Greg knew that he should respond, offer a kindness, a thank you, maybe, but he bit his tongue. Everything was so confusing that he was at odds with himself.
Walter disengaged from him and then took a step backward, both men taking the opportunity to inspect each other.
The irony that he, the one that his father had so ruthlessly abused for years, had until recently been a completely upstanding member of society and a good father, a family man, was not lost on Greg. Conversely, his brother had become… what? Greg didn’t know for certain, but he had heard enough rumors—and his present appearance added credence to most of them—to conclude that his brother wasn’t a lawyer or a doctor, or even a tax-paying citizen of Askergan, or wherever the biker had taken him.
At that very moment of extreme stress and emotional deluge, staring at his brother’s face, Greg thought that he finally understood why his father had beaten him so and had left Walter pretty much alone.
It was because Walter was like him, and Greg wasn’t.
Hadn’t been.
Greg’s mind churned, taking him back to the last time he had seen Walter.
I will find you.
Embracing beneath the tall oak, tears flowing down their faces, Greg had used all of his willpower to turn and run—to leave Walter behind. But once he had made that decision, he didn’t stop; he ran and ran and ran, running from Walter, from his mother, his father, and most of all he ran from himself. For years he’d tried to build his alias—Greg Griddle—into a real person and, for a time, he’d succeeded.
But that was before the rumors, the tales that somehow reached Greg’s ears even as far as Vermont. Even though he had become detached from his previous life, he still kept his ears to the ground, tried to keep abreast of Darborough and the surrounding counties’ news. And before long, he started to hear the stories about a drug addict named Walter, perpetually in and out of prison for petty robbery, dealing drugs, assault. For the most part, he ignored these stories, trying not to let them affect his new life, but when he heard about Walter knocking up a teenager, he couldn’t help but take notice.
When the claims of child abuse came next and Walter abruptly vanished, Greg was inclined to move closer to “home”. He was in no way certain that the boy named Tyler that shared the last name given to him at birth was Walter’s child, and by extension his nephew—hell, he doubted that the boy’s mother was even sure who the father was—yet he felt a strange proclivity for the boy, and he took it upon himself to look after Tyler, even if his involvement was mostly at a distance.
Greg had never completely understood why he did this, but if he were to hazard a guess at this moment, he would have said that the guilt of leaving Walter behind played a roll. Part of him also hoped that by being there, Walter might come back, and he would see him face to face again, have a heart to heart, convince him not to be like Dad… in short, to be together again.
Like in the oak tree behind the barn.
I’ll find you.
Ironic that Walter would utter those words, as for the longest time, Greg had known exactly where his brother was.
But it was only now that they were once again united.
“What are you doing here?” Walter said at last.
Greg had been meaning to ask the same question, but now that it was posed to him, he had difficulty answering.
“I—I—”
And then it all came crashing down again, and Greg broke into tears.
The two other men in the room waited. When the emotions finally passed, Greg tried to answer the man’s query. Except the only thing he could manage was mumbling about Kent.
“My son, he was killed—murdered. After—” His voice hitched and he looked away. “—after all I did to try and keep him safe, to treat him right, he was murdered.”
Walter’s voice was tight.
“Murdered?”
Greg wiped the tears away and his vision slowly began to clear.
He was in a large room, he saw, complete with an ornate fireplace off to his right, with a large flat screen above it. There was also a large chandelier above with at least a dozen lightbulbs. But despite the number of bulbs, they were the retro yellow type that did little to illuminate the large space. There was also a tapestry of sorts, a mishmash patchwork of different shades of beige on the wall, that looked as if they had been stitched together with long shoelaces.
“Murdered.”
“Tyler, too,” Walter whispered.
Greg continued to stare at his brother. It was the same man, that was certain, but he was different. He had heard stories, of course, about how his brother had become a junkie and had become entrenched with unsavory folk. But he had never imagined this.
After all, Greg had been the one to leave, to run away, and he had left Walter alone.
This guilt ate him up, even to this day.
Walter’s face suddenly changed.
“We have lost, brother. We have lost, but we will seek revenge. We will exact our revenge. You left me once, but no longer. We are together, and we will stay that way until everyone in Askergan, starting with the sheriff, feels our wrath. They will learn that nobody fucks with the Wandry brothers.”
Greg thought about the sheriff, about how the big man had dismissed him even as images of his son’s dead face floated through his mind.
“We will get all of those responsible for our sons’ murders.”
Greg started seeing red again, and his anger built up inside him.
Evidently, he had a little of his father’s rage in him after all.
The jacket on his brother’s chest slipped a little, and he realized that it was stranger than he had first thought.
“What are you wearing?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Walter sneered.
“Sabra,” he said simply.
The word meant nothing to Greg, but he was pretty sure it was a man’s name—and it made no sense. How could he be wearing a man? A designer, maybe?
“Sorry to break up this family reunion, fellas, but what are we going to do with the priest and his man?”
Walter turned so swiftly that the jacket he was wearing nearly fell off completely; the back was completely open. And now, with Walter’s back facing him, Greg could see the torn edges—of a man’s chest. It wasn’t a coat; it was a skin.
Greg felt as if he was going to be sick.
“Shut up!” Walter suddenly shouted.
The biker recoiled, his face contorting into a mask of fear and disgust. The entire time, the biker had been unable to stare directly at Walter, clearly sharing Greg’s repulsion at the sight of the human skin.
And fear and repulsion were powerful emotions—it was becoming clear that all of this was a tactic that Walter was employing to keep the bikers around to do his bidding. Greg knew this to be true, even though he had been conscious for less than ten minutes.
It was in their faces, hidden deep within their cold, hard eyes.
Greg watched as Sabra’s skin slipped off his brother’s shoulders, revealing something that was arguably worse.
Walter’s skin was covered in a network of thick blue veins that crisscrossed and intercalated with his spine that jutted from his pale skin.
“No!” the biker screamed. “Please, no!”
The man turned to run, but Walter just stood in place. A second passed, and then his entire body started shaking as if he were having a seizure.
“All of Askergan will feel our wrath!” Walter yelled, and then he groaned and a cracker burst from his back.
As the crackers sped across the wooden floor towards the biker, Greg was distracted by another sight: the girl on the floor beside him.
Corina Lawrence opened her eyes and tried to scramble to her feet.
Greg’s vision turned red.
No more hiding… no more hiding what I really am.
There was no such thing as Greg Griddle. Greg Griddle was made up; a fictional character in the horror story that was his life.
/> There was only Donnie.
Donnie Wandry.
I am Donnie Wandry. And my father gave me more than just this grin; he also imbued me with his anger, his hatred, his propensity for violence.
Donnie reached over and grabbed Corina’s ankle and squeezed.
They would pay. They would all pay for what they had done to their sons—for what they had done to the Wandry boys.
36.
Sheriff Paul White stared at Dirk in disbelief. Then he grabbed his phone and frantically began punching in numbers.
The phone rang once, twice, then a third time.
“Come on, Nancy! Pick up!”
It went to the machine and Paul hung up. Then he tried again. When he got the machine a second time, he slammed the phone down on the table.
Almost immediately, Deputy Williams rushed into the room, his gun drawn. He aimed the pistol at Dirk, but Sheriff White told him to stand down.
“What else did he say?”
Dirk swallowed.
“He said that Askergan would pay for its sins… that you would feel the loss that he felt.”
“Fuck!”
“What’s going on?” Williams asked. The man had lowered his gun, but he was reluctant to holster it.
The sheriff’s eyes bounced from Williams to Dirk and back again. Then his thoughts turned to the newly deputized Reggie—he couldn’t even remember his last name—who he had sent to check out the church shooting.
If what Dirk had said was true, they were going to need more men.
Lots more.
He turned back to Dirk, eyes narrowed.
“Can I trust you?”
The question seemed to catch the other man off guard, and he didn’t answer right away.
“Can I trust you?”
Dirk nodded. It was a risk, but he was running out of options. Askergan was like a boiler plate ready to explode.
And he wasn’t about to let that happen. He wasn’t about to let Dana and Mrs. Drew and Nancy and Reggie and all of the other residents down.
He didn’t possess the same intuition that Dana had, but staring at Dirk’s eyes, he knew that there was something about this man.
He could trust him, he thought, which was enough.
It had to be enough.
“Williams, go get Dirk a uniform. Askergan has a new deputy.”
Then he picked up the phone and tried Nancy again.
When he looked up and Williams was still standing in the room, a confused look on his face, he spoke again.
“Go! And can anyone find Coggins?”
He looked around at their blank faces, trying but failing to keep desperation from his own.
Please, someone find Coggins. Once again, Askergan needs you.
For what felt like the hundredth time over the course of the last week or so, a single phrase echoed in the sheriff’s head.
Askergan needs the good boys again.
PART III - SETH
37.
Seth Grudin wiped the corners of his mouth as the man that stood before him hiked up his khakis and began doing up his belt. He started to stand, but the man ordered him to stay on his knees.
“Stay down.” The voice was strong and powerful, commanding respect. And after what he had just done, Seth figured it was only fitting.
“What about my money?” he asked in a sheepish voice. “We agreed on twenty.”
When there was no immediate answer, Seth glanced up. It was dark out, and even though it was a full moon, it was partially blocked by the corner of the dumpster he squatted beside and also by the man’s looming head. Still, there was enough light for Seth to make out that he was sneering.
“Should have got the money first, faggot,” the man said with a chortle.
Seth’s looked away and he started to scramble to his feet, when the man surprised him by squatting down to his level. His face was wide, his impossibly white teeth seeming to glow in the darkness. A hand grabbed Seth by the cheeks, forcing his mouth open. He felt the calloused pads of the man’s fingers biting into his narrow face. Seth tried to shake the man away, but he had an iron grip, and his fingers only dug deeper.
Still smiling, the man said, “You’re lucky I don’t cut you.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Seth at the mercy of the man’s grip, unable to even look away from his dark brown eyes.
This was intentional, of course, but it didn’t make his threat any less true. Staring into those dark, empty pools, Seth knew that this man who had petitioned him inside the bar was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
He was getting sloppy, and as a result, he had gotten himself into another situation.
Just remain calm; don’t say anything that might enrage him. Just—stay—calm.
Seth’s resolve nearly broke when out of the corner of his eye he noticed the man’s hand slipping behind him.
You’re lucky I don’t cut you.
But the man’s hand dug into his pocket and Seth heard the sound of jangling change, and not the sound of a switchblade.
Then the man laughed and shoved Seth’s head backward as he let go. Rising to his feet, he tossed a handful of change at Seth as he rubbed his cheeks with both hands. A quarter hit him square in the nose and he grimaced.
With that, the man turned and walked away. It even looked like he had acquired a swagger to his step that hadn’t been evident in his waif-like behavior in the bar.
Seth continued to rub his face as he watched the man go. Despite the john’s laughter, Seth knew that that had been a close one, and his heart raced in his chest.
He was terrified.
Only after the man’s footsteps could no longer be heard did Seth dare pull himself to his feet.
He brushed dirt from the front of his shirt, knocking the spare change to the ground where it tinkled like shattered glass. Even if he had been able to see it in the dark, he wouldn’t have picked it up.
Even he wasn’t that desperate.
Eyes downcast, he made his way around the dumpster to the door to the club. Relief washed over him when he saw that the twig that he had wedged beneath the door keeping it open was still in place, saving him the walk around… and the need to pay cover again.
He grabbed the opening—the door was exit only and lacked a handle—and pulled it wide.
Loud dance music and the smell of cheap cologne immediately struck him. He didn’t particularly care for either, but after what had happened in the alley, he breathed in deeply through his nose and tried to let the music flow through him.
The man had been telling the truth; he was lucky that he hadn’t been sliced open, or worse. Prostitution was always a dangerous business, but the incidence of violence in male-to-male interactions always seemed much higher.
Seth let out a deep breath and tried to calm his pounding heart.
The altercation in the alley was the second time that he had been threatened, and although the first time he had ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye, this time had been worse. The man would have cut him, wanted to cut him. In fact, he was unsure why he hadn’t.
A shudder ran through him, and Seth continued down the hallway, his pace quickening.
The narrow hallway was illuminated by LED strips on the floor and ceiling, which changed color and intensity based on the beat of the music. Every few steps, a green laser whipped down the hallway before continuing on its path and exiting out of sight. He passed a dressing room, its open door offering a quick glance inside the well-lit space.
A man was sitting on his chair facing the open door, but he never saw Seth; he was too busy looking down at his bronzed skin, rubbing silver glitter on his pecs. He was wearing a silver G-string and fairy wings that looked comically small on his large back.
Storm, Seth thought. As if answering him, the loudspeaker suddenly erupted.
“And now, all you queers put your hands together for your final act of the night: Storm!”
A cheer brok
e out from the end of the hallway, but Seth kept his gaze in the dressing room. Storm stood and stared at himself in the mirror. As Seth watched, more curious than anything else, Storm made his pecs bounce, then reached down and grabbed his crotch with a hand, shifting things around, propping his equipment up. The man had a smirk on his face, but he suddenly caught Seth watching him through the mirror and his smile faded. Storm quickly made it to the door and stepped into the hallway, roughly pushing Seth back against the wall as he traipsed by.
“No free shows,” he grumbled.
Seth waited in the dark until Storm, smile slowly creeping back on his face, made it down the hallway. With two large steps, the man jumped up onto the stage, his silver wrestling boots landing so softly that they barely made a noise.
Only then did Seth slink out of the hallway, around the stage, and to his usual seat at the bar.
You’re lucky I don’t cut you.
Seth shuddered again and turned his eyes to the stage, if for nothing else but to distract himself—and to forget.
38.
“You all right, Seth?”
Seth didn’t turn immediately. Even though the last show of the night had ended more than five minutes prior, his eyes remained locked on the stage, and his mind in thought.
When a hand gently rested on his arm, he nearly jumped.
“Sorry,” the bartender offered, moving away.
Seth stared at the man. He was cute, and like all the men who worked at the Glittering Fairy, he was in great shape. And he also sported a set of ridiculous wings.
“Sorry, Tom,” Seth said, shaking the rust from his head.
“Rough night?” Tom asked, going back to wiping down several of the newly washed glasses.
Seth nodded.
Tom nudged his chin toward Seth.
“That what happened to your face?”
Seth instinctively rubbed at his cheeks, which were still aching.
“Yeah.”
“Another rough john?”
Seth nodded again and averted his eyes.
“Didn’t pay, either.”
“Shitty. You need a drink? It’s past last call, but there’s no one else here.”
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