Collision

By Eric McLaughlin

   "Collision" is a dark, urban fantasy and historical fiction thriller from exciting debut author, Eric Mclaughlin. 

   The Resistance is nearly finished, a shell of its former self. Even at its best however, it was little more than an annoyance to the mysterious, world-spanning and all-powerful Pen Draig. Now the Pen Draig is coming for something the Resistance has been hiding, something that could end the struggle between them once and for all. The only thing standing in the way is Ethan Daniel. Ethan wants nothing more than to propose to the love of his life and graduate with something resembling a decent GPA, but a deranged father and a fiery collision throw him headlong into a battle for the world and a war for his very soul. Can he save the world and the woman he loves from the unrelenting onslaught of the Pen Draig? Can he save himself? Can he stay himself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric McLaughlin
• Release date: May 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533787927

Eric McLaughlin

     As my wife could tell you, I hate these things. Talking about myself has never been my idea of a good time. With that in mind, I am a twenty-something from Billerica Mass who got pretty lucky in his family, friends and wife. I like to read some stuff. I like to write some stuff. Thank you for purchasing this book and thank you for reading.

Book preview

I

For the first time in not nearly enough years, Ethan saw the house in which he grew up. Through ice layered pine boughs reflecting the light of an almost full moon, he spied its crumbling chimney and rusted weathervane. He was still some distance away, but he heard that weathervane creaking endlessly in his head. The car rumbled beneath him and his palms began to feel slick against the faux blue leather wheel. That house with its sparse lawn imprisoned by a stark chain-link fence were the settings of his darkest nightmares—scenes full of black silhouettes haloed against the yellow glow of dying bulbs, rushing toward him with the speed only the violent seemed to attain. The subject of those nightmares was probably in the house right now. Ethan pictured him crushing Bud Heavies and swearing at the Sox in his stained white tank and dirt-caked blue jeans. The man in his memory turned his head with beer still dribbling off his gluttonous lips, his wicked eyes landing on Ethan. Ethan’s vision swam and his nose filled with the stench of blood, his mouth the taste of vomit. He pulled over with a squeal and a splash, spraying mud and sleet in equal measure. 

Jesus, what am I thinking? Ethan ran sweat-soaked fingers through his hair. The man who had tormented him for much of his remembered childhood was so close—too close. Ethan knew they were only memories, constructs he tortured himself with, but powerful ones. They threatened to turn the wheel and mash the pedal to the floor, forcing him back the way he came.

He had to be tough though. He had to stay. He had to fight that feeling. If he was going to be the man he wanted to be, the man she needed him to be, then he had to face his demons. You can’t be a husband and still be scared of getting spanked by your dad. But it was no spanking and his father was no dad. He wanted to marry Allison more than anything. He wanted to marry her even more than he didn’t want to go home.

Ethan tried to remember the times before his father thought his son was nothing more than a speed bag. Times when they went out for family trips and he shared secret smiles with his mother, and kissed Ethan’s head when it was time to go to sleep. There weren’t many memories left after all the years of abuse, but they were the reason he thought it was possible at all to come home and do what he came here to do. He tried to wrap himself in them like a comforting blanket. C’mon E, it’s gunna be fine...right?

Ethan glared at his old house like a hostage at gunpoint. Its green paint, chipped and flaking in long streaks, revealed a much older shade of red beneath. The effect was that on nights like tonight it appeared as though the house was ravaged by some huge beast. The beast was indeed there, but not nearly so large.

Empowered by that last thought, Ethan put the car in drive and accelerated into the sludge once more. He swung the ’96 white Chevy shit box into the once familiar gravel driveway and killed the engine, the vibrations dying around him. Deliberately, he grabbed the latch and pushed open the door. Frigid December air slapped the tear stains on his face. It was a good reminder. Gordon Daniel would never let him get away with tear stains on his face. Ethan licked the bottom of his red flannel shirt and rubbed himself clean as he traversed semi-melted ice and scattered rock salt towards the rear of the car.

Ethan checked the spare he threw on a few miles back. It was a cheap stalling tactic, but the fear he felt was real. After he made sure all was well, he checked it again before moving on. Better to be safe than sorry, he lied to himself.

Everything was quiet but the howl of the wind. The neighborhood was secure in their locked and alarmed split levels, safe from the unknowable specters of the night and comforted by the suburban quiet. That was until Ethan stomped up the concrete steps leading to his father’s front door, a barbarian ravaging the civilized silence. Sorry. He wasn’t here to disturb anyone, though he feared it was a forgone conclusion.

He made a fist and hefted it up at the dented, white-aluminum door in preparation of knocking. It hovered there. Last chance. This was the point of no return. From here on out he had to be committed. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and knocked, twice and hard. There was no response. Again he knocked. Again he was met with cold and silence as his breath fogged before him.

Ethan turned away, not sure what to make of the knot of emotions churning in his gut. The scrape of metal against metal stopped him, followed by a slow, ominous creak. The tired exhale announced his father, but the squishing sound of someone spitting cemented it. He didn’t need to look down at the nasty little puddle of brown saliva or smell the mint and vomit stench to know it was wintergreen Skoal.

Who the fuck are you? Gordon Daniel asked, sounding like a punch-drunk boxer, his thick Boston accent returned by years of hitting the bottle, hard. Ethan still remembered the measured diction of a doctor, a man who enjoyed helping people, but that was someone else’s life.

Ethan turned, facing his life-long scourge. This was the man who destroyed his childhood. This was the man whose mercy and empathy were amputated along with his parenting skills the night Ethan’s mother died. The man who probably would have killed him four years ago had he not gotten away. Gordon was a little more stooped, a little grayer than the last time Ethan saw him, but those eyes never changed. Eyes that had seen souls destroyed and had destroyed more than a few themselves. They never blinked—not that Ethan recalled anyway. Those eyes, the color of tornadoes and hurricanes with as much regard for human life, had not held silly things like remorse inside them for a very long time, but they must have once. When Dr. Daniel was helping patients off the ledge and through the brambles of a mismanaged relationship they must have. They must have when he looked at his wife and child. If that was truly a side to Gordon Daniel, then it was a side Ethan hadn’t seen in many long, bloody years. He forced himself to smile.

Gordon. He managed to get out, and was proud it sounded as strong as it did.

"No shit. Gordon said as light dawned in his marble head. Ethan, is that you? What, you outta money? Need something from dear old Dad?" The old sociopath’s laughter cut straight through Ethan like a razor wind.

Just had some things I thought I should tell you. Mind if I come inside?

I suppose, best make it quick though, I ain’t got all night. Ethan couldn’t for the life of him imagine what his father was doing that was so important, but regardless it suited him just fine. He didn’t want to be there any longer than he had to be.

As he followed his father inside, Ethan felt like a convict taking a tour of his old prison. He broke my arm over there, and I remember when I pissed him off so bad he threw me through that window there. It was a lurid trip down memory lane.

The pair of them made their way down yellow-green halls the color of bile, and into the living room. The floor was littered with liquor bottles and aluminum cans—all of them empty. Ethan saw something with too many legs to count click across the floor into one of them and didn’t even attempt to suppress a shudder. His father dropped down heavily onto one of the beat-up sofas and grabbed a half empty bottle of vodka next to him. He tipped it back and took a deep swig before looking up at Ethan, those death cold eyes swimming, gave a shit-eating grin, and said, So what can I do ya for?

The man was so casual Ethan almost ran out right then. It always started like this. The calm before the storm. Gordon would try to lull him with disarming smiles and understanding nods. Then, with all of the sudden ferocity and venom of a pissed-off rattlesnake, Ethan’s father would lash out, violently.  He was walking very thin ice here. His right hand began to shake, the one that Gordon had broken when Ethan talked back for the last time. With all of the grace of a bag full of drowning cats, Ethan swept that hand behind his back and clamped down on it with the other. His breath became shallow as his throat constricted, and sweat beaded on his brow. Shit, this was a mistake. I never should have come down here. He was losing it. He had to do something before it was too late.

So, he sucked in oxygen as long and as deeply as his lungs would hold. When finally he felt like his lungs would pop, he released the air from his chest in one heavy exhale. On his next breath, a sweet pain flared up in his chest. It was pain sure, but the pain let him know without a doubt that his lungs were working. The trick was something Allison taught him to calm the nerves. It always worked. Something to do with mind over matter, she would to say. It also made him think of her, and that was always a good thing in his book.

The only problem now was that his father was staring at him like a shark smelling blood in the water. Gordon licked his lips. The tension built. Ethan had to do something and fast. Gordon cracked behemoth knuckles, his satanic smile growing only wider. Ethan was out of time and options. Fuck it. There was no way out of this, so he charged ahead with his intended speech.

I came down here to let you know that tomorrow night I am going to propose to Allison. At the mere mention of her name, a fresh rush of adrenaline coursed through Ethan’s veins, and the beginnings of a smile spread on his face. You haven’t met her yet, but believe me she is pure light. The thing is, she’s been asking me for a long time to come down here and patch things up between us, seeing as we’re both adults now. That was a lie, though a small one. Allison had no idea where he was. She didn’t know anything about his family or his past. It was something they constantly talked about. In the end, as always, Ally chose the high road, telling him that she would wait until he was ready to let her in. Okay, maybe not such a little lie. I just figured what better time than now, I guess, Ethan finished in a rush and though he knew he sounded weaker than he had hoped, maybe it was going to be okay after all. He was glad he had gotten it out. It took everything he had, driving down here and telling himself his father had changed. It was all going to be better now. 

Gordon just sat there staring, his eyes slightly glazed as though he was either confused by what he saw or drunk off his ass already. It was anybody’s guess. Perhaps he felt like he was being left out. Ethan had a difficult time caring if that were the case. Beating your kid senseless wasn’t a great way to adhere yourself to his life going forward. In fact, that was exactly what Ethan had done, left the bastard out. Gordon hadn’t seen Ethan in four years and was now being told his only son was getting engaged to a girl he’d never met. He saw why the man would be upset, but those lesser emotions looked wrong on him, like putting a ballet dress on a Bengal tiger. Gordon just wasn’t capable of normal human feelings.

When his father squinted, cocked his head to the side like a bemused puppy, and smirked, Ethan did his best not to bolt for the nearest door. This was going to be bad.

Long ago Ethan had learned to interpret that particular tick to warn of pain and lots of it. The smirk was actually an arrogant and sarcastic half smile that said, "Go ahead, do your best to get out of this one because no matter what, I’m going to eviscerate you and there’s nothing you can do about it."

Wow, that’s a lot to take in, Ethan. Let me just take a second to uh, digest, Gordon began almost introspectively.

Ethan took an involuntary step back. It looked like the area around him got darker, the shadows deeper. His mouth went dry.

"So, four years ago you run out on me and shack up with some whore. Am I on the right track? Not to mention the fact that you killed your own mother five years, six months, and thirteen days before that. Do you even remember that? Now you come crawling back here because your bitch got you by the balls and tells you to fix up with daddy, after four years and nothing so much as a fucking POST CARD!" His father drove two fists into the armrest of the couch and launched himself to his feet, red faced and screaming. The veins in his neck and forehead protruded against scarlet, sweaty flesh. Spittle flew as Gordon roared, his face becoming something crumpled and terrible, but it was the eyes that really got to Ethan. There was simply nothing there, nothing of the rage he was showing, just emptiness. It chilled Ethan to his core.

Well, GUESS WHAT! The former All-State pitcher for the Chelmsford Lions cocked his arm back and threw a perfect ninety-mile an hour fast bottle at Ethan’s head. The only thing that saved him was the fact that he’d expected it. He ducked at the last instant and was rewarded with a piercing smash! and a sticky shower of glass shards and clear liquor. Before he could right himself again, Gordon stood over him, squeezing the broken vodka bottle in his hand like a dagger, dripping sweat and spit and violence.

For what seemed like an eternity, Gordon just stood like that. He loomed over Ethan physically and emotionally; from the light in his eyes and the smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, it was easy to tell he enjoyed the moment.

Deep within Gordon’s reptilian eyes, a light bulb went off, and Ethan wondered how much damage there would be. Slowly, Gordon’s fingers found his pocket. Slowly they retreated, having found their intended prize within. To Ethan’s building, heart stopping, piss-your-pants horror, Gordon Daniel flicked the wheel, struck the flint, and ignited a lighter just inches from Ethan’s face.

Fire.

Memories of his screaming mother bombarded him and the smell of burning clothes, burning hair, burning skin. Memories. Pain.

Fire.

Gordon touched the ravenous, mindless flame to the bottle still clenched in his other hand. Fire bloomed on the sharp glass with a bestial growl. In the flickering firelight, Gordon’s face looked truly demonic. His shadow never wavered.

Finally, he said, his face lit with oranges and reds as if he wore a mask of flame, If I ever see you again, I promise on your mother’s grave I’ll kill you. It was whispered. Gordon had never whispered anything in his life. Ethan had to get out of there.

Gordon turned away from his son and buried the remaining end of the vodka bottle in the heavy kitchen table with a bang, carelessly spraying the liquid fire about the dining room where he let it lie, and burn, and die. Ethan jumped up like a runner at the starting gun. Hating himself more than he ever had, he ran out of his father’s house and into the welcome, fireless cold. The front door slammed behind him. The car door hammered beside him. His headlights disappeared down the street in seconds.

II

Sitting on cold kitchen tiles, Gordon stared at the jagged vodka bottle clutched tightly in his fist. His mouth hung open and wouldn’t close. That was not the first time he had blacked out around his son, far from it. Gordon had an intimate if indirect understanding of what went on when he lost it though. He would recognize that look in Ethan’s eyes anywhere—that mix of hate, fear, and self-loathing because there was nothing you could do about it. Those were the same looks he used to give his own father.

It was also only the second time he recalled his actions immediately after he came to. The first time was the worst night of his life, the night Janice died. He had become someone else that night, an animal, a feral thing, inhuman.

What was wrong with him? Gordon looked around and for the first time realized exactly how he was living. He saw the shattered glass and dripping liquid of a broken liquor bottle. He saw the trash he was living amongst like a derelict. He saw the dishes piled up in the sink and days or weeks old food rotting next to them. What would Janice think? God, how he missed her. He was so ashamed of himself. It felt like a great weight that landed on his shoulders and pushed him down every time he tried to get up. The things he did were monstrous. The screams haunted him still.

After a few moments, Gordon hefted himself off the ceramic flooring. He did his best to ignore the shadows that coalesced behind him. He tried not to see them as they thickened, and gained shape. He thought about using the broken bottle on himself. It was a far better end than he deserved. He flipped the bottle from hand to hand, idly testing its weight as the darkness congealed.

Gordon closed his eyes and stabbed the shattered end of the bottle into the soft, waiting flesh of his upturned wrist. Please, let it end.

He snapped his eyes open and whipped his head down to see droplets of blood careen from his outstretched arm and splash to the ground. That bottle should have hit bone, but instead the wound barely broke the skin. His blood pitter-pattered against the tile less and less frequently until it formed a small pool between his feet, angry red against the beige. In the distorted reflection of the puddle, Gordon saw the darkness behind him move and writhe, a black hand over his own stopping the bottle cold. Needles raced up his spine and embedded themselves possessively in his brain.

How I wish that was Ethan’s blood. He wasn’t sure whether that thought was his or the Shadowman’s. Not that it really mattered. He should have worn a fucking condom. He should have forced Janice to abort. He should have listened to the Shadowman when it told Gordon to kill the kid. Kill him, kill Ethan, kill him now, right now, kill him. Instead, the little shit was still breathing and his wife was still dead. The little freak, the little pyro, if only he was normal Janice would still be alive. It was Ethan’s fault. Yes, of course it was. It was all Ethan’s fault and Gordon would never, could never forgive him!

Gordon stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. He charged into his bedroom, leaving the lights off as he did. He didn’t need them. Darkness was his ally now. He dropped to his knees next to the bed and rummaged underneath, heedless of the refuse and insects. The Shadowman followed at its own pace, darkening further the already unlit hallway as it came. Gordon felt its curiosity as it watched him search. His fingers closed over cold steel and he rose, holding his old Winchester.

I’m going to do exactly what you think I’m going to do. Gordon told the shadows, though he suspected they already knew. He felt the cold, otherworldly approval, but did not smile. The Shadowman didn’t like it when he smiled. 

He moved to the dresser. There was a secret compartment in the bottom of his sock drawer where Gordon fished a case of extra bullets out and pocketed them. When he had finally finished outfitting himself, Gordon chanced a look at the doorway where the Shadowman swam in fury and gloom.

It filled nearly the entire doorway, its blackness clearly defined even against the murk of the hall beyond. It was somehow a darker, more terrible thing than any mere lack of light, like it had a tangible weight. What must have been the thing’s head dipped down once, slowly. Gordon nodded back and had to fight the urge to smile again. It was one thing to bask in the approval of the Shadowman. It was another thing entirely to show it.

Good, Gordon. Remember Janice. Remember what the boy did to her, to you. Remember, a voice said, coming from the doorway, from inside Gordon’s head. It sounded like snakes dying. The Shadowman was right.

Memories ran roughshod through his brain. Always they were of Janice. From the day they met to their first time. How she looked in her dress on their wedding day. Then, of course, the one he couldn’t escape, the memory that played on repeat in his head and kept a bottle to his lips—on a wet spring night, everything burning as Janice died. 

It was Ethan’s fault. They used to be happy, the three of them, every bit the adoring American family. But he ruined it. He mutilated and murdered it just as he had murdered his own mother.

Gordon stayed at work late the night she died. When a powerful friend asked you to take on a patient, you said yes to them and their checkbook. That’s just the way the world worked, good business.

On the ride home, Gordon was not a happy man. That particular session did not go as well as he would have liked, as if any of the sessions had. The patient was unresponsive and shut off for the whole hour right up until it was time to leave. Then he got violent. Gordon remembered the pain in his head from a likely concussion he sustained while being hefted off his feet and slammed into the walls of his office.  Not for the first time, Gordon cursed his powerful friend for being a powerful asshole.

Those were always the worst cases. Getting the patient to open up was about as easy as it was to break into Fort Knox and sing Rag Time Gal on a stack of gold bars. If you even did manage to get to them, the interior was always a dark and slimy place filled with the kind of hidden crevices others had gleefully invaded and violated.

Gordon sighed and flipped on the AM news station. No Franklin and Mutt on the Sports Station that day. He had his fill of angry head cases with nothing to say to last a lifetime.

In other news, the radio newscaster droned, a massive house fire continues to rage in Chelmsford today as local fire fighters struggle to battle the inferno. A spokesman for the Chelmsford Fire Department told us there are still two people trapped inside. We here at ninety-seven and seven pray for their safety. Next up... Gordon lost the rest as he pulled down his street and saw the sky lit up orange and red. He watched in horror as the blaze took his home for its own.

Where are they? he demanded of a young fire fighter as he jumped from his car. He didn’t wait for the answer, didn’t need to, it didn’t matter. He already knew