by Kim Faulks
He had stumbled out of the car, falling onto the ground as he reached for his gun and pulled it from his holster. There was only silence around him. A cold, deadly silence that should have been filled with screams. But, he would get that soon enough, for now he just had to stay alive.
He had made his way around the truck, looking underneath for feet on the other side of the vehicle with his blood pounding inside his veins and drowning out all other sounds. He never heard the footsteps behind him while he searched frantically for the killer. He never knew anything at all when he was struck from behind, rendering him unconscious as he fell.
He had woken in hospital with his wife and daughter at his side, their dark-circled eyes telling him that the fragments of the memory he retained had not been a nightmare, they had been very real. He reached up, touching the shaved part of his head and wincing as his fingers felt the wide dressing and prickly stitches underneath.
"You're lucky to be alive," said Naomi. Her voice holding little emotion, he could see by her eyes that she had been crying a lot. He tried to smile at his daughter and knew it would look almost pitiful, but he was alive that was the most important thing, right?
He held out his hand, motioning his daughter over. "Come here possum," and winced as she hid behind Naomi, peeking out from behind blue jeans.
"She's scared and she doesn't understand, Darrion," said his wife, holding their child protectively against her, out of his reach.
He should have known something was wrong then, but, as usual when it came to his wife and daughter, he was totally clueless. It wasn't as though they didn't have their problems, they had more than their fair share. His new job was demanding on his time as well as his patience, which meant that he was gone most of the time, and even when he was at home he found his mood darkening and flat.
He found it hard dealing with the bottom feeders of society on a constant basis. Night after night, day after day seeing the same types, whether they lined up at the station to sign their bail card, or on the frequent domestics he attended. It was hard to notice the good in things in life when all you saw was the trash.
That was only one of many strands of their marriage that were slowly breaking, leaving them to drift slowly apart. He loved her ... no, still loves her, and even though it was over ten years later, he felt the pain rip his heart apart like it was only yesterday.
He was assigned to a special task force, one that was investigating the murder of his partner. The force welcomed him back, clapping him on the back as he entered. There was no fuss, no welcome back banner draped across his desk and chocolate surprises, there was work and that was what he needed. Some sick son-of-a-bitch had murdered his partner and he was determined to find who it was and bring the animal to justice.
Work gave him something to focus on and he spent every waking moment going over his own file, as well as his statement and the recordings from that fateful night. His wallet was missing, and as hard as he tried to remember the last time that he had it, his memory was just a blur. So, he used an empty one he'd been given from the Christmas before, only replacing his Driver's License, everything else could wait.
The implications of a missing wallet with twenty bucks escaped him back then, after all he had just escaped death and missing twenty dollars seemed irrelevant to him. It wasn't till he drained the last sweet white froth of his third beer that the most horrible sinking feeling caused him to freeze.
The commotion at the front of the bar turned everyone's head and it was automatic that most of them around the timber table stood, their sixth sense of danger ingrained in each guarded gaze.
Young Kenny from the radio room stumbled in to the bar, reeking of desperation, his frantic eyes moving from one face to another as he stumbled around the room. Darrion's gaze never left the thatch of red hair as it weaved in and out of the other patrons of the bar and finally found his gaze, the panic in his eyes piercing him where he stood. It was then that he knew something was very, very wrong.
"There was a call," Kenny said, his words gushing between the gasps that told him that he had run the few blocks from the station. "The caller ID was from your home."
"What's wrong? Was it Naomi?"
"No."
That simple word caused his world to spin, and suddenly he knew those three beers would be making another appearance very soon.
"Well? Who was it, Kenny? Speak up, man!" said one of the other officers at the table, spitting out the question that Darrion was so desperate to hear, although his friend had spoken a little harsher than he liked.
"I'm not sure. He told me to find you and ask you a question."
Darrion was confused, not understanding anything that came out of the radio operator's mouth. The only male that had been a regular at their home had been his Father, but a heart attack had severed their connection the year before.
So, who was the male that called from his home? He wasn't proud of what came to his mind next. The thought of Naomi cheating floated in like a noxious cloud and proceeded to gather evidence of her guilt. Had she been withdrawn more than usual? Yes.
Their lovemaking had taken a downward spiral. He had put it down to her not wanting to hurt him as the stitches in his head healed. But it hadn't improved after the stitches and dressings were removed. Thinking about it, the relationship seemed downright depressing.
Steeling himself for the ending of their relationship, he cleared his voice and asked the question that might ultimately break their bond of marriage. He expected that the question was something like: where do you want me to send your stuff? Naomi's leaving you, or the like, even though the sensible part of him told him to stop acting like a jerk. She loved him and would never leave him.
But the question that came from Kenny's mouth stilled him, surprise and confusion happening in that order.
The question was lost to his ears, expecting something entirely different. "I'm sorry?"
"Well, he said, 'Haven't you lost something?' That was the question. I wasn't sure I heard him correct, so I got Sal to pull the recording and that's exactly what he said. Haven't you lost something?"
Lost something? His wallet had been missing since the attack. He had replaced the credit cards and his driver's license, figuring it had been stolen from the evidence room or the hospital.
"My wallet," he whispered, trying his best to put it together in his mind.
"What the fuck does that mean? You lost your wallet and someone drove to your house to give it back?"
Questions and answers went backwards and forwards around him.
"No," he said as fear caused his body to shudder and breakout with goose bumps. "No one found my wallet, did they? All the coppers that went through the crime scene and no one found it ... Because somebody took it from me, that's why."
The confounded stares were left behind, stumbling his way to the door, not voicing the last of this sentence out loud, only in his mind did it finish: someone took it that night, someone that had just killed my partner and almost killed me. His wallet had gone missing not long after waking in the hospital bed. But the memories were too traumatic for him to sift through to remember it in detail, so he had taken the easy road and tried to forget it, trying his best to pass it off as something unconnected.
The task force they created had started out strong. Pictures covered the wall, and a description of each call-out and each stop that they made that night covered the whiteboard. It looked like just another normal crime scene, bloody and violent, and at first he couldn't remember anything about that night.
After a while the other officers stopped asking him if he remember any more, and he was able to function, steering clear of that night in his memory. That worked well, pretending the blood in the pictures was someone else, and the yellow painted crosses and dots marked the outline of strangers on the road and inside the cab of the truck. Yes, the illusion he forced himself to see worked perfectly, until the dreams started.
They started like a thief in the night, inv
ading his mind while he lay helpless like a child. The first time he woke up screaming and scrambled from the bed, feeling the warm moisture from someone's breath on the back of his neck. Naomi held him, cradled and rocked him like a child while he fought his tears, determined not to fall apart. That was the first time, and after the fifth consecutive night with the same dream haunting him, he moved into the lounge room, pulled out the sofa and started drinking.
He hid his drunken state well, blaming his physical deterioration on sleepless nights and post-traumatic stress disorder and everyone bought it, everyone except Naomi. But, now there was something else, something that shook him, demanding him to step up to the plate and be counted. It seemed fate hadn't finished with him. She was only getting warmed up.
He drove at breakneck speed towards his home with the feeling of someone unseen breathing against the back of his neck. The other officer's called him on the radio, but he couldn't think about them now. All he could think about was getting home, so he switched off the radio and concentrated on the road before him.
The tires squealed, leaving rubber behind as he whipped through the residential streets and mounted the curb outside his home. It was quiet, eerily quiet. No laughter or screams of excitement from his daughter as he stepped outside of his car and walked to the front door. Time slowed for him, stretching out each tortuous second so that he remembered every detail, every splash of dark red blood across the black and white swirl comforter Naomi loved so much, and the way she looked at him when he took one step and crumpled beside her onto the floor. Her gaze was cruel and accusing, one eye protruding from its socket, asking him. Why didn't you do something, Darrion? Why did you let this happen?
How had he let this happen? He screamed as his world tilted and the realization of what was happening tried to fight through the haze of denial that blanketed his thoughts.
He tore himself away from his wife's gaze. He stood and stumbled as he raced towards his baby's bedroom. The tiny mound lay still in her bed. The pink and white cloud comforter pulled up to her chin. She was fine, she was okay ... The relief that washed over him felt like he was floating above his own body, just like her blanket, a cloud of comfort for his precarious state.
But, she shouldn't be asleep at this time in the afternoon ... should she?
He stared at her tiny chest, waiting and watching for the movement of life. But her chest didn't rise nor fall as it should, and he wrapped his hands around her body, listening to the bones in her neck make a sickening crunch as it fell unnaturally backwards. "No!" He screamed, pulling the tiny, cold body into his own.
His mind couldn't keep up with all the horror inside his home. Self-preservation kept the images from sinking in, from shredding his own soul. But even though his mind wanted to close down and retreat to a dark corner of his psyche, he needed to understand. This was real. This was happening. His wife and daughter had been murdered while he had laughed and drank beer with his mates; safe and surrounded by his friends while his wife, his daughter...
Movement blurred at the corner of his eye and he turned. For a second his mind didn't understand what he was seeing. It was a black mess of flesh and bones. Something that could only have been dredged up from a horror movie, but this was no horror movie, this was his life and so his eyes tracked the animated corpse as it walked towards him.
"Ahh, your fear is so delicious, Darrion Hunter. Just like it was before. You remember before, don't you, Darrion? When I gutted your partner in front of you?"
Darrion's body shook as the sensation of breath against the back of his neck returned. It wasn't just a tremble, but a jerking and jolting of earthquake proportions, and for one split second he thought he would lose all self-respect and piss himself. He would cry and piss himself like a pathetic fucking child when he realized it was this thing that stood behind him in the darkness. While his partner lay dead inside the truck, this thing that breathed its hot, fetid breath down his goddamn neck while he fumbled with his gun and tried to stay alive.
"What are you?" he croaked.
"I am the tormenter and the torturer, your torturer to be exact, Darrion. I wasn't sure if you would come. Neither was your wife really, even when she screamed out your name and begged for her pathetic life. I can see in your eyes you've reached that place Darrion. You want me to just kill you and end your miserable existence?" He chuckled.
The sound was unnatural. It leaked out the holes in its chest as it stepped closer, almost within striking distance now. Would it be striking distance for him, or for it? He didn't know. But as it spoke about ending his life he wanted to nod. To kneel before it and wait for the blow that would make all of this go away.
"I must admit that I'm still a little blood drunk from your wife and daughter. But I think for you, I will make an exception."
Hunter collapsed to the ground, cradling his daughter's dead body in his arms while out of the corner of his eye he watched the macabre spectacle move towards him. Flesh hung off the walking corpse, dangling in front of his face as it stood in front of him waiting, for what he didn't know. The stench of rotten eggs was so overpowering he had to fight the urge to expel what was in his stomach and all he could do was clutch his daughter's body harder against his own, as though he had a second chance to save her now ... as though he hadn't already failed her in her darkest moments.
As he waited like a broken animal with his head lowered, ready to give up on this life something sparked inside of him. Another voice echoed inside of his mind, get up ... get up and fight!
He didn't care about this voice inside his head. It was just another reason for him to end his time here on Earth, he was, he decided, just too far gone. Fight what? He didn't even know what the hell it was. He was nothing. He was no one. Whipped and beaten, he was giving up before the fight began. Wrong, the voice growled and he was lifted with unseen hands to face that hideous thing. It laughed when he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes with a sense of determination.
Fight, the voice demanded, but instead of rushing at this thing, he turned his back to it while he bent and placed his little girl back into her bed, arranging the covers around her. He didn't know what he was doing and, to be honest, it didn't really matter. Nothing mattered, because he had nothing left.
His battle cry was ripped from his very soul, for that was all he had left. Screaming, he launched himself at the thing while it just stood there, taking all of his weight as he fell forward. It moved so fast that the world blurred around him, using his own weight and momentum against him the thing threw him into the wall and pushed its rotten body against his back.
"That's the spirit, Darrion. I wanted to see that filthy thing inside you show itself, and here it is for me to see. I am going to break you until that thing is dead. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow, but I will break you. I will make my Father proud."
Hunter had no idea what this thing spoke of, its words made no sense. Nothing at this moment made sense. I'm sorry my child said the voice inside of him, and that filthy thing behind him hissed in response, spitting chunks of its flesh onto the back of his neck. His knees wobbled, his nightmare had become his reality and he was sure he would faint in this moment of need. His vision greyed before him as his knees locked, wobbled, locked, wobbled. He dug deep and held onto a thread of consciousness, grappling with what he had left inside until his vision cleared and he dropped to his feet.
The thing was surprised, laughing as though it expected that the floor was where he was going to stay. When he rolled and came up behind it and smashed into the side of it with his fists, it was momentarily surprised. His fists made sickening squelching sounds as he pummeled them, one after another, into its body. It was no good, his punches made no impact in it whatsoever. He stilled his already rolling stomach and leapt onto its back, pulling at its head and ripping it from side to side in the hope that he could tear it off.
The mocking laughter that came from it only killed the hope that grew inside.
"Oh, Darrio
n, you've missed your calling. You should have been a ... what do they call them? A chiropractor? Yes, a chiropractor. My neck feels positively wonderful."
There was no way he was going to win this assassination with sheer brute force. He needed to get the upper hand, so he turned and ran. The bedroom was where he kept his off-duty piece, and as much as he would have given anything to feel the cold steel of the Glock in his hand, he knew that he wouldn't survive the first spin of the safe's dial. The kitchen and the knife stand that sat high on the shelf out of Bethany's reach was his best bet, so that’s where he headed.
He could feel the monster behind him, making its way through his house as he whistled a jaunting tune. Was this a dream? Was he fighting his own sheets while Naomi snored softly beside him? Wake up, he demanded, pinching his arm for effect. Wake up now!
"This is no dream, Darrion. This is your life. Your wonderful, glorious life. It is glorious, isn't it, Darrion? I mean, the good Lord did bestow the miracle of it upon you after all? He did sacrifice himself for your sins, did he not? What were your sins, Darrion? Tell me, I'm ALL EARS." The monster screamed, placing his hand and cupping the hole where his ears should have been as he screamed with laughter.
His arm pained where he pinched the skin harder than he realized and as he reached for the largest knife in the block, drawing it with a snap as the sharpener let go, it dawned on him. This was no nightmare. He was never going to wake up and realize his world was going to be okay, that the love of his wife and daughter was going to bring him back from where ever he'd been for the past number of months. He was never going to tell them that he was sorry. He was never going to tell them that he loved them.
He clenched the knife tightly and turned toward the thing that whistled through a smile and leaned against the wall, its gaze piercing. He amused it. He steeled himself, knowing he was about to get cut, knowing he was about to die. Now that he had come to terms with this, the shock would not hamper his actions. He shot forward with the knife gripped tightly in his hands, steeling himself for the attack to come. He hit the laughing corpse front on, pulling back the knife he plunged it over and over and over again. The attack was fast and brutal, and he was sure in that moment that he would not even recognize himself.
