Titan: A Science Fiction Horror Adventure (NecroVerse Book 3)

by Aaron Bunce

  Yes, it all made sense then, his life…details, spinning into place from the fog of his mind. He remembered the day before that. They’d gone for a walk through Central Park the night before. Then he remembered the day before that. He had traveled to Philadelphia for work…on the train. Yes, there had been a meeting in a tall brick building. And before that, a wedding, a beach, and a steamy night spent beachside. He remembered the cool, salty air blowing in from the ocean, the tickle of it on their fevered skin.

  His difficulty remembering anything, determining what to say, his fog and confusion, all of it just slipped away.

  Unable to suppress a wide smile and feeling much better about his lot in life, Jacoby pushed out of the chair and made his way up the hall. Something nagged at his mind, however, and he turned just before leaving. The chair still rocked gently from his departure, the only evidence that he’d just been in it. It looked so horribly out of place amidst the tidy room, and not just because of its size. Some part of his mind told him that it didn’t belong, that it stood out from their mid-century modern home.

  A ghost of a shadow appeared in the chair as his thoughts turned—a man like him…no, it was him, in a way, but worn down and battered by life, broken by bad choices. Empty bottles littered the table next to the chair and the ground beneath it. Brown. Empty. Liquor. Then it was all gone.

  But why? How? That memory didn’t feel like the others. It didn’t fit neatly into its place, but seemingly grated against his mind, a sheet of rough sandpaper against already sunburned skin.

  Turning, Jacoby scratched his chin and moved quietly down the hall. He followed the music to a room on the left. A simple desk dominated the middle of the floor, accompanied by a highbacked chair, a bookcase, and a spindly-legged table holding a record player. He flipped through the sleeves, selected a record at random, and swapped it.

  The music started, scratchy at first, but that faded quickly. A piano warmed quickly into a subdued song.

  “In this lonely bar, I’m glad that you sat down beside me,” the woman started to sing, her voice warm, resonant, and silky.

  “Julie London,” he whispered, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him. He didn’t have to look at the album cover. Her face just magically appeared in his mind. It, like seemingly everything else, triggered some long, distant recognition. The lyrics spoke to him, the melody threatening to sweep him away.

  “You are a hopeless romantic.”

  He turned to find Alexandria standing in the doorway, the apron now gone. Before he could stop it, his mind flitted back to their honeymoon, and that heated night beachside. No, further back. It was that song. They had danced to it. Their first dance, in fact. Slow and close at the dinner club. That was when he knew she was the one.

  “Come and get it before it gets cold,” she said, beckoning him forward, “unless you’d…”

  Jacoby snagged her wrist and pulled her close, dropping his other hand to her waist.

  “Oh, so we’re dancing now?” she asked, taking his lead. Her skirt ruffled as she snugged in close.

  “It just feels right. And sometimes you just do what feels right.”

  Alexandria laughed quietly, her bouncy red hair tickling his cheek. She laid her head on his shoulder and nuzzled in next to his neck as they turned slowly together. Her smell surrounded him, leeching into every thought and need—warm vanilla and spicy amber.

  Jacoby extended his arm, Alexandria turning gracefully, his skirt twirling out around her. She laughed, curtsied, and pulled him into a kiss. He crushed her into him, savoring her smell, touch, and taste. He wanted to live in that moment forever—the apartment, the music, Alexandria. It was perfect.

  “Come, before your chow gets cold.”

  She grabbed both of his hands and pulled him towards the dining room. He hit a wall of fantastic smells as they entered and moved quickly to a chair and sat down, only to have Alexandria duck around from behind and tuck a napkin into his collar.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “I have to keep my man fed and happy! Besides, I know how you are…always dribbling a little bit of this or that down your shirt. My mother always used to say that a path to a man’s heart is found in his stomach. Well, a path to a woman’s…? That is through minimizing how much laundry she has to do,” she said and proceeded to scoop spoonfuls of food onto his plate.

  “Please, allow me,” he said, and reached out and took the spoon.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to…”

  “Please,” he said, and gently took the spoon from her hand.

  “Well, this is a change,” she said, smoothing her skirt to sit down.

  Jacoby placed some roast on her plate. First one piece and then two, followed by some potatoes and carrots. She lifted her fork and started to eat, delicately cutting each piece, and lifting it to her mouth in turn. Despite his ravenous hunger, he managed to match her pace, eating with as much decorum as he could muster.

  “Good chow?”

  He nodded, chewing through another bite, and smiled. There was something about the word chow that rang familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Familiar and strange.

  The food was better than he could have imagined, the roast practically melting in his mouth and the vegetables almost surpassing it in flavor and texture. Once finished, Jacoby helped Alexandria clear the plates. He noted her surprise—the slightest hint of a smile he thought she was trying to hide, which only seemed to add to the growing sparkle in her green eyes. He believed a married couple should work together, not wait on one another. He felt strongly about that conviction, but not entirely sure why.

  They sat together after that, enjoying a cordial glass of port wine with a shared slice of blueberry pie. The crust was buttery and flaky, the filling sweet with a fantastic tart finish. Jacoby savored each small bite, almost sad to take the next as he watched their shared slice dwindle. There was something symbolic about the dish, perhaps what it meant to someone in his past, like the memory of warmth when he was cold, or of sunlight when trapped in darkness.

  But why couldn’t he remember?

  “This pie…” he started say, after taking a sip of wine. “It is so strange. I love it—how it tastes, smells, but I can’t seem to remember why. It doesn’t end there. I feel something, or maybe it’s the opposite. It is hard to explain. Like I’ve just woken from a nightmare, but I’m not sure what is real. Does that make sense? Everything here is perfect—our apartment, the food, you…but I have this nagging, horrible feeling like if I close my eyes long enough, I will open them, and this will all be gone.”

  Alexandria considered him quietly, then dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin before speaking.

  “That is just plain nonsense. Do I feel real to you?” she asked, reaching across the table and taking his hand. He couldn’t remember a time when anything felt more right or real. He nodded.

  “You’ve been incredibly busy lately, with work, with helping your mom get settled. I just think it is stress. You are tired. You laid down and maybe you just had a bad dream and it stuck with you. You love that pie so much because it is your mom’s recipe. She gave it to me herself.”

  “My mom’s recipe…” he echoed, hovering on that thought. It felt right, and yet not at the same time. Get my mom settled. How? Why? It wasn’t that he had bad feelings about his mother, it was that he didn’t have any. It was like everything he expected to feel about her was just gone.

  “Don’t worry yourself about it now. Come. I want another dance.” Alexandria pulled him out of the chair, and they walked together to the office. She lit an antique oil lamp and put on a record, and then they danced—fast to the lively tunes and slow when the music pulled them closer together. They danced through one album, and then another, the evening light failing beyond the window. The lamp’s gentle glow drew the shadows as Alexandria pulled him close suddenly, her lips brushing against his ear.

  “Make love to me.”

  Jacoby gathered her up in hi
s arms and carried her into the bedroom across the hall. She’d already undone the top few buttons on his shirt by the time he set her on the bed. He pulled it free and tossed it on the bed but tumbled forward as she pulled him over.

  “Don’t move,” she breathed and crawled back to her feet.

  His excitement grew as Alexandria undid the buttons on her bodice, and then, ever so slowly, and with a seductive wiggle, let the dress slide down over her hips and onto the ground. She approached the side of the bed, her undergarments falling to join the dress.

  Jacoby threw his legs over the side and sat up, throwing his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. She was tall, but bent into him, her warm breasts pressing into him as they kissed. Alexandria untied the ribbon from her hair and let her auburn locks fall, bouncing in a silken sheet across her shoulders.

  “I thought I told you not to move, Sir.”

  “I didn’t want to wait,” he whispered back, running his hands down over her hips, back across her firm rear, and then up her back. His fingers discovered raised scars over her ribs and others up around her shoulder blades, but he pulled her onto the bed and rolled, ending up atop her.

  She fumbled his belt and pants open in a flash, then pushed them down with a foot. Jacoby eased in for a kiss, only to feel his manhood ease inside her, as if guided by an invisible hand. Alexandria moaned and kissed him hard, biting his lip and holding on for a long moment. He withdrew slowly, savoring the way she wrapped perfectly around him. Then, at her urging, pushed forward again.

  Jacoby kissed her again and moved down, that spicy amber aroma almost overpowering at the nape of her neck. The smell and her urgent breathing worked him up into a frenzy, pushing himself in deeper and harder, until she wrapped her legs around him suddenly and pulled him in.

  “I love you so much. It’s time. Let’s make a baby,” she said, kissing him urgently.

  Those words lit a fire inside him, one he didn’t know existed. They fell back into their passions after that, making love for what felt like hours, and only falling back to the bed when they were covered in sweat and out of breath. They came together again a short while later, after her leg lightly brushed against his, and a third time around midnight. He startled awake and found her watching him, waiting, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She rolled over on top of him, the urgency now burned away, but the passion still present. By the time he climaxed the last time, Alexandria’s hair was dampened by sweat and her skin was glossy in the moonlight.

  They collapsed to the bed, thoroughly spent, and succumbed to sleep; their bodies still intertwined. The next morning Jacoby snorted awake and rolled to his left, sprawling onto the floor. Some part of him expected steel decking and sanitary ceramic fixtures and wall panels, bright, blinding lights, and incessant beeping equipment. But he was relieved to feel the warm, hardwood floor under his hands, as well as the sheet trapped between his legs when he fell from bed.

  He pulled himself to his feet only to find the bed empty, the bright, early morning sunshine cascading in from the window. A smell drifted over him then—bitter, warm, and enticing, the sizzle of cooking food and clinking dishes beckoning him.

  Jacoby pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt and padded down the hallway, where Alexandria finished pouring coffee into two cups. She turned, holding one expectantly.

  “Finally! I thought I would have to eat breakfast by myself.”

  “You would do that? Without me?” he asked with mock outrage, then lifted the coffee and took a sip. It was hot, slightly bitter, with a toffee-like finish.

  “This,” he said, lifting the cup and taking another long series of sips. It was the best coffee he’d ever tasted. They sat and ate together—bacon, eggs, and a French toast-like casserole Alexandria called strada…or strata. Either way, it was delicious.

  Jacoby refilled his coffee cup when they were done, their conversation naturally sliding between the night before, the food, and how he couldn’t remember a meal tasting that good. His gaze dropped to the steaming liquid in his cup.

  “I hated coffee when I met you,” Alexandria said, watching him quietly. “Do you remember when we found that coffee shop down by the park?”

  Jacoby lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. He didn’t have to think hard on it, for some reason, the memory popped loose and slid to the forefront of his mind.

  “It was a cloudy morning…chilly. We were huddled together, trying to figure out how we were going to spend the day. That was when we smelled it—fresh bread right out of the oven, and coffee. You told me…”

  Alexandria took another sip and watched him expectantly.

  “You told me you loved the smell of coffee, loved to hold the warm mug in your hands on a cold day, but you’d never actually tried it. I think I laughed at you.”

  “I punched you.”

  “But…” he said, holding up a finger, “I got you to try it that morning, and, well, the rest is history.” He gestured to her cup, and she laughed quietly.

  The memory warmed his insides more than the coffee ever could. But there was something about it that bothered him, too. Nothing in its makeup, but more how it didn’t seem to exist in his mind one moment, and in the next, it was as vivid and real as if it had happened just the day before.

  He troubled on the feeling for a moment, his mind naturally sliding back to earlier when he’d fallen out of bed…what he’d expected, versus the reality of his actual surroundings. Then the previous day, and how startled and confused he was, waking up in his chair.

  “I can’t explain it,” he said, finally, “it’s like I keep expecting to wake up and find things different again. Everything feels new and old at the same time.”

  Alexandria listened, gently cradling her mug between sips of her coffee. He talked and rambled on those strange feelings for a while, struggling to adequately articulate why exactly it felt so strange. Eventually, he got frustrated and faltered.

  “Never mind, I’m not making any sense,” he said, waving it all away.

  “Have you ever considered that it’s the opposite?”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, think about it, silly. I feel real enough, right? Perhaps whatever you’re expecting to wake up to, that is really the dream. You know what they say about dreams, the deeper they are, the harder our minds work to convince us it is real. Perhaps you just had yourself a really deep, really convincing dream, and your busy, preoccupied little mind is struggling to let go.”

  Jacoby took a sip, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. It made sense. After all, he was struggling with a series of foggy recollections and emotions at best. They were hardly as tactile as the food in his belly, the chair beneath his rear, or the woman seated opposite.

  “You know what. I’ve got a surprise that I know will take your mind off all that other silliness. Go shower and get changed. I won’t accept any arguments, either. March, soldier!”

  “What is it?”

  “If I tell you, then it won’t be a surprise. Now march!”

  The Chair

  Alexandria pushed out of her chair and herded him from the kitchen and down the hall, directing him like a drill sergeant. Jacoby showered, shaved, and dressed, then went to the den and waited. He moved to sit in the blue recliner, but froze. The chair moved, rocking gently, and he hadn’t touched it yet. The window was still open, but the breeze had died down.

  Jacoby tried not to stare, to direct his attention anywhere else—out the window, the dining room, or the hallway as he waited for Alexandria. But…the blue chair. Just being near it gave him a strange feeling, an expectation. No, it was fear. But why?

  “It’s just a chair. A piece of furniture. That is all,” he said, psyching himself up and walked right up to it. His head passed through an invisible bubble, a strong odor hitting his senses—alcohol and stale cigarettes. But that didn’t feel right. It looked brand new. The room around it was pristine, too and nothing foul was detectable on the breeze blowing in through the window.r />
  He paced before the window, staring straight ahead, and fighting to look anywhere else, but the chair had gravity. Somehow, it was pulling his eyes in.

  Horns and city noise blew in behind him, but somehow, the chair was louder. It creaked and groaned, old bearings squeaking. Jacoby retreated to the dining room, hovering near the sideboard. Then he moved to the kitchen, only after the weight again started pulling his eyes towards the chair.

  “All ready?” Alexandria said, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

  “Yes. Very ready.”

  “Okay! You are going to love this! Trust me. And it is such a lovely day for a walk.” She wore a white dress now, offset with a blue hair scarf, blue necklace, and a pair of shiny, gold earrings.

  Jacoby thought she looked like a movie star, her bouncing red curls and shiny heels more at home for a red-carpet affair than a casual stroll down the street. She was elegant, refined, and loved him. Everything about that felt right.

  “Can I get a hint?”

  She approached the front door, pausing only to pull on a pair of thin, elbow-high gloves and slide her handbag into place. “Not a one,” she said with a teasing smile. “I’m sorry, buster, but you’re going to just have to find out the old-fashioned way.”

  He reached in and opened the door for her, only to discover a man standing in the hall outside, a hand poised as if ready to knock.

  “Oh, hello and good morning,” the man said, sweeping a classy top hat off his head. “Mr. and Mrs. Mason, I presume.”

  “Yes. How can we help you?” Alexandria asked.

  “My name is Erasmus P. Carter. I work in the offices of Howard, Green, and Phillips. I’m so sorry to bother you on this beautiful fall morning, but I need just a few moments of the mister’s time.”