JORDAN
The place reeked of unwashed laundry and garbage, and inside a pizza box near the door, the remains of a pepperoni and olive crawled. Open windows and a single, rattling fan did nothing to dispel the oppressive heat, as Sacramento suffered through its third consecutive day of hundred-degree-plus temperatures.
It had been eight days since Jordan had left the apartment, twelve days since he had bathed, and his odor rivaled the overflowing Rubbermaid near the fridge. He sat in greasy boxers and a stained tank top, oily black hair hanging in strands to his shoulders. The glow of the computer screen reflected off his thick glasses.
On the floor beside his chair was a reinforced white cardboard crate with plastic handles, designed to handle heavier loads. A thumb-sized cockroach crawled up one side and paused, antennae twitching before it skittered across the top and into the shadows under the computer desk.
Jordan looked up from the screen at his mother, standing in a corner near an open window. “Stop watching me.”
She said nothing.
“I mean it. You’re making me nervous.”
No response.
He was surprised he couldn’t smell her. He should have been able to, since Nancy Barry had been dead for two years. Her skin was drawn tight over her face, a deep shade of green mottled with black growths. She looked at him with milky eyes.
“I’m not changing my mind. I’m going through with it.”
His dead mother had no reply.
Jordan was almost completely certain she wasn’t there, not really there. He wasn’t sure why he could see her, but he wasn’t overly disturbed by her presence. Not as disturbed as he’d been yesterday, when a two-hundred pound rabbit was crashing around in the bathroom. He hadn’t dared go look, fearing it would mistake him for a carrot and devour him whole. It had been the right decision, for after a while the rabbit had gone away. Good thing, because he’d had to vomit, and barely made it to the toilet. It would have been impossible to squeeze into the tiny bathroom and puke with a giant, wild bunny blundering about in there.
He was vomiting a lot lately.
His eyes followed the colorful images dashing across his computer screen, a vague smile on his face. “Can I open it now?” he asked aloud, not turning away from the screen. He wasn’t speaking to his mother.
“Nein!”
“But I want to. I’m ready.”
“Stop whining! It isn’t time!”
This recent development was disturbing, more than the rabbit had been, far more than his decomposing mother’s loitering. Jordan couldn’t be sure with any accuracy that this thing wasn’t in the room with him. He turned in his swivel chair, looking at what was standing on the soiled, unmade bed. It was bouncing in the middle of the mattress, letting its little arms fly upwards with each jump, and despite its cute costume, it scared Jordan.
“I don’t think you’re real, either.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Special Agent Edward Peavey hung an arm out the window of his silver Crown Vic, letting the hot afternoon rush over him. The air conditioner was broken, the boys in the shop couldn’t get it in until Friday, and already the armpits of his white dress shirt were stained. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he ran a hand through his thinning hair, wiping it on his trousers.
His cell phone rang. It was Lucas Downing, his partner.
“Going into the office?”
“No,” Peavey said, “much as I’d like to.” Agent-in-Charge Gerald Strasser liked to keep the sixth floor offices of the FBI Field Office as similar to a florist’s cooler as possible. But Strasser was a boss, he could get away with staying in the office all day. As he was quick to point out, field agents belonged in the field.
“I’m almost to FedEx,” said Lucas. “I’ll call you when I get there. Are you going over to Barry’s?”
“Yeah, I’m en-route. Talk to you soon.”
As he cut across town towards the north side, Peavey opened a manila folder on the seat beside him. Clipped to the second page was an enlarged driver’s license photo of a twenty-six-year-old with bad skin, in need of a haircut. The store manager at Jordan Barry’s last job had been happy to provide his employment file, and eager to share his concerns about his former employee. Barry had been great for a year and a half, never a problem or complaint, but over the last six months there had been increasing sick calls and changes in his behavior. Inappropriate comments, outbursts. He’d been terminated four weeks ago after a nonsensical rant on the sales floor resulted in a customer complaint to the district manager.
Agent Peavey wasn’t interested in Jordan Barry’s unemployment.
He was interested in internet activity.
He was chewing eight Excedrin per hour, now, and the headaches still hadn’t abated. Jordan shook the white plastic bottle beside the computer screen, unhappy to hear only a few rattling around the bottom. The light sensitivity hadn’t come back, thank goodness, and he didn’t feel like vomiting right now, though God knew what the heavy doses of aspirin were doing to his stomach lining. And his mother wasn’t here anymore. Not a bad state of affairs. Except for the headache. And the bossy thing on his bed.
The computer was streaming German cartoons, had been for most of the day, and another episode of Wunder Maulwurfen was beginning. Hans, the leader of the superhero gang – who all happened to be three-foot-tall moles in spandex and capes – appeared in a shimmering star of energy, grinning broadly as a German voiceover provided running dialogue. It made little sense, as Jordan didn’t understand German, but for some reason the cartoon fascinated him.
“Hey, that’s me!” Hans shouted, leaping off the bed and running on squat legs over to the computer, climbing up on the heavy duty white crate for a better look. As on screen, Hans the Wonder Mole was dressed in tights, a cape and a red wrestling mask. “I am both here, und there!” he cried, delighted and pointing. “Fantastic!” Standing shoulder to shoulder, the giant mole didn’t seem to mind that Jordan smelled like the bottom of a restaurant dumpster.
Jordan smiled weakly at the mole, the pressure in his head making his eyelids droop, and he lifted a soft canvas book bag off the floor, pulling a laminated sheet from within. “I’m ready, I really am.” He waved the sheet. It was a detailed floor plan depicting fire evacuation routes for the Walmart where Jordan had worked until a month ago. The opposite side was still tacky from where its adhesive had been pulled off a wall. “I know where the employees are supposed to go in an emergency, where the most people will be.”
The mole didn’t seem to notice, entranced with his image on screen.
“I have the bus fare. I have the pack to carry everything. I’m ready.”
The giant mole that wasn’t really there – probably – turned to look at him, then tapped Jordan’s forehead with a stubby finger. The tiny impacts felt like hammer blows, and Jordan winced with each one.
“Pretty smart, you are.”
Jordan nodded.
“But you are a very sick boy, I’m thinking.”
Jordan nodded again. “I know.”
Ed Peavey was sitting in a snarl of late morning traffic, the unrelenting August sun baking the motionless cars and the motorists inside, shortening tempers. Regulations didn’t allow an agent to remove his jacket in public and expose his firearm, but Peavey stripped it off anyway and tossed it into the back seat. Let someone complain. He’d plead temporary insanity due to the heat.
After leaving Walmart, Peavey had gone to Barry’s last known address only to find the employee file wasn’t current. Someone else had been living there for almost two years. The FBI file listed his deceased mother as having an address on the north side, so Peavey was headed there. He didn’t know if the kid had found another job – he doubted it, considering the erratic behavior – and a banking and credit check revealed that he was tapped out. His last big transaction had maxed his only credit card, and it was that transaction which put the FBI onto him.
The agent shook his head. The kid
was broke, and he had used up his last funds for this? That made him nervous. Worse was that they had been offered for sale on Craig’s List, confirming that you really could get anything on the internet. Or at least try to. The purchase had red-flagged a Bureau keyword monitoring program, and a quick phone call to FedEx had stopped the shipment cold. Now the promised merchandise was sitting safely in a locked room at the FedEx depot awaiting the arrival of Agent Lucas Downing.
The list of federal charges for even attempting to purchase, import or possess such items was secondary for Ed Peavey. He was more interested in learning what Jordan Barry was planning to do with the damn things when he got them.
“It’s a tumor, isn’t it?” Jordan asked Hans the mole.
The creature shrugged.
In fact it was two tumors, one the size of a pea, the other grown to the dimensions of a walnut, both of them buried deep in the cerebrum. Glioblastoma Multiforme, the deadliest and most common variety, currently experiencing rapid Neoplasia, an uncontrolled division of cells which caused them to expand and compress the surrounding brain tissue. A neurologist could have explained that Jordan was suffering focal neuralgic symptoms, such as cognitive and behavioral impairment combined with severe emotional changes. He could also have explained that maximum life expectancy from onset with one of these things was about twelve months on the outside.
Jordan knew his head hurt and he had to throw up a lot.
“That’s why you’re here. You’re not real.”
The mole held up a big kitchen knife and waved it before Jordan’s eyes. “Real enough for you?”
Jordan stared at the blade.
Hans handed it to him. “Use this. It is time.”
It took twenty minutes after clearing the traffic jam to reach the Barry residence on Eccles Avenue, listed as the top floor of a three story house. The neighborhood was poor and seedy, with weed-choked yards and cars at curbside that didn’t look like they were going anywhere soon. The Crown Vic was an obvious and unwelcome intruder and the locals took notice, a few making discrete cell phone calls before slipping away.
Ed got out with his file and looked up at the third floor, seeing open windows but no movement. What kind of person thought they could use their Visa card to order something like this, online, and not have someone notice? One case of XIN-74 general purpose fragmentation grenades, standard infantry issue of the People’s Republic of China, was not something the U.S. Government approved for civilian ownership.
It gave him a moment of pause, and he pulled out his cell. Arranging a little backup from local law enforcement seemed prudent, and he was on the phone with the Sacramento police when Lucas Downing tried to reach him. He ignored the incoming call as a police supervisor came on the line.
Across town, Lucas swore, hit the END button and began frantically texting.
FEDEX MISTAKE. HOLDING WRONG BOX. THEY SHIPPED!
Jordan used the big knife to slit open the cardboard, peeling back the lid to reveal the treasure inside. Twenty-four olive green eggs sat nestled in a grid of Styrofoam packing, each stamped with strange, squiggly characters. He sighed and trailed his fingertips across them, and for the first time in a long time he didn’t feel the pain in his head.
“What fun we’ll have,” said the Wonder Mole. “We’ll go to the store and you can toss them like Mardis Gras beads. That will teach them a thing or three, yes?”
Jordan smiled, looking at his little companion as the left side of his face abruptly went slack, one eye drooping and watering uncontrollably. The headache came crashing back, and with it arrived a new level of pain that made him want to scream. The cartoon creature ignored him, excited and hopping from one foot to the other. It pulled two grenades out of the packing and held them high over its head, shaking them.
“Big fun, ya? Pop, pop, pop!”
“P…pop.” Jordan was slurring. He couldn’t feel his left side, and thought he might fall over.
“Pop!” The creature pressed one into Jordan’s hands, then hooked a stumpy finger through a pull ring and began to twirl the other grenade, faster and faster, dancing in a circle and loudly humming the Ride of the Valkyries.
With his remaining, functioning eye, Jordan watched the creature dance, fascinated, looking at the twirling grenade, the detonator spoon restrained by a simple cotter pin. “Good thing…you’re not…real.” He started to drool and slumped sideways.
Special Agent Edward Peavey finished with Sacramento PD and looked up in time to see the blast level the top floor of the old house. Wood, glass and plumbing whizzed through the air like shrapnel as the thunder of the detonation rolled up the street.
Something heavy landed on his legs, and Peavey realized he was in a sitting position against the side of his destroyed Crown Vic. There was no sound, and everything seemed too bright. He tried to look down to see his legs, found that he couldn’t. An eleven inch shard of copper pipe had punched through his throat and nailed him to the Ford’s passenger door. He tried to say something, unable to make words but feeling warm liquid spill out of his mouth, and he felt other things sticking out of his body, pieces of house. The word porcupine popped into his head.
Peavey’s vision began to gray at the edges, and he strained, forcing his head forward, feeling his impaled neck slide slowly over the copper. It didn’t hurt as much as he expected. Now he could see what had landed on his legs, an animal of some kind, four stubby paws and a flat head, shredded, torn open. Not a dog. And it was wearing some kind of clothing. He stared at the strange, puckered mouth.
Is that a giant mole?
Then the darkness took him.
JACKBOOT AND MARY
The rural lane wound through Eastern Connecticut, yellow signs warning of severe curves, decaying barns and shabby houses dotting the countryside. It had been a hard winter, bare gray trees reaching into a pewter sky like pleading hands. A steel blue Cadillac came around the curve, missing the figure walking there by less than a foot, its horn blaring as it vanished.
Lou “Jackboot” Moran trudged along the shoulder, head down, black wool cap pulled over his eyebrows. At four-hundred pounds he was a green wall in a stained, olive fatigue jacket, his Doc Martens shuffling through gravel. One hand was shoved deep in a jacket pocket, the other dangled, holding a five pound sledge covered in congealing red. He didn’t notice the Cadillac. He had a headache.
The trailer was a quarter mile back. Mary was inside on the floor.
And on the walls, and on the ceiling.
A tattoo of a swastika played peekaboo among the fleshy rolls at the back of his neck. The bloody hand holding the sledge had a smaller swastika in the webbing between the thumb and index finger, and the letters H-E-I-L were tattooed across the knuckles. His coat was bloody too, and his meaty face displayed a spray of crimson dots that was quickly freezing in the sharp December air.
Another car roared past, the rush of wind making him squint and tuck his head deeper into his jacket. Jackboot plodded on, wheezing plumes of white and swinging his hammer.
Mary didn’t know when to back off.
“Louie, you’re putting a dent in my mattress.”
“Louie, you smell like an animal.”
“Louie, Nazi’s are assholes.”
“Louie, you got me pregnant.”
Nope, worthless skank couldn’t shut up. She was quiet now, though. The road straightened out, with a snowy bean field across the blacktop on the right, and a tattered line of dead reeds to the left. Beyond was a frozen pond, frost-covered and white.
Filthy trailer, dirty welfare whore who ran her mouth. Should have solved that problem weeks ago. A bitter wind rattled the tree limbs and burned against his exposed skin.
“Louie,” Mary said. “Hey, Louie.”
Jackboot stopped walking and looked left, out onto the pond. She was there on the ice, as white as the frost under her feet. Except for her caved-in head, which was a bright red bloom.
“Where do you think you’re going, fat ass?”
Jackboot snarled and faced the pond, gripping the sledge tightly. How the hell had that dead bitch gotten here so fast? And now she had the balls to stand there – well, float, since her feet dangled a good foot above the ice – and act like he hadn’t shut her up?
Mary laughed and flipped him off. “Yeah, fat boy. Can’t do nothin’ right, can you?”
Jackboot roared something unintelligible and charged down the embankment, blundering through the reeds like a big animal and out onto the ice. This was one bitch that needed more killing. His boots thudded on the frozen surface, frost crunching as he slid and ran towards her, arms flailing.
Mary didn’t move, just drifted there dead with that stupid smile, enraging him. Jackboot’s face was purple with exertion, his heart slamming in his chest, his breath erupting in violent wallops as he closed on her.
“Gonna kill you better this time!” he raged, raising the sledge. Mary watched him come with flat white eyes, didn’t cower or cry or try to hold up her hands to stop the hammer like she had before. He reached her, spittle flying from his dark lips as he screamed her name.
Then there was a crack, and another crack, and four hundred pounds of Jackboot Moran broke through the ice and plunged into the frigid waters of a Connecticut pond. Jackboot’s hammer sank with him, and as the cold embraced and pulled him down, so did something else.
SEMINOLE
The airboat raced across the swamp, spray and shredded sawgrass forming a cloud in its wake. The hum of the big fan startled a flock of white swamp birds, and they burst from cover to take wing into the twilight sky. The driver looked ahead to the west, watching the sun slip behind the Everglades and into the Gulf of Mexico. Perched in his raised seat above the airboat’s deck, he removed his sunglasses and tucked them inside his jacket, then looked down at the others.
Red Circus: A Dark Collection Page 7
