Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  Absent…

  Despite himself, Johnathan could feel the echo of memory coming up from the depths…the ceremonies he’d seen, before his own personal wake in Germany on the hospital bed and screaming to God why could he feel his leg moving but could not see it. This wake he was recalling was during his first month in theater. The Chaplain had come out to say a few words about the Good Lord and walking through valleys of death and shadows. And then someone, a squad leader if he remembered correctly, had said a few other words, the kind of words you’d hear at a wake, of friendship and loss. Then there had been a few tears, and some growling as those with the strength could compartmentalize the pain. But that wasn’t the worst of it. No. The worst was when the platoon leader uttered the final roll call. The names were read from a list and Johnathan couldn’t help but feel his own gut, even now, as he walked the halls in Maggie’s house in Jotham, being wrenched from its earthly fluid. He could hear, echoing in his ears:

  ‘Private First Class Halling? Private First Class Jesse Halling? Private First Class Jesse M. Halling?’ And then there was ‘Staff Sergeant Cunningham? Staff Sergeant Darren Cunningham? Staff Sergeant Darren James Cunningham?’ And ‘Private Hudson? Private First Class Aaron Hudson? Private First Class Aaron Mark Hudson?’ And ‘Sergeant Williams? Sergeant Richard Williams?’ ‘Sergeant Kennard? Sergeant Courtland Kennard? Sergeant Courtland A. Kennard?’ ‘Staff Sergeant McCoy? Staff Sergeant Gregory McCoy? Staff Sergeant Gregory W.G. McCoy?’ ‘Private First Class Soenksen? Private First Class Katie Soenksen? Private First Class Katie M. Soenksen?’ ‘Private First Class Bobb? Private First Class Brandon Bobb? Private First Class Brandon K. Bobb?’ Out of ranks forever more.

  And so many other names had been called, never to answer again. Too many. And though he wasn’t there, Johnathan could see in his mind’s eye a very similar memorial for Ricky and his last roll call. It pained him to imagine it, but damn if he didn’t do it anyways…

  ‘Specialist Smith? Specialist Richard Smith? Specialist Richard Virgil Smith?’

  He paced the hall. His mind slipped in and out of memory. He understood too well that not every soldier who died in war died in combat. He couldn’t forget, not everyone who came home came home without scars because either through admission or not, scars were a part of him now, forever. Johnathan knew he had his literal wounds along with his metaphorical; his prosthetic and his mask. He choked back a tear as he gazed into some meaningless painting, thinking about tumors eating away his insides. Lucidity was a dream he craved the most.

  “Bravo Spirit, Virgil,” he whispered. Ricky hated that name so much. He quickly tucked all the bad juju away, back deep inside himself, the little compartment inside his heart. Continuing his impatient march, his prosthetic thumped loudly against the Oriental rug sending volleys echoing against the walls.

  Johnathan stopped, thinking he’d heard something. The sound…what is it? Clicking, like the cicada from the tree outside earlier in the day, a faint hiss from above and within the walls. Are they nesting inside? Pressing his ear against the wood panel, silence echoed inside his ear. Then, holding his breath, he could hear them, thousands upon thousands, or so he imagined, of scraping biting mandibles, slick black bodies crawling over one another. In his mind, he saw a sea of red eyes glaring from behind the paneled wall. He followed the stream of clicks scurrying down the hall from inside the wall. They screeched in concealed union. Together. One. Many.

  The clicking roared. Each chirp and rattle louder than the next. Pushing away from the wall, Johnathan protected his ears with the palm of his hands. His cane thumped to the ground. He stumbled to the center of the hall. What is this? Where are they coming from? Jesus—they’re so loud!

  And then nothing. The unmeasurable swarm sang no more. Chills spasmed down his leg at the unprecedented silence. Cautiously, Johnathan let his hands drop. The hallway moaned in the eerie and sudden quiet. He took a step and walked absently into a thin line of rope that hung from the ceiling. Batting it away like some pest he realized it was the cord for the attic. He held it in his hand. Looking up. He looked back to the hallway. He was alone.

  The attic ladder unfolded easily. The steps were wobbly at best, but still, even with his residual limb throbbing, driven by curiosity, he ascended, leaving his cane on the floor. Inside, he pulled a thinner cord connected to a light bulb. Painful white flooded the room, illuminating the many trunks and boxes stored within. The air smelled sour and still and hot. Is this all Maggie’s stuff? Even more curious, he hobbled to the first large trunk. There had been a name, perhaps once, engraved on the front latch, but time seemed to have worn it away. It wasn’t locked. Kneeling, he opened it. White moths fluttered upward. He whipped at them with his hand caring little how they got inside. Squinting against the dark, he poured through the items before him. Discarded photographs were on top. Old black & whites of people Johnathan did not recognize. Some were too bleached to give any record. Others gave at least a hint. Scratched behind one photograph was the date 1852 and the name ‘Westfield,’ a large family with a handsome man glared at the photographer without smile, and beside him a serious looking woman in a long dark and puffy dress. Two gloomy boys stood in front, each donned in whatever fashion suited the era.

  Shuffling the contents of the trunk, Johnathan came upon another photo, this one dated 1944, and the name signed on the back:

  Jules “Buddy” Crockett &

  Gloria Crockett.

  The man, “Buddy,” stood straight as an arrow, his suit crisp, fedora clean, eyes sharp, mustache thin. The woman was beautiful. Gloria sat beside the man in a French-looking armchair. Her skin looked pale in the absence of color, and her lips gleamed dark. Eyes nearly hidden behind her peek-a-boo bangs reminded Johnathan of a young Veronica Lake. Dazzling. Young yet reserved. Captivating yet not paraded.

  Another photo showed an older couple, perhaps fifty-something. The man wore jean overalls and a straw hat; the woman some flower patterned dress and a brightly colored wide brim Kentucky Derby styled Ascot hat. The names drawn on the back were,

  Joseph & Judith Swan.

  The photo must have been taken outside. Johnathan could see the familiar large oak in the driveway he had parked the Chrysler next to, the one Tabitha spotted the large cicada sucking on the bark. And just beyond that, a whisper of the front porch that belong to the house. This house. Though the couple smiled, there was something hidden beneath the surface, a glow in the eye that shone of unnatural providence. Unnerved, he quickly tucked the photo away.

  Moving on, Johnathan pulled out the last of the photos. This one was dated 1976, the only name on the back was ‘Fetcher,’ and it too had been taken outside in the driveway. A cheerful family stood in front of a Chrysler station wagon; the house, Maggie’s house, loomed in the background. The father was near the hood wearing blue slacks and a white striped button up and large square framed glasses. Johnathan giggled. He had never seen such a sizable afro before. The father was joined with the mother beside him. Her hair was equally as frizzy and her jean button top looked bright contrasted against her dark skin. Two little twin kinky haired girls stood in front of the mother and father. One wore a green tank top and jean shorts. The other, red and white candy striped overalls. It was a sunny photo. He studied it for a moment before putting it away. Pondering what had brought them out here to this house. He couldn’t imagine Jotham being the most integrated part the states. But then again, it could have very well have been, for all he knew.

  And then it stuck him as he allowed the photo to fall back in the trunk.

  Had all these things been left here by the previous owners? Johnathan wondered. He looked at the truck, accounting for the other items. Clothing. Jewelry. Sewing needles. Frisbees. Dolls. Baseballs. Books. He peered around the attic, noting familiar names on dingy boxes. Why did they leave their stuff behind? Why didn’t they take any of this with them?

  Feeling his back throb against the weight of unanswerable questions, Johnathan stood and s
tretched. When he reopened his eyes he spotted a collection of fresh looking boxes stacked on top of one another near the corner. Carefully, he walked toward them, eyeing suspiciously the name penciled in bold on the side:

  Smith.

  He opened the first box. Glaring up at him was a sharp and hazel eyed face. Trim and combed brown hair hidden beneath a cape and cowl.

  “Val Kilmer?” Johnathan whispered. “This is Ricky’s Batman Forever poster…” he continued with hushed excitement. “ Mags must have put it up here. Didn’t think it matched the decorum? Jeez, Ricky would be pissed if he knew she folded it instead of rolling it,” he joked.

  He quickly dove into the rest of the boxes, making note of the things that had once belonged to his friend—the comics and graphic novels and his treasured horror movie collection. It was all here. Everything, or just about, from their childhood and then some. There was even a framed photo of the gang; the glass was cracked. They stood side by side in front of…this house? Who took the picture? And when was it taken? He searched himself and found nothing, not a smidgen of memory. Only an inkling that they had come to Jotham once when they were kids and even less that they were even here. He shrugged and continued lurking down memory lane.

  He was on the third box when he found the holy of holies, the famed Suicide Squad comic that had started it all, the moniker and inspiration for their club. It was the first issue. Nearly all black, with eight member headshots silhouetted on the front. ‘One of them won’t be coming home!’ He recalled Bobby (or was it Jake?) discovering the gem among the comics his brother had paid him for his silence. Oh, Jesus! What was her name? The girl I caught him sneaking out to see? Shit…?

  I can’t believe Ricky had it all this time. That asshole. He said he lost it…

  Headlights suddenly shone through a vent near the stack of boxes where he stood. Johnathan limped closer and peered through the openings. A dingy looking squared yellow Volvo pulled into the drive and parked behind his minivan.

  “Mr. Williams and Mr. Weeks, I presume?” Johnathan smiled. He tucked the comic under his arm and quickly filed back toward the ladder.

  “Wait till the guys get a load of this!” he breathed in his best Jack Nicholson voice. Thoughts of strange photos and oddly forgotten belongings and the terrible rush of clicking passed away like dust caught on an early spring breeze.

  CHAPTER 11

  REUNION

  Jake

  Jake looked up at the house feeling his stomach knot in hard lumps of hesitation. He had little to no memory of the place, except for what was recently unearthed from Maggie’s letter and her insistence they come, he and Bobby and the rest. Why can’t I remember this place? The answer felt close, on the tip of his tongue, but each time he reached out to take hold of the glimmer the image would fade. So strange. So very strange.

  Bobby sat in the passenger seat with the same peculiar look, as if he too were searching his memory banks for some inkling to the past. And yet, there was something else dancing behind his eyes. A recognition Jake did not share.

  “Do you recognize the place?” inquired Jake.

  “We came here as kids, right?” Bobby said still looking at the house, looking at the garden with odd sad eyes.

  “Yes. Do you remember?”

  Bobby hesitated. “Not really. I remember being here. Remember biking out to a lot of places in Giddings and here in Jotham. But—” he stopped abruptly.

  “Not this place?”

  “No.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? I talked with Johnathan, he can’t remember either. You can’t. I can’t. Only Mags remembers. Isn’t that weird?” Jake whispered, eyeing the porch and the big red door.

  “You can say that.” Bobby studied the house intently, holding his breath. Something was going on behind his big brown eyes, but he wouldn’t say.

  “What?”

  Bobby glanced at Jake and then back at the house. “I don’t know. Just something a friend told me recently.”

  “What friend? What did they say?”

  Bobby thought.

  “Come on.”

  “It’s nothing. She just…”

  “She?”

  “Look, don’t make fun of me and don’t mention any of this anyone else, especially Mags, okay?” Bobby said in a hushed whisper.

  “Scouts’ honor.” Jake crossed his heart.

  Bobby was silent, unconvinced.

  “Or if you prefer, we can make this a confession, completely confidential.”

  “I thought you quit?”

  “Come on, whatever you say stays between us. You have my word, Bobby.” Jake placed his hand on Bobby’s forearm.

  Bobby flinched. “Okay…I’ve got this friend. Her name is Luna and I stay with her off and on—”

  Jake smiled.

  “—It’s not like that, perv. Anyways, she’s into…tarot card readings and stuff.”

  “What, like a psychic?”

  “Something like that. She’s Haitian, I think. Maybe voodoo or what have you. Look, I don’t know if any of that stuff is real or not. If you’d spoke with me a couple of years ago I’d told you then and there it was all utter bullshit. But now…Let’s just say I’ve seen a thing or two that made me question the limits of what’s normal.”

  “Fair enough. What did she tell you? Did she say something about this house?” Jake prodded.

  “I’m getting there, jeez.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatever. Where was I? Oh yeah, okay, so Luna’s into this tarot card stuff or readings or whatever you want to call it. Last time I was there she did a reading on me. It was all kinds of wrong. She starting convulsing. And her eyes rolled back. She looked like the reading or whatever was hurting her. She could have been putting on a show, but Luna’s got no reason to lie to me. She’s the one letting me crash. And that’s what scares me, I guess. But it was vague. All she said was…” Bobby paused, thinking, gathering his words, “something about a house, I think this house.”

  “How do you know it’s this house?” asked Jake.

  “I’m not sure. She didn’t say the house on Oak Lee in Jotham. She just said the house. And I didn’t think much of it. But when we pulled up, I got this feeling maybe this was the house she was talking about.”

  “A feeling?” Jake smirked playfully.

  “Kiss my ass. Not a psychic feeling. Just a feeling. Instinct.” Bobby rolled his eyes and then started back at the house. Someone was silhouetted in the window, watching them.

  “And what did Luna say, exactly?” Jake prodded again.

  “That this place was bad. She was pretty insistent that I didn’t go inside.”

  Bobby looked at Jake.

  Jake looked at Bobby.

  The two were motionless, gazing in locked silence, neither wanting to say a word. The strangeness of the situation, with the house, everything that had happened between then and now played out behind the curtains of their own minds. Jake thought of Renfield. Bobby thought of the yellow eyes and tomorrow’s lunar change. He thought of Luna.

  “Well, shall we?” Bobby offered.

  Jake nodded.

  ***

  Bobby

  The two climbed out of Jake’s borrowed Volvo and headed for the porch. The human silhouette was gone. Only the dim yellow lights from inside greeted them in the night. The moon hung above, large and menacing, casting eerie blue and grey beams through pasty clouds. It will be a full moon tomorrow. Bobby shivered. They climbed the steps and knocked on the door. Maggie answered. She smiled as one might expect a host greeting her long lost guests. She looked haggard. The very act of smiling seemed to cause some discomfort. The house was warm behind her. Lights flickered from some unseen fire. Something delicious wafted out from the kitchen located somewhere inside.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Maggie scolded jokingly, her worn face crudely parroting geniality.

  “Sorry, Mags. Got a bit turned around. But we found the place okay,” said Jake, stuffing his hands
in his pockets.

  “He means we got lost. Well, he got lost,” Bobby huffed. “Hey Mags,” he gave a half-smile back at his childhood friend.

  “Mr. Weeks, it’s so good to see you again. Too long. It’s been too long,” Maggie said.

  “Absolutely,” Jake agreed.

  “Mr. Weeks?” questioned Bobby.

  “Well, come on in. Dinner is just about done. Bring in your bags and I’ll show you to your rooms. I’m glad to have you both for the weekend.”

  “About that—” Bobby started.

  “I’m taking him back to Houston tomorrow,” Jake chimed in abruptly.

  “Wait? What? Why?” Maggie looked genuinely upset.

  Jake shrugged.

  Maggie looked at the bald homeless man with the long scruffy beard. Her eyes seemed to plead for affirmation.

  Bobby could feel the weight of the moon beating on his back. He could sense feral yellow eyes glaring at him from the dark places inside himself as if stirred by some unseen danger. He could hear Luna’s voice echoing in his mind. Her warning. Her strange warning imploring him not to go inside the two story white farm house…this house. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. This was the house Luna warned him about. ‘I have a gift,’ he could hear her saying. ‘My grandfather called it a spark. Trust me, Bobby. Do not go inside that house…’ But he was here. It was too late to turn and run. I didn’t come here for me, I came here for Mags. Clearly, something is going with her. How can I leave now? How? After I’ve been gone for so long? Turned my back on her, on them all, for so long? How?

  “Bobby?” Maggie prodded.

  Bobby huffed. “Look, I just do, okay. I’m here. You wanted me here, so I came. But don’t think just cause I’m a bum with no job doesn’t mean I don’t have any prior engagements. Okay?” Sweat rolled down his back. Despite the cool winter wind, his skin crawled with heat.