Authors: Bryan Smith
Suzie nodded. “You up for some more chain saw work, Frederick?”
Another of those creepy smiles. “Always, madam.”
So they hauled the dead mailman off to the garage and Frederick again went to work cutting a dead man down to size. Suzie donned some nondescript clothes, a tight-fitting sports bra, and put her hair up under a cap. People were expecting their mail and there was only one thing to do—finish the route. At least the Wheaton Hills part of it. That way, she hoped, the missing mailman’s trail wouldn’t lead back to her doorstep. She was able to more or less properly finish the Wheaton Hills stretch of the mailman’s route. An envelope here or there may have gone into the wrong box, but that happened all the time anyway, so big fucking deal. When she was done, she abandoned the mail truck outside an apartment complex on the other side of Ransom and gave Lydia a call to come pick her up.
Lydia wasn’t alone when she rolled up in the SUV.
Tom Bell was sitting in the front passenger seat. Only this man wasn’t really Tom anymore. Was there a hint of sulfur in the air or was that just her imagination?
Suzie climbed into the back and Lydia twisted in her seat to glance at her. “Sorry it took so long. Got a call from this guy. Uh . . . apparently we’ll be hearing about a nursing home massacre in the news soon.”
The demon wearing Tom’s flesh laughed softly. “They are all dead.”
Suzie pulled off the cap and shook out her long blond hair. “Uh huh. All dead. And did you get away without being seen?”
“They are all dead. There is no one to tell the tale. The building has been consumed in the flames of an infernal fire.”
Suzie squinted. “Say what now?”
“I summoned hellfire, infernal flames that will not be extinguished until the entire building and everything in it is reduced to useless ash. There are no witnesses. No surveillance images. I will not be identified.”
“Huh. Okay then.”
Flauros did not respond to further attempts by the women to engage him in conversation. The ride back to Wheaton Hills passed in uncomfortable silence. It was a strange thing. This Flauros was supposedly subservient to Andras, but both women found him significantly more intimidating. Andras was a remorseless killer and a shameless manipulator, but he clearly enjoyed playing with the humans he’d drawn into his web. Suzie had the sense his henchman felt nothing but contempt for them.
We’re like bugs to him
.
Filthy, mindless, crawling, insignificant
things.
The realization made her sort of angry. She consoled herself with the thought that it didn’t really matter. Andras was the one calling the shots. That was the important thing. That and the promises he’d made.
Thinking about that, Suzie smiled and felt some of her anxiety slip away.
She couldn’t wait to begin serving her new master in hell. But first, of course, there remained much work to do.
Work
, the word Lydia had used to lament the complications caused by Ella’s murder of the mailman. But the work didn’t bother Suzie. It was
dark
work. And that made it
good
.
Andras had said the streets of Wheaton Hills would flow with rivers of blood.
Suzie hoped he was right.
She couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful.
T
HIRTY-FOUR
Earlier in the day
. . .
Clayton Campbell was pretty sure he’d never been this tired in his entire life. But maybe it just felt that way. There had been many sleep-deprived nights in those first months after his father’s suicide. Back then he hadn’t wanted to sleep because of the bad dreams that awaited him anytime he finally did succumb to exhaustion and slip into unconsciousness. In the dreams, he would relive that moment of walking into his father’s study and discovering his corpse. The reality of it had been bad enough. All that blood splattered all over Norman Campbell’s treasured collection of baseball memorabilia. Bits of crimson-stained bone slivers and brain matter clinging to framed pictures. The horrible slack expression on the old man’s face, with the gun still hanging from his mouth. All that and the horror of not being able to do a damn thing about it. Yeah, all that was pretty goddamn terrible. His relationship with his father had been complicated, most of it admittedly because of Clayton’s apparent inability to fit into society in any meaningful way. But they were father and son and they loved each other. It hit him hard, threw his world off its axis. It was the worst hurt he’d ever known. But the dreams took that already hard reality and twisted it, shaped it into something darker and more sinister. He would see it actually happen instead of walking in after the fact. He’d see his father wink at him before pulling the trigger. Other times his father would come to him as a walking corpse, a shambling zombie like in the movies, drooling and moaning with the back of his head blown out.
Yeah.
Not a lot of sleep in those days. However, after the worst aspects of the dreams at last began to fade, he became rather an accomplished sleeper. He inherited enough money from his father that he didn’t have to work and, without that motivation to get out and interact with the world, it was easy to embrace a lifestyle that centered around being unconscious a lot of the time. The other defining aspect of this lifestyle was the hours he kept. Just like his young friends, he stayed up during the night and slept through the day.
Hence his current dilemma.
He had remained awake long past his usual crash time. By the time eight in the morning rolled around, he finally accepted that something had gone wrong and the kids wouldn’t be coming over for the meeting. He’d forced himself to stay up on the off chance one or more of them would put in an appearance to explain what had happened. He put on some coffee and stayed up a bit longer still, hoping against hope. At one point he called the number Mark had given him, but no answer.
He finally gave up and headed off to bed.
About five seconds after he at last closed his eyes, the phone rang and he snatched it up.
Guess who?
And now they were seated across from each other at the table in his kitchen. His account of all that had happened to him since last night had come out in an explosive rush, leaving him almost breathless. He was antsy. He kept fidgeting, squirming around and rocking in that chair so much it made Clayton’s head hurt just to watch him. He looked more like a kid than usual. Vulnerable and scared. Based on the story he’d told, it was understandable.
Mark abruptly ceased fidgeting. “You got any beer?”
“What kind of fucking question is that? Of
course
I’ve got beer.”
Mark shifted in his seat and crossed a leg over a knee. “I mean, can I have a beer?”
“You think that’s wise?”
“No. Still want one.”
Clayton rubbed at his bleary eyes, then waved a hand at the refrigerator. “Help yourself.”
Mark lurched out of his chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. He opened the refrigerator and glanced at Clayton. “You want one?”
Clayton considered it, then shook his head. “No, I’m a zombie already. I need to wake up and get my head clear. Uh . . . you don’t happen to have any coke, do you?”
Mark still had the refrigerator door open. He frowned at its contents. “Well . . . there’s, like, one can of Diet Coke way in the back on the bottom shelf.”
Clayton laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. The Diet Coke will be fine.”
Mark came back with the drinks, sliding the soda can over to Clayton as he sat down. “Why do you need to wake up?” He popped the cap off a bottle of Heineken with the bottle opener attached to his key chain. “You should get some rest before we really have to get down to business with this fucking demon situation.”
“Can’t. Have things to do. Miles to go and all that noise.”
Clayton popped the soda can’s tab and drank deeply, wincing at the sharp diet taste. Funny. He couldn’t remember buying diet soda at any time in recent memory. No telling how old this thing was. Oh, wait. The expiration date. He lifted the can and peered at the numbers printed across the curved bottom of the can. “Kid, this can’s been sitting in my fridge somewhere in the neighborhood of six years.”
Mark grimaced. “And you’re chugging it.”
Clayton drained the rest of the can and crushed it in his fist. He belched. “Excuse me.” He tossed the crumpled can at the tall wastebasket that sat in a corner of the kitchen. It went right in. Mark whistled in appreciation at the shot. Clayton shrugged. “Practice. Lots and lots of practice. Anyway . . .” He stood, groaning at the very loud creak of his knees. “I’m gonna get dressed.”
“Aren’t you dressed now? I only ever see you in a robe and sweats.”
“Today I will don jeans. I have one pair that still somewhat fits. I will complete the ensemble with a selection from my vast collection of T-shirts.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Clayton’s expression turned sour. “I have to go . . . out. To a place where my usual sartorial splendor won’t cut it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
Clayton shook his head. “No. I have to do this on my own. I’ll tell you about it later. Stay here and keep trying to contact as many of your friends as you can. See if you can get them over here tonight. Or earlier, actually. And it’s best if you stay in at this point, what with this other demon riding around in your dad’s body now. You’ll want to stay under the radar until we’re ready to . . . uh . . . do what we’re, uh, gonna . . . do.”
Mark knocked back more beer. “And what’s that, exactly?”
“Later, okay? Get started on those calls.”
He walked out of the kitchen before the kid could ask any more questions.
T
HIRTY-FIVE
Mark puzzled over Clayton’s cryptic comments for a few moments after the guy walked out of the kitchen. It seemed strange to hold anything back at this point, but maybe he had some good reasons. Normally he was a pretty unflappable dude. Very mellow. Part of that was all the booze and pot. It was hard to really rattle a guy who walked around in a semipermanent haze. Part of it was just the way he was. But whatever he was venturing out to do was taking him out of his comfort zone. He seemed uptight. Apprehensive. But he also seemed pretty determined to deal with it on his own. Mark would just have to trust that he’d be ready to provide some answers later in the day.
If he had any answers, he better damn well come across with them.
Mark’s mind kept going back to that image of his dad pointing the gun at the old man’s face. It kept playing on an endless, bloodstained loop in his head. He’d give anything to cast the memory out of his head, but the sad, hard truth was he was stuck with it for life.
Goddamn
. He hadn’t been close to his father for a while, but there was a part of him who was still the little kid who idolized his dad. They’d had some great times together in the old days. The ball games. The family vacations. All those goofy little father-and-son moments. It seemed forever ago sometimes, but other times it felt like just a few seconds ago. He hoped like hell Clayton had some secret hoodoo voodoo knowledge for casting out demons. He wanted both his parents back, wanted to feel like part of a real family again, their home a sanctuary again rather than a place he needed to escape.
It was hard to be patient. He wanted answers and he wanted them
now
. He decided the only way to deal with the frustration was to do as Clayton had asked. Mark checked his phone for messages. Nothing from Natasha. The now-familiar pang he felt at that absence pricked at him again, but it was a duller ache this time. It felt like the thing between them was already over, finished before it’d had a chance to really get going. Sucked, but he needed to stop being such a bitch about it, at least until all this other crap was resolved. There were a few more messages from acquaintances, but the lone pertinent message simply read
CALL ME
.
Mark hit the Call button and put the phone to his ear.
Jared Kelly answered on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“So . . . how much shit you in?”
Mark leaned back in his chair and felt a deep weariness settle over him. The adrenaline rush brought on by his flight from the nursing home had faded and he was on the verge of crashing hard. “I’m in so much shit . . .” He paused for a yawn. “I’m in so much shit I feel like I’ll never get clean again.”
“Talking about the fight and getting arrested or this other shit going on?”
“The other shit.”
Jared sighed. “Damn. After last night and getting my ass chewed out by my folks today, I was kind of hoping the rest of it’d just go away. Knew it fucking wouldn’t, though.”
“Yeah. We’ve gotta talk about that. Can you come over to Clayton’s tonight?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Really? Your parents aren’t in lockdown mode?”
“They are, but it ain’t no thing, really. I think my dad was even sort of proud of me after he got the whole story, fucked up as that sounds. So, yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Cool, cool. Hey, uh . . .”
A pause. “Yeah?”
“You haven’t heard from Natasha, have you?”
Another pause. “Aw, no, man, I haven’t. Sorry.”
Mark looked up as Clayton came back into the room. He had indeed put on a pair of jeans. Old and very tight jeans of the outdated acid-washed style popular when hair bands ruled the radio. His fresh T-shirt was a solid shade of dark blue. Gone was his perpetual five o’clock shadow. His hair still looked sort of wild, but he’d combed it and overall looked presentable. Mark was sort of shocked.
Clayton acknowledged him with a nod as he passed through the kitchen and opened a door next to the pantry. The cluttered garage was visible through the open door.
“Hold on.” Mark pulled the phone away from his ear. “Yo, Clayton. Listen—”
“I told you—later.”
Clayton left, slamming the door shut behind him.
“No need to be rude, motherfucker.” Mark put the phone to his ear. “Clay’s off on some urgent fucking errand. I think he has some super mojo scheme to save our asses.”