Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Johnny-Boy, I really am. No. Seriously, look at me. There’s real concern written here, really.” Ricky laughed, howling, arching his head back in a thunderous cackle echoing horribly across the barren restroom.

  “What do you want?” Johnathan said, though immediately he regretted talking to what could very well be nothing but his own delusion.

  “What do I want? Really? You don’t know? I’ve been haunting your ass all this time and for what…? You’re the thickest son of a bitch I know, Johnny-Boy. No wonder I’m dead.” Ricky furrowed his brow, or what was left of it. Bits of skin flaked and crumbled to the floor.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Johnathan felt his heart drop. He looked away, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. Memories of everything he’d been trying to bury resurfaced. The memory of not just the attack, when Ricky died, at the IP station, but also all those months in the same team, bunked side by side, talking, sharing, the painful closeness of brotherhood none of the other members of Suicide Squad would experience—the heat, the dust, the exhaustion. And the strange shape that formed across the road just before the Battle of Al-Hurriyah, falling into a haze, the clicking and chirping. Watching in disbelief as the impossible he’d been watching transformed back to the mundane, the terrible mundane. And the RPG whiffing in the air and the gunfire and the screaming and the pain. And then the stink of Ricky’s burning body and his own smoldering flesh, the last time he’d see that leg. Johnathan fought the tears swelling inside, fought the shame floating in the salty sea, gulping down his terrible burden.

  “I’m—” Johnathan started.

  “Shut it. I don’t care about your feelings, Johnny-Boy. I care about saving my wife, you asshole. I asked you to do one thing, one thing man. Get her out. And what’d you do? Got piss drunk and cried. Well, boohoo. You’re alive, dickhead. I’m dead. Can’t you do me the courtesy of listening to me, hmm?” Ricky’s arms shot out. He grabbed hold of Johnathan by the shoulders and shook him. “She’s going to die. She’s going to die if you don’t do something soon. If you don’t get her out of that house…” A centipede birthed from one of his white eyes, followed by a clear terrible viscus discharge seeping down his cheek. He licked it with a blue tongue.

  “God, look at me, Johnny-boy. I’m fucking disgusting!” moaned Ricky.

  Johnathan fought him off to no avail. He was in death’s embrace. Ricky’s fingers burrowed into his skin. His teeth bared, like a dog, mossy black and festering, mirroring the darker places in the world, the pit, maybe even hell (if you believe in that sort of thing). A glossy dark brown roach shimmered on his dead friend’s ear. He watched in horror as it burrowed into Ricky’s partially putrefied nostril. His childhood friend smiled and pulled him close, close enough to feel his breath on his own clammy horrid skin, ignoring the scuttling pest.

  “Why didn’t you warn her?” Ricky asked. In his eyes anger boiled, but beneath the white, an overwhelming sadness could be felt.

  Johnathan wanted to answer with some measure of credibility, but the lunacy of it all made him scoff. “Why? You’re not even real, Ricky. You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re a figment of my…whatever it is that’s wrong with me. You’re not even here. You’re a delusion.” He found his footing and shoved his dead friend hard against his chest. What should have been the hard armor of his ACU vest instead gave way, like pushing in on a pile of wet leafs. Johnathan pulled his hands away in disgust, damp, dark, congealed muck, shinning on his palms in the fluorescent glow of the bathroom. His stomach turned. Bile rocketed up his throat, burning. But he bit it back down, chewing on a few morsels of digested morning breakfast.

  Ricky stumbled back. “Not real? Now you’re hurting my feelings,” he said laughing, looking down at his sunken chest, Johnathan’s handprints still visible in the muck. “You know, this isn’t very fun for me either. You think I want to walk around, body parts falling off me, rotting away, smelling like fur milk? And the worse part, no one else can see me. Just you, Johnny-Boy. Just you.”

  “Aren’t I lucky.” Johnathan suppressed another lurk in his gut.

  “Aren’t we both.”

  Johnathan braced himself back against the sink. He spotted his cane on the floor, but ignored it. “Say I believe you. Say I believe you’re real. This is real. And I’m supposed to be warning Mags or saving her or whatever. Say I believe all that. What exactly am I supposed to tell her, huh? ‘Oh hey, Mags. How’s life? Good? Hmm…still grieving huh? Taking your husband’s death kinda hard? Hmm…interesting. Say, speaking of your dead husband, he’s been visiting me…yup, you heard me right. A real bastard he is. Showing up looking like an extra from one of those Romero movies he used to make us watch when we were kids, talking about getting you outta your new house. No. I’m sober, unfortunately. I thought I could drink him away. But that didn’t work. Then I thought sobriety would work. But you know what, it’s funny really, even that didn’t work! So, either I’ve gone batshit crazy or you really need to get out of that house. Either way, could you do me a favor and come back to Houston with us. We’ll take real good care of you. Ignore that old house you just bought. We’ll help you sell it, get your money back. It’ll be okay. Really. I’m not crazy. Come on, you’ll be doing me a real favor here. Cause if you don’t, he’ll keep haunting me, stinking up the place, scaring me when I’m trying to take a piss, making me feel a few screws loose. So, whatcha say?’ Is that about it? Something like that? Huh, Ricky?”

  Ricky smiled.

  Johnathan smiled.

  “It’s all kinda messed up, huh buddy?” huffed Ricky. He put his hands in his wet pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

  “You’re telling me, man.”

  He exhaled loudly. “You’re going to die—” Ricky glared.

  Johnathan spit. “Huh—”

  Ricky took a few slow steps toward Johnathan. His boots smacked against the tile floor, the sound reminding Johnathan of freeing a shoe from the mud. He watched cautiously, the swell of sadness returned, crashing over him. A tear escaped and streaked down his face, getting caught in his five-day stubble. Something was pushing from beneath Ricky’s skin. A large lump moved from his forehead and down toward his mouth. He was reaching out with ruined hands. Bits of bone showing through the finger tips. His uniform smelled like an exposed grave.

  “Damnit, Johnny-Boy. You’re all going to die if you don’t get her outta that house. Tell her whatever you want. Just get her out. I don’t care what you say, just, please…save my wife,” Ricky moaned. Red ants exploded from his tongue, crawling, desperately seeking some bit of flesh to bring back to the nest. The cold flesh of his hands fell on Johnathan’s exposed neck. What seemed like an affectionate embrace suddenly turned dark. His corpse hands tightened around Johnathan’s neck, squeezing, wrenching.

  “You fool,” Ricky howled, suddenly enraged, his breath hot and musky.

  Johnathan fought him, but Ricky’s grip was fermented. His leg gave. He fell to his knee. The prosthetic collapsed against the tile floor. Hot pain coursed up his abdomen. The position felt awkward. His head spun. He couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re dead…” Ricky growled.

  “Stop—please,” Johnathan wheezed.

  Blackness fell over him. His thoughts drifted. And then he was on the floor, lying on his side, gulping air, but free from Ricky’s grasp. His eyes darted around the restroom. Ricky was gone. He found his cane. Getting up, he turned back to the sink. Refusing to look in the mirror, he splashed water on his face. Closing his eyes, he let the cold tap roll off his skin. I’ve lost it. No doubt now. After this weekend, I’ll check myself into the VA hospital. I’ll tell Karen on the way back home. She’ll be happy—or relieved, I’m sure. I just…Jesus…what’s wrong with me? Why now? I’m so tired…I just want it to end. I’m so tired. Tired. So, tired.

  A low howl echoed off the walls.

  “The cellar—” it said.

  Johnathan spun back around.


  No one.

  He was alone.

  The voice disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared, fading into the droll country twang that played over the Buc-ee’s bathroom speakers. He watched. Waited. Still nothing. Quiet. Cold. Trembling.

  After another minute, just long enough for Johnathan to collect himself, he hobbled from the restroom and then purchased the bag of Beaver Nuggets he’d set out to buy when first walking into the store. Loading back into the minivan, Karen said nothing. Tabitha said nothing. He said nothing. Backing out from the handicap parking space, he pulled back on to Route 290 and drove toward Jotham.

  CHAPTER 5

  HOBO BLUES

  Bobby

  “What are you going to get?” Jake asked, peeking at Bobby from the cusp of his menu.

  “Dunno…I was thinking maybe the banana walnut waffle. You?” Bobby was hidden behind his own menu, ignoring the eyes watching him from the surrounding tables.

  “I was thinking the patriot waffle.”

  “Hmm…” More eyes watching, whispering, pointing. Bobby tried to ignore them, the odor from his six day old clothes becoming more obvious by the second. Why did I agree to come here?

  Jake and Bobby continued to pore over their menus as a short, chubby waitress no older than forty-something with shoulder length greying blonde hair and ruby red lipstick and whorish, blue-purple blush rounded the corner and stood by their table. Her cheap press-on nails clicked against her interactive menu order pad in her hand.

  “Morning hun, welcome to The Egg & I. Can we start you boys off with a couple of coffees?” said the waitress. Her accent was slow and painfully drawn. If it was authentic or not, Bobby could not tell.

  “Sounds good,” said Jake.

  Bobby nodded, silent, refusing to look at her. He knew what she was doing. Her glare. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of the unpleasant thing sitting in her section. He knew. He didn’t look. But he knew. The waitress blessedly left and returned a few minutes later with a pot and two mugs. She placed them on the table and poured without a word. Steam vented upward, tickling Bobby’s nose. His stomach growled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. When was the last I ate?

  The cankled woman took their order of waffles and departed for the kitchen, but not before rolling her eyes. Jake snatched four packs of Sweet’N Low and dumped them in his mug, yawning.

  “Like some coffee with your sugar?” teased Bobby, smiling, sipping his own with a foxy smirk.

  “Hurts my stomach drinking it black. You?”

  “I’m sweet enough.”

  Jake smiled, taking a sip and grimacing.

  “So, Jake, you look like shit,” Bobby said. A lady at the table next to them inhaled loudly in mocked astonishment. Bobby glared at her as her eyes darted back to her own table. “Is this the Sunday brunch crowd or what?” he asked Jake.

  “It’s Friday.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know, I could say the same about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re looking a bit…rough yourself.”

  “Oh—well, you know me.”

  “Do I?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. There seems to be a lot I don’t know. Like what’s been going on with you. How long have you been living on the streets, Bobby? How long have you been homeless? Why didn’t you call us, any of us? Me?”

  Bobby looked into his mug. He felt tired. Tired of the snobs at the other table sneaking glances at him. Hell tired of the uppity suburbanites in this entire fucking restaurant. Tired of people getting into his business. Tired…of fighting. He gazed out the window. The sun was up, bright and warm. Traffic rolled by. Conversations hummed around them. The coffee swam warmly in his stomach. The thought of waffles excited him. Everything was perfect, everything but…He looked at his friend suddenly enraged.

  “What’s it to you?” Bobby barked, taking another sip of black coffee.

  Jake whiffed. “Look. I just want to help…” He looked into his own muddied mug, unsatisfied. His gut rumbled loudly.

  Bobby started laughing. More tables began looking their way. He continued to hoot and holler. Pounding his hand on the table, rattling the utensils. Rippling the coffee inside the mugs. He kept laughing. Tears ran down his bearded face. More laughing. Hooting. Hollering. Jake looked away, seemingly embarrassed. Bobby could care less. His skin turned beet-red. Subsiding, he glanced curiously at the other tables, their eyes lowered. More laughing, ’til finally, Bobby fell into a faint snicker, struggling to catch his breath.

  “I’m glad you—” Jake started.

  “Fuck you, man.” Bobby glared at Jake. His face wet with hysterics.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. ‘Fuck you.’ You think you can judge me? You think you know what’s going on? You think you know me? Fuck you and the Pope Mobile you rode in on, you fucking prick.” He smiled, but his eyes burned. Bobby could feel the rage building, the anger, the resentment. The utter frustration for everyone around him, everyone he desperately tried to keep safe by keeping himself at a distance. Ungrateful. The rage boiled. Assholes. And beneath the boiling pot, yellow eyes, devil’s eyes, glared back up at him. It wouldn’t be long. Tomorrow night there would be a full moon. Fuck me.

  “Bobby…I’m sorry. I—” Jake stammered.

  “Shut up.” Bobby looked away. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

  Jake gazed at his childhood friend and then looked away, outside somewhere. Bobby could almost read Jake’s thoughts, as if he had whatever it was Luna had, what her granddaddy called her spark. ‘He’s right,’ Jake would be thinking. ‘I am judging him. When was the last time I thought of Bobby Weeks? Would I even be here if it wasn’t for Maggie’s letter?’ (What’s this letter about anyways?) ‘No. I wouldn’t have sought him out. I would have been wallowing in my own world of shit. That’s where I’d be.’

  “You’re right,” Jake said, breaking the terrible silence. He looked Bobby in the eye. “You’re right. I have no business judging you. I offered to take you to get something to eat. I didn’t mean to attach an agenda to it. I’m sorry, Bobby. I really am.”

  Bobby dismissed him with his hand. “Everyone’s got an agenda. I’m guessing you didn’t just happen to bump into me. So you going to tell me what’s going on with Mags? Why’d you come looking for me? Why now?”

  Jake was silent for a moment. Then uttered, “Maggie?”

  “Yes. Mags. You mentioned a letter?”

  Jake swallowed his coffee loudly. “She’s hurting, Bobby,” he said. The pain in his voice was obvious.

  Bobby looked away.

  Jake seemed to notice, but said nothing. He had his own regrets, perhaps. Everyone distanced themselves.

  “’Cause of Ricky?” Bobby asked.

  “What else?”

  Bobby shrugged.

  “Well, she bought a house. Moved off post finally, or was booted out, more like, according to her letter.”

  Bobby huffed. “Not surprised. Where did she move to? What house?” He thought of Luna then and her vision, her warning, but dismissed the recollection. Luna had said a lot since he first met her. Most of it sounded like nonsense to him.

  “Do you remember the summer we all went with Mags’s family to Giddings? Back when we were kids?” Jake said.

  Bobby thought. “I think so.”

  “Do you remember the house we came across? The old farm house? Do you remember biking out to this town called Jotham?”

  Bobby’s brow furrowed. He thought, tried to remember. It was fuzzy, at first. Eventually an image surfaced. A white two-story house emerged. He could see it, but it was blurred. He recalled daring each other to go inside, vaguely. Ricky was on the porch. And then they all were…and then…nothing. Blank. They were all heading back down Route 77. They were going to get ice cream and find somewhere to shoot off fireworks. Did we even go inside? He couldn’t recall with any kind of certainty.

>   “Yeah, sort of,” Bobby said, “it was that creepy looking place out in the boons. Like a haunted house from one of those movies Ricky always got us to watch.” He sipped his coffee, thinking, remembering.

  “We did? We went inside?” Jake furrowed his own brow, seemingly trying to remember.

  “I think so…It was a long time ago, man, but I’m pretty sure we did it on a dare.”

  “Sure feels that way, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Been a long time.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Anyways…Maggie bought that house. Can you believe it? Apparently someone cleaned it up and put it on the market.”

  “Why in the hell did she buy that house?”

  “She said she kinda stumbled upon it. She wasn’t even looking and found an ad or something like that. She bought it with…” Jake trailed off.

  “Ricky’s death benefits.”

  “Yes.”

  Bobby thought, shrugged. “Good for her,” he said.

  “Yeah, good…” Jake looked as if he faded into his own thoughts. Pondering, perhaps, the house. Pondering Maggie and her mental state, or as much as he could gleam from the letter.

  “And…?” Bobby prodded.

  “And?” parroted Jake.

  Bobby rolled his eyes. “What does this have to do with me? I mean fantastic for Mags, right. She’s living the American Dream. Home ownership. Whoopty doo. Not sure why that translated into you calling out the search dogs and chasing after me, man. This has nothing to do with me.”

  Jake looked hurt.

  Bobby flinched. Had we really grown that much apart? Had our friendship meant nothing anymore? What happened to us? He suddenly felt like a colossal jerk.

  Jake seemed to be collecting his words.

  “Come on, man. Cut the bullshit and spit it out,” huffed Bobby, losing his patience again. It was like that for him, days before the change. The woman at the table across from them didn’t dare another glance, but he could sense her interior gaze, smell her, the blood pumping through her fat-clotted veins.