Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  EMERGING

  The Subdue Series,

  Book Two

  By: Thomas S. Flowers

  EMERGING

  Copyright © 2015 by Thomas S. Flowers.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: December 2015

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-398-4

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-398-0

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  Private First Class Jesse M. Halling. Staff Sergeant Darren James Cunningham. Private First Class Aaron Mark Hudson. Sergeant Courtland A. Kennard. Staff Sergeant Gregory W.G. McCoy. Private First Class Katie M. Soenksen. Private First Class Brandon Keith. Bobb...and Specialist Ricky Williams.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 1

  HALLOWEEN 1985

  Kenny

  The boys halted just on the outskirts of the house on Oak Lee drive, the only house on Oak Lee. There had been another, farther north by Juniper Hill, but that one had burned down back before FDR laid claim to fame with ‘only thing to fear was fear itself.’ The bones of the house still stood, like some skeletal monument, or grave marker, no doubt to that bastard celestial clock ticking away the sands of time, never stopping, and never slowing down. The boys laughed heartily in the cold October breeze. Except Kenny Murray, who stood wishing he’d never agreed to this Dare.

  Kris King, with his cropped, red hair shining in the moonlight, grinned hideously over at the other boy, Josh Woolfolk, the one with the wavy blond hair, braces, and cruel green eyes. They both carried the same, as they say, shit-eating grin, both legs resting on the ground, Huffy bicycles propping them up.

  Kenny Murray sat on his own Huffy, wondering if he could go back and take the Truth, instead of the Dare. At this point, gazing up at the long abandoned house on Oak Lee, he’d rather take the embarrassment of Truth and whatever precarious detail they would have asked.

  “Okay, putz, you gonna do this this or what?” prodded Josh. He had turned his bike around so that he could face Kenny.

  Kenny gulped. He glanced at the dark home, recalling the story of the last family who’d lived there, the Fetcher family, back in the mid ’70s. He was in grade school then, but still, he’d heard the story all the same, how they had disappeared, father, mother, and the two girls. They would have been his age now…And the house had a reputation before the Fetcher’s moved in—a curse, the Augustus Westfield ghost, or so the legend goes.

  Rationally, Kenny knew the whole thing was poop, things like that didn’t happen, monsters weren’t real. It was all make believe, he knew, yet in the here and now, in front of this imposing structure on Halloween night when he ought to have stayed home and watched the horror movie marathon on KBJT, the local broadcast station. He could imagine being home, watching maybe Bride of Frankenstein or The Wolfman with Lon Chaney. He felt a little bit like Chaney Jr. himself at the moment, the tragic sufferer.

  “Come on, we don’t have all night, dude,” croaked Kris, his pubescent voice unsteady. He back-pedaled toward Kenny, who remained motionless on his own blue-chromed Huffy.

  Kenny didn’t seem to notice his friend moving beside him. His eyes remained on the house, pondering how much of the Dare he’d have to go through with to satisfy the game’s desire for adolescent cruelty.

  As if reading Kenny’s mind, Kris leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Just knock on the door, man. You don’t have to go inside or anything like that. Just knock and pretend to test the door knob and then say it was locked. Okay?”

  Kenny nodded. He swung off his Huffy, leaving it in the dirt, and then approached the porch steps. He marveled that it was still intact, given the condition of the house. He was equally surprised why the city never bothered to bulldoze the place. They’d knocked down that one down near Juniper Hill faster than you can say ‘sneeze,’ but not this one.

  Why?

  Strange, he thought, taking the steps two at a time. His overindulgent weight buckled the second step; the wood moaned loudly underneath, but held, giving only an inch or two. Soon enough, the large, flaking and aged door, showing signs that it had once been red, stood before him, tall and morbidly statuesque; a sentinel of some sinister place. The cracks along the sides looked fractured and unnatural, as if the damage had been physically made and not the cause of dilapidation.

  Something struck the door from the inside…

  Kenny shuddered; the thought was not very comforting.

  Gulping tasteless air, he reached out and knocked. Dust crumbled and showered on his new low cut Adidas. His heart thumped. He could feel his blood rapidly throbbing behind his eyeball. He imagined the worst possible scenario. Some Lurch looking behemoth yanking open the door wearing a confederate uniform and flesh rotting in folds of sulfurous green. The Ghost of Augustus, as the legend says, would reach out and take hold of him, dragging him off to some dark place to consume.

  Gnashing.

  Eating him alive.

  But nothing happened. The house lay still. No sound.

  He knocked again, louder this time, feeling more confident.

  Still nothing.

  He smiled.

  See, nothing to it.

  He reached to test the door knob, just as Kris had suggested. To his horror the door was unlocked and began to open, slowly swinging to the inside. The hinges screamed like some prowling banshee. Kenny clinched and nearly peed himself. He wanted to shut tight his eyes, but he couldn’t take them off the darkness that was already spreading before him. His confident smile evaporated as he gazed into the dark abyss. Shadows moved within. Something stirred, but he knew not what. He was about to run away when the sound of ticking clicks came from within, from some unseen place in the gloom of the abandoned house.

  From the black something formed.

  Kenny twitched. He would have screamed, had it not caught in his throat.

  From the darkness red eyes began to glow. Not just one or two or three, but hundreds of them. Large and small, bulbous and insectoid—all looking at him.

  Within the clicks a voice, if you could call it that, formed as well. One word, over and over among the clicks and buzzing ticks. One word was sung over and over.

  Come.<
br />
  Whatever supernatural force held Kenny to the porch, it released its power over him. He fled, as fast as his plump legs would pump. He bounded off the porch, nearly collapsing in the overgrown grass. Sprinting, he bolted towards Kris and Josh, the rolls of his fat bouncing frantically beneath his hoodie. The other boys sat on their Huffys, giggling in the glittering moonlight, watching with much glee at their fat friend running for his life.

  “What’s wrong, Kenny? See something?” they both roared together, slapping their knees, clutching their sides from painful laughs. Kris nearly fell off his bike. Josh wiped away a few stray tears.

  Kenny was oblivious. He snatched his blue Huffy from the dirt and started pedaling back to Route 77, back to Jotham as if the Devil had set fire to him.

  “Come on, Ken, it was just a dumb Dare,” yelled Kris, watching Kenny burn down the country road, showing no sign of slowing or stopping.

  “What a loser,” spat Josh.

  Kris glanced at the house. “Uh, Josh…do you…”

  “What?” Josh turned and froze.

  Standing on the porch was a massive dark figure. Nothing could be seen of it except its bulky and unnatural form. It chirped and clicked and then crumbled into a million tiny black bodies, buzzing angrily in the night sky.

  Josh and Kris screamed and pedaled after Kenny.

  Neither of the boys made it past the gravel driveway.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE WOLF OF KURDISTAN

  Bobby

  Bobby stood by the batting cage, sizing up the damage the wolf—he—had done. There were gashes, chewed bits of wire mesh, chinks in the armor, more than there had been since the holidays. On the ground, unnatural trenches had been carved out by claws, and filled back in with dark, fresh soil. Mounds of dirt scattered around the inner perimeter of what Luna’s grandfather had in decades past used to improve his batting average. The old cage was still standing, of that he was thankful. But it wouldn’t last. The integrity was compromised. How many more incarcerations before it falls? How many more full moons ’til It’s free?

  Luna strolled down from the house, holding two mugs of something steaming. Coffee, probably. Bobby glanced at her and back to the cage. If you can call that black swill she makes coffee.

  “Here you go,” said Luna, handing Bobby a mug.

  He took it and returned the smile. “Thanks,” he said taking a cautionary sip. Bobby clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. A bit tart, but not paste at least. Crouching down, he examined more closely a bit of frayed wire that had been pulled on from the inside. The gap was only large enough for a hand…or claw to get out, but it was a start. A start that did not sit well with Bobby, not at all. He glanced at the house and hissed quietly.

  “What?” asked Luna, unobserved, looking at a patch of daisies that sprouted on a corner of the batting cage.

  “Why did I ever agree to come here?” Bobby grumbled.

  “For my amazing coffee?” Luna joked, though somewhat distantly, her attention drawn to the flowers. When Bobby didn’t answer, she looked over at him. “What? Are we still on this? We’ve been over this time and time again. There isn’t much of an option. There is no cure that I know of. We just need to make do. Something will present itself eventually; you just have to be patient. You act like…” She went back to picking at the small yellow petals.

  “What?” Bobby prodded.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, spit it out.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, you act like you’re out of options, but you’re not. You have options.” Luna looked at her hands.

  “And what options are those, pray tell?” Bobby glared impatiently.

  “We keep mending the fence. Filling in the holes. Reinforce the posts. Whatever it takes.” Luna stood holding a daisy.

  “Eventually this thing’s going to fall,” Bobby said, pointing at the fence. “You know that, right? There ain’t no amount of mending going to keep this thing up forever.”

  Luna rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking forever, Bobby, but now. You’re not out of options, that’s all I’m saying. When or if it falls, we’ll figure it out. Or hell, just buy a new batting cage.” She spoke softly, but quickly.

  Bobby exhaled in a loud huff. “With what money, Luna? If you haven’t noticed, I’m not in the best of financial situations at the moment.”

  “I’ve got money.”

  Bobby looked away, “I don’t want your money.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, not like that. Just…you’ve done enough for me, more than enough—tons. And I could never repay you. I’m not a blue suit kinda guy. I’d never survive sitting behind a desk. Places like McD’s won’t even take my application. And who can blame them? Just look at me.” He combed his scraggily black hair out of his face with his dirty hand. “I can find odd work from time to time, waiting with the Mexicans across from those apartments on El Dorado, but nothing in the amount of what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve never asked you to,” Luna said, her arms falling to her side. Her bright eyes were moist in the midmorning sun gleaming through the treetop foliage above them.

  “I know. But…” Bobby stood, turning away from her.

  “But what, Bobby?” shot Luna.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be shy now. I’ve seen you in the buff, if you recall.” Luna smiled.

  “Eventually this thing, me, will get out.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But it’s a possibility, right?”

  “Bobby…”

  “Right?”

  “Yeah, sure…but…”

  “Come on, Luna. You know I’m right. This is dangerous, me being here.” Bobby turned back and faced Luna. He watched a single tear fall off the cleft of her dark chin. “Luna?”

  “You’re just looking for an excuse. You’ve been looking for one since that first night. You just want to run,” she said, her lips quivering as she spoke.

  Bobby said nothing. He mocked a look of surprise. Beneath the ruse he knew everything she said was true. He was looking. But could he be blamed? His condition was dangerous and even though Luna was willing, how could he risk her life and honestly call her his friend—or more. Though he would never admit it out loud, this strange, Haitian gypsy woman held a special place in his heart. And he hated putting her at risk. Not for him, especially not for his curse. She’s the one taking all the risk. Not me. Not me.

  “That is not fair and you know it,” shouted Luna, the daisy still in her hand.

  Bobby cocked an eye, confused. And then it dawned on him. She had gleamed inside his head or took a peek or whatever you call it. He remembered Luna explaining her gift, what her grandfather called her spark, over Thanksgiving dinner. Bobby had intended to travel up to downtown Houston, but the moon cycle was too much risk, forcing him to retreat back to Hitchcock, back to Luna. There were two full moons in November. Two fucking full moons. Bobby had spent the entire month with her. He’d complained, but deep down, he loved every moment.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” grumbled Bobby.

  “Kinda hard when you’re shouting in that thick head of yours,” Luna fired back. “Besides, I told you more than once that I’m good with the risks. Hell, I was the one who told you about the batting cage to begin with, right? I suggested it. Why lock me out now?”

  Bobby side stepped. “It was supposed to be temporary.”

  Luna rolled her eyes, again. “It still is, Bobby. But temporary doesn’t have to end now, it can end later. When we figure something else out, okay?” She tucked the daisy in her red frizzy hair.

  “Yeah, but—” Bobby started.

  “—until then, we keep doing what we’ve been doing,” she interrupted. “Mending the fence. Filling holes. Okay? I’m a grown-ass woman, Bobby, I can make my own decisions, thanks very much. If I didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here. Okay? I like having you here. Just wish it
was for more than one night a month. Right now one, two if I’m lucky, is all you’ve been staying. Why not just stay here, Bobby? November was great, right? We had fun, right? Don’t you want more of that? Companionship? Don’t you want to have fun?” Luna took a breath, she looked tired and worn. It had been a long night for her as well.

  Bobby could feel his face getting red, embarrassed by her provocative suggestion, but said nothing on the subject, nothing of what had transpired over the holidays, nor of him staying permanently.

  “Well—” Luna looked up at the sky, studying the clouds, “—how about some eggs and bacon before you shove off again, huh?”

  Bobby simply nodded and followed her back inside the house for breakfast. He finished his mug and a refill while he watched Luna cook. He loved watching her cook, yet despite her voluptuous curves scrambling eggs at the stove, his mind wandered back to the cage, to the torn wire, to the tooth marks and paw imprints in the mud. There was something there behind those images, a memory, old, yet familiar as yesterday. His hand trembled as the flashes came at him. He looked inside his mug, wishing to the gods of bastards such as himself it contained something stronger than coffee, something with more bite. Jack Daniels or Fireball Whiskey or J&B (ha, like he could ever afford J&B) or something with some fire, put him on his ass, make him forget…everything. Luna didn’t keep that kind of stuff around. Just rum she’d got from family back in Mississippi, but she kept it under lock and key. ‘Special rum,’ she called it.

  Bobby never asked.

  If he was honest, he’d admit he didn’t really care much for drinking. It was, perhaps, the beast inside him that hungered for it. For him, drinking was a needed distraction from the curse he trotted Houston with, like some ghostly reminder of days past, a shadow of his own childhood and the terrible thing he was now. Echoes, as those new age mystics call it. Memory echoes.