by Liam Jackson
"Sixty dollars!" he grumbled. "Sixty goddamned dollars! Fuckin' ripoff!"
Still, he knew he would have paid ten times that amount for the ten ccs of dirty brown dishwater in the syringe. Or he would have cut the guy's head off, and stole his dope. If he couldn't buy it, he'd take it; simple as that. Little Stevie had a reputation as a heavyweight cranker, a mad tweaker, and no price was ever too high to pay in either cash or violence. For eleven years, the drug had been both his savior and his demon.
Now he only needed to make it back to his apartment, where he could do himself some serious good. Little Stevie figured he had too much class to shoot-up on the street corner like some common addict. But his apartment was on the other side of the borough, an hour walk in this crappy weather.
Connie! He thought of his former girlfriend and spat out a wad of phlegm. Uppity crank whore! But Connie was still good for something. Her brownstone was only a few blocks away and he still had a key. Maybe he would invite himself in, and after pleasantries, maybe a quick head job, he would partake of the demon in the syringe.
Stepping over the broken curb and out into the street, he saw headlights slowly emerge from an alley to his left.
Fuck me! Cops or preds!
Little Stevie grew up in the streets of the South Bronx. He knew that it was unlikely that anyone else was out in this weather past midnight unless they were looking to score, haul you to jail, or roll your ass. He knew all the dealers and most of the preds on sight. No, the car was moving too slowly, stalking him.
Yep, gotta be the cops.
Little Stevie hurried across the street, flicking the stub of the Kool out into the freezing mist. Connie's apartment was only three blocks away and he didn't need any problems. Not that he really gave a damn who was in the car, either. Nothing or nobody was going to interfere with him getting ripped out of his skull tonight.
As he reached the sidewalk, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the car continued to pace him. The glare from the dual high beams prevented him from making out the model, but Little Stevie thought it looked like a long, older model Lincoln. He knew that no narc worth his salt would be caught dead in an old Lincoln. He was only a little relieved.
Little Stevie fought back the instinctive urge to run the remaining couple of blocks. You never, ever ran through this neighborhood unless bullets were flying. Running always resulted in one of two things and both were bad. Either some cop would see you and snatch your ass up just to ask you some idiotic question like, "Hey buddy, where's the fire?" or the neighborhood predators would smell you and go into a feeding frenzy. Even if you couldn't see them, the predators could always see you. Always. Running through this neighborhood was like hanging a bloody steak around your neck in a pool full of sharks.
It never occurred to Little Stevie that he might simply be experiencing the legendary paranoia associated with his personal demon. Slowly, the car picked up speed, passed him by, and disappeared from sight. The windows were heavily tinted, too dark to make out the occupants, but Stevie knew they weren't bangers or preds. No bullets or nail-studded baseball bats came flying at him as the car drew even. Now, more than a little relieved, Little Stevie reached the next intersection and hurried across the slick pavement. Anticipation wore on him. God, I need to hit that point!
"Two more blocks," he muttered. "Just two..." The words froze on his lips.
Up ahead, beneath the dingy yellow glow of a streetlamp, stood a solitary figure wearing a wrinkled trench coat; one of those James-fucking-Bond numbers that comes down to your knees and belts at the waist. Predators, most of whom were gang-bangers, loved those coats, a perfect length to hide a sawed-off shotgun or a piece of lumber. The collar of the coat was pulled high against the face and Little Stevie wondered if it was some whacked-out hooker working the shit shift.
Where in the hell did he come from? Little Stevie was certain that the sidewalk had been empty only seconds earlier. He cursed again and spat out another wad of brown phlegm. Screw it. Too close now to worry about it. In another ten minutes, Little Stevie would be sitting in a cozy apartment, with a needle in his arm and joining the ranks of the demigods.
As he approached the street corner, some of Little Stevie's concern melted away. The person beneath the street-lamp looked a little anemic, kind of light in the ass-pockets. The top of his—or her—head wouldn't reach the middle button on Little Stevie's shirt.
In reality there was nothing little about Little Stevie. He carried the nickname by virtue of being the youngest of five thuggish brothers. Little Stevie was the baby, but at six feet five inches, and two hundred and forty pounds, he was by no stretch the smallest. And in another ten minutes, he would be a foot taller, thanks to the demon in the syringe.
Lowering his head against the cold, Little Stevie walked on. The person up ahead stood quietly waiting... watching.
Little Stevie quickened his pace. Within seconds he drew abreast, and then passed the figure in the trench coat, averting his eyes the way addicts often do in public, as if the act somehow made them smaller or invisible. As he moved past the trench coat, Little Stevie felt the light caress of icy fingers on the back of his neck.
Startled, he let out a loud guttural "Whaaa—!" and whirled about. Still standing beneath the streetlamp, the frail, emaciated figure looked anything but threatening.
"What the hell is your problem, dude?" Stevie yelled. The person said nothing, but took a slow step, shuffle forward. Stepping back in surprise, Stevie raised his scarred fists. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of a hideously disfigured face buried inside the high collars, but dismissed it as a trick of the poor lighting.
"You got two seconds to move your ugly ass down the street before something really bad happens to you." Suddenly, rolling this guy seemed like a great idea.
Who knows? Maybe Mr. Dude has a couple of bucks on him.
Mr. Dude said nothing. Instead, he took another slow, shuffling step forward and for a moment Stevie thought the air seemed to waver, as if he was looking at heat waves coming off of dry asphalt on a one hundred and ten-degree day. As his muddled mind struggled to puzzle out the odd visage, an ungodly pain announced itself just above his belt buckle.
Looking down, he saw that Mr. Dude had somehow closed the eight-foot gap that had separated them, and buried his arm in Stevie's stomach up to a not-so-scrawny elbow.
Icy fingers closed around his spinal column and all feeling drained from Little Stevie's legs. With a pitiful moan, the addict collapsed onto the sidewalk.
"Ugh! F—fuck me! This ain't... ain't happening."
Mr. Dude bent over the wounded man, and the high collar of the overcoat fell away. For the first time, Little Stevie had a clear look at Mr. Dude's face. Little Stevie screamed.
Grasping the mortally injured man by a mop of dirty blond hair, Mr. Dude dragged Stevie into the deep shadows of a nearby alley.
"Hold, Drammach!"
Stevie slumped back onto the wet pavement as the grip on his hair disappeared. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mr. Dude backing away, coming to a stop at the edge of his peripheral vision. Over the pounding of his own heart, he heard the sharp click of hard-soled wing tips on asphalt, and a man suddenly appeared over him, peering down, smiling. In stark contrast to the hideous, malformed Mr. Dude, the man was pure perfection.
"It would seem that you're having an extremely bad day," the man said pleasantly.
"F—fuck me, I'm dying! Keep him off me, man! For God's sake, j—just help me!"
"You really shouldn't use that name, you know. After all, He doesn't know you, any more than you know Him. As for my associate, consider how fortunate you are to have seen his face. For him to reveal his true nature, he must favor you a great deal! Perhaps... perhaps he senses a kindred nature, yes?
"I'm going to help you. And in return, you're going to help me. You're going to find someone for me. A boy. And when you find him, you'll kill him. Do you understand?"
Little Stevie only
understood that he was dying. But if this man could somehow help him... if he could keep Mr. Dude away....
"Y—yeah, anything, any—" Little Stevie coughed and bloody froth spilled from his lips.
"Splendid! Now, I'm going to give you something... a gift. And you'll thank me. Oh, how you will thank me." The dark-haired man with the beautiful face leaned forward until his mouth hovered above Stevie's own. He paused for a moment, then said, "Then again, perhaps not."
The man's mouth descended and covered Little Stevie's and for the first time, the addict considered that perhaps not all demons came from a syringe.
CHAPTER 2
Chicago, Illinois
Eyes, floating in air... all around me. Hate... me. Hate... can't... can't breathe... can't... dying... Gasping, Paul bolted upright in the queen-sized bed, nearly dumping his wife onto the floor. "Wha—Paul! Paul, wake up! Are you all right?"
Fighting for breath and riding a cresting wave of nausea, Paul shook his head.
"I—I saw... I don't know.... Another nightmare. Something... oh, God. Something..."
Paul Young, mentally battered and broken, began to cry, his sobs lasting well into the early-morning hours, until he finally dozed. Through the long night, Rita hugged him close and gently stroked his hair. Silently, she wondered how a wife went about having her husband committed.
As another cold, blustery dawn broke over Chicago, Rita rose from the bed and pulled the blanket over her husband. She noticed that even in his sleep Paul wore a pained, worried expression. It's been so long... he's forgotten how to smile. It isn't fair. As an afterthought she added aloud, "To either of us."
Rita quietly made her way to the kitchen and took a carton of orange juice from the fridge. She poured a small amount into a tumbler and sat down at the breakfast table. It was a just after 6 a.m., she noted, glancing at the clock above the stove. Sighing, she took a sip of the juice and set it aside. She had to confide in someone or risk losing her own sanity. Rita picked up the cordless phone and hit the speed dial.
"Daddy? Yes, I know it's early. Yes, I'm fine... no, no
I'm not fine. Daddy, Paul is sick. He hardly sleeps anymore, and when he does, he wakes up screaming with these terrible nightmares."
She paused a moment, then continued, "It's been going on for a couple of months now, maybe three, and it's getting worse."
Rita wiped her eyes on her bathrobe sleeve and listened to her father. After a moment, she said, "Yes, he's still watching the news, day and night. All those horrible stories about the rash of missing children... it's like he's obsessed with the idea. Lately, he's been buying newspapers and cutting out articles that have anything to do with the child abductions. Sometimes, in his sleep, he babbles about things... crazy things like monsters, and people, especially the children, being torn to pieces, or worse. Daddy, I... I just can't take it anymore."
Rita listened to the voice on the other end of the line for several seconds, occasionally shaking or nodding her head.
"No, Daddy, I don't think he's taking drugs. That's just not Paul. Besides, he wouldn't be able to hide that from me. I think—" Rita paused and took a deep breath. This was so very difficult for her to say. "Daddy, Paul is going crazy. A nervous breakdown or something. I... I'm afraid of him."
Ten minutes later, Rita sat at the breakfast table making a list of things to pack. In her mind, "till death do us part" did not include living with a lunatic.
CHAPTER 3
Kansas City, Missouri
Michael Collier sat in the den and sipped woodenly from a cup of Folgers. He barely tasted the stale, lukewarm coffee. Through the room's bay window, he watched as large fluffy snowflakes blanketed the front lawn. A mantel clock sitting atop the waterfall buffet chimed, announcing that seven a.m. had arrived.
Michael knew he should have been sleeping, or at least, trying to sleep. He also knew that sleep was the last thing in the world that he wanted. If he was going crazy, he preferred that it came as a result of sleep deprivation, and not from the horrible dreams. Michael also figured that madness wasn't a matter of "if," but of "when."
One morning, two months earlier, he had awoken with a nagging feeling of despair, but nothing that he could put a finger on or explain. However, he knew that whatever the cause, it would happen soon and it would be bad.
Days passed, slowly grinding into weeks, and nothing out of the ordinary occurred, not at home or at work. Still, he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of dread. It began to build, threatening to turn his anxiety into panic. Pam recognized that something was troubling him and asked repeatedly if there was anything he wanted or needed to talk about. Of course, there was.
Michael desperately wanted to talk to her, to tell her... something. But what? That he had a bad feeling that wouldn't go away? In the end, he decided to give her the canned answer that all cops fall back on, that he was just tired and that everything was fine. Then the dreams began.
Michael still vividly recalled the first nightmare, a kaleidoscope of vicious, horrifying imagery. In it, he floated far above a scene of mass carnage, above the snarling savagery and anguished, pitiful wails below. Faceless creatures, straight from the pages of a cheap paperback or a child's fever-induced night-terror swept across the landscape, leaving behind a swath of the fortunate dead and dying. In that dream, several things seemed worse than death.
Some of the creatures were doglike, but walked upright, with a demonstrated taste for small children. There were others, at once both beautiful and terrifying. These were the worst. Michael hid and watched them move across the blood-soaked landscape of his dream, their hauteur blazing before them like an August sun. At one point, one of them turned and looked in his direction, giving him a deceptive, effervescent smile. Michael knew that somehow it sensed his presence... and wanted him dead.
He awoke trembling that night, afraid to go back to sleep. He lay awake long into the early-morning hours, replaying the horror, and he was certain that what he had witnessed was far too vivid to be a dream. He remembered the first very well. Over the course of several weeks, the first nightmare became only one of many.
In later nightmares, he was merely a helpless bystander, giving silent witness to the butchery. After waking, he always had the same sick feeling that he hadn't been dreaming at all, that instead, he had been seeing. Then, he would again lay awake for hours, committing each atrocious act to memory and struggling with the absurd notion that he should be doing something.
After four weeks, he reached the end of his physical and emotional tolerance. Michael decided that he couldn't, he wouldn't take anymore. He refused to sleep again until the feelings of dread subsided. He ate handfuls of over-the-counter ephedrine and drank caffeine-loaded POW Cola by the six-pack. The automatic coffeemaker ran nonstop, each pot stronger than the last. He took a week of vacation, armed himself with more coffee, cigarettes, and movie rentals, then settled in to beat the dreams. He held out exactly four days before he broke.
On the fourth day, sobbing and nearly incoherent, he confided all to Pamela. She listened attentively like she always did, asking only the occasional question, until he finished. Then, walking to the bathroom, she retrieved three of the little pink heart-shaped pills that her doctor had prescribed months ago, after the miscarriage. Michael took the triple dose of Valium without protest, and was out like a light for two full days. On the evening of the second day he awoke, screaming from yet another nightmare. That was two days ago.
He heard the soft shuffle of house shoes in the kitchen and knew that Pam was awake. Guilt nearly reduced Michael to tears, right then and there. She was so worried about him. Ever since she had learned of the problem, Pam had sat with him for hours on end, unable to offer any real help, but refusing to let him face the endless nights alone.
"It's not fair," Michael muttered. Losing the baby, now this... she doesn't need this shit. She doesn't deserve this.
Pam stepped into the doorway, and yawned. "'Good morning, Mikey. Did you get
any rest last night?"
Michael tried to smile, but knew it looked as contrived as it felt. "A little," he said.
Pam wrinkled her nose at him. "Liar."
This time, Michael's grin was more earnest. "Okay, okay. I'm busted." Pam gave him a sad little smile. "Mikey, we agreed—"
"Yeah, I know, I know..." he interrupted. He knew where this was going and it was too early in the morning to fight about it.
Pam sat down and laid her hand on top of his. "Honey, we've been over this. You've got to see a doctor. We agreed."
Michael sighed and nodded. "Pam, I know we talked about it, but I can't go through life eating tranquilizers. Hell, they don't work anyway." He turned away, and looked out the window. "And you know what's going to happen if this gets out. I'll be out of a job before a cat can lick its ass."
Pam shushed him. Taking his coffee cup, she took a tiny sip and grimaced. "Yuck! This stuff tastes like paint thinner smells!" Sitting the cup down, Pam said, "Yes, I know. We have bills. And if you get fired, you get fired. There are other jobs out there. You don't have to be a cop, you know."
Michael started to protest, and Pam raised her hands. "Okay, okay. Maybe you do have to be a cop. At least, I believe that you believe it's your calling, and that's good enough for me. If they fire you, we'll move to another city where good police officers are allowed to have an occasional bad dream. But you're going to see a doctor." Pam turned away and looked at the floor. After a long moment, she whispered, "You can't...we can't live like this."
Michael shook his head. "I just don't know, Pam. If I really am going crazy, I'm not so sure I want to know about it."
"Today," she replied firmly. "For me."
Those were the magic words. Michael sighed and gave her a tiny smile of surrender. "Well, why didn't you just say that in the first place? Where's the phone book?"
