Perched on a stool the foreground, grinning as if to expose every one of her baby teeth, was Shelly Renee Steinberg. She’d been four when the picture was taken, a child that embodied innocence and childhood bliss. She possessed the singing voice of an angel—a talent she loved to show off during her parents’ many social gatherings—and a demeanor that would make a blithe gypsy-girl proud. While studying the picture, all the thoughts Tom assumed he’d left trapped in the whiskey bottle came roaring back. His young wife and daughter’s gentle faces stared at him with unconditional love. They would disapprove of his actions, both present and past, should they ever find out. Of this he had no doubt. At least he didn’t have to face them this evening, as they were in Chicago visiting Allison’s mother.
A putrid stench wafted across his nostrils and his stomach lurched. He cupped his hand over his nose and mouth, trying to hide the smell beneath his Purell-scented fingers. Had Allison left some meat out? It was certainly possible, and seeing as he hadn’t been home in the three days since she left, it would make sense. He went into the kitchen, turned on the light, and glanced around. Everything seemed to be in order, but still seemed off. He looked at the windows. Did I pull the blinds? I don’t remember. That nauseating scent persisted.
He snatched an aerosol can from the cabinet below the sink and sprayed it everywhere. It’s mice, he thought. One died in the walls. I should’ve called the exterminator months ago. It was the only explanation he could think of, so he ran with it. He would call Chuck in the morning and have the place fumigated. In the meantime, with the deodorant mist hanging in the air, he was resigned to spending the night in a house that smelled of chemical-laced, flowery shit.
Down the corridor was the den, and he walked with the spray can held in front of him like a cop with his pistol. A headache spiked behind his eyes, brought on by the combination of liquor and inhaling toxic fumes. He yawned, cracked his back, and flopped into his recliner, thinking he’d put off taking some aspirin until he couldn’t stand the pain any longer.
He found the television remote wedged beneath the cushions. An adhesive film covered the device’s gray plastic exterior, making the buttons sticky. Tom sniffed his fingers. Raspberry jam. Little Shelly’s image entered his mind again. He saw her running around with her favorite doll, Miss Molly, in one hand, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. That subtle cramp of sadness emerged again. Tom swiftly clicked on the television.
The picture lit up the room. BBC World Report on public television. According to the text, he was looking at a scene from Burma, where flaming cars flanked gray-clad troops who rumbled down the road sitting on a tank. Not today, thought Tom, and he flipped through the channels until he found his destination. FOX News. His curiosity piqued. How are they going to weasel out of this one? Will it even be mentioned? The crawl at the bottom of the screen announced local vaccination sites, but nothing else was said on the matter. A plain-looking woman with black spectacles (“The required costume of any female field reporter,” as George Stoolie, a senator from Florida, once said) appeared on the screen, standing in front of an old church. “Father Cahill, president of the Arch Diocese of Burgan County,” she said, “announced today that the church will support federal legislation, presented yesterday before the Supreme Court, that would officially ban gay marriage in all fifty states.” Tom couldn’t help but laugh. The world was falling apart and this was the garbage they threw out there? Of course. This was the national media, after all, the primary tool of any powerful government, working to its fullest, just as he liked. No pesky “investigative journalists” here. Keep them scared, as a great man once said, and they won’t question any decision until it’s too late.
Quite a show, Thomas.
The voice in his head snapped him to attention. “Who’s there?” he called out. No one answered. He turned his thoughts away from it, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him.
The half-hour segment ended and Tom turned off the set. His head hurt even worse now. He watched sparks of dust flicker with electricity on the screen and cursed the fact that he had turned it on in the first place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, prepared to lift his tired body off the chair in search of that aspirin.
He placed his hands on the armrests and paused. A sound emerged, hidden beneath the trickle of water running through the house’s pipes and the chirping of crickets outside. He covered his ears, but it didn’t help. The more he tried to inhibit the noise, the clearer it became: slurping, like hands covered in thick, industrial cleaning goop wrung together.
He peered around the back of the chair into the black expanse of his den. An outline emerged against the far wall, that of a man sitting cross-legged. Tom blinked rapidly, trying to brighten the image, but his eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness. The slurping appeared again, forming a knot in Tom’s stomach. Don’t be such a pussy. Get up and turn on the lights. You’ll see that there’s nothing there.
On legs that felt much too heavy, he stood up and tiptoed across the room. His finger reached out and searched for the light switch. The cold, hard plastic felt comforting beneath his fingertips, a mark of normalcy during a psychotic moment. Tom sighed and started to flip the switch.
“Don’t do that.”
He froze. The voice sounded twisted and guttural, and seemed to come at him from every direction, putting intense pressure on his already aching head. Yet there was something almost sweet about it. Soothing. If only it didn’t make him feel as if his skull would explode. He removed his finger from the switch and covered his ears again.
“Who’s there?” he asked. His brain seemed to have turned to mush.
“Step away from the wall, Thomas.”
Tom did as he was told and shuffled sideways into the middle of the room, where he stood suspended, as if in a trance, with his palms still pressed against his ears. The idea of what he must look like caused him to break into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Stop that, Thomas,” the voice said, and abruptly the spasm stopped. Tom lowered his arms.
“What’s going on?” he asked, and as absurd as the next question seemed in his own head, he asked anyway. “Have I gone crazy?”
The voice didn’t answer. Not a good sign. Tom strained his eyes but they still wouldn’t focus. Splotches of fireworks bounced across his vision. He stepped forward, heading toward the vague image.
“Come no closer.”
The thing against the wall stood up and Tom froze. He heard joints snap and a discouraged-sounding sigh. The shadow grew longer and taller. Spit dribbled down the corner of his mouth, which hung open, but he could do nothing to stop it. The harder he tried to make his body move, the stiffer his muscles became. The steady drumming of his heart slowed to an ungodly slow pace and his breathing felt strained. Despite all this, that peculiar sensation of calm continued. He felt like he’d gone and gotten himself stoned.
The man-shape approached him with long, erratic strides. It moved the way a drunk would, shaking and falling to the side with every other step. It seemed to take forever for the figure to cross the relatively short distance between them.
Tom’s eyes grew irritated and blurry as they stared, straight ahead and unblinking, and the unclear image became even hazier. It stopped a few feet in front of him.
“Don’t just stand there,” the voice said, and Tom’s shoulders hunched. He balled his fists and rubbed his sore eyes. His heart picked up its beat, and for the first time he let the strangeness of the voice sink in. A hodgepodge of accents, some he recognized and some he didn’t, weaved through every word: British, Cantonese, Russian, and Spanish, all crammed into one. He found it beautiful, the hoarse and sodden panting heard beneath it notwithstanding.
“Who are you?” asked Tom.
“I am not really sure,” the voice replied. “I know of purpose. I know of past. But not of identity. It is strange.” Tom swore he heard a sense of longing in its exotic tone, and after a long pause it said, “Sam. Yes,
I like that name. Sam it is.”
“Do you know me?”
It giggled, and uneasiness cramped Tom’s dreamlike state. “Thomas David Steinberg,” the voice stated. “Born in Brooklyn, New York. The only son of David and Greta Steinberg. Husband of Allison Bronwyn, father of Michelle Renee. Graduated with High Honors from Yale University. Promoted to director of the New York Department of Transportation at twenty-three years old. Elected State Treasurer at age twenty-nine. Entered into national politics four years later and was elected representative of the state of Pennsylvania, a position held for the last nineteen years. Currently a year into serving a third term as Speaker of the House.” That creepy giggle came again. “Yes, Thomas, I know you.”
Tom stepped back. The illusory tranquility melted away as scenarios jumped through his mind. Was this guy CIA? Had Pendergrass heard his speech and decided enough was enough? Had one of the organizations he’d pissed off over the years decided to take matters into their own hands? He had no way of knowing.
“Get away from me,” he said, backpedaling.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Thomas,” the shadow-man said. Its tone became the soothing one from earlier. “I do not want to hurt you.”
The man stepped into the light shining in from the hallway and Tom gasped. The thing before him was not a man, though it might have been at one time. It wore a pair of khaki shorts and a tan, button-up shirt stained a deep crimson around the collar and sleeves. Its flesh was of a reddish tint, gleaming as light reflected off of the pus bubbles which covered it. But the face struck Tom worst of all. Not a hair covered the top of its head and its skin had deteriorated to nothingness from the nose on down. Muscles flexed as that mouth opened and closed, and the tongue, a huge, black slug of a thing, flopped to the side. The eyes that peered out of its near-lidless sockets were the only thing about the beast that seemed alive. They were large and bloodshot with glowing yellow irises. Tom backed up further. His knee struck the corner of the coffee table and he stumbled. He glanced frantically around the room in a dead panic, searching for a way out. If only he could get to his desk in the study. Getting the thirty-eight caliber pistol stored in the locked bottom drawer was all he could think about.
The thing lurched forward until it stood mere inches from him. It stunk of month-old roast beef, and Tom had an ill-timed moment of clarity.
That explains the smell.
The creature’s head tilted to the side and those swelled-up eyes grew even larger. It wheezed, a string of mucus streaming from the jagged remnants of its nose. Tom’s heart pounded. He feared it would seize up at any moment. A black and red hand, runny with slime, fell on his shoulder and then moved down until it rested on his left breast.
“So alive,” the thing hissed. “So perfect.”
Tom sensed his world grow foggy. “Pl…please don’t…” he began.
The thing’s other hand lifted and a decayed finger pressed against Tom’s lips. It reeked, positioned right below his nose, and had the feel of an old, soggy frankfurter. Its face drew in close enough for Tom to see maggots wiggling beneath its translucent skin. Once again his stomach lurched.
“No speaking,” it said. The words came out slurred and choppy. “Let me know you understand.”
Tom nodded.
“Do you want to live?”
Tom nodded.
“Do you want any harm to come to your family?”
Tom shook his head.
“Good. I know you cannot comprehend what is happening here, but that is all right. All you have to know is that I need you. You are a good soldier, Thomas. Good at taking orders. You are very important to me. I need you, and for your cooperation, you will not be harmed. Do you appreciate this?’
Again, Tom nodded.
The thing that called itself Sam cocked its head to the other side. “I believe you,” it said, and removed the finger from his mouth.
“What do I have to do?” asked Tom. He felt like he was watching someone else’s life.
The Sam-thing didn’t answer. Instead, with a snapping motion that seemed much too quick, it pressed its mouth to his. Tom struggled against the pressure of its grasp but couldn’t break free. That disgusting slug of a tongue pushed against his locked lips, prying them open, violating him, snaking against the inner walls of his cheeks, forcing his gullet to widen. Tom wanted to scream but the thing’s grip forced the air from his lungs. The creature hiccupped and a gush of warm, sticky fluid poured into Tom’s mouth and down his throat. It burned as it rushed down his esophagus and into his stomach. He gagged and convulsed and the creature released him. He fell to the floor and clawed at his neck. His chest felt like it was on fire. The world began slipping away.
He gazed up at the trespasser with pleading eyes, but its back was to him. I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying, he thought.
“Stop being a baby,” the abomination said without turning around. “You will be fine.”
Tom’s vision faded until dim outlines were all he could see. The silhouette of a monster slipped to the living room entryway then stopped. Its intense yellow eyes glowed—the only color Tom could see.
“You will have a mess to clean up in the morning,” it said. “I know you excel at that sort of thing.”
Tom lost consciousness.
* * *
The alarm clock sounded at 8:13 AM. Tom slapped the snooze button. His head hurt and the irritating streaks of morning sun shining in beneath the drawn shades made him squint. He pulled the covers over his head. It had been months since he’d been able to sleep past five, because of this and that meeting, so-and-so needing to speak with him about vastly important matters, his cell phone ringing every five minutes. These were the events that usually filled his every waking moment, yet on this day there was nothing. He reached over and grabbed the phone off the nightstand to see one new message, from Allison the night before. Probably nothing important.
I could get used to this, he thought.
The idleness got to him and he stood up. His satin pajamas were cool and soothing as they swept against his skin. He walked into the bathroom on autopilot, his head still groggy. After a good piss he brushed his teeth and flossed, then meandered downstairs and opened the front door. He must have stared out into the crisp morning air for five minutes, confounded. Every day for the past six years the morning paper had waited for him on the welcome mat, consistent as clockwork. Now…nothing. “Huh,” he muttered, and walked back into the house.
His cell phone, in the pocket of his bathrobe, rang a few moments later. Guess I couldn’t count on a miracle. He flipped it open and put the receiver to his ear while striding into the kitchen for his ritual cup of coffee.
“Hello?” he said. The voice on the other end clamored in excitement. “Wow, slow down, Pete. What’s going on?” Still more frantic nonsense. “Calm yourself, man. I’ll take care of it when I get in. No, I overslept. No, I didn’t hear from Lassiter. I don’t care what…”
Tom stopped dead in his tracks at the kitchen doorway and stared. “I have to go, Pete,” he said, and snapped the phone shut before his assistant could respond. “Holy shit,” he whispered.
A body lay on the cold tile floor. It was naked. Clothes were piled neatly—folded, even—on the center island. With his body shuddering, Tom circled the corpse. It was a rather large woman, split open from throat to pelvis. Bloody flaps of skin had been peeled back, forming a diamond-shaped gorge, and her insides appeared mangled, as if a wild dog had taken to gnawing away at her kidneys, liver, and heart. The ribcage jutted out like a sinking ship in an ocean of red, and her intestines dangled over her fleshy sides. Tom bent over on knees that felt like rubber to get a better look at the woman’s face.
“Fuck.”
Rita Lancaster had lived next door to the Steinberg family since the day they arrived in this town. She proved to be the typical nosy neighbor, constantly showing up at the worst moments, knocking on the door to ask for a cup of milk or if someone could spare an
extra cigarette—an odd request Rita somehow never learned not to ask since neither Tom nor Allison smoked. On more than one occasion he’d caught her peeking her intrusive nose over the dining room windowsill. He didn’t like her (it bordered on hate), but she was nice to Shelly, always bringing her little trinkets, and Allison had taken to passing him dirty looks each time he groaned in disgust when she came over, so he learned to put up with it. “She’s just lonely,” Allison would say. “Does it really hurt to show her a little attention?”
Now there she was, Rita Lancaster of 157 Oak Lane, lying with her chest split open on Tom’s kitchen floor. She probably came over to ask if we had any coffee filters, he thought. An inappropriate chuckle escaped his throat. Boy, I bet she was surprised.
Without thinking, Tom grabbed his keys off the wall and strolled into his study. He opened the locked bottom drawer of his desk and took out his revolver. It was heavy in his hand. He inspected the chambers and saw that all six were full. Good.
His every action seemed like a blur. A sliver of his subconscious asked why he would be doing this, but the knowledge in his waking mind told it to shut up, that he knew what to do. He went back into the kitchen, leaned over Rita’s body, and pulled back the hammer. He pointed the barrel at the middle of her pasty white forehead, and waited.
Rita’s eyes snapped open, and Tom put a bullet in her skull.
* * *
The bright morning sun reflected off the roof of Tom’s BMW. He put on his sunglasses, debating for a moment whether to call the limo service for a ride. His eyes rose to the sky. It’s going to be a beautiful day, he thought. Screw the limo. He hadn’t paid seventy-five grand for this black beauty to let it rot in his driveway.
He’d never felt better as he hummed Cracklin’ Rose, opened the Beamer’s door, and plopped down in the driver’s seat. He glanced to his left and saw the family two houses down packing their van. The escapist within said they were getting ready for vacation. The realist, the one who understood things, knew better. They’re scared. They think they’ll run to Canada, where it’s safe. He chuckled. Nowhere’s safe. Not anymore.
The Fall: The Rift Book I Page 7
