab met his eyes then rolled over again.
"I can call him," Josh said.
"Yeah, buddy. Call him in."
Josh slapped his thigh. "Jake, come here, buddy." From the enthusiasm in his son's voice, Tim expected a mountain of dog biscuits to fall from the sky. Jake cleared the small wooden porch in one bound, landed in the kitchen, and, claws ticking, scrabbled for purchase on the linoleum the entire way across the floor until the dog finally got stopped. "Sit, Jake." The dog obeyed almost as soon as the words left Josh's mouth.
"That's amazing, honey!" Margaret's sugary joy matched their son's excitement down to the light in her eyes.
Tim knelt in front of his son. "We…" At the edge of his vision, Margaret shook her head. He ignored her. "…have been talking about something. We want to know if you can do what you did to Jake again."
Josh shrugged. "Sure."
"Tim, no."
Tim spun on his wife. "Holy shit, we're not gonna kill anything. I told you, we'll find an animal that's already dead or something." She would give in. She always did when he got mad. They both knew it.
****
They found what they were looking for an hour later, alongside a pothole-riddled country road. Tim pulled the Buick over, just past the dead groundhog. Four legs jutted straight out from its bloated corpse, sticks attached to the world's most disgusting balloon animal.
"Please, Tim, I don't want Josh touching that. Couldn't you find something a little less gross?" Margaret lit another cigarette.
"The smoke ain't gonna cover the stench." Tim waved a hand in front of his face.
"It's ok, mom." Josh was already opening his door.
"Honey, wait."
"Yeah, buddy, wait," Tim pulled his phone from his pocket. "I need to record it."
A lungful of smoke trailed Margaret from the car.
Tim raised his phone. "Go ahead, buddy."
Josh squatted next to the roadkill.
"Don't touch it!" Margaret's plea stopped Josh's hand halfway to the groundhog.
"But, I got to."
"Go ahead, buddy." Tim motioned with his phone. "Just stop, Margaret."
Josh still hesitated, watching his mother.
"I don't care if this works or not. I love you either way, honey." She gave a small nod.
Josh reached out again and stroked the groundhog's fur. "Please don't die, Mister Groundhog. Please don't die."
Putrid gasses created by decomposing organs and trapped by the outer flesh evacuated the bloated corpse through its anus. A long, steady whistling accompanied its deflation. Margaret gasped, whether from shock, or regret at not having moved away, Tim couldn't tell.
"Holy shit." Tim fanned his nose with his free hand. "Woo!"
"It can't help it, Dad." Admonishment delivered, Josh turned back to the roadkill. It's legs twitched.
"Joshua Allen Chamberlain, get away from there." Margaret reached for the boy then stopped, hand outstretched, watching the animal sit up on its haunches. "Now," she said, her voice barely audible. The groundhog twitched its nose at her.
Tim watched the scene unfold on his phone's screen. "Holy shit."
A miniature Margaret whipped her head around. Anger, powerful enough to make even the best redeye removing software cower in fear, backlit her eyes. "If that thing hurts our son…"
Without raising his eyes from his phone, Tim motioned toward their son.
Josh giggled as the groundhog licked the palm of one hand. "Can I keep him?"
"No," Margaret said.
"See if it will do what you say, buddy."
"Stay." Josh ran to the car, climbed in and dug under the backseat.
Tim panned his phone from groundhog to boy. The animal sat there twitching its nose at Margaret. She puffed at her cigarette in small bursts, as if scared it would disappear if not constantly sucked at. Tim wasn't sure about cigarettes, but, thankfully, he could vouch that that was not true of all things. He snorted at his own joke, drawing the attention of both wife and groundhog.
Josh scurried from the car, carrying a half a pack of peanut butter snack crackers. Peeling away what remained of the lint-covered wrapper, he rushed back. The boy placed the remaining two crumbling cracker sandwiches in front of the groundhog. "Ok, you can have one."
Dropping to all fours, the animal made one of the crackers disappear faster than a chocolate chip cookie at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. It sat back on its haunches, leaving the other cracker intact.
"Holy shit."
****
"The groundhog video is going nuts. More views in three days than the dog had in a week." Tim hopped up from the couch. On the television, YouTube showed Josh petting the groundhog as Margaret watched slack-jawed. Tim scrolled down through the comments, trying to ignore the trolls, who were only interested in how hot his red headed wife was—he made a mental note to make certain she was not in the next video. The other comments varied in tone from, "Photoshopped and I can prove it, just click here," to, "It's a miracle," and even, "He's the anti-Christ, kill him now."
"I'm worried, Tim." Margaret stood in the kitchen, watching their son play with the dog in the backyard. "How long will it be before this becomes headline news? Our son will never have a normal life."
Tim slipped up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and picked her up. "Who wants normal? We're gonna be rich!"
He felt Margaret stiffen in his arms. "What about our family?" The doorbell interrupted their conversation.
Just as well, he thought, uncoiling his arms from around her waist. He knew from experience that she was about to give him some Pollyanna quote about how happiness was more important than money. He couldn't believe she was so dense—money was happiness.
Tim opened the front door to find a man in his late fifties, if the gray above his ears and the lines at the corners of his eyes were any indication, standing on their front steps. "Is this the Chamberlain residence?" Distinguished English accent, dark blue suit that probably cost more than they made in a year, the way he looked down his nose at Tim, everything about the man seemed tailored to make him seem superior.
"Hey, look, if you are a bill collector of some kind…" Tim trailed off. The black Mercedes parked along the street took that line of thought and beat it until it begged to be waterboarded.
"I assure you that my assignment is of a mutually beneficial nature. I have a business proposition regarding your son's apparent abilit
y."
Tim contemplated the Mercedes.
The man nodded toward the interior of the 1960's ranch-style home. "May I?"
"Sure, c'mon in." Tim ushered the man inside. He caught a whiff of some fancy cologne, probably something concocted from the finest scent glands of the most endangered animal species on earth.
The man stopped in the kitchen. "Is that your son?" Outside, Josh threw the ball, continuing a game of fetch that would only end when he or Jake collapsed, panting on the grass.
Tim pulled out a chair for himself. "Yeah… Hey, you haven't told us your name."
The man jerked slightly, as if caught daydreaming. "Oh, I apologize," he said, Tim's wife with her chair, lifting it after the first hint of it scraping on the linoleum. "My name is Reginald Howard." From an inside pocket, he produced a business card, handed it to Tim, then motioned toward an empty chair.
"Of course, have a seat." Margaret's smile was one normally reserved for their son.
Tim dropped the card on the table. "A lawyer. What does a lawyer want with my son?"
"Our son," Margaret added.
Tim followed Reginald's gaze around the kitchen.
The lawyer paused on the neatly clean, but not quite dry, breakfast dishes. "I truly detest dropping in unannounced. I would have preferred to call ahead…" Margaret blushed, and put her cigarette out, careful not to allow any wayward ashes. "…to allow you time to prepare. Unfortunately, this is a matter of some urgency." He tugged at the sleeves of his suit coat, pulling each a millimeter closer to his wrists. "I'm afraid I must be blunt. Are the videos real?"
Tim leaned back in his chair. This was it, the answer to all their problems. They were about to be rich. From the backyard, Josh yelled for Jake to go long. "You see that dog out there? It got hit by a Dodge pickup. I saw it happen. That dog was dead. How's it look now?"
Reginald looked pointedly at Margaret.
Just before Tim opened his mouth to tell her what she knew and to just say it. She nodded.
Fight the MonSter: Find a Cure for MS Page 15