Man Without a Country

By Jeff Prebis

John McCoy, guidance counselor, is not quite sane, as evidenced by the purchase of a chimp shortly after his family was murdered. Bobby Dupri, student, may be the Anti-Christ, bent on creating a world populated only by white people.

An unusual epidemic breaks when people are mentally reprogrammed after going to social networks or checking their email. Even stranger, they begin building things with the items they collected. Then nuclear bombs start destroying cities while an army gathers in the ashes, eager to take over the nation. Will America just be a pile of ash owned by an invisible army of a monster’s creation? Only a barely sane guidance counselor, the nurse at his school, and his pet chimp stand in their way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Permuted
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781618684615

Jeff Prebis

Jeff Prebis is the author of the novel, The Debacle, and the boldest short story collection to come out in years called Walking On Razor Blades: Stories Of Death, Blood, And Sex. He resides in southeastern Virginia, and is seldom seen. Once in a while when the moon is full you will find him on the loose. His influences include Chuck Palahniuk, Phillip K. Dick, and Clive Barker.

Book preview

Fifteen months ago.

It was a cold November night, shortly after midnight. Rain was falling heavily and a strong, howling wind blew against houses. The wind had a voice, an angry one. The wind masked the sound of a window breaking on the first floor when a hammer struck it.

On the second floor in his library, John McCoy slept in his leather chair with his feet up, an open book on his lap. Two walls were decorated with books on two tall shelves; a computer on a desk was against the other wall. A window was behind the computer, and the fourth wall had pictures of McCoy’s wife and children, smiling with happy faces.

They would die tonight.

Six individuals climbed through the opening created by the hammer. Giddy laughter from the intruders that was just low enough to be muffled by the wind. They stomped mud onto the carpet with their Papa Giorgio boots, leaving perfect imprints of the treads on the beige carpet.

On a white wall they spray-painted racial slurs. The paint was red, a little too bright to be confused with blood. The theft of the paint was random, no particular color in mind, just whatever kind could be stolen. However, they were delighted that it was red.

From the living room to the kitchen, the intruders strolled casually as if they had all the time in the world, and no need for any urgency. Fearlessly they prepared a steak dinner; broiling four steaks, and boiling potatoes in pots. The smell of the food cooking rose into the air, and traveled through the house. Upstairs a low snore crept out of McCoy. His wife, Monique, was stretched out on the middle of their king-sized bed with two pillows propped beneath her head, limbs askew. Braylon’s room was blue and he slept beneath blue sheets with his head on a blue pillow. Jayna’s room was pink and she slept beneath pink sheets in a room with dozens of dolls. Not one of them smelled the food cooking.

After eating, the intruders poured condiments on the kitchen floor, and tossed eggs against walls. Frozen foods were thrown in the dishwasher. The dishes the intruders used for eating were left on the counter covered with the remains of their meal.

They had a directive, a job to do. Play time was over. Giggling, they ascended the stairs. Their Papa Giorgio boots stomped on the steps. No stealth at all. No fear.

Braylon woke from his sleep, awakened by the giggling, and squinted at the door. Wanting to see what was so funny, he moved his blue sheets aside and stepped out of bed in his blue pajamas. The door opened for him, and he walked into the blade of a sharp knife that entered his chest, came out, and went back in thirty-six more times. The attack was so sudden that he couldn’t utter a sound. One of the intruders turned on the hallway lights, and the light creeping into the master bedroom woke Monique from her sleep. She rolled out of bed in a white nightgown with a lacy collar and lacy ends to the sleeves. Squinting from the bright lights of the hallway, she saw two shadows burst into her room and felt the cold steel enter her chest, slash her throat, tear open her mouth, and pulverize her abdomen. Twenty-six stab wounds. One bloodcurdling scream escaped her before she stopped breathing. The scream woke Jayna and McCoy from dreamless sleeps. McCoy closed his book, using an old movie ticket for a bookmark, and used the lever on the side of the chair to straighten it back into its normal position. His reaction time was slow. Lethargically, he walked to the door with his robe open. His white undershirt and black boxers were exposed. His hand gripped the doorknob. Before he could turn it, the door burst open suddenly, and knocked him back a few feet. A figure garbed in a white gown with a paper bag on its head slid a butcher knife across his chest. The blade cut deep inside him, and his hands clutched the wound desperately to keep his blood from pouring out. McCoy’s attacker had crude eyeholes and a jagged mouth carved into the paper. Turning white, he fainted on the beige carpet of his library, and the blood flowed freely from the wound.

Jayna’s room was breached. A scream and then giddy laughter. In a dazed half-sleep, the giggling haunted McCoy who fought hard to stay conscious. He labored back to wakefulness and reached for his cell phone on the small table in the center of the room, punching 911 on the cell phone keys. His shirt was soaked with his blood. The sound of the knives entering his daughter drifted to him, and he shouted helplessly, clinging precariously to wakefulness. The dispatcher couldn’t understand his frantic mumbling, but caught the word murder, and promised three officers would be at his residence immediately. Foam formed in his mouth, too much not to vomit. His vision showed him stroboscopic images of a Rorschach test. Then full darkness came.

The police arrived. Flashing lights. Shouting voices. The door was broken down. Stomping feet on the stairs. More shouts. The carnage identified. In no time at all, guns were pointed at McCoy, and he was catatonic. Two officers lifted him from the beige carpet, which had soaked up plenty of his blood during his blackout, and handcuffed him. They took him downstairs to the living room, sat him down on his black leather couch, and a detective named Collison fired questions at him. He dazedly gave his statement of what happened. His rights were read to him. Shaking his head, he protested the arrest, and the detective wouldn’t listen. Before the bodies were even removed from the house, he was escorted out and forced to sit down on the grass. From that vantage point he watched as the bodies of his family were brought from the house.

A few rough nights and days in a solitary cell and an interrogation room followed. No food, no beverages, just constant questioning. Seventeen stitches in his chest. Muddy footprints from boots that he didn’t own were all over the house. Multiple sets of boot prints that clearly indicated multiple intruders. No murder weapon was left at the scene.

On his fourth day in jail, Detective Collison decided that there was too much evidence pointing to multiple killers, and a total lack of evidence that indicated any culpability on McCoy’s part and he was finally released. Freedom didn’t make him feel any better about his life.

He would never be the same. People looked at him differently, talked behind his back. Monique’s family would never speak to him again. The sun would shine on others, however, not on him. The world seemed dark and unpleasant again, and that was the way his life was up until the moment Monique came into his life, and brought two wonderful children into the world.

Chapter 2

Bobby Dupri sat in a chair across from McCoy. The chair kept him below McCoy, who sat in a large leather chair behind a fine oak desk with four pictures on it. The pictures were of Monique, Braylon, Jayna, and his chimpanzee named Freddie. He would never forget his family, never stop mourning. Dark bags were beneath the eyes of both the guidance counselor and student, as if they never slept. Twirling a small rubber ball decorated to look like a minute Earth in his right hand, McCoy stared at Bobby disdainfully. This was their one hundred-sixteenth meeting in four years. Every meeting was caused by some misbehavior on Bobby’s part. Earlier today Bobby had tossed a lit cigarette into a trashcan, sparking a small fire that caused the fire alarm to be pulled, classes to be halted in progress, and the arrival of the fire department. As usual, he was brought to McCoy for a discussion.

So why did you do it? McCoy asked directly, with a stern tone to his voice. He turned the globe in his hand and looked straight into Bobby’s face.

Without looking up, Bobby composed a text message to someone, and sent it.

Are you listening to me? McCoy asked, growing irritated. We are talking about attempted arson. That is an expellable offense or worse.

Bobby’s eyes remained on the phone, waiting for a response to his message. For a moment, he looked into McCoy’s blue eyes with his green eyes. An arrogant smirk played across his lips.

It was an accident, he said and shrugged. I didn’t mean to throw it in the trash can.

Jimmy said you did it to get some guys out of a class because they weren’t prepared for a test, McCoy replied back. Personally I think you should be expelled. You are a dangerous young man.

You don’t have to be mean, Bobby responded, as if he was really hurt. I’ve been supportive of you since the murder of your family. I thought we were friends. The principal likes me. He thinks I’m an exemplary student.

McCoy’s face crinkled at the mention of his family’s murder. The pictures on his desk. The happiness in their faces. Flashbacks to that horrible night. The blood. All that blood. The jagged scar on his chest.

I’m sorry to bring up the murders, Bobby said with false sincerity.

No, you’re not, McCoy said aggressively. You mention the murders every chance you get. You’re a cross between Ferris Bueller and Charles Manson. This is the worst thing you’ve done yet.

Why would I start a fire intentionally? Bobby asked incredulously.

Like I said, to get the other students out of class, McCoy said decisively. I’ve seen how the students follow you. You became senior class president by unanimous decision. You’re dangerous and scary.

Maybe you’re overreacting a bit, Bobby said in rebuttal. Maybe you haven’t been sane since the murder of your family. Cracking under the pain. You have a grudge against me for some reason.

I have a master’s degree in psychology, McCoy responded. I’m qualified to judge you for what you are.

Just because a group of teenagers killed your wife and kids doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me, Bobby shot back.

No one had said teenagers killed McCoy’s family. There were no suspects, no motive. Just the muddy footprints that proved McCoy didn’t do it. The treads of the Papa Giorgio boots on the carpet.

We’re done with this meeting. I’ll make my recommendation to the principal.

Keep your head up, Bobby said. I’m sure they’ll find the killers soon.

McCoy squeezed the ball in his hand, and he set it down before he actually crushed it. Bobby rose from his chair, stared at his phone, and pressed the keys on the keypad to compose another text message. Without raising his eyes, he walked to the door, opened it, and walked out without saying goodbye or looking back at McCoy. The door closed slowly. For a moment, McCoy lost his composure, and became choked up. Tears formed in his eyes, and an obstruction materialized in his throat.

He was sure Bobby had something to do with the murder of his family. For four years, he’d attempted to guide the young man through his high school career, and throughout those four years he caused trouble, and McCoy responded in a matter-of-fact way each time, advised him that he needed to behave, eventually recommending to the principal that Bobby be expelled. The principal never listened. On cue, Principal Anderson entered the room without knocking and took a seat in the small chair that was about the same height as McCoy’s desk.

I know you want him expelled, Principal Anderson said without preamble. He’s a straight A student. A genius, an asset to this institution. He’s headed to an Ivy League school.

He’s homicidal, McCoy muttered. "He’s a lunatic.

I heard a disconcerting rumor, Principal Anderson said conspiratorially and leaned closer to the desk for effect. I heard you believe the murderers of your family trace back to our school. Is that true?

No, McCoy lied.

Yes, he believed that, and that Bobby was involved. Bobby was a young Charles Manson and the student body was his cult. Women in particular were vulnerable to his machinations.

What’s your opinion of this recent incident? Principal Anderson asked candidly.

I think he’s dangerous. He needs to be expelled and committed to a psychiatric hospital before something very bad happens, McCoy replied.

Principal Anderson looked at his credentials on the wall, down at the backs of the picture frames on his desk, and into McCoy’s eyes without a word. He scratched his hairless chin thoughtfully. Behind McCoy, the sun was shining in on them from the window.

McCoy slid his chair over to a coffee pot on the floor two feet from his desk. He picked up the pot and poured more coffee into the cup that sat on a wooden coaster on his desk. From a small fridge to the right of his desk he removed a carton of milk, opened the slit, poured some milk in the cup, and placed it back in the fridge. He never used cream.

I’m sorry. Would you like a cup too, sir? McCoy asked.

No, thank you, Principal Anderson said gravely. I hope there isn’t any personal animosity between you and him.

No, it’s not like that, McCoy stated defensively. Though he set a trash can on fire. I base everything on my professional opinion. You did come for my opinion, correct?

Principal Anderson nodded, looked at the street in front of the school, at the passing traffic, and a woman walking a large Irish wolf hound down the block with a complete lack of control of the beast.

This is just a minor infraction, he said dismissively.

McCoy knew that any other student would be expelled and have a hard time getting into another school. However, Bobby Dupri was the rare genius. The exemplary student. He was above the laws that governed others.

Yeah, arson isn’t a big deal, McCoy said sarcastically and sipped his coffee. Principal Anderson frowned.

Why bring him to me? McCoy asked. You don’t care about my opinion. I see a troubled individual, you see a golden boy, and we don’t agree on anything. Just keep him out of here then. Give him one day of in-school suspension for arson. Another slap on the wrist.

What do you recommend then?

More. Expulsion.

What if I give him four days of in-school suspension?

It doesn’t matter, sir, McCoy said flatly. It doesn’t matter at all to him. Every infraction left unpunished makes him look stronger in the eyes of his followers. Expulsion— damaging his future is what needs to happen. You have to prove to his followers that his way isn’t the way.

I’ll give him four days, Principal Anderson said. Would that make you feel better?

No, expulsion is the only way to go, McCoy said candidly. Teach him a lesson.

I’ll go with four days, Principal Anderson said with a scratch of his chin. How have you been feeling lately? I know you’ve been through so much.

I’m fine.

Have you been seeing a therapist?

Yes. I’ve come to terms with my life. I’m a tough guy, sir.

I’ll give him four days in-school suspension. Take care of yourself okay?

I’m okay. I have Freddie at home to keep me company. I’m good.

Freddie was McCoy’s chimpanzee. The fact that he owned a chimpanzee was viewed by others as bizarre. However, his pet was a coping tool. Many people talked behind his back about the presence of the chimp in his life. They pitied him for the life he led. The mere fact that he was still living was a miracle in many respects.

I’ll see you later, McCoy.

Alright, sir.

Chapter 3

A restaurant downtown. A block full of restaurants and clothing stores. It was a cold day outside, and staying under the sun was paramount because stepping into shadows brought a chill to the bones of anyone. The restaurant wasn’t upscale. It served a diverse collection of clientele made up of high school teachers, college professors, nurses, guidance counselors, and college students who wanted a drink toward the end of the afternoon. McCoy and his friend Mya, the high school’s nurse, didn’t have the money for an expensive restaurant. They liked to eat out after work and talk about the day’s events. They dined together a few times a week. Mya wanted more from McCoy. He just wanted a friend. She wanted him as a lover, but understood that he was going through a grieving period after the murder of his family.

A plate of spaghetti was in front of her and a plate of chicken Alfredo was in front of McCoy. Mya had dark brown skin and dark wavy hair. She twirled strands of spaghetti around her fork fervently, put the strands to her mouth, and chewed. McCoy stabbed his meal with his fork, and raised pieces of chicken and noodles to his mouth.

After a bite, Mya said, You should come back to my house later. There was seduction in her voice.

Maybe one of these days, he said lackadaisically. I need to talk to Detective Collison about the case.

You have to take a step away, Mya replied earnestly. You’re obsessed with the case. Let things happen. You have to live a little now, and enjoy yourself. You can’t dwell upon this bleakness.

I’m not. Freddie…and you keep me happy.

The principal favors Bobby, she said plainly. He is a great student. Smart.

McCoy shook his head. It was as if he was the only person in the world that saw the evil in Bobby. Everyone was against him in his thinking.

Bobby Dupri walked into the dining area of the restaurant, accompanied by three girls with dark hair and dark clothing. Like Bobby, the girls had pale skin as if they’d spent the last year in a cave. Dark bags lurked beneath their eyes, the same as Bobby and McCoy. Instantly a frown crept onto McCoy’s face.. The waiter laid menus down for the quartet. Bobby casually slipped some folded money into the waiter’s hand and a smile crept onto the man’s face. The table was twenty feet from McCoy and Mya.

It’s not a coincidence that he’s here, McCoy said conspiratorially. He followed us.

Mya shook her head. It’s a coincidence, she said disbelievingly. We come up here a few times a week. We’re bound to run into anyone anytime. Smiling, she reached across the table, and touched his fingers with hers. You’re not alone in this world. You have me. Why don’t you come home with me tonight?

I can’t, he said and shook his head. It’s too soon. My wife was killed only fifteen months ago.

At the other table, Bobby laughed loudly, obnoxiously, and the girls joined him rancorously. He made gestures and spoke in a low voice that McCoy couldn’t hear. The laughter. The laughter had to be so loud. When the waiter returned to the table, Bobby gallantly ordered for the girls, pointing at each one as he told the waiter what they wanted. None of them voiced an opinion, and acquiesced with the choices he made for them. His cult.

Bobby looked arrogantly into McCoy’s eyes and waved at him. McCoy’s eyes rose from his plate of food to Bobby’s table. The waiter was familiar, though his name escaped McCoy. He’d graduated from their high school a year or two ago. Another member of Bobby’s cult.

Mya cleared her throat. Let’s see a movie, she said hopefully. I go home and I’m all alone. My daughter is away at college. I don’t have any friends outside of you. Her brown eyes twinkled. Her teeth sparkled with whiteness as she smiled at him.

Okay, he said amiably.

Pleased, Mya clapped her hands. She brought out her cell phone and checked out some movie listings by pushing her finger across the screen of the phone.

The last time he went to a movie, McCoy had taken Freddie, and everyone gave him weird looks. Freddie enjoyed movies, though it was unclear if he understood what was happening. Most nights McCoy read books in his library and Freddie watched movies on his bed.

Mya recited some current movie titles out to him, and he didn’t recognize any of them. He never watched television, and consequently never saw commercials advertising new movies.

Across the room the waiter brought some beer to the table for Bobby and his girls. Fancy beer in colorful bottles for a table of teenagers.

Unbelievable! McCoy exclaimed, appalled. He’s only eighteen and those girls have to be eighteen or less.

Give him a break, Mya said much too sympathetically for McCoy’s liking. He’s a kid having fun. I drank underage when I was in high school. You probably did too.

Never, McCoy said glumly, not looking at her but staring at the fancy bottle of beer rising to Bobby’s mouth.

You’re saying you never drank once when you were under twenty-one? Mya said disbelievingly. Not one time.

Alright, once, McCoy admitted reluctantly. But him. He gets away with everything. I have to tell someone.

Before McCoy could summon the waiter who’d served Bobby to the table, another waitress came to their table and placed two shots of tequila down. Across the room, Bobby raised his glass of beer, and McCoy shook his head. That kid’s not twenty-one, he said angrily to the waitress. He’s eighteen. He goes to my high school.

Who, Mr. Lincoln over there? she asked. Abraham always comes up here. He’s the best tipper. He’s twenty-five years old.

No, no, no, McCoy said dismissively. Abraham fucking Lincoln? Come on. Don’t be ridiculous. Who is named Abraham Lincoln?

Sir, he bought these shots for you and the lady here, the dark-haired waitress said and batted her eyelashes at him. Mya lifted her shot up.

Go ahead, she told him. Take the shot. It’s a peace offering.

Can I speak to the manager? McCoy asked the waitress.

He knows Mr. Lincoln too, the waitress said defensively.

Get the manager, please, McCoy snapped, and her pale face turned red.

A few minutes later, the manager walked to their table in a black pinstriped suit with a white collared shirt, and black tie. He had a bald pate, a thin goatee, and curly hair on the sides of his head.

McCoy unleashed a tirade upon the manager, and the man folded his arms across his chest. His eyebrows sloped in a disapproving manner.

Sir, the manager interrupted. Mr. Lincoln is one of our most frequent customers. I don’t want you bothering him, and if you persist I will have to ask you to leave.

I eat here like three times a week… with her…you had to have seen me. I’m telling you right now that he’s underage! McCoy said angrily.

You’re wrong, sir, the manager said defiantly. I’ve seen Mr. Lincoln’s identification.

What about the girls? McCoy asked.

I’ve seen their identification as well, the manager stated with conviction.

I’m going to call the police, McCoy announced.

Please leave my restaurant now, the manager said through gritted teeth. I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace if you don’t.

Utterly defeated, McCoy lifted the shot to his lips, and downed it with a hiss from its potency. We didn’t even get to finish our food, he said disappointedly.

You have lost that opportunity, the manager said, shook his head, and pointed to the door.

Let’s go, Mya said.

Don’t ever come back, the manager said definitively. Across the room at his table, Bobby smiled, and whispered to his followers. The manager had a pierced ear and dark hair. It was unusually dark, as if he’d dyed it black. The black hair reminded McCoy of Bobby and his followers. The manager was one of them. The waitress appeared at the table with the bill, and McCoy snatched it from her, produced some cash from his wallet, and gave it to her. There was no tip added. Have a good day, McCoy snapped.

Chapter 4

McCoy and Mya went to the movies. He didn’t stop talking about Bobby, even after she told him to shut up. The young man and his actions were embedded in McCoy’s skull. They chose the movie McCoy wanted to see. It was a comedy; he’d vetoed her horror movie choice. Tickets, popcorn and drinks were bought, and they were in the theater, serried in the middle of other people with problems of their own that they felt the need to vent about.

Mya talked about kids she actually liked. McCoy tried to interrupt and talk about Bobby until she stopped him, and talked positively. The theater was crowded. Expecting to find Bobby inside it, he looked around suspiciously while she spoke, and saw only the faces of strangers. Still, he didn’t trust them, and wondered whether they were in cahoots with Bobby. He sought dark hair and dark clothing, and saw plenty of possible suspects.

Look me in my eyes when I’m talking, Mya scolded.

McCoy tried to tell her about his suspicions, but she put a finger to his lips and silenced him, and continued