Casey, the reclining titan, lay on his stomach in his gym shorts, his powerful arms throttling his pillow. His mouth was open slightly and he was drooling. He was dreaming that he was standing on the practice field by the high school, with his jersey and shoulder pads on, his helmet in his hand. Nothing unusual there. He spent half his waking life on that practice field, and he dreamed of it often enough. Most of the time the other members of the team were there, but on this occasion he was alone. He had been called for a special practice session. The grass under his feet was a plush, healthy green, the sky a cloud flecked, foamy blue. There was a fine breeze. In Casey’s head the drought was over, and the football conditions were optimal. As he stood waiting he turned and spotted someone, coming not from the direction of the school, but from the far side of the field instead. He was not surprised to see that the approaching figure was wearing a collared polo shirt and athletic shorts like the ones worn by Coach. Over the shirts’ left breast he could see the snarling puma emblem. But it wasn’t Coach. Actually, as he drew nearer, Casey was becoming rapidly surer that this was a person he had never seen before. He looked physically fit, but his complexion seemed unnaturally light, almost like an albino, apart from a pair of red spots at the cheeks. He was wearing a pair of dark aviator sunglasses and carrying a clipboard, and there was a whistle on a chain draped around his neck. He had on a pair of white jogging sneakers and red socks with white bands pulled nearly up to his knees. On his head was a red baseball cap, but instead of a team logo, on the front all it said was RA-RA-RA! Casey saw that the man was smiling broadly, and his step was jaunty and full of a barely concealed energy. “Surrey!” the man snapped, stopping a few feet away and blowing the whistle as hard as humanly possible. It was so shrill that Casey took a step backward. “I’m your substitute fitness instructor for the week, or, if you wish, athletic supporter! You may call me Coach Smiley! I trust you will afford me the same respect and attention as you do what’s-his-name!”
“Yes sir!” Casey responded, not bothering to puzzle about some of the odder details. He was comfortable enough in his accustomed role as a player and part of a team not to ask too many questions. If the person in front of him spoke as though he wielded authority, then Casey was only too glad to obey, and Coach Smiley seemed to be positively bristling with it.
“We’re going to have a very special practice today,” the coach shouted happily, pointing a finger straight up in the air. “We’re going to do some drills, designed to sharpen the reflexes, improve the circulation, and add lean muscle mass to the thighs, the anterior and posterior ligaments, and most especially thegluteus area!” Here he tittered in a way that was most unprofessional, and definitely unlike any noise Casey had ever heard a teacher make. “Observe!” he cried, and grasped Casey around the shoulder, wheeling him around. There stood a row of tackling dummies. They looked similar to the hanging heavy bags preferred by boxers, except these were free standing and supported at the base by metal crossbars. Also, these ones were molded so that their upper third represented the torso of a defender, complete with shoulders and heads that were at an equal height to Casey’s own. This was also not unusual. They were a commonly used tool in the team’s traditional workouts. However, these particular dummies had one additional modification. Each head came complete with facial features, and the face on each one was of Tad Surrey. Though they appeared to be made of sculpted rubber, they were incredibly realistic. Casey recognized the same identical expression on each one of them. It was that stupid, dreamy, slightly hazy look that his brother got sometimes when he was playing away from the house and he thought himself unobserved. It was just that look that made Casey want to knock him senseless; whenever he saw it, if neither parent was around, Casey went out of his way to wipe it off for him. Besides, his sudden appearance at these moments was always a prelude to Casey’s favorite expression, that being the look of righteous, outraged anger on his younger brother’s face at being interrupted, and then usually made to eat some grass with one arm twisted cruelly behind his back. Casey grinned wickedly at the thought. His arm still across Casey’s shoulders, Coach Smiley leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I think you know how this one goes, don’t you?” he murmured.
“Yes sir!” Casey sang out eagerly.
“Good lad!” the coach cried. “There’s a good lad! Let’s line up now, and be sharp about it!” Casey got down in a three point stance, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on the grass, one leg stretched out behind him, head lowered, eyes on his target. “Let’s see you drive with that shoulder, now, and lay him out!” the coach barked, clapping his hands together. “Ninety-two! Fourteen! Seventy-seven! Hut-hut! Hike!” Casey sprang into action with a snarl, barreling forward, zeroed in on the center of the dummy’s shaped torso. He crashed into it savagely, feeling it give way slightly behind his shoulder pad. It was a solid hit, but apparently the coach hadn’t thought so. “No!” he fairly shrieked. “No, no, a thousand times no! Is this football or ballroom dancing?” It had sounded to Casey like a rhetorical question, but when he didn’t answer the coach only became more agitated. “Well?! Answer me, Surrey!”
“This is football, Coach!”
“Well, dog my cats, son, it’s good to know we’re talking the same language! It’s going to take the best of the best to make my team, you can be sure of that! And you don’t want to get cut, do you?!” On the word cut he held up the index and middle fingers of his right hand and made a snipping motion with them, at the same time grinning in a truly hideous way. Casey was unafraid, but the motivation worked. He understood that being cut was the last thing in the world he would ever want to have happen.
“No sir!” he answered firmly. “I do not!”
“Then square those shoulders, put your weight into it, and pop those hips! Pop them!” Casey prepared to do as he was told, narrowing his focus on the molded features of the dummy and making ready for another charge. He found that, for reasons that he could not readily identify, he wanted very, very much to do as the coach asked. Actually, he thought at that moment there wasn’t anything else in the world that would make him happier than pleasing the man. Casey ached for the approval of the man with the whistle so much that he was shaking in anticipation like a pit bull about to be let off the chain. “Ninety-one!” the coach shouted. “Sixty-nine! Hut-hut! Hike!” Roaring as he never had before, on or off the field, Casey pounded across the grass and smashed violently into the dummy. It groaned and the metal crossbar at the base recoiled. “Good!” The coach slapped him across the chest with an open palm. “That’s good! Again! Do it again!” Casey lined up once more, feeling as he did so a sensation he’d never felt before. It was difficult to detect, but it was there, like the slightest of amplitude modulations speaking to something deep inside him, thrumming him like a bow string. As he attacked the dummy again, the delighted cries of his new coach ringing in his ears, he could feel it flooding him, a combination of joy and relief, coupled with the understanding that moving forward, in this direction, was the finest, best thing he had ever done.
Back in his room, Tad lay as before, his eyes closed, his breathing regular. He was not asleep but in a deeply pensive state, thinking of earlier events in his life. He had started by remembering all the mistakes that he had made at school, all the times he had gotten in trouble at home, all the times he had been embarrassed and humiliated. From these he had moved on to all the times that he had acted out of spite, anger, or jealousy, all the times that he had acted in a cowardly or selfish manner, all the hateful and vindictive moments he could dredge up, a lifetimes’ worth of mistakes and missteps. And then he had tried to remember all the good things he had ever done, the selfless acts, the noble gestures, the times when he’d done whatever it was, not because he’d had to, but just because it was the right thing to do. He was trying to tally them up and see which list was superior, trying to take the measure of himself. Tad Surrey was trying to conclude whether or not he was, in fact, a good person. In another part of his
mind, the part that wasn’t busy calculating, he wondered why this should be important to him now. He couldn’t come up with an answer, and that bothered him somewhat. But what irked him more was that, try as he might, he just didn’t seem to be able to come up with enough good to balance out the bad. But is that really because I’m a bad person, he wondered, or simply because I have an easier time, in this life, remembering all the evil deeds I’ve done over the good?
When there was a sudden noise from downstairs, his whole body shuddered and his eyes snapped open. He leapt to his feet and stood in the center of the floor, listening, running through in his head a list of terrible possibilities, each worse than the last. Then he heard a faint creak, and in a flash he knew what had happened. Cursing, he threw on the light and fumbled with his boxer shorts, hopping on one foot. He should have been downstairs with Daisy, and now he only prayed he was not too late to avert whatever mischief was taking place. If he failed to protect her he would never forgive himself, and he would never forgive, either, the madman that had done both of them harm.
He sprinted down the stairs, almost tripping when he reached the bottom and grabbing the corner of the wall to steady himself. He crossed the dining room into the living room and stood hovering over the couch. His fears were immediately confirmed; Daisy was gone. He ran into the front hall. The door was ajar. This time there was no thought of searching for her alone. His anger at his father must be forgotten, for now. The family would draw together, or else it would be torn apart. He made for his parent’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer and he knocked louder. He heard his mother’s sleepy voice mumbling something and bodies stirring inside. Then Walt opened the door, rubbing one eye. Half of his face was red where it had been pressed against the pillow. “What is it?”
“Daisy’s gone.”
His father’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell!” he said. He dropped his arm to his side and gave Tad a murderous glare, as though he were the one responsible for this latest calamity. I am responsible, Tad thought, but still he resented the look and he returned it with an equally vengeful one. Walt pushed him out of the way and ran to the front door. He opened it and stepped past the screen door onto the porch. Tad stood behind him in the hall, looking over his shoulder. It was like a blast furnace outside, nearly as hot as full daylight. The moon hung dimpled and swollen, the red of a blood blister. The crickets razzed and jeered. Daisy was nowhere to be seen. Walt turned to Tad, his eyebrows bunching together, his hands clenching and unclenching. He stood there as the seconds ticked away. “Go upstairs and wake your brother,” he said at last.
Tad flew back up the stairs as behind him the light came on in the dining room. He could hear his mother talking in the same high, agitated voice he had heard earlier in the evening. He somehow felt this only a continuation of the same scene. It had died down momentarily, but now it was back with a vengeance, the urgency as acute as ever. He pounded on the door to Casey’s room. Instantly there was movement from within. He heard the springs creak as his brother rose from the bed, and at the same time a mumbled voice, as if Casey was speaking to someone. He rapped his knuckles against the door again. “Casey,” he cried. “You have to get out here now!” Then there were a series of metallic clacking noises as Casey unbolted the door from the inside. It flew open to reveal him standing in a crouched position, shirtless. His hair was mussed, he was sweating, and his face was flushed as if he’d been in the middle of some sort of strenuous activity. Looking into his eyes, Tad saw that they were glassy, and they seemed to be staring straight through him. But there was recognition there, for Casey mumbled something, and his lips flew back from his teeth in a mindless, yet vicious snarl. His hands formed into fists, and he dropped almost to one knee, as though he were about to put his younger brother through the wall. “Casey!” Tad said. He took a step backward, holding his hands out in front of him.
Casey shook his head, and then stepped forward so that he was at his full height again. He unclenched his fists and reached up, rubbing the palms against his eyes. He shivered, once, though the hallway was stiflingly warm. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and looked at Tad as if he actually saw him for the first time. “What?” he said, his voice thick with irritation. “What the fuck is it?”
“Daze is gone.”
Casey’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, hell,” he said, though his expression was still one of annoyance from having been wakened, not concern that his sister might be in danger. “Get out of my way.” He shoved Tad back against the wall and made for the stairs.
A moment later they were all gathered in the dining room, Casey, Walt, and Marta all talking at once. Tad was standing back from the three of them, silent. He felt as if he had reverted to a state of childhood helplessness again, and the feelings of renewal and excitement that had filled him only a day before, when he had walked out of the woods following Decadence, were now worlds away. He wanted to believe, as a child does, that in the face of this disaster if he only stayed out of the way and let the adults handle it that they would know how to make everything better again. But a part of him knew that this was one danger that the adults were unequipped and unprepared to deal with, because they didn’t know who or what it was they were facing. Only he knew. “Marta, be quite,” his father said. “Be quiet now and let me think!” His mother, who had been speaking more or less without stopping since she’d awoken, now trailed off with an anguished sob. She was wringing her hands, at a loss what she could do with herself, and Tad wanted to comfort her. But he didn’t move. “Alright,” Walt said, after a few more moments of silence. “Casey, you run upstairs and get dressed, while I get the flashlights from the basement, and then you and me and your brother are going to go out and look for her. Marta, you’re going to stay here.” Marta’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Walt cut her off. “And no arguments, now! Someone has to stay here, just in case she comes back.” Casey had bounded up the stairs, and Walt now turned to Tad. “Go and get your shoes on. Casey will be fine on his own, he can look by himself, but you’re going to come with me. I’m not going to have you getting lost out there too. All I want you to do is stick right the hell next to me and keep your eyes open. You get me?”
“Yes sir,” Tad whispered. He felt empty, as if he were floating.
“Good. Go get your shoes on.” As he went for them he could hear his mother as her voice rose in protest, and Walt’s angry retort cutting her off. By the time he was back downstairs alongside Casey, moments later, the door to her room was closed. But he could still hear her sobbing, insistently, plaintively, just as if she were standing right next to them.
They left by the front door, stepping from the heat of the house to the heat outside, from one sauna into another. Casey’s jaw worked up and down, chewing at nothing, as he looked up and down the drive. He had one flashlight, and Walt held the other. “The kid’s goin’ to stick with me,” Walt was saying to Casey, speaking about Tad as if he weren’t standing right next to him. “We’re goin’ into the trees on the right side of the drive, and we’re goin’ to make our way toward the Willow Road. You take the left side, and head in the same direction. That’s where she went to the last time, stands to reason that’s what she’ll do again. I don’t think she’ll have gotten far. We’ll stay in hollerin’ distance the whole time. I’ll be watchin’ for your light, and you watch for mine. We clear?”
“Clear, Pa.”
“Good. Let’s find her quick now, y’hear?”
“Right.” Casey snapped on his flashlight, the powerful beam bouncing along the ground as he jogged away.
“And you,” Walt said, turning back to Tad. “You just stick to me and don’t wander off.” Without waiting for a reply, he began to move along the drive. During the entire proceedings his face had remained calm, and his voice steady. You might have thought he was giving directions on the best way to disassemble a carburetor. The only thing that might have indicated a crack in his composure were his eyes, which glittered
with a fierce intensity as he moved along, Tad at his heels. Truth be told, Walt was angry at himself, and frustrated for not anticipating that this might happen. But he would be damned if he would allow the situation to get any further out of control. He would set his house back in order. He would allow nothing further to prevent it.
They moved at a swift but steady pace, scanning both the driveway and the woods for any movement or sign of her passing. Tad rubbed his hands together and licked his lips continuously. His stomach felt as if he had swallowed a smoldering lump of coal that could not be digested, but instead sat burning a hole in his entrails with infinite slowness. He was both terrified and furious; first one would have the upper hand, then the other, as his emotions churned, revolving like laundry in the spin cycle. He was sick with worry. He remembered the words he had spoken, dire pronouncements, drifting back to him now from out of the dark. My sister. I can’t leave her. I won’t. No matter what my own wishes might be, I’m the most important person in the world to her. And she’s the most important person in the world to me. What a fool he had been! He had given that maniac all the incentive he needed. He had volunteered the information. He had as much as told Daddy the best way to hurt him, to get at him. He cursed at himself, under his breath. Walt turned toward him from a few feet ahead, shining the powerful beam of light back at his chest. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” They moved on, following the path of the driveway along each of its familiar curves. Across the way, whenever he glanced over, Tad could see another seeking dagger of light as it darted about, parts of it sometimes obscured by trees or bushes, as Casey did his part to contribute to the effort. With all that had been going on, Tad had forgotten about the murderous look his brother had given him when he opened the door to his room. Casey himself had not been aware of it, nor did he remember his particularly vivid dream. He did know that his right shoulder was very sore, as if he’d been striking it against something, but there was no time to puzzle over it just now.
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