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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh@deakydeacy

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

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shadedrose01 · 4 years

Text

Sick Boy

Ship: Parkner (Harley Keener/Peter Parker)

Summary: Jax gets the stomach flu. Peter and Harley take care of him.

Tags: Febufluff, Day 9, sick days, Sickness, stomach flu, Vomiting, Jax is back!!, Jax is Peter and Harleys son, parenting, Peter Parker and Harley Keener are good dads, Established Relationship, Husbands, Love, Family, Family Fluff

Day nine of Febufluff: "Sick Day"!

WARNING: This story contains sickness, and talking about vomiting. There is a scene where Jax throws up. It isn't super graphic, but it's there, so if you dont like vomiting, don't read! Be safe, be comfortable, know your limits. Love y'all <3

Peter sat in a meeting when he got the call. He was tapping his pen against his paper absentmindedly, barely listening to the businessman drone on endlessly about stocks and numbers and whatever else he was saying, before his phone began to vibrate in his pocket, hard enough to be felt but not loud enough to disrupt the meeting, thankfully.

It immediately sets Peter on alert though, because his phone was put on to Do Not Disturb, and only three things can push a call through when that's on: Harleys phone, Karen in case of severe emergency... and Jax's phone. None of those options sounded very good, so Peter pulls out the device quickly, making sure to keep it under the desk, still trying to keep his disturbance to a minimum.

Jax's school. Shit. Not the worst thing possible, but still not a good sign. Peter's mind swirls with what could've happened as he motions to one of his coworkers that he's stepping out, picking up the call as soon as he's out the door. Did he get hurt? It wouldn't surprise Peter, Jax could be clumsy. Or he could've gotten into a fight, but that doesnt seem like his Jaxy. Maybe he's being bullied, maybe-

"Hi, is this Peter Parker-Keener?" The callers tone is sickly sweet, and it's already grating on Peter's frayed nerves.

"Yes, it is. Is Jax okay?" He blurts out before he can stop himself, knowing that hes sounding like the stereotypical helicopter parent, constantly worried, but he doesn't care.

The women laughs lightly under her breath, barely noticable to the normal ear but very noticable to Peter, who grits his teeth to stop himself from snapping at the poor woman. She sobers up pretty quickly as she responds, voice softening, "Jax appears to have the stomach flu. Would you be able to come pick him up, Mr. Parker-Keener?"

Peter's stomach drops at the news, his heart aching. Oh, his poor baby. He looks back towards the room he just left, and knows the meeting is important, knows he shouldn't leave unless it's an emergency, but- but family comes first. Always. He nods unconsciously, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah of course, I'll be there as soon as possible."

He hangs up the phone and sighs loudly, rubbing at his forehead as a headache starts to form, a pressure building behind his eyes. He types out a quick message to his coworker and to Harley, updating them both on the situation before making his way to his car.

As soon as he shuts the car door, and the car starts up, a call is already lighting up his screen. He automatically puts it through, pulling out of the garage and speeding towards the school.

"Is he okay?" His husband's voice is coated with concern, not even bother with a hello as he gets straight to the point, showing Peter just how worried he truly is. Peter wants to laugh at their overprotectiveness (it's their first and only child, give them a break), but now is definitely not the time.

"I'm not sure, I'm on my way to pick him up now." Peter answers honestly, looking over his shoulder before changing lanes, counting down the minutes until he gets there.

"Do you want me to come too?" He can hear shuffling on the other side, as if Harley was already packing his things.

Peter sighs, fianlly seeing the brick school in the distance. "No, I'm here now. Maybe meet us back home?" He adds on the last part, knowing Harley won't be able to go back to work now.

"Yeah," Harleys voice is still worried, but theres a tinge of relief there now, knowing he's going to be able to help. "Yeah, okay. I'll see you there. Love you."

Peter echoes it back just as he parks, the call ending just as he shuts the car off, exiting it just as quickly as he entered.

He rushes to the main desk, seeing the secretary who Peter guesses is the same person that called him earlier. "Hi, I'm here for Jax Parker-Keener?"

The woman looks up, and smiles a plastic smile that doesnt reach her eyes. "Of course, I just need you to sign him out real quick," Peter fills out the form quickly, antsy to get to his boy, and hands it back to her, "and the nurses office is just down the hallway, first door to the left."

"Thank you," he pushes out before speed walking to the specified door, opening it quickly. His nose scrunches up as the acidic smell of vomit floods his sense, and he swallows the urge to gag, his heart breaking when his eyes land on the little lump curled up on the couch.

Jax has his arms wrapped around his stomach, and his face is all crunched up, eyes closed and beads of sweat on his brow. Hes groaning quietly, squirming slightly, and there's a bucket placed right next to his face that looks likes it already been used. He looks smaller than he has in months, than he has in years.

"Oh baby," Jax blinks his eyes open as soon as the words are out of his mouth, the forest green hazy, barely focusing as he squints at Peter.

"Daddy?"

As soon as Peter hears that croak of a voice, hes on the move, kneeling down in front of his baby and brushing the hair off of his forehead. "Yeah, it's me, bug."

"I don't feel good." He moans, starting to squirm again, and Peter's heart is shattered, stomped into dust, longing to take away all of his son's pain.

"I know, sweetheart, I know. We're gonna go home now, okay?"

The five year old blinks up at him again, eyes widening with the purest, innocent hope and partial excitement, even though the haze of sickness. "Really?"

Peter gives him a small, sad smile, running a hand through his hair again. "Yeah, baby, we're going home. Come on," He presses a light kiss to his sticky forehead, before pulling him up and into his arms, Jax's body instinctually clinging to his front like a koala, just like he used to when he was a baby, when he was a toddler. Peter holds him up easily, his tiny body nothing to his super strength, and nods once to the nurse who was watching the scene with warm, kind eyes. "Thank you." He mumbles to him quietly, before walking out towards his car, pressing Jax to his chest tightly, protectively.

The ride to their apartment is quiet, quieter than it should be. Jax seems to take after him in the talking sense, he'll talk on and on and on about anything and everything, so to hear him so silent, so quiet...

Just as they pull into the garage, Jax finally speaks up, but what he says makes what's left of Peter's heart stop. "Daddy, I really don't feel good."

"You think you're gonna throw up, buddy?" Peter parks the car in a random spot as he speaks, already scavenging for the plastic bag he knows is by his passengers seat somewhere. The only responce he gets is a wet burp, and Peter scrambles even more, grabbing the plastic bag as soon as it touches his fingers and putting it under Jax's head just in time.

The five year old is gagging, sputtering and sobbing into the plastic bag, looking so pitifully sad, and Peter makes a noise of sympathy, wishing he could do more to help, to make it all go away. But realistically, all he can do is rub the boy's back, and whisper soothing things. "Its okay, bud, let it all out, it's alright."

Once the episode has passed and Jax leans back from the bag, Peter grabs the sleeve of his dress shirt and wipes off his face gently, both of tears and of vomit, knowing that he's staining the shirt but not really caring in the moment. He then ties the bag up, and gets out of the car, unclipping Jax and picking him up again, swaying him gently as he continues to whine and sniffle, shushing him softly.

When they make it up to the apartment, Harley is already there, waiting for them, looking anxious. As soon as his sky blue eyes find Jax, attached to Peter's hip, his entire face softens with sympathy and tenderness. "Hey bubba."

"Papa!" Jax whimpers, bottom lip stuck out and wobbling, face red and tear stained. He holds out a hand, and Harley moves instantly, taking him from Peter's grip and hugging him tightly, bouncing him slowly.

"Shh, I got ya, tesoro." He murmurs quietly, shifting his hold before looking up at Peter with a small smile, already tired eyes. "Hey. I picked up some medicine on the way over here." He nods his head back towards the kitchen, before leaning it against Jax's, holding him a little closer.

"You're a lifesaver." Peter responds, pecking him quickly on the lips before walking to the kitchen to get the medicine ready.

"You're only figuring that out now?" Peter just rolls his eyes at his husband's cheekiness, laughing lightly.

He pours out the medicine, and Jax takes it with very little fuss (read: a few more whines and a few split tears), before they all cuddle together on to the couch, turning on on a movie. Not even ten minutes in, Jax let's out a big yawn, snuggling in closer to Harleys hip, his eyes half lidded, and another ten minutes later, he's out like a light. Peter isn't surprised, it's been a long day for the poor boy. He looks up, and sees Harley staring down at him too, a warm glow to his eyes, a smile tilting his lips. Peter just presses a kiss to his husband's forehead, and shuffles closer, placing his head onto his shoulder.

This day may not have got according to plan, but with his husband and his son at his side, he wouldn't want it any other way.

#febufluff #Febufluff #Sick Day #sickness #vomiting #Jax Parker-Keener #Harley Keener #Peter Parker #Parkner #Parley #harley keener/peter parker #day 9

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petshopboyss · 5 years

Text

pet shop boys share their favourite things interview

‘Lowe says nothing, just carries on eating his chocolate bar. He has the benign look of a dog who's just had his dinner. I begin. “Okay, well, this Favourite Things piece is just a bit of fun,” I say. There is a short pause.

“We don’t really do fun, we do ranting,” deadpans Tennant. Lowe chirps up: “Neil's only done two rants today.” And Tennant bats the ball straight back: “I’ve done being gay and politics...”

This, then, is the essence of their double act: one serves, the other returns. Let the games begin.’

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVOURITE CHILDHOOD TOY? Neil: Train set. Actually it was my cousin’s train set, it was passed down to us. It was on a green board. Potter’s Bar station. Even now when I get the train to my house in Durham and I go through Potter’s Bar I think of it. It didn’t even occur to me it was a real place until I moved to London. Chris: I had, it was like a Scalextric but it wasn’t. I think it was called Minitrix, but it was made by Hornby and the two were linked together. My brother had a train set so you could have a level crossing and you’d have to stop the car to let the train go past. It was fantastic. Neil: The train going round the villages and little plastic cows… I would have fantasies about where it was. I still would now. I have a very strong fantasy life, which is probably why I do what I do. I could look at this coffee table and imagine it was a country.

SUBJECT AT SCHOOL Neil: History. Still my favourite subject. My history teacher, Frank Keegan, [goes into hysterics] used to be known as Underpants Frank because he wore big Y-fronts and he tucked his shirt into them. He was actually ahead of his time … underwear above his trousers in the 1960s. Chris: [A little nonplussed] That is weird. I didn’t have a favourite subject. I was a bit of a swot but school was just a means to an end, so I could get to university to do architecture.

WAY TO WASTE TIME Chris: Well, I spend a lot of time comatose in front of the telly… Neil: Going through my iTunes finding artwork for tracks I haven’t got artwork for. Chris: …I’ll spend hours flicking through the hundred-and-odd channels on Sky. Just going round and round and round. I really like doing nothing. Literally nothing. Neil: What do you mean, literally nothing? Chris: Watching the television. Flicking. Neil: Chris has always liked watching television. I was reading this book about John Lennon and I’m thinking, “Who does this remind me of…?” Chris! John Lennon is just at home all the time watching the television and sleeping!

PLACE IN THE WORLD Chris: I’m very happy in a very nice hotel room. Anywhere.

Neil: You’re probably in your bathrobe. Chris: Luxuriating in the bathroom, with all the products. You switch your phone off. No one knows where you are. You’re lying on fantastic Frette bedding… Maybe you’re in Miami, or something like that. Neil: And you’re filling out the card for breakfast. [Laughs] I only learnt to drive last year. I passed my test on the first attempt. There’s this big moor close to where I live near Durham, where I love driving. I have my dog in the back of the car. He’s a Lakeland terrier called Kevin. So, Kevin’s looking out of the back and he’s hoping he’s going to get a walk. And I might stop the car and just smell the air, which is really peaty and fresh…

TIME OF DAY

Neil: Breakfast. First thing in the morning the day is full of expectations. Chris: Lunchtime.

TIME OF YEAR Chris: Spring, because you can sense the season’s change and you think, “Great, we’re back” and you feel “Weh-hey” and you can see all the buds and leaves growing. Neil: Mine’s ruled by hay fever. I had a hay fever injection this morning. I’m allergic to trees. The beginning of summer; although it’s all a bit sad because you think it’s going to end. And at the end of autumn, I love walking home at half-past-four and everyone’s got their lights on and they haven’t shut their curtains yet. It’s cold but you’re going to have a nice cup of tea when you get in.

ANIMAL Chris: Dog. I love dogs. I just find their faces so funny, they crack me up. They always look so happy when you’re all in the room together, it’s like “Ah, we’re all here.” Neil: Mine’s a dog as well. But I like guinea fowl. Chris: Because you can eat them? Neil: I had a load in my garden. The only thing is they make a bit of a mess, they shit everywhere, and they make a lot of noise. They’re not that favourite actually. But they look so funny because they have tiny little heads and these great big bodies. And they walk right round the garden, round the perimeter, and it takes them all day. They look like dowager duchesses.

FLOWER Chris: Well, the other day I bought a load of tulips. Neil: Tulips! That’s mine. That’s my answer. Chris: They’re such gorgeous colours. They are like a pink. Neil: I will buy, like, just white ones, and I like them crammed in one vase. I like arts and crafts furniture and the tulip is often a symbol in them because it’s a very beautiful shape.

COLOUR Neil: I don’t have a favourite colour. But I always buy everything black. Chris: I think the colour I would go for most would be blue. Neil: Blue for a boy. Chris: Although I do like wearing outrageous colours as well. Like cerise.

SMELL Neil: I think I am one of those people that likes the smell of wet grass in the morning. Chris: I used to love - I still like - the smell of the London Underground. Neil: When I first came to London I used to get the Northern Line to Kentish Town and recently I got the Northern Line and I thought, “God, It smells exactly the same.” It smells different from the Circle Line. And the Victoria Line still has a slightly new smell; when I first came to London it had just opened.

HOUSE YOU’VE LIVED IN Neil: I had a house in Rye in Sussex for ten years and in some ways I regret selling it. I sometimes think about it, and mentally walk around it. My bedroom had a bay window and you could see the harbour. Chris: I liked this bungalow that we all lived in when we were kids in Blackpool, and there was a big field opposite and a rose garden, and a bit round the back where we could play on this big tree.

POSITION TO SLEEP IN Neil: I sleep on my right side. Chris: I toss and turn a lot.

JOB BEFORE MUSIC Neil: Smash Hits. I was the Assistant Editor at Smash Hits in a great period of pop music, 82-85. Chris: I went from being a student to this. But I always had summer jobs in Blackpool, and I think the most fun one was being a ride operator on the Pleasure Beach. It was a bit - what was that film? Neil: That’ll Be The Day [1973 cult hit in which David Essex and Ringo Starr pick up girls on the dodgem cars]. Chris: It was all a bit like that [belly laugh].

FILM Chris: I can’t keep saying The Sound of Music. What else? Neil: John Waters? Chris: What are you going to say? Neil: I always say The Servant. Although actually it tails off, the last half hour is not very good. Chris: Actually, the last half hour of The Sound of Music’s not brilliant. Neil: There’s a very strong argument for The Sound of Music finishing at the wedding.

MOVIESTAR Neil: I very much like Marlene Dietrich. I like that icy glamour. The thing about Marlene Dietrich is that she’s not really that good-looking. Truly glamorous people are not normally beautiful. Jackie Kennedy is not beautiful - she’s funny-looking. Chris: I’d probably say James Dean. Neil: [Aghast] Do you like his films? Chris: That wasn’t the question. Didn’t say the films had to be any good.

DAYTIME SHOW Chris: I could run you through my viewing: I get up at nine o’clock to watch the papers being reviewed on The Wright Stuff, then I switch to This Morning. Then there is the joy of Loose Women. Then it’s Countdown, then maybe Neighbours and Home and Away. Neil: It’s a whole day’s work. Chris: I don’t like the cooking programmes, got no interest in them. Neil: I’m afraid I simply don’t watch the television. I live in Chelsea in a late-Georgian house and my television is in the basement. Chris: I’ve got a television in every room. [Laughs] I never want to be far from a telly.

THING YOU COOK YOURSELF Neil: Well. It used to be the notorious Neil Tennant grim stir-fry, which is brown rice, broccoli and soy sauce. That’s it. Surprisingly tasty. It’s all about the soy sauce. However, I now cook roast chicken. But to be perfectly honest, in London, when you live near Jenny Lo’s Tea House, There’s no reason to cook for yourself. The only reason I don’t have it every day is that it’s the same guy who delivers it and I get embarrassed. I always give him a massive tip. It always costs £15 and I give him £20. Chris: None of my dishes are favourite, or anything I like that much. They’re just functional, eating things. So maybe Penne Arrabbiata. I always cook the same things. I often get pre-prepared chicken pies from Marks & Spencer - they only take 30 minutes. I should really go the whole hog and get a microwave: dinner in six minutes. Neil: You love your chicken pies. Chris: Chicken pies. Chicken kievs. [Laughs] They do good breaded chicken. What I like is everything is ready to put in the pan, all washed and everything.

TIPPLE Neil: Red wine. I only drink red wine and champagne. Very occasionally I drink beer in Germany because it’s very good. And if I was in Russia I might have a vodka. Chris: I like all of them. Depending on the time of day. Sometimes there’s nothing better than an ice-cold beer, is there?

COMEDIAN Chris: Steve Coogan. I was really honoured - I went to see him recently at the Hammersmith Apollo and he made a very cruel joke involving the Pet Shop Boys and I was thrilled. Neil: Who’s Mr G, what’s his real name? Chris: Oh. Chris Lilley. Neil: Chris Lilley. Summer Heights High. My favourite character is - Chris: Ja’mie. Neil: Ja’mie! [They both laugh]

COLLABORATION Neil: Dusty, I think. I can’t believe it’s ten years since she died. And she’s now a genuine legend. Chris: Yeah. Dusty. I’d agree with that.

ITEM OF CLOTHING Chris: [Camping it up] Oh I never have anything to wear! I wear these Y3 trainers all the time because they are incredibly comfortable. If I like something I tend to wear it to death, until it has to be thrown out. Neil: I have a pair of boots that I like. Which are not these. I actually don’t like these very much. [Sticks out his foot over the coffee table and inspects it] I’m wearing these Yamamoto Dr Martens and I think they’re too clumpy. I made a decision at lunch not to wear them again. Chris: [Teasing] It’s good that they were really cheap then, isn’t it? Neil: These were 230 quid. Chris: [To me] Can you imagine? For a pair of Doc Martens! Neil: I’m going to take them to Durham and use them for walking in… Um. I’ve got a pair of Patrick Cox - when Patrick Cox was still Patrick Cox - boots that I wear all the time. But I’ve stopped wearing them recently because they have become part of my official outfit. I wore them at the BRITs, with that Gareth Pugh coat. I was wearing the Patrick Cox boots with the trousers tucked in and the stylist said it looked great so suddenly they went, “Hello, I’m now part of the Pet Shop Boys’ wardrobe, hands off me!”

SONG BY ANOTHER ARTIST Chris: Oh, That’s too big. Neil: I can’t think of any songs at all now, of course. Chris: Ain’t No Stopping Us Now by McFadden & Whitehead. That is my default position. Neil: My default song is I Don’t Want To Hear It Anymore by Dusty Springfield. Chris: [Jokes] Well, don’t listen to it then.

SONG Of YOURS [Long silence] Neil: It changes. I don’t think about it very much. We are writing this ballet. There’s a piece of music, the duet, but I can’t remember what we’ve called it. It’s Scene Six. Chris: Last night I was going through iTunes and I listened to The Survivors by us, which I thought was really good.

SIN Neil: They’ve all got something going for them… actually my least favourite is envy. Chris: Envy, lust are bad ones, because going through life being lustful is just obscenity. Sloth’s pretty good. [Laughs] Neil: You’re definitely more slothful, I’m more gluttony meets - what’s drunkenness called?

SAYING Neil: You can’t make chicken soup out of chicken shit. Chris: [Laughs] It’s Tom, our old producer [Tom Watkins was the Pet Shop Boys’ manager from 1985 to 89]. Neil: It’s completely stupid, it sums him up. We still say it though. Chris: We just tend to repeat people that we know’s catchphrases. We had another manager and she used to say, “Well, you’ve had a good go.” [Laughs] Old Mitch [Mitch Clark, 1998-2003]. She was “Upwards and onwards as well”

#this is ! v funnie #the typing n spacing is weird on this one but tumblr wouldn't let me change it so ugh i guess #the link to the thing is the title n also there was a cute bit at the start before the questions started but i didn't put that in here #but u can see that on theeee website i linked #psb #int #pet shop boys #neil tennant #chris lowe

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ill-skillsgard · 5 years

Text

Damn Straight, Part 6 - Bill Skarsgård

Title: Damn Straight

Description: Deceptions bring a young couple to Mirth Island, a place of natural beauty and the promise of inner healing. When one of them is introduced to a young man who lives on the island, their budding friendship threatens to destroy more than just trust.

Warning: 18+ sex/fluff/swearing/drug use/mentions of cheating/addiction

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

A couple days passed and I spent every waking and sleeping moment entirely with Bill. We cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner together and ate out on the balcony so we could stare at the endless ocean and miles of bright blue sky and the arch of the sandy beach cresting the edge of what seemed like a whole other world. Then there was our world. Our little one-room world that we had retreated into and spent hours pouring emotions into each other like we were each other's life support. I could lay next to him forever, drinking him in, touching his arms and his chest, feeling around his neck and up the line of his jaw, staring into his eyes that were like oceans in themselves; watery green and so deep one might possibly drown in them. He was pure magic to me, a whole new existence that excited me more than anything I had ever known. Although I was completely enraptured by his mere existence, it did make me think about Cici a lot too. I couldn't help but compare his physicality to hers when I looked at him. As much as I tried to force the thought of her from my head, it was nearly impossible. She was all I had known for twenty-two of my most formative years and when I woke up beside him and not her it filled me with an inscrutable feeling of bewilderment and acquisitiveness. I had nothing else but her to hold him up against for comparison. As frustrating as it was to have my thoughts keep dragging back to my former lover, I also found it interesting to spend so much time with a member of the opposite sex and weigh his habits with hers. I had always wondered what it was like to live with a man- if it was as stressful and off-putting as my friends said it could be. I always remarked to myself how much thicker his arms were than what I was used to. They were twice as long, wrapped in muscle and protruding tendons that made his embraces feel heavy and complete. I felt safe when he had me all wrapped up and squeezed against him. His hands were so large and sinewy, capable of spanning most of lower back when he decided to touch me. Just one of his fingers were twice as long as Cici's. He allowed me to touch him for as long as I wanted even when it didn't have sexual undertones to it. He knew I was curious and he fanned my desire to discover things that I had always wondered about. His legs were so strong and lengthy enough to support my entire body's weight as he proved by the arduous amount of times we had sex in the days following my intense breakup. Being perched on top of him was a ride that I never knew I wanted to take. I felt like a little bird perched on high and he seemed to enjoy drawing attention to how small I was compared to him by having me sit on his cock while he used his whole body's strength to send me bouncing like he was a mechanical bull. He could buck his hips up over and over endlessly with his feet planted on the floor and me straddling his hips as he pressed his back on the bed. I had never felt such sheer force while being fucked before. The best I had ever had was the unsubstantial thrusting of a hundred-and-ten-pound woman wearing a neon pink silicone cock that was designed to be held in place between her legs by her pussy alone. At the time, the sex Cici and I had seemed adequate. It started out daring and wrong when we were young and we had been so secretive about it that it made the whole act that much more salacious but once we grew up not a whole lot changed. I was always eager to try different things with her and we had ventured deep to explore every channel of pleasure we could give to each other but when she was gone and I was home alone watching straight porn, I couldn't help but wonder if the women getting impaled on eight to nine inch cocks were really faking those high-drama reactions. The first time I had ever put Bill's cock in my mouth was a whole other thing in itself. He knew I was nervous, having never given head to a man before but he made the experience well worth the wait. It was a cool, clear morning after he had left bed to take a shower but not before opening the balcony doors to let the breeze through. I woke up just as he was entering the bathroom and debated whether I should join him or not. Not wanting to be intrusive, I stayed in bed and waited for the shower head to turn off before I sat up. I had on nothing but the blanket to cover me and when he exited the bathroom wrapped in a white towel he quickly caught the sense that I wanted him again. Bill approached the bed with his hair all damp, falling over his forehead in wet pieces, shoulders sparkling with water droplets. I reached out to unwrap the white cotton towel from his slender, narrow hips. It was still a shock to see his manhood so up close and personal but I liked it. I liked it even better when I took hold of it and he started to twitch and fill with blood. How endearing it was that I could simply look at him, lick my lips and knead at him before it was obvious he was turned on. I stroked him to life and when his cock was fully erect and he stared down at me with his pretty mouth hanging open, I licked the tip and just that move alone made him curl his toes and hold his breath. "You don't have to-" "Oh... but I want to." Bill chewed his bottom lip, "are you sure?" I rose to my knees and he purred when he got to see my nakedness as I positioned myself in front of him, more than ready to please him again. "Teach me?" He nodded enthusiastically. I could only imagine the commodity it must have been for him to be teaching a fully grown woman how to go down on him. Although I was anything but virginal, it felt like I was learning how to have sex all over again. I think that's what made it so satisfying. Both of us were experiencing something vibrantly new and exciting. He cupped my face and kissed me before standing up straight again. He was never stingy with his affections and I loved that he had no problem lacing every single moment with as much romance as he could cram into it. Truly he had a golden heart and nurturing soul, just another thing about him that made me want to please him as best as I could. "So you just... Open your mouth," He whispered as though someone was going to hear him. "Wrap your lips around... Fuck." I had watched enough X-rated videos in my life to have the general sense of what to do when it came to sucking cock. I had a couple of girlfriends back at home who had described it all in grand detail to me as well so I wasn't completely stumped when it came down to it.

Oh, and don't neglect the balls.

Yeah, they love it when you kinda squeeze them. Not too hard though.

If you like do that triple-threat thing, works every time!

Triple-threat?

Suck his cock while working the shaft with your hand and massaging the balls with the other. My husband fucking dies every time. But you don't start with that! You have to build up to it.

I distended my jaw and took him down as deep as I could before the head of his cock hit the back of my throat and when I pulled back I made sure to wrap my lips tightly around him so that he felt every ridge and inch of himself slide against them with perfect suction. "Fuck baby... That's right. That's so good," he praised me. The intrusion of all that flesh hit a button inside of me that had only been barely grazed. I felt my body come alive, every sense sharpening, every nerve crackling to life as I stared up at him and saw his face staring down at me, happy while simultaneously overwrought with pleasure. I bobbed my head up and down on his cock with a vigor I never thought I was capable of displaying. His fidgeting hands found their way into my hair and he helped me out a little by moving his hips to meet my face every time I descended on him. I did just like my girlfriends had said to do and cradled his balls with one hand, working them gently as I did my best to relax my throat so that substantial shaft could benefit from being one hundred percent surrounded in the hot wetness of my mouth. It didn't take long before he was contracting and tensing up to come. He looked beautiful when he got all desperate and so close to the edge that I could taste his liquid already beginning to leak out. "Yes baby," he would whisper. "Yes, oh, that's so fucking good." When his groans grew ragged and choked off I just kept going, stroking his length and letting my lips pop off the head of his cock until he was writhing and holding my shoulders in place so he could do exactly as I wanted him to- to come hard into my mouth. The taste of his cum was lost quickly though and only lingered slightly on my palate.

It all depends on what they eat. If they eat nothing but junk it's going to taste bad.

I make my husband eat a lot of pineapples.

Does that really work?

I think so. I'm not sure though I kinda just like the taste of cum already.

That's fucking gross.

Don't knock it 'til you try it, girl. Seriously.

I wasn't sure if it was just me or if it was because every time I looked at Bill I fell harder and harder for him but I didn't hate his taste. I had gotten more flavour from eating pussy than his cum and I was already accustomed to that so I sat back with a smile on my face, wiping my lips when he started to laugh. "How'd that taste? Disgusting?" He asked. "No," I replied. "It was... Good. You taste like... You taste great." "I bet you taste even better." He said as he crawled onto the bed, a predatory glint in his eyes as he grasped my ankles and forced my legs apart so he could mark my thighs with kisses and work his way towards my opening. One of the most noticeable differences between Bill and Cici was how they ate pussy. She had always made it this huge performance and after years of it, I had grown weary of her shtick. Cici watched entirely too much lesbian porn though I had tried to tell her many times that what she watched was just a man's version of what he thought two girls would do to each other. Most of the time it was all right but too often did she get carried away with her hands, rubbing too roughly or sucking hard enough on my clitoris to cause me to desensitize. When Bill went down on me he was so very slow and it was refreshing to see and feel how in-tune he could get with my body. He never went right for the best spot and always spent a little time lightly touching and teasing me with the tip of his tongue. When I did get full contact it was more like a passionate kiss than the bloodthirsty flickering that I had experienced far too much of. Bill was attentive and deciphered the reactions on my face with every gentle caress of his mouth. Those perfectly full lips of his on me, the way those mysterious eyes read me and his tongue sopping up all of my juices... He could have me coming in five minutes or less if he didn't make it a point to pull me away from the edge two or three times. As much fun as it was, we tried hard not to spend another whole day in bed just talking and having sex again and again. It was hard not to want to hang off of his body and touch his flat chest, his jutting collarbones and let my fingers slide all the way down from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Making him moan and beg and whimper was so delicious, I delighted in his sweetness, addicted to the sounds he made and captivated by a body that was so different from anything I had ever known. We managed to at least get dressed so that we could leave to get supplies. Bill said there was a little grocery store we could go to because we needed things like coffee, beer, and cigarettes. When we went downstairs to the common area where the remnants of breakfast were being cleaned up. I saw Emilio, coffee cup in hand, for the first time in a few days. I waved at him and he gave me a very slight nod, like the kind you would get whilst passing somebody on the street that you recognized but hardly knew. Susie stepped out of their room and looked shocked to see me by the way her eyes bugged out. "Hey," I said as I approached. "How are you guys?" "Good," she said rather shortly. I retreated immediately, the rush of shame filled my cheeks and I suspected that she knew something that she wasn't supposed to. It must have meant she had spoken to Cici at some point and that could have yielded a plethora of different scenarios. By the way she avoided my gaze I knew that it hadn't been hearing many good things. "Is everything... Okay?" I asked, treading as lightly as I could. She crossed her arms, causing her many bracelets to tinkle with the movement. "Everything is fine here." "Susie... What's going on? Did you speak to Cici?" Susie's eyes crossed over to Bill and then back to me. She looked me up and down like she was sizing me up, judging me in a way I never thought her capable of. I felt the tension in my throat and awaited her reply on pins and needles. "What you two did to that poor girl... So unfair. So unbelievably unfair." "I don't know what Cici told you but I assure you that whatever it was is pure bullshit." "Come on, Vye. Let's just go." Bill said as he touched my back. Susie's glare ripped into Bill too and I couldn't believe the vehemence spilling forth from her. I didn't suspect that Susie had an angry bone in her body, not after the way she had treated us so hospitably but there she was, glaring daggers into me as though I had just run over her pet. "I can see that it's not all bullshit." She referred to Bill's proximity to me. "Whatever, Susie. You can believe whatever you want to but just know that nearly everything that comes out of Cici's mouth is a fabrication. She's very good at manipulation." Bill pulled my elbow but I wasn't done trying to defend myself. "I bet she didn't tell you how she's an emotionally abusive sociopath that likes to suck the will to live out of anyone that dares get close to her." "Vye!" Bill's voice clapped and I shut my mouth only after I realized I was getting carried away. He steered me towards Seaside's front door, the entrance that was used less than any of the other ways in and out. I was fuming and when we stepped into the hot sun I got even angrier with the brightness scorching my eyes. "What the fuck, Vye?" He said in a quietly admonishing way. "What? What do you mean what the fuck? What the fuck was that? Cici's running around telling the whole fucking island about what happened!" "So? Who cares? She's gone now. Who gives a fuck about what Susie thinks? The woman's on so many Vicodin she can't even move her face half the time. She doesn't know shit and she certainly isn't the peace-love-and-unity type that she tries to make herself out to be." Bill took my hand and led me down a winding path to a wooden pavilion that housed golf carts. He pulled some keys from his pocket and hopped up onto one of the carts to start it. I stood there, arms crossed, hands still shaking from the exchange I had with Susie. "Vye, come on." "No, Bill. This isn't fair! Why does she get to turn everyone and everything against me all the time? Why am I always the villain?" Bill stood up and came to me, holding me by the shoulders as he ducked in to speak right at my face. "Listen to me, Vye. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks about you or me or anything. We're leaving soon. In just one week we're going to be on a plane going back to Sweden. You're never going to see any of these people again. So just... Have fun with me and," he paused to laugh, "enjoy the sun while you still can because you're going to fucking miss it when we get to Stockholm." I laughed and felt the rush of my impending tears simmer back down. He was right. I wasn't going to see any of the people I had met on Mirth Island ever again. It just sucked that Cici had gotten to them first. I could only imagine the lies she had spread before she left. It was difficult to dismiss it but for Bill's sake, I swallowed my pride and got into the golf cart beside him so we could continue our day as we had originally planned. We spent a couple of hours walking around the beach town before we bought anything. There were surf shops and little attractions to be seen that I never knew about. Bill explained that most people that went to the resort never really took the time to explore the rest of the island because once you hit a certain geographical point it turned into the kind of adult party that was only fun for people who were teenagers in the sixties. He was referring to the nude beach of course, which was almost like the dark side of the moon when I heard people talking about it. I had fun roaming through the shops, looking at all of the Mirth Island knickknacks and bins overflowing with pool noodles, multi-colored swimming flippers, and cheap thong sandals. Rainbows of beach towels hung up like pride flags around tents that housed racks of fun sunglasses and hand-made beaded jewelry. I thought that the street was rather vibrant and child-like but the only children around were residents of the island that were too young to attend school. The town was literally set up like that only to attract tourists to it. All year round it was a parade of plastic snorkeling gear, temporary tattoo stands, unrealistically posed mannequins wearing flowery shirts and bathing suits with beer logos branded on the tits and ass. The more I got to know Bill the more I noticed how much he did not fit in with any of it. It made me wonder again why a man like him had come to live on an island where he had no friends and family. I remembered he had said that nobody he was related to had made a trip to the island in a couple of years. Not even his grandparents had come back to open up their Summer home. Bill held my hand as we strolled down the road towards where we had parked the golf cart beside the little grocery store. As much as it had been a pleasant distraction to wander through all of the sights, I was still feeling rotten on the inside from the way Susie had glared at me back at Seaside. He also knew that I had some residual feelings about it and before we walked into the store he stopped me. "I have a plan." He told me. "Okay." I urged him to continue. "I know you're probably still feeling shitty about what happened back there so I've come up with a solution that will take your mind off of it permanently." I smirked, "Please go on." "I have the keys to my Grandparents' Summer home. We can go stay there if you want to. It's off the resort so if you wanted to check out early, I'll take you there so you don't have to be constantly reminded of everything that went down." "Really?" I sang with obvious excitement. "Really!" "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" Bill scratched the back of his head and grinned. "Well... It's a little secluded. I don't go there much myself because it's too quiet. But if we go together... We can make as much noise as we want and it's far from Circle Beach so you won't see anyone. We can pack up your stuff tomorrow and go, how's that sound?" "Sounds great!" "Good." He said as he hugged me tight and kissed the top of my head. For the rest of the day, I felt light and happy and mostly forgot about Susie and the rumors that may or may not have been swirling about me and Bill. It was easy to forget about anything when I spent time with him and by the time we got back to Seaside with all of the things we bought the stare-down that morning was long from my mind. I set our bags on the kitchen counter and helped Bill put things away but he promptly stopped me. "Oh, you don't have to help me with this and don't get too comfortable either." "What? Don't be silly-" "No, really. Go pack a bag with some clothes and maybe a sweater. We're going somewhere else." I sucked in an excited breath and watched him attempting to ignore me even though the smile on his face was completely evident. "Where? Where are we going?" He directed his attention out the balcony doors and said, "Oh, not too far. I just hope you don't get seasickness." "What are you planning?" Bill tried to busy himself again by putting a tin of coffee away with the most exaggerated slowness he could. I pushed him to get him to tell me whatever it was he was getting at but the more I pushed for an answer the more he wanted to withhold it. Finally, when he had finished putting all of the groceries away, he turned to me with his arms crossed over his chest in a let-me-tell-you-what kind of way. I widened my eyes with expectation. "I'm taking you out on a date. We're taking my grandparents' boat and we are going to spend some time on the water." "What? Can you do that? You can drive a boat?" He chuckled. "First of all, you don't drive a boat, you sail a boat and second of all, I'm more than just my looks. I can sail a boat or two." "And here I was thinking that your only talent was being sexy as fuck." Bill smiled as he scooped me up with his hands holding my ass and set me on the kitchen counter so I was a little more at his height but still not quite there. His soft lips pressed against mine and I nearly sighed into the kiss. Letting my mouth slide all over his plump lower lip was so richly satisfying I thought I would never get enough of his taste. When we pulled away I opened my eyes before he did and saw the soft look of pure lust making him look even more beautiful than he already was. He inhaled sharply through his nose and fluttered his eyes open, lips shiny with moisture and so inviting that I had to kiss them again. He chuckled and stood back from the counter, hands still on either side of me. "As much as I want to fucking devour you right now... We should wait." "I don't want to wait." "Trust me. It's going to be worth it." ~*~ The most exciting part about being on Bill's grandfather's boat was not the smell of the ocean or the relaxation of being surrounded by nothing but water or even the fact that the boat had a cabin the size of a decent apartment, it was watching him sail us out far enough so that Mirth Island looked like a speck in the distance. When there was nothing else around to stare at but each other, that was when I felt a warmth blossom inside of me that spread through my body so fast it was enough to rightly, truly freak me out. The sun was starting to set and he stood tall behind the wheel, a small smile on his lips when he gazed out into the open, sun kissing his face and shining off of his dark sunglasses. We anchored the boat and Bill sat beside me as the sun went down. We didn't talk much, we only watched the sky change from blue to orange and pink like a tequila sunrise and it was just as intoxicating. I got close to him, laid my head on his chest and relaxed when his natural scent filled me. It was hard not to think about how drastically everything was changing. My life was completely turned inside out and although I felt vulnerable as ever, Bill's presence gave me an abstract sense of security. It was true what they all said about Mirth Island; once you go you come back changed. I was going to leave the island in very much the opposite way I came. I knew that I was being selfish and to most people on the outside it may have looked downright malignant of me to have left my lifelong partner to spend my time alongside a man I had just met but I had never lived a selfish day in my life up until I arrived on the island. Too long had I spent doting over Cici, turning a house into a real home, working constantly and making myself too valuable of an asset to my company. For over twenty years I had no time to dwell on my own problems because I was drowning in the problems of everyone else. Maybe I was selfish and maybe I was just as ruthless as Cici had been but when I went into the cabin with Bill and began to notice the unmistakable warmth of home I knew that I could not be wrong. I could not deny myself this. I deserved to be happy.

#bill skarsgård fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgård smut #fanfiction

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

Nightcrawlers

Robert McCammon (1984)

“Hard rain coming down,” Cheryl said, and I nodded in agreement.

Through the diner’s plate-glass windows, a dense curtain of rain flapped across the Gulf gas pumps and continued across the parking lot. It hit Big Bob’s with a force that made the glass rattle like uneasy bones. The red neon sign that said BIG BOB’S! DIESEL FUEL! EATS! sat on top of a high steel pole above the diner so the truckers on the interstate could see it. Out in the night, the red-tinted rain thrashed in torrents across my old pickup truck and Cheryl’s baby-blue Volkswagen.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose that storm’ll either wash some folks in off the interstate or we can just about hang it up.” The curtain of rain parted for an instant, and I could see the treetops whipping back and forth in the woods on the other side of Highway 47. Wind whined around the front door like an animal trying to claw its way in. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall behind the counter. Twenty minutes before nine. We usually closed up at ten, but tonight—with tornado warnings in the weather forecast—I was tempted to turn the lock a little early. “Tell you what,” I said. “If we’re empty at nine, we skedaddle. ’Kay?”

“No argument here,” she said. She watched the storm for a moment longer, then continued putting newly washed coffee cups, saucers, and plates away on the stainless-steel shelves.

Lightning flared from west to east like the strike of a burning bullwhip. The diner’s lights flickered, then came back to normal. A shudder of thunder seemed to come right up through my shoes. Late March is the beginning of tornado season in south Alabama, and we’ve had some whoppers spin past here in the last few years. I knew that Alma was at home, and she understood to get into the root cellar right quick if she spotted a twister, like that one we saw in ’82 dancing through the woods about two miles from our farm.

“You got any love-ins planned this weekend, hippie?” I asked Cheryl, mostly to get my mind off the storm and to rib her too.

She was in her late thirties, but I swear that when she grinned she could’ve passed for a kid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, redneck?” she answered; she replied the same way to all my digs at her. Cheryl Lovesong—and I know that couldn’t have been her real name—was a mighty able waitress, and she had hands that were no strangers to hard work. But I didn’t care that she wore her long silvery-blond hair in Indian braids with hippie headbands, or came to work in tie-dyed overalls. She was the best waitress who’d ever worked for me, and she got along with everybody just fine—even us rednecks. That’s what I am, and proud of it: I drink Rebel Yell whiskey straight, and my favorite songs are about good women gone bad and trains on the long track to nowhere. I keep my wife happy. I’ve raised my two boys to pray to God and to salute the flag, and if anybody don’t like it he can go a few rounds with Big Bob Clayton.

Cheryl would come right out and tell you she used to live in San Francisco in the late sixties, and that she went to love-ins and peace marches and all that stuff. When I reminded her it was 1984 and Ronnie Reagan was president, she’d look at me like I was walking cow-flop. I always figured she’d start thinking straight when all that hippie-dust blew out of her head.

Alma said my tail was going to get burnt if I ever took a shine to Cheryl, but I’m a fifty-five-year-old redneck who stopped sowing his wild seed when he met the woman he married, more than thirty years ago.

Lightning crisscrossed the turbulent sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Cheryl said, “Wow! Look at that light show!”

“Light show, my ass,” I muttered. The diner was as solid as the Good Book, so I wasn’t too worried about the storm. But on a wild night like this, stuck out in the countryside like Big Bob’s was, you had a feeling of being a long way off from civilization—though Mobile was only twenty-seven miles south. On a wild night like this, you had a feeling that anything could happen, as quick as a streak of lightning out of the darkness. I picked up a copy of the Mobile Press-Register that the last customer—a trucker on his way to Texas—had left on the counter a half-hour before, and I started plowing through the news, most of it bad: those A-rab countries were still squabbling like Hatfields and McCoys in white robes; two men had robbed a Qwik-Mart in Mobile and been killed by the police in a shoot-out; cops were investigating a massacre at a motel near Daytona Beach; an infant had been stolen from a maternity ward in Birmingham. The only good things on the front page were stories that said the economy was up and that Reagan swore we’d show the Commies who was boss in El Salvador and Lebanon.

The diner shook under a blast of thunder, and I looked up from the paper as a pair of headlights emerged from the rain into my parking lot.

The headlights were attached to an Alabama state-trooper car.

“Half-alive, hold the onion, extra brown the buns.” Cheryl was already writing on her pad in expectation of the order. I pushed the paper aside and went to the fridge for the hamburger meat.

When the door opened, a windblown spray of rain swept in and stung like buckshot. “Howdy, folks!” Dennis Wells peeled off his gray rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the door. Over his Smokey the Bear trooper hat was a protective plastic covering, beaded with raindrops. He took off his hat, exposing the thinning blond hair on his pale scalp, as he approached the counter and sat on his usual stool, right next to the cash register. “Cup of black coffee and a rare—” Cheryl was already sliding the coffee in front of him, and the burger sizzled on the griddle. “Ya’ll are on the ball tonight!” Dennis said; he said the same thing when he came in, which was almost every night. Funny the kind of habits you fall into, without realizing it.

“Kinda wild out there, ain’t it?” I asked as I flipped the burger over.

“Lordy, yes! Wind just about flipped my car over three, four miles down the interstate. Thought I was gonna be eatin’ a little pavement tonight.” Dennis was a husky young man in his early thirties, with thick blond brows over deep-set light brown eyes. He had a wife and three kids, and he was fast to flash a walletful of their pictures. “Don’t reckon I’ll be chasin’ any speeders tonight, but there’ll probably be a load of accidents. Cheryl, you sure look pretty this evenin’.”

“Still the same old me.” Cheryl never wore a speck of makeup, though one day she’d come to work with glitter on her cheeks. She had a place a few miles away, and I guessed she was farming that funny weed up there. “Any trucks moving?”

“Seen a few, but not many. Truckers ain’t fools. Gonna get worse before it gets better, the radio says.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Lordy, that’s strong enough to jump out of the cup and dance a jig, darlin’!”

I fixed the burger the way Dennis liked it, put it on a platter with some fries, and served it. “Bobby, how’s the wife treatin’ you?” he asked.

“No complaints.”

“Good to hear. I’ll tell you, a fine woman is worth her weight in gold. Hey, Cheryl! How’d you like a handsome young man for a husband?”

Cheryl smiled, knowing what was coming. “The man I’m looking for hasn’t been made yet.”

“Yeah, but you ain’t met Cecil yet, either! He asks me about you every time I see him, and I keep tellin’ him I’m doin’ everything I can to get you two together.” Cecil was Dennis’ brother-in-law and owned a Chevy dealership in Bay Minette. Dennis had been ribbing Cheryl about going on a date with Cecil for the past four months. “You’d like him,” Dennis promised. “He’s got a lot of my qualities.”

“Well, that’s different. In that case, I’m certain I don’t want to meet him.”

Dennis winced. “Oh, you’re a cruel woman! That’s what smokin’ banana peels does to you—turns you mean. Anybody readin’ this rag?” He reached over for the newspaper.

“Waitin’ here just for you,” I said. Thunder rumbled, closer to the diner. The lights flickered briefly once … then again before they returned to normal. Cheryl busied herself by fixing a fresh pot of coffee, and I watched the rain whipping against the windows. When the lightning flashed, I could see the trees swaying so hard they looked about to snap.

Dennis read and ate his hamburger. “Boy,” he said after a few minutes, “the world’s in some shape, huh? Those A-rab pig-stickers are itchin’ for war. Mobile metro boys had a little gunplay last night. Good for them.” He paused and frowned, then tapped the paper with one thick finger. “This I can’t figure.”

“What’s that?”

“Thing in Florida couple of nights ago. Six people killed at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, near Daytona Beach. Motel was set off in the woods. Only a couple of cinder-block houses in the area, and nobody heard any gunshots. Says here one old man saw what he thought was a bright white star falling over the motel, and that was it. Funny, huh?”

“A UFO,” Cheryl offered. “Maybe he saw a UFO.”

“Yeah, and I’m a little green man from Mars,” Dennis scoffed. “I’m serious. This is weird. The motel was so blown full of holes it looked like a war had been going on. Everybody was dead—even a dog and a canary that belonged to the manager. The cars out in front of the rooms were blasted to pieces. The sound of one of them explodin’ was what woke up the people in those houses, I reckon.” He skimmed the story again. “Two bodies were out in the parkin’ lot, one was holed up in a bathroom, one had crawled under a bed, and two had dragged every piece of furniture in the room over to block the door. Didn’t seem to help ’em any, though.”

I grunted. “Guess not.”

“No motive, no witnesses. You better believe those Florida cops are shakin’ the bushes for some kind of dangerous maniac—or maybe more than one, it says here.” He shoved the paper away and patted the service revolver holstered at his hip. “If I ever got hold of him—or them—he’d find out not to mess with a ’Bama trooper.” He glanced quickly over at Cheryl and smiled mischievously. “Probably some crazy hippie who’d been smokin’ his tennis shoes.”

“Don’t knock it,” she said sweetly, “until you’ve tried it.” She looked past him, out the window into the storm. “Car’s pullin’ in, Bobby.”

Headlights glared briefly off the wet windows. It was a station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides; it veered around the gas pumps and parked next to Dennis’ trooper car. On the front bumper was a personalized license plate that said: Ray & Lindy. The headlights died, and all the doors opened at once. Out of the wagon came a whole family: a man and woman, a little girl and boy about eight or nine. Dennis got up and opened the diner door as they hurried inside from the rain.

All of them had gotten pretty well soaked between the station wagon and the diner, and they wore the dazed expressions of people who’d been on the road a long time. The man wore glasses and had curly gray hair, the woman was slim and dark-haired and pretty. The kids were sleepy-eyed. All of them were well-dressed, the man in a yellow sweater with one of those alligators on the chest. They had vacation tans, and I figured they were tourists heading north from the beach after spring break.

“Come on in and take a seat,” I said.

“Thank you,” the man said. They squeezed into one of the booths near the windows. “We saw your sign from the interstate.”

“Bad night to be on the highway,” Dennis told them. “Tornado warnings are out all over the place.”

“We heard it on the radio,” the woman—Lindy, if the license was right—said. “We’re on our way to Birmingham, and we thought we could drive right through the storm. We should’ve stopped at that Holiday Inn we passed about fifteen miles ago.”

“That would’ve been smart,” Dennis agreed. “No sense in pushin’ your luck.” He returned to his stool.

The new arrivals ordered hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. Cheryl and I went to work. Lightning made the diner’s lights flicker again, and the sound of thunder caused the kids to jump. When the food was ready and Cheryl served them, Dennis said, “Tell you what. You folks finish your dinners and I’ll escort you back to the Holiday Inn. Then you can head out in the morning. How about that?”

“Fine,” Ray said gratefully. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten very much further, anyway.” He turned his attention to his food.

“Well,” Cheryl said quietly, standing beside me, “I don’t guess we get home early, do we?”

“I guess not. Sorry.”

She shrugged. “Goes with the job, right? Anyway, I can think of worse places to be stuck.”

I figured that Alma might be worried about me, so I went over to the pay phone to call her. I dropped a quarter in—and the dial tone sounded like a cat being stepped on. I hung up and tried again. The cat scream continued. “Damn!” I muttered. “Lines must be screwed up.”

“Ought to get yourself a place closer to town, Bobby,” Dennis said. “Never could figure out why you wanted a joint in the sticks. At least you’d get better phone service and good lights if you were nearer to Mo—”

He was interrupted by the sound of wet and shrieking brakes, and he swiveled around on his stool.

I looked up as a car hurtled into the parking lot, the tires swerving, throwing up plumes of water. For a few seconds I thought it was going to keep coming, right through the window into the diner—but then the brakes caught and the car almost grazed the side of my pickup as it jerked to a stop. In the neon’s red glow I could tell it was a beat-up old Ford Fairlane, either gray or a dingy beige. Steam was rising off the crumpled hood. The headlights stayed on for perhaps a minute before they winked off. A figure got out of the car and walked slowly—with a limp—toward the diner.

We watched the figure approach. Dennis’ body looked like a coiled spring ready to be triggered. “We got us a live one, Bobby boy,” he said.

The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my diner.

He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him.

Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. “Hey, fella.” The man didn’t look up from the menu. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.”

The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army fatigue jacket. “I can hear you,” he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn’t go with his less-than-robust physical appearance.

“Drivin’ kinda fast in this weather, don’t you think?”

The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then lit one of his smokes and inhaled deeply. “Yeah,” he replied. “I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I’d just like a cup of coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?”

Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to check him out.

“That kind of hurry’ll get you killed,” Dennis cautioned.

“Right. Sorry.” He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman’s; he looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal for more than a month. He stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he looked at me with those eyes—so pale blue they were almost white—and I felt like I’d been nailed to the floor. “Something wrong?” he asked—not rudely, just curiously.

“Nope.” I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check.

The man didn’t use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother’s milk. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep me awake, won’t it?”

“More than likely.” Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn there once. I think it was Price, but I could’ve been wrong.

“That’s what I want. To stay awake as long as I can.” He finished the coffee. “Can I have another cup, please?”

I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast,” then rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Been on the road a long time, huh?”

Price nodded. “Day and night. I don’t know which is more tired, my mind or my butt.” He lifted his gaze to me again. “Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?”

“No, sorry. Couldn’t get a liquor license.”

He sighed. “Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my mouth out.”

He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away.

But then he wasn’t holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a newly popped beer.

The mirage was there for only maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. “Just as well,” he said, and put it down.

I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I’m too young to be losin’ either my eyesight or my senses! “Uh …” I said, or some other stupid noise.

“One more cup?” Price asked. “Then I’d better hit the road again.”

My hand was shaking as I picked it up, but if Price noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Want anything to eat?” Cheryl asked him. “How about a bowl of beef stew?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. The sooner I get back on the road, the better it’ll be.”

Suddenly Dennis swiveled toward him, giving him a cold stare that only cops and drill sergeants can muster. “Back on the road?” He snorted. “Fella, you ever been in a tornado before? I’m gonna escort those nice people to the Holiday Inn about fifteen miles back. If you’re smart, that’s where you’ll spend the night too. No use in tryin’ to—”

“No.” Price’s voice was rock-steady. “I’ll be spending the night behind the wheel.”

Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “How come you’re in such a hurry? Not runnin’ from anybody, are you?”

“Nightcrawlers,” Cheryl said.

Price turned toward her like he’d been slapped across the face, and I saw what might’ve been a spark of fear in his eyes.

Cheryl motioned toward the lighter Price had laid on the counter, beside the pack of Kools. It was a beat-up silver Zippo, and inscribed across it was NIGHTCRAWLERS with the symbol of two crossed rifles beneath it. “Sorry,” she said. “I just noticed that, and I wondered what it was.”

Price put the lighter away. “I was in ’Nam,” he told her. “Everybody in my unit got one.”

“Hey.” There was suddenly new respect in Dennis’ voice. “You a vet?”

Price paused so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. In the quiet, I heard the little girl tell her mother that the fries were “ucky.” Price said, “Yes.”

“How about that! Hey, I wanted to go myself, but I got a high number and things were windin’ down about that time anyway. Did you see any action?”

A faint, bitter smile passed over Price’s mouth. “Too much.”

“What? Infantry? Marines? Rangers?”

Price picked up his third cup of coffee, swallowed some, and put it down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when they opened they were vacant and fixed on nothing. “Nightcrawlers,” he said quietly. “Special unit. Deployed to recon Charlie positions in questionable villages.” He said it like he was reciting from a manual. “We did a lot of crawling through rice paddies and jungles in the dark.”

“Bet you laid a few of them Vietcong out, didn’t you?” Dennis got up and came over to sit a few places away from the man. “Man, I was behind you guys all the way. I wanted you to stay in there and fight it out!”

Price was silent. Thunder echoed over the diner. The lights weakened for a few seconds; when they came back on, they seemed to have lost some of their wattage. The place was dimmer than before. Price’s head slowly turned toward Dennis, with the inexorable motion of a machine. I was thankful I didn’t have to take the full force of Price’s dead blue eyes, and I saw Dennis wince. “I should’ve stayed,” he said. “I should be there right now, buried in the mud of a rice paddy with the eight other men in my patrol.”

“Oh.” Dennis blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I came home,” Price continued calmly, “by stepping on the bodies of my friends. Do you want to know what that’s like, Mr. Trooper?”

“The war’s over,” I told him. “No need to bring it back.” Price smiled grimly, but his gaze remained fixed on Dennis. “Some say it’s over. I say it came back with the men who were there. Like me. Especially like me.” Price paused. The wind howled around the door, and the lightning illuminated for an instant the thrashing woods across the highway. “The mud was up to our knees, Mr. Trooper,” he said. “We were moving across a rice paddy in the dark, being real careful not to step on the bamboo stakes we figured were planted there. Then the first shots started: pop pop pop—like firecrackers going off. One of the Nightcrawlers fired off a flare, and we saw the Cong ringing us. We’d walked right into hell, Mr. Trooper. Somebody shouted, ‘Charlie’s in the light!’ and we started firing, trying to punch a hole through them. But they were everywhere. As soon as one went down, three more took his place. Grenades were going off, and more flares, and people were screaming as they got hit. I took a bullet in the thigh and another through the hand. I lost my rifle, and somebody fell on top of me with half his head missing.”

“Uh … listen,” I said. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to, friend.” He glanced quickly at me, then back to Dennis. I think I cringed when his gaze pierced me. “I want to tell it all. They were fighting and screaming and dying all around me, and I felt the bullets tug at my clothes as they passed through. I know I was screaming too, but what was coming out of my mouth sounded bestial. I ran. The only way I could save my own life was to step on their bodies and drive them down into the mud. I heard some of them choke and blubber as I put my boot on their faces. I knew all those guys like brothers … but at that moment they were only pieces of meat. I ran. A gunship chopper came over the paddy and laid down some fire, and that’s how I got out. Alone.” He bent his face closer toward the other man’s. “And you’d better believe I’m in that rice paddy in ’Nam every time I close my eyes. You’d better believe the men I left back there don’t rest easy. So you keep your opinions about ’Nam and being ‘behind you guys’ to yourself, Mr. Trooper. I don’t want to hear that bullshit. Got it?”

Dennis sat very still. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that, not even from a ’Nam vet, and I saw the shadow of anger pass over his face.

Price’s hands were trembling as he brought a little bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook two blue-and-orange capsules out onto the counter, took them both with a swallow of coffee, and then recapped the bottle and put it away. The flesh of his face looked almost ashen in the dim light.

“I know you boys had a rough time,” Dennis said, “but that’s no call to show disrespect to the law.”

“The law,” Price repeated. “Yeah. Right. Bullshit.”

“There are women and children present,” I reminded him. “Watch your language.”

Price rose from his seat. He looked like a skeleton with just a little extra skin on the bones. “Mister, I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. My nerves are shot. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but when some fool says he understands, I feel like kicking his teeth down his throat—because no one who wasn’t there can pretend to understand.” He glanced at Ray, Lindy, and the kids. “Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to disturb you. Friend, how much do I owe?” He started digging for his wallet.

Dennis slid slowly from his seat and stood with his hands on his hips. “Hold it.” He used his trooper’s voice again. “If you think I’m lettin’ you walk out of here high on pills and needin’ sleep, you’re crazy. I don’t want to be scrapin’ you off the highway.”

Price paid him no attention. He took a couple of dollars from his wallet and put them on the counter. I didn’t touch them. “Those pills will help keep me awake,” Price said. “Once I get on the road, I’ll be fine.”

“Fella, I wouldn’t let you go if it was high noon and not a cloud in the sky. I sure as hell don’t want to clean up after the accident you’re gonna have. Now, why don’t you come along to the Holiday Inn and—”

Price laughed grimly. “Mr. Trooper, the last place you want me staying is at a motel.” He cocked his head to one side. “I was in a motel in Florida a couple of nights ago, and I think I left my room a little untidy. Step aside and let me pass.”

“A motel in Florida?” Dennis nervously licked his lower lip. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

“Nightmares and reality, Mr. Trooper. The point where they cross. A couple of nights ago, they crossed at a motel. I wasn’t going to let myself sleep. I was just going to rest for a little while, but I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” A mocking smile played at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were tortured. “You don’t want me staying at that Holiday Inn, Mr. Trooper. You really don’t. Now, step aside.”

I saw Dennis’ hand settle on the butt of his revolver. His fingers unsnapped the fold of leather that secured the gun in the holster. I stared at him numbly. My God, I thought. What’s goin’ on? My heart had started pounding so hard I was sure everybody could hear it. Ray and Lindy were watching, and Cheryl was backing away behind the counter.

Price and Dennis faced each other for a moment, as the rain whipped against the windows and thunder boomed like shellfire. Then Price sighed, as if resigning himself to something. He said, “I think I want a T-bone steak. Extra rare. How ’bout it?” He looked at me.

“A steak?” My voice was shaking. “We don’t have any T-bone—”

Price’s gaze shifted to the counter right in front of me. I heard a sizzle. The aroma of cooking meat drifted up to me.

“Oh … wow,” Cheryl whispered.

A large T-bone steak lay on the countertop, pink and oozing blood. You could’ve fanned a menu in my face and I would’ve keeled over. Wisps of smoke were rising from the steak.

The steak began to fade, until it was only an outline on the counter. The lines of oozing blood vanished. After the mirage was gone, I could still smell the meat—and that’s how I knew I wasn’t crazy.

Dennis’ mouth hung open. Ray had stood up from the booth to look, and his wife’s face was the color of spoiled milk. The whole world seemed to be balanced on a point of silence—until the wail of the wind jarred me back to my senses.

“I’m getting good at it,” Price said softly. “I’m getting very, very good. Didn’t start happening to me until about a year ago. I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing. What’s in your head comes true—as simple as that. Of course, the images only last for a few seconds—as long as I’m awake, I mean. I’ve found out that those other men were drenched by a chemical spray we called Howdy Doody—because it made you stiffen up and jerk like you were hanging on strings. I got hit with it near Khe Sahn. That shit almost suffocated me. It felt like black tar, and it burned the land down to a paved parking lot.” He stared at Dennis. “You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper. Not with the body count I’ve still got in my head.”

“You … were at … that motel, near Daytona Beach?”

Price closed his eyes. A vein had begun beating at his right temple, royal blue against the pallor of his flesh. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “I fell asleep, and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was having the nightmare. The same one. I was locked in it, and I was trying to scream myself awake.” He shuddered, and two tears ran slowly down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, and flinched as if remembering something horrible. “They … they were coming through the door when I woke up. Tearing the door right off its hinges. I woke up … just as one of them was pointing his rifle at me. And I saw his face. I saw his muddy, misshapen face.” His eyes suddenly jerked open. “I didn’t know they’d come so fast.”

“Who?” I asked him. “Who came so fast?”

“The Nightcrawlers,” Price said, his face devoid of expression, masklike. “Dear God … maybe if I’d stayed asleep a second more. But I ran again, and I left those people dead in that motel.”

“You’re gonna come with me.” Dennis started pulling his gun from the holster. Price’s head snapped toward him. “I don’t know what kinda fool game you’re—”

He stopped, staring at the gun he held.

It wasn’t a gun anymore. It was an oozing mass of hot rubber. Dennis cried out and slung the thing from his hand. The molten mess hit the floor with a pulpy splat.

“I’m leaving now.” Price’s voice was calm. “Thank you for the coffee.” He walked past Dennis, toward the door.

Dennis grasped a bottle of ketchup from the counter. Cheryl cried out, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dennis was already swinging the bottle. It hit the back of Price’s skull and burst open, spewing ketchup everywhere. Price staggered forward, his knees buckling. When he went down, his skull hit the floor with a noise like a watermelon being dropped. His body began jerking involuntarily.

“Got him!” Dennis shouted triumphantly. “Got that crazy bastard, didn’t I?”

Lindy was holding the little girl in her arms. The boy craned his neck to see. Ray said nervously, “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“He’s not dead,” I told him. I looked over at the gun; it was solid again. Dennis scooped it up and aimed it at Price, whose body continued to jerk. Just like Howdy Doody, I thought. Then Price stopped moving.

“He’s dead!” Cheryl’s voice was near-frantic. “Oh God, you killed him, Dennis!”

Dennis prodded the body with the toe of his boot, then bent down. “Naw. His eyes are movin’ back and forth behind the lids.” Dennis touched his wrist to check the pulse, then abruptly pulled his own hand away. “Jesus Christ! He’s as cold as a meat locker!” He took Price’s pulse and whistled. “Goin’ like a racehorse at the Derby.”

I touched the place on the counter where the mirage steak had been. My fingers came away slightly greasy, and I could smell the cooked meat on them. At that instant Price twitched. Dennis scuttled away from him like a crab. Price made a gasping, choking noise.

“What’d he say?” Cheryl asked. “He said something!”

“No he didn’t.” Dennis stuck him in the ribs with his pistol. “Come on. Get up.”

“Get him out of here,” I said. “I don’t want him—”

Cheryl shushed me. “Listen. Can you hear that?”

I heard only the roar and crash of the storm.

“Don’t you hear it?” she asked me. Her eyes were getting scared and glassy.

“Yes!” Ray said. “Yes! Listen!”

Then I did hear something, over the noise of the keening wind. It was a distant chuk-chuk-chuk, steadily growing louder and closer. The wind covered the noise for a minute, then it came back: CHUK-CHUK-CHUK, almost overhead.

“It’s a helicopter!” Ray peered through the window. “Somebody’s got a helicopter out there!”

“Ain’t nobody can fly a chopper in a storm!” Dennis told him. The noise of rotors swelled and faded, swelled and faded … and stopped.

On the floor, Price shivered and began to contort into a fetal position. His mouth opened; his face twisted in what appeared to be agony.

Thunder spoke. A red fireball rose up from the woods across the road and hung lazily in the sky for a few seconds before it descended toward the diner. As it fell, the fireball exploded soundlessly into a white, glaring eye of light that almost blinded me.

Price said something in a garbled, panicked voice. His eyes were tightly closed, and he had squeezed up with his arms around his knees.

Dennis rose to his feet; he squinted as the eye of light fell toward the parking lot and winked out in a puddle of water. Another fireball floated up from the woods, and again blossomed into painful glare.

Dennis turned toward me. “I heard him.” His voice was raspy. “He said . . . ‘Charlie’s in the light.’”

As the second flare fell to the ground and illuminated the parking lot, I thought I saw figures crossing the road. They walked stiff-legged, in an eerie cadence. The flare went out.

“Wake him up,” I heard myself whisper. “Dennis … dear God … wake him up.”

Dennis stared stupidly at me, and I started to jump across the counter to get to Price myself.

A gout of flame leapt in the parking lot. Sparks marched across the concrete. I shouted, “Get down!” and twisted around to push Cheryl back behind the shelter of the counter.

“What the hell—” Dennis said.

He didn’t finish. There was the metallic thumping of bullets hitting the gas pumps and the cars. I knew if that gas blew we were all dead. My truck shuddered with the impact of slugs, and I saw the whole thing explode as I ducked behind the counter. Then the windows blew inward with a god-awful crash, and the diner was full of flying glass, swirling wind, and sheets of rain. I heard Lindy scream, and both the kids were crying, and I think I was shouting something myself.

The lights had gone out, and the only illumination was the reflection of red neon off the concrete and the glow of the fluorescents over the gas pumps. Bullets whacked into the wall, and crockery shattered as if it had been hit with a hammer. Napkins and sugar packets were flying everywhere.

Cheryl was holding on to me as if her fingers were nails sunk to my bones. Her eyes were wide and dazed, and she kept trying to speak. Her mouth was working, but nothing came out.

There was another explosion as one of the other cars blew. The whole place shook, and I almost puked with fear.

Another hail of bullets hit the wall. They were tracers, and they jumped and ricocheted like white-hot cigarette butts. One of them sang off the edge of a shelf and fell to the floor about three feet away from me. The glowing slug began to fade, like the beer can and the mirage steak. I put my hand out to find it, but all I felt was splinters of glass and crockery. A phantom bullet, I thought. Real enough to cause damage and death—and then gone.

You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper, Price had warned. Not with the body count I’ve got in my head.

The firing stopped. I got free of Cheryl and said, “You stay right here.” Then I looked up over the counter and saw my truck and the station wagon on fire, the flames being whipped by the wind. Rain slapped me across the face as it swept in where the window glass used to be. I saw Price lying still huddled on the floor, with pieces of glass all around him. His hands were clawing the air, and in the flickering red neon his face was contorted, his eyes still closed. The pool of ketchup around his head made him look like his skull had been split open. He was peering into hell, and I averted my eyes before I lost my own mind.

Ray and Lindy and the two children had huddled under the table of their booth. The woman was sobbing brokenly. I looked at Dennis, lying a few feet from Price: he was sprawled on his face, and there were four holes punched through his back. It was not ketchup that ran in rivulets around Dennis’ body. His right arm was outflung, and the fingers twitched around the gun he gripped.

Another flare sailed up from the woods like a Fourth of July sparkler.

When the light brightened, I saw them: at least five figures, maybe more. They were crouched over, coming across the parking lot—but slowly, the speed of nightmares. Their clothes flapped and hung around them, and the flare’s light glanced off their helmets. They were carrying weapons—rifles, I guessed. I couldn’t see their faces, and that was for the best.

On the floor, Price moaned. I heard him say “light … in the light …”

The flare hung right over the diner. And then I knew what was going on. We were in the light. We were all caught in Price’s nightmare, and the Nightcrawlers that Price had left in the mud were fighting the battle again—the same way it had been fought at the Pines Haven Motor Inn. The Nightcrawlers had come back to life, powered by Price’s guilt and whatever that Howdy Doody shit had done to him.

And we were in the light, where Charlie had been out in that rice paddy.

There was a noise like castanets clicking. Dots of fire arced through the broken windows and thudded into the counter. The stools squealed as they were hit and spun. The cash register rang and the drawer popped open, and then the entire register blew apart and bills and coins scattered. I ducked my head, but a wasp of fire—I don’t, know what, a bit of metal or glass maybe—sliced my left cheek open from ear to upper lip. I fell to the floor behind the counter with blood running down my face.

A blast shook the rest of the cups, saucers, plates, and glasses off the shelves. The whole roof buckled inward, throwing loose ceiling tiles, light fixtures, and pieces of metal framework.

We were all going to die. I knew it, right then. Those things were going to destroy us. But I thought of the pistol in Dennis’ hand, and of Price lying near the door. If we were caught in Price’s nightmare and the blow from the ketchup bottle had broken something in his skull, then the only way to stop his dream was to kill him.

I’m no hero. I was about to piss in my pants, but I knew I was the only one who could move. I jumped up and scrambled over the counter, falling beside Dennis and wrenching at that pistol. Even in death, Dennis had a strong grip. Another blast came, along the wall to my right. The heat of it scorched me, and the shock wave skidded me across the floor through glass and rain and blood.

But I had that pistol in my hand.

I heard Ray shout, “Look out!”

In the doorway, silhouetted by flames, was a skeletal thing wearing muddy green rags. It wore a dented-in helmet and carried a corroded, slime-covered rifle. Its face was gaunt and shadowy, the features hidden behind a scum of rice-paddy muck. It began to lift the rifle to fire at me—slowly, slowly …

I got the safety off the pistol and fired twice, without aiming. A spark leapt off the helmet as one of the bullets was deflected, but the figure staggered backward and into the conflagration of the station wagon, where it seemed to melt into ooze before it vanished.

More tracers were coming in. Cheryl’s Volkswagen shuddered, the tires blowing out almost in unison. The state-trooper car was already bullet-riddled and sitting on flats.

Another Nightcrawler, this one without a helmet and with slime covering the skull where the hair had been, rose up beyond the window and fired its rifle. I heard the bullet whine past my ear, and as I took aim I saw its bony finger tightening on the trigger again.

A skillet flew over my head and hit the thing’s shoulder, spoiling its aim. For an instant the skillet stuck in the Nightcrawler’s body, as if the figure itself was made out of mud. I fired once … twice … and saw pieces of matter fly from the thing’s chest. What might’ve been a mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the thing slithered out of sight.

I looked around. Cheryl was standing behind the counter, weaving on her feet, her face white with shock. “Get down!” I shouted, and she ducked for cover.

I crawled to Price, shook him hard. His eyes would not open. “Wake up!” I begged him. “Wake up, damn you!” And then I pressed the barrel of the pistol against Price’s head. Dear God, I didn’t want to kill anybody, but I knew I was going to have to blow the Nightcrawlers right out of his brain. I hesitated—too long.

Something smashed into my left collarbone. I heard the bone snap like a broomstick being broken. The force of the shot slid me back against the counter and jammed me between two bullet-pocked stools. I lost the gun, and there was a roaring in my head that deafened me.

I don’t know how long I was out. My left arm felt like dead meat. All the cars in the lot were burning, and there was a hole in the diner’s roof that a tractor-trailer truck could’ve dropped through. Rain was sweeping into my face, and when I wiped my eyes clear I saw them, standing over Price.

There were eight of them. The two I thought I’d killed were back. They trailed weeds, and their boots and ragged clothes were covered with mud. They stood in silence, staring down at their living comrade.

I was too tired to scream. I couldn’t even whimper. I just watched.

Price’s hands lifted into the air. He reached for the Nightcrawlers, and then his eyes opened. His pupils were dead white, surrounded by scarlet.

“End it,” he whispered. “End it …”

One of the Nightcrawlers aimed its rifle and fired. Price jerked. Another Nightcrawler fired, and then they were all firing point-blank into Price’s body. Price thrashed and clutched at his head, but there was no blood; the phantom bullets weren’t hitting him.

The Nightcrawlers began to ripple and fade. I saw the flames of the burning cars through their bodies. The figures became transparent, floating in vague outlines. Price had awakened too fast at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, I realized; if he had remained asleep, the creatures of his nightmares would’ve ended it there, at that Florida motel. They were killing him in front of me—or he was allowing them to end it, and I think that’s what he must’ve wanted for a long, long time.

He shuddered, his mouth releasing a half-moan, half-sigh.

It sounded almost like relief.

The Nightcrawlers vanished. Price didn’t move anymore.

I saw his face. His eyes were closed, and I think he must’ve found peace at last.

A trucker hauling lumber from Mobile to Birmingham saw the burning cars. I don’t even remember what he looked like.

Ray was cut up by glass, but his wife and the kids were okay. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I couldn’t say.

Cheryl went into the hospital for a while. I got a postcard from her with the Golden Gate Bridge on the front. She promised she’d write and let me know how she was doing, but I doubt if I’ll ever hear from her. She was the best waitress I ever had, and I wish her luck.

The police asked me a thousand questions, and I told the story the same way every time. I found out later that no bullets or shrapnel were ever dug out of the walls or the cars or Dennis’ body—just like in the case of that motel massacre. There was no bullet in me, though my collarbone was snapped clean in two.

Price had died of a massive brain hemorrhage. It looked, the police told me, as if it had exploded in his skull.

I closed the diner. Farm life is fine. Alma understands, and we don’t talk about it.

But I never showed the police what I found, and I don’t know exactly why not.

I picked up Price’s wallet in the mess. Behind a picture of a smiling young woman holding a baby there was a folded piece of paper. On that paper were the names of four men.

Beside one name, Price had written “Dangerous.”

I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing, Price had said.

I sit up at night a lot, thinking about that and looking at those names. Those men had gotten a dose of that Howdy Doody shit in a foreign place they hadn’t wanted to be, fighting a war that turned out to be one of those crossroads of nightmare and reality. I’ve changed my mind about ’Nam because I understand now that the worst of the fighting is still going on, in the battlefields of memory.

A Yankee who called himself Tompkins came to my house one May morning and flashed me an ID that said he worked for a veterans’ association. He was very soft-spoken and polite, but he had deep-set eyes that were almost black, and he never blinked. He asked me all about Price, seemed real interested in picking my brain of every detail. I told him the police had the story, and I couldn’t add any more to it. Then I turned the tables and asked him about Howdy Doody. He smiled in a puzzled kind of way and said he’d never heard of any chemical defoliant called that. No such thing, he said. Like I say, he was very polite.

But I know the shape of a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Tompkins was wearing one under his seersucker coat. I never could find any veterans’ association that knew anything about him, either.

Maybe I should give that list of names to the police. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll try to find those four men myself, and try to make some sense out of what’s being hidden.

I don’t think Price was evil. No. He was just scared, and who can blame a man for running from his own nightmares? I like to believe that, in the end, Price had the courage to face the Nightcrawlers, and in committing suicide he saved our lives.

The newspapers, of course, never got the real story. They called Price a ’Nam vet who’d gone crazy, killed six people in a Florida motel, and then killed a state trooper in a shoot-out at Big Bob’s diner and gas stop.

But I know where Price is buried. They sell little American flags at the five-and-dime in Mobile. I’m alive, and I can spare the change.

And then I’ve got to find out how much courage I have.

0 notes

thelittlegirlinwonderland · 7 years

Text

Wedding Destination

Title: Wedding Destination

Summary: Rebekah and Kol made an excellent team bringing Davina back to life. Now, a small intimate beach wedding is required. Kolvina. Kolbekah. Rebekah/Davina friendship. Mad Love series part 2.

Couple: Kol and Davina

xXx

Rebekah sat patiently, for once in her life, waiting on Davina Claire. Her hand never left the tall champagne glass that kept getting filled for her. The two girls were in a small bridal shop in Hawaii, looking for the perfect dress. It had been a long nine and a half months, but Team Kolbekah had found, and persuaded, a witch to resurrect Davina. From there, it only took two weeks for Kol to propose to his beloved.

xXx

After being alive for a thousand years and dating many women, the youngest Mikaelson was ready to settle down for good with the young witch. He purchased a lovely ring and worked out his plan. In the end, he decided on a simple and sweet proposal. The two went to dinner for the evening and afterwards took a lovely stroll on the beach. While Davina was admiring the night sky and ocean view, Kol got down on one knee. When she had turned around, well, everyone in the area heard her ecstatic response.

Both of the newly engaged decided they didn't want a big wedding. They especially didn't want the rest of Kol's family to witness. Rebekah was the only one who was going to be there, besides the minister. She was going to be both the maid of honour and the best man. The blonde Original was flattered and excited.

Davina and Kol figured they could have a larger party once they returned to the continental US. Davina could find Josh and Marcel and invite them. Kol would have his blood related, and extended, family come too. Excluding Hayley, seeing as how he didn't view her as family. Then everyone could celebrate the young couple and their marriage. Until then, it was going to be kept quiet.

xXx

"All right." The petite witch's voice came from the behind the changing curtain. "I'm ready"

"Let's see it, sweetheart." Rebekah responded, sitting up more alert as Davina exited the changing room.

Her slim figure was draped in a white strapless, silk gown. It fell lightly to the floor and hugged every inch of her. Both girls scrunched up their noses as a way of disagreeing.

"Yeah, no. Not the best for the beach destination you two picked. Try on the next one." The vampire explained her denial. She gulped the rest of the complimentary champagne and poured herself some more.

Davina rolled her eyes playfully and walked back into the more secluded area. Shedding the old dress and placing it gently back on the hanger, she took a moment of silence. She was searching for a wedding dress. She was getting married. She was alive. So much was happening and it was happening so fast.

Of course she wouldn't have it any other way. She loved Kol and now she was marrying him. She never thought this would happen and it was an absolute dream come true. But trying to find the perfect dress was not.

She had already tried on ten and hated every single one of them. None of them were good enough to get married to Kol. When the witch had complained this to her fiance, he simply stated that she could wear her unicorn onesie and he would happily marry her. Now, while that was adorable and sweet, it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

So, Davina turned to Rebekah with her problem. The latter had understood her problem almost immediately. Guess it's a girl thing. The two swiftly became a crack team, planning the perfect wedding.

They were going to be on a beach, so she can't have a ball gown. Kol was more traditional, so her dress couldn't be short. She wanted a pure white, not a variant of off white. She didn't like the mermaid style or strapless. She wouldn't wear heels, or shoes at all. Her hair would be down.

So many different factors had to be told to the lady who had the misfortune of assisting them. The girl tried her hardest, but whatever she brought didn't satisfy the customers.

Hours passed, many dresses were put on and denied. All three working on the project thought the whole thing was hopeless. However, just before leaving, Davina spotted the dress of her dreams. How she didn't notice it before was beyond her knowledge. Instead, she grabbed the dress and tried it on. The beautiful gown got an approval from everyone involved. Rebekah and her future sister in law left happily, excited for the dress to get altered and become ready to wear.

xXx

The day of their wedding was bright and clear. A small section of the beach had been cleared and cleaned for them. The sand squished beneath Kol's bare toes as he waited on the two girls. His tux was made for the beach. He wore light grey dress pants that were rolled up above the ankles with a simple white dress shirt.

The girls remained in the hotel that neighbored the beach. Rebekah had quickly dressed herself in a knee length, baby blue halter dress. Her hair was straight, showing off the shoulder length cut she had recently gotten. A seashell held half her hair back and her makeup stayed light and girly.

After finishing up on herself, the blonde began on the bride. She curled her dark hair, pining it back with the white hair piece they had decided on. The smaller girl's makeup matched the simple, girly theme. Once all her accessories were in place and her hair and makeup were done, they easily slipped Davina into her wedding dress.

The low cut of the dress had turned her off at first, but she quickly grew to love it. The small sleeves rested both on top of and off of her shoulders. The dress flowed all the way to her feet, but remained light, airy, and movable. She looked at herself in the full mirror that rested on the closet door and admired herself. She looked stunning.

xXx

Linking their pale arms together, Rebekah and Davina made their way to the beach. Both were so excited and nervous. It wasn't everyday you got married or witnessed your twin brother get married. The blonde knew that tears would fall from probably everyone. It was unlikely from Kol, but the ladies were prepared for their future waterworks.

Davina took a deep breath and allowed Rebekah to walk her down the imaginary aisle. Her eyes caught the sun beginning to set as the waves elegantly crashed onto the shore. She couldn't help but wish for a moment that Marcel was walking her to Kol. That would most likely never happen, but she still thought about it.

Her mind immediately forgot about what she wished was happening the minute her eyes locked with Kol's. He looked so enchanted by her; so in love. She figured that she sported a similar, if not same, facial expression. He looked so handsome, his muscles gleaming through the light fabric of his dress shirt.

Rebekah watched both of the lovers with a teary eyed smile. She handed Davina over to Kol, whom he gladly took, and stood off to the side.

The bride and groom held each other's' hands, gazing into the other's eyes as the compelled minister spoke. The words blurred by until he asked for vows.

"Davina Claire," Kol started, smiling at the love of his life, "I have been alive for a thousand years, and for every single one of them, I thought my life to be without love. No matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough for it. I had just given up all together. Then I saw you for the first time. The minute I saw you smile, something inside me lit up. I knew, I had to know you, so I did. That was the greatest choice I ever made. Since that day we met, we fell into a passionate, heartbreaking, dangerous, and loving relationship. I was dead inside since I turned, but since knowing you, I feel alive." He wrapped up his vows, placing the silver diamond ring onto its desired finger of his bride.

"Alright, my turn. Give me a second." Davina wiped the tears from her face and blinked hard several times. She took a deep breath and began her vows. "Kol Mikaelson, oh goodness, where do I begin. I lost you so soon after we started dating. I've lost you to so many things. Death, a curse, and even my own death. But, while we may have kept losing each other, we also showed how far we go to find each other. I would go to death and back every single time for you. No matter what obstacles separate us, I know that because we love each other so much, we will go over every single one of them to get back to each other. You are my first love and you will be my last love, and the thought of starting my life with you makes me want to cry of hapiness so bad. Actually, I am crying." All three laughed as Davina wiped more tears away. Kol smiled brightly as she took his hand and slid the ring onto it. Rebekah wasn't even trying to hid the fact that she was sobbing.

"Well, then, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." The minister said. Almost immediately, Kol pulled Davina into a searing kiss as his sister clapped through her crying. When they pulled away, Rebekah tackled both into a hug that sent them all to the ground.

"You did it!" She cried, squishing the newlyweds. They all burst into laughter, and let tears of happiness flow freely.

#livvywrites #kolvina #kol and davina #kol and rebekah #davina and rebekah #cute and short

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andya-j · 6 years

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“Hard rain coming down,” Cheryl said, and I nodded in agreement. Through the diner’s plate-glass windows, a dense curtain of rain flapped across the Gulf gas pumps and continued across the parking lot. It hit Big Bob’s with a force that made the glass rattle like uneasy bones. The red neon sign that said BIG BOB’S! DIESEL FUEL! EATS! sat on top of a high steel pole above the diner so the truckers on the interstate could see it. Out in the night, the red-tinted rain thrashed in torrents across my old pickup truck and Cheryl’s baby-blue Volkswagen. “Well,” I said, “I suppose that storm’ll either wash some folks in off the interstate or we can just about hang it up.” The curtain of rain parted for an instant, and I could see the treetops whipping back and forth in the woods on the other side of Highway 47. Wind whined around the front door like an animal trying to claw its way in. I glanced at the electric clock on the wall behind the counter. Twenty minutes before nine. We usually closed up at ten, but tonight—with tornado warnings in the weather forecast—I was tempted to turn the lock a little early. “Tell you what,” I said. “If we’re empty at nine, we skedaddle. ’Kay?” “No argument here,” she said. She watched the storm for a moment longer, then continued putting newly washed coffee cups, saucers, and plates away on the stainless-steel shelves. Lightning flared from west to east like the strike of a burning bullwhip. The diner’s lights flickered, then came back to normal. A shudder of thunder seemed to come right up through my shoes. Late March is the beginning of tornado season in south Alabama, and we’ve had some whoppers spin past here in the last few years. I knew that Alma was at home, and she understood to get into the root cellar right quick if she spotted a twister, like that one we saw in ’82 dancing through the woods about two miles from our farm. “You got any love-ins planned this weekend, hippie?” I asked Cheryl, mostly to get my mind off the storm and to rib her too. She was in her late thirties, but I swear that when she grinned she could’ve passed for a kid. “Wouldn’t you like to know, redneck?” she answered; she replied the same way to all my digs at her. Cheryl Lovesong—and I know that couldn’t have been her real name—was a mighty able waitress, and she had hands that were no strangers to hard work. But I didn’t care that she wore her long silvery-blond hair in Indian braids with hippie headbands, or came to work in tie-dyed overalls. She was the best waitress who’d ever worked for me, and she got along with everybody just fine—even us rednecks. That’s what I am, and proud of it: I drink Rebel Yell whiskey straight, and my favorite songs are about good women gone bad and trains on the long track to nowhere. I keep my wife happy. I’ve raised my two boys to pray to God and to salute the flag, and if anybody don’t like it he can go a few rounds with Big Bob Clayton. Cheryl would come right out and tell you she used to live in San Francisco in the late sixties, and that she went to love-ins and peace marches and all that stuff. When I reminded her it was 1984 and Ronnie Reagan was president, she’d look at me like I was walking cow-flop. I always figured she’d start thinking straight when all that hippie-dust blew out of her head. Alma said my tail was going to get burnt if I ever took a shine to Cheryl, but I’m a fifty-five-year-old redneck who stopped sowing his wild seed when he met the woman he married, more than thirty years ago. Lightning crisscrossed the turbulent sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Cheryl said, “Wow! Look at that light show!” “Light show, my ass,” I muttered. The diner was as solid as the Good Book, so I wasn’t too worried about the storm. But on a wild night like this, stuck out in the countryside like Big Bob’s was, you had a feeling of being a long way off from civilization—though Mobile was only twenty-seven miles south. On a wild night like this, you had a feeling that anything could happen, as quick as a streak of lightning out of the darkness. I picked up a copy of the Mobile Press-Register that the last customer—a trucker on his way to Texas—had left on the counter a half-hour before, and I started plowing through the news, most of it bad: those A-rab countries were still squabbling like Hatfields and McCoys in white robes; two men had robbed a Qwik-Mart in Mobile and been killed by the police in a shoot-out; cops were investigating a massacre at a motel near Daytona Beach; an infant had been stolen from a maternity ward in Birmingham. The only good things on the front page were stories that said the economy was up and that Reagan swore we’d show the Commies who was boss in El Salvador and Lebanon. The diner shook under a blast of thunder, and I looked up from the paper as a pair of headlights emerged from the rain into my parking lot. 2 The headlights were attached to an Alabama state-trooper car. “Half-alive, hold the onion, extra brown the buns.” Cheryl was already writing on her pad in expectation of the order. I pushed the paper aside and went to the fridge for the hamburger meat. When the door opened, a windblown spray of rain swept in and stung like buckshot. “Howdy, folks!” Dennis Wells peeled off his gray rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the door. Over his Smokey the Bear trooper hat was a protective plastic covering, beaded with raindrops. He took off his hat, exposing the thinning blond hair on his pale scalp, as he approached the counter and sat on his usual stool, right next to the cash register. “Cup of black coffee and a rare—” Cheryl was already sliding the coffee in front of him, and the burger sizzled on the griddle. “Ya’ll are on the ball tonight!” Dennis said; he said the same thing when he came in, which was almost every night. Funny the kind of habits you fall into, without realizing it. “Kinda wild out there, ain’t it?” I asked as I flipped the burger over. “Lordy, yes! Wind just about flipped my car over three, four miles down the interstate. Thought I was gonna be eatin’ a little pavement tonight.” Dennis was a husky young man in his early thirties, with thick blond brows over deep-set light brown eyes. He had a wife and three kids, and he was fast to flash a walletful of their pictures. “Don’t reckon I’ll be chasin’ any speeders tonight, but there’ll probably be a load of accidents. Cheryl, you sure look pretty this evenin’.” “Still the same old me.” Cheryl never wore a speck of makeup, though one day she’d come to work with glitter on her cheeks. She had a place a few miles away, and I guessed she was farming that funny weed up there. “Any trucks moving?” “Seen a few, but not many. Truckers ain’t fools. Gonna get worse before it gets better, the radio says.” He sipped at his coffee and grimaced. “Lordy, that’s strong enough to jump out of the cup and dance a jig, darlin’!” I fixed the burger the way Dennis liked it, put it on a platter with some fries, and served it. “Bobby, how’s the wife treatin’ you?” he asked. “No complaints.” “Good to hear. I’ll tell you, a fine woman is worth her weight in gold. Hey, Cheryl! How’d you like a handsome young man for a husband?” Cheryl smiled, knowing what was coming. “The man I’m looking for hasn’t been made yet.” “Yeah, but you ain’t met Cecil yet, either! He asks me about you every time I see him, and I keep tellin’ him I’m doin’ everything I can to get you two together.” Cecil was Dennis’ brother-in-law and owned a Chevy dealership in Bay Minette. Dennis had been ribbing Cheryl about going on a date with Cecil for the past four months. “You’d like him,” Dennis promised. “He’s got a lot of my qualities.” “Well, that’s different. In that case, I’m certain I don’t want to meet him.” Dennis winced. “Oh, you’re a cruel woman! That’s what smokin’ banana peels does to you—turns you mean. Anybody readin’ this rag?” He reached over for the newspaper. “Waitin’ here just for you,” I said. Thunder rumbled, closer to the diner. The lights flickered briefly once … then again before they returned to normal. Cheryl busied herself by fixing a fresh pot of coffee, and I watched the rain whipping against the windows. When the lightning flashed, I could see the trees swaying so hard they looked about to snap. Dennis read and ate his hamburger. “Boy,” he said after a few minutes, “the world’s in some shape, huh? Those A-rab pig-stickers are itchin’ for war. Mobile metro boys had a little gunplay last night. Good for them.” He paused and frowned, then tapped the paper with one thick finger. “This I can’t figure.” “What’s that?” “Thing in Florida couple of nights ago. Six people killed at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, near Daytona Beach. Motel was set off in the woods. Only a couple of cinder-block houses in the area, and nobody heard any gunshots. Says here one old man saw what he thought was a bright white star falling over the motel, and that was it. Funny, huh?” “A UFO,” Cheryl offered. “Maybe he saw a UFO.” “Yeah, and I’m a little green man from Mars,” Dennis scoffed. “I’m serious. This is weird. The motel was so blown full of holes it looked like a war had been going on. Everybody was dead—even a dog and a canary that belonged to the manager. The cars out in front of the rooms were blasted to pieces. The sound of one of them explodin’ was what woke up the people in those houses, I reckon.” He skimmed the story again. “Two bodies were out in the parkin’ lot, one was holed up in a bathroom, one had crawled under a bed, and two had dragged every piece of furniture in the room over to block the door. Didn’t seem to help ’em any, though.” I grunted. “Guess not.” “No motive, no witnesses. You better believe those Florida cops are shakin’ the bushes for some kind of dangerous maniac—or maybe more than one, it says here.” He shoved the paper away and patted the service revolver holstered at his hip. “If I ever got hold of him—or them—he’d find out not to mess with a ’Bama trooper.” He glanced quickly over at Cheryl and smiled mischievously. “Probably some crazy hippie who’d been smokin’ his tennis shoes.” “Don’t knock it,” she said sweetly, “until you’ve tried it.” She looked past him, out the window into the storm. “Car’s pullin’ in, Bobby.” Headlights glared briefly off the wet windows. It was a station wagon with wood-grained panels on the sides; it veered around the gas pumps and parked next to Dennis’ trooper car. On the front bumper was a personalized license plate that said: Ray & Lindy. The headlights died, and all the doors opened at once. Out of the wagon came a whole family: a man and woman, a little girl and boy about eight or nine. Dennis got up and opened the diner door as they hurried inside from the rain. All of them had gotten pretty well soaked between the station wagon and the diner, and they wore the dazed expressions of people who’d been on the road a long time. The man wore glasses and had curly gray hair, the woman was slim and dark-haired and pretty. The kids were sleepy-eyed. All of them were well-dressed, the man in a yellow sweater with one of those alligators on the chest. They had vacation tans, and I figured they were tourists heading north from the beach after spring break. “Come on in and take a seat,” I said. “Thank you,” the man said. They squeezed into one of the booths near the windows. “We saw your sign from the interstate.” “Bad night to be on the highway,” Dennis told them. “Tornado warnings are out all over the place.” “We heard it on the radio,” the woman—Lindy, if the license was right—said. “We’re on our way to Birmingham, and we thought we could drive right through the storm. We should’ve stopped at that Holiday Inn we passed about fifteen miles ago.” “That would’ve been smart,” Dennis agreed. “No sense in pushin’ your luck.” He returned to his stool. The new arrivals ordered hamburgers, fries, and Cokes. Cheryl and I went to work. Lightning made the diner’s lights flicker again, and the sound of thunder caused the kids to jump. When the food was ready and Cheryl served them, Dennis said, “Tell you what. You folks finish your dinners and I’ll escort you back to the Holiday Inn. Then you can head out in the morning. How about that?” “Fine,” Ray said gratefully. “I don’t think we could’ve gotten very much further, anyway.” He turned his attention to his food. “Well,” Cheryl said quietly, standing beside me, “I don’t guess we get home early, do we?” “I guess not. Sorry.” She shrugged. “Goes with the job, right? Anyway, I can think of worse places to be stuck.” I figured that Alma might be worried about me, so I went over to the pay phone to call her. I dropped a quarter in—and the dial tone sounded like a cat being stepped on. I hung up and tried again. The cat scream continued. “Damn!” I muttered. “Lines must be screwed up.” “Ought to get yourself a place closer to town, Bobby,” Dennis said. “Never could figure out why you wanted a joint in the sticks. At least you’d get better phone service and good lights if you were nearer to Mo—” He was interrupted by the sound of wet and shrieking brakes, and he swiveled around on his stool. I looked up as a car hurtled into the parking lot, the tires swerving, throwing up plumes of water. For a few seconds I thought it was going to keep coming, right through the window into the diner—but then the brakes caught and the car almost grazed the side of my pickup as it jerked to a stop. In the neon’s red glow I could tell it was a beat-up old Ford Fairlane, either gray or a dingy beige. Steam was rising off the crumpled hood. The headlights stayed on for perhaps a minute before they winked off. A figure got out of the car and walked slowly—with a limp—toward the diner. We watched the figure approach. Dennis’ body looked like a coiled spring ready to be triggered. “We got us a live one, Bobby boy,” he said. The door opened, and in a stinging gust of wind and rain a man who looked like walking death stepped into my diner. 3 He was so wet he might well have been driving with his windows down. He was a skinny guy, maybe weighed all of a hundred and twenty pounds, even soaking wet. His unruly dark hair was plastered to his head, and he had gone a week or more without a shave. In his gaunt, pallid face his eyes were startlingly blue; his gaze flicked around the diner, lingered for a few seconds on Dennis. Then he limped on down to the far end of the counter and took a seat. He wiped the rain out of his eyes as Cheryl took a menu to him. Dennis stared at the man. When he spoke, his voice bristled with authority. “Hey, fella.” The man didn’t look up from the menu. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” The man pushed the menu away and pulled a damp packet of Kools out of the breast pocket of his patched Army fatigue jacket. “I can hear you,” he said; his voice was deep and husky, and didn’t go with his less-than-robust physical appearance. “Drivin’ kinda fast in this weather, don’t you think?” The man flicked a cigarette lighter a few times before he got a flame, then lit one of his smokes and inhaled deeply. “Yeah,” he replied. “I was. Sorry. I saw the sign, and I was in a hurry to get here. Miss? I’d just like a cup of coffee, please. Hot and real strong, okay?” Cheryl nodded and turned away from him, almost bumping into me as I strolled down behind the counter to check him out. “That kind of hurry’ll get you killed,” Dennis cautioned. “Right. Sorry.” He shivered and pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead with one hand. Up close, I could see deep cracks around his mouth and the corners of his eyes and I figured him to be in his late thirties or early forties. His wrists were as thin as a woman’s; he looked like he hadn’t eaten a good meal for more than a month. He stared at his hands through bloodshot eyes. Probably on drugs, I thought. The fella gave me the creeps. Then he looked at me with those eyes—so pale blue they were almost white—and I felt like I’d been nailed to the floor. “Something wrong?” he asked—not rudely, just curiously. “Nope.” I shook my head. Cheryl gave him his coffee and then went over to give Ray and Lindy their check. The man didn’t use either cream or sugar. The coffee was steaming, but he drank half of it down like mother’s milk. “That’s good,” he said. “Keep me awake, won’t it?” “More than likely.” Over the breast pocket of his jacket was the faint outline of the name that had been sewn there once. I think it was Price, but I could’ve been wrong. “That’s what I want. To stay awake as long as I can.” He finished the coffee. “Can I have another cup, please?” I poured it for him. He drank that one down just as fast,” then rubbed his eyes wearily. “Been on the road a long time, huh?” Price nodded. “Day and night. I don’t know which is more tired, my mind or my butt.” He lifted his gaze to me again. “Have you got anything else to drink? How about beer?” “No, sorry. Couldn’t get a liquor license.” He sighed. “Just as well. It might make me sleepy. But I sure could go for a beer right now. One sip, to clean my mouth out.” He picked up his coffee cup, and I smiled and started to turn away. But then he wasn’t holding a cup. He was holding a Budweiser can, and for an instant I could smell the tang of a newly popped beer. The mirage was there for only maybe two seconds. I blinked, and Price was holding a cup again. “Just as well,” he said, and put it down. I glanced over at Cheryl, then at Dennis. Neither one was paying attention. Damn! I thought. I’m too young to be losin’ either my eyesight or my senses! “Uh …” I said, or some other stupid noise. “One more cup?” Price asked. “Then I’d better hit the road again.” My hand was shaking as I picked it up, but if Price noticed, he didn’t say anything. “Want anything to eat?” Cheryl asked him. “How about a bowl of beef stew?” He shook his head. “No, thanks. The sooner I get back on the road, the better it’ll be.” Suddenly Dennis swiveled toward him, giving him a cold stare that only cops and drill sergeants can muster. “Back on the road?” He snorted. “Fella, you ever been in a tornado before? I’m gonna escort those nice people to the Holiday Inn about fifteen miles back. If you’re smart, that’s where you’ll spend the night too. No use in tryin’ to—” “No.” Price’s voice was rock-steady. “I’ll be spending the night behind the wheel.” Dennis’ eyes narrowed. “How come you’re in such a hurry? Not runnin’ from anybody, are you?” “Nightcrawlers,” Cheryl said. Price turned toward her like he’d been slapped across the face, and I saw what might’ve been a spark of fear in his eyes. Cheryl motioned toward the lighter Price had laid on the counter, beside the pack of Kools. It was a beat-up silver Zippo, and inscribed across it was NIGHTCRAWLERS with the symbol of two crossed rifles beneath it. “Sorry,” she said. “I just noticed that, and I wondered what it was.” Price put the lighter away. “I was in ’Nam,” he told her. “Everybody in my unit got one.” “Hey.” There was suddenly new respect in Dennis’ voice. “You a vet?” Price paused so long I didn’t think he was going to answer. In the quiet, I heard the little girl tell her mother that the fries were “ucky.” Price said, “Yes.” “How about that! Hey, I wanted to go myself, but I got a high number and things were windin’ down about that time anyway. Did you see any action?” A faint, bitter smile passed over Price’s mouth. “Too much.” “What? Infantry? Marines? Rangers?” Price picked up his third cup of coffee, swallowed some, and put it down. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and when they opened they were vacant and fixed on nothing. “Nightcrawlers,” he said quietly. “Special unit. Deployed to recon Charlie positions in questionable villages.” He said it like he was reciting from a manual. “We did a lot of crawling through rice paddies and jungles in the dark.” “Bet you laid a few of them Vietcong out, didn’t you?” Dennis got up and came over to sit a few places away from the man. “Man, I was behind you guys all the way. I wanted you to stay in there and fight it out!” Price was silent. Thunder echoed over the diner. The lights weakened for a few seconds; when they came back on, they seemed to have lost some of their wattage. The place was dimmer than before. Price’s head slowly turned toward Dennis, with the inexorable motion of a machine. I was thankful I didn’t have to take the full force of Price’s dead blue eyes, and I saw Dennis wince. “I should’ve stayed,” he said. “I should be there right now, buried in the mud of a rice paddy with the eight other men in my patrol.” “Oh.” Dennis blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” “I came home,” Price continued calmly, “by stepping on the bodies of my friends. Do you want to know what that’s like, Mr. Trooper?” “The war’s over,” I told him. “No need to bring it back.” Price smiled grimly, but his gaze remained fixed on Dennis. “Some say it’s over. I say it came back with the men who were there. Like me. Especially like me.” Price paused. The wind howled around the door, and the lightning illuminated for an instant the thrashing woods across the highway. “The mud was up to our knees, Mr. Trooper,” he said. “We were moving across a rice paddy in the dark, being real careful not to step on the bamboo stakes we figured were planted there. Then the first shots started: pop pop pop—like firecrackers going off. One of the Nightcrawlers fired off a flare, and we saw the Cong ringing us. We’d walked right into hell, Mr. Trooper. Somebody shouted, ‘Charlie’s in the light!’ and we started firing, trying to punch a hole through them. But they were everywhere. As soon as one went down, three more took his place. Grenades were going off, and more flares, and people were screaming as they got hit. I took a bullet in the thigh and another through the hand. I lost my rifle, and somebody fell on top of me with half his head missing.” “Uh … listen,” I said. “You don’t have to—” “I want to, friend.” He glanced quickly at me, then back to Dennis. I think I cringed when his gaze pierced me. “I want to tell it all. They were fighting and screaming and dying all around me, and I felt the bullets tug at my clothes as they passed through. I know I was screaming too, but what was coming out of my mouth sounded bestial. I ran. The only way I could save my own life was to step on their bodies and drive them down into the mud. I heard some of them choke and blubber as I put my boot on their faces. I knew all those guys like brothers … but at that moment they were only pieces of meat. I ran. A gunship chopper came over the paddy and laid down some fire, and that’s how I got out. Alone.” He bent his face closer toward the other man’s. “And you’d better believe I’m in that rice paddy in ’Nam every time I close my eyes. You’d better believe the men I left back there don’t rest easy. So you keep your opinions about ’Nam and being ‘behind you guys’ to yourself, Mr. Trooper. I don’t want to hear that bullshit. Got it?” Dennis sat very still. He wasn’t used to being talked to like that, not even from a ’Nam vet, and I saw the shadow of anger pass over his face. Price’s hands were trembling as he brought a little bottle out of his jeans pocket. He shook two blue-and-orange capsules out onto the counter, took them both with a swallow of coffee, and then recapped the bottle and put it away. The flesh of his face looked almost ashen in the dim light. “I know you boys had a rough time,” Dennis said, “but that’s no call to show disrespect to the law.” “The law,” Price repeated. “Yeah. Right. Bullshit.” “There are women and children present,” I reminded him. “Watch your language.” Price rose from his seat. He looked like a skeleton with just a little extra skin on the bones. “Mister, I haven’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. My nerves are shot. I don’t mean to cause trouble, but when some fool says he understands, I feel like kicking his teeth down his throat—because no one who wasn’t there can pretend to understand.” He glanced at Ray, Lindy, and the kids. “Sorry, folks. Don’t mean to disturb you. Friend, how much do I owe?” He started digging for his wallet. Dennis slid slowly from his seat and stood with his hands on his hips. “Hold it.” He used his trooper’s voice again. “If you think I’m lettin’ you walk out of here high on pills and needin’ sleep, you’re crazy. I don’t want to be scrapin’ you off the highway.” Price paid him no attention. He took a couple of dollars from his wallet and put them on the counter. I didn’t touch them. “Those pills will help keep me awake,” Price said. “Once I get on the road, I’ll be fine.” “Fella, I wouldn’t let you go if it was high noon and not a cloud in the sky. I sure as hell don’t want to clean up after the accident you’re gonna have. Now, why don’t you come along to the Holiday Inn and—” Price laughed grimly. “Mr. Trooper, the last place you want me staying is at a motel.” He cocked his head to one side. “I was in a motel in Florida a couple of nights ago, and I think I left my room a little untidy. Step aside and let me pass.” “A motel in Florida?” Dennis nervously licked his lower lip. “What the hell you talkin’ about?” “Nightmares and reality, Mr. Trooper. The point where they cross. A couple of nights ago, they crossed at a motel. I wasn’t going to let myself sleep. I was just going to rest for a little while, but I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” A mocking smile played at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were tortured. “You don’t want me staying at that Holiday Inn, Mr. Trooper. You really don’t. Now, step aside.” I saw Dennis’ hand settle on the butt of his revolver. His fingers unsnapped the fold of leather that secured the gun in the holster. I stared at him numbly. My God, I thought. What’s goin’ on? My heart had started pounding so hard I was sure everybody could hear it. Ray and Lindy were watching, and Cheryl was backing away behind the counter. Price and Dennis faced each other for a moment, as the rain whipped against the windows and thunder boomed like shellfire. Then Price sighed, as if resigning himself to something. He said, “I think I want a T-bone steak. Extra rare. How ’bout it?” He looked at me. “A steak?” My voice was shaking. “We don’t have any T-bone—” Price’s gaze shifted to the counter right in front of me. I heard a sizzle. The aroma of cooking meat drifted up to me. “Oh … wow,” Cheryl whispered. A large T-bone steak lay on the countertop, pink and oozing blood. You could’ve fanned a menu in my face and I would’ve keeled over. Wisps of smoke were rising from the steak. The steak began to fade, until it was only an outline on the counter. The lines of oozing blood vanished. After the mirage was gone, I could still smell the meat—and that’s how I knew I wasn’t crazy. Dennis’ mouth hung open. Ray had stood up from the booth to look, and his wife’s face was the color of spoiled milk. The whole world seemed to be balanced on a point of silence—until the wail of the wind jarred me back to my senses. “I’m getting good at it,” Price said softly. “I’m getting very, very good. Didn’t start happening to me until about a year ago. I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing. What’s in your head comes true—as simple as that. Of course, the images only last for a few seconds—as long as I’m awake, I mean. I’ve found out that those other men were drenched by a chemical spray we called Howdy Doody—because it made you stiffen up and jerk like you were hanging on strings. I got hit with it near Khe Sahn. That shit almost suffocated me. It felt like black tar, and it burned the land down to a paved parking lot.” He stared at Dennis. “You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper. Not with the body count I’ve still got in my head.” “You … were at … that motel, near Daytona Beach?” Price closed his eyes. A vein had begun beating at his right temple, royal blue against the pallor of his flesh. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “I fell asleep, and I couldn’t wake myself up. I was having the nightmare. The same one. I was locked in it, and I was trying to scream myself awake.” He shuddered, and two tears ran slowly down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, and flinched as if remembering something horrible. “They … they were coming through the door when I woke up. Tearing the door right off its hinges. I woke up … just as one of them was pointing his rifle at me. And I saw his face. I saw his muddy, misshapen face.” His eyes suddenly jerked open. “I didn’t know they’d come so fast.” “Who?” I asked him. “Who came so fast?” “The Nightcrawlers,” Price said, his face devoid of expression, masklike. “Dear God … maybe if I’d stayed asleep a second more. But I ran again, and I left those people dead in that motel.” “You’re gonna come with me.” Dennis started pulling his gun from the holster. Price’s head snapped toward him. “I don’t know what kinda fool game you’re—” He stopped, staring at the gun he held. It wasn’t a gun anymore. It was an oozing mass of hot rubber. Dennis cried out and slung the thing from his hand. The molten mess hit the floor with a pulpy splat. “I’m leaving now.” Price’s voice was calm. “Thank you for the coffee.” He walked past Dennis, toward the door. Dennis grasped a bottle of ketchup from the counter. Cheryl cried out, “Don’t!” but it was too late. Dennis was already swinging the bottle. It hit the back of Price’s skull and burst open, spewing ketchup everywhere. Price staggered forward, his knees buckling. When he went down, his skull hit the floor with a noise like a watermelon being dropped. His body began jerking involuntarily. “Got him!” Dennis shouted triumphantly. “Got that crazy bastard, didn’t I?” Lindy was holding the little girl in her arms. The boy craned his neck to see. Ray said nervously, “You didn’t kill him, did you?” “He’s not dead,” I told him. I looked over at the gun; it was solid again. Dennis scooped it up and aimed it at Price, whose body continued to jerk. Just like Howdy Doody, I thought. Then Price stopped moving. “He’s dead!” Cheryl’s voice was near-frantic. “Oh God, you killed him, Dennis!” Dennis prodded the body with the toe of his boot, then bent down. “Naw. His eyes are movin’ back and forth behind the lids.” Dennis touched his wrist to check the pulse, then abruptly pulled his own hand away. “Jesus Christ! He’s as cold as a meat locker!” He took Price’s pulse and whistled. “Goin’ like a racehorse at the Derby.” I touched the place on the counter where the mirage steak had been. My fingers came away slightly greasy, and I could smell the cooked meat on them. At that instant Price twitched. Dennis scuttled away from him like a crab. Price made a gasping, choking noise. “What’d he say?” Cheryl asked. “He said something!” “No he didn’t.” Dennis stuck him in the ribs with his pistol. “Come on. Get up.” “Get him out of here,” I said. “I don’t want him—” Cheryl shushed me. “Listen. Can you hear that?” I heard only the roar and crash of the storm. “Don’t you hear it?” she asked me. Her eyes were getting scared and glassy. “Yes!” Ray said. “Yes! Listen!” Then I did hear something, over the noise of the keening wind. It was a distant chuk-chuk-chuk, steadily growing louder and closer. The wind covered the noise for a minute, then it came back: CHUK-CHUK-CHUK, almost overhead. “It’s a helicopter!” Ray peered through the window. “Somebody’s got a helicopter out there!” “Ain’t nobody can fly a chopper in a storm!” Dennis told him. The noise of rotors swelled and faded, swelled and faded … and stopped. On the floor, Price shivered and began to contort into a fetal position. His mouth opened; his face twisted in what appeared to be agony. Thunder spoke. A red fireball rose up from the woods across the road and hung lazily in the sky for a few seconds before it descended toward the diner. As it fell, the fireball exploded soundlessly into a white, glaring eye of light that almost blinded me. Price said something in a garbled, panicked voice. His eyes were tightly closed, and he had squeezed up with his arms around his knees. Dennis rose to his feet; he squinted as the eye of light fell toward the parking lot and winked out in a puddle of water. Another fireball floated up from the woods, and again blossomed into painful glare. Dennis turned toward me. “I heard him.” His voice was raspy. “He said . . . ‘Charlie’s in the light.’” As the second flare fell to the ground and illuminated the parking lot, I thought I saw figures crossing the road. They walked stiff-legged, in an eerie cadence. The flare went out. “Wake him up,” I heard myself whisper. “Dennis … dear God … wake him up.” 4 Dennis stared stupidly at me, and I started to jump across the counter to get to Price myself. A gout of flame leapt in the parking lot. Sparks marched across the concrete. I shouted, “Get down!” and twisted around to push Cheryl back behind the shelter of the counter. “What the hell—” Dennis said. He didn’t finish. There was the metallic thumping of bullets hitting the gas pumps and the cars. I knew if that gas blew we were all dead. My truck shuddered with the impact of slugs, and I saw the whole thing explode as I ducked behind the counter. Then the windows blew inward with a god-awful crash, and the diner was full of flying glass, swirling wind, and sheets of rain. I heard Lindy scream, and both the kids were crying, and I think I was shouting something myself. The lights had gone out, and the only illumination was the reflection of red neon off the concrete and the glow of the fluorescents over the gas pumps. Bullets whacked into the wall, and crockery shattered as if it had been hit with a hammer. Napkins and sugar packets were flying everywhere. Cheryl was holding on to me as if her fingers were nails sunk to my bones. Her eyes were wide and dazed, and she kept trying to speak. Her mouth was working, but nothing came out. There was another explosion as one of the other cars blew. The whole place shook, and I almost puked with fear. Another hail of bullets hit the wall. They were tracers, and they jumped and ricocheted like white-hot cigarette butts. One of them sang off the edge of a shelf and fell to the floor about three feet away from me. The glowing slug began to fade, like the beer can and the mirage steak. I put my hand out to find it, but all I felt was splinters of glass and crockery. A phantom bullet, I thought. Real enough to cause damage and death—and then gone. You don’t want me around here, Mr. Trooper, Price had warned. Not with the body count I’ve got in my head. The firing stopped. I got free of Cheryl and said, “You stay right here.” Then I looked up over the counter and saw my truck and the station wagon on fire, the flames being whipped by the wind. Rain slapped me across the face as it swept in where the window glass used to be. I saw Price lying still huddled on the floor, with pieces of glass all around him. His hands were clawing the air, and in the flickering red neon his face was contorted, his eyes still closed. The pool of ketchup around his head made him look like his skull had been split open. He was peering into hell, and I averted my eyes before I lost my own mind. Ray and Lindy and the two children had huddled under the table of their booth. The woman was sobbing brokenly. I looked at Dennis, lying a few feet from Price: he was sprawled on his face, and there were four holes punched through his back. It was not ketchup that ran in rivulets around Dennis’ body. His right arm was outflung, and the fingers twitched around the gun he gripped. Another flare sailed up from the woods like a Fourth of July sparkler. When the light brightened, I saw them: at least five figures, maybe more. They were crouched over, coming across the parking lot—but slowly, the speed of nightmares. Their clothes flapped and hung around them, and the flare’s light glanced off their helmets. They were carrying weapons—rifles, I guessed. I couldn’t see their faces, and that was for the best. On the floor, Price moaned. I heard him say “light … in the light …” The flare hung right over the diner. And then I knew what was going on. We were in the light. We were all caught in Price’s nightmare, and the Nightcrawlers that Price had left in the mud were fighting the battle again—the same way it had been fought at the Pines Haven Motor Inn. The Nightcrawlers had come back to life, powered by Price’s guilt and whatever that Howdy Doody shit had done to him. And we were in the light, where Charlie had been out in that rice paddy. There was a noise like castanets clicking. Dots of fire arced through the broken windows and thudded into the counter. The stools squealed as they were hit and spun. The cash register rang and the drawer popped open, and then the entire register blew apart and bills and coins scattered. I ducked my head, but a wasp of fire—I don’t, know what, a bit of metal or glass maybe—sliced my left cheek open from ear to upper lip. I fell to the floor behind the counter with blood running down my face. A blast shook the rest of the cups, saucers, plates, and glasses off the shelves. The whole roof buckled inward, throwing loose ceiling tiles, light fixtures, and pieces of metal framework. We were all going to die. I knew it, right then. Those things were going to destroy us. But I thought of the pistol in Dennis’ hand, and of Price lying near the door. If we were caught in Price’s nightmare and the blow from the ketchup bottle had broken something in his skull, then the only way to stop his dream was to kill him. I’m no hero. I was about to piss in my pants, but I knew I was the only one who could move. I jumped up and scrambled over the counter, falling beside Dennis and wrenching at that pistol. Even in death, Dennis had a strong grip. Another blast came, along the wall to my right. The heat of it scorched me, and the shock wave skidded me across the floor through glass and rain and blood. But I had that pistol in my hand. I heard Ray shout, “Look out!” In the doorway, silhouetted by flames, was a skeletal thing wearing muddy green rags. It wore a dented-in helmet and carried a corroded, slime-covered rifle. Its face was gaunt and shadowy, the features hidden behind a scum of rice-paddy muck. It began to lift the rifle to fire at me—slowly, slowly … I got the safety off the pistol and fired twice, without aiming. A spark leapt off the helmet as one of the bullets was deflected, but the figure staggered backward and into the conflagration of the station wagon, where it seemed to melt into ooze before it vanished. More tracers were coming in. Cheryl’s Volkswagen shuddered, the tires blowing out almost in unison. The state-trooper car was already bullet-riddled and sitting on flats. Another Nightcrawler, this one without a helmet and with slime covering the skull where the hair had been, rose up beyond the window and fired its rifle. I heard the bullet whine past my ear, and as I took aim I saw its bony finger tightening on the trigger again. A skillet flew over my head and hit the thing’s shoulder, spoiling its aim. For an instant the skillet stuck in the Nightcrawler’s body, as if the figure itself was made out of mud. I fired once … twice … and saw pieces of matter fly from the thing’s chest. What might’ve been a mouth opened in a soundless scream, and the thing slithered out of sight. I looked around. Cheryl was standing behind the counter, weaving on her feet, her face white with shock. “Get down!” I shouted, and she ducked for cover. I crawled to Price, shook him hard. His eyes would not open. “Wake up!” I begged him. “Wake up, damn you!” And then I pressed the barrel of the pistol against Price’s head. Dear God, I didn’t want to kill anybody, but I knew I was going to have to blow the Nightcrawlers right out of his brain. I hesitated—too long. Something smashed into my left collarbone. I heard the bone snap like a broomstick being broken. The force of the shot slid me back against the counter and jammed me between two bullet-pocked stools. I lost the gun, and there was a roaring in my head that deafened me. I don’t know how long I was out. My left arm felt like dead meat. All the cars in the lot were burning, and there was a hole in the diner’s roof that a tractor-trailer truck could’ve dropped through. Rain was sweeping into my face, and when I wiped my eyes clear I saw them, standing over Price. There were eight of them. The two I thought I’d killed were back. They trailed weeds, and their boots and ragged clothes were covered with mud. They stood in silence, staring down at their living comrade. I was too tired to scream. I couldn’t even whimper. I just watched. Price’s hands lifted into the air. He reached for the Nightcrawlers, and then his eyes opened. His pupils were dead white, surrounded by scarlet. “End it,” he whispered. “End it …” One of the Nightcrawlers aimed its rifle and fired. Price jerked. Another Nightcrawler fired, and then they were all firing point-blank into Price’s body. Price thrashed and clutched at his head, but there was no blood; the phantom bullets weren’t hitting him. The Nightcrawlers began to ripple and fade. I saw the flames of the burning cars through their bodies. The figures became transparent, floating in vague outlines. Price had awakened too fast at the Pines Haven Motor Inn, I realized; if he had remained asleep, the creatures of his nightmares would’ve ended it there, at that Florida motel. They were killing him in front of me—or he was allowing them to end it, and I think that’s what he must’ve wanted for a long, long time. He shuddered, his mouth releasing a half-moan, half-sigh. It sounded almost like relief. The Nightcrawlers vanished. Price didn’t move anymore. I saw his face. His eyes were closed, and I think he must’ve found peace at last. 5 A trucker hauling lumber from Mobile to Birmingham saw the burning cars. I don’t even remember what he looked like. Ray was cut up by glass, but his wife and the kids were okay. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I couldn’t say. Cheryl went into the hospital for a while. I got a postcard from her with the Golden Gate Bridge on the front. She promised she’d write and let me know how she was doing, but I doubt if I’ll ever hear from her. She was the best waitress I ever had, and I wish her luck. The police asked me a thousand questions, and I told the story the same way every time. I found out later that no bullets or shrapnel were ever dug out of the walls or the cars or Dennis’ body—just like in the case of that motel massacre. There was no bullet in me, though my collarbone was snapped clean in two. Price had died of a massive brain hemorrhage. It looked, the police told me, as if it had exploded in his skull. I closed the diner. Farm life is fine. Alma understands, and we don’t talk about it. But I never showed the police what I found, and I don’t know exactly why not. I picked up Price’s wallet in the mess. Behind a picture of a smiling young woman holding a baby there was a folded piece of paper. On that paper were the names of four men. Beside one name, Price had written “Dangerous.” I’ve found four other ’Nam vets who can do the same thing, Price had said. I sit up at night a lot, thinking about that and looking at those names. Those men had gotten a dose of that Howdy Doody shit in a foreign place they hadn’t wanted to be, fighting a war that turned out to be one of those crossroads of nightmare and reality. I’ve changed my mind about ’Nam because I understand now that the worst of the fighting is still going on, in the battlefields of memory. A Yankee who called himself Tompkins came to my house one May morning and flashed me an ID that said he worked for a veterans’ association. He was very soft-spoken and polite, but he had deep-set eyes that were almost black, and he never blinked. He asked me all about Price, seemed real interested in picking my brain of every detail. I told him the police had the story, and I couldn’t add any more to it. Then I turned the tables and asked him about Howdy Doody. He smiled in a puzzled kind of way and said he’d never heard of any chemical defoliant called that. No such thing, he said. Like I say, he was very polite. But I know the shape of a gun tucked into a shoulder holster. Tompkins was wearing one under his seersucker coat. I never could find any veterans’ association that knew anything about him, either. Maybe I should give that list of names to the police. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll try to find those four men myself, and try to make some sense out of what’s being hidden. I don’t think Price was evil. No. He was just scared, and who can blame a man for running from his own nightmares? I like to believe that, in the end, Price had the courage to face the Nightcrawlers, and in committing suicide he saved our lives. The newspapers, of course, never got the real story. They called Price a ’Nam vet who’d gone crazy, killed six people in a Florida motel, and then killed a state trooper in a shoot-out at Big Bob’s diner and gas stop. But I know where Price is buried. They sell little American flags at the five-and-dime in Mobile. I’m alive, and I can spare the change. And then I’ve got to find out how much courage I have.

From Horror photos & videos June 23, 2018 at 08:00PM

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