The Gristle & Bone Series (Book 1): The Flayed & The Dying

by Roach, Aaron

  Easy.

  In the mirror, his reflection smoothed out a small crease over his breast pocket before meeting his eyes and nodding, satisfied that he was squared away.

  On his nightstand, the alarm buzzed 6:45 – time to wake his daughter and get her ready for school. He closed his bedroom door behind him and made his way down the hall towards hers.

  “Hon, it’s time for school. Up, up!” said Burome, gently nudging his little girl awake.

  Sophia stirred beneath the blankets before responding, her voice muffled through the fabric, “It's today, right, dad? Right?”

  “That's right, Soph, but clothes and breakfast first. Come on, time to get dressed.”

  With that, Sophia sprang out of bed, her little form dashing across the room, picking out this shirt, and those pants, with these shoes, and finally putting on the brand-new white-and-red backpack that she had been saving for just this occasion. When she was all dressed, he helped her with her hair - a single pigtail on the side of her head, as requested. Standing back, he looked at her tenderly and noted her baggy yellow socks and bright teal sweatband. She looked just like one of the photos of her mother when she was Sophia’s age, like a nine-year-old aerobics diva straight out of the last decade. He couldn’t decide if she looked ridiculous or adorable.

  Part of Burome suspected that his daughter had found the exact photo he was thinking of and was trying, in her own way, to bring her mother back to life. He chose not to say anything. If Soph needed to dress like her mother to remember her, then who was he to question her methods?

  “You look just like your mom, hon. Just make sure you put on your rain-jacket, okay?” Sophia beamed at the compliment before running to her closet to grab her raingear.

  Downstairs, they ate breakfast. Bagels and cream cheese and a bowl of fruit. Sophia couldn't contain her excitement and she chattered questions at him during the entire meal.

  “Does the museum have treasure?”

  “Has anyone ever tried to steal a fossil?”

  “How do you spell 'eggstinkt’?”

  Burome understood her excitement. When he was a youngster in school, he loved field trips. This one was particularly special because Sophia’s class just happened to be visiting the place where her daddy worked.

  Not for the first time, Burome sent up a prayer, grateful for the love of this child. In his heart he felt he didn't deserve it, not after the things he had done in war, but he would take her love for as long as she offered or grew out of it. He reached across the table and gave her pigtail a playful tug.

  “Daaad, geroff!” she bleated, pulling her head away.

  That didn't last long, he chuckled to himself.

  After breakfast, Burome walked his daughter to the bus stop a few minutes before it was due to arrive. Burome, in a jacket that kept the rain off his uniform but did nothing to keep his face and head dry, stood holding a small umbrella protectively over Sophia.

  “I'll see you when you get to the museum okay, hon?” he said as the bus pulled up.

  “Ok dad!” she shouted as the bus closed its doors behind her with a sigh and rolled away.

  -3-

  Don Truant was a grown man whose job was to entertain and educate kids.

  Don hated kids. And because he hated kids, he hated his job. He was a tour guide at Boston’s Human History Museum, and today was a Friday, when schools were most likely to send field trips his way. In fact, he already knew he was scheduled to deal with three groups of schoolchildren throughout his shift.

  A glorified babysitter, that's all I am, Don scowled to himself as he stepped out of the rain and onto the marbled flooring of the museum. To make his mood worse, he had been caught unawares by the deluge outside and his sodden clothes clung to his skin like an octopus clung to its meal. As he walked towards the back office to change, his shoes gave out on the slick floor and he almost fell. He caught himself at the last moment, but not before the cute new hire, Delilah, saw his stumbling dance.

  “Careful there, Don. Don't want to hurt yourself,” she said, sauntering by with a small laugh.

  “I... uh, yeah…” was all Don managed to get out before she was out of earshot. He watched her go, admiring the shape of her ass. He may have hated kids, but he would put a baby in her in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.

  Then I'd disappear off the map, he snickered to himself.

  He stepped into the staff office and shed his wet clothes with a grimace. He changed into the blue polo-shirt, name tag, and khaki pants he was required to wear before heading to the info-desk to clock in. There, his supervisor Jenn was waiting to give him his schedule. It was a morning routine he hated. The woman must have been at least ten years his junior, but she always acted so superior to him.

  “You've got four groups coming in today,” Jenn said, handing him the clipboard with the day's itinerary. “Second-graders from Quincy at 10:00, third-graders from Malden at 12:30, and two groups of fifth-graders at 3 and 5 o'clock, both coming from Somerville.”

  Don groaned, audibly “Four groups? Come on, Jenn. It was only three yesterday.”

  Jenn gave him a stare that would stop an executioner. “Must we do this every day, Don? You are a Tour. Guide.” she said, emphasizing each word. “Your job is to guide people on tours of the museum. That's the job, the whole job. Take it or leave it.”

  Bitch.

  “You’re right, Jenn. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  Don fumed as he made his way towards the museum's welcome center, where he was supposed to meet the first group of kids in about half an hour.

  “You've got violence in your eyes, Don.”

  The voice snapped him away from the thought of strangling Jenn and strangle-fucking Delilah. One of the security guards, the one whose face looked like driftwood – Burome, he thought his name was – was standing stoically at his post near the paleolithic wing of the museum.

  “Oh, hey...Burome, right? Just upset at the weather, that's all,” he lied, fearful for a split second that the man had read his thoughts.

  “No point in being upset about what you can't change,” said Burome sagely, his eyes drifting up towards the glass ceiling and darkening sky beyond.

  “Yeah, guess not. If you'll excuse me...” He said dismissively before turning to leave.

  “Wait, Don,” said Burome at his back. “My little girl will be coming in with her class today. I think she'll be in your first group. Would you mind letting me know when she arrives?” He nodded towards the walkie-talkie radio on Don's hip. “I'd love to see her while she’s here.”

  Inwardly, Don snorted at the thought of this big, ugly brute reproducing, but outwardly he plastered a fake smile on his face. “How sweet. Sure, I'll do that,” he responded before walking away with no intention of doing so.

  -4-

  Kathleen Adder bit into a bright red apple and felt its juices run down her chin to drop onto the skateboard beneath her feet.

  Kat loved these early mornings, waking up just before sunrise to skate the esplanade before it became too crowded. It was the best time of the day for bombing curves super fast without having to worry about colliding with pedestrians.

  For the past hour, Kat had done just that - surfed the pavement on her skateboard with old school hip-hop blaring in her headphones until the rain forced her to seek sanctuary under one of the many pavilions found across the park. That was fine though, it was just about that time when the sidewalks were beginning to fill with cyclists and pedestrians on their way to work. Rather than try to beat the rain and the rush, she took the opportunity to eat her apple and people-watch.

  Appreciative that she had nowhere to be and all the time in the world, Kat dug into her backpack in search of one of the joints she had rolled back at her apartment. Getting high was her calm after the storm of high-speed skating, and an important part of her morning ritual. When her fingers finally felt the tubular paper of the jay, she pulled it out, put it to her mouth, and lit it. Inhaling long and deep, she
lay backwards and splayed herself out onto the picnic table, staring up at the underside of the pavilion roof. She exhaled, blowing the haze up at graffiti scribbled across the ceiling.

  'Wilson Vega is a crackhead'

  'South End Sultans, War!'

  'Rise the Rangers, Rise the Rebellion!'

  Last year, when Kat was still in high school, she had participated in a student exchange program that had allowed her to spend a semester in Rome. While there, she visited the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican, and marveled at the iconic frescos strewn across the ceiling that Michelangelo had put up there centuries before. She remembered ‘The Creation of Adam' painted high above her, the hand of God reaching across the heavens to touch the tip of Adam's finger...

  'I fucked Pablo's mom here.'

  Kat laughed and sat up. Poor Pablo. The gazebo was no Sistine Chapel, but it carried with it a certain charm that could only be found in the city of Boston.

  The rain intensified and she brought her attention to the rivulets of water streaming down like shards of glass, imprisoning her in the shelter. The drum of rain sounded heavy and it drowned out the music blaring from the headphones around her neck. Somewhere in the distance, a low thunder grumbled.

  Reaching out, she cupped some of the falling water in her hands. It was wet and cool as expected, but – a scent was there. She brought her hand to her face and sniffed at the puddle inside. The odor was faint, almost non-existent, but it was there, and it was…off. She couldn't describe it. Born and raised in the city, she knew of acid rain and pollution and the humid funk that would sometimes linger after a passing thunderstorm. But this smell was different, new, and it touched at something primal in her. Something base, instinctual, deep down that made the pores of her skin rise and the back of her neck tickle. She shook out her hands in a panic, spilling their contents.

  What the...?

  In the split second between the water leaving her hands and hitting the floor, the falling puddle shimmered. Like an oil sheen on a wet surface, it was there and then it was not. She stared down at where the water fell, a dark patch of wet on the relative dry of the pavilion floor. She looked back up and tried to focus on the drops of falling rain, to catch a glimpse of the shimmer again, but saw nothing.

  Beyond the pavilion, the esplanade was now devoid of morning commuters save for a mother-and-son pair. The boy, no older than a toddler, was hopping from puddle to puddle in his little yellow raincoat and rubber galoshes. His mother sat in the rain, watching him from a park bench. She was soaked but seemed intent on letting her little boy have his fun.

  As she watched the duo, Kat felt a dark premonition crawl up her spine and set off alarm bells in her mind. Maybe it was paranoia from the weed, but she doubted it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

  -5-

  Thaniel's heart raced in sync with the pumping of his legs pushing his bike along at twenty miles an hour through the rain. Beneath his helmet, his dark hair was plastered wet and cold to his scalp and the nape of his backpack rubbed and chafed at his neck. To his left, traffic waited at a standstill as he whipped by the cars in a blur wondering, not for the first time, why anyone would choose to drive in this city.

  As he pedaled over the Longfellow Bridge, he glanced down at the Charles River below, its surface rippling in the rain like a Monet painting. On any other day, he would stop and admire the water. Today however, he was late for work, hung over, feeling guilty about Celia and the exertion of the ride was the only thing making him feel better. He didn’t dare stop. Instead, he pedaled faster and made his way towards Boston’s skyline across the way.

  Leaving the bridge in his wake, he turned right towards the wide green open of the Common, Boston's famous public park and gardens. He sighed in resignation as he pedaled closer to it. The Common was one of his favorite places in the city, but it was also his last landmark before arriving at the New England Times building where he worked. Yesterday’s embarrassing encounter with his boss was still fresh on his mind, and he grit his teeth in the realization that he’d have to walk in there, sit at his desk, and type up some bullshit article that meant nothing to him.

  The light ahead turned red and he squeezed his brakes, easing himself to a slow stop in the bike lane. On either side of him, cars received the green and rolled their way across his vision. Beyond the road, he saw the open field of the Common, with students and commuters exiting the T – Boston's underground train system – like the ancient dead rising from Hades.

  -6-

  Sophia and Becca whispered at the back of the class tour. The source of their discussion was a naked, hairy mannequin crouched over a fire pit behind a glass wall. An information card underneath the glass read, 'Early Homo Erectus used fire to keep away predators at night.'

  “But why is he naked? And why does he have so much hair?” asked a giggling Becca.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they hadn't invented clothes yet,” replied Sophia quietly, without laughter. She had always been a little bit more mature than her friend. She was half a year older, after all.

  “Ahem, excuse me, little girls? Please keep your voices down while I am talking,” interjected their guide, Mr. Truant, from the front of the group. Their own teacher, Ms. Cowan, shot a disapproving behave yourselves look their way.

  “You got us in trouble, Becca,” chided Sophia. She returned her gaze toward the front of the class, determined not to let her friend distract her anymore.

  Ahead, Mr. Truant was droning on about speartips and Neanderthals.

  A part of Sophia thought the exhibits in the museum were great – mummies, treasures, and all sorts of bones and other dead things – but Mr. Truant had a way of making everything sound just so boring.

  Paying attention was difficult.

  Sophia let her eyes wander, looking out for her dad. She had seen him when her class had first arrived, but lost sight of him in the excitement of the field trip. Now that the excitement was over, she wanted to find him again, to wave hello. Maybe even signal him to come rescue her from Mr. Truant's lifeless lecturing.

  During her search, her eyes came to settle on a sarcophagus in the next wing of the museum. Along the exterior of the ancient sepulcher were etched symbols she hadn't seen before. Hieroglyphics, she recalled from a reading she'd had for homework a few weeks back. The ancient Egyptians, she’d read, would take their dead relatives, empty out their guts and brains, and stuff them in sarcophagi like that.

  Sophia shuddered at the idea of being locked away in a box, in the dark, for all eternity.

  “Soph!” hissed Becca, tearing her away from her daymare. Her class had begun to move on, and she was being left behind. From the front of the group, Mr. Truant glared at her, and Ms. Cowan beckoned her to keep up with a disapproving shake of her head.

  Unused to attention for being naughty, Sophia dropped her eyes in embarrassment and shuffled after her class.

  -7-

  Poor kid, Burome sympathized, seeing Sophia being chastised by her teacher. He watched his daughter from afar so as to not draw her attention away from her history lessons. But, as he'd just witnessed, she was her mother's daughter and was easily distracted, whether he was in eyesight or not. He watched her walk shame-faced at the back the class towards her friend Becca.

  She'll be beating herself up all morning now.

  He wanted to go to her, or at least make himself known – maybe make eye contact and throw a funny face her way to get her to smile, but he was at work and she was technically 'at school' and this was an important lesson for her.

  Daddy can't save you all the time, baby girl.

  “Hssskkkkk...Burome, are you there?” Jenn's voice crackled from the radio at his hip. “Security, we have a... situation outside the main entrance. Rome, please pick up.”

  Jenn's voice was scared, which set Burome on edge. Jenn was a hard woman and nothing ever fazed her. He unclipped the radio from his belt and brought it to his mouth.

  “Jenn,
this is Burome. What's happening?”

  “Rome, there are people outside the main entrance... they're hurt. Everyone is ...oh God, the noise.”

  “I'm coming now Jenn, I'll be ri-”

  And then Burome heard it. The howling came in like a tsunami, rolling in from outside, up the museum's staircase, and then suddenly it was there, crashing into him. Everywhere, people dropped like broken string puppets. Some folded into themselves; some hit the ground hard with dull thuds. But all screamed.

  The few other museum occupants not afflicted stood confused and panicked at the sight of their compatriots or were on their knees trying to help their friends and loved ones who were unintelligible in their suffering.

  Even in war, Burome had never heard cries like these. On the battlefield, he had heard the mourning wails of childless mothers, and knew too well the sounds of soldiers in their death throes. But these noises were different – tortured and primal, like the sound a baboon would make to warn its friends that a hyena was nearby. Only in this scenario, the baboon was in the hyena's jaws and it was already being eaten alive.

  Burome broke into a dead run. Whatever was happening, he had to get Sophia out of there. As he charged through the confusion towards a nearby staircase, the symphony of shrieking grew somehow more violent.

  If hell has a sound, this is it.

  Burome kept his focus on his daughter, one floor down and about twenty feet away. She had her hands over her ears, trying to keep out the assaulting noise.