BOOM: A Lovecraftian Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Ben Farthing

  "Everard." Bill Bill had stuck his head back outside. "What are you doing?"

  "Going inside."

  "No, you're not."

  Everard's burst of impulsive fury calmed down. What if the people inside were armed? What if it was the freaks who'd already attacked him?

  "If you're going to waste the evening farting around on your porch, might as well come help me over here first."

  "Yeah, okay." He couldn't get to his pistol. What did he do now?

  He jogged over to his neighbor's porch.

  The car he'd heard pull up still idled in its space. Everard felt sure he'd never seen it before - a dark green towncar that warbled in the heat. Although, it was the only car in the lot affected by that warping optical illusion.

  Two silhouettes watched him from behind tinted glass. Not the two who'd attacked him in the business park, but definitely watching him.

  Everard shook his head in denial. No. The figures flinched.

  The car's engine shut off, and birdsong filled the ensuing silence.

  "Come on in." Bill Bill waved him inside. "I'll show you what needs doing."

  Everard gave the car another look, then followed Bill Bill. He shut and bolted the door behind him.

  United States flags hung on either side of the hallway, one with a ring of 13 stars, another with two circles of stars, one with the stars forming a bigger star. No two flags the same, but all red, yellowed white, and blue.

  "I think it's back here," Bill Bill yelled from down the hallway.

  Everard peered out the window. The silhouettes still sat in the car.

  Breathing deep, Everard rubbed the sweat from his brow. There was always the option of just cutting town. He hated running away.

  If he only had his Walther, he could confront whoever was in that car, and whoever was in his house.

  But that wasn't the only gun in town.

  He sent a quick text to Diondre.

  I need something ASAP. Don't care about the model. Tell me where to meet you.

  "Are you coming?" called Bill Bill.

  Everard ducked under a cuckoo clock nailed to the ceiling, past the kitchen (and a smell of unfamiliar meat frying), and around the corner. Bill Bill had been at Everard's four or five times, but Everard had never been over here. It felt like a seven-year-old's drawing of an antique shop, come to life.

  It was like Bill Bill, himself: haphazard and esoteric, but with some logic behind it all. Not any logic Everard could follow, but still.

  "Where'd it go?" muttered Bill Bill, digging through papers in a wooden chest that would have served as a coffee table and the living room's centerpiece, if the room wasn't full of junk.

  Everard's heart sank as he realized what he'd just done: he'd shown his pursuers that Bill Bill was his friend. If Everard disappeared, they'd come after Bill Bill for information. If he took off to get a gun now, they'd come straight for the old guy.

  He got distracted by a fish tank as big as a refrigerator, water murky, with a contraption of wood and pulleys above, fishing line pulled taut into the brown, rectangular pond. The pulley zipped as the line jerked one way and then the other, as if an invisible fisherman were battling a great hidden beast below.

  Everard leaned toward the glass.

  "Don't touch that," snapped Bill Bill, now yanking books off an unfinished oak shelf, letting them lie where they fell.

  Two muskets rested on ten-penny nails driven into the wall. Everard didn't know enough about historical firearms to say what they were, but he was pretty sure they used black powder to launch a lead ball on a wildly inaccurate journey.

  Everard considered for a moment borrowing a musket to confront his houseguests or the people in the town car. But of course that wouldn't work. Maybe if the muskets had bayonets.

  Bill Bill pulled his pockets inside out. "Hmm. Not there either."

  Everard's phone buzzed with Diondre's response. I'm downtown. But if you can get to me, we can do business.

  "You know, why don't we go grab some burgers?" Maybe Everard could at least get him out of the house, or even bring him along to Diondre. Keep an eye on him until he could sort this out. "Then I'll help you with whatever you need."

  "Not hungry," said Bill Bill. "And I changed my mind. I'm gonna help you."

  "Help me with what?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. If his new neighbor knew about the bounty, that suggested he was involved.

  "I'm gonna let you spend some time with George." Bill Bill stuck his finger in the air and grinned ear to ear.

  Everard was being paranoid. Bill Bill was clueless. About the bounty, and just in general. "Who's George?"

  Bill Bill lowered himself to his hands and knees - a tough move for a man who had to be pushing eighty - to peer under an end table.

  "What are you looking for?" asked Everard.

  "Carrier," said Bill Bill, who'd moved on to pulling up couch cushions.

  Everard looked around the room. "Like, a model of a ship?"

  "What? No, a little cage for a cat."

  Everard pointed to a pile of wooden crates. A blue plastic and metal wire pet carrier hid behind rough oak slats.

  "There it is!" Bill Bill shoved aside a crate to snatch up the carrier. "Now I just need to find a cat."

  He hurried up the stairs, aggressively shouting, "Here kitty kitty!"

  Everard stepped to Bill Bill's back door. Their row of townhouses shared a sliver of maintained grass. Behind that was 10th Street, and then a sparse forest of white pines, golden brown needles lining the ground. Through fifty feet of that was the Brookland Metro Station. Everard craned to look behind his own house. Nothing seemed out of place.

  He couldn't babysit Bill Bill; what was he thinking? These people were still coming after him. Leaving Bill Bill at home was dangerous, but keeping him nearby was even worse.

  "Hey," Everard called up the stairs. "Do you have any family you could go visit for a few days?"

  Everard could buy him a bus ticket.

  "Nope," came the response.

  So a bus ticket and a hotel room.

  Hell, he had enough cash in his wallet from his finished job to give Bill Bill a weekend getaway. That should be enough to make sure Everard didn't accidentally get his neighbor killed. Old people liked gambling, right? He'd send him to Atlantic City.

  Everard called a cab company. Living by a metro station had the benefit of always having cabs waiting nearby. They told him 3 minutes.

  Everard ended the call and replied to Diondre's text. On my way. 30 min. Tell me where to meet you.

  He considered joining Bill Bill in the cab, but the metro was probably his best option, assuming it wasn't late. The quicker he could get the old man away from him, the safer Bill Bill would be.

  Bill Bill shouted in surprise. Everard dashed to the stairs to find him at the top.

  "Are you all right, Bill?"

  "My name is Bill Bill. Bill was my father." He cackled, then held up the carrier like a fisherman showing off his catch. "I found George."

  Everard caught his breath. Crazy old man. He glanced to make sure the front door was still bolted.

  Bill Bill limped down the stairs wearing a tophat and carrying the locked cage, which now shifted with the weight of an angry, rowling cat, whose black and white fur stood on end. Bill Bill thrust the carrier into Everard's hands.

  "George can help you."

  Yep. This guy was a few tools short of a well-stocked truck.

  "Help me with what?"

  "Stress, loneliness, mice. You name it, really."

  "I don't want a cat. I'm allergic."

  "You can't have him," said Bill Bill, offended. "He needs an operation. He's too excited around the lady felines. Snip snip, and whatnot."

  "I'm not neutering your cat."

  "Course not. Just take him to the vet."

  "Oh okay, well, sure. Wait, no. Listen, Bill Bill." Everard spoke slowly and clearly. He had to be gentle about this, as getting authoritative would make the old
man stubborn. "I'm giving you a weekend away."

  "No, I just need to get George to the vet."

  "Right, I understand that. But wouldn't you like to spend a day playing the slots?"

  "I've always been a bigger fan of blackjack. Women don't care when you get triple cherries, but if you get blackjack? Watch out, they'll be on you like you're James Bond himself."

  "Then grab a change of clothes and your toothbrush, because I'm treating you to a weekend of blackjack. The cab's already on its way." Everard heard slow footsteps through the wall. Someone was walking up his stairs.

  "I've got a bug-out bag in my closet." Bill Bill shoved the carrier into Everard's arms and limped back into his living room. "We'll drop George off on the way."

  "No, I'm not coming," said Everard. "Is your leg okay?"

  "Just a little soreness, but I might tell it to go away." Bill Bill cackled. "That's a joke you'll get later on."

  Everard smiled awkwardly. That's what the elderly really wanted from younger people, right? Awkward smiles and politeness.

  Bill Bill opened a closet door, releasing a wave of refrigerated air. He pulled out a camouflage backpack and shut the door. Everard didn't get a look inside to see why it was so cold.

  "This here's my bug-out bag," said Bill Bill. "It's got two days of clothes, food, toiletries, water, and of course, nine and a half pounds of enriched wheat flour."

  Everard didn't care if the man brought a Faberge Egg collection, as long as he got moving.

  "Do you need anything? Tape recorder? Hat?" asked Bill Bill.

  "Actually, a hat would be great." Everard could use a way to change his appearance a little. "You don't have some sunglasses I could borrow, do you?"

  "My Nationals cap is under that throw pillow." He pointed to the couch. "Unless you want my tophat."

  "The baseball cap is fine," said Everard, grabbing the hat from its hiding place.

  Bill Bill went to the kitchen. "I've got some sunglasses in my junk drawer."

  This whole place looked like a junk drawer.

  He came back with a pair of perfectly round, John Lennon style sunglasses. Weird looking, but they'd do. It was at least different from how he looked in the wanted flyer. "The cab's probably here."

  Bill Bill put the backpack over his shoulders and tightened the straps. He pulled two business cards from his pocket, and placed one on top of the cat carrier. "This is the vet's address. So we both have one."

  Whether Bill Bill meant for George or Everard to have the card was anyone's guess.

  Everard shepherded his neighbor to the back door, carrying George. "I told them to meet us out here." He opened the sliding glass door, setting off a series of bells and chimes throughout the house.

  "I like to know when company arrives," said Bill Bill.

  "I need something like that." Everard leaned outside, decided it was clear, and led the way to the cab. "Tell him to swing by your vet, and then take you to the bus station."

  Bill Bill cupped Everard's cheek in his hand. "Thank you so much for this."

  "Not a problem." Everard's jaw twitched, and he jumped. "You shocked me."

  Bill Bill cackled. "Sorry about that. You know how it is with this humidity." He got into the back seat, and shut the door.

  "Hold on," said Everard, still holding George's carrier, and reaching for his wallet. "You need the money for the trip."

  Bill Bill rolled down the window. "Okay, I'll meet you at the vet."

  The cab rolled away.

  "Wait," Everard shouted.

  Bill Bill stuck his head out the window. "Don't trust anyone in a suit!"

  Everard yelled again, but the cab kept right on until it turned the corner, out of sight. He ran his hand through his hair. A warm breeze blew through the sparse trees, and another car cruised down 10th.

  What just happened? That crazy old man couldn't stop yammering for thirty seconds to let Everard get a word in edgewise, and now he was going to get himself killed. Which would still be Everard's fault.

  This was a disaster. If Bill Bill came back here, these thugs would probably be waiting. Everard didn't have any choice but to meet him at the vet's to give him the money. Not to mention the cat. He could leave George here, but then Bill Bill might want to come back for him. Plus, he hated abandoning even an animal to whoever was after him.

  The festive alarm system went off again. Everard didn't see anyone, but he booked it to the metro station as fast as he could without drawing more attention.

  Alone with his thoughts, he found the swarming holes on that woman's skin pushing themselves to the front of his mind.

  A quick look over his shoulder said no one was following.

  He could handle this. He'd swing by Diondre, meet up with Bill Bill, then head back home to get reacquainted with his houseguests.

  Chapter Three

  "Well, George," said Everard, walking up the metro station stairs, "say goodbye to your balls."

  George meowed in resignation.

  The noisy metro station's air conditioning gave a cool break from the stuffy train, but walking back up to the street felt like walking into a sauna, even in the early evening.

  He looked around to get his bearings. Downtown D.C. was a mix of white brick buildings with columns and arches, and glass and steel office buildings, all shorter than 160 feet, the height of the Capitol building dome. Or maybe it was the Washington Monument. Everard couldn't remember. Either way, it made for an open, airy feel in this heart of urbanity.

  Since it was after six on a Thursday, there were far more people leaving downtown than arriving. The typical D.C. crowd - suits, expensive shoes, and important jobs(or at least well-paying jobs) - clicked their leather soled shoes along the sidewalks. But Everard figured he shouldn't criticize. These were the people paying him to make their houses look pretty.

  The cat turned circles in his carrier, shifting its weight awkwardly.

  Everard checked the business card. It read: 728 32nd St NW.

  That was all. No business name, phone number, or email. All printed in Comic Sans. "Ah geez, I hope Bill Bill didn't give me the wrong card."

  And that address was farther than he'd thought. He'd have to hop back on the Metro after finding Diondre.

  A boom echoed through the city. The people around him ducked and frantically looked around. Idiots. This had been going on for two weeks. Nothing was going to happen.

  Everard headed for the restaurant Diondre had texted him.

  The crowd of slightly over-achieving government workers trickled out of their offices to head home (the seriously over-achieving crowd would stay at least a few more hours). It was a weekday, but still summer vacation, so families of tourists wandered over from the Smithsonians and monuments looking for places to eat.

  Still, there were fewer people around than he expected. Usually twice as many people filled the sidewalks. Maybe it was a holiday he'd forgotten.

  He glanced around to see if anyone was following him. He didn't notice anyone who'd been on the train with him, but there was no way to know who might have their own copy of the wanted flyer.

  He caught himself staring at a passerby. The guy had stitches all along where his chin met his neck, and outlining his nose. With skin that pale, he must be recovering from some kind of plastic surgery. He caught Everard staring.

  Everard looked away and quickened his pace. He hated thinking he'd made the guy self-conscious about his looks.

  He reached the intersection, spotted a Brazilian Steakhouse, and jogged across the crosswalk. He texted Diondre. I'm outside. Where are you?

  "Everard." Diondre leaned against a wall by a food cart, eating a sandwich half-wrapped in white paper. He wore nice jeans and a polo, in the baggy style that urban culture had held on to while the rest of the country competed over whose pants could crush their balls the worst.

  Everard leaned against the wall next to him. "Thanks for meeting me. Do you have somewhere we can go, or...?"

  A thin
crowd still trickled along the sidewalks.

  Diondre swallowed a bite of ham and turkey, then motioned with his chin to the ground at his feet. "Nah, I got your sandwich in the bag."

  Everard set down George's carrier to pick up the bag and looked inside.

  "Why'd you bring your cat?" asked Diondre.

  "Long story." There was another paper-wrapped bundle, but also a tiny pistol designed for concealed carry, a Ruger or Beretta by the smooth look of it. No holster. "Were you out of BB guns?"

  "C'mon, I was out with my girl, and you said ASAP. This is what I had on me."

  Turning the bag into the fading sunlight, Everard took a closer look. "It's a nine millimeter?"

  "Would you hush?"

  "No one's paying attention to us," said Everard.

  "Yes, it's a nine," said Diondre. "Six rounds, plus one in the chamber."

  "There's one in the chamber now?"

  "Hell, no. I'm not trying to accidentally kill nobody." Diondre took another bite as a federal security guard walked by. Once she'd passed, he said, "what do you want it for?"

  Everard named a generous price.

  "Nah, man. What are you gonna do with it?"

  "What, you want to do a background check while we're at it? You didn't grill me last time."

  "Last time you didn't say ASAP. If you're angry at your ex's new boyfriend or something, I think you better come to church with me before you do something stupid."

  "I didn't realize you were a moral illegal weapons salesmen."

  Another man with stitches walked by.

  "All my guns are legal models. But plenty of people don't want their names in no registry. I don't sell to nobody angry."

  Everard could respect that. "I pissed off some dangerous people. I might need to defend myself later tonight. And possibly my neighbor."

  "What'd you do?"

  "I honestly don't know."

  "But you aren't planning on going straight somewhere and shooting nobody?"

  "No." He had to go to the vet first.

  "Okay, let's see the cash."

  Everard pulled out his wallet.

  "Be cool, man. Don't wave it around. Hand it to me with your business card."