by Jones, K. J.
“I--”
“Get in the Jeep.”
“But I --”
“I'll drive you home.”
Mullen considered his immediate environment. No phone. The devil possessed dead people sure didn't look like they were packing cells. One guy was naked. One-Sock had on only tidy white briefs, which were unbecoming on a good day. And the girl looked like she had been trying to claw her way out of her nightgown.
He looked further away. The nearest neighborhood was a good walk distance. Who in this day and age would open the door at night to some bloodied guy claiming to have been in a car accident and needing a phone?
The nearest gas station was on the other side of the bridge. The probability it had a pay phone was as high as seeing Big Foot fueling up his VW van with regular unleaded.
Mullen got in the Jeep and secured the seatbelt.
“Where do you live?” Mr. Perfect asked as he drove over the bridge.
“Kure Beach.” Locals pronounced it as Cary, for reasons no one knew.
“Oh. The ritzy-titzy part of the island. How do you afford that?”
“It's my, uhm, parents.”
He had been through a death-defying experience yet felt embarrassed and inadequate.
“What's your name, kid?”
“Mullen.”
“I'm Sullivan. You were lucky I was driving around tonight.”
“Yeah, I am. Can I ask, why you were driving around tonight?”
“I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I like to go for a drive. Relaxes me.”
“And you do this with a gun?”
Peter snickered. “Yeah, I do. I'll tell you something ironic, kid. The one time I'm not carrying is when I jog. So, of course, just my luck, something happened. A rabid dog.”
“In Wilmington?”
“Yeah. Fucked up, huh?”
“Where, exactly?”
“Carolina Beach. The literal beach.”
“We don't have rabid dogs here.”
“We don't have crazed fucked up people trying to get at a guy in an upside-down wrecked car either, so there you go.”
“Okay. Good point.” Mullen dabbed his facial wounds with his sleeve.
Route 421 ran through Paradise Island, connecting all the small beach towns. After the bridge, they first passed a shopping center to the right, containing the island’s supermarket. They passed family-owned hotels and restaurants, chain fast food and beach-oriented souvenir shops. Real estate and cottage rental agencies were every few miles.
Brick and plaster structures flanking the road marked the entrance to Kure Beach. The houses grew enormous, sitting on postage stamp-sized land. Tacky ornate fountains graced the fronts of some homes to show off their wealth. Civilian Hummers in outrageous bright colors parked beside expensive sport cars. Well decorated lighting illuminated palm trees.
To the left, the ocean could be glimpsed between houses.
The house Mullen directed Peter to was all dark. Like many of the homes in Kure Beach, it had a garage which dominated the first floor. But Mullen’s garage door was open. Peter’s headlights illuminated the interior, showing two parked cars and a rolling garbage can on its side.
“The garage door shouldn’t be open,” Mullen said.
“Is everything all right?” Peter studied the kid’s scowling face.
Mullen turned to him. “I’m sure it is. Well, thank you for saving my life. I appreciate it.”
“Maybe I should walk you in.”
Mullen opened the door and slipped down. “No need. I’ll be good. I’ll, uhm, call a tow truck or something. Maybe go to the hospital later.”
“Are your parents here?”
“Probably. They have the flu. It’ll be okay. I got buddies nearby. Thank you again. Bye.” He closed the door.
Peter watched the kid go into the garage.
As much as Mullen verbalized reassurance, he hadn’t looked confident in his words. Peter’s guts told him to stick around for a little while.
The headlights showed Mullen going through the interior garage door.
Peter decided to give it two minutes, then he’d leave. He tapped the steering wheel and looked around.
Ninety seconds, the interior garage door whipped open. Mullen raced out. He ran to the Jeep, yanked open the door, and jumped in. His shirt more ripped and disheveled than when he went in. He hyperventilated.
“What happened?”
“Go. Go. Go,” Mullen said between gasps for breath.
Peter reversed the Jeep out of the driveway. They headed back towards where they had come, leaving Kure Beach.
“Breathe, kid.”
Mullen bent over, putting his head between in his knees.
“Calm down, brother. It will be okay.”
“No.” Mullen’s head shook. His breathing slowed. “It won’t be. Never again.”
“What happened?”
Mullen sat up. “First thing I saw, in the laundry room, the dog. Totally ripped apart. Like a werewolf had come in and got him. Then my mom attacked me. She looked like … like …”
“Those other people?”
“My parents don’t take drugs.”
“Okay.”
“And they’re not religious enough to get possessed.”
“Whatever that’s supposed to mean, but okay.”
“But she was like those Zombie people. The ones all over town, taking drugs.”
“Hmm.”
“But it was like she was possessed.”
“In what way? Growling ‘we are legion’?”
“She tried to bite me!”
“Calm down. We’re almost there.”
“Where? The police station?”
“No. My boat.”
“Tell me why that’s supposed to make sense to me. I don’t want to go out onto the water.”
“No, I live on a boat. The Molly.”
“Then we call the police?”
“What’s with your obsession with the police?”
“I don’t know. It’s what normal people do when shit gets fucked up.”
“They never helped with that, as far as I ever saw.”
The Jeep drove through a grid of neighborhood streets. Affordable beachy houses to either side stood on stilts, for hurricane flooding. Year-long occupants parked their cars beneath. Many houses held signs advertising they were seasonal rentals.
“Are you wanted by the police? Is that why you don’t want me to call them?”
They pulled up to the marina’s gate. A six-foot chain-link fence ran the perimeter. Peter reached out his arm and punched in his code. The gate cranked on its rails, rolling open.
He pulled into a parking place next to the first dock. He parked beside a beat-up, rusted white Toyota pickup, belonging to one of his neighbors.
A gate stood at the entrance of the dock. A rusting hood hung over head, giving off harsh white LED lighting. Despite a locking doorknob, Peter pushed open the unlocked gate. It was never locked.
“C’mon,” he directed the kid.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Down the incline of the gangway ramp, the floating dock rocked with their footsteps. A few cabin cruisers nested into slips to the right. Houseboats docked to the left. All of them were closed up and quiet, with people sleeping inside. The eighty-foot Molly dominated the end of the dock.
Mullen followed Peter up wooden dock stairs and onto the trawler.
“This is where you live?”
“Welcome to the Molly.”
On the deck, Dock Cat sat by the door. She meowed a reprimand at Peter for being locked out. She looked at the stranger and sized him up.
“Hi, cat,” Mullen said.
Peter unlocked the door and entered. He threw his keys on the kitchen counter and headed for the fridge and a beer. Dock Cat ran to her food bowl and began chowing down.
Mullen reluctantly followed. His gaze scanned around. “Are you military or a wanna-be?”
“What?�
��
“Army flag on the wall and shit.”
Peter scowled at the wall as if he was new here. “Oh. Yeah. That. I think it covers a hole in the wall.”
“You like plants, huh?”
“Love ’em. Sit down. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
“What’s your cat’s name?”
“Dock Cat.”
“That’s a kind of weird name.”
“I found her in the dumpster in the parking lot as a starving kitten. Made the mistake of feeding her. She never went away again.”
“Didn’t figure you for a cat guy.”
“Didn’t find a starving puppy in the dumpster. Here’s the kit. Clean up your face. The head’s down there. Want a beer? Are you old enough?”
“As if you’d be bothered if I wasn’t. And I am old enough, as a matter fact. I’m twenty-two.”
“Ooh, mature man.”
Dock Cat nestled on Peter’s lap. He said to her, “I would say I adopted your ass, but I think it was the other way around.” She purred.
“How long have you lived here?” Mullen’s voice sounded like he was wandering around beyond the bathroom.
“Oi, you snooping? On top of asking a shitload of questions.”
Mullen came up the two steps to the salon. “I’m a blogger.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s the modern news source.”
“Fantastic. If I see anything about me in your blog --”
“Shit,” Mullen exclaimed. “My equipment was in my car. I totally forgot. With the, you know, head injury.” He had a band aid on his forehead.
“Yeah, the major head trauma.”
“Why do you have crutches and a cane in the corner?”
“To beat nosey bloggers with.”
“Got it. Too many questions. I was a journalism major. Force of habit.”
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, much to Dock Cat’s annoyance. “I was a staff sergeant in the US Army 75th Regiment Rangers.”
“Whoa.” Mullen’s eyes squinted. “Why does that sound familiar?” He scanned around. “Oh, shit. That’s Black Hawk Down.”
Peter leaned back. Took a swig off the bottle. And cocked an eyebrow of challenge to the kid.
“Were you in the Mog?”
“How fucking old do you think I am, kid?”
“I don’t know. When did it happen?”
“I’ll give you a hint. Somalia was during the Clinton administration.”
“Was I even born?”
“Math not your strength, huh?”
“Were you born yet?”
“I was old enough to start beating up nosey kids with poor math skills.”
“Where are you from? Like, Boston or something, am I right?”
“You are. Proud of yourself?”
“I am.”
“South Boston specifically. Full-blooded Irish.” He raised the sleeve cuff of his t-shirt. A tattoo of a fighting Leprechaun with the words Southie Forever beneath the flag of the Republic of Ireland.
“What’s the ink on the other side?”
“Rangers.” He showed the kid.
“Cool.” Mullen stared at the emblem for a while. “Can I have that beer, for real?”
“Yeah.”
Peter shared a look with Dock Cat about the kid.
“Wait,” Mullen said from the fridge. “South Boston. Why do I know that? Something in history. Yeah. Something having to do with a race riot and busing. School desegregation.”
“I was definitely not alive for that.”
Mullen sat on the couch and struggled to twist off the cap.
“Get the church key, kid.”
“The what?”
“Youth today. The bottle opener. It hangs off the fridge door.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Wilmington had race riots, too. Did you know that?” Mullen asked.
“Don’t doubt it. How random, you know race riots from the nineteen seventies, but not when Clinton was president.”
Mullen shrugged. “It’s what came up in my classes. Hey, do you smoke weed, by any chance?”
“I’ll hook you up, kid.”
“After what happened, really need it.”
“I bet.”
7.
Chris Higgins checked the time on his phone. It was only five minutes since he last checked the time. Oh-seven was taking its dear sweet time getting here. That's when he was off duty as a security guard at an extended stay hotel towards downtown. This would be a long night.
His breath puffed out. He wore black leather, insulated gloves to keep his hands warm. “Frost on the pumpkin,” he said to hear another voice. He stomped his boots to keep his circulation going. He hated the cold. He hated late summer, too; Southern summers, ninety-something degrees with high humidity. A man could only take off so much clothing, especially in public, if he wanted to be decent. It was a Southern tradition to complain about the heat. Winters, he used to be all right with those. He would have thought the extra weight he carried should have insulated him better. But the extra weight meant no exercise. His blood was slow. Slow and thin, not a good combo for January, standing around with nothing to do. If he was laboring outside this time of year, he'd be fine. Stripped down to a shirt by now. But not this doing nothing. The cold gnawed at the bones, and there was nothing to do but think about it.
He stood in the parking lot next to a courtyard and cement patio. The lights of occupied rooms on. Thick curtains covered most with lines of light at the sides where the curtains ended.
A door banged open, then shut. “Somebody out.” He expected it to be a hotel guest dressed for work on the third shift or a smoker with a coat over pajamas.
A short, chubby middle-aged woman. She was in winter pajamas with no coat. And no shoes. She came down the stairs, walking funny.
“Not a druggie,” he grumbled. “Not tonight.”
He heard a cough from her that sounded like a choke.
“Ma'am, if you're sick, you shouldn't be out here like that.” She kept coming. “Ma'am?” She kept coming. “Are you alright, ma'am?” As she got closer, he could see her face. The skin had gone grayish. Gunk ran from her eyes and nose. Her mouth looked like she had taken a Tums Alka-Seltzer wafer and popped it right in, where it was foaming out over her lips and dripping off her chin.
“Oh hell no.” He raised his volume and said with authority, “Ma'am, you need to go back inside and I'll call you an ambulance.”
The woman responded with a growl so loud it echoed against the walls of the courtyard. Her bare feet took off. She charged at him with her little chubby fists balled up and her shoulders wide like she wanted to fight.
Instantly, his heart picked up its pace and his adrenaline jacked up. He stepped back and raised his fists out of well-honed instinct.
She closed the distance faster than short chubby women usually run.
He was known for his cannon punch. With all his bulk, and, despite the layer of fat, he still had a lot of muscle.
He punched her in the side of head while side stepping her. She stumbled back. She should have hit the ground with that impact of concussion hit. Instead, it just made her mad. A few blinks and her face filled with all the rage of Hell. Her teeth bared like a mean dog. And she had crazy eyes.
“Aw shit.”
She exploded into a rush towards him. He grabbed her by the throat. Holding her at arm's length, she went wild with all limbs flailing. She tried to get her mouth to his hand. Foam dripped down onto his glove. She made noises that hardly sounded like a human being.
He had a tiger by its tail and now he had to figure out what to do with her. He could reach the handcuffs on his gun belt with his other hand, but how to put them on her? With a normal person, this wouldn't be a problem. But normal people didn't act like frenzied wild animals.
He would have to throw her down, move fast, and get his knee into her back. Hopefully, she would not act even more like a caught-feral cat and lan
d on her feet. He readied himself and had the space on the blacktop picked out.
The moment came, he threw her straight down. For a split second it stunned her. That gave him the time for his knee to come down hard on her spine—something that would cause a normal person to cry out in pain. Working fast, he pulled out the cuffs. The limbs moved spastically. She was making more inhuman growls and gurgles and a choke-cough that sounded to him like barks. With both his hands, he seized her right hand and snapped the metal cuff around her wrist. Then his left hand chased her moving free hand until he seized the wrist.
Pulling back her left arm should not have been difficult. People automatically rotate their shoulder in the ball-and-socket joint because of the pain caused if they don't. The arm always comes up from under to bring it to the back. But she wasn't rotating her shoulder. Her arm was like a bird wing sticking out to the side. To move it to her back would pop it right out of the socket. Possibly even tear things. He didn't want to be responsible for that kind of injury to a guest. The paperwork would be a headache.
No matter how he pulled, trying to trigger that pain response so she'd rotate, it didn't happen.
Under his knee she bucked. His weight was too much for her to buck him off. The way she shook alarmed him, and even through his clothes, he could feel heat radiating from her body. “What the hell you on, lady?” Her muscles vibrated like she had taken every caffeine pill and drink at three convenience stores.
He didn't know if he broke or tore something, as he heard some funny noises from her shoulder. He managed to manipulate her arm down. He cuffed her wrists together. A person without the use of their arms should be easier to control, but he had a hunch this woman wouldn't be.
Since she wasn't complaining about his weight on her back, and it seemed to be pinning her down well enough, he decided to call 911 remaining in position. Pulling out his cell, he brought up the phone app and pressed the number pad for the three digits. He put it on speakerphone while it rang. An automated voice came on with a menu for selecting your emergency.
“Dang automated shit.”
Then he was waiting, like he had called a credit card company and in a queue for someone to answer in India. He had called 911 many times at this job and never had this happen before. 911 was usually good at answering fast. That was supposed to be part of their job. They couldn't have someone waiting in a queue while a murderer was coming after them. Then again, cop response time was never fast enough to actually stop a murder.
