Emerging (Subdue Book 2)
Page 24
He walked up Main Street. Jotham was just waking up. The Donut shop had just turned on their ‘Open’ lights. The Barber was sweeping in front of his store, gazing at Bobby as he passed. As he rounded up Route 77, Bobby watched a herd of cows out in the pasture. He breathed deep the dung aroma. A flock of crows and a pair of vultures fluttered about over some carcass on the other side of the road—an armadillo by the looks of it.
An hour later he was limping, his bare feet raw.
More miles walked, limped.
Endured.
“Jesus H. Christ…” he muttered, finally reaching 1475 Oak Lee Road.
The Volvo lay on its roof in the road, the glass shattered. Blood long congealed.
Bobby peered inside.
No occupants.
The enormous oak tree was now uprooted, tossed across the drive by some powerful force. A twister? No. I don’t think this was a tornado. The rest of the drive was filled with pot holes, as if something had been belched up from beneath. Bobby wiped the sweat from his eyes, across his grizzly head. He limped to a mound of broken wood, what he thought was probably the porch and found the house completely, utterly gone.
“Jesus,” he whispered to the fog. “The whole damn house fell in.”
Sinkhole…? Here?
Bobby gazed upon the broken brick and mortar, the splintered wood and chunks of the house that did not go fully into the pit with a heavy heart. His friends were in there that much he knew. Past the fallen tree, he found a picture frame in the mud. It was a family Bobby had never seen before, faded, the happy cheerful family with a Chrysler Station Wagon. There was a black man near the hood wearing blue slacks and a white striped button up and large square framed glasses and a large afro. The woman had frizzy hair and a jean button top with the two little kinky haired twin girls standing in front of her. One wore a green tank top and jean shorts.
Bobby marveled at the photo, wondering who it belong to.
A previous owner of the house?
Yes. Look, that’s the house behind them. Maggie’s house.
Bobby let the photo drop back in the mud. He searched for over an hour for some sign of life, some hint of where his friends had gone. But he knew. They fell into the sink hole, buried alive.
The sun was starting to get high, the early spring temperatures rising to a moderate heat.
Bobby moaned and stumbled back to the Volvo. Resting against it, shivering by the thought of his dead friends, he looked at his muddy, green hands. “Luna,” he said weakly. “I need you.”
He wrapped himself in a blanket he’d found in the trunk, broken and ajar. Unsure of what was to come next, he looked back at the carnage of Maggie’s house. Standing near the tall stalks of wheat he found four shadows watching him. He had no way of really knowing, but felt certain they were his friends, Ricky stood next to Maggie, his ACUs cleaned and pressed. Jake stood next to Johnathan, an American flag patch burned bright against the morning sun on each of their shoulders. Bobby waved absentmindedly, as if he was really unsure of who they were. And then he watched as their shadows crumbled and floated away in a swarm of bloated black bodies fluttering off into the mist blanketed sky.
“Goodbye,” Bobby muttered, and began walking off.
About a mile or two down the road, police cruisers passed him heading toward the house on Oak Lee, searching, no doubt, for the missing Sheriff and mayor.
Somewhere back in Houston, Karen and Tabitha were sitting down to breakfast. A yellow note pad sat in front of her with list of local divorce lawyers penned in wet ink.
Near Clear Lake, an elder, by the name of Pat Haywood, from St. Hubert’s Presbyterian was drafting a notice of termination, addressed to Jake Williams.
Farther south, after shredding a letter delivered by a long forgotten relative, Luna frantically stuffed a suitcase with shirts and flower-print long skirts and panties, and books that had been passed down in her family. In haste, she scribbled a note for Bobby, hoping he’d understand her leaving and he’d stay at her house. She asked for him not to come looking for her. Inside the envelope she left the key. Nothing else.
Back in Jotham, as Bobby walked back down Main, the town was hustling to the beat of a brand new day. Rumors were already spreading regarding Maggie and her house on Oak Lee and the missing mayor and priest and Sheriff.
Have you heard?
Is it true?
So I’ve been told.
Went out there myself this morning.
Gone.
Really?
Mayor Low?
Sheriff Connor?
Father Becket?
Everything.
Everyone.
Kenny Murray, the town loon, had been in Jotham that day. When asked if he’d seen anything, he whispered, “Be careful driving by that house on Oak Lee Road. There’s a soldier who once lived there and if he’s seen you, he’ll follow you home. You won’t even know he’s there. And at night, when your eyes feel like stone, he’ll come and eat you whole.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my readers, to those who've been with me since day one, and to new readers, each and every one of you took a chance on an unknown writer. I pray you enjoyed what you've read in this book and have taken the words and images to heart. And to 22Kill and other veteran groups, raising awareness of suicide and PTSD, helping our brothers and sisters adapt and to live with traumatic memory. Thank you, a million times, thank you.
About the Author
Thomas S. Flowers is the published author of several character driven stories of fright. He resides in Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter. His first novel, Reinheit, was published by Forsaken. He also has a short story, “Lanmò,” in The Sinister Horror Company’s horror anthology The Black Room Manuscripts. In 2008, he was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served for seven years, with three tours serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston Clear Lake with a BA in History. He blogs at machinemean.org, where he does author interviews and reviews on a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.
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