Suffer the Children

by Janden Hale

  “Jane said you asked for me to drop by.”

  This is not at all how he’d pictured this interaction going. He’d climbed out of bed in anticipation of this moment, dragged himself outside because he didn’t want to wait even the few extra seconds for her to walk through his house to his room. He wanted to see her as soon as possible.

  The thought that it might have been for nothing makes him want to slink away and hide. Even so, he has one more thing in store, something guaranteed to turn her mood around. He reaches under his seat and presents an Indian Blanketflower he’d found in the neighboring yard while he was waiting. Searching for it had eaten considerable energy, and surely she’ll recognize the effort and reward him for it. He stands from the chair and shakily presses it out to her.

  “I found you this.” His arm is stretched as far as it will go. She doesn’t take the flower. He shambles closer, to the edge of the steps. This is it. The big moment. She’ll see how much trouble he went through, especially considering his condition. It’s his magic bullet, the sure thing that will finally pierce her heart.

  She slowly edges forward and relieves him of it, stands there staring at it. She doesn’t seem excited, though. In fact, she acts like the thing is a burden. His mind starts to churn. Maybe she needs something more? His heart batters. The clenching in his gut makes it hard to concentrate. He doesn’t know what to do now. This is as far out as his plan extended. He scrambles for something to say. Maybe he should tell her how he feels about her. Women are supposed to like flowers, and they’re always raving about the importance of honesty. How they don’t like when guys hold back their emotions. He doesn’t want her to think he’s like all the other guys who have that problem. He might not get another chance like this, and that’s all he can think about.

  She sighs and meets his gaze.

  “I really like you,” he says, just to get it out there. Revealing his emotions, being straightforward, saying how he feels. All the things he’d heard women liked. He’d never been in love with an older woman before, but he finds it more intense than any other time he’d had similar feelings. Should he tell her he loves her? Would that do the trick? Everyone wants to be loved, right? He knows he certainly does.

  Her jaw clinches in frustration. He immediately regrets everything, saying that, the flower. Clearly she’s not over her husband. Mike Runkle. That’s the only explanation. How could he be so stupid? If that’s the case, that’s she still has feelings for her husband, he’ll have to wait for her. However long it takes. He’s sure she’ll come around. Time heals all wounds. Maybe that’s what she needs. Time. Time to see that he could be patient, that he could be dedicated. He could give her that. He could give her that and more. He wonders if she likes poetry. He could probably write some. He’ll write her a new poem everyday. He’ll bring her blanketflowers everyday, no matter how far he has to go to get them. Whatever it takes to make her understand.

  “Say something. Please.”

  She casts a look back down the street, thinking of what she wants to say and how to say it. She shouldn’t have come. She doesn’t know why she agreed to it. She feels sorry for him. She never expected him to put her in this predicament. She hasn’t been in this position since college. It never gets easier. A woman tries to let someone down easy once, twice, a few times. After a while it gets old. So she gets mean about it, then everyone concludes that she’s a bitch. There’s no winning this sort of thing. It’s hard not to be frustrated. Why can’t she just be nice for once without someone getting the wrong idea? She focuses back on him, hardly able to look at the confusion and disappointment on his face.

  “Look. Dan. This really is sweet of you,” she lifts the flower up, but then takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I’m sorry. It’s not you.” She hands back the flower and it takes him a long time to take it. She needs to just rip the bandage off, make it quick. “You seem like a really nice guy, you really do. I...I just can’t.” She doesn’t know what else to tell him. It’ll be easier if she doesn’t drag it out, so she pivots and stalks off down the street towards her house. She hates having to do it like this, but he isn’t really giving her a choice. Trying to explain things and be nice will only exacerbate the situation and give him even more false hope. He’ll only keep mistaking her kindness as an indication of something more than what it is. She needs to make her statement, loud and clear.

  “Amy, wait. Don’t go.”

  She continues walking away, resisting the urge to look back even once. There goes the bitch of Ashland.

  He hurls the flower against the house, then collapses into the chair, the quilt falling off his shoulders. He fights to catch his breath, a surge of rage and pain brewing in his stomach. He wants to cry. He wants to run somewhere, but the only place he wants to be is with her. She never even gave him a chance. It isn’t fair. The least she could do was let him make his case, or apologize, something.

  He can’t let it end like this.

  He pushes himself out of the chair and shuffles down the steps after her. If she won’t come to him, he’ll go to her. He’s sure he can explain everything, fix everything. He’ll make it right somehow.

  The chill of the air surrounds him and he realizes it’s colder than he thought. He should have kept the quilt, but he doesn’t turn back for it. He shivers, even though there’s no breeze. It’s dark enough that he can’t see her, but he keeps plodding along in the right direction. He knows where she lives, it’s not like she’s got a lot of places to go. He’s never been this hurt before in his life. Maybe she doesn’t know how much she hurt him. Maybe if he tells her, she’ll realize she made a mistake. She still seems to be hung up about her husband, so much that she might not be able to see things clearly, see how much he cares about her.

  He remembers all the girls he liked in high school and how they would always confide in him. They’d call him on the phone and he’d rush to their houses and they’d rant and rave about how the boys they liked didn’t care about them. He’d always comfort them, to show them that he cared, that he wasn’t like those guys, and they would still not see him at all. He was invisible. Every time, every fucking time, they’d fail to see how the guy they kept saying they wanted was right in front of them. He never told any of them how he really felt, though, so maybe that was the problem. If Amy would just give him a chance to explain, he could convince her. That he wasn’t too young for her, that there was nothing to be afraid of. Whatever her hesitations are, he will explain them away.

  The more he thinks about it the surer he gets.

  She’ll see that he is right and she’ll feel bad, but he’ll hold her close all night to reassure her that everything will be okay. She’ll see that he can be whatever man she wants him to be.

  The town wasn’t large before and it’s even smaller now with the shitty wall they put up. It doesn’t take him long to make the walk, which is a blessing considering how cold he is. He rounds the corner onto Fifth Street and stops short by the tall wooden fence that lines her yard when he hears the voices. People out front of her house, by the front door. He can make out two distinct voices, but there might be more people who just aren’t talking. He shifts forward to try to peek through the slats in the fence. He finally finds one with a suitable enough gap and he barely sees her there in the moonlight, at the edge of the steps, conversing with Ed Landry, who’s on the next step down. She’s short enough that their eyes are about level with each other. It’s just the two of them. Dan can’t discern what they’re saying, but it seems like she’s talking about him. She must be. Maybe Ed will talk some sense into her, tell her she’s being irrational. Dan takes a few steps closer until their voices are more distinct. Ed is telling Amy that his group is going out to help find meds. That he’ll be back in the morning probably, and not to worry.

  Dan’s eyebrows press together. Why would she worry? Is she worried about his infection? Is that what Ed mea
nt? A brush of cold air reaches up the back of his neck like an icy hand. He needs Ed to hurry up and go, not only so he can talk to Amy, but so he can get warm. He starts to shuffle back and forth to generate heat, the way you do when you have to pee really bad, trying to stay quiet. He can feel his teeth want to chatter.

  He leans his shoulder against the fence to rest from the exertion of walking all this way, still positioned so he can see through the narrow gap between the slats. Then Ed Landry snakes his arms around her and draws her close into a long, heavy kiss. She doesn’t appear surprised or disgusted by this, but she returns the kiss like she actually enjoys it.

  Dan chokes back a wave of nausea and his legs slacken. They kiss for nearly a minute before Ed breaks it off. He brushes his hand through her hair, tucks a string of it behind her ear.

  “I’ll see you when I get back,” Dan hears Ed say before escorting her to the door.

  It isn’t long before Dan’s nausea is replaced with seething anger. Now he knows why she rejected him. Now he knows why Ed really came to check in on him that first night. He really just wanted to walk Amy home. How long have they been sneaking around like this? He thinks about all the girls, how they always went for the wrong guys. Here he is, perfectly capable of providing everything girls always said they wanted, perfectly available, right smack in front of her, and what does she do? She goes and chooses a married man. An old fart of one to boot. His chest burns with rage, not just for her but for every woman he’d ever wanted who didn’t want him back. He doesn’t understand it, which makes it even worse.

  He stands there saturated in rage, watches Ed Landry leave, and it takes every ounce of willpower to refrain from following him. Doing something to Ed would make him feel better, but he forces himself to swallow the desire to beat the shit out of the motherfucker. He has a better plan, a much better plan. Where just moments before all he could think about was making Amy see how much he cared, his only notion now is wanting Amy to hurt as much as she had hurt him. He wants Ed to suffer along with her.

  He wheels and starts walking toward the Landry house. This is information Jane Landry will surely want to know.

  The Basement

  TWELVE

  He slices across the old playground on Knighton Street to save time. The emptiness of the place doesn’t occur to him, the fact that it will never again be the source of joy it once was. He doesn’t notice any of the rusty remnants, none of the swings, the slides. The low squeal of the weathered swing chain as it lilts with the sighing breeze, as if calling out for a better time. Dan’s mind is elsewhere, not contemplating the putrid state of the world. His only concern is getting to the house, but his strength is already starting to wane. The cold air pierces him through to the bone. And yet, he sweats.

  He staggers across the asphalt and up the Landrys’ driveway. No lights of any kind inside. It would likely be a lantern or candles. Not even a flashlight, though. He doesn’t think Jane is asleep already, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll wake her ass up. She’ll want to hear what he has to say.

  He lumbers up to the door and knocks several times. No noise from within, no one coming to answer that he can tell. He tries the doorknob, but it’s locked. Are people really still locking their doors in this day and age? The locked door is still no indication of whether she’s home or not. Normally he’d wait, but he doesn’t want to augment the possibility of freezing to death in the process. This must be the fever Jane had warned him about. The chills, the sweating. If she’s not here there’s no telling how long he could be waiting. It occurs to him that he could bust a window, but he wants to exhaust all other possibilities before that. No matter what, though, he’ll be damned if he’s going to go home and wait until tomorrow for this.

  He generates the silly idea to try underneath the doormat. If people are still locking their doors, maybe there are other habits they can’t relinquish. If he can get inside he can find a blanket and wait for her there. He knows Ed won’t be coming back, not soon anyway. He has the advantage. Dealing with Jane being pissed at him for breaking in is slightly more appealing than dying in the cold.

  He finds the key under the mat, the first real piece of luck he’s had in a long time. He lets himself in and restores the key under the mat. He manages to locate a flashlight on the coffee table in the living room.

  “Jane?”

  He flicks on the flashlight and sweeps the beam around the room, his first priority finding something warm with which to surround himself. He locates a wool peacoat in a hall closet and struggles to climb into it. Shoving his half arm into the sleeve sends a bolt of pain all the way up to his shoulder and neck. He stands still, teeth clamped together and holding his breath, until the throbbing dissipates. He has no idea what to do with the extra bit of sleeve hanging off like an elephant’s trunk. He decides to ignore it. He’s got the rest of his life to figure out such things. Still no response to his previous call, he works his way to where he thinks the bedroom might be, in case she’s in there sleeping. He also wants to make sure not to startle her if that’s the case. The last thing he needs right now is to be getting shot. He doesn’t know if Jane’s skills extend so far as to plugging up gunshot wounds.

  “Jane?”

  He shuffles down a long hallway, his footsteps clapping over the hardwood floor amplified in the stillness. A handful of doors appear in the flashlight’s beam on either side of the hall. One of these must be it. He starts down the narrow corridor, the hallmark of an old house. He’d always wondered how they got furniture through these things. He alternates between looking forward and back, in case Jane might have appeared behind him. Only thing back that way is a wall of black at the fringes of the light’s reach. As he shifts back to resume his march he clips a small three-legged table he hadn’t noticed, blasting a vase off onto the creaky floor. The sound of exploding porcelain makes his heart capsize and he collapses against the wall, trying to compose himself. If that doesn’t make her want to shoot somebody, nothing will.

  The crash of the shattering vase is answered by another knock from somewhere else, deep within the house. Somewhere below. He’s not alone after all.

  “Jane?”

  His heart stirs when he hears the sound again, this time like a low rattle, and all he can think of is Jane. She is here, somewhere. He feels some of his energy returning with the adrenaline.

  “Jane?” he calls, louder. A parade of low thuds reverberates in the old plaster walls, up through the floorboards. He twirls and stampedes back toward the front of the house, searching frantically for a staircase. A low moan joins the muffled pounding coming from below. The living room proves to be of no help whatsoever. He circles around to the kitchen and stops short when he finds a door about three feet from the lifeless shell of the refrigerator. This might be it. But it also might not. He thinks of the pantry in the Burton place. Well, his place now.

  He illuminates the wood of the old door, the whitewash peeling like sunburnt skin. The light kicks back, flaring off the smooth metal of the three padlocks sealing the door. If she’s down there, she’s locked in. What is going on here? If she’s locked in the basement, she’s probably in danger. Knowing what he now knows about Ed Landry, it makes sense. Ed must have done something to her.

  “Christ. Jane!” Knowing she’s down there in peril goads him into action. He scrambles around the kitchen for something heavy, like a fire extinguisher, the unoccupied sleeve flapping and flailing. He spots a cast iron skillet on the stovetop, doubts he’ll find anything better. “Jane, I’m coming! Hang on!”

  He sets the flashlight on the counter and angles the light so he can see, then grabs the skillet and hoists it high overhead with his one arm. He bludgeons the first padlock repeatedly until it sloughs away from the wood like an ugly metal scab. The sounds from beyond have escalated past low moans to become mild thrashing. Why isn’t she saying anything? Is she gagged? Is she hurt? The theory encourages him to hurry
. He wails on the other two locks until they crack away from the old wood. He doubles over, dropping the skillet, heaving for breath. He fights to push through the fatigue. He’s definitely not resting like she advised, but he suspects she’ll let this one slide. He snatches the light off the counter and shoulders open the door. It resembles nothing like in the movies. It’s more like him falling against the door instead of a righteous slam.

  The thrashing seems to triple in volume now without the door interfering. The sound of heavy metal scraping against concrete farther in the basement. He rushes at the dark stairwell, the swath of light careening, jittery like a firefly. “Jane, I’m here. It’s going to be all right.” He shields his face with his half-arm, blocking out the thicker, stagnant air. It carries a tinge of mildew infused with spoiled garbage.

  He reaches the first landing and rounds the corner, racing to the bottom. The arc of the light cuts wide lines through the opaqueness of a large, single-roomed basement, unfinished, nothing but concrete and bare studs along the outer walls. It’s the kind of basement with the pull-cord light in the middle. A wall of stench meets him at the bottom so strong it nearly sends him reeling. He’d only encountered a small whiff of the source before.

  The smell packs a punch, joined by the rattling clamor, which explodes with fresh severity at the other end of the room. He lifts the flashlight towards the commotion and searches for Jane. She must be in more trouble than he thought.

  Old furniture and decorations scattered throughout the room, storage boxes stacked in various places, mostly along the outer walls. Hundreds of scented candles are strewn about the room, no doubt to offset the unbearable smell. If they were all to be alight at the same time, the place would look like a cathedral.

  A cage at the far end trembles with excitement, and a mangy animal issues forth a shriek that curdles the blood in his veins. He steadies the light upon it and stops, backing away. It’s definitely not Jane. The twitcher punches a claw through the metal bars, trying to liberate itself. It croaks out a growl and he can see it still wears the tattered remnants of old kid’s clothing. The metal cage appears to maintain against the force of the twitcher, which is about the size of a chimpanzee. This one, unlike the one that ruined his arm, stands erect on two feet. Dan tries to block out the terrible odor. He can’t evade it. He feels his stomach flounder and prepares to retch. Why the hell are they keeping a twitcher in their house? He doesn’t know what to do anymore. Should he tell Dressler? That would have to wait until morning, when he gets back from his scavenge run. Who else could he tell then? Buck Weaver? His uncle? He doesn’t know if his uncle is the right person, given his close relationship with Ed Landry. He probably already knows. Who else knows, then? By the look of it the thing has been here for quite some time. Had he not already broken their door upstairs he could probably get away with waiting for Dressler. But that’s still several hours for them to discover the door, that someone had been snooping around in here. They could get rid of the thing before Dressler returns. But that’s also assuming he doesn’t already know. Maybe everyone knows. Maybe they’re doing experiments on it. Trying to find a way to reverse the mutation. It seems to make sense.