Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Maggie?” Johnathan moaned, almost crying.

  She smiled. In her hand she held the British Bull Dog revolver.

  CHAPTER 29

  BOBBY’S CHOICE

  Bobby

  Bobby blinked at the revolver and then at Maggie Smith. His mind fought to disprove what he was seeing—his childhood friend holding a gun on him and on Jake and on Johnathan. It was all so impossible. Even more so, the deformity of Maggie’s skin, the hot humidity of the cave, the alien yellow sand-like bioluminescent glow around them, the clicking, chirping things singing somewhere in the distance. Waiting, he could tell, for something, some sign perhaps, to swarm in and devour them all. Her knowledge of his condition was also something of a mystery to him, and now she was using it against him, pitting him between his fear of taking his own life versus taking the lives of his friends, the very reason for his solitude, to keep everyone safe, including himself now all for naught. He would have to decide. The change was imminent. His tremors were getting worse.

  Maggie or perhaps it was a Thing pretending to be Maggie, rested Johnathan’s Bull Dog revolver on the ground in front of Bobby.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Weeks,” she said, her voice sounding less and less human and more and more strange, chirping, clicking.

  Bobby refused to look at the gun.

  “Our proposition, Mr. Weeks. Have you made a decision?” prodded Maggie.

  Bobby looked at his friends, trembling.

  “Maggie? What’s going on? What’s the gun for, Maggie? Why are we here?” Jake shouted. His fear molted to his words like an exposed nerve.

  Maggie paid no attention. She looked at Bobby and Bobby alone.

  “Mr. Weeks, what shall it be? Your friends or yourself?” Maggie asked. Her voice rattled in her throat like some loose bone tossed inside a Mason jar.

  Bobby looked at the stone ground. He looked at the revolver. “I’ll do it,” he whispered solemnly. His eyes burned. He held his breath, swallowing fear and tears alike.

  “You’ll do what, Bobby?” Johnathan asked sounding just as terrified as Jake. His gaze darted from Bobby, to the revolver, his revolver, to Maggie, and then back to Bobby.

  On his knees, Bobby reached for the Bull Dog. His arms shook violently, for horror or the change or perhaps both, even Bobby couldn’t say. He picked up the snub nose little gun and held it tightly in his hand, gripping the ivory handle, resting his finger on the trigger.

  “Bobby?” Jake pleaded.

  Bobby blinked and then pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. As he cocked the hammer, he could feel his skin stretching. The yellow devil eyes inside him screaming, gnashing at him, warning him. His teeth were already beginning to loosen. There’d be new ones coming in soon if he didn’t hurry. Hair thickening. The blistering pain rolled down his spine like a mean son-of-a-bitch. The transformation had begun. He looked up at Maggie with a hateful yellow feral-eyed reproach and then he turned to Jake and Johnathan.

  “Bobby!” Johnathan cried.

  “I’m sorry,” Bobby said and then pulled the trigger.

  “No!” Jake and Johnathan shouted in unison. They watched their friend slump to the ground, uncaring for the deafening ring vibrating throughout the cave. They watched in disbelief as a crimson lake poured out from beneath their friend’s lifeless body. They screamed and cried terribly.

  “Well…Mr. Steele, Mr. Williams. Who’s next?” chirped Maggie, her voice a clicking rattle of dead bone.

  CHAPTER 30

  ANOTHER ’90s SUMMER

  Johnathan

  “Dude, we’re going to get caught!” whined Johnathan. He kept guard at the church office door, peeking outside, ensuring the hallway was empty.

  “Calm down,” said Jake. “No one comes here on Mondays, especially not during the summer.”

  “Whatever, I’m sure your dad would love to find us Xeroxing Bobby’s fat ass. Very Christian-like, right?” Johnathan snorted, looking back out the door.

  “Dude, grow a fucking spine,” chided Bobby, his feet dangling down from the large office Xerox machine trapped between his baggy and faded pair of JNCOs.

  “What are you so worried about?” asked Ricky, leaning back in the plush leather minister’s chair, kicking his Vans on top of a large dark brown coffee table, peeking at a Times magazine. The handsome face of Ralph Reed filled the cover along with the subtitle, “The Right Hand of God.”

  “Getting caught, for one. And what happens if Bobby’s fat ass breaks the damn machine?” Johnathan whispered. He held up his hand, signaling the approach of someone. “Never mind, it was nothing.” He let his hand drop.

  “Who do you suggest?” Jake asked.

  “Who’s the lightest?” Johnathan offered.

  They all looked at each other and then at Maggie who sat in the chair opposite from Ricky, picking dirt off her Nirvana “In Bloom” t-shirt.

  “You think Maggie should Xerox her ass?” Bobby asked, his smile as crooked as a fox.

  Johnathan turned red.

  Maggie blushed as well.

  “Look, this is Bobby’s prank, so it’s going to be Bobby’s ass, okay?” said Ricky, standing up from the minister’s chair. He crossed the room and smashed the large green button that said, Print. The Xerox hummed into life. A bright light rolled underneath Bobby’s plump cheeks. After another hum as the machines did their work, papers feeding through the collection port. Ricky picked up the first one, “Nice,” he said, giggling.

  Bobby hopped down, pulled up his JNCOs, and then stuffed the Xeroxed copies of his butt cheeks into his book bag. “This is going to be epic!” he giggled.

  Suicide Squad gathered at the office door, peeking out at the hallway, and then made a hasty exit out the church back entrance doors. Outside, the air was already getting swampy. The sun perched high in the sky with no cloud in sight. They saddled up on their bikes and peddled away as fast as they could from St. Matthews First Presbyterian Church all the way down Vinton Street and crossed over into Pleasant View Homes Community. They rode for some time, Ricky in the lead, followed by Johnathan, Maggie, Jake, with Bobby picking up the near.

  “How about that one?” asked Johnathan, gesturing toward a lovely two story drystone house with a double car garage.

  “What about this one?” asked Maggie. She was nodding toward a house two houses down from Johnathan’s selection. It was almost a mirror image, expect this one had a three car garage.

  “Naw…not yuppie enough. Oh…wait. Oh, yes, this is the one, guys,” called Bobby from the back. He gestured toward the house across the street from Maggie’s. Similar to the houses she and Johnathan had selected, expect this one had three stories with a three car garage and to top it off, a gleaming red Ferrari was parked in the driveway looking as new as the day was young.

  “Fuck ya,” said Ricky.

  Jake nodded.

  Johnathan hooted.

  Maggie pumped her fist.

  Suicide Squad pulled their bikes over to the sidewalk and threw them down behind a row of thick green Willow hybrid bushes. They bundled together and peered around to look at the house.

  “So…who’s going first?” Ricky asked.

  Jake shrugged.

  Johnathan looked pale.

  Maggie turned suddenly at a butterfly that danced by.

  Bobby rolled his eyes. “Here, for Christ’s sake, I’ll go first you pussies. No offence, Mags.”

  Maggie didn’t seem to hear, but Johnathan did, turning a bright shade of pink that the boys found to be snicker worthy.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing, They’re being dumb,” snorted Johnathan hastily.

  Bobby opened his book bag and took out one of the Xeroxed pictures and a roll of tape he had snatched from his mother’s craft room. “Here we go,” he said and took off toward the selected house, his tummy jiggling with each trot as he speed walked to the large red door.

  The rest of Suicide Squad watched standing on needles. Johnathan could feel
his stomach knotting up. His heart thumped is his throat. Jeez, what if he gets caught? What if he rats on us? What if Jake’s dad finds out? Shit, man. This is too much. There he goes, too late now; he’s taped the picture on the door. Fuck me, he’s rung the bell. Run! Run, you fat asshole, run!

  Bobby rounded the willow bush, panting, sweat pouring off him. “This is going to be tits!” he whispered hoarsely, joining the others, hiding, peering as much as possible at the three-story white house with the red Ferrari. They watched in glorious anticipation. Time passed slowly, feeling like hours, days even. Finally, a thirty-something looking man opened the door wearing nothing but a plush beige bathrobe with matching slippers. He looked unshaven, as if he had just woken up. He stood there, staring at the picture of Bobby’s ass for a prolonged amount of time, as if unsure of what he was looking at.

  “Very funny,” the man shouted, balling up the paper and tossing it on the lawn. “Very fucking funny.”

  The gang couldn’t help themselves. It started with Bobby, giggling fiercely, and then Jake, and then Ricky, and then Johnathan, becoming louder and louder until finally with Maggie the damn broke and bellowing laughter flooded out. They fell back on the grass, their heads exposed to the man in the beige bathrobe.

  “You little shits!” the man roared and started running towards them.

  “Let’s get outta here!” Bobby yelled.

  Suicide Squad leapt on their bikes, still laughing, and pedaled down the street as fast as their wheels would carry them. The man in the bathrobe stopped at the street, yelling obscenities at the friends as they rode toward the next house on the list.

  Johnathan glanced at his friends as they rode, tears streaked down his face. His chest swelled with endearment. He had never loved anyone in his life as he loved his friends. We’ll always be together, he promised himself.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE RITUAL OF NASHIRIMAH

  Jake

  He was floating in a bubble. Johnathan lay beside him screaming, thrashing about, but Jake couldn’t hear a single thing his friend was saying. His gaze was on Bobby. Blood flooded the stone ground, slowing, already congealing in the loose sand and dirt. Perhaps it was the heat that hastened the process. He could feel Maggie standing in front of him. He looked. Though her features were deformed, the folds of skin sagging like some monstrous hag, in his mind he pictured the teenage girl with torn jeans and Nirvana t-shirts, the same young girl who hung out with boys and didn’t give two shits what anyone had to say about it, not even her parents.

  “Mr. Williams,” sung Maggie.

  “Yes,” Jake found himself saying.

  “Why prolong the inevitable? Remember our talk over breakfast? You’d said some things about faith and how fickle it was and how difficult it was finding God again. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Johnathan was screaming, but neither of them paid any attention. It was as if he wasn’t even there.

  “What do you have left, Mr. Williams? No church. No home. Your parents will disavow you soon, no doubt. So, what’s left? Consumption? Women? How are your vices holding up, Father?”

  “Mags…don’t do this.”

  “Do what, Mr. Williams? Tell it as it is? I’m trying to do you a favor. Why go on in this harsh world when you can be with me? With us?”

  “With you? Us?”

  “Yes, Mr. Williams. Through death, you can be with your precious Maggie Smith. Through death, you all can be reunited. Suicide Squad, just as it was in the old days, riding bikes across Clear Lake. Taking in the sun. Care free, not a worry in the world.”

  “Reunited…?” Jake held his head in his hand. Sweat dripped down from the top of his nose. His thoughts felt thick and heavy. Despite his rational conscious screaming from the inside, there was a part in what Maggie offered that sounded sweet and perfect. He gazed at the revolver still clutched in Bobby’s dead hand. He looked, but didn’t make a move. Another shape took form in the strange yellow glow. A familiar face appeared beside Maggie, smiling warmly, fatherly, down at him.

  “Father Becket?” Jake croaked.

  “Hello, son. Have you forgotten what I told you? That no love is greater than to lay one’s life down for one’s friends?” asked Father Becket, his voice rattled like a snake.

  “I haven’t, father.”

  “There is no greater expression of love, Jake. No greater purpose than being a good man.”

  “Love…” Jake slurred. His thoughts felt stretched, worn. The clicking chorus erupted into a deluge of chirping madness. The yellow sand-like glow hummed with life, horrible tiny mandible life, pinching, clicking, ticking, and rattling in a whirlwind.

  Another shape materialized in the strange tawny bioluminescence. Standing next to Father Becket was a face Jake did not at first recognize. He stretched his memory to find it and when he did he recalled when Johnathan and he had left the Jotham County Fairgrounds and the police officer directing traffic, the tall broad shouldered fellow with the look of someone in charge, the Sheriff perhaps. The shape appeared just as he had early in the day, wearing a ten-gallon hat with a pair of brown lensed aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, a bright star badge pinned on his denim vest, a service issued revolver strapped to his hip like some western gun slinger, and a handsome chiseled chin reminding Jake suddenly of that actor in the movie Army of Darkness. He said nothing, just tipped his ridiculous cowboy hat.

  Jake watched bewildered as the Sheriff walked over to Bobby, his gait slow, slightly off-balance, and lazy. He reached down and snatched the Bull Dog revolver. He laid it in front of Jake and then took his place back next to Father Becket.

  “Thank you, Sheriff Connor,” said Father Becket.

  Jake gazed at the revolver. I could do it…end it. It would be easy. Maggie’s right, there’s nothing left for me except for my guilt and my hollowness. Even God has left me. Lord, do you hear me? Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. He reached for the snub nosed gun.

  “Jake! Put that fucking gun down,” shouted Johnathan, his voice finally penetrating the fade.

  Jake held the revolver. It was surprisingly heavy, given its small size. He cocked the hammer.

  “Jake!” Johnathan screamed.

  The clicking chirping things sung like a horde of rattling bones, like baby teeth shook in a jar. The dirty yellow glow seemed to brighten as if in anticipation. The look on Maggie’s face was that of sickening satisfaction, the same for Father Becket and Sheriff Connor as well. Jake pressed the barrel against his temple. The cave was electric.

  “For Christ’s sake! Don’t do it! Don’t listen to Them! Please…don’t do this,” Johnathan pleaded, reaching, struggling against his chain.

  “Why not?” called an unseen voice. Another shape materialized from the yellow luminescence. Standing beside Sheriff Connor was a face Jake knew right away. Though he had never met the man personally, it was hard not recognizing the rosy cheeked, balding, neatly combed, large jolly politician with the laughably large button with the words, ‘Vote Mayor Low,’ scribed in blood red lettering.

  “Mayor Low?” Jake muttered.

  “Why not pull that trigger, son? Where’s the harm in keeping our nation safe?” Mayor Low uttered a hearty southern drawn laugh, hitching his thumbs inside his dark brown trousers. The large Vote button jiggled merrily on his blue polo that looked oddly green in the sick yellow sand-like glow.

  “Safe?” Jake asked numbly.

  “Yes. You know, in my experience the government is very much like a baby. Big appetite; no sense of responsibility. We have to take responsibility, son. It’s time to restore the American precept that each individual is accountable for his own actions. Society shouldn’t be guilty for one man, Jake, the individual is. How can we hang the hat, so to speak, on one man’s deeds? Does that sound right to you? No, sir. It surely doesn’t. The liberties of our country, the freedom of our civil Constitution, are worth defending at all hazards. It is our duty to defend them. While you’re hesi
tating with that revolver pressed against your temple, let me ask you about patriotism. You’ve served your country proudly, so I hear, but what now? Can you go this last mile? Let me tell you what I think true patriotism is. Patriotism is looking out for yourself by looking out for your country, and right now, son, your country needs you, needs you to walk that mile into the night. America yearns for peace, but there can be no peace with reminders of the old guard lingering about causing trouble, causing doubt, can there? Do you think your so-called benefits come from free money? No, sir. It comes from taxpayers. Another noose around the throat of America. What was it that fellow Patrick Henry once said, ‘Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!’”

  Jake paused as the Mayor continued.

  “Sometimes, son, as you may well know, sometimes liberty requires death. Question is, are you willing to pay the price? Are you willing to meet the hardship on this one last stretch of road? Let me tell you something, son. I see your hand trembling, I see you faltering, but let me say, America isn’t great for anything the government did for the people, but what the people have done for themselves and for each other. It is a key principle in the preservation of our values, the preservation of the American Dream, a dream that has grown brighter for more than two-hundred years, standing strong and true, no matter the storm. The American Dream is a beacon for all those who crave freedom. If you falter now, as you seem to be doing despite the promise of being reunited with your friends, which is more than some could ever hope for, if you fail to walk this last mile, what can be said of our future? The American Dream is not hereditary, it must be fought for, protected, and yes, even sacrificed for, or we risk the fate of some old story teller sitting by the fire telling children what it was once like to be free in the United States. Let me tell you, son, here in Jotham we hold nothing as dear and honorable as a citizen laying down his life for his country, for his town. No, sir, there is nothing more honorable then sacrifice, not just for any ole dream, but The Dream. Yes, sir, the bright, red, white and blue Dream. Let it be so, pull that trigger son, your friends are waiting at those, as Father Becket here says, pearly gates of paradise.” Mayor Low smiled, an election winning, a baby kissing smile no doubt, but for Jake he felt used, tired, scared, and alone. The mayor’s words hung in the air in a queer sundry with the clicking, chirping chorus of thousands of tiny thoraxes rubbing, rattling together. The mayor’s eyes shone with hunger and he smelled of venom.