by J. Thorn
So hungry.
Peter heard the two words in his head again. They seemed innocent enough, yet he could not let them go. The broken body in 5468 had spoken, though not with the words Jones expected to hear. But then again, what had he been expecting? He pushed past people in the hallways and into the fresh air.
Doctors taking a smoke break and worried mothers carrying flowers and balloons filled the walkways outside University General. Peter walked along the asphalt path as several landscapers finished one of the final cuts of the season, patiently waiting for folks to pass before blasting grass cuttings into oblivion with high-powered leaf blowers. Jones felt the warming autumn sunshine on his face, yet he shivered. He walked toward his Harley—well, the department’s Harley—and grabbed the white helmet off the saddlebag, pulling the strap underneath his chin and brushing a hand past his hip, his fingers glancing off the firearm secure in the holster. Decades of habit never died.
Jones knew he should make the rounds before his shift ended, but those could wait. Officially, he had to finalize the report from the house explosion. Unofficially, Officer Jones needed to see it. The burnt rubble tugged at him with a magnetic force he could not resist.
“Morning, Officer.”
Peter turned and nodded at a young man and his son walking through the parking lot. He thought the man looked familiar, but he couldn’t recall his name. “Morning,” he replied, too embarrassed to say more.
“You playing in the Turkey Bowl this year? Thanksgiving will be here before you know it, and we’re counting on our star quarterback.”
Annual touch football game for charity, he remembered. “Camp opens soon, right?”
The man smiled as his son tugged at his hand. He waved and continued on toward the hospital.
A cop that can’t remember a name is a problem, Peter thought. I need to ride and clear my head.
Peter told himself that, but he knew it was a lie. The ride would not clear his head. In fact, the ride would take him to a place that would fuck with his head in a way he had never experienced before.
***
The Heritage Softail gripped the curves of the road like a passionate lover. The supremely engineered motorcycle made by the Harley Davidson Company whipped Jones through the sweet mountain air, propelling him across the black asphalt with a ride as smooth as silk. Jones had his Bluetooth piece in his ear, but the volume was so low that only a minor background murmur reached his brain. Department policy demanded that it be on at all times, but they could not dictate the volume level.
Jones passed a few cars on the back roads he took after leaving the hospital. As he rode closer to the old sections of Pine Valley, more cars appeared, folks running errands or on their way to visit friends. He passed the high school, and his knee throbbed as if it recognized the pain from so long ago. He had finished the game and the season, but that single hit had ended his playing career. It had cost him a scholarship and a shot at the big leagues and had almost kept him out of the academy. To this day, Peter believed the cornerback who sacked him had intentionally dove at his knee, but he would never be able to prove it. The young man committed suicide a few years later, Peter never having the chance to speak with him about that particular high school football game.
Peter could smell the smoke before he pushed the motorcycle through the deteriorating roads of the old industrial center of Pine Valley. His dad had worked at the plant before dying of a heart attack. Peter had grown up in the shadow of the manufacturing giant that had built the city and eventually destroyed it, as well. He drove up and down the narrow streets, past row houses and collapsing buildings that had once housed a vibrant population. The Dairy King and Burger Shack of his youth now sat like rotting headstones in the gray earth. He thought of Trisha Henniman and their first kiss behind the library. Peter could still see the spot in the parking lot where she had dumped him on a humid summer evening. He drove down Main, past the hardware store and the newspaper stand, memories and feelings popping out like a Whack-A-Mole game at a carnival. Jones felt the wind push tears aside on his cheeks. He had driven down these streets his entire adult life as an officer of the law and had never once felt the emotional charge he was feeling now.
He guided the Harley toward the hulking pile of rubble that had been 412 Maple Street before the previous night’s explosion. Several reporters stood behind the caution tape, watching two firefighters with clipboards pointing and gesturing at the destruction. Now that he was here, Peter wanted nothing more than to leave. He felt a slick, oily pain deep in his stomach where a cramp began to take hold.
“Cheap fucking coffee,” he said as he killed the engine and swung his leg off the bike.
Peter reached into the saddlebag and removed his department-issue notepad and pen. He dug out a pair of mirrored sunglasses and put them on more for aesthetics than eye protection.
The reporters had noticed his arrival, the Heritage Softail having made an entrance. They took a few steps forward and then stopped. They all knew Officer Jones, but his size and demeanor was intimidating. He sauntered toward the curb and put both hands on his hips, his mouth slightly open as if he was about to make a revelation.
“Fuck,” he said.
The two reporters looked at each other and smiled, each holding a smartphone with a voice recorder app clutched to his chest. Both young men had been sent out by the local paper to get the scoop on a news story that had peaked six hours before they arrived. Peter had to smirk when he saw them, thinking they looked all of nineteen.
“Officer Jones, can we get a comment from you?”
Peter removed the mirrored shades from his face and stared at the man who had asked the question. “You seen me just now, son. Y’all seen me pull up here. What could I possibly tell ya that you ain’t seen with your own eyes?”
They both stood with shaky, nervous smiles. Jones knew people and could alter his tone and vocabulary to fit the situation. This was why he had been so successful in keeping Pine Valley safe and the criminals confessing.
“Right, right. We’ll wait over here, behind the tape. Maybe you can give us something when you’re done?” The question came out sounding desperate and weak.
“Maybe,” replied Peter. He brushed past the reporters and the words “Caution” that held them back and approached the firefighters still on the scene. “Eddie. Sal,” he said. He could not determine whether the men had remained on the scene or had reported to the firehouse after the blaze and then returned in the morning to begin preliminary investigations.
“Jonesy,” Eddie said.
Peter raised an eyebrow and looked over his shoulder at the two reporters clutching their phones. “What we got?”
Eddie put his hands on his hips and turned to face the smoking ruins sitting between two other abandoned houses. “It blew before we got here. We doused it, pulled out four. Two died at the scene. Not sure how the other two are doing.”
Peter nodded, scribbling in his notepad.
“Like Eddie said, nothin’ but a house fire once we got here,” Sal added.
“Mountain Energy?” Peter asked Eddie.
“Shut it off, filed the paperwork, left. They don’t give two shits what happens down here in the Hollows.”
“Hollows? Who the hell named it that, Eddie?” Peter asked.
“Kids been calling it that for years. Got it sprayed on the inside of the walls of many of these places. You ain’t heard that before?”
Jones shook his head, both confused and embarrassed. This was his town, and it kept no secrets. At least it hadn’t before. “Is it still off?”
“Don’t know. You’d hafta ask Mountain.”
Peter sighed and flipped the page on his notepad. “Got the survivors speaking. Hoping to ID them soon. The deceased?”
Eddie looked at Sal and then back at Peter. “One Jane Doe,” he said, while Sal remained silent.
“And?” Peter said.
“And, we think, Jasper.”
Peter let out a lo
ng whistle and turned to see the two reporters engaged in their own conversation, no longer attempting to eavesdrop. “Coroner?”
“Not yet. Still waiting on him.”
“Where is he?” Peter asked.
Sal waved them on, stepping over and around hunks of wood still glowing with red embers. The air reeked of natural gas, burnt plastic, and flesh, which forced a rumble through Peter’s abdomen. He followed them through the debris, climbing down the remains of stairs into what used to be the basement. Peter felt a cold chill run up his back, and his vision wavered as if he was looking through murky water.
Eddie and Sal stopped and pointed down to the charred remains burnt into the concrete floor. It was the cap that Peter saw first.
“How the fuck did that cap not burn?” he asked, his voice trailing and coming apart in pieces.
“Sorry, man. We knew you were trying to help him, get him on the straight and narrow,” said Eddie.
“You don’t know shit,” Peter replied while standing over the desecrated flesh of his estranged son.
***
The firefighters at his side melted away, as did the blackened walls of the basement. Peter felt his knees buckle as he struggled to remain upright. He did not believe in ESP, psychics, and out-of-body experiences. Peter laughed at the television shows about ancient aliens and demonic possessions. As the room continued to morph, he found it harder to convince himself none of that was real.
As if he had been pulled out of a speeding car, the vision yanked Peter into his past, to a place he had thought would never exist again.
“I can’t. He’s my best friend, and you’re his girl.”
Candy cooed and slowly exhaled into Peter’s ear. “He’s leaving for boot camp next week. We ain’t never gonna see each other again.”
“That doesn’t matter,” replied Peter. “I can’t do this.”
Candy brought her right leg around and pointed her toe toward the floor on the driver side. She ducked her head as her body came around to face Peter, now straddling him with the steering wheel against her back.
He flinched, his foot kicking an empty can of beer into his belt buckle, bunched in his pants at his ankles.
“We’re done, Peter. Me and Ryan talked it out. Look, I don’t even got his ring no more.” Candy pushed into Peter’s face, the gold chain dangling between her breasts without a class ring to weigh it down. “He’s shipping out, and we got no future. But you and me, babe, we got our whole lives.”
Peter felt her hand on his cock. She grabbed it and pushed it toward her warm, wet pussy. “At least gotta be responsible,” he said, his voice breaking as he slid all the way into her.
“I ain’t got nuthin’, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, beginning to push her hips up and down on him.
“Not ready to be a daddy,” Peter said between moans.
“So pull it out, honey.”
Peter leaned back onto the headrest as Candy increased the pace and pressure. She wrapped her arms around his head and placed a nipple in his mouth. He closed his eyes, pretending that he was not deep inside his best friend’s girl while parked in his shitty Dodge Daytona. His knee ached, which helped take his mind off his impending orgasm.
“We shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he said.
“We already are,” Candy replied. She sighed, and her breath hitched as her hips rocked the Chrysler back and forth. Peter felt her warm, soft grip and knew he could not hold out much longer.
“I’m coming,” he whispered. “Stop. I’m coming.”
Candy moaned and pushed down harder on Peter’s cock, sliding it in as far as she could.
“Candy, stop,” Peter cried out, his body convulsing as he came.
She clamped her knees to his ribs and pushed down as hard, taking everything he had inside of her. When Peter was finished, he let his arms fall to the sides and felt Candy’s hips ease up a bit.
“I didn’t pull out,” he mumbled. “You didn’t let me pull out.”
“Don’t be such a worrier,” Candy replied. “I been fuckin’ lots and never had no scare.”
Those were the last words he said to her that didn’t involve threats and extortions. Peter was now back in a dark room, caught in limbo between his past and the present, left with nothing but his thoughts and raw emotion.
“She tricked you,” said the voice.
“I wasn’t loyal. I stabbed my friend in the back.”
“He was not your friend.”
“I didn’t know that at the time,” replied Peter. “I didn’t find out the truth until later.”
“Still, he was born of her devious nature, and she used that against you for your entire life.”
“It still comes down to personal responsibility. I should have known better,” said Peter.
“You were but a child,” replied the voice, “manipulated by a harlot.”
Peter blinked, yet the room remained unchanged. He looked around, realizing he was inside a crypt and not the basement of the old house. Three rows of coffins ran down each side of the wall, a door open on the opposite end with a candle burning in a lonely sconce. Webs drifted across the ancient stone, and the air felt heavy in Peter’s lungs.
“And now I have freed you from that burden,” said the voice.
Peter wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. His emotions swirled through his chest like a cyclone, the betrayal and lack of judgment from his past colliding with his failure and bereavement of the present.
“He was my son,” said Peter.
“He was a disgusting failure with no redeeming qualities. He could not even take care of one simple task.”
Although Peter could not see the source of the voice, he felt the anger in it. “I was trying to help him get his life turned around.”
“You did nothing but enable him. And you knew what he was doing out there at his service station. You let that continue.”
Jones felt a pain grow in his abdomen, as if he was about to lose control of his bowels. “I was trying to help him, but there was only so much I could do while keeping the secret.”
“It wasn’t enough, was it?” asked the voice. “It wasn’t enough.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Peter agreed.
“The woman. She used him against you. She exploited the truth to kill herself with drugs.”
Peter nodded, a strange mix of revulsion and regret resurfacing as the conversation ripped his scabs open. He had tried his best to hide the relationship from his wife even after Candy’s apparent overdose in a meth lab. “She was sick,” said Peter. “I tried to help her, too.”
“And all the while hiding this from your own family. What does that say about you?”
Peter cried and placed his face in his hands. “I don’t want to hurt them. I never wanted to hurt them.”
The voice waited as the pain flared up inside him.
“With Jasper gone, now I can be at peace and focus on my family,” Peter said.
“They’re going to find out, Peter. They will discover your double life.”
“No, it’s not fair. That’s not fair.”
“It’s going to happen, Peter. There will be an investigation. They’ll look through the financials on the service station. It will all come back to you.”
“Then I’ll end it. I’ll eat my own revolver.”
“There is another way,” said the voice.
Peter waited, the emotional and physical pain meeting in a crescendo of torture. “What way?” he asked.
“You have to be hungry. Are you hungry, Peter?”
“Yes,” he replied without thinking. “I’m so hungry.”
***
“Peter!”
He opened his eyes and saw Eddie and Sal’s face blocking out the crystal-blue sky above.
“Holy shit, Peter. Are you okay?” Eddie asked.
Officer Jones sat up and looked around. His eyes swept over Jasper’s burnt corpse, his heart now devoid of remorse. “I think I passed o
ut,” he said.
“Yeah, you collapsed as we were talking to you,” said Sal. “Let us get you to UG and have a doc check you out.”
“No, I’m fine,” replied Peter.
Eddie looked at Sal and shrugged. “You’re getting on a hog after this? How about you hang here for twenty, thirty minutes, just until we wrap up?”
Peter closed his eyes and could feel the dark voice whispering inside. “Yeah, fine. I’ll help you wrap up. Anyone call the coroner yet? When’re they coming for the bodies?”
“Shoulda been here an hour ago,” replied Sal.
Officer Jones nodded. He climbed up the broken steps and out of the basement, not once turning around to look at the past or what it had left behind.
Chapter 5
The weight slid from his shoulders as he stumbled from 5468 back into 5467 and approached the side of the bed. Doug grimaced again at the oozing burn wounds that would become as painful healing as they had been in the fire, if not worse.
“There’s something evil in the other room. That’s why you told me to kill it.” He let the statement hang, the burn victim in the bed remaining quiet and motionless. “I can feel it. I know that sounds like a cheesy horror cliché, but I can feel the evil in that room, in that body.”
Ravna moaned and lifted one arm. It shook, several inches off the bed, motioning Doug closer. “Not much time left,” he whispered. “I need your permission.”
Doug turned his head sideways and placed his ear closer to Ravna’s bandaged face. He tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of death. “For what?”
“Palaver. Mental.”
Doug stood and looked at the door. He turned to face the sun pouring through the windows and reflecting off the polished tile of the ICU unit. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied.
Ravna groaned, each word bringing him lightning bolts of pain. “Let me in your head.”
Doug stood up straight and stepped backwards. “This was a big fucking mistake,” he said. “I should never have come here.”
