“Fire.”
The internal argument continued on, Connor protesting her presence, Dream-Melanie finishing his thoughts for him.
* * *
“What did you think? Did you love it or what?” Melanie turned to him the moment the credits began to roll.
Connor shrugged.
“Yeah. Me too. It wasn’t nearly as good as the first. All my favorites keep dying. I was hoping Esau would survive.”
He shrugged again.
Melanie narrowed her eyes at him. Connor felt instantly guilty. His brain blushed. She teased, “You don’t talk much do you?”
He shook his head no.
“Well, you should. Just because you stutter a little doesn’t mean you don’t need to be heard.” Melanie looked over his shoulder. Connor did the same. The group were getting up and making toward the exit. Marvin was leading them out. The Destroyer hung back and looked over at him and Melanie.
Melanie leaned in and talked fast, quiet, “Why don’t you come with us tonight?”
Connor’s heart flip-flopped. Though he knew exactly what she said his response was automatic, “W-W-What?”
“Come with us.” Melanie’s eyes went from his to staring straight up.
The Destroyer.
Connor turned and sure enough George had come up behind them. He hadn’t heard any of their conversation and he was smiling broadly. “Come on Connor, we got to go.” Then to Melanie, “Thank you for coming miss. Awfully sorry Arthur couldn’t make it, not as sorry as Arthur surely is, but rules are rules. I’m sure Connor filled you in on all of the details.”
Melanie smiled. “Yes Sir. I enjoyed sitting with Connor here just the same.”
Connor got up. Now that George mentioned it, it seemed kind of weird that she hadn’t asked him much about Arthur or why he told George to “fuck off.” He told her in front of the theater, but that was that.
Melanie stood, her perfect breasts inches from his face, and the whole internal argument became a moot point. She leaned in, gave him a nice hug and then squeezed past. “Thanks again, Sir,” she curtsied at George and then walked toward the screen. Connor was about to yell after her that she was going the wrong way but she used an exit to the left of the movie screen.
George patted him on the back. “That one is dangerous my little friend. Dangerous with a capital D, A, N, G, E, R, O, U, S. Well, you ready to go get some pizza?”
* * *
From the theater to the pizza place to Cottonwood, Connor floated in a daydream. Panoramas of flame, teeth-like, sharp and jutting, intermingled with swaying silhouettes of Melanie’s curvy figure.
Did she like him?
Could she possibly?
The answer came back a resounding NO!
But still, Connor couldn’t shake the What-ifs, he couldn’t forget her compliments or her sweet, sweet gestures. Nobody had ever treated him with such affection or decency. True or false, it was wildly potent and he could barely register the flavor of pizza (his favorite food in the entire world) or the taste of root beer (his favorite drink in the entire world). When the assholes started in on him, calling him “Crackie” (as they were oft to) he didn’t even care. He barely heard them beneath the symphony of fire and desire twisting in his head.
She liked Arthur. He was one of them. It stood to reason then that she could like him. Except where Arthur was the Brad Pitt of retards, Connor likened himself to the Quasimodo of the bunch.
But she told him he was “cute.” Repeatedly. And she brushed the sweat from his head without even a second thought. And she understood him, finishing his sentences as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Incessant thoughts, round and round and round.
Perhaps she was his salvation. His exit.
Or perhaps she was there to fuck everything up.
Connor labored the nonsense from his mind. The Flame, he reminded his spinning brain, only The Flame, only The Flame.
* * *
They got home around seven-thirty. Lights out came at ten (although on Saturday nights Leon usually let them stay up longer). Melanie would be arriving at eleven. Connor had a lot to do in preparation.
He wanted to run upstairs and tell Arthur everything, to displace the stupid feelings he was developing for Melanie and put things into perspective (after all she was Arthur’s girl, not his) but the moment they got in, after the Destroyer said his goodbyes and left, Marvin waved Connor over to him.
“You know what to tell Art?”
“Y-Y-Yes.”
“Come here.” Marvin walked Connor through the kitchen to the administrative office where Leon was filling out some paperwork. “What’s up dawg?”
Leon looked up from his work. “Marvin my man! Jitterbug! How’s it hanging?”
Connor hated it when he called him Jitterbug.
“Art’s girl was smoking hot man! It’s still on.” Marvin put a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Jitt—, er, Connor, is gonna let Artie know and help out ‘k?”
Leon smiled big, all white, white teeth and face splitting smiles. “Solid, solid. Our man is still sick though. Before Joe clocked out he said that fool’s been sleeping all day.”
* * *
Connor ran upstairs to the bedroom. Sure enough, the lights were out and Arthur was buried under his covers. With a quick flip of the switch, he dashed across the room and bounded onto Arthur’s bed.
“W-W-Wake u-u-up!!!” Connor bounced on the edge of the bed.
Arthur shot up, stiff backed, his eyes wild, crazy, “What? What? What time is it?” He looked to the digital clock on his nightstand. It glowed 7:43. Something like relief washed over his face.
Connor laughed at his confused state. “It-It-It’s o-o-on m-m-motherfucker!”
When Arthur adjusted, realization settling over cognition he let out a deep breath and slumped back into the sheets. Burying his head in his arms, muffled, “What the fuck Connor?”
Connor continued with his wild man bouncing. It felt good to deliver the good news and suppress The Flame for a few seconds. “I-I-I s-s-said it’s o-o-n m-m-m-motherfucker!!!!”
Arthur kept his face hidden. Sans enthusiasm, groaning, “I heard. What?”
“M-M-Melanie! Y-Y-Y-our d-d-date!”
With a great, sad sack sigh Arthur sat up and leaned against the headboard. He looked horrible. Leon said that Joe said that he had been sleeping all day, but from the dark circles under his eyes and the worn look on his face you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Instead, you would think just the opposite. “I’m sick man.”
Connor plopped down and sat Indian-style at the foot of the bed. “I-I-In t-t-three h-hours. S-S-She’ll b-b-be h-h-here in t-t-three h-h-hours.”
“I can’t go.”
“Y-Y-Y-ou h-h-have t-t-to.”
“I need more sleep.”
“A-A-Arthur?” What was his problem? Idiot. Connor had half a mind to say, “Screw it” and let him alone, but this was too, too important.
“Look Connor, I’m just not ready for this okay? I have some probl—I just can’t get my head straight is all and it’s better if I let this one go.”
“D-D-Don’t y-y-you l-l-love h-h-her?” After today’s brief time with Melanie, Connor didn’t understand how he couldn’t.
“I don’t know man. I just can’t go. I don’t want to hurt her.”
“H-H-Hurt h-h-her?”
Arthur sighed big again and shook his head. “Not now okay? I need more sleep.” He leaned forward, toward Connor. “Promise me something.” His face got really serious, grave even, and Connor felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
“W-W-What?”
“Promise me you’ll sleep in the closet tonight. With the door shut.”
“W-W-Why?”
“Just promise me.”
“P-P-Promise m-m-me y-y-you’ll g-g-go.”
* * *
The argument went round and round until Arthur finally relented. Connor got ready for bed—pajamas, teeth brushed�
�and then went to tell Leon that he and Arthur were turning in early. Leon gave him the wink.
Back in the room, while Arthur continued to sleep, Connor changed out of his pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He put on his socks and Jordans and then shut himself into the closet for some final preparations. He spent about an hour readying his soldiers, affixing fuses (T-shirt strips soaked in gas held tight with tape).
At 10:30 he crept out of the closet. Arthur was still asleep.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Standing over him Connor whispered, “A-A-Arthur? A-A-Arthur?”
His roommate’s eyes fluttered a few times and then opened in a blank stare.
“It-It-It’s a-a-almost t-t-time.”
Arthur blinked away sleep and sat up. Like before, he immediately sought out the digital clock. Like before, the knowledge of time seemed to relieve tension. He put his head in his hands and rubbed vigorously. “I can’t do it man.”
“W-W-What?” Anger ran the length of his curved spine.
“I’m not going. I can’t.”
Beneath the eye-twitching anger there was a guilty thrill. Connor was pissed-pissed at him for reneging, but a part of him had wanted Arthur to back out. A part of him wanted Melanie all to himself. It didn’t care about Arthur’s well-being. It only cared about lust and hope and unfamiliar need. It wanted to explore unrealized potential. But, despite the excitable selfishness bubbling within, another part did care and it drove Connor to push. He slugged Arthur on the shoulder. “D-D-Don’t b-b-be s-s-stupid. It-It-It’s t-t-ten th-th-thirty f-f-five.”
“I know but…”
Connor slugged him again.
“Fucking shit man, stop!”
“Y-Y-You’re g-g-going. Y-Y-You h-h-have t-t-to.”
Arthur sat up. “I can’t. I’ve got a problem—”
Connor waited a full thirty seconds for the explanation but it never came. It looked like Arthur wanted to say something and he sputtered a few times, half-words tripping over his lips before he put his face in his hands and muttered, “I’m not going okay? I’ll explain it to Melanie at school. Just go to sleep. Forget it.”
“I-I-I’m g-g-g-oing.” Connor didn’t know if it was a good idea to tell Arthur, but the part of him that cared fired off one last shot. There was nothing like jealousy to spur on motivation. There were tons of times when Connor could care less about this toy or that, but the moment another kid claimed it, it became the most important toy in the world.
“What?” Arthur dropped his hands.
“M-M-Melanie i-in-invited m-m-me t-t-t-oo. I-I-I’m g-g-g-oing.”
A jealous spark flashed in his eyes—success—and for a second it looked like Arthur wanted to leap from the bed and throttle him lifeless.
Connor seized upon the moment and taunted, “S-S-She l-l-likes m-m-me.”
Jealousy flared and Arthur’s lips tensed, he looked ready to rage, but then in an instant it all died away and something akin to defeat emanated from his stare. He looked sad. Helpless.
“I-I-I’m s-s-serious. I-I-I’m n-n-not c-c-coming b-b-back.”
Arthur nodded and then asked, “In the morning?”
“N-N-Never. I-I-I’m-m n-n-never c-c-coming ba—”
“What? Where are you going? To live with Melanie?” The tiniest smile curved the corners of his mouth.
Was he mocking him? There was a glint in his eye. Was he making fun?
The flame gathered in Connor’s brain.
The digital clock glowed 10:46.
It was time.
“N-N-No. B-B-But I’m n-n-n-not c-c-c-coming b-b-back!” He left Arthur sitting on the bed and ran to the closet.
“Connor?”
Ignoring the call he gathered his soldiers from their hiding place. Arthur tried to get his attention again, but this time his words failed to register. They crackled and sputtered; anti-noise in Connor’s ears.
It was time.
The Flame was upon him.
A white fuzz crept in and encased his brain. It buzzed so loudly he could hear nothing but a river of steady flowing static. Connor gritted his teeth as he pulled each bottle from seclusion and lined them up just outside of the closet door. The fuzz grew electric and penetrated the cerebellum, the cerebrum, the frontal lobes. It coursed through his brain stem and infected his internals, sheathing his motor skills in a stilling, calming emulsion. For the first time in his life, Connor wielded steady, efficient hands.
Arthur ran over and put a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Connor! What the fuck are you doing man?”
The intervention, a peripheral blur barely registered by Connor’s conscious mind, a mere hiccup, not a friend, not a person, a nuisance to be silenced, electrified the subconscious. The white fuzz, the protector, The Flame, lashed out. It seized control of Connor’s working limbs, wrapped a sure hand around the neck of one of the Corona bottles and with all of his might smashed it against Arthur’s left leg. The bottle broke into a multitude of prickly pieces and imbedded a nasty shard of glass into the top of his foot just below the ankle. Gasoline drenched his pajama pants.
Arthur stumbled and fell backward. He let out a grunt when his tailbone smashed onto the thinly carpeted floor and then a higher pitched scream when his eyes alighted upon the large jag of glass protruding from his foot.
The Flame drove Connor hard.
He retrieved a lighter from the canvas tote. Eyes focused on the bottles, readying battle plans, his right arm shot out and pressed against Arthur’s bloodied, gas soaked leg. His right thumb spinning metal against flint, birthing fire, lit it up.
The accelerant caught and Arthur’s pant leg exploded into a ball of glorious fire. He screamed at the top of his lungs and began flopping around on the floor spastically trying to extinguish the mini-inferno.
The bedroom door opened. Leon, defined by the whites of his wide, wide eyes stood stunned. He mouthed, “Holy shit!” and then moved for Arthur.
The Flame seized Connor yet again. This time it grabbed the second Corona bottle with his left hand, lit the fuse with his right, and then sent the soldier flying through the air at Leon.
The bottle tumbled end over end, its ardent tail burning steaks of light into the blue-black of the darkened room. Time slowed. No sound. No gravity. Dead air. And then in an instant—resuscitation, hyper-speed, a roar so loud it shook the world, a burst of flame so magnificent it washed the entire room out.
Leon’s screams snapped Connor out of his stupor. The Flame temporarily relinquished control and hid behind his fast beating heart. Connor stared stupidly at Leon’s bleeding, burning jigging. The Corona bottle hit him square in the forehead. Glass shards punctured his face and blood ran freely from numerous wounds. The gas-fueled fire settled over his head, his shoulders, his abdomen and dripped from him like fizzling fireworks. His kinky hair sizzled away instantaneously. Flesh whizzed and popped. Blindly thrashing, Leon tripped over Arthur and fell forward. On the way down his head clipped Connor’s nightstand with a bass thump. By the time he hit the floor he had stopped moving. The fire smoldered and whipped, sucking air, convulsing, smoking, continuing to gleefully eat Leon’s head.
Arthur jumped to his feet and struggled to get his burning pajama bottoms off. While wrestling with the flaming fabric he inadvertently broke the shard jutting from his foot, its shattered bulk falling to the carpet, a quarter sized piece of razor-sharp glass still buried deep in his flesh. He grunted and groaned with agony, tears running shiny waterfalls down his cheeks.
Connor hated to see him like this. He looked ridiculous sobbing in his tightie whities like a baby. But alas, there wasn’t time to sympathize or console. The digital clock blazed 10:52.
The nightstand Leon smoldered by had begun to burn nicely. Connor got lost in the mesmerizing interplay of heat and dying oxygen. After a few wasted seconds, he shook it off and got to his feet. The Flame, only The Flame.
Pant-less, Arthur looked at Leon’s lifeless husk. “Connor? Wha?”
“N-N-No time. Y-Y-You b-b-better g-g-get o-o-out w-w-while y-y-you c-c-can.” Connor’s voice came out smoother than it ever had.
Arthur’s eyes addressed him with disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”
Before he could respond (not that he had anything witty or insightful or sensible to say), Johara came walking in, half asleep, rubbing his eyes, “Guys?”
The flame flared within. Connor grabbed the Perrier bottle, lit the fuse and hurled it. Jo-Jo went from sludgy to alert in a split second. He dodged the bottle and dove out of the room. The Perrier bottle crashed against the doorjamb coating the wood frame in liquid fire. Arthur cowered from the sudden swell of heat and dove behind his bed.
Connor moved quickly. Only two soldiers left. He jammed the lighter into his pocket, looped the canvas tote bag (his grenade resting snug and safe within) over his shoulder, hefted the massive Carlos & Rossi jug in his right hand and the 40 oz Crazy Horse bottle in his left, and then dashed into the hall.
Things had gotten away from him; there was a set of very specific plans mapped out in his head and if he didn’t hurry all would be lost. The wild flame inside nearly did him in. It was impulsive. And hungry. It didn’t care about finishing the job, only about starting it.
His bedroom and the hall beyond it were beginning to flame pretty good. Leon was out of the picture. Unless Arthur got moving he would be trapped. Connor could give a fuck at this point; he couldn’t waste any more time worrying about it. Melanie would be out front waiting and he intended on using her to get as far away from Cottonwood as possible. When he ran over this scenario in his head the end was always iffy. He pretty much planned on going up in flames with the house. Melanie’s offer gave him an exit. A future. Something inside told him life was going to be a million times better after this. As if this burning was a cleansing, a rebirth.
Outside of Santos and Gabe’s room he set down his soldiers and repositioned the tote bag’s straps so that they hung securely over his shoulder. Fishing the lighter from his pocket he slowly opened the door. The idiots were still sleeping. Connor lit the fuse on the Carlos & Rossi bottle, crammed the lighter back into his pocket and then with two hands picked the jug up and heaved it in between their beds. The four-liter container hit the carpet and erupted into gargantuan ball of fire. Gas and flames splattered outward and engulfed each bed. Screams rang out in stereo. Santos was first up. His entire left side aflame and he ran in mad, aimless circles. Gabe followed suit, his right side burning.
Lambs Page 10
