Dastardly Bastard

by Edward Lorn

  The monster bellowed. Marsha and Jaleel’s arms beat at Trevor’s chest, making the beast look like King Kong boasting to his beautiful blond goddess. When Mark pulled his arm back in, they calmed.

  The realization had no explanation, but Mark couldn’t ignore the facts. When he was outside, it could see him. Inside, he was invisible. It didn’t make sense. Either way, Mark was glad for it.

  He took his time assessing his knee. The wound stung as if someone had jammed hot coals under his kneecap, but the blood no longer ran. He dropped his pants leg back over his gash, then raised his uninjured leg. The injured one supported him just fine. Taking a short step forward, he found his knee didn’t even hurt anymore.

  “Because you never hurt it.” Mark spoke the words, attempting to have faith in them. He needed to believe.

  When he looked back down, his pants were no longer bloody. The red was gone, and so were the holes. Annabelle, or Mark himself, depending on how he looked at it, was right. He had nothing to be scared of; none of it was happening.

  A different, more terrifying thought surfaced. “If my body’s not here, where the hell am I?”

  Mark didn’t know if he was dreaming or not. Dreams didn’t hurt. Then again, pain was mental, a chemical reaction after injury.

  Pain was only real when you took the time to realize it was there. Mark’d had plenty of time to think about his pain, even though he hadn’t realized he was injured until he tried to move his leg. Whatever powers were at work in the place had meant to slow him down. But why?

  “Because it wants to play with the real me somewhere else.”

  Mark knew he had created the pleasant visage of Annabelle as a survival method. Could he do more if he wanted to? He doubted he could go as far as summoning a Howitzer to help him destroy the monster in the front yard, but he might be able to do other things.

  “Use them. Use the memories the son of a bitch tried to use against you. Give those boys one last hoorah! Fuck the dumb shit. Give ‘em a win!”

  “Present and accounted for, Mr. Simmons!”

  Mark found the faces of the dead when he turned around, every soldier ready and awaiting orders. He was no commanding officer, but those were his memories. His army. Mark would use them because a man couldn’t die twice, and those soldiers were far past revival.

  Mark called them all by name and rank, just as he had in that hallway back when Annabelle was still missing half her head.

  Well, he had his own legion. They all looked very ready and very pissed off. The unrequited dead harbored memories, their lives snatched from them far too soon. Mark would use that. Though they were not his memories, he would imagine they were. He knew how every one of those soldiers had died. He’d chronicled their lives and their deaths.

  “Atten-hut!” Mark ordered. “You ladies and gentlemen ready?”

  “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  “It doesn’t look too tough!”

  “Light the fires and kick the tires!”

  “Hoorah!”

  “Have at ‘em, guys!” Mark stepped to the side, letting his army file out of the door. One by one they went, the fallen, the torn, the ravaged men and women who had given their lives for a war most of them didn’t fully understand. He just hoped it would finally lay them to rest. At least in his own mind.

  As he watched the soldiers attack, Mark was brought back to his childhood. He’d been around five or six and had found an anthill thrumming with life. The soldier ants had fallen upon a wasp. Though the winged bastard put up a good fight, it was felled quickly. The ants crawled over the body of the wasp, stinging him into submission. When the wasp was still, the ants began to disassemble the carcass.

  First, the wings—Marsha and Jaleel.

  Then, the segmented torso—Trevor.

  Finally, they had devoured the entire mass. Pinchers pinched. Arms worked. Mouths fed. Piece by piece the monster was laid asunder.

  “You did well, guys. The battle is won. But the war is far from over.”

  38

  JUSTINE MCCARTHY HAD EXPECTED TO be whisked away again. Yet, she remained, hand in hand with Lyle, watching the ethereal memories disappear.

  The boy with the eye patch remained. His face was lighter. The shadows had left him. “I’m sorry?” Scott said. He seemed shell-shocked, distant.

  “It’s not your fault.” Justine couldn’t help thinking of Trevor. She should be angry with the boy and his part in the horror, but Trevor’s memory wouldn’t allow it. There was more pressing business at hand. “We need to know where to find Him.”

  “The Dastardly Bastard is neither here, nor there.” The boy’s sad countenance gave Justine the information she needed. Though the Bastard was working through him, Scott had no idea what, or who, the Bastard actually was.

  “Where did you come up with the poem? The one hanging on the wall back in your… room?” She had almost said cell. Dredging up old memories, bad ones at that, would not serve her purpose.

  “It just came to me when Father and I first found the chasm. It was the same time I started seeing… seeing the shadows on people.”

  Justine had never been to the chasm before Trevor had taken her, so it couldn’t be blamed for her own abilities.

  “I want to know how you fell,” Lyle said.

  Scott shrugged. “I didn’t fall. I jumped.”

  “But how did you get there?” Justine asked. “The last time I saw you, you were in a… hospital.”

  “Father came. He wanted to show me something we hadn’t seen before, something we shouldn’t have missed, but did. It was amazing.”

  “The bridge,” Justine said.

  “Yes. Dad tried to cross, but he was too heavy. So he let me.” Scott paused, swallowing hard. Justine watched the lump slide down the boy’s throat. “He made me cross.”

  “My God,” Justine breathed.

  “I was fine. I made it all the way across. Dad was yelling at me, telling me to go inside the cave’s mouth. He said there were wonderful things in there. I had no idea—”

  “The Bastard was already controlling him,” Justine interjected.

  “The Bastard’s voice is so sweet. Like music. I heard it calling me. So I jumped. I heard my father yelling my name all the way down.”

  Justine noticed the walls were changing, decaying around them. Time was filtering in. The more Scott talked, the worse the state of the house became. Wallpaper curled and smoked, charring at the edges. Boards cracked and splintered, collapsing the framework. Dust and particulates rained down over them, but Justine held her ground. She squeezed Lyle’s hand to reassure him. He didn’t look scared. The boy stood brave, intent on hearing Scott’s story.

  “He made this house for me, said it was mine.” Scott appeared somber.

  “The Bastard?” Justine asked. “Why would he provide you shelter?”

  “No.” Scott looked down at the floor. “My father.”

  “How long have you been in the chasm, Scooter?” Lyle asked.

  “Since 1930.”

  Justine felt a cold spreading in her gut. The horror of her realization laid waste to all her hopes. The poor child had been in the dark, in the absence of a caring heart, for over eighty years. She could only assume Scott didn’t know where he ended and the Bastard began.

  “Let me show you something.” Scott led them down the disintegrating hall and into a large living room. The coming collapse hadn’t reached there yet. Justine saw a clawfooted couch, circa 1940. She’d seen the same one on an episode of Antique Roadshow. Nana had loved that program, and had even been watching it the day she slipped away. A Persian rug covered the floor. A fireplace gave off faint heat from across the room.

  Waverly Fairchild’s head hung above the mantle.

  “Oh, my God!” Justine shrieked. “Why?”

  “The Bastard gave him to me. A new memory. One where he didn’t make it out of the chasm that day.”

  “Jaleel said he moved to Florida. Died at one hundred and four years old,” Ly
le said.

  Justine had a flare of hope. “If Waverly found a way out, so can we.”

  “He let my father leave. Dad spread the Bastard’s evil unknowingly, furthered his grasp on the world. Now, the Bastard is everywhere. He doesn’t just reside in the chasm, though I have no idea where else. For some reason, he needs me. He draws his strength from me.”

  Lyle shook his head. “Like a battery.”

  “This isn’t right.” Justine was growing sick. The more she heard, the less she wanted to know. “You were a child. You had a gift. It wasn’t a curse. I think the Bastard only heightened powers that were already there inside you.” As Justine spoke, she began to understand. “And now he wants to be stronger. He wants…”

  “You,” Scott finished.

  39

  DONALD ADAMS SAT ON A bench in Central Park. The day was warm, and a pleasant breeze blew in from the east. It was a happier time, far away from the self-centered monster he’d become.

  Sunne sat next to him, her crumbling, decaying form gone. The slash in her throat was still weeks away. It was their second date, the one where she’d kissed him. Donald remembered the feel of her lips on his own, the wanton desire rushing through him, the feeling that he could be lost there, forever and ever, amen.

  Sunne glowed. Her black hair simmered in the light of the afternoon, showing purple in areas. Her chocolate eyes shone with life.

  “What happen to you, Donald?”

  The question hadn’t been there twenty years ago. That was new. Someone was bending his memories. As long as Sunne remained just as she was, right that moment, Donald didn’t mind all that much. Let whatever play with him. Just give him that one moment.

  “Bad things I couldn’t control.”

  “You were good man.”

  “No. I wasn’t. I was worthless.”

  “You worth something to me. Worth a lot.” She reached for his hand and her touch warmed him, far better than the cold fingers she had wrapped around his neck. Loads better.

  “I let them take you from me.”

  She waved her hand in a flippant gesture that took Donald off guard.

  “That not what happened, silly man. You know that. You try to save me.”

  Donald didn’t want to relive it again, but that didn’t stop the visions from coming back.

  The prior memory had been a fallacy. Whoever was playing with him had changed things. He just didn’t know which reality to believe. They both seemed so terribly real. And they both had the same outcome.

  Sunne was dead. That was a fact. But maybe, just maybe, Donald hadn’t been so useless. Maybe he had done more. Sure, he had. He’d become the person he was, the cynical lout who scared people for money. When Sunne had come into his life, he hadn’t been that man. Something festered after Sunne died, growing more powerful, feeding on him, hollowing him out.

  He had to be sure. He had to know what had really happened.

  Donald closed his eyes, “Show me, Sunne.”

  He was outside of his body, hovering above the situation as everything unfolded. He watched himself bolt for the alleyway, intent on saving Sunne. The yellow glow of the streetlight running the length of the alley showed Lazy-Eye working at Sunne. The thug was between her legs, tearing clothes, unzipping his pants, grunting like a feral animal.

  Donald fought with every bit of his being, beating Lazy-Eye about the back of his head. Meat on meat sounds echoed through the narrow passage. Donald was winning, pulling Lazy-Eye off and away. Sunne was getting up, gathering her torn clothes, trying to cover herself.

  “Get back here, midget!” Scar-Lip growled into the cavernous alley. Donald saw the flash of the switchblade, just as his false memory had shown.

  Scar-Lip grabbed Sunne by her arm. Twirling her against him, the thug laid the knife against her neck, and jerked away quickly. Flesh opened. Blood spilled. Sunne collapsed, hands going to her wound.

  Lazy-Eye wrestled Donald over, crushing him under his weight. Scar-Lip moved in, jabbing with the knife.

  Then, the boy at the end of the alley screamed, “Cops!”

  Donald crawled to Sunne’s bleeding form. He mumbled gibberish through flowing tears. He tried to close the wound, applying pressure, screaming, “Somebody help. Please help!” There would be no one. The kid had lied about the cops for whatever reason. Maybe he’d just been scared.

  More people lived in Manhattan than any other city in the entire United States. But at that moment, in that dark alleyway, Donald and Sunne were alone. Until she, too, left him.

  Donald opened his eyes.

  “You tried.” Sunne said as she brushed his cheek. “You were brave. You remember that.”

  “I miss you. I miss you so goddamn much, Sunne. Everything changed after they took you from me. I was hollow. Empty.” Donald sobbed. He hadn’t wept so hard since that tragic night. He hadn’t let himself. “There’s nothing left in here.” Donald punched his chest directly over his heart. “Nothing!”

  “I’m in there. Plenty of room. Such a small man. Such big heart.”

  “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay right here. Right inside this memory. Right here with you.” Donald leaned forward, meeting Sunne’s forehead with his own.

  She kissed his nose lightly. “You can’t.”

  “Why not? Let this… this… whatever it is win. Let it. I don’t care anymore. I just want you back. I’m nothing without you, Sunne. All the money, all the recognition… nothing but a load of bullshit. You’re… you’re all I ever wanted… all I ever needed.”

  “You so much more. On the inside. Replace that hole. Fill it with happy memories. We had good ones. Right?”

  “Yeah… yes.”

  “Remember those. The good ones. I will be there. In them.”

  “Don’t go.” Donald ran his fingers through her hair and came away with a clump in his hand.

  “Remember the good…” Sunne was coming apart, turning to dust before his eyes.

  “No! Damn it! Give her back!”

  He closed his eyes. He couldn’t take it. His chest hurt. Something in there was breaking all over again.

  Warmth poured over him, calming his trembling body. He imagined Sunne covering him with a blanket, caressing his cheek, whispering that everything was going to be all right. She wasn’t gone, not as long as he remembered. The memories should remain. They were all he had left of her. He could rebuild her image with that, whenever he wanted. The bad could be defeated by the good. It was a basic hope. No matter what evils were present in the world, the good should always outweigh the bad.

  He had to believe. If not for him, then for Sunne. She deserved to be a good memory.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was sitting on the floor of a bedroom. Tubby—no, the man’s name was Mark—stood in the doorway, looking down at him and smiling.

  “You all right, Donald?”

  “I am now.”

  “You ready to find this son of a bitch and get out of here?”

  “What about the monster outside?” Donald realized at that moment that he’d defeated a monster of his own, the one inside himself.

  “That thing?” Mark waved his hand casually. “Some friends of mine handled it.”

  Donald couldn’t help but laugh. “Good ones?”

  “Yeah. They’re a lot stronger than I thought.”

  Donald pushed himself up off the floor and dusted off his shirt. “Enough of the mushy shit. You ready to end this?”

  Mark smiled until the corners of his cheeks all but covered his eyes. “You’re damn skippy!”

  THE LIAR’S LAIR

  40

  JUSTINE KNEW SHE WAS THE key. If she had never gone to that damn chasm, none of the recent events would have happened. The Bastard needed her. Whether Scott’s power was wearing thin, or it just needed her to reach further out into the world, she didn’t know.

  Time was seeping in. The great room was starting to crumble like the rest of the house.

  “We have to get out
of here.” She grabbed Scott’s hand. It was scalding hot. She screamed, tearing her hand away. Her palm was left smoking.

  “He won’t let me leave here. I have my memories, my safe places, and a part of me doesn’t want to leave, either.”

  “You can’t just stay here,” Lyle blurted. “He’s using you.”

  “My time is gone out there. I have nothing to go back to. I’m afraid you have been left behind, as well.” Scott went to the fireplace and stoked the embers. Flame crawled the length of the poker and slithered up his arm, covering his shoulder and head.

  Justine wanted to react, but couldn’t. Lyle was trying, but she felt herself holding him back. It had to happen. Everything would repeat, and Scott would be born from the ashes of himself again and again like a phoenix. As they turned and left, Scott was swallowed whole by the fire.

  The house fell. They were protected by an unseen force while boards and plaster crashed around them, turning to dust. When they hit the sidewalk outside, Justine turned and watched as the house began construction again. Invisible hands erected the wooden frame, while others toiled away at covering them. Lyle’s palm was slick in her own, hot, and she finally released it. They looked at each other, silent. Justine chanced a glance back to the house, unsure what to expect, and saw Scott standing in the unfinished doorway once again, waving them inside.

  “In here!” he called.

  “There’s no way to save him?” Lyle’s voice was filled with broken emotion.

  Justine shook her head, wiping a tear from her eye before it could fall.

  Back the way they’d run from the monster made of their fallen friends and family, Donald and Mark came out of a house. Justine wondered why they looked so damn happy. Their apparent joy angered her briefly. Then, she realized the two had no way of knowing what she’d just seen, the revelations Scott had provided. In turn, Justine had no idea what they had been through, either.

  The monster was gone. How they had beaten it, if they had beaten it, was a mystery. All that remained was the path the thing had taken. Cracks in the pavement showed clearly like a trail of breadcrumbs.