Timothy 02: Tim2

by Mark Tufo

  I stayed there for a while with my knees on his chest, pounding at his face and neck. He had long since passed out. His wife was suffering from a mild headache in comparison to what I was doing to him. I had broken so many bones in his face that his features were beginning to shift.

  “Looking a little like Pangaea there, buddy, everything is adrift! I love being witty,” I told him.

  He, however, feigned oblivion and didn’t respond. He was breathing, I could tell by the air bubbles that formed in his bloody spit. I rolled him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on it, nice guy that I am – I should get a fucking medal.

  Hugh startled me out of my momentary mind medal ceremony. “Eat?” he asked.

  “Look at you you’re getting manners. Yeah, we’ll eat.”

  I was pushing around on Mr. Speight, figuring out where I wanted to start my dining experience when another brilliant, if I dare say, thought came to mind. I laid it out to Hugh. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had hoped, but he was a zombie; they were all about the here and now, not future promises and payouts. After some serous cajoling and threatening, I think I got my point across. I pulled down Speight’s pants and took hardly a nibble from his thigh. Someone would be hard-pressed to find the wound. Hardly anything bigger than a virus would be able to find its way through the opening.

  I dragged Speight over to a chair and deposited him in there.

  “Oh, man, he looks like shit. You’d better have your buddies fix him up,” I said as I sat across from the man.

  I wondered if possibly Yorley would eventually come looking for him; I’d deal with that if the time came. It wasn’t long before I saw blood stop flowing from his mouth and his nose began to pull back from its position where it was lying flat against the left side of his face to a more proper area. Even the small cut and bruise I had made on his forehead were clearing up.

  “Well, you’re modeling days are over,” I told him as I gripped his healing face in my hands and twisted it back and forth, looking at Other Hugh’s handiwork. “But your wife will probably still love you. If she ever did.”

  He was beginning to come to. “What happened?” he asked, smacking my hand away. His eyes going wide when he pieced everything together and realized he was looking at me.

  “I’m sorry, man,” I told him. I stepped back. “I found God or some shit while you were dying on the floor. I prayed and prayed for your recovery…and look, man, he delivered. It’s a miracle. Hallelujah!” I said while doing the ‘jazz hands’ thing above my head.

  I wasn’t super convincing and Speight was picking up on it.

  “Look I’m not a good guy and I’m in a bad situation. I did something wrong, and I just want to get out of here and let you get back to your family.”

  “What?”

  “Go, man, just go back to them.”

  He stood, he might be shocked and slightly dazed, but he wasn’t stupid. “You’re serious?”

  “Get out of here, man,” I told him, thrusting my thumb over my shoulder towards the back door. “Oh yeah…tell Yorley that Timothy says hi!”

  I heard him twist on the broken glass to look back at me to see if I was following. When he realized I wasn’t, he cruised. I smiled widely. “Gonna have some fine dining today, my little buddy.”

  I stood up when I heard the now familiar metal clanking. There was a moment of confusion as I looked out into the back yard for the shelter’s entrance. All that stood in the yard was a small utility shed and a doghouse, neither of which were large enough to house five people for any longer than it took to retrieve a weed whacker. The doghouse was big as far as dog houses go, so maybe a Rottweiler would be happy with it, but not three adults and two kids.

  “What the hell?” I asked, scratching my face. It had been itching a lot the last few days. I attributed it to dry skin. “I guess it’s the shed. Really shouldn’t have taken my eyes off of him, didn’t know he was going to pull a Houdini.”

  The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. I wouldn’t mind being that close to my little Yorley. I crossed the yard carefully, staying out of sight of the decorative window on the right. I yanked open one of the doors and dodged to the side expecting a hail of bullets. Nothing; not even the clamoring to make sure a gun safety was off. I got in close to the side of the structure and quickly peeked my head around. I pulled back quickly, taking a mental picture as I did so.

  There was nothing, I mean except for some basic gardening equipment. “What the hell?” I asked, once again poking my head around, this time taking an extended look.

  When I was confident no one was going to blow my head off I walked around and in. I was pissed off and swatted a hoe out of my way. Then I started laughing. “Now I’m a pimp!” I said merrily. (Wait for it...wait for it, it’ll come. I figured you’d get it.) “Okay, there has to be a secret entrance.”

  I checked around the whole floor, which wasn’t tough considering it was only about a ten-by-ten structure.

  No trap door. The only anomaly was a pipe roughly six inches in diameter that came up through the floor and halfway up the wall; a large box was fitted over the top capping it off. I touched the pipe and quickly pulled my hand back; it was hot to the touch. I still hadn’t a clue what the hell was going on. I reached up and tentatively touched the capping box. It was warm, but not overly so. I twisted it around and then straight up. It came off followed by a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  “Fuck,” I said, placing what I figured to be a filter back over the pipe.

  Part of my problem had been solved – the bunker was underground. Now to find the entrance. The only other place in the small yard it could be was the doghouse. Well this might be one time where if a husband got his ass in trouble he might not mind having to sleep with Rover. I did a quick 360 of the yard looking for any signs that someone might be trying to end my life. When I was mostly satisfied, I headed over to the dog’s abode. I poked my head in and felt around. Nothing, no trap door nothing except the wood my hand was on.

  “Fucking great,” I said, standing up. “Got the entire apocalypse and I come across a magician.”

  I walked around the doghouse. It was during the second trip that I noticed something. “Why, you tricky bastard,” I said as I noticed hinges located on the bottom, rear of the house.

  The whole doghouse was a trap door. I grabbed the roofline from the side and heaved it up. I jumped back expecting someone to start blasting away. Again I was rewarded with silence. I inched closer. The opening was framed out in wooden studs, which encased a set of five concrete steps that descended onto a small landing. Immediately to the right at the bottom of the stairs was a door that looked like it would have been comfortable in any major metropolitan bank protecting folks’ investments and jewels.

  “What a dumb ass,” I said thinking of Mr. Speight leaving the sanctuary of that fortress for a six-pack of beer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Harold Speight’s head was splintering as he ran from the mad man in his living room. He moved quickly to the house of an animal he never owned, lifted it up and rapidly descended the small staircase. He placed his thumb over the fingerprint identifier and punched in his five digit code, nearly messing up a number he had ingrained in his head considering it was his anniversary date: 1-1-5-9-2, January 15th 1992. The miscue would have cost him an automatic fifteen-minute lockout mode, which he didn’t think he could take right now. As it was, he was barely holding on to the tide of panic, which was rendering his structured world into the abyss of chaos. The man with the melting face had scared him more than he could ever express in words. He felt normalcy shedding off of him like thick coats of paint under a heavy application of mineral spirits.

  If he locked himself out, he would have to bang on the door and hope someone inside heard him so that they could activate the manual override before the evil clown located the source of the noise and stole his soul. For that’s what the thing was, a demon of some sort sprung loose from its moorings in the depths of hell b
y the actions of a callous mankind. Harold had an idea the thing had only been toying with him when it released him. He wouldn’t feel safe even if he got inside the bunker. What sort of barrier was steel and concrete to a demon? He thought of the safety of his family even as the door swung open and he stepped in, quickly sealing it behind him. He more than half expected to be greeted by the demon named Timothy holding the surplus shredded strips of his wife and children in his bloody hands. Instead, it was the concerned look of his wife’s new friend Yorley.

  “Where have you been?” she accused him, rifle nearly at the ready.

  Harold was shaking so deeply from his core that it had spread to his extremities. His arms and hands quaked madly.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Yorley asked, almost advancing. He seemed on the verge of collapse, but she was unsure why; and if he was infected she was going to put a bullet in his head no matter who he was related to. “You look like shit, have you been bitten?”

  “No nothing like that,” Harold said as he sank down to the floor, his back against the cool steel wall. He buried his head in his palsied hands.

  “What happened then?” she asked, not yet letting her guard down.

  “How’s Scarlett?” He looked up at Yorley. His black-rimmed eyes appeared even more sunk in from the shelter’s night-lights.

  “She’s still out,” Yorley answered.

  “The kids?” he asked in a desperate anxiety, his head shaking from the effort.

  “They’re fine. What is going on?” she asked again. His trepidation was infectious and she was beginning to feel nervous herself.

  “There was...”

  What? he thought. Do I tell her demon? She already looks like she wants to shoot me, maybe it would be for the best. I already feel like my soul is tied to the spawn. If I’m dead he won’t be able to come in here. Those thoughts ran through his head before he completed his sentence to Yorley with, “man.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “He...he beat the shit out of me, Yorley.”

  Yorley looked him over, true he looked like shit but not like he had suffered a vicious beating. She had only known the man for twenty-four hours, but he hadn’t seemed like the type to have a propensity for drama.

  “What did he look like? Did he see you come in here?” she asked, looking at a small scar on his forehead.

  Harold grabbed her arm, pulled her close, making sure that her eyes were locked on his. “Its face was melting.” He exhaled sourly and a putrid smell of decay issued from his mouth.

  Yorley yanked herself away from him, some from the odor, but mostly from his description.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked with desperation in his eyes. He began to sob and then laugh. “His face was melting and he was dressed like a...”

  “Clown,” Yorley said, finishing his sentence.

  The laughing sobs came to an immediate halt.

  “He’s here? How is that possible?” Yorley asked, the question not really directed at Harold. She ran to the door to make sure it was shut and locked. “What’d he say?” She came back to Harold who had managed to prop himself up into a normal sitting position.

  “He said he knew Scarlett and you, that you two had a history. He told me to tell you that ‘Timothy says hi.’”

  Yorley staggered. “He was the one at the grocery store I told you about,” she responded, looking over her shoulder at the door as if it could suddenly open on its own.

  “You didn’t say anything about a melting face and a clown get-up.”

  “I hardly believed it myself. It was something I wanted to forget forever. I got your wife home and I wanted to just chalk it up to some random madman encounter.”

  “That madman is here now, Yorley!” he shouted, spittle shooting from his mouth. He said it as if it were her fault.

  “How is this even possible?”

  “He must have followed your ass here! My wife and children are in danger because of you!” His words were forceful, but he had not yet stood to deliver them.

  “Your wife would be dead if it wasn’t for me, so shut your damn mouth!” she yelled at him.

  “Children, children,” came the chastising, muffled sound of a voice through the four-inch thick door. Yorley froze; Harold started scooting back deeper into the chamber. “I hate to see you guys fighting like this, open the door and we can sort all of it out,” Timothy said mirthfully.

  “Can he get through there?” Yorley asked, backing up herself.

  “He’s a demon…I’m sure he can do whatever he wants,” Harold said, once again placing his head between his knees and covering it up with his hands.

  Yorley was half-convinced to believe Harold. “I shot him, he bleeds, so he’s no fucking demon.”

  “Demons don’t bleed?” Harold asked, grasping at the only straw he could.

  She honestly wasn’t sure now that he had posed the question.

  They waited a few more minutes for Tim to say something. When he didn’t, Yorley asked another question. “Why did he let you go?”

  “He wanted to know where you and Scarlett were, when I wouldn’t tell him he beat me mercilessly.”

  Again with the overreaction, Yorley thought. But he seems sincere when he says it.

  “He broke some stuff, even shoved a gun in my mouth. When I wouldn’t tell him, he beat me until I passed out. When I awoke he told me he had had a change of heart.”

  “Just like that?” Yorley questioned.

  “What can I say? I found God,” Tim shouted through the door with a laugh.

  “He can’t possibly hear us,” Yorley whispered. She and Harold left the antechamber and retreated into the living portion of the shelter.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Well that ought to keep them in place,” I said aloud and then went back up the stairs.

  I was in for the long game now. One thing I needed was to sate a growing hunger and the other was to get something for some entertainment. First things first. I walked around the neighborhood looking for any signs of life, an errant candle light, a rustling window shade, smoke from a chimney. Something to let me know there were humans around. I’ve got to admit, as saddened as I was that there was not food readily available, I was exhilarated at the karmic justice of the rich having met their ends. These two million dollar megalithic homes stood empty as a testament to their arrogance. I hoped the fuckers died miserable deaths. Still, though, eating one of them would be nicer.

  I had gone a good mile or two and the houses were getting considerably smaller. I had just started thinking if I should turn around and get my car when I noticed movement. My pupils dilated – my palms most likely got sweaty, I didn’t bother to check. It wasn’t much and I wasn’t completely sure what I had seen, but since it was the first wisp of a chance I figured, what the hell?

  I checked the doorknob, it was locked. A locked door during an apocalypse event – shocker! Then I smiled. I busted out a sidelight, reached in and threw the deadbolt. I half expected a shot or, at a minimum, a knife strike to my exposed forearm…nothing. I wasn’t quite sure why I was throwing caution to the wind. It was later I would learn that Hugh was depressing my cerebral cortex for his own devices.

  Never understood sidelights. I guess they’re nice enough if you’re into that kind of thing, but why bother having a stout oak door to stop intruders only to have a thin windowpane on the side of the locking mechanism? Do people really think a criminal is going to overlook that fact? The door opened with merely a slight squeak. My eyes watered immediately as they were assailed with the pungent odor of ammonia. But not the cleaning kind. Two cats were looking at me from across the room, their tails swishing back and forth in an aggressive and agitated manner. I closed the door behind me. The piss smell was almost overwhelming, but there was something even worse. There was at least one dead person in this house.

  “I wonder if there’s anything salvageable?” I asked as I headed further in.

  I walked casually down the ha
llway. The door on my right led to a small bathroom that was completely overrun with cat feces and urine. The litter box was completely encrusted with a foot deep layer of cat crap. At the end of the hallway was a bedroom. Something that at one time had been of human origin was lying on the bed. Its clothes, which pinned it as female, or a cross-dresser I suppose, were in tatters on the floor.

  The near-skeletal remains were almost picked clean, but that didn’t stop a couple of skinny cats from tugging on some connective tissue on its knee. They hissed and spat and even took a couple of claws-extended swipes at each other for a morsel that would not have kept either of them satisfied. Bones from the hands and feet littered the ground, and I imagine that it would only be a matter of time until the rest of the body was scattered about like so much dirty laundry.

  “Fucking cats, feed them, pick up their shit, give them a house, and then they eat you. My kind of animal.”

  The two that had been playing tug of war with a dime-sized morsel looked up suspiciously when they heard me talk. I stepped into the room and shut the door. “Not much to you I suppose, but my mama always said I should try out new things. The cats hissed and fled, their earlier dispute completely forgotten as they shot down and under the bed.

  “Oh my, I’ll never think to look there,” I said mockingly, placing my hands against my cheeks.

  I yelled as I flipped the bed over, dry bones crashed against the wall. The two original cats bolted towards what I figured was the closet. A third who had been napping was caught completely unawares. I roughly grabbed him around his mid-section. He howled in rage as I crushed him in my grip before taking ravenous bites out of his frame.

  “Just like chicken wings,” I said a few minutes later as I licked my fingers and discarded the cat carcass. “Furry chicken wings…but chicken wings.”

  “Here, little kitty,” I said as I approached the closet.

  I was smacking my lips. They weren’t buying it, but their hissing gave me all the information I needed. I reached into the closet and was rewarded with a few bites and some slashing cuts from their razor-sharp claws. I pulled the scrawnier of the two, an orange tabby free from the detritus of the closet. He was hissing and spitting right up until the end when I bit halfway through his head.