The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  What had happened? She walked back her steps in her mind. They'd been talking about who was taking a vacation and where they were going. She didn't have anything planned. Work was her life. And no, she wasn't seeing anyone. And oh, her coworker knew a guy that was nice. They'd taken a few steps out the door, and there Henry was. Had she seen him on her way in? She didn't think so, or maybe she hadn't noticed. There were sometimes vagrants hanging around and she guessed he looked the part. Somewhere around her age, longish black hair, the start of a sunburn on his face. He needed help, was having a seizure. She responded out of training. Basic human compassion, and then there was fire and screams. She hadn't heard anything. Didn't see anything like a bomb. It was just fire all around, but they were protected somehow, weren't they? Just one of those things, everyday miracles. And then she'd brought him home, against every natural thought in her head, and he'd been funny and sweet and sarcastic. And then she'd gone through his things, and what was that all about? None of her business. She'd sleep, clean up, and go to work tomorrow and it'd be a normal day. Just one of those things, she thought again.

  It was late when she finally lay down on the couch to a dreamless sleep, leaving the change of sheets and processing the experience for another day.

  ***

  Henry pulled Cassie's door closed and headed out into the hot night. Sure, it had cooled down somewhat when the ball of hellfire they call the sun finally went down, but the air was still stuffy and warm. He had no idea what time it was. Naps are probably the most disorienting thing ever. It was dark out, but really, if you don't have a cell phone, not even a sundial would help you know what time it is, or tell night from early morning.

  Well, that whole encounter was weird, he thought as he walked. He wasn't even mad. She really was pretty. Too bad, he thought, I guess she would never carry his mutated babies, little demons that burn down the house when the bottle is late. Not that he'd really thought she would have fallen in love with him. Two strangers falling in love at first sight? Dumb, Henry, so very dumb.

  He walked without a sense of direction. It was still hot enough to get him sweating, his head still groggy from just waking up, but walking helped clear the fog. Back at the gas station, he had been close to a shelter. He'd planned on hanging out there until he got his bearings and panhandled enough cash for a sandwich, before finding a cab, or, more likely, another stinking bus out to Surprise. But in the endless duplication of intersections, he doubted he could find his way back. The orange sodium street lights buzzed and hummed, flickering on and off in a nauseating way. The quiet was ominous and comforting at the same time for no good reason. A city without pedestrians, without encampments of homeless on every hillside. He figured things might be different downtown, but he was in the suburbs. He never felt welcome in suburbs.

  Damn this place, Henry thought as he reached an intersection and line of sight down in both directions were identical. Long blocks of mostly nothing. High walls protected every housing development. There was a feeling of wealth to every block. Wealth and sameness, which might be the same thing. Brown stucco. Then grey. Then back to brown. But still, even at this undeterminable hour, there were lights in some windows, the flashing glow of television sets, warm bedroom lamps. Glancing at them pained Henry, a gut punch of envy and loss. It didn't matter how accustomed to the street he was, the idea that behind each of these windows a family was home, and all that home was theirs, and not his, never his.

  He did feel loads better after a shower and a nap. Poor Cassie. She must have thought he was mental. Maybe that wasn't far from the truth. God only knows what she made of the documents she came across in his bag. Tales from the looney bin. He could have handled that better. At least the cops weren't called. He told himself that he left for the right reasons. Not because of some breach of privacy, but that he didn't need to rope her into his mess. He didn't even have things sorted out himself. Henry had a loose plan, but it wasn't much.

  He spotted a poorly marked bus stop across the street. Jackpot, he thought. Henry made a beeline for it, crossing five lanes of empty street diagonally to reach it. There'd be a city map on it, and a path downtown at least. He'd no sooner reached the other side when a police cruiser, he'd not noticed, flashed its lights, but not the siren.

  Shit, fuck, damn it, Henry thought. Jaywalking. Perfect.

  Surprising the shit out of Henry, the now familiar Officer Sanders pulled the cruiser up to the stop.

  "Hello again, Henry. Any idea what time it is?" He asked from the driver's seat, in a friendly, nonchalant tone.

  "Hi, Officer. Can't say that I do," Henry said and tried to match the friendly, this is normal, tone.

  "Thought as much. It's 2 a.m. 10 hours since you were a witness at an arson, a potential terrorist attack on fair Phoenix.

  "Uh. Ok. Do you know when the bus comes?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do. The B Line will arrive at 5 a.m."

  "Great. I'll be on it."

  "5 a.m., Monday. This present morning being Sunday."

  "Oh." Henry said and realized that he said 'Oh' a lot. Other than 'fuck,' few other words expressed his general, out of fucks to give attitude, his permanent state of apathy moderated by a minimum instinct to survive.

  "Henry, can you tell me you are honestly not up to no good?"

  "I am really, truly, just passing through. And, uh, I just came to Phoenix to visit a friend."

  "Yes, well, I suggest you call them, because it would be an easy mistake to assume, with probable cause, that you are up to no good. At this hour, only tweakers are out and about. You are not a tweaker, are you?"

  "No, sir. Clean as a whistle. Straight as an arrow. Straight edge as a razor."

  "Aha. Where does this friend live?"

  Henry had two competing thoughts. Both were driven by a desire to make this encounter with the police end as soon as possible. Give him the shelter's address, and spend a night on a lice puke cum blanket, or give him the address he had from... he wasn't sure who from, but there was a thought in his head that it was connected to Wiseman. Maybe he was off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Black Star. The former made him liar, but what if the address for Wiseman was bogus or if he wasn't there? The way he got the address wasn't exactly rock solid.

  Wiseman went AWOL a month before Henry left the Institute in a blaze of glory. From what Henry could gather from the notes in his backpack, again, not really sure who gave those to him, Wiseman's trail was untraceable by the professionals, even beyond Black Star's reach, which Henry had, again, pretty much guessed was considerable. Time to make a decision, Henry thought.

  "121 Quiet Rest, Surprise, Arizona."

  The address sounded like a place name out of Sesame Street. Henry had wanted to check that it was a real place on the library internet, but he didn't have a fucking library card. He trusted his gut and the fragment of a memory that it was real, but would anyone be there, anyone that could or would help? Not that he knew what help he even wanted, other than a vague, help me undo whatever Black Star did to me kinda thing.

  "That's a ways from here on foot, Henry. Surprise isn't like Mesa or Tempe. It's its own little city, out a ways."

  "Yeah. I know. That's why I'm at a bus stop."

  "Don't get smart." Sanders sighed heavily.

  "This is the end of my shift. If I drive you, would your friend back up your story and let you in so I can go home knowing I did, unpaid, God's work?"

  "Yeah. He's probably wondering what took me so long. He, uh, doesn't use a phone so I can't call him. I was going to catch the bus at the Circle K, but then..."

  "But then, alright. Do you want a ride?"

  Henry thought about this. Arizona had such a bad rap, but it's practically brimming with do-gooders.

  "Um. Ok. You don't mind?"

  "Well, I'll have to drop you off prematurely, possibly at a random place in the desert, that is, if there's any real police work that comes up, but since the drama today at the Circle K, the usual stuff has
been quiet. No one wants to have their minor felonies associated with a possible ISIS bombing, do they Henry? Have you been in a police car before?"

  "Once or twice, sir, in my younger days. Nothing serious."

  "Mind if I pat you down? I ran your name earlier and nothing came up, and I'm still operating under the assumption that you didn't give a fake name. We could always run down to the station and check prints, if you prefer."

  "Your car, your rules. Just don't expect any gas money."

  Sanders hand finally moved from his sidearm as he got out and patted Henry down and checked his bag, taking no interest in the papers there.

  "Anything in your pockets going to stab me?"

  "No, sir."

  Henry had assumed the position for a stop and frisk. This was not his first rodeo. He was thankful to Black Star, at least, for one thing. They had thoroughly, and permanently, rid him of a taste for getting high. He knew he wasn't carrying anything interesting, at least not where hands or eyes could see.

  Riding in a police car was not a joy ride. The smooth molded interior was designed for maximum durability, easy discovery of contraband, and subjected to shit, piss, puke and every kind of torture. But there was also a chauffeur-like experience Henry enjoyed, as Officer Sanders had to open the door for him to enter and exit. It was a funny contradiction Henry kinda liked, as Officer Sanders got them moving.

  "Where you from, Henry?"

  "Seattle."

  "Beautiful city. Of course, total opposite of Phoenix. You got your rain, we have the sun. I didn't see any sunblock in that duffle of yours. You'll also be wanting a hat and water, of course."

  "Yeah, but I'm not sticking around."

  "Uh huh. All the same. It's good to keep a couple bottles of water though. You could find yourself in real trouble alone out here. It doesn't take but a few hours for exposure to hurt a person."

  For a moment, Henry, had a dark thought, that Sanders, despite his good Samaritan aspect, was going to take him out to the desert, where the police put trash in a blood-soaked gravel pit.

  "Yeah. Seattle gets a lot of rain."

  They drove, in silence, for miles. The police radio squawked unintelligibly at interludes, but Sanders was not pulled into any duty calls. He pulled off the highway into a small town, classic western town strip, traffic lights blinking red indicating stop and proceed with caution. He navigated through turn after turn, speed bumps every few blocks before pulling in front of a house, the same stucco as all the rest.

  "Here we are Henry. You don't mind if I check in with your friend first?"

  "No. Sure. It's Mr. Wiseman. Ask for Wiseman."

  "Ok, Henry. Sit tight."

  Henry's teeth were chattering despite the warmth of the car. This could go very badly. He could smell his adrenaline, his stress sweat over powering Cassie's Lady Speed Stick he had borrowed. He willed Wiseman to answer the door, which he couldn't see around the portico. Seconds stretched long as his breath quickened. What if? What if? Henry wished he had his bag, a security blanket, but that was in the trunk. This was no time to make a run for it. Shit, he couldn't even open the door from the inside. Trapped. Trapped like a stupid little punk. A deeper run of his record and what would show? Are the Seattle minor criminal records linked to a national database? Would that thing with Chloe show up? Henry ran his hands over the molded plastic where the door handle should be and braced for the worst. Officer Sanders was a reasonable man. Simple mistake. Henry thought he'd say something like, oh, I guess the address I had was wrong? How about drop me at the bus station and I'll be out of your hair? That might work. It might not though.

  This was not like the last time he was in a police cruiser. Not at all. That didn't end so well. It was five years ago and he desperately wanted to put more time between now and the next inevitable experience. Do normal people think that being in a cop car is inevitable? He was still thinking this when Sanders walked back to the car, tight-lipped and stern-faced.

  "Henry, I'm going to release you into Mr. Wiseman's care. He's been informed about your presence at the incident today and assures me that he has your meds and has been anxiously awaiting your arrival."

  "Uh, oh yeah. Right. Like I said, he was expecting me earlier but I..."

  Oh Jesus. This is happening, Henry thought frantically. It was like getting the audience with the Wizard of Oz and he's here, just behind the proverbial curtain.

  Sanders got back out and opened the door for Henry. Again, that sense of having a chauffeur. Henry almost laughed.

  "Can I get my bag?"

  "Of course, young man. Henry?"

  "Yes, Officer?"

  "Be good."

  Sanders sat in the patrol car, let it idle and watched. Henry could feel the cop's eyes on him as he waited to go up to the door. Standing at the door, arms open to embrace Henry in a hug was an aging hippie, bearded, long, scrotum-y scraggle-hair, wearing John Lennon glasses and a tie dye shirt, emblazoned with the words, "Good Times" in trippy lettering.

  "Come on in, Henry!"

  "You are not Wiseman."

  The hippie's house was an open palace, scented of incense and weed, and jangling with a Phish-esque jam band sound. Psychedelic art hung on the walls, large cushions on the floors instead of proper chairs, multicolored gauze hung from the ceiling in a great room.

  "Yeah. No. But I've met the great man. Come sit down. You must be tired."

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Denzel, like the actor, but not black."

  Denzel laughed at his own lame joke. Henry hated him instantly. Too much like a youth counselor gearing up for some real talk.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NEXT DAY came and Cassie had no real reason to avoid going into work, outside of the normal hesitation and procrastination of starting a shift. She paced around her apartment, checking that the windows and doors were still locked. For the hundredth time, she wondered why she had taken Henry to her place. It's not like she'd never taken men home before, but really, had she lost her damned mind? She vacillated between chalking it up to the stress of almost dying in a fire, and the normal reaction to crisis that was part of her military training. The training had certainly kicked in: assess, triage, escape to a secure location. The old drill still second nature from active duty in Afghanistan as a Ranger Medic. Oh, it had left its marks on her; both on her body and certainly on her mind. That's all it was, she reasoned. Scar tissue. But why was she still thinking about him? Something about him pestered her like a memory of a dream caught on the tip of her tongue, something there, but out of reach to her waking mind. But she could set it aside. Had to. Life goes on and you just compartmentalize the shit of it all to get by day to day.

  The Sunday morning shift started early and was blessedly uneventful. The hospice facility was located in another replicated strip mall office park. Its parking lot was a maze of reserved, shaded spots for various businesses, everything lateral and crowded for no apparent reason. They shared the lot with a methadone clinic, not far from a Salvation Army shelter, not far from a pharmacy, gun shop, Circle K, smoke shop. Repeat ad nauseum and you have the city plan. The actual building was an incongruous mix of industrial suburban, and south west with light brown stucco exterior in the stylings of an old Spanish fort, and sterile hospital-esque interior with commercial tile ceilings, fluorescent lights, and linoleum floors. It was a small operation, just hovering at around 20 patients at any given time, and that number changed often enough. This was a pass through, not a long-term destination. Despite sometimes feeling a bit like a retirement home, this was where people go to die, most old, but some young. The rooms were clean, their guests free to decorate with familiar trappings, anything that provides a modicum of comfort.

  Patients, those not in vegetative states in their stay at the hospice, were glued to their televisions, silent and compliant. Cassie did her best to remedy the minor issues that came up, changing sheets, adjusting meds, listening to complaints with a compassionate ear that hopefully concealed
her exhaustion. Myrtes Thomas refused to eat. Babbe Steffens said her room smelled of urine. Horace Nelson wanted to know why he's here at all. Cassie was the shift nurse on a team comprised of administrators, orderlies and on call therapists and doctors. The work required patience and training, but Cassie also thought it needed compassion as well. The code browns, that's when someone shit themselves, didn't get her down, not nearly as much as the bouts of grief, the tear-soaked why god, why me's.

  Cassie checked Viola Bensen's charts. Viola was fairly spry despite her advanced age and intractable cancer. It was consuming her insides, but had not taken her wit, at least not yet.

  "Hello, Miss Cassie."

  "Hello to you, Viola. How are we feeling today?"

  "Better than some poor souls, but not as good as I was at 26!" she cackled.

  Viola eyed Cassie with a knowing look, a look that said, I know something about you.

  "Miss Cassie, I understand there was some trouble in town yesterday."

  Viola referred to any community business as occurring in town, or in the city. The city was always going downhill. Such things, anything that she caught wind of, certainly didn't happen when she was out and about. Signs of the times. Signs of the end times.

  Viola was Navajo. In fact, she'd been Miss Navajo in the 70s, an honor on skills, merits, and social awareness, not mere skin deep beauty, but she'd been that also. Her hands knew how to slaughter a sheep, make a mean fry bread, and thanks to a career in Chicago in the 80s, code IBM mainframes.

  Cassie made a point in knowing the histories of her charges. The personal histories stuck with her. She wanted them to know that their lives were not quite forgotten, even if they were shuffled off in corners of institutions this this on. She knew most would rather have been home, as that was the new trend in hospice. That simply wasn't an option for her patients. Sometimes families came by, some didn't. Cassie often felt like she heard the secrets that made up her patient's real identities. Which nephews had told lies when they were young, and that's why they would be cut from the will. Not that the dispositions in the wills were anything of value to the world, but trinkets, vases, velvet Jesus' and Elvis'. It wasn't always gossip, and Cassie liked it better when it was recollections about music and love and heartbreaks over a lifetime.