A Month of Sundays

By Jay Harez

Curtis couldn’t have been happier when he was offered a chance to live rent free in a quiet suburb if he would keep watch on the neighborhood.
As the days pass Curtis becomes suspicious of his new benefactors and even more so of his neighbors.
He realizes far too late that he is in the middle of something far bigger and older than himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Harez
• Release date: Apr 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311068491

Jay Harez

Jay Harez was born in Texas. During his early twenties he traveled extensively throughout Mexico and the United States. The majority of the stories he writes are loosely based on the places he has been and the people he has met along the way. His experiences in Mexico were the most influential and second only to his love of history for source material. Great writers such as J. MIchael Straczynski, Wilbur Smith, Garry Jennings, Quentin Tarantino, Elmore Leonard, and Aaron Sorkin have had a significant influence on his characters and overall style. Jay is a comic and graphic novel reader from childhood where he was introduced to writers like Warren Ellis, Allen Moore and Frank Miller. Jay lives in Austin, where he enjoys scotch, plays chess and travels whenever opportunity permits.

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A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

By

Jay Harez

Copyright © 2016 by Jay Harez. All rights reserved.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

This Evening

One Month Ago

Sunday Evening

Brownstone Cellar Now

Midnight

Epilogue

THIS EVENING

Curtis awoke on a cold, stone floor. He was certain he was in a basement and he was certain that he had been drugged. Of course he had no way to verify either, but he was certain. He wasn’t thirsty. He had always seen in the movies that if you were drugged you woke up thirsty.

His stomach began to ache and it wasn’t the normal acid reflux related pain that he had grown accustomed to over the years. This was something else. It made him curl into the fetal position. He clenched his teeth to prevent himself from screaming. He was sweating despite the room being cool and the floor being even cooler.

Through his gasps he could hear the voices outside of his cell. It was a man speaking to a woman. Different men had spoken to her over the past few…days? He wasn’t certain how long he had been here. The recurring pain was the only certainty.

He was wearing only his boxers. His hands were manacled, as were his feet. His face was mildly bruised. When his mind registered the bruise on his face it was a relief because it meant the pain in his stomach had subsided, even if only for a moment.

The voices came again.

Is he progressing? the man’s voice asked. Curtis knew that voice. He recognized the voice from before. Where was he before this cell? And why was he in this cell at all? He couldn’t remember. His mind was focused on the steady build-up in his stomach.

He’s still fighting it but… the woman sobbed I can’t go through this again, she said with more resolution than sadness.

If it comes to it… the man hesitated I’ll do it.

Thank you, the female voice said.

Curtis knew they were talking about him. He knew he was in danger, but he couldn’t figure out anything else. He made an effort to speak but the pain in his stomach put his entire body into a clench. Something was happening to him. He lay flat on the floor. He saw a cot with one of those prison-thin mattresses that he presumed he had long ago rolled off of.

He finally got the courage to look at his stomach. He saw movement. In his mind some sort of crustacean was seeking egress. He couldn’t see it but he knew what it looked like nonetheless. The pain! What was happening to him? What was inside of him?

This time he did scream. Through it, he heard the woman scream as well.

He awoke in his own filth. Apparently he had soiled himself while he slept. His muscles ached. His entire body ached. Then he was thirsty, extremely thirsty.

He sat up. In disgust he tore his boxers off and threw them into a corner of the cell. Something in the soiled heap moved or writhed rather. He wretched.

A small panel in the upper part of the door slid open. The light temporarily blinded Curtis. The single bar dividing the otherwise open slot bisected two eyes.

Curtis? the woman asked.

Yes, he responded back.

Do you know who I am? the woman asked. Her eyes looked suspicious and hopeful all at once.

Sonny, Curtis said. Then he remembered. He looked down at his sweaty filthy body and felt angry and confused all at once.

I’ll be right back, she said and closed the slot.

Curtis looked around the cell. It was more or less a modern dungeon. The floor was tiled, but not clean. The ceiling was arched and the door he had spoken through was the only exit. What the hell? He asked himself.

He noticed the sink for the first time. He lunged for it, only to be reminded by the rapidly rising floor that he was manacled. He pulled himself up and made his way toward the sink again as quickly as his limited stride would take him.

He drank directly from the tap. He took long gulps until he thought he couldn’t drink any more. The Britta water filter didn’t really fit the setting but he was grateful for it.

More came back to him and as his memories solidified; his anger gave way to fear. He understood what evil was for the first time in his life because he had seen it, first-hand. The worst part was that he was its pawn.

The boxer shorts moved again. He slowly hobbled to where they were. The lower part of the ceiling forced him to place one hand on the sloping wall as he leaned to look down into the pile. He lifted his bare foot to the maximum height his chains would allow and stomped the pile repeatedly.

ONE MONTH AGO

An old man opened the door. He was only old in the eyes though. He had a full head of hair, lean wiry build, but not too tall. The man appeared small but that was mostly because he was wearing a flannel shirt and coveralls both a size too large. The old man made no move to open the screen door that separated the two men.

Tanner at the door. How may I be of assistance? The old man asked.

…just moved into one of the cottages, Curtis made a thumbing gesture over his shoulder.

The old man was staring at Curtis. Then Curtis got the distinct impression that the old man was