A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  “Affirmative. Out.”

  Hayden dropped the cell phone and crushed it with the butt of his rifle. He backed into the corner and surveyed his handiwork. It would be clear to observers that Garcia had gone psycho at the crime scene, killed Eidson, and then forced Hayden to shoot him dead. Hayden felt reasonably satisfied there wouldn’t be any untoward complications. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to Garcia in there, and he didn’t want to know.

  Orders are orders.

  By dawn Hayden would be on his way back to Kuwait, and later in the day he’d make his private report to the Military Intelligence Officer who’d given him the assignment.

  “Sorry,” Hayden whispered to his dead friends. But he didn’t actually mean it, not really, because in some strange way the whole bizarre experience had felt exciting, uplifting even; all in all, quite…exhilarating.

  Hayden leaned back, deciding. Finally, he took one long, deep breath. And then another.

  He began to gather weapons and ammo.

  _______________

  “Thus was his death

  in keeping with his life.”

  —Ovid

  Violent Delights

  Child, what

  you fear will come to get you in the night, that’s right…

  Jack had read that somewhere, perhaps in some piece of macabre modern fiction, maybe a horror tale. The kind of thing scathingly condemned in stuffy classrooms by pale professors—unpublished authors all—who secretly felt superior to Ambrose Bierce and Poe, never mind Stephen King. Or maybe Jack had written it himself, under some mass-market pen name, a dozen years ago. His mind was a junkyard these days.

  A thought: I am afraid of dying.

  The flesh twitched, felt pain. The comfort of oblivion was lifted.

  Jack Kincaid smelled shit and knew it was his own. He cringed. A substantial part of his cheek seemed to be missing, or perhaps peeled back. He could taste blood. His bare teeth were pressing against something cold and dusty. Jack tried to lick his teeth but his tongue felt sticky and thick; it would not obey. His eyes were open wide, a fact which surprised him, because he saw nothing but darkness and what appeared to be a piece of splintered plywood with tools hanging on it; a rusty hammer, a screwdriver, some pliers and several small wrenches.

  Where the fuck am I? What’s going on?

  He could not move his head

  I’m hurt. Something is horribly wrong.

  There was no pain, not at first, just a burgeoning fist of icy fingers that slowly unclenched in his abdomen. Jack tried to move his legs, but nothing changed. He felt paralyzed. Suddenly Jack wondered if his penis was also dead, or even missing in action. The very idea made him sick to his stomach.

  What happened to me?

  Jack Kincaid remembered: He had been pounding on the door to the liquor store—it’s not even two o’clock yet you lazy asshole—glaring through the window in thirsty frustration. But the bored old man closed the blinds anyway and locked up for the night. Jack kicked the steel security door as hard as he could. The action made a booming sound not unlike the hovering thunder. The door didn’t budge, but now his wet toes hurt. He gathered his clothing around him. He cursed God and then cringed like a superstitious schoolboy when the heavy rainfall intensified.

  There was nothing to be done. Nowhere to go. There came a clatter like nails pouring onto sheet metal as buckets of hail slammed down onto the awning. The racket was deafening. Jack stood in the doorway and sighed. Whatever happened to Jack Kincaid, once-published author of dark paperback fiction? Inquiring minds want to know! He fished through his empty pockets, feeling desperate. Found a Kool and lit up. The bitter smoke scorched his throat; the welcome kiss of nicotine fed his craving. He looked east and west but at 2:00 AM Sherman Way, now two feet deep in filthy rainwater, was devoid of traffic. He finished the cigarette and muttered lazy asshole under his breath.

  Jack Kincaid stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was immediately soaked to the skin again. He hunched his shoulders forward and started walking. He had parked near a dumpster behind the Safeway Market, thinking their liquor department would remain open, but he’d been wrong. Now he had nearly four long blocks to walk. Jack had stashed a bottle of rotgut wine in the motel room for just such an emergency and now he was going to need it.

  I’m toast. Done. I’ll never finish another book.

  He looked up and down the boulevard and started into the crosswalk. I’m a fucking bum.

  A car?

  Jack Kincaid blinked and wiped water from his eyes. Twin headlights were coming, right down the middle of Sherman Way, as if the driver couldn’t make out the dotted dividing line because of the rain. Maybe a dark ragtop Mustang? The light turned red. Jack waved to the driver and continued on through the crosswalk, mumbling obscenities and pondering the cruel vagaries of life.

  No!

  The world slowed down, in that strange way it does when the body is afraid and the glands pump waves of adrenaline. Jack cried out “Wait!” He managed to turn his back partway to the hood and throw up an arm to defend his face just as the brakes squealed…

  …and the Mustang hit him around waist level BOOM! Jack actually heard the bones in his hip crack. His nerves shrieked in agony and then everything went white and silent. He sailed through the air—somehow the Ford managed to knock him forward and up—as the car slowed. But the laws of physics decreed a second collision. As he came down he met the hood again. His spine crashed into the windshield and one of his legs extended through the broken safety glass. His lower back and legs went completely numb. A spray of sharp glass sandpapered his skin; nerves shrieked as facial tissue peeled away like a slice of ripe tomato. He passed out.

  …And then woke up here, alone, looking at a bunch of tools turned orange with rust. Feeling numb and sleepy and in pain and like he was about to slip back into unconsciousness.

  Jesus, no! I don’t want to die.

  A sense of deep, immutable dread consumed Jack at the very thought of death. His heart stuttered. He shook off much of the physiological shock. His mind fed him an absurd tidbit; Woody Allen had once stated “I don’t mind dying; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Jack wrote noir fiction and taught droll classes on Existentialism; had often wittily discussed death anxiety with students, but never truly felt that terror until now. He forced himself to focus. He counted the wrenches, just to stay awake. I am in a shed of some kind, or perhaps somebody’s garage. What am I lying on?

  He struggled to move. Agony lanced through his hips. He scratched with his fingernails and tapped. Some kind of metal, Oh Sweet Jesus. I am still lying on the hood of the car that hit me.

  Jack Kincaid had been smashed enough times to know about driving in a blackout. He wondered if some drunk had hit him, then driven home and parked in his own garage. Would the man be up soon, respond to a vague memory and come out to check for damage to the vehicle? How long had he been here? Could it already be close to morning? Would someone find him in time?

  I can’t die. I have a fucking novel to finish. I haven’t talked to my daughter in months and I owe my son that money I took from his college fund to cover my day trading losses. Oh fuck, I can’t die now. Not like this. Please…!

  With considerable effort, he managed to move his head a bit and take in more of his surroundings. The garage was dark and he was indeed lying sideways on the hood of the car, halfway through the windshield, his lower body in the passenger seat, upper on the hood. A bit of light leaked through a vent, but it could have been anything; street lamp, porch light or the glint of early dawn. Two small concrete steps led up to a thick, unpainted wooden door that led into the house.

  Jack ordered his hand to make a fist and failed. Tried again. The third time was the charm. He swallowed blood and tried to pound on the hood. His first attempt was too weak and his flesh just slid along the surface without making a sound. A twinge of pain shot down his back and caused a lumbar spasm. Agony made his teeth clench. His torn chee
k flared white hot in response. He tried again, and this time succeeded in making some noise; a dull thud echoed through the garage. He pounded a few more times and then gave up. The effort exhausted Jack, and he closed his eyes. Help me, help me, don’t let me die like this, I’m afraid…

  His heart fibrillated with excitement. Something had moved on the other side of the unpainted door. He heard some floorboards squeak. Jack managed one more thump and then tiny white dots sprinkled themselves over reality. He was close to passing out again. Jack was terrified he’d never wake up.

  The floorboards creaked again, and then he heard some footsteps; moving down a hallway, probably, and heading for the garage.

  Someone was coming! He fixed his eyes on the door and it seemed to enlarge in his vision, as if viewed through binoculars.

  Thank you God, thank you…

  The footsteps paused on the other side of the door. After a long moment, the door opened and a light came on. The naked bulb above him turned the garage a peculiar yellow. Jack had to close his eyes again. He forced himself to croak out some words: “Thank you, God.”

  “Don’t make so much noise.”

  What?

  Jack opened his eyes and squinted. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was anorexic thin, pretty in her own way, with large blue eyes and long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail. She wore a tank top and torn blue-jean shorts and held a thick quart bottle of clear liquor in one dainty hand. Her voice was thin and petulant. She had a dark bruise below her right eye.

  “Help me,” Jack whispered. “Please help me.”

  The pretty girl sat down on the steps and hugged her bony knees. “I’d really like to,” she said, “but I can’t risk it. I’d be getting into trouble.”

  Her boyfriend hit me and she’s terrified of him,

  Jack thought miserably. He beats her. She won’t call the cops.

  “Call 911,” he mumbled. “Get me an ambulance. Please.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “Look, I know this sucks, but I have to consider my own position here, you know?”

  “W-What?”

  The girl was chewing gum. She blew a bubble that immediately popped and forced her to peel it away from her face. “Sorry. Ever since I quit smoking I have to chew gum to stay thin. I need to do something with my mouth, you know?” She took a sip of her liquor. He heard the contents sloshing.

  Jack lay mute, pleading with his eyes. The girl peered at him, adopted a teenaged eeeewwww kind of expression and frowned. “You look really bad,” she said. She sniffed. “You stink, too.”

  Improbably, Jack felt embarrassed by the stink of his own urine and excrement. He licked his lips and managed: “Sorry.”

  “No,” the girl said sadly. “Don’t be. I’m sorry.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m, like, so sorry I hit you.”

  “Please. Call for help.”

  “I can’t,” she said. She seemed genuinely upset. “Like I said, you have to understand my position.”

  Jack raised his brows in a question. The effort hurt his ravaged cheek. The drying blood was stickier now and kept him halfway attached to the hood. A part of him still waited to hear about the abusive boyfriend, hoped he could convince her to call 911 and perhaps take herself to a safe house.

  “My name is Honey,” she said. She smiled winningly. “I’m an actress, see? And I just got a part in this comedy pilot. It’s shooting tomorrow, as a matter of fact.” The grin grew wider. “This will get me into the Screen Actors Guild. I’m pretty excited.”

  Jack lay still. He struggled to absorb her statement and finally croaked: “I…I don’t understand.”

  She blushed scarlet. “I was really fucked up last night,” she said. “I hardly ever mix things, you know? But I had a ‘lude and some shots of tequila, and then tried to drive home. I feel like such an asshole. I barely remember hitting you, isn’t that weird? You took out the right side of my windshield, and I even bumped my head, but somehow I drove on home anyway. So here we are.”

  “Help me,” Jack murmured. “Call an ambulance.”

  She shrugged. “I wish I could.”

  “Do something.”

  “Oh, I want to. Really, I do. But if the news gets out I’d, like, totally lose this job and be back where I started from. Listen, you have to understand how hard it is to make it as an actor in this town.”

  Jack stared at her. He was stunned. What you fear will come to get you in the night, that’s right… He felt a solitary drop of blood slip down his right nostril and exit towards the hood. Something thickened in his chest and he coughed up thumbtacks of pain. More blood. Fuck, I’m not going to make it.

  “W-why won’t you help me?”

  “Rehab,” she said.

  Jack was fading in and out now, but she took his silence for an encouragement to continue. “I’ve always been afraid of rehab,” she continued chattily. “I know lots of big stars go there and everything, but I just can’t face life sober. That just terrifies the shit out of me, you know? Besides, a hit-and-run thing on my record, and I’m, like, totally fucked. So then I have to go into some low-budget rehab to avoid jail, and then when I finally get out I have no career on top of that? No way.”

  “Please.” Use her name. Maybe it will make her feel more like you are a human being. “Please, Honey. It hurts.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh, I can believe that, man. But the shock should settle in pretty soon, and then it won’t be so bad. I just looked up ‘shock’ on my computer, and frankly it’s kind of totally amazing that you’re awake at all.”

  “This is murder,” Jack whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Honey blinked. Her face contracted and she sighed dramatically. “Don’t threaten me,” she said. “I was just about to offer you some water and a couple of Vicodins to take the edge off, okay? So you’d better fucking be nice.”

  I’m in hell,

  Jack thought suddenly. I’ve already died and this is hell. I will spend the rest of eternity lying in my own shit, talking to this narcissistic nutcase about personal responsibility, just because I fucked up during my time on earth.

  “I don’t want to die, Honey. Not now, not like this.”

  “I totally know what you mean,” she said. She sipped some liquor. “Dying scares the shit out of me, too!” She remembered his condition and blinked. “Sorry. No offense.”

  Jack suddenly realized that his left hand was partly on the dash. He could feel plastic beneath those bloody fingers. He wondered if he could reach the horn and attract attention. He shifted his arm and groaned silently; got an immediate jolt of pain along the tendons.

  His hand touched the steering wheel. Jack felt a glimmer of hope. He forced himself to speak again.

  “Get me some water,” he croaked.

  Honey scowled. “Not if you’re not going to ask nicely.”

  I don’t believe this bitch.

  “P-please.”

  She smiled brightly. “Okay, then. Want to take a few Vicodin? It will make all this a lot easier on the both of us.”

  “Sure,” Jack whispered. Forced out: “Thank you.”

  Honey put her quart of booze down on the steps and got to her feet. She trotted back into the house, but left the door partway open. Jack took a deep breath and steeled himself. He grabbed the steering wheel and hauled his upper body to the left. He bit down and bloodied his tongue to hold back a wail of pure agony. The world tilted and rocked. After a long moment, he reached down again. The car was a relic of the cold war. The horn was easy to find. He pressed it.

  HUWAAAAAAAH!

  The racket was loud enough to hurt his ears. Morse code, right? He tried for SOS, three longs and three shorts. HUWAAA, HUWAAA, HUWAAA!

  A deep breath, a ragged scream: “Help me! Please help me!”

  The noise was thrilling, exciting, sure to bring help. Jack ignored the desperate complaints of his battered muscles, ribs, bones and nerve endings. He honked and he screamed and he honked
.

  She came through the door furious, with her pearly teeth bared and her eyes wide.

  “You fucking bum!”

  Jack honked and screamed. Honey grabbed a hammer from the rack. She leaned over the hood and slammed it down on his arm. Jack gagged. He jerked his hand away from the horn so violently it further broke one of his ribs. He felt something puncture his lung and his breathing became a watery rasp. Honey raised the hammer over his head. She concentrated, the tip of her pretty little tongue protruding from her mouth, as if trying to guess how to inflict damage that wouldn’t spell homicide.

  “Don’t,” Jack whined. He heard the liquid, death rattle in his own voice. Fear froze him solid. I’m never going to be able to tell my children that I’m sorry, never going to write that novel, never going to repay those debts…

  Honey cocked her head like a parrot. Her ponytail danced. She lowered the hammer and bent over to look deeply into his reddened eyes. For a horrible moment, Jack thought she was going to give him a kiss.

  “You poor baby,” she said, tenderly. “It’s almost over, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

  “Well that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Honey, they will find me,” Jack whispered.

  She shook her pretty head. “Not here,” she said. “My boyfriend is a dealer, you know? He’s had…problems to dispose of before. When he gets back from Vegas, we’ll take you out to the dump, like in an old carpet or something, okay?”

  “But…”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

  She is out of her fucking mind.

  Blood ran into Jack’s left eye and he wanted to wipe it away. He tried to move the hand she’d hammered. The pain was excruciating. Honey had broken the bone in his forearm. Suddenly Jack discovered a thick sliver of glass, square at the bottom but tapering to a point. He clenched his fist until he felt it enter the palm of his hand. He stopped struggling.

  “Can you move it?” Honey asked sweetly.

  “No,” Jack said. “I can’t.”

  Jack Kincaid hadn’t been to mass in forty years, but he found himself praying Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee…