The Fallen Boys

by Aaron Dries

They found an old denim shirt. It smelt of mothballs and dust. Noah slipped his arms into the sleeves, wearing it backwards. The shirt hung off his tiny frame. Marshall laughed as he tied the tails up behind Noah’s back and rolled up the dangling sleeves. “There you go, Picasso,” he said.

  Huge hands dug under his armpits and yanked him through the cool night air. The stench of the man was stronger now. It was a burnt smell, almost chemical-like. Marshall’s head still swam, and there was very little light. He could hear the trees; wind whipped at his sweaty fringe. His head felt so full of blood he thought it might explode. Sleep threatened to return again and he would not have denied it.

  The thump of heavy shoes on wooden steps. Marshall opened his eyes and saw a line of garden gnomes staring up at him, their pointed hats covered in dust streaks. They sat on the porch under the window next to a line of boots, all covered in mud. Two rolled up magazines were on the doormat, which had the word WELCOME burnt into its fibers.

  The screech of a screen door.

  Marshall heard a second set of feet coming up the steps behind him. They were softer footfalls, more delicate. There was the warble of music again, a different song this time. A stronger beat.

  He tried to moan but no sound came out. His breath ran until his lungs were empty.

  Everything was slipping away from him again. Soon he would be back in that frightening lost hour, where there was no choice but to stand at the threshold of darkness. Where all that existed was the midnight expectation of what is to come.

  Marshall, Claire and Noah went walking in the rain. The sky was a deep grey, the weather humid. Water beaded off their slickers. A car passed by and drenched the bottom of Marshall’s jeans. Claire bent over laughing, slapping her thighs. He saw strands of her hair fall out from under her hoodie, uncurling in slow motion. Seeing it made him feel alive and all he wanted to do was dry her hair for her, massaging the towel into her scalp whilst reaching around to touch her breast.

  Noah was wearing his new yellow gumboots, which he loved. He leapt from pothole to pothole, delighting in the spray he was creating. His slicker soon ran with dark, slopping mud. Lightning cracked overhead and they stood still, looking at the sky counting Mississippis.

  A surge of energy bloomed and burst inside him. Marshall’s eyes snapped open—there was a doorway, and through it, a living room on its side. It was all out of focus. A tremor flowed through him that he couldn’t control and he began to shake and kick. His sneakers squeaked against the floorboards, leaving behind crescent scuff marks.

  Marshall didn’t know who or what he was for a moment, all that existed was the desire for it all to end. Through the dull, thumping storm clouds of his confusion, he could feel his body welcoming—even inviting—death. Memories tugged and volleyed against him like a shapeless, clawing undertow. All was broken. There wasn’t a coherent thought in his brain. The fight it took to focus dragged a lengthy moan from between his lips.

  The room was tall ceilinged and full of overstuffed furniture. Heavy red curtains were draped over the rear wall next to a window; there was only darkness on the other side. A glowing lamp sat on a small stool, holding down a foot-high pile of old newspapers, and another was on top of the television set. The living room was carpeted.

  I’m in the hallway, he thought. It was a lightning bolt of rationalization, a stroke of clarity. I’m in the hallway of a house I’ve never been in before. There is dirt on the floor and I can taste it in my mouth.

  Every thought woke him more.

  Straight ahead there is a kitchen, but before the kitchen there is a door. It’s open. It looks like it leads to a basement. There is light coming from downstairs. The light is yellow.

  Marshall tried to push himself up and was surprised that he could manage. It was hard work and he could feel the sweat juicing out of him, but he pulled through. Bones were popping and he could smell a metallic stench on his skin. His cotton-dry mouth was flooded with a bitter taste.

  One Mississippi, he thought.

  The room twirled as he lifted his head, just as the park had done when he’d been stabbed with the syringe. A voice in his head told him that he’d been kidnapped by junkies, but he doubted this.

  No, you were drugged and brought here by people who are smart enough to not fill their veins with ice, or heroin, or whatever it is that junkies do.

  You’re in deep shit, the voice said.

  Two Mississippi.

  Standing was harder. He gave up after two attempts, cautious of the noise he was making, and began to crawl towards the front door. With every lurch of an arm, or a leg, he could feel his energy draining away. A migraine bloomed behind his eyes and again, he fought the urge to vomit.

  Marshall reached the door and looked up; it seemed to stretch on into forever. The handle twinkled in the light thrown from the living room lamps.

  Three Mississippi.

  Marshall stretched up, back muscles crying for mercy, his jaw grinding teeth until tears rolled down his cheeks. His fingers gripped the handle but it wouldn’t turn. He arched his neck and saw the four bronze deadbolts keeping the door in place.

  Locked from the inside.

  It sounded like someone was moving furniture around downstairs. The basement door was open and ochre light spilled into the hallway—it was poison light and he didn’t want it to touch him. He deflated against the floor and scuttled into the living room—onto the carpet. Here, he could move around without worrying about creaking floorboards.

  Marshall heard the familiar deep voice tossing commands but he couldn’t make out the words. Metal clashed with metal and the migraine dug its claws in deeper. Marshall stopped to catch his breath and bile slipped up onto his tongue. Every part of his body hurt. His feet were numb.

  The opposite wall was covered in photographs. Marshall struggled to make out the expressions within the frames—he was still a little blurry—but he saw many husband-and-wife shots. There was a baby in some and only a man and a boy in others.

  Get to the kitchen, said the voice. There will be a back door. Check to see if it’s locked.

  It will be locked. If the front door is bolted tight than the back door will be too!

  Marshall didn’t want to move, he wanted to lay his head against the nearest piece of furniture—hell, back on the floor—and go to sleep again. But it simpler than that: where there was sleep there was nothingness and that was all he wanted.

  No. Move. Now.

  Four Mississippi.

  NOW!

  Marshall let himself fall forward, his palms flush against the carpet, the shag growing up between his fingers like weeds. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and wet the back of his hands. He pushed himself upwards, drawing his half-numb legs up underneath him. He could feel himself quivering as he propelled himself through the air, grabbing on to the headrest of one of the chairs.

  The room. Flickering. In and out of focus.

  One step at a time…

  Marshall kept a hand on the chair as he edged closer to the doorway. He leaned to the right and peered towards the basement door—peering through the light that terrified him. Towards the kitchen. As he did so, the two front legs of the chair started to rise off the carpet—but despite this, he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not yet.

  If there are bolts on the back door like there is on the front then assume it’s locked. If it’s locked then get a knife from one of the drawers—

  No.

  The answer was so clear it shocked him and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. His grip held firm on the chair. Wind blew hard against the house. He nodded.

  Go to the basement door and slam it shut, locking them inside. Find a phone and call the police. Don’t wait for them, just run.

  And what if there isn’t a lock?

  There will be, Marshall assured himself, determined now.

  And when the police find you, what will you say you were doing? They’ll ask why you were in the park—

  I’ll
tell them the truth. I didn’t hurt anybody. I’ll tell them I’m sorry.

  Just run, said the voice. Run and don’t look back.

  Marshall tried to pull himself together; even the concept of crossing the room to get to the basement door sent his stomach into convulsions. It was overwhelming. Marshall didn’t know how much longer he could control himself.

  Five Mississippi.

  He shuffled one leg forward and let go of the chair. His foot landed on the wooden floor boards. Creeeeeaaaak. The room didn’t seem to spin anymore.

  Looking down the hallway. Looking through the light. To the kitchen.

  Marshall saw the door. Saw the six deadbolts.

  The chair he’d just let go of arced forward and crashed against his left knee, knocking him off balance. He collapsed to the floor, a cloud of dust rising into the air. The thump of his body was loud enough to shake the walls, but the impact was nothing compared to the sound of the chair snapping against the wooden boards.

  CRACK!

  Hurried voices. Feet rushing up from downstairs.

  Marshall bounced to his feet; it was a liquid movement—faster than he’d ever moved in his life, fuelled by panic. Thump-thump-thump. He sprinted towards the front door. Instinct. Stupid. He remembered the locks.

  Fuckin’ idiot. Move. Move!

  There was nowhere to go but up. Marshall knew that those stairs led to the second floor, not to escape, but what was the alternative? Stand there and wait for these men to burst into the room with their needles—with worse? He didn’t doubt that they had weapons of a more severe nature.

  Marshall ran, but it was like plowing through quicksand. Step after step, gasp after gasp. There was a light on upstairs and he forced himself towards it.

  Yells from the hallway below. More thumping.

  Marshall sensed the man behind him, could feel the heat radiating from him. It was like having your back turned to a furnace. And then came his voice; in it one heard wolves tearing at carcasses

  “Stop there!”

  Marshall’s migraine burned bright. His stomach lurched, vomit projecting from between his lips. It splashed over his chest, across the upper step. He didn’t notice.

  The man was close behind, growling as he went.

  Marshall crossed the threshold and dove towards the lit room, sliding on a carpet runner. He gripped the door frame for balance and scuttled inside, the runner curling up underneath him. When he turned to slam the door, he saw the man’s face for the first time.

  Short-cropped hair, stuck up in messy spikes. His eyes burned with a wicked intensity; Marshall looked into them and saw nothing but rage. The wrinkles in his skin made a roadmap of his face—it betrayed his years; the man’s agility suggested someone far younger. His scowl revealed white, even teeth, and he flicked his tongue in and out of his mouth in an almost obscene, sexual manner.

  He slammed the door shut and his heart leapt. Revealed was another bronze lock—he snapped it into place as the man fumbled with the handle on the other side and dropped his shoulder, shaking the door within its frame.

  Marshall edged backwards into the room. Soon there would be splinters; the man would come tearing into the room. I’m going to die. It was too abstract a concept to understand. It was just a cold fact, as harsh as a blade slitting him open.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  Small flecks of plaster fell from the architrave, sprinkling Marshall’s brow. He wiped his face and his hand came away wet. Sweat. It dripped into his eyes, stinging and turning the whites red.

  Every time the man’s shoulder connected with the door, Marshall’s chest seized up. There was such power in each blow. The sound bounced around inside his head like a ricocheting bullet.

  The room was small. There was a bookshelf lined with romance paperbacks and small ornaments next to him: china pigs, snow-globes. Aside the shelf was a wardrobe and opposite that an old rocking chair overlooking the closed window. Marshall wondered how high up he was. Would he survive if he jumped?

  His knee bumped against something.

  In his mind he saw some deformed creature huddled at his feet, brushing against his leg, mouth open and spitting black blood.

  Marshall looked down and saw a neatly made bed covered in a dusty coverlet. There was a small writing desk in the corner of the room and Marshall saw a half-written letter, a stack of envelopes. A bible.

  It was a woman’s room.

  The thought of the man on the opposite side of the door having a wife, terrified him even more. What kind of person lived with someone like that? he wondered. Who could kiss him? Hold him?

  But there was no time to wonder, Marshall had to act. Now. Fast. He fought through the drug-haze, swallowing his own vomit; chunks of his last meal were lodged in his nasal cavity. He grabbed the bookshelf and struggled to move it. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of the wood or if it was just the fatigue that was making it so difficult.

  BANG.

  More plaster rained down. The bookshelf rocked, sending the snow globes and china ornaments crashing to the floor. They shattered, fragments shooting in every direction. Marshall pulled on the shelf as hard as he could, spittle dribbling down his chin, and the entire time, the temptation to just lie down and fall sleep lurked close by.

  BANG.

  He threw himself out of the way as the bookshelf slammed against the carpet, shaking the entire house, lifting a yet another cloud of dust. Paperbacks bounced against the walls.

  Six Mississippi.

  The doorway was blocked. Silence from the other side.

  Marshall could have cheered but the euphoria didn’t last long.

  The beating resumed, vicious and insistent. A long crack formed in the center of the door. Wood groaned, splinters ground together like gnashing teeth.

  The bookshelf impact loosened the wardrobe door; it swung open on its creaking hinge—but it was the music that caught Marshall’s attention. It sounded like one of those singing birthday cards, only the batteries were winding down and the instrumental tune sounded deformed, haunted. Marshall recognized the song. “Moon River.” The wardrobe door was rigged to play the music when opened. Marshall looked inside, hoping to find something to defend himself with.

  What he saw brought him to his knees; it sucked the energy out of him. His face turned white.

  It was a shrine, a closet-sized tabernacle. Multi-colored Christmas lights, some blown, some flickering, were draped from the hangers in glowing smiles. At the base, there were religious cards, crucifixes and a small collection of ornate hairbrushes. A chipped statue of the Virgin stood beside a photograph of a youthful, blue-eyed Christ.

  But this was not what took Marshall’s breath away.

  It was the gigantic glass jar, which was so big it almost took up the entire height of the wardrobe. The Christmas lights gave its contents a Technicolor wash. “Moon River” continued to play.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  Marshall gagged and started to shuffle backwards from the wardrobe. The crack in the door widened, a splinter stabbing into the carpet like a dart. “Don’t do that!” screamed the man. “Get away from there!”

  The music grew more prolonged and drawn out, the batteries winding down further. Marshall backed up against the foot of the bed. “Oh Jesus,” he whispered.

  Inside the jar was a contorted woman’s body, naked and bloated. Her face was pressed flat against the glass, blackened lips pulled back in a pantomime kiss. Her teeth were green. Pickled eyes stared into him, the pupils so wide they obscured the whites.

  He started to scream.

  Her hair floated about her face like seaweed in a tide. She only had a single breast—a jagged scar evidenced where the second had been removed.

  A spider ran across the outside of the jar, leaving behind small scuttle marks in the dust. It vanished into shadows.

  BANG.

  The door exploded inwards. A muscled arm snaked through the gap, reaching blindl
y for the lock.

  Marshall crawled towards the window, crying out. He was seeing double. He grabbed on to the rocking chair and tried to find his footing.

  The man’s thick fingers found the lock and snapped it upwards. The door opened half a foot and struck the side of the bookshelf with a hollow thump.

  The window was jammed shut and Marshall couldn’t get it to budge, no matter how hard he worked it. Oh Jesus. Please God, get me out of here. I don’t want to die. This man is going to kill me. I’m going to be torn to shreds. Help, please help me—

  Marshall grabbed the rocking chair by its arms and hefted it over his head. Tears dripped onto his lips, the taste of salt shocking him. He wavered, unsteady under the weight in his arms. Holding up the chair absorbed the last of his energy.

  The man tackled the door for a final time and burst through. He landed on top of the bookshelf in a rain of wood shards. Marshall saw his attacker’s reflection in the window just before hurling the chair through it. The glass shattered outwards and an explosion of cold wind howled into the room, swirling around like the gusts of a turbine.

  “Moon River” continued to play.

  The rocking chair slid across the shingled rooftop and landed in the untended rose garden below. Marshall climbed through the window, tearing up his palms on stray slivers of glass—but he felt nothing but the air on his face. He didn’t look down and didn’t give a fuck how far a fall it would be if he slipped. All that mattered was escape. There was no thought process, no prayers. He pulled his leg across the window frame and made his way onto the roof.

  Two massive hands grabbed the back of his jeans and yanked him back inside. Marshall watched the garden below, the trees and the mountains—it all slipped out of sight. He hit the floor, his head snapping against the carpet. He thought the ceiling light was flickering but he couldn’t be sure, it may have been Pain’s great wings blocking out the light as it stooped low to snatch him up.

  The man was gigantic, a creature of muscle and stench. He reeked of rot and scratched metal. Marshall didn’t feel the punches plowing into him, just heard them. The sick crunches. One after another. Over and over.