The Wicked

by James Newman

A man’s head was buried in his crotch, bobbing up and down. The rest of the man’s body knelt on the weedy ground next to Michael’s seat, as the driver’s-side door hung open like a crooked mouth.

  “Who...what...”

  A throb of pain in the center of his chest caused Michael’s vision to waver in and out again. He thought he recognized the man who was lapping at his cock so eagerly...but then it was gone.

  “Who...are you?”

  The man looked up at him, and Michael’s semi-flaccid penis slid from between his lips. Michael could barely feel himself down there. It must have felt good, damn good, whatever the guy was doing down there. If only the pain would go away, he might feel something...

  It was Joel down there, in his lap. A grinning, pale-faced Joel, holding his lover’s cock in one hand as if it were the greatest prize he had ever known. He stared at it. Kissed it. Licked its purple tip.

  “Mmm,” Michael moaned, in spite of himself.

  But this wasn’t right...it couldn’t be. What was Joel doing here? Hadn’t they been in an argument earlier? Michael wished he could remember, but it would not come to him.

  Only the pain stayed with him.

  Through Michael’s fog of pain, the man in his lap suddenly looked not like his boyfriend at all. Now he had transformed into the first man with whom Michael had ever made love. That gorgeous public defender down in Georgia, ten years Michael’s senior, the same fellow who had given him that nasty little AIDS scare in the weeks following their affair.

  Yes, it could have been him too.

  Maybe.

  What the hell was happening here? Michael did not understand, but he did not try to fight it. He arched his back, licked his lips as the attorney from Atlanta devoured his hardness once again. Even through his pain, through the steady, snake-like sssss of steam gushing from beneath the Charger’s hood, Michael could hear the steady lapping sounds, the low moans of hungry passion in the man took every inch of him inside his mouth.

  This wasn’t right, though, Michael knew. Something was very wrong here. Still, he could not fight it. He felt as if he were in some surreal dream world. Everything was jumbled, confused.

  Now his vision blurred again, and for several seconds the man resembled Michael’s own father. Impossible as such a thing could be—Michael’s father had been dead for a decade—it was true. The bobbing salt-and-pepper head in his crotch belonged to his father, the man who had hardly said two words to his son, just stared at him all the time like the teenager’s presence sickened him, since that fateful day six months before his death when Michael told his father he was gay.

  No. No. This could not be.

  Michael could even feel his father’s harelip on him, that slight cleft palate Dayton Morris had carried all his life because he’d claimed “that’s the way God made him so that’s the way he’d stay,” could feel it scrubbing at the flesh of his penis every time the man’s lips traveled down his shaft and back up again.

  As wrong as Michael knew this all was, he welcomed those faint strokes of moisture sliding up and down the length of his penis. They broke through the wall of his pain, dulling the agony of his many cuts and bruises for several seconds at a time. He moaned, arched his back even as his body protested, as something cracked and popped inside of him. He ran his blood-smeared hands through the man’s filthy gray hair, pushed that head which now looked not like his father’s head at all further into his groin. Yes.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Please...”

  He pushed himself deeper...into the man’s ice-cold mouth, into that scaly, disease-ridden throat.

  “What the—” Michael looked down, and then he began to hyperventilate as the skeletal old man with the beard that went on into forever looked up at him with eyes as black as the deepest abyss. His cheeks were sunken, mottled and gray, and his wiry beard of filth and pestilence encircled Michael’s jutting cock like a muddy nest of sticks and leaves and vermin. That unnatural beard trailed out through the door, beneath the man’s bony, naked ass, and—somehow, Michael knew this terrible truth—back out into the meadow, past the ruins of Heller Home, and down Pellham Road for many miles.

  The man paused at his sloppy work long enough to smile at Michael—a crooked, unholy smile—and Michael saw that his tongue was as black as his eyes. His teeth were yellow, broken and rotten, and stained with smears of bright, bright blood.

  A smell like something burning filled the air. A droning buzz, like a swarm of angry bumblebees, cut through the night all around the car.

  Michael’s hands grasped at his groin, trying to push the man away now—this was wrongwrongwrong and Michael did not understand how he could not have seen that before—but his movements seemed so slow, too slow, like syrupy movements in a dream.

  Gripping himself, he screamed and screamed, yet even as his shriek cut through the night, his mind registered that the man was gone. Suddenly gone. As if he had never been there at all.

  Only the pain remained...

  ...as Michael’s shriveled red penis came off, still jerking wetly, in his hands.

  CHAPTER 30

  Kate was awake when David finally joined her in bed. He had been working on his first project of the new year, a high-paying gig he still couldn’t believe he’d scored which entailed designing the dust-jacket for Dean Koontz’s latest novel. But his eyes had grown too heavy to continue. He would begin anew tomorrow, perhaps with some newfound inspiration for the piece.

  The clock on the nightstand showed 2:19.

  Kate’s voice came to him from out of the darkness, giving him a start as he pulled his half of the covers around himself.

  “Making any progress, sweetheart?” she asked.

  He rolled over, stared at her large, pregnant form in the moonlight. Her back was to him, and she did not move at all.

  “David?”

  “Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” Kate said. “Working late?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Making any progress?” she asked again.

  “Hell, no. Not only am I having trouble finding my muse, I think she’s permanently skipped town.”

  “I doubt that,” Kate said sleepily. “You’ll get it, baby. You always do.”

  The only sound between them for the next few minutes was the hum of the electric heater kicking on, warming the house.

  “David?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” she asked. “That we haven’t made love in so long.”

  David stared at her back, at the way the covers drew tight around her body but still did not cover every bit of her these last few months. At the way her unwashed hair spread out upon the pillow like tangled strands of thick brown yarn.

  “I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” he finally replied.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a pain to live with,” Kate said.

  “You’re not. I love you, Kate.” David rolled over then, closed his eyes, hoping for several uninterrupted hours of sleep. “Goodnight, sweetie.”

  “If you really want to,” Kate said. “If it means that much to you, I mean, we can do it.”

  David’s eyes shot open in the darkness. He cleared his throat. “What did you say?”

  “I said...we can make love, if you want.”

  “You mean it?”

  “I want you, David.”

  They rolled over at the same time, to face one another.

  She stared at him in the darkness, and her eyes seem to glow in the moonlight. “I know how hard it’s been hard for you. I haven’t been thinking about your feelings. I want you to make love to me.”

  David offered her an uneasy grin. “Honey, it’s late. Go back to sleep. I think you’re half-asleep.”

  “No,” said Kate. “I’m perfectly aware of what I’m saying. What’s the matter, you don’t want me now?”

  “I do,” David said. “You know that.” He slid closer to her in the bed,
kissed her forehead. “You know I would never hurt you, Kate.”

  “I know.”

  He kissed her lips, tenderly at first, and then trailed wet kisses down her neck. “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I’ll be gentle,” he promised, returning to her lips. They kissed, and before David realized the sincerity of his wife’s passion, their tongues began to battle feverishly. His hand went to Kate’s breast, and he squeezed. She flinched, drawing back from his touch, but only momentarily.

  “Oh, Kate...”

  “Make love to me, David.”

  Kate slid away from him long enough to pull off her nightgown, and her massive belly came between them bolder than ever. David pulled off his pajama bottoms, threw them to the carpet. David did not wish to rush things, but he felt as if he might lose it at any moment. It had been so long. He was sure he would not last for more than a minute or two.

  Kate got on her hands and knees. It had always been David’s favorite position, back in their younger, wilder days.

  She moaned gently as he slid into her.

  He had only pumped into her eight or nine times when Kate said, “David...David, wait—”

  “Oh, God, that feels good,” he groaned. “It’s been so long...”

  “David!”

  It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  He climaxed, hissing through his teeth, “Jesusss.” And then he slid out of her, collapsed onto the bed.

  “I’m sorry. I knew I wouldn’t last long, but...I’ll make it up to you, Kate, I promise—”

  “Oh, Lord.” Kate’s rolled over, onto her back, and one hand went to the shiny cleft between her legs. A single tear spilled from her right eye, dampening her pillow. “Ow.”

  “Kate, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, no. The baby. David, I think my water just broke!”

  “And sullen Moloch fled

  Hath in shadows dred

  His burning idol all of blackest hue

  In vain with cymbals ring

  They call the grisly king

  In dismal dance about the furnace blue...”

  —Paradise Lost

  John Milton

  “Take, for example, the recent events in Morganville, North Carolina. I would stake my professional reputation on the fact that this was nothing more sinister than a case of mass hysteria.

  Wake up, folks—it’s the twenty-first century. If ‘demons’ ever existed, we can rest assured this world’s pollution killed them off a long time ago.” (audience laughter)

  —from Haunting or Hoax: Investigations into the Paranormal, PBS, hosted by Dr. Lucius Van Dorne

  CHAPTER 31

  The Littles agreed that it was far too late to wake Becca unless they had no other choice, so David called Joel and asked if he would mind coming over and watching her for a few hours. Joel had seemed preoccupied with something, his voice a little shaky, but he promised he would be right over. David asked if everything was okay, and Joel said something about he and Michael having a bit of a spat; David barely even heard him, though, caring very little about his brother-in-law’s problems while his wife prepared to give birth any minute.

  With that taken care of, David only had Kate to worry about. She pulled on a wrinkled pair of sweatpants and a maternity blouse, while he threw some of her clothes in a small suitcase. After that was done, David stuck his head in Becca’s bedroom to check on their daughter. Satisfied that she was fast asleep and blissfully unaware of what was happening, he and Kate decided they could go ahead and wait in the 4Runner. With everything ready to go, they would take off the second Joel arrived.

  David helped Kate into the passenger’s seat with a tight, worried expression on his face.

  “You okay?” he asked. “Easy. Easy.”

  “I’m fine. As long as we get to the hospital soon.”

  “We’ll get there, don’t worry.”

  David ran around to the other side of the 4Runner, started up the vehicle, letting it idle for a minute.

  “What are we going to do?” Kate said.

  “He should be here any minute.”

  “Maybe we should just take Becca with us.”

  “No. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” David glanced back and forth between Honeysuckle Lane, his wife, and the house. Fidgeted nervously. He started to open his door.

  “Dammit, where the hell is he?”

  As if on cue, Joel’s Mustang at last entered the cul-de-sac, his bright lights temporarily blinding the Littles.

  David quickly rolled down his window, put the 4Runner in gear and rested his foot on the brake, preparing to zoom away the second things were squared away with Joel.

  The Mustang screeched to a stop. Joel got out, jogged up to David’s window.

  “I’m on this,” he said. “You guys get outta here. I’ve got Becca.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Kate said. She winced as a sharp pain hit her.

  “Go!” Joel said. “Just go!”

  “Becca’s fast asleep,” David told him. “Help yourself to anything you want.”

  “Will do,” Joel said. “No sweat. Now would you get the hell out of here and make me an uncle again!”

  David released the brake and the 4Runner took off.

  They arrived at the hospital in record time. David turned on the 4Runner’s hazard lights, ran stop signs and red lights, broke the county’s posted speed limits and passed slower cars ahead of him as if they were standing still, finally pulling into the Emergency Room parking lot of Cecil C. Purdy Memorial Hospital less than ten minutes after leaving the house.

  Kate had already begun the soft, steady hoo-hoo-hoo breathing exercises she knew would help ease her increasing labor pains. David ran around to her side of the 4Runner, threw open her door, said “Yeah, baby, that’s good, you just breathe, breathe, hang in there, we’re here,” in sharp little exhalations of his own. She slid her legs to the side, hanging them out her door so she could easily lower herself to the ground, but then David told her to wait. He ran inside the hospital. Kate watched him through the big bay windows; she could not hear what he was saying to the nurse at the front desk, though it was obvious her husband was taking control of the situation. Giving orders. Seconds later, David came back out—the automatic doors opened with a soft whoosh not unlike Kate’s own harsh little gasps—with the nurse and an empty wheelchair in tow.

  “Here we go,” said the nurse, a thin woman with scraggly brown hair. Her voice was too calm for David’s liking; her nonchalant tone might have indicated she brought the Littles cups of warm tea and the promise of pleasant conversation out here on the brightly-lit front walk of the hospital.

  David looked perturbed. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Easy, Mr...?”

  “Little,” Kate grunted, answering for her husband as she slid from the 4Runner’s passenger seat and down into the wheelchair.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Little,” the nurse continued. “No need to rush your wife. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  David frowned at the old woman’s back. I wasn’t rushing her, bitch, his expression seemed to say, and in spite of her pain Kate was forced to stifle a chuckle.

  “Come on, baby,” David said, raising Kate’s swollen feet one at a time with both hands. He eased them onto the wheelchair’s footrests, stood and offered Kate a reassuring smile that was not entirely convincing. “There you go.”

  “Mr. Little, if you’ll follow us,” said the nurse. She all but pushed David aside in order to push Kate’s wheelchair herself. “We’ll get Mrs. Little checked in right away.”

  David said nothing, but followed, his knees weak. The adrenaline flowing through his body fed his anxiety even more than the crystal meth he had tried one time back in college.

  This was too much. Everything was happening too fast.

  Kate’s baby was almost here.

  And David—strangely enough—found himself trembling all over wit
h excitement.

  CHAPTER 32

  If given a choice in the matter, Joel would have preferred to accompany his sister to the hospital, but he knew it was best he stay with Becca. There wouldn’t have been very much he could do for her anyway, except wait in the lobby thumbing restlessly through dog-eared copies of Newsweek and Time as if the words before him meant anything. Becca didn’t need to be outside in this chilly weather, this late at night, and besides, he had all the time in the world to visit with his sister after the delivery, to fawn all over the new addition to the family.

  After checking in on Becca, Joel sat on the Littles’ sofa and pulled the television remote from out of the cushions. Before long, though, he grew bored. Nothing worth a shit was ever on this time of night. Just infomercials and old Three’s Company re-runs. Or Jerry Springer, which Joel was only half-watching now. He picked up the cordless phone atop the coffee table, decided to call and see if Michael had returned home yet. While the phone rang on the other end, purring softly in his ear, he punched a button on the remote. Jerry Springer went mute. Joel wondered why he’d been watching that trash anyway—something about drag-queens and the multiple partners who loved them was tonight’s subject, and frankly it sickened him to see those flamers making fools of themselves up there—but then his attention was directed toward the recording in his ear.

  Michael’s voice, short and sweet: “We can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a short message after the tone and we’ll get back to you. Thanks.” And then the beep.

  Michael still wasn’t home. Or else he wasn’t answering the phone.

  But he had to be home by now. It was three in the morning!

  Joel frowned, hung up the phone.

  “Michael, where the hell are you?”

  He all but leapt off the sofa when his pager started beeping at his side.

  CHAPTER 33

  On the morning of January 3, at the exact moment Joel Rohrig called the number on his beeper and Sheriff Guice informed the younger man that his assistance was needed at the old Heller Home property, Kate Little gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.