Jack Kilborn

by Afraid (lit)

  “Mom’s sick. You should see her.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it make a difference? I’m not going.”

  “The past is the past. Our parents want to see you.”

  “I’m not going. And don’t you tell them I’m back in town.”

  “Or else what?”

  A fight ensued. Streng left with a broken nose, vowing never to return.

  “I started stealing the Internet back in ’96.” Wiley saw Streng staring at the TV. “Not too long after I started stealing cable.”

  Streng fixed his attention on his brother, shocked by how he looked. The last time Streng saw him Wiley had wide brown sideburns, a ponytail, and shoulders like a linebacker. Now his head was mostly bald, a few gray wisps clinging to the sides. A wrinkled forehead, saggy cheeks, and a drooping neck. His broad shoulders had become slumped, his posture stooped.

  Wiley had gotten old. Only his eyes—ice blue and alert—were an indicator of the man he used to be.

  “Once a thief, always a thief,” Streng said.

  Wiley shrugged. “It’s not the money. Utilities mean a paper trail, which can be traced. I don’t want to be found.”

  “But you were found,” Streng said. “And people have died because of it. Because of what you did.”

  Wiley cleared his throat again and then sighed. “It’s been a long time, Ace. Mom and Dad are long gone. You still want to hold grudges?”

  Streng moved closer to Wiley. “You put our parents in jeopardy, the same way you put this town in jeopardy. You’re selfish, Wiley. You only care about yourself.”

  Wiley folded his arms.

  “Do you remember why I enlisted, Ace?”

  “To make money selling black-market goods?”

  Wiley’s eyes went mean. “It was to watch over your sorry butt.”

  “You were too busy selling drugs and weapons to the Cong to watch over anyone’s butt.”

  Wiley walked over, standing toe-to-toe with Streng. He didn’t seem so stooped anymore.

  “I did some shit in my day, Ace. But I never sold weapons to the enemy.”

  “Really? That’s what the military told me. That’s what they told our parents.”

  “They lied,” Wiley said.

  “Well, you sure did something to piss the military off. And knowing your history, it probably wasn’t legal.”

  “You don’t know the whole story.”

  “I know the story. You’re a bad egg, Wiley. Always have been, always will be. When the MPs showed up at the house, told Mom and Dad about your little moneymaking ventures in Vietnam, it destroyed them.”

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I loved our parents.”

  “Sure you did. That’s why you stayed in touch. That’s why you attended their funerals.”

  Wiley got right in his face. “You always loved to judge me, Ace. Point the finger, say shame shame shame. You think you’re better than me? What have you done with your life, Sheriff? What makes you holier-than-thou?”

  Streng planted both hands on Wiley’s chest and shoved, hard. Wiley staggered back, recovered, and balled up his right fist, pulling back to swing. Streng was faster. The last time they’d tangled, Wiley had beaten him good.

  This time was going to be different.

  Streng gut-punched Wiley, releasing twenty years of pent-up anger in one blow.

  Wiley crumpled, dropping to his knees, then his ass. He wrapped both arms around his belly and breathed through his mouth. Streng reared back to hit him again when something in the room beeped. Wiley turned his attention to the TV.

  “They found one of my cameras,” he said.

  Streng watched. A soldier, glowing green, seemed to stare out of the plasma screen directly at them. A second later the screen went black.

  Wiley got off the floor and picked up a large remote control, switching to another camera. Coming up Deer Tick Road was a car Streng recognized: the late Mrs. Teller’s Roadmaster. Wiley switched again, and the car slowed and parked next to Olen’s Honey Wagon.

  Ajax and Santiago got out. When Streng saw that Fran and Duncan were with them, he deflated.

  “Do you know who that woman is, Wiley? That child?”

  Wiley stared, not answering. But he gave a small nod.

  “How long have you known about them?”

  Wiley remained silent. Streng felt the anger return. He approached his brother, putting his hand on the back of his neck and squeezing.

  “That’s your daughter. That’s your grandson. They’re in this because of you.”

  Wiley shrugged out of Streng’s grasp.

  “I’m not a father. It was a fling. A mistake. I contributed the DNA. That’s all.”

  Streng grabbed Wiley’s shirt, pulled him in close.

  “They brought those folks here because of you,” he said through clenched teeth. “They’re going to die because of you.”

  Wiley met Streng’s eyes. “It was a one-night stand, dammit! Right before we shipped out to Nam. I gave her money to get rid of it. She decided not to. Then, when I got back, I had to lie low. I couldn’t have a kid. People were after me. It was the only way I could live.”

  “You call this living?” Streng turned his head and spat on the floor. “You cower underground, under a dead deer, hiding from the whole world. No family. No friends. You’re a waste, Warren. A selfish waste. And I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”

  Streng shoved him away, heading for the exit.

  “Where are you going?” Wiley called after him.

  “To save that woman and her son.”

  “I booby-trapped the whole area. If those don’t get you, the soldiers will.”

  Streng stopped and looked at his brother one last time.

  “Then I’ll die. And I’ll be waiting for you in hell, Wiley, to kick your sorry ass.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Wiley said.

  Streng didn’t answer. He walked out the door.

  Duncan shivered. He told himself it was from the cold, but deep down he knew the truth. He was afraid. He was very afraid.

  He stood next to the car and held Mom’s hand, grateful she was acting so brave. Duncan knew it was an act. She had to be scared, too. But she was hiding it, and he loved her even more for being strong.

  Duncan didn’t know how things went wrong so fast. He fell asleep in the car, and when he woke up, Josh and Woof were gone. It turned out Dr. Stubin wasn’t a nice guy, after all.

  The two soldiers with them were dressed like Bernie, and they seemed just as mean. The big one—the one who was going to twist off Mom’s head—was even bigger than Kane on WWE. But the other one was even scarier. Duncan didn’t like how he kept looking at Mom, kept touching her.

  Mathison didn’t seem bothered by any of this. He still sat on Duncan’s shoulder, picking though his hair. Duncan reached his hand up to rub the monkey’s belly. Mathison cooed. Duncan scratched higher, up Mathison’s chest. He felt the monkey’s collar, surprised at how thick it was.

  “Stop touching the monkey.”

  Duncan spun around, saw Dr. Stubin pointing his big shotgun at him, the one they’d put in the back of the car. Duncan’s hand dropped down, and he felt like he was going to pee himself.

  Mom stepped between the gun and Duncan, pushing him behind her.

  “Mathison!” Stubin barked. “Come!”

  Mathison hopped from Duncan’s shoulder to Mom’s. He screeched, sounding pretty upset.

  “Now, Mathison!”

  Mathison climbed down Mom, but instead of going to Stubin he took off into the forest.

  Stubin said, “Stupid primate,” and turned away from them.

  Fran knelt down to Duncan’s level. She pushed his bangs out of his face. “It’s going to be okay, baby.”

  “Where’s Woof?”

  “Josh has him.”

  “Is Josh coming to rescue us?”

  Duncan watched his mother’s eyes get glassy, an
d her lower lip trembled. “If he can, I’m sure he’ll try.”

  Another man dressed in black came walking out of the woods. When Mom saw him, she stood up and got very stiff.

  “I’ve found a few antipersonnel devices and two cameras,” the new man said to Stubin, “and Logan found an exhaust vent disguised as a tree stump half a click east. He’s close. Underground somewhere.”

  Stubin nodded. The new man looked at Mom and smiled.

  “Hello, Fran. I was hoping we’d see each other again.” He licked his lips. “I can still taste you. Yum.”

  Then the man stared at Duncan. Duncan trembled—it felt like he was looking at the devil.

  “I bet you’re tasty, too,” the man said. “My name is Taylor. You must be Duncan. Did you have fun with Uncle Bernie?”

  Duncan couldn’t help it; he started to cry. His leg was really sore, and he wanted to go home, but he didn’t have a home anymore because it burned down, and bad people kept trying to hurt him and Mom.

  Between his sobs he heard his mother say, “We killed Uncle Bernie. And we’ll kill you, too.”

  “No,” Taylor answered. “You won’t. What’s going to happen is we’ll find your daddy, make him give us what we want, and then we’ll all take turns with you and your boy. If you’re lucky, really lucky, we’ll kill you after a few days. But I don’t think you’re going to be that lucky.”

  Duncan felt his mom squeeze his hand even tighter. He squeezed it back. He didn’t understand why she told Taylor that Bernie was dead. Maybe Sheriff Streng killed him. And maybe Sheriff Streng would come back and kill Taylor, too.

  Duncan closed his eyes and hoped with all of his might that he would.

  The flame touched Josh’s cheek and made a crackling/singeing sound as it evaporated the sweat.

  Then the pain hit.

  Josh had been burned before, but never seriously. Stepping on a sparkler when he was a kid. Grabbing the handle of a cast-iron skillet that had been on the stove for too long. Getting accidentally touched by a cigarette by some idiot at a rock concert. And in each case, his reaction had been the same: to flinch away from the heat.

  But Josh couldn’t flinch. Bernie had his arm around his throat, and Josh’s head was wedged up against the bars of the cell. Bernie held the lighter—just an ordinary disposable Bic—to Josh’s face, and Josh couldn’t even turn his head. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs and couldn’t break the killer’s steel grip.

  The pain started bad, then quickly went to unbearable. Josh howled, and Woof hopped around, barking like mad, and Bernie held it there and held it there and held it there and then finally pulled away.

  “Too deep, hehehe, too deep,” Bernie said. “Nerves are dead. Have to find a new spot, new spot.”

  Bernie waved the flame in front of his eyes. Josh tried to blow it out, but the hand danced away.

  “Where next, where next, how about … here.”

  Josh tried to blow, missed, and Bernie held the lighter right under Josh’s nose.

  Then Bernie screamed and Josh was miraculously released. The firefighter fell to his hands and knees and turned to see Woof, his head between the bars of the cell, biting and tugging at the pants of Bernie’s bad leg. Bernie went down, his mashed knee bending in a way it shouldn’t bend. He beat on the dog’s head, but Woof refused to let go.

  “Woof! Come!” Josh yelled.

  But Woof wasn’t finished with Bernie. He shook his head side to side, making Bernie’s knee flex like a rubber hose. Bernie yelled louder than Josh though humanly possible, and then the pyro managed to snag Woof’s neck with one hand. The other brought up the lighter.

  Josh tugged on Woof’s leg to pull him away, but Bernie’s grip was solid. Josh frantically looked around for something, anything, saw the pillowcase on the floor, reached for it, and yanked out the can of aerosol antiseptic spray.

  When Bernie flicked on the lighter, Josh pointed the can and let him have it.

  The results were spectacular. A two-foot blast of fire erupted from the can, hitting Bernie squarely in the face. Josh kept it on him, brought it closer, until the killer released Woof.

  The dog pounced away and resumed barking. Josh killed the flame, but Bernie’s didn’t go out. His hair had caught, and Bernie slapped at the sides of his head, which only fanned the fire, making it larger.

  Josh ran out of the drunk tank to the janitor’s supply closet, grabbed the mop bucket, took it to the bathroom, and scooped up some toilet water, ran back to Bernie’s cell to find him on his knees, beating his burning, blistering, broken face against the bars.

  He threw the water, and the fire went out, the smoke and steam rising up from Bernie’s head smelling like burnt hair and fried sausage patties.

  Bernie fell over, onto his side, his breathing shallow and rapid. Josh focused the Maglite on him, saw that his lips were gone and his eyes were dripping goo. Woof came over.

  “Aaaaaaaad. Aaaaaaaad. Oooyyyy. Aaaad oooyyy …”

  Josh listened to the wheezes, and after a minute thought he understood what Bernie was trying to say.

  Bad boy.

  That’s an understatement, Josh thought.

  He hugged the dog tight, stroking his fur, and together they watched the killer take a few more pathetic gasps and then die.

  Josh found the can of antiseptic and the fallen syringe full of lidocaine. He sprayed the needle and gently stuck it into his cheek, near the burn. The pain ebbed, and then there was no feeling at all. Next, Josh checked Woof for injury. Woof mistook it for affection and wagged his tail, furiously licking Josh’s face.

  “From now on, every time I see you, I’m bringing you a steak,” Josh promised.

  Josh put the syringe and antiseptic back into the pillowcase, and he and Woof left the Water Department building, heading for the junior high.

  • • •

  Ajax hunts. He creeps through the woods, squinting at shadows, ready to rip apart anything that moves. But he finds nothing. Only trees. The trees are familiar. They remind him of something. Something long ago.

  He remembers. A house, with trees in the back. Ajax likes to climb the trees. He’s safe in the trees. Safe from the man and the woman. They’re mean to him. Hate him. Because he’s fucking stupid. They call him fucking stupid all the time. Yell at him for being fucking stupid. Because he’s fucking stupid he has to go to a special school. The other kids pick on him. He’s small and can’t fight back. They chase him. Hurt him. When he tells the man and the woman, they hurt him, too. Everyone hurts him.

  Ajax gets a lot of practice blocking out the hurt. He may be fucking stupid, but he learns how to control the pain. The kids hit him. The woman uses a belt on him. The man breaks his teeth with a beer bottle. But Ajax doesn’t cry. This makes everyone afraid.

  Ajax likes making people afraid.

  Ajax remembers going into the man and woman’s bedroom. They drank beer and hit him for a long time, but now they are sleeping. He has a knife, the one that plugs into the wall that the man uses to cut turkey on turkey day. Ajax is never allowed to have turkey, because he’s fucking stupid. But he is smart enough to plug the knife in the outlet, and press the big red button, and cut them cut them cut them while they scream scream scream.

  Then Ajax met Doctor. Doctor never called him fucking stupid. Doctor helped Ajax. He gave him special shots, to make him big and strong. He put something in Ajax’s head to make him smart.

  Ajax likes Doctor.

  And Ajax still likes making people afraid.

  He remembers going somewhere strange where people talked funny. They finished the mission, and it was Fun Time. Taylor and Bernie were cooking someone, eating parts. Logan and Santiago had a man tied to a tree and were cutting off parts and betting which cut would kill him. Ajax was playing with a woman. He would break her leg, then watch her try to crawl away, then bring her back and break her leg in another spot.

  She was very afraid.

  Then Taylor showed Ajax how to make her even mo
re afraid. He took off her clothes, used his private part.

  Ajax tried it, too.

  He liked it.

  Ajax wants to try it with the woman from the car. He wants to break her arms and legs and make her afraid and then take off all her clothes and …

  The giant twitches, the Chip in his head reloading the current objective.

  Find Warren Streng.

  Ajax searches the woods. Hunting. He wants to find Warren Streng. Wants to find him very bad.

  Then he can have Fun Time with the woman.

  • • •

  The junior high was two blocks away. They ran. For a plump dog Woof kept up easily, even going on ahead and marking his territory on assorted curbs and trees. The school parking lot was full, and, surprisingly, the lights were on. Josh turned the Maglite off but kept it in his hand; its weight reassured him.

  The front door was locked. He tried the back entrance, by the gym, and froze. His fire truck was parked alongside the building.

  Josh hurried to it, looked in the cab for the keys. Gone. He jogged back to the gymnasium entrance. If the Red-ops had been the ones who stole the tanker, they could be inside the school. People might be in danger.

  The door was unlocked. When he yanked it open, Josh witnessed a scene from a nightmare.

  “Woof, sit,” Josh said. He left the dog and the pillowcase outside and went in.

  Dead. Hundreds dead. On the bleachers. On the floor. On each other. Josh had to climb over a small mountain of bodies to get through. He checked a pulse. And another. And another. The bodies were cool to the touch, and there were no sounds other than the ones Josh made.

  These were people he knew. His friends. He saw Mrs. Simmons, his next-door neighbor, still sitting down, her eyes wide and her mouth caked with dried puke. Adam Pepper, a part-time volunteer at the firehouse, curled up fetal on the floor. Janie Richter, her face bright pink, her arms wrapped protectively around her son, a boy no more than Duncan’s age.

  Josh kept checking for pulses, kept finding none. A lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. He followed some bloody footprints to the boys’ locker room and saw even more atrocities. Corpses piled to the ceiling, recalling ghastly newsreel footage of the death camps from World War II.