Destroyer of Worlds

by Daniel G. Keohane

  The pain in her shoulder simmered, then ignited again, a slow fire, worsening as she focused on it. Too much, all of it, too much. She turned her face into the dirt and cried, feeling the ground muddy from the tears. She could hardly breath, looked away from the shape of her captor, knowing everything was over and wishing she’d been stronger.

  Another rumble, further off in the distance. She waited for the knife to jam into her back, burst her heart.

  All was silent, except the constant rustle of the trees outside, the wind, her own breathing. She was breathing, still alive. No talking. No voice. Sam jerked sideways, trying to reposition herself. Her shoulder twisted, the muscles not responding the way she wanted. But no pain. Just a spreading numbness across her back, like blood. Not a good sign. Vanessa was not coming back. Sam rolled onto her belly again, twisted until the doorway was visible. Her right eye was caked in the mud, useless. No Vanessa. Sam was alone. Maybe forever.

  A fly buzzed in the corner of the small room. She looked up with her clear eye. The ceiling looked so far away, a single beam with strands of webbing drifting down like old party decorations. What had this place been? She wriggled her arms and legs, trying to find a weak point in the knots, but the rope had been wrapped around and around, no knots except maybe one between her hands and feet. She stopped struggling.

  The fly buzzed again. She wished she could clear her right eye enough to open it. Instead, she rolled, adjusting her body’s position to offer a better view of the shed’s interior. Vision slowly adjusted to this new lack of depth perception. She saw the nest. A massive, oblong mass of gray dominating the front corner near the door. It was covered in black and white wasps. A drone flew off, disappearing through the door to be replaced by another coming in. Samantha stared at the unthinkable mass of them. She sucked in a dry breath, held it, afraid if she let the air out too quickly it would hit the nest, anger the wasps.

  She could not look away from the writhing monster in the corner. She finally stopped thinking, closed her clear eye. Someone would come for her, if she stayed perfectly still, if she did what she was told. Someone would come.

  VIII

  Corey didn’t encounter another car until he’d turned off the highway. It moved across his path at the first intersection. Not long after, a second passed in the opposite direction. By the time he reached the Welcome to Hillcrest sign, he’d begun to see people along the road - a man in overalls walking with a cell phone pressed to his ear, two children playing on a swing in the town’s small park. Whatever was going on, news hadn’t traveled this far.

  That was crazy. The city had been emptied. Maybe the phone lines were down here. Corey hadn’t been able to get through to Sam during the drive. No phone lines meant no Internet. It made sense, in a day where nothing else did.

  As he passed the town common, following the main road west, two men, one dressed in suit and tie and the other in a dirty white t-shirt and jeans, ran across the square in front of the library. Corey lost sight of them a moment later. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He had begun to think it was not thunder, but didn’t have the time or inclination to find a high ground to see the source, see what was coming up behind him.

  His own road finally appeared, shaded under a dark green canopy. The air was cooler here. A mosquito landed on his arm through the open window as he turned into the driveway. Corey pulled the arm in and crushed the bug against the inside of the door. A smear of his blood between vinyl and flesh. He’d have to remember to come back out with a wet rag before it dried.

  The mini-van was in the driveway. Was Abby visiting her friend in the morning or afternoon? He could head back out to bring her home, especially if what was happening was bad enough that…well, was bad enough.

  More thunder accompanied his walk to the front door. The sun slanted west but remained high, still bathing the house and yard in bright daylight. No fear here, no worries. The day was beautiful, their home a dream. He opened the door and stepped inside. They would gather up Abby if need be, entrench themselves in the house or the yard, be together.

  “Sam?”

  No answer.

  They’d work together in the garden planting seeds, giving life a chance to grow, to be something. No television, but they could watch a movie, something to ride out the storm.

  Sam’s notebook was on the back porch, pages fluttering in the growing breeze, pen at rest halfway across the table. Corey leaned over the porch railing. No one in the garden. “Sam?”

  Two hands on his shoulders, long fingers sliding over his collar. He moaned in surprised pleasure, leaned into her, saw the hands on his shirt, slender, painted nails. Sam didn’t paint her nails. Lips on his neck. Corey turned his head, stiffened when his lips brushed Vanessa’s cheek. She kissed the corner of his mouth.

  He spun around and stepped back, pulling her free while at the same time holding her wrists. The railing pressed against his back. Vanessa laughed, stepped closer, bending her arms between them. “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I know Samantha was.” She pressed against him, pinning their hands between them. Her lips on his, smell of forest walk, leaf cover, green canopy flashing, pine needles underfoot.

  He shoved her away. She did not resist, moved with it, almost floating like a child’s balloon. Vanessa shook her head, smiled and walked towards the kitchen door. He stayed at the railing, needing the distance between them.

  “Wh-where’s Sam?”

  She did not answer, only reached out with one sleeveless arm and crooked her finger. Slender arms, freckles and thin wisps of hair along the skin, twin braided pigtails down her back. Corey struggled to concentrate. “Where is she?”

  Another rumble in the sunny, blue sky. He pushed away from the railing, followed her into the kitchen but not before casting a quick glance at the notebook discarded on the porch table. Sam was here, somewhere. They were swallowed by the cool dark of the house. Already Vanessa had drifted around the corner into the living room.

  More forceful now, his patience thinning but beneath it, a growing terror. “I said, where is Samantha? Where is my wife? I want to know where she is now.”

  Vanessa sat on the couch, patting the cushion beside her. Another rumble rolled past the house. This time, Corey felt it in the floor. He stood at the kitchen boundary, staring at her, uncertain what to do. He should go down the hall, into the bedroom. That’s where his wife was, had to be. In bed, sleeping or… or what?

  “Come, sit,” Vanessa said. “We have a lot to talk about and, to be honest, we have very little time.”

  He shook his head. He wasn’t going anywhere, especially nowhere close to her. He glanced down at the clock. The foot high man in blue pants screamed silently at him, laughed at him. With an undercurrent of impatience Vanessa said, “Corey, sit down here and I’ll tell you everything.”

  He stepped towards the clock instead. Two steps, three. “Do not go near that clock, Corey, or your wife will die.” He stopped, eyes on the blue and pink man that smiled like a lunatic. Everyone wanted to kill his family. They’d done nothing. They were perfect, innocent. Vanessa continued, “She will die alone, knowing you abandoned her. She’ll die of starvation or thirst or more likely blood loss. Killed by an animal wandering by and catching her scent. Do you want that to happen, Corey?”

  Two explosions. Boom! Boom! Someone pounding out the finale to some tuneless symphony. The sound had texture, splintering behind the trees, reaching through the open windows all around them. Somewhere, an army of giants was stomping their way into town.

  Corey turned fully towards Vanessa. She carried herself so easily, even while saying such horrible things to him. She shifted on the couch but an after-image remained, one that was softer, less angled but still intense.

  The shadow Vanessa said, “Corey.”

  The harder version laughed, looked sideways at him, “I’m over here.” She slid back, merging with the ghost.

  Her cell phone rang. Vanessa said, “Shit!”

  IX

>   Vanessa

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Corey’s face melted into its usual, slack expression and he stopped talking. He stared, confused by the interruption. Vanessa had only a few minutes before he righted his world and began speaking again.

  Andrew Booth’s deep voice on the cell phone. “Van, sorry if I’m interrupting. Wanted to check in, see how things were since no one’s heard from you all morning. Chen’s pretty pissed. I assume Corey must have - ”

  “Listen, Andrew, first off it’s Vanessa, and yes, we were shit deep into things and now it’s all stopped because the phone rang.”

  Silence on the line. She’d hurt his feelings. Damn it, why hadn’t she turned off the ringer? Andrew surely must have thought this himself, but rather than remind her, he only said, “I apologize. I’ll leave my phone on if you need anything. I just know what it’s like being alone when he’s going full tilt. Just make sure you don’t get too pulled in - ”

  “I appreciate your concern, Andrew,” she said, whispering, not wanting his alter ego to make an unexpected appearance in Corey’s world, not during what most certainly was the Big Finish.

  Silence lingered on the other end. Finally, “OK, good luck, Vanessa. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  She privately wished he’d continued with the Van nickname, but this was not the time for backtracking. She was close, sensing the time approaching to interject herself more forcefully into the scene, before it was too late to do anything but watch Corey fall apart completely, die with his family in this fantasy world. She wondered where Andrew was now. Hopefully close, in case she really did need him.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry for snapping.”

  “No problem. Turn off the ringer, but make sure you leave it on vibrate. I promise not to call unless it’s an emergency.”

  She nodded, not caring if he missed the gesture. “Will do. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Bright and early. Bye.”

  “Bye.” She pressed the disconnect button, immediately opened the menu and changed the ringer to vibrate, tossed the phone onto the couch cushion behind her. While Corey was describing the events on the porch Vanessa had moved to sit beside him, an act which the man had seamlessly incorporated into his world, putting his own version of her, the bad Vanessa, in the same spot.

  Corey remained quiet. Vanessa waited. He’d been speaking slowly all day, mouth moving like a puppet with someone’s hand up his back, reaching into his mind, controlling his thoughts, building up his world so it could be torn back down. It was impossible for the crazy old man in the hospital cell to make Corey Union think or do anything. Nevertheless, the idea wouldn’t be shaken. She’d let it settle in her mind. Of course it wasn’t true, but it gave her focus, gave her something—someone—to fight.

  And fight him, fight it, she would begin to do. It hurt her to hear how she was represented in Corey’s world, this dream in yellow as the man’s late wife might say. Vanessa was not the villain. She was trying to be the hero, his knight in shining armor scaling the castle wall to rescue him from the dragon before it could—

  Shit! She ran both hands across her face. Andrew was right. She was falling too much into this. If she was going to accomplish anything in the next twelve hours, she had to be professional. Had to be objective. Had to be detached. But like it or not, she had feelings for this sad, pathetic man, far beyond what was healthy or helpful.

  She watched him sitting, blank, occasionally licking his lips, frozen in a house, a world, vastly different than reality. A world where the most important people in his life still had a chance for salvation. Vanessa curled her legs further underneath her. Maybe Hank Cowles was right, in his own psychotic way. This was the end. Corey’s family would die all over again, and when that happened, his mind would, in effect, reboot, and start all over again.

  No more. She had to step inside his world now. It was the only way to pull him from the fire before it swallowed him again.

  Corey licked his lips, blinked three times in quick succession, and whispered, “Sam. Oh, Sam…”

  X

  Corey

  Samantha had rolled onto her back again, wishing her inured shoulder protested more than it was doing, wanting to feel pain to know that it was still there. Enough dirt had dried over one eye that the constant flow of wasps overhead seemed without distance. The beam above her looked so old she wondered how it had managed to hold up the roof all these years. One section of the ceiling had cracked apart to expose a dull gray sky. No more blue. It had washed away in whatever violence was happening outside. The wasps passed to and fro above her. Sam wriggled herself closer to the open door knowing at the same time she was closer to the paper monster beside it, a monster with a thousand burning stingers in its belly.

  She craned her neck, watched the nest. Wasps swarmed over its surface, pouring out of a dozen holes. They never came too close, but they knew she was there. Their constant recon flights were a warning, or a preparation.

  Sam whispered, “Corey,” then dared no more. The entire population of the nest was crawling out for a glimpse of the intruder. Spectators for whatever was about to happen. Romans in a coliseum.

  The next crash of thunder—so close now—sent a cloud of them into the air, but they settled back. A few drifted towards her. One alighted on her cheek; another wandered through her hair. She tried not to think about Fran’s story, the person stung to death so long ago, most likely in this very shed. She did not want to become that person. The wasp on her cheek stepped towards her open eye. It’s alien face was huge and out of focus. She stopped breathing. The black monster lifted away from her face. The one in her hair remained as an itch she couldn’t scratch.

  She dared not move now. Wanted to become a stone on the floor. No threat. She turned her eye towards the door as the next boom rolled overhead. The world outside, from this perspective, was upside down. Hank Cowles hung a few feet back from the door, staring in at her. His skinny hands gripped the splintery handle of an old, rusted pitchfork, fingers twisting tighter, coiling over themselves like snakes. His smile was upside down, hands curling tighter on the handle. The tines of the fork glistened in the fading daylight. Samantha willed herself not to see him. Just an illusion. The finger snakes continued twisting. He stepped closer, eyes burning into hers, telling her his plan without needing words.

  He stopped at the threshold suddenly and looked left, towards the thin path from which he’d obviously come.

  Samantha closed her eye, focusing on the wasp's tiny footfalls along her scalp. When she opened it again, the doorway was empty, save the nearby trees waving goodbye in the growing wind.

  XI

  “I don’t like thunder,” Honey said, leaning forward, sharing this secret. “Do you want to trade?” She held up a brown-skinned doll wearing a silver spacesuit. “Astronaut Barbie for…” she considered, probably deciding the one with the wedding dress was off-limits then picked up Aerobic Barbie, “This one.”

  “Honey? Sweetie where are you?” Abby wondered if Honey’s mother was calling her Sweetie. Maybe Sweetie was Honey’s middle name. That was funny enough to elicit a giggle.

  “We’re in the bedroom, Mommy!” Then in a whisper, added, “What?”

  Abby told her, and Honey shook her head. “No, no. My middle name is Samantha.”

  Before she could tell the girl that was her mother’s name Fran called again, “Honey, why don’t you and your new friend come play here, near me. OK?” Another crack of thunder, still far off. Abby wanted to count the seconds between flashes, but it was too bright outside to see any. Honey gathered up her dolls, Abby hers and they left the bedroom, wandering down the curving staircase into the foyer. Honey’s house was so huge. Abby didn’t like it much. It was old and creaky like a haunted house.

  She followed the girl through the open kitchen into a wide, sunny family room. The mother was sitting forward on a plush white chair and stared at the TV. She motioned absently with one hand. “Go play behind the cou
ch, Sweetie. Mommy wants to watch the news. Maybe we can have some dinner soon.” There was a wide carpeted area between the tall windows and the couch. As they headed that way, the woman looked up. “It’s Abby, right?”

  She nodded.

  “What time is your Mommy coming?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m supposed to go home for supper.”

  Honey said, “Can she stay with us? Can she have supper with us?”

  The woman looked back at the television, watched for a while. The two girls stood beside the couch, waiting. A pretty Chinese woman on the screen was saying, “…current estimations close to ten thousand within the strike zone…” Finally, Honey’s mother looked at her. The tears falling down her face gave Abby a bellyache. Grown ups weren’t supposed to cry. Her Daddy sometimes looked like he was going to, mostly when he watched the news like this lady. Why did they watch it if it made them sad?

  “No, Honey, I’m sorry. Not today. There’s a lot going on.” She wiped her cheeks with the ball of her palm, tried to focus on Abby. On the television there was a man sitting at a desk. The picture fizzed and blurred. He said, “Mixed news coming from the west coast. In the Middle East…”

  Honey’s mother spoke over him. “You can come back again real soon, and we’ll have macaroni and cheese. How’s that?”

  “Sure!” both girls said, and on that note they moved to the space behind the couch. The sun faded outside.