by Edward Lorn
Donald recognized the decaying face even though death had not been kind. Her thin hair still held particles of grave dirt, and the body was clothed in its funeral garb.
Donald looked into those chocolate eyes that had been untouched by death. “Sunne?”
“Don’t…” Huff. “Call…” Puff. “Me that!”
“It’s me… Donald.”
“You let me die!” Wretched breath, smelling of age and decay, flooded his face as Sunne wailed.
“I’m sorry. There were too many of them.”
“You were small. Useless.”
“There was nothing I could have done. Please believe me.”
“You could have died with me!”
Donald looked across the table at Sunne. He tried his best to seem taller by keeping his back straight, but his tailbone was beginning to ache.
Sunne smiled. “This is nice place.”
“I’ve been a couple of times,” he lied. Chez Martinique was well above his price point, but he’d saved a little chunk away for college, and scoring that scholarship had freed up a bit of his money.
“Never been to so nice a place.”
“It’s all right.”
“So, you born here?”
“In America?”
“No.” She laughed. “In New York.”
“Oh. No, I was born in California. Fresno area.” Donald sipped his wine. It was bitter, but he pretended to like it.
“Never been to California. I like to go, but maybe you take me?” Her eyes sparkled in the dim lighting of the restaurant, and Donald felt himself flush.
“I’d like that.” Once again, Donald had lied. He’d never go back there.
The dinner courses came and went. Talk about home and life and different cultures changed to more intimate conversation about wanting kids, where they’d like to live, and marriage.
“Do you think…?” She paused, looking nervous. “That kids will be small?”
He almost dropped his wineglass into his lap. “What?”
“Father is small. You are small. You think child from us, together, will be small?”
He could see hope and doubt warring in those brown eyes. He set the glass down, his hands shaking. Fear and anger welled inside him, but he managed to suppress it. “Would that be a bad thing?”
“No.” She sat back in her chair. “I just wondering. Not good subject. I sorry.”
“No. It’s okay,” Donald said, relaxing a little. “Go ahead, get your thought out.”
“It’s hard, and I don’t think you understand.” Her shoulders slumped. “You carry much anger because you so small. My father, also, mad at God. He always say…” Sunne shook her finger at Donald in what he assumed was an impression of her father. “‘This life is hard, Sunne. People, they hate and lie and make you feel less than human being.’ So, I just wouldn’t like our child to feel that badness.”
Donald looked inward at his own hatred and lies and lesser feelings about the world in general. All the years of mocking and taunts had turned his heart to stone, yet it seemed Sunne held the chisel. He placed an upturned hand on the table, and Sunne leaned forward to lay her hand in his.
“The world’s not so bad,” Donald lied again.
“You remember!” The dead-Sunne thing growled, shaking its head. “You remember what they did to me while you were small and useless. You remember how you were a coward!”
“I tried—”
“You tried nothing!” That final word hung on the air, a discarded note echoing off the cavern walls.
Donald’s mind was hopping back and forth, fighting to hold on to reality. He felt if he were to give up his grasp, for just a second, his mind would be lost forever.
“I loved you,” Donald pleaded, his heart bleeding. “Don’t you know that? Somewhere deep inside you know how much it hurt me… to have to watch… to have to be held down… to have you taken like that!”
“You feel nothing!”
“I felt you.” Donald looked into those dead eyes. They seemed to calm for the briefest instant.
Then, the rage returned. A ghastly hand, bones showing through in ragged patches, wrapped around his throat.
“You remember!”
Donald struggled to breathe. His vision grew an edge, blurring until the world changed, and he was thrust out into the cold.
Sunne, her coat draped around her shoulders, held Donald’s hand as they left Chez Martinique. They walked along in the cool evening, enjoying each other’s company. Neither owned a car—no need to in New York City—and Donald was glad for that. It meant more time spent with Sunne on the way back to her place.
They moved down 42nd Street, Donald happier than he’d ever been in his life. Sunne hummed a familiar song.
“Look at the short shit!” a rough voice yelled. “Little dude’s off to see the Wizard with his Hong Kong Dorothy, I betcha!”
“Ignore them,” Sunne said. She didn’t know just how hard that request would be to fulfill. A wan smile crossed her face, and Donald decided to try.
The crew consisted of three young hoodlums out for a night on the town. They were dressed in white jeans at least two sizes too big and blue tank tops. The clothing screamed of gang colors, but Donald didn’t know enough to judge which gang they might represent. One of the guys was black, the other two white. All of them were walking directly toward Donald and Sunne.
“Off to see the Wizard! The wonderful Wizard of Oz!” The guy had a lazy eye. His good pupil glared at Donald, while the other stared at his own nose.
The three fanned out, blocking Donald’s path.
“Excuse us,” Donald said.
The shorter white guy, a wiry, crackhead-looking type, picked at his yellowed teeth with a fingernail, grinning over his knuckles. A long scar ran from his cupid’s bow, over his lips, to the cleft in his chin.
“She’s cute, short round.” Lazy-Eye nodded at Sunne, but kept his eyes on Donald. “Where’d you snag her? Rent-A-Fuck?”
“Just let us go. We no want trouble,” Sunne said. Donald was surprised by the confidence in her voice.
“Just let us goooooooo… We no want trouble… Me love you long time!” Lazy-Eye mocked.
The smallest of the group, a young black kid who looked as terrified as Donald felt, said, “Yo, guys… guys, I gotta get home. For real.”
“Beat feet, Bone,” Lazy-Eye replied. “We got shit to do.”
The black kid turned and bolted.
“You let us go,” Sunne said boldly, thrusting her chest out with the comment.
“Ah, shut the fuck up.” Lazy-Eye reared back and slapped Sunne across the face. Her head snapped to the side.
“Hey!” Donald, taken off guard, responded a little late. “Fuck off, asshole!” He shoved Lazy-Eye hard in the gut.
He was popped in the face by what he could only guess was Scar-Lip’s fist. Donald bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood.
“You first.” Lazy-Eye cackled. He threw his own punch. Donald felt something in his nose give way. “Get rid of this short shit, will ya?”
Donald, still reeling from both hits, stumbled back and landed on his rump. He felt himself being pulled off the ground, someone’s hands under his armpits.
“Get your… fucking hands… off me,” Donald wheezed.
Scar-Lip dragged him to the stairs of the brownstone across the street and tossed him onto the first step. He put a boot in Donald’s chest and pushed him back against the cold concrete.
Donald leaned around Scar-Lip’s foot and watched as Lazy-Eye disappeared into an alleyway, Sunne in tow.
“Bring her back!” Donald cried, coughing blood onto Scar-Lip’s shoe.
“See what the fuck you did?” The hood wiped the blood off his Doc Martins with his fingers and cleaned his hand on Donald’s dress shirt.
Without thinking too much about what he was doing, Donald punched the thug as hard as he could in the eye while the guy was still bent over.
Scar-Lip stumbled
back, holding the side of his face. Donald tackled the guy, rolling him into the street. He pounded Scar-Lip’s throat with his fists, while kicking the man in the crotch.
The man’s flesh cracked like dropped china. A thick, gooey blackness oozed from the segmented skin, covering Donald’s hands. He kicked one more time before his foot got caught.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Donald growled. He pulled his hand away, inky strands of blackened membrane coming with it. He rolled off the man and scurried away on his hands and knees. A few feet away, he got to his feet. He hobbled to the alleyway where Lazy-Eye had retreated with Sunne.
The corridor smelled of piss, vomit, and trash. Sickly, jaundiced rays came in from the opposite end of the alley, pouring off a streetlamp with a broken cover. He stopped halfway down and did a complete three-sixty, hunting for Sunne.
Donald heard her muffled whimpering and found the two beside a dumpster. He’d ran right past them in the poor light.
Lazy-Eye had Sunne’s pants down around her ankles while he worked between her legs. The hood’s ass was pale in the yellow glow coming from the streetlight.
Scar-Lip stumbled into the alley. He was laughing—a gurgling, bubbling sound—as ropes of viscous fluid poured from his shattered face. In his right hand, the blade of his knife gleamed.
“Get back here, Midget!” Scar-Lip growled.
“Keep him… away,” Lazy-Eye grunted as he pumped. He had his hand over Sunne’s mouth. Donald could see the fear in her bulging eyes.
Ignoring Scar-Lip and his blade, Donald rushed the rapist, punching the man in the back of his head. The skull shattered, and broken pieces of porcelain-like flesh clattered across the floor of the alleyway.
Donald fell back against the brick wall. His knuckles were bleeding where the glass head had cut him. The insanity of the situation infected him. He was rooted in place, flush with the brick wall.
“I don’t know, but I’ve been told,” the headless hood sang. “Chinese pussy’s mighty cold!”
The alleyway tilted in Donald’s vision. The world had become unhinged.
Donald watched helplessly as the headless rapist shoved his jagged neck into Sunne’s throat. It dug around, widening the wound.
Donald snapped his eyes shut and screamed until his throat was sore.
When he opened them again, he was back in the cave.
“Remember me, you small, useless man!” the dead-Sunne thing roared, its hands still around Donald’s neck.
“Plea… puh… pee…”
Donald…
The thing’s head snapped to the side with a low growl.
Donald’s head swam. The damn fish had returned.
I’m right here, Donald…
“No!” the dead-Sunne thing raged.
Donald wondered who it was screaming at, but the thought was fleeting. He would be dead soon. Very soon.
Sunne’s grip on Donald’s throat loosened. He sucked in much-needed air in harsh, burning gasps.
Follow my voice, Donald…
Dead-Sunne thing roared, “You have no power here!”
Donald saw the creature raise its rotted hand and bring it down.
Everything went dark.
Donald heard a boy’s voice. “Cops!” then, quick footsteps running away.
He looked to the left. He was back in the alley.
“Why the fuck did you cut her? I didn’t get my turn.”
The words crashed in Donald’s ears like tangible objects full of weight and crushing gravity. He fell to one knee, slid in a mucky puddle, and landed on his face. The asphalt was cold and slimy. Donald threw up twice before he was able to push himself to his feet.
He leaned against the brick wall, his breath hitching in his chest, throat burning from his voided stomach. When he had his bearings again, he went to find Sunne. He hoped for the best, but expected the worst. He got the former.
Sunne was still fighting for what was left of her life. Crimson hands slid around on her neck as she tried to hold the tear closed. She saw Donald and reached for him with a bloody hand, but before he could get there, she returned the hand to her slashed throat.
Donald collapsed just two feet from Sunne and crawled the rest of the way to her side. He came to Sunne, supporting the nape of her neck in his palm. The action caused her torn throat to open further, and her fingers disappeared into the wound. Donald felt nauseous again. He laid her head down so he could vomit.
Sunne’s eyes begged for help. He couldn’t tell if she was able to breathe, but didn’t think it mattered, considering how much blood she was losing. He put his own hands over the slit and pressed down hard.
For the fourth time that night, Donald lied. “You’re gonna… be all right.”
Sunne kicked violently, gurgling on her own blood, slapping at Donald’s chest. She wasn’t trying to push him away. She only wanted help. Donald figured Sunne knew she was already gone. Her brain just hadn’t caught up with the fact.
Out of the corner of his eye, Donald saw someone watching from the mouth of the alleyway.
The black kid pointed out into the street. “Help’s on the way! I’m sorry! I’m really sorry.” Then, he ran away.
Donald wished he could do the same. When Donald looked back down, Sunne’s eyes were wide-open, and she had stopped moving. It was over. He leaned over and kissed her blood-soaked forehead.
What do you say to the dead? That you’re sorry? Does it really matter? Donald didn’t think so.
Donald…
“What?” he managed. The voice wasn’t exactly a stranger’s, but he still couldn’t place it.
You have to come back, Donald.
“Fuck off.” There was no anger in him. He didn’t have the strength to be mad. He was growing dizzy.
This isn’t real, Donald. Not anymore. They’re just memories.
“Who cares? It was real. A long time ago, it was very real.”
Donald…
He found himself under a shadow cast by a figure at his side. Donald looked up, trying not to cry. “She didn’t deserve this.”
No. She didn’t.
“She deserved better than me.” Donald whimpered. He couldn’t even look at Sunne’s body. He wouldn’t allow himself to look.
Donald, come back. We need you.
“Who are you?”
You don’t remember me?
Donald thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, he just might.
31
MARK SIMMONS STUDIED THE PHOTOS on the walls, looking over the scars that remained with him. The wars and the horrors men were capable of played out in front of him in stunning photographic detail. He trembled, shocked at how good he was at capturing the terrible side of the world as he knew it.
“The dead call from your work,” Annabelle said. “Do you remember these fallen brothers?”
Mark shuddered. “Yes.”
“You made a living off the trials and tribulations of others, Mr. Simmons.”
“I was telling their stories.”
“You were reaping the rewards of their deaths.”
“I did what I was called to do.”
“Ever following the voices of many and never having one of your own.”
“These men died for my freedom!” Mark slammed his fist against the wall of photos. “That means something to me!”
“Oh, does that help you sleep at night? Or is it your job security that soothes you to sleep?”
“Listen, you don’t under—” Mark turned to confront her, but the woman’s corpse was gone.
Then, he saw her walking further down the hall. Mark looked down the long corridor. At the end, it narrowed into darkness. From that place came sounds—yells, gunfire, explosions—all things he had heard over and over again in his travels. They were the sounds of the dead and dying.
“Where are you going?”
Annabelle didn’t answer. She stopped at the edge of the darkness and reached into it. The blackness began to swirl. Colonel Jorge Flemming of the
15th Cavalry stepped out of the shadows beside her. His mangled arm dangled from his side, the result of a discharged grenade. To Annabelle’s left, Private First Class Frank Murdoch emerged, crawling on his stomach, pulling himself along with bloody arms. His body had been ripped in two from the blast of an enemy’s rocket propelled grenade as he had attempted to carry the injured away in his Black Hawk. More dead followed, walking, dragging, crawling their way toward Mark. He was suspended, unable to move, as the approaching horde closed the gap.
“These men were your spoils,” Annabelle said, turning to face him again. “Remember them.”
“These men are dead, yes, but not forgotten. They live on in my photos,” Mark said. “In my memories.”
“Yes. Your memories. Your memories sustain us.” Annabelle moaned. She tilted her head back, sounds of pleasure coming from her gaping maw. “More. Remember more. Who are these fallen brothers and sisters?”
“Judge Clemens, 29th Platoon, killed by friendly fire, Baghdad. Francine Moulton, 56th Airborne, shot down over Kandahar. Denise Nunuez, Second Armored Division, tank took fire south of the Pakistani border. Greg Woolward—” Mark continued, spitting out every name, every death, reliving them as he spoke.
“Yes! Yes! More.” Annabelle jerked and twitched. “Sustain us, Mr. Simmons. Sustain me.”
Mark…
The voice was distant, but Mark somehow managed to hear it over the moans of the dead.
“Who’s there?”
“Do not listen to her, Mr. Simmons. She’s not meant to be here.”
“Who? What?” Mark’s head felt funny, full.
Ignore that thing.
“No! You shall not claim him!” Annabelle’s roar echoed down the hall. Mark felt as if his ears would bleed.
He’s mine, bitch!
Mark felt himself being pulled backward. Annabelle charged, reaching for him. What was left of her face wore an expression equal parts desperation and anger.
