“So we go to garage?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Okay, I’ll take gun.”
“Hell no,” Del said, having a difficult time hearing anything over the pounding rain.
Martin held out his hand. “Del, give me gun.”
“I’m going upstairs. You can follow me if you want.”
Martin grabbed his arm. “Hand over gun and I’ll give you raise.”
Del shook his head at the man’s absurdity. “Find the flashlight. It’s in one of those drawers by the sink. And hurry up,” Del said, aiming the .357 at the kitchen doorway even though he could barely see past the tip of his gun’s fluorescent front sight.
Martin opened a drawer. “I double your pay.”
“Shut up,” Del said. He listened. He thought he’d heard footsteps. A wave of smoke washed over him, stinging his eyes. “Hurry up. I think it’s in the one closest to me.”
One drawer slid shut and another opened. “Here it is,” Martin said as he clicked the light on.
Del’s heart caught in his throat as the lurker’s bloated face appeared less than two yards in front of him. He pulled the trigger three times, erasing its twisted smile.
Martin gasped and the flashlight clattered on the floor, its beam shooting past Del’s feet. He spun toward Martin, taking aim at the lurker holding his boss; the monster’s arm covered the man’s entire face. Before Del could get off a shot, he heard the sound of a tongue being launched from the far corner. Del ducked, crawled around the island. A cabinet door shattered.
Del fired three rounds where he thought the lurker was. It sounded as if two bodies fell to the floor. One was definitely Martin. Del heard his gurgled plea for help.
Aware that there was at least one more lurker in the room, Del bent over and picked up the flashlight. He brought it up and spun in a circle. A gang of yellow creatures surrounded him, and a dozen empty black eyes glistened in the dim light.
Del had three rounds left in the Glock, not enough to kill them all.
Changed Man
“I still love you.”
That’s the last thing Thomas told me. Now his head’s by my feet. His eyes are open. His mouth’s still moving, but there’s no sound coming out.
I never wanted it to end like this. I’m sure Thomas didn’t either. He got home from the factory around six, finished his third drink by seven. He was over by the fridge in his wrinkled, brown button-down and slacks. After he topped off his glass halfway with Coke, he said, “Have a seat. I want to talk to you.”
When we first met, Thomas loved to talk and I loved to listen. For Thomas, talking used to mean something, it wasn’t all grunts and groans. He wanted to know everything about me, would ask questions until the morning. He wanted to know why someone like me would want to be with someone like him.
Thomas still loved to talk, but now he demanded that I listen. Only it wasn’t about anything real. We didn’t talk about why I wouldn’t have kids. Not about the future, what we’d do if one of us died.
The old Thomas never would’ve told me what to do, but ever since the accident I haven’t known what to expect. If I hadn’t been so tired, my feet swollen from a ten-hour shift at the diner, I might’ve stopped everything right there. Instead, I did what Thomas told me, but took my sweet time. I said, “So let’s talk.”
He shot me a quick glance, like I wasn’t worth two seconds. “See that,” he said. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He pointed at me and got flustered. “That. You taking all day just to spite me.”
I noticed his cast was off and hoped he was just celebrating. I didn’t yell at him for having that tone with me. I kept my voice cold and even, gave him plenty of warning. “I’ve had a long day.”
“And I didn’t?” Thomas put the Coke away and walked to the cupboard. “You say that like you’re the only one.”
Thomas had been an accountant, but got laid off, worked sixty hours at the factory and our ends still didn’t meet. That’s why I was at the diner, picking up doubles since Thomas totaled our car two weeks ago. I said, “We’re both having a hard time. I won’t deny that.”
Thomas’s fist was wrapped around the neck of the bottle. He poured the Jack to the rim, watched me with his baby blues for some kind of reaction. He said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
I had no idea who this new Thomas was. A man who’d talk back to me, treat me like dirt. I didn’t think it could just be the alcohol. The booze might’ve made him brave, but not that stupid.
Thomas left the bottle on the counter and brought his drink to the table, dribbled a trail across the floor. He said, “Why are you so quiet?”
If Thomas had been acting normal, I would’ve taken his hand and asked him what I could do to help. We’d invested too much to just throw it away. But he wasn’t himself so I kept both hands gripping the edge of the table. “You said you wanted to talk. I’m listening.”
Thomas took a swig, set the half-empty glass onto the gas bill. He wasn’t even wearing a sling. “Always so cute. That never gets old.”
I was tempted to say something mean, maybe point out his old-man ear hair, his graying sideburns. I kept quiet. Now that I was paying attention, there was nothing to point out. Thomas looked ten years younger, his hair jet black.
He tried to keep his eyes on me. He found his drink more interesting and swirled it around and around. “This isn’t working.”
I wasn’t ready to know what he was talking about so I didn’t ask.
He said, “You just going to sit there?”
“Not all night. Say what you’ve got to say.”
Thomas pointed at me, then himself. He used his left arm, the one that he’d shattered, like it was good as new. “This. Us. We’re not working.”
I thought I heard him wrong, almost asked him to repeat it. We used to be working. We worked for over ten years, the longest relationship of my godforsaken life. I buried my anger and said, “We’re both under a ton of stress right now. We’ll get through it.”
Thomas didn’t say maybe I was right. He didn’t say he hoped so. He said, “I don’t want to. Not the way it’s been.”
Thomas could’ve meant a lot of things by that, but the way he was looking at me like I was some kind of floozy, told me everything. I said, “You’ve got to be joking.”
“It’s my turn. See how much you like staying at home.”
“Don’t you dare. You knew that from the start.”
I was afraid Thomas was going to deny I’d laid out my rules. It took him five seconds before he finally said, “I never liked it.”
There weren’t many men who would, but I said, “It was your choice. I told you.”
“Not everything.”
“I told you enough.” There was never a reason to tell Thomas more. One man couldn’t handle my needs. Not the man I loved. Thomas would’ve been used up in a week, no good to anyone else ever again.
Thomas finished his drink and set it down. He met my eyes for a moment and said, “Well, like I said, it’s my turn now.”
I gripped the table so I didn’t lash out. Most people would yell double-standard, what a hypocrite, but I had my reasons. If Thomas stepped out on me, I couldn’t stay with him. That was my rule and my rules couldn’t be broken.
I needed the truth but acted like I didn’t care. “So it’s your turn, huh? Has it already started?”
Thomas crossed his arms. “Starting now it is.”
I looked Thomas in his eyes, tried to remember if they’d ever been so blue. “So you haven’t done it yet? You haven’t been with anyone?”
He said no and I believed him. He was a good man and didn’t lie. He was drinking to get up his nerve. He wanted to tell me because it was the right thing to do.
I said, “But you’re going to? You don’t care how I feel or what I say?”
“How you feel?” Thomas shook his head slowly. The scar that’d been on his left cheek wasn’t there, the burn on his neck was all better. “It�
��s always about how you feel. You do what you want.”
I sat still, listened to the silence. Thomas’s heart was pounding, pushing blood through his veins. 188 over 122. “Calm down, Thomas. I don’t want this to happen.”
He didn’t seem to know what I was saying. “I’m sorry, but I have to. You should understand.”
I understood better than he did. I just didn’t want to believe it. It was the accident, all my fault for not wearing my seat belt. I went through the windshield, not that big of a deal, but it cut me bad. The wound was still open when I pulled Thomas free from the fire, the fear of him dying overriding the risk I might infect him.
I needed to hear it from him. “What are you feeling? Tell me the truth.”
Thomas looked right at me, held my gaze. “I need more than you.”
“You know what would happen if I let you do that?”
“Let?”
“What will you do to them? The women you’re with.”
“I’m not telling you that.”
I said, “Isn’t that what you want? For me to tell you everything?”
“No. I just said that you didn’t.” Thomas looked like he wanted to spit on me. “Why would I want to know what my wife’s feeling or thinking or imagining when she’s with another man?”
I sat up straight and cracked my knuckles. “Because I think you’re probably feeling the same exact thing I do.”
Thomas kept his mouth shut, gave off a new smell. His old fear was back, even more than usual. I bet he was guessing I shared some of his dreams. That I knew they’d come true if something wasn’t done.
“You won’t be thinking about me,” I told him. “You won’t be thinking about whoever you’re with.”
Thomas eased back from the table, the chair scraping the tiles.
I said, “All you’ll be thinking about is ripping flesh from their bones, devouring every little bit.”
He didn’t ask if I was serious, if it was some kind of sick joke.
“You’ve done it,” I said. “You’ve already done it?”
Thomas shook his head no, looked like he was going to throw up. “What are you saying?”
I got up from the table in case he attacked first. The old Thomas never would, but that man was gone. He’d changed into the thing I feared most. He was turning into me.
He said, “You’re scaring me.”
Since he was being honest, I said, “I never wanted this to happen. I loved you as a man. A husband. A friend.”
Thomas rose from the table, stood taller than I’d remembered him being. “Loved?”
I said, “You’re right, this can’t work.”
“You and me?”
I nodded and took a step toward him.
Thomas’s heart was beating faster than before, but he didn’t step back. He said, “I still love you.”
I don’t doubt that he meant it. I know that Thomas loved me. But he was giving off another smell. One that meant he wouldn’t back down.
I told Thomas I was sorry, but I don’t know if he heard. I was upon him, tearing at his throat, making it quick so he wouldn’t feel much.
If Thomas knew what he was becoming he would have thanked me. I’m going to pretend that’s what his lips are trying to say.
He was a good man and I’ll miss him. But there can only be me.
Bad Habits
Burt Brighton was a mountain of a man, but it was his way with words, his power to persuade, that made him the best life coach in Arizona. He’d been in the business for ten years and had bettered almost a thousand lives. Bad habits die hard, but with Burt’s perfect success rate, no one questioned his dedication and methods, at least not to his face. That included Walter Higgins who was sitting in a chair in this nondescript building at the Arizona/Nevada border. Burt knew this particular intervention wasn’t going to be easy. Walter had sixty years of deep-rooted ways he’d need to break through, but, for Burt, failure was not an option.
There were plenty of places Burt would have rather been. He was supposed to be in Vegas, lounging at the pool, trying his luck at the tables, but Walter’s wife had called in a panic and Burt couldn’t turn down the opportunity to help correct someone’s life. The $750,000 fee didn’t hurt either.
Hot and hungry, Burt ignored his discomfort and thought about the job. Sure, the conditions weren’t optimal, but he’d dealt with worse. The sooner he broke Walter’s habit, the sooner he could get in his Porsche and drive to his hotel.
Burt positioned his face just inches from the trembling man’s puckered mouth. He raised his voice and said, “Do not spit it out. You have to be strong, Walter, okay? Do not spit that out.”
The look of pain in Walter’s tearing eyes warned Burt to move, but he couldn’t get out of the way quick enough. A mixture of tobacco juice and snot shot out of the man’s nose and mouth, sprayed Burt’s face.
Burt took a step back, calmly bent down and pulled a rag from the bag of supplies he’d picked up at the gas station. He counted to five and wiped off his face.
“Okay, so we’re not off to such a great start.” Burt smiled, kept his voice calm. “I know you must think that my techniques are a bit unorthodox, but let me assure you, they work. You may not realize it, Walter, but you’ve been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change everything.” Burt took a swig from his bottle of sweetened green tea while Walter spat the remainder of the brownish-green concoction onto the dusty floor. “Did you swallow any of it?”
Walter nodded his head, looked as if he might throw up.
Burt said, “It’s not nice to swallow something gross and disgusting, is it?”
Walter spit again. “I promise I won’t…”
Burt shushed him by holding up his finger. “Don’t make promises yet, Walter. I don’t want to repeat myself again, so listen up. I talk and you listen. Got it?”
After Walter nodded, Burt pulled a 32-oz. cup from the bag and faced the back of the small room. He turned around thirty seconds later, careful not to spill the yellow liquid sloshing around in the cup.
Walter’s eyes grew wide. “You’re not serious?”
Burt swished the cup of urine in front of Walter’s faded baby blues.
“I’m not drinking that.”
Burt gave Walter a friendly slap. “You need to see things from all perspectives. From Nancy’s perspective.”
When Walter began to protest, Burt pinched the old man’s cheeks together and emptied the cup’s contents into his mouth.
“Now before you spit that out, I want you to think about something.” Burt kept pinching Walter’s cheeks and tilted his head back so nothing poured out. “Do you see how someone else might not like this, Walter? Can you see Nancy’s perspective?” He let Walter’s cheeks go. “Can you see?”
Walter was on the verge of swallowing as he nodded. Burt walked back to his tea, finished it in one gulp. He pulled another one from the paper bag, along with a metal bucket that he set on the floor. When he looked back at Walter’s bulging cheeks, he was disappointed.
“It looks like you’re thinking of doing something very stupid, Walter.” Burt grabbed his empty green tea bottle and dropped it into the bucket. The sound of shattering glass made Walter jerk. He probably would have jumped out of his chair if he hadn’t been tied to it.
Burt held up his new tea and said, “If you spit that out, it would probably take me four or five more of these before I could fill up another cup.” Burt chugged the entire contents and dropped the empty bottle into the bucket. “Neither one of us has that kind of time and I’ve got another hundred or so miles to Vegas.” Burt pulled a 9 millimeter from his waistband. “Now swallow to get the full perspective.”
Walter didn’t swallow so Burt aimed the gun at Walter’s face. “What are you more afraid of - swallowing some piss or dying?”
Burt pulled the trigger, but rotated the pistol to the left so the bullet grazed Walter’s ear. The smell of gunpowder and piss filled the small room. The piss wasn’t Burt
’s. It was the growing stain in Walter’s expensive Fioravanti slacks.
“It’s not easy to break habits, Walter, and I know a man like you isn’t used to being treated this way, but that’s exactly why your problem has continued to go on. People are scared of you, Walter. Your money scares people.”
Walter spit the rest of the piss from his mouth. “You can have whatever you want. Whatever that cunt is paying you, I’ll double it.”
Burt popped open his third green tea and took a long swig. The desert heat was starting to get to him and this unexpected intervention was making him really thirsty. “Just when I thought we were making progress, you revert back to your bad habit. Thinking you can buy your way out. Look at yourself. You’re sitting in your own piss. This is the bottom, Walter. There’s no more bargaining.”
“You won’t get away with this!”
Burt didn’t want to overreact to the old man’s desperate outburst, but he wasn’t sure how he should respond. While he considered his options, Burt finished off the tea, dropped the empty bottle into the bucket where it shattered against the others. Instead of reaching down and grabbing another bottle, he lifted a hunk of broken concrete from the floor. He held the jagged hunk in front of him and said, “Your money makes you think you have some kind of control over this situation, doesn’t it?”
Walter’s eyes followed the concrete up and down as it bounced in Burt’s right hand, his left still holding the gun. Burt raised the rock and pretended he was going to throw it at Walter, but instead dropped it into the bucket where it crushed the shattered glass.
“I’ve got another idea, Walter,” Burt said. “Now open wide.”
Walter shook his head, pursed his lips.
Burt dug the pistol into Walter’s temple.
Although he’d already cried and pissed himself, Walter pretended to be a hard-ass, kept his mouth closed.
Accustomed to dealing with difficult clients, Burt simply changed tactics, removed the gun from Walter’s head and rammed it into his mouth, the sound of metal grinding against enamel. “I’ve learned a lot over the years, Walter, and there are two ways to go about things: the easy way and the hard way. It’s totally your choice. The sooner you understand this, the better off you’ll be.” Burt drove the barrel farther into Walter’s mouth. “You’re going to swallow something, just like you made Nancy. Now, what’s it going to be, a bullet or the glass? What do you want?”
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