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Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

Page 17

by Thomas S. Flowers


  “Oh. Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mention before. I am, or was a Presbyterian minister.”

  “How lovely,” the old priest beamed sunnily. “But you’re not now, is that what you said?”

  Jake cleared his throat. “Yes. I’ve…had some thoughts about converting, actually. To Catholicism.”

  “Really?” Father Becket smiled foxily. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  Jake smirked with embarrassment. “I’ve spent some time at this monastery recently, Oblates of Holy Cross. I’m considering joining their order.”

  “Oh really? I don’t think I’ve heard of that one. Where is it?” The priest folded his hands, looking at Jake with boyish interest.

  “Beaumont. Southeast from here,” said Jake. “Not a very far drive. There are a few others farther east, but I like Oblates the most.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They have a really nice garden.”

  “I’ll have to visit some time.”

  “Well, I haven’t made up my mind, entirely, but…sure, that’d be nice.”

  “I think you may have,” the old priest said, grinning.

  “We’ll see.”

  “And your friend, Maggie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Grief is a fickle thing, son. It changes a person from the inside out,” Father Becket said.

  Jake nodded slowly. “I know. I’ve been through grief counselor training. I’m familiar with the signs, the stages…still, she seems so…non-responsive, closed.”

  “Denial?”

  “Not even. I don’t think she even cares. Or at least she’s not showing it.”

  “Perhaps she’s worked through most of it on her own. Maybe this is the new Maggie, as those hippies like to go on about at this little coffee shop down the road on Sixth and Main.” A look of mock disgust came over Father Becket.

  “Perhaps…” Jake looked doubtful.

  “She invited you to her house?”

  “Yes. All of us. Bobby and Johnathan and his wife and step-daughter.”

  “That’s something, is it not?”

  “It is…but…”

  “Sounds to me like she’s reaching out, letting her friends know she’s ready, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon,” said Father Becket, talking with his hands.

  Jake grimaced. There was something odd about the word cocoon that made him feel unsettled.

  “And if she’s doing that,” the priest continued, “then that’s a step. A big one. Give her time, son. She’ll come around. Or you’ll come around…if this so happens to be who she is now.”

  Jake sighed.

  “How do you feel about that?” prodded Father Becket.

  “I guess I’ll just have to deal.”

  “Yes you will.”

  A blanket of comfortable silence fell between them. The sounds of the festival droned on in the background. Someone with a loudspeaker was announcing the start of the BBQ cook-off judging, followed by The Pledge of Allegiance, and then fireworks at eight.

  “You’d better go on and get some of that BBQ. Best in the state of Texas, and that’s no fib, son.” The old priest smiled, standing from his pew. He gestured for Jake to join him at the door.

  Jake returned the smile and stood. His knees popped in disagreement.

  “Age is not for the timid,” Father Becket chuckled softly.

  “No, it certainly is not,” agreed Jake, laughing at himself. He looked at the old priest, feeling warmth returning to his heart. “Thanks for…you know, talking with me.”

  “It was my pleasure, son.”

  Jake reached for the door.

  “Another thing, about your friend,” said Father Becket, placing a hand on Jake’s arm. Even through his sleeve, the old priest felt as brittle as a pack of saltines.

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes relationships take more, sometimes we have to sacrifice to make things work, especially if they’re on the mend. Give her that, Jake. Give her that.”

  “What? Sacrifice?”

  The priest nodded solemnly.

  “I desire mercy over sacrifice,” the words echoed in his mind like a hard cold nail hammered to the base of his skull. Jake shivered against a sudden chill that crept throughout his body. His ‘goodbye’ froze in his throat. He simply nodded at the priest, smiled vaguely, and then went out through the sanctuary doors. He felt Father Becket watching him, the old priest’s gaze burning into his back. He refused to turn and look and instead, disappeared into the crowd of happily gorging residents of Jotham.

  CHAPTER 21

  NO FRED QUIMBY

  Johnathan

  Johnathan washed his hands furiously. He refused to look into the mirror at the reflection of his dead friend standing behind him, moaning on and on about this and that, how horrible it was being dead and not being able to see Maggie, or eat a double bacon cheese burger from Whataburger, or go see this new movie he’d heard about from a fellow who’d recently been in involved in a mid-air collision with an Airbus A330 and a Boeing 747 leaving out of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. If you think I look bad…gee-wiz, Johnny-Boy, you oughtta have seen this guy. Fred…Fred Quimby. Talk about being uglier than a lard bucket full of armpits! Ricky had joked, pretending to gag, protruding his swollen blue tongue.

  Johnathan scrubbed his nails hard enough to bring blood, hating himself more and more with each broken cuticle, hating his weakness, his disease, his sickness, his PTSD or whatever you wanted to call what was causing the hallucinations. As much as he loved Ricky, the constant reminder as his failure to keep his friend alive was just too much. He looked in the mirror, finally. Ricky smiled at him with his black toothed grin.

  Johnathan grimaced. His gaze wandered to the glass…and then his wrists. I could break it. I could break the glass and…what? End it? Why not?

  —Sure…be a coward…

  “Damn you,” Johnathan growled at Ricky, slamming his fists on the sink.

  “Damn me? Have you seen how I look? I think we’re well beyond that, don’t you think?” As Ricky spoke, an earth worm popped out from the skin of his cheek, releasing a miniature exhale of air, and dropped to the floor in a gut wrenching smack. His flesh looked worse now in the full illumination of the overhead fluorescent bulbs, taking on a more yellowish-green translucent color, like something drudged from the bottom of a swamp. Gnarled pits sprinkled about in dark red sores caused by what Johnathan could only imagine to be the many slithering things living inside his friend’s walking corpse, eating away, consuming him from the inside out. It was amazing Ricky was held together at all. And by some perverse miracle, his eyes remained intact, though clouded with a milky membrane. His ACUs were hardly recognizable anymore. The black scorch marks seemed to have spread over to the other side, decaying the half of Ricky that hadn’t burnt when the RPG struck their Humvee, making it look more like a burnt lumpy raisin than fabric.

  He could explode at any moment. Johnathan almost giggled at the dark humor. He touched his forehead, flitching at the heat. Is this what happens when you go insane? Does your brain cook? Swimming into the dark abyss, never to return? Will someone find me here, sitting somewhere, in the stall perhaps, talking gibberish? What a sight that would be, huh? Maybe I’d keep on muttering, even when Karen and Tabitha come visit me in the Ward.

  Johnathan whipped around. No. Not like this. “Enough, Ricky, enough. Just…just leave me alone, okay?” he reasoned with what he ultimately believed to be his own scared psyche.

  Ricky reached out and took hold of Johnathan with unnatural speed. He snatched his shirt and wrenched him close. Close enough for Johnathan to feel his putrid dead breath on his face, choking with rot.

  “No! You listen, Johnny-Boy. You’ve failed her. You’ve failed her, you asshole!” yelled Ricky, lifting Johnathan off the floor, dangling his feet.

  “Failed what? I don’t understand. There is nothing wrong with Maggie. Nothing.” Johnathan struggled against Ricky’s grip, avoiding as much as he could
at touching his friend’s mushy arms.

  “Nothing…? Are you blind or just stupid?” spat Ricky.

  “You’re nothing but a hallucination. You’re not real. You’re not real…you’re not real.”

  “Not real?” Ricky pivoted and tossed Johnathan across the restroom. His body slid on the grimy tile until impacting the wall on the opposite side. Stars burned across Johnathan’s eyes. His head pounded and ached from the blow.

  “Jesus,” Johnathan moaned.

  “How’s that for a fucking hallucination? I warned you, Johnny-Boy. Oh, how I warned you! But you didn’t listen, did you? Nope. Too stubborn. Too stupid. I pleaded with you to save my wife…and you couldn’t even do that, could you? It’s like everything I said fell on deaf ears. Now look, we’re both dead. We’re both dead, Johnny-Boy. Johnny-Boy, we’re both dead. How’s that make you feel, hero? Two of your best-friends…deader than shit!” bellowed Ricky, his croaking-screeching voice vibrating the walls.

  “You’re not real!” Johnathan cried, covering his eyes with his hands.

  “Why is it so hard for you to believe, Johnny-Boy? Why? Do you think I like coming back? Hells bells, Johnny-Boy, do you think I like being like this? Rotting away…? I hate that I’m upsetting you so, but damn it…I’m a fucking zombie, man, look at me! A fucking Romero-ghoul! I’m surrounded by dead people. Dead people, Johnny-boy! Rotting corpses, talkative bastards like Fred Quimby, always moaning about being gone. Jeez, man, do you know how much fun that this? About as much as eating a mashed-potato sandwich on the Fourth of July, that’s what, Johnny-Boy. Yes, you heard me, a mashed-potato sandwich. Will you please listen to me? Will you please believe me? Open your eyes and listen to me. For God’s sake, Johnny-Boy, if you don’t, you’ll be doomed too.”

  Johnathan let his hands fall. He watched, tears itching his eyes, as Ricky stumbled toward him, globs of yellowish flesh coming off him and smacking the floor. Foul things crawled away from the discarded liquescent pieces. The smell of foul sun-spoiled meat burned his nose. He thought, Jesus…could this be real? Could it? How could it be, though…how? A ghost…the undead coming back…no one comes back, but what if…they could? What if Ricky…is real…? What was that one movie from that Stephen King story? Am I Jim Norman in that godawful maroon cardigan? But why? It doesn’t make sense…Maggie? She’s fine…isn’t she? Isn’t she?

  Johnathan looked up at his decomposing friend. “Say I believe you. Say I believe all this is real, that you’re real. Why? What is it about Mags? You said something about the house? Here in Jotham?”

  Ricky hissed. The remaining flesh on his arms and face convulsed violently. He reached down and jerked Johnathan off the floor.

  “Stop. My leg…you’re hurting me,” Johnathan winced.

  “Fuck your leg. Listen to me, for once…just listen. Open your ears and shut your mouth. The house…” Ricky stopped. He peered at Johnathan with confused milky dead eyes. “You don’t remember, do you? You don’t remember going into that place when we were kids…those…things below the cellar?”

  Johnathan grunted, struggling to reach the floor with his prosthetic. He spotted his cane still propped by the sink, laughing silently at his misfortune.

  Ricky starting heckling, cruel and cold. “We were some dumb kids, Johnny-Boy. We should have never gone down there. Maybe none of this would have ever happened. Maybe I’d still be alive. Maybe Mags would still be, too.” He paused, silent. His skin bubbled under his cheek as if something was moving beneath. From his eye, a dirt colored roach birthed, pausing, twitching its antenna, and then scurried away. Ricky let one hand drop from Johnathan’s shirt collar and wiped away the clear watery discharge that ran down past his nose. “See what I mean? This dead business is fucking gross.”

  Johnathan held his breath. His gut wrenched from the smell, but he kept the burning contents contained in a small pocket in the back of his throat. “What about the house? What’s in there?” he wheezed without inhaling the nauseating foulness.

  Ricky flicked his finger, launching a blob of the viscous material to the floor. His gaze lingered for a moment, seemingly unsure, perhaps, of what he could or should say. Johnathan thought for a moment of Jake and the way he’d gone on about how weird it was that none of them remembered the house. Why can’t I remember? Why can’t any of us remember?

  “We were there, Johnny-Boy, and they came for us. I thought we got away…but maybe we were supposed to get away,” said Ricky, turning back from the floor, his one good eye lost in confusion, gazing wildly around the restroom as if searching for some unseen thing…or things.

  “What came for us?” Johnathan asked, more out of reflex.

  “Them.”

  “Who…?”

  “Johnathan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think they found me.”

  “Who? Who found you?”

  Ricky dropped Johnathan, who fell back onto the floor. The walking corpse stumbled backwards. Chunks of gelatinous flesh came off from his body, as if whatever was holding him together was now coming undone. Worms, ants, and other vile things flooded from his wounds, escaping to the darker places in the Jotham Fairgrounds restroom.

  “End of the road,” wheezed Ricky.

  “Ricky?” Johnathan pleaded, horrified by the state of his friend’s decomposition.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “What? Why? What’s going on?”

  “Hey, Johnny-Boy…”

  “Please, tell me what to do!”

  “…remember when we were kids and Bobby snuck those leftover fireworks his dad kept in his garage? We went up on that hill next to Cundiff Elementary. It was a Friday night, remember? Do you remember when we set ’em off? We lit that one called The Dragon in the middle of the playground…do you remember that, Johnny-Boy?” Ricky froze, his shoulders hunched, pieces coming off him in globs of thick rain. What remained of his black-mossy teeth fell and chattered on the tile.

  “Ricky…?”

  “Do you remember?”

  “Yeah, man. I remember. Chased us for a bit and exploded in a ball of sparks, nearly set the grass on fire.”

  Ricky laughed in labored painful liquefied grunts.

  “What’s happening, Ricky?”

  The dead soldier looked at Johnathan, his face no longer recognizable. Instead, he looked like some horrible Rob Bottin creation, skin boiling off him and dripping out from his ACU sleeves in wads of glistening yellowish-green mucus.

  “Get a gun, Johnathan,” Ricky said, gurgling. “If you want to survive the night, get a gun…”

  Johnathan fought back tears. “Why? Ricky? What’s going to happen? Why do I need the gun, Ricky? Please tell me…”

  Ricky shot one last drooping smile, and then his body flooded the tile in a gush of mangled bits of excrement, gummy flesh, and deliquescent bone. The ACUs, completely stained in the mess, lay still, empty, forevermore.

  Johnathan lay flat on the floor of the Jotham County Fairgrounds restroom, wide eyed and alone. In the silent echo, he wept bitterly.

  CHAPTER 22

  MAYOR ROBERT LOW

  Jake

  Jake stood in the front of a concession stand called Sugar Shack, eyeing the large gazebo farther down the fairgrounds and the small crowd gathered around it. A portly fellow with rosy cheeks, balding hair combed neatly to the side, wearing dark tan trousers and a navy blue polo with an almost laughably sized button with the words ‘Vote Mayor Low’ written across in bold red and gold trim, leaned against the banister with an almost mischievous grin. The hair on the side of his head was thicker, yet grey, reminding Jake of what Bozo the Clown would look like had he run for president. A mousy looking fellow stood behind the tubby man, but the crowd didn’t seem to care about him.

  “Hun, did you want the Oreo cakeball or the cotton candy cone?” asked Patricia, the Sugar Shack proprietor and confiseur, a humble looking woman standing no higher than a chain-link fence, with a full head of sandy brown curls, who perhaps wore a
little too much blush and a little too dark shade of red lipstick, according to a few of the town committee members.

  “Aw, the cotton candy, please,” said Jake, absentmindedly, his gaze retreating back to the gazebo. People were hooting and hollering as the portly speaker went on about something he could not hear.

  “Five dollars, please,” said Patricia.

  Jake turned back. “Five dollars? For cotton candy?”

  “Yes’m,” answered Patricia, adjusting her white chef’s hat. “A percentage of the proceeds go to the Jotham Fairgrounds Committee, who keep our illustrious festivals the best there is in Texas, if it makes you feel any better, sug,” she added.

  “Sure.” Jake handed the candy chef the last five he had and started toward the gazebo.

  “How you enjoying Jotham?” called Patricia, slapping the five dollar bill in her black box register.

  “How’d you—”

  “—know you were from out-of-town? Jotham’s a small place, hun.”

  Jake nodded, remembering something similar Father Becket had said.

  “That’s Mayor Low, in case you were wondering.” The chef nodded toward the portly fellow in the gazebo.

  “Mayor Low?”

  “Yup. Elections are coming up.”

  “Is he well liked?”

  “Well enough.”

  By the time Jake reached the gazebo, the crowd had swelled. He stood near the back, picking wads from his cotton candy cone and munching as he listened to whatever the Mayor had been yarning on about.

  “Since Barry Goldwater went after that fat cat Johnson, our party has sought to protect our country’s most treasured principles. Values embodied in the Declaration of Independence, that we are created with certain inalienable rights. Among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and the preservation of these values seem to me to be on the attack almost every day from certain politicians who’d rather take what was formed by our Settlers and Founders and hand them to illegal residents,” said Mayor Low, sweat glistening on his sun-reddened forehead.

 

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