The Angel's Claw: The End isn't Near, We're in It

By Paul Olaf Sveen and Nelson and Pete Nikolaychuk

A broken, homeless man has a gift, he can read auras, they speak to him. The voices he hears makes him think he's crazy. What he's unaware of is he's being hunted by hell, because he's the only person that can stop the looming apocalypse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483544366

Book preview

MICHAEL

TRINA S CRUTHERS FELT THE WIND pushing on her hand. She’d forgotten this curious childhood pleasure. Her eyes closed, the feeling was a gift, a fragment from her misplaced youth. But with her eyes now closed the restaurant stabbed like an ice pick. She hated her life! No, she thought, I won’t go numb and lose this.

Her arm pushed further out the car window, demanding the rush of air take her back from her adult responsibilities back to her endless childhood.

The car bumped, forcing her eyes open. She stared through her worn fingers, seeing the thin saplings poking from the ditch. How long had it been since she’d seen random wild trees?

Light from the visor mirror flashed into her eyes. The visor had been up. Trina wondered if she’d flipped it down, then decided she hadn’t. Michael must have. He must have reached over when her eyes were closed.

She glanced at herself, repulsed by the tired forty-something woman staring back, all washed up! What could have been, should have been, was now gone. It was her fault. She was the cause and effect, the never was; the reason.

Strands of Trina’s hair caressed her face. The cold October wind pulled her stringy bleached hair across her face. She imagined laying on the front of a fancy boat, wearing one of those tight black bikinis, the sun raining down on them.

The second glance was less painful; it was at the man behind the wheel, Michael.

The fact that she didn’t know much about Michael was a distant concern. He was like something dangerous, something bad she’d done without being caught back when she was an angry teenager; something she’d bragged about one day over drinks. He was slight, almost olive skinned, and deep dark brows floated over bottomless eyes. He was gorgeous, more then she hoped for; exactly what she had hoped for. She noticed the scar on his dimpled chin, small, in the shape of an S. She thought to ask how it happened. She imagined her fingers tracing over the scar, healing him, taking the scar and all of his hurts away.

Leonard! The thought of that bastard prick exploded in her mind. All those years wasted. He would have grabbed her hand if she’d tried to touch his face, and twisted her arm like he was showing off; ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He’d shout.

Then he’d make that God awful sucking noise with his nostrils. Spitting into the cup would be the exclamation point. Leonard would make her feel worthless with his glare.

The thought of grease in the restaurant’s kitchen replaced Leonard. Trina shook the thought off. She willed herself back to the moment, here in this car with the man who was taking her away from her past, from everything else, to an adventure.

The signal light ticked as the car decelerated. She felt herself slide forward in the white leather seat. She was bursting inside, and the silence was killing her; say something, now! This is the moment!

Thank you for this Michael, Trina said, smiling and surprising herself.

He grinned as they turned off the highway, not towards her, but towards a hidden dirt road.

She watched him, allowing herself to drink him in. His black suit carved his body. As the car bumped off the highway, she realized nothing about him was chance. His tie was perfect, so was the shirt. Now under the birch canopy, she wasn’t sure if it was white or a subtle blue. Whatever it was, it was effortless, immaculate.

A pang of self-hate slapped her again. Why was she dressed like this? Fake red leather dress, a jean jacket, black T-shirt, of course, running shoes and her hair! She studied herself in the mirror as if she were someone else, an observer. She pulled at her hair, demanding it spike like a halo. The 15 year old in her, the one that ran away and never looked back, was the template for what she’d been her whole pathetic life.

It was the reason she dressed like she was late for a dance. It was the reason she reacted in tantrums to anything and everyone. Trina closed the visor, aware of the flaw, promising herself again she’d change. She knew there was another version of her in here somewhere, a better her. She pulled the mirror down, raising and lowering her mouth while smacking her lips.

I can’t wait to see your lake house, Michael!

Trina watched him, waiting for something, anything. Michael looked straight ahead, emotionless, ignoring her.

I’ve done something, but what? She thought, panicking.

She scratched at her neck, and then turned her attention to her suitcase in the back. It was right there, and her excitement returned.

Trina saw herself tearing into the suitcase for her teddy; her smile draining, and she looked out the window while her hand secretly rubbed the rolls around her stomach.

Stands of birch pulled her to the now. Trina closed her eyes and inhaled the cool air which carried a musky earthy aroma.

Forever, Trina whispered. That’s what this place should be called.

She turned to Michael to tell him. He had just lit a cigarette. She’d share the revelation later, at the lake.

Trina closed her eyes and reached toward the trees. Her fingertips felt the leaves, the branches slid over her fingers. She closed her hand, feeling three leaves in her palm.

Three wishes, she inhaled. Dad had always said that, she thought.

Three wishes every time you see three of anything, gumdrops, dandelions or leaves. Trina softly spoke her wishes, watching Michael as she did, with the sun beaming through the forest like a dream. As the clay road curved, she could see a large field through the birch trees. Trina drank in the unmistakable cool lake smell, fanning her excitement.

Thank you again Michael. Trina smiled. She felt like a child again. How could she have been so lucky?

The silver Chrysler 300 slowly edged off the clay access road into the clearing.

As the car moved past the last stand of birch, something about the large pile of clay stole Trina’s smile. She followed the mound searching for the house. Trina turned and looked at Michael questioningly. He returned her stare, his face expressionless. Then, Trina saw the flash of hatred and disgust in his eyes. Terror flashed across her skin, digging into her chest, stealing her breath.

An emaciated naked man stood by a pit next to the mountain of dirt. As if in slow motion, the man’s face slowly, purposefully, twisted toward her, his mouth opening to a full sadistic grin of black, rotting teeth.

Trina saw him, but was unable to understand to comprehend the image. Inside her, a heat exploded like an electrical surge. She looked at Michael, and as their eyes met she felt herself react. Her weight leaned toward the door in all-out instinct to escape!

She demanded her fingers to open the door; screamed at herself to react, to do something, to do anything, just do it now!

The car stopped a few feet from the naked man. Then she heard the sounds from the pit and the unmistakable sounds of dogs.

Get out, Michael said softly.

The flame on his lighter pulled onto the tip of another cigarette, and he sent a cloud of putrid smoke towards her. Bloated in terror, every cell in her knew where this was going, all of it scripted. She’d been blinded by her heart, in a blink of an eye she’d gone from hope, believing she could be loved, to desperate panic. A single thought exploded through her; live! And then a second thought; the life she could have lived. Seeing herself younger, smiling radiantly, content, walking with a child. The child was a boy of about 3 years old. There was a deep desire in her to live to be a mother. Like lightning, the truth ignited then was gone. Trina scanned Michael, his expression empty and hollow, as she fell backward out the passenger door.

You’re tasty! The man shouted, masturbating over her.

Her screams burnt her throat, and her hands slapped at the ground while his fingers clawed Trina, pulling her hair. She slid across the wet crabgrass, the heels of her runners pounding the dirt in shock, as if she were in a living nightmare, utterly numb. She could feel herself screaming, but could not hear it. Each heartbeat, her life before meeting Michael, the girl within, then the life she could have lived - vanished.

Then she was weightless. She had slipped over the side of the pit, her fingers reaching up for the naked man at the edge of the abyss.

Trina imploded into the packed clay bottom, her shoulders first then her skull; her hands slapping the ground, struggling to move. The dog pack moved first.

Snarling teeth! The large brown Shepherd was biting into her wrist, cracking it. Its face rippling as it shook her. Her fingers fleetingly felt its tongue and its throat, until the hand severed from her wrist.

Trina froze in shock, watching. She sat on the ground studying the stump. A second dog, a thin Doberman, buried its teeth into her skull. Its teeth gnashed into her head, its snout sliding into the meat on her shoulder. The first dog returned. She watched it tear at the fabric of her T-shirt, watched it sink its teeth into her stomach. She felt it tug and snap at her skin, feeling her throat tighten as it destroyed her insides. A massive orange dog pushed through the pack, its incisors glistening under its trembling lip, the dog instantly biting her face. Its teeth punctured the skin and muscle over her cheeks. The skin tore from her forehead as the dog shook. Trina snapped back into reality. Her screams muffled in the dog’s snout, sounding far away.

Twenty feet above, skin around his crotch shook. He opened his eyes inhaling the sounds of the pit, pure ecstasy! His right arm thwacked off his hip as he found the strength to masturbate again.

Trina hyperventilated, watching her and the dog’s breath meld and rising in a cloud. She was the feast, the pack tearing at the meat and tendons of her legs, their bites painless, now subtle, as far away as her first steps. Her body tugged, slid effortlessly across the slick bloody clay, dragged toward the ends of the pit. Somewhere beyond her screams, she knew there were nine dogs in the pack.

But now she marveled at the clouds. The blue around them was a color she’d never seen, deeper then she’d remembered. The sky was whispering to her, telling her something.

Three wishes, the sky said softly. The edges of her ripped mouth lifted in a smile.

Trina’s remaining hand slowly opened. The three leaves lay bloodied in her palm. Her empty stare fell to the wall of the pit. Trina’s last word, her last raspy breath; Dad?

His penis dropped from his hand the moment she stopped making sounds. David Craik knew of these things, the endings. He’d been the cause of many. The first ones were simple beatings, him pleasuring himself as they stumbled and begged.

Whining cows, Craik snickered, shaking off his penis.

He never could have dreamed this craving, this addiction, would put him smack dab in the middle of a field over a hole! Craik wasn’t much for thinking before he spoke, but now he had the need.

I sure do like whacking off! He tried to share the revelation with Mike. But before he could, the shine drained from his face. Past the silver Chrysler, directly on the other side of the clearing, the Hell watchers moved out from the forest.

Gaunt, thin, back on the heels of their wrinkled red gray feet, they cautiously stepped from the birch forest, skittishly sniffing the air as if tasting it.

Naked and hairless, the group of 20 fanned into the clearing each oblivious of the other, separating, wandering as if they’d survived something catastrophic. Craik watched them.

Michael grinned while watching David. His black Italian shoes crossed over the passenger seat where moments earlier it, the bait, had been.

Another cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the car. Michael knew they were close by Craik’s posture. He was frozen. The end of the cigarette sizzled as he took one last pull, and then casually flicked the butt at Craik.

He brushed at a speck on the shoulder of his suit, and then forced himself out of the Chrysler.

They stink, Craik yammered. I can smell them from here and they’re not even here!

They smelt like ass, Craik thought. Pasty, pungent dirty ass.

Sweat and shit, Craik whispered. Sweat and shit.

Sandhiem nodded his head in thought, his lower lip lifting. He stood by the car like a realtor waiting for his 2 o’clock, and then glanced into the pit. The chunk of meat had been dragged up against the far wall. A mangy mutt sniffed at her, and then locked onto her throat. The dog planted itself in the clay and thrust backwards in several quick bursts, its hind in the air for leverage. The mangy dog gulped bits of meat, his legs wide; standing proud. The pack lined the near walls, uncaring, panting. The bait’s lifeless eyes stared up, watching Michael. He ran the tip of a finger over his upper lip, returning her stare.

I hate them, Craik mouthed without making a sound, his face drenched in fear. The first one pressed into Michael, Michael calmly smiling.

It sniffed at Sandhiem, inches from his face, its tongue licking the air. It turned toward Craik. It recoiled as it did, its gray, red leathery skin pulled tight over its bones, frozen, holding its curled talons in the air motionless. It suddenly moved between Sandhiem and Craik, glancing unimpressed; its snout was flat on its face, wrinkling, sucking in the fragrances of the kill.

Its glare opened and shut as others grouped behind, peeking, straining for glimpses into the hole. Others stood on either side of Sandhiem and Craik. The group’s breathing overtook the sounds from the pit. Their breathing was labored, raspy and nauseating. They sounded diseased.

The faint sound of a transport truck hummed in the distance, its tires rhythmic, slowly echoing away, leaving the sounds of the clearing to itself.

Birch leaves rustled in the perimeter owned by the collective breathing of the beasts. Their breathing sounds slowly became one thing, one large evil thing. They all stood motionless, listening to the tearing and crunching of Trina’s bones.

It eventually bent towards the ground in a submissive squat, a waning grin over its face. It glanced up at Sandhiem, eyes nervously darting from Craik, then back to him as if hiding a secret Michael couldn’t possibly know.

So it begins, it spoke, the words raspy, carried in a throat filled with phlegm.

Look at her. Sandhiem motioned with his head towards the pit.

It remained in its squat, staring at Sandhiem, dumbfounded in the human’s response. It carefully turned its head, suspicious, its glare carefully turning to the meat smeared across the clay. Its head rose in the air sniffing, and a moist sucking sound squeezed from its snout.

It’s bait.

Sandhiem stared at the remains, his hands moving into his suit pockets.

That it is, but look at it, really look at it.

Its head snapped up at Sandhiem.

What is your point?

Sandhiem’s stare became cold again, dead. As he spoke, his eyes remained on the corpse.

There were two ways of approaching our situation. We could have been proactive and hunted it. Or…

This isn’t your plan, it’s ours!

It’s… Sandhiem paused.

The creature’s ass bounded off the grass. It lunged into Michael’s face, pressing its snout into his neck.

What is this? it howled.

Something returned to Sandhiem, something; the empty gray stare replaced with a subtle, almost unnoticeable hate. His hands slid out of his pockets, his fingertips pushing the creature away.

What is this? the creature demanded.

Craik shot a look at Sandhiem, his eyes darting over the group.

Easy boys, easy! Craik laughed, The boss knows what the hell he’s doing. Right?

The creature sniffed at the knot on Sandhiem’s tie, tapping his snout up into his chin, and then slowly dropped back into a squat. What is it? the thing hissed again.

Michael looked down at the beast then into the pit. He silently watched a dog paw over the corpse, willing it to move. The silence infected the moment. Sandhiem took in a deep breath as he nodded his head.

It’s interesting. He smiled.

The creature grew impatient, its eyes closing to slivers. It’s interesting. Humanity has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen, Sandhiem continued.

The creature’s face tightened. He knew these words weren’t what the human meant. That was to be expected. They were weak. The truth was coming though. The truth was coming. Its eyes glared up at Sandhiem.

Humans are bloated pigs. They have no idea because they’re nothing but surface breathers. God has abandoned them.

Its gaze locked on Michael, its tongue licking over its teeth. The creature then turned and walked away, slamming into Craik as it passed, the others turned and followed.

Get more angel bait! It screamed from the front of the pack.

The group melded with the trees 50 feet away, seemingly disappearing before reaching the trees, dissolving with the colors of the birch bark. And then they were gone.

I hate them, Craik exhaled, waiting to say it until the last one disappeared.

Sandhiem watched the clearing a moment, savoring the silence. He reached for his lighter and pack of Southerlands. The lighter clicked under his thumb, and a blue-yellow flame shimmered inches from his face. Michael watched the flame, intoxicated and barely aware of speaking, the flame making him appear more sinister.

You heard it. Get another one.

Craik reached behind himself, pressed a hand between his ass cheeks and scratched. There were things he wanted to ask; they were big questions, but with the demons in the forest, shit! He didn’t have to. They, he, could do whatever he wanted carte blanche!

Craik backed away, still scratching, then pulled his hand from himself and pointed it like Elvis. I’m gonna make you proud man! Make you proud!

Craik ran across the clearing, the switch in him flicked! It was taking time again. The old trailer lay hidden in the forest, saplings springing around it like weeds. Past the saplings, the protective, thick 50-year-old birch trees made the green mansion invisible. The first thing he’d thought was Did they drop it out of the sky? And if they did, why didn’t they drop a sweeter one? A minute later, he was masturbating into the sink. This place was perfect, hillbilly heaven! Plus, it came with a truck!

Now the brown rusted half-ton creaked away. He’d rather be naked, but if he had to wear something, it was nothing but cowboy gear!

His scuffed boot pressed on the gas, jerking the truck forward. The half-ton lifted and dropped in the clearing like a boat. He saw Sandhiem from the corner of his eye. He looked different. He stood next to the pit like one of them creatures. Michael created the same fear those creatures did.

Fear tingled up Craik’s spine as he drove past Sandhiem.

Something not quite right with that boy, Craik whispered. He’s goddamned scarier than a two-peckered hoot owl!

He turned the knob on the radio, looking over the metal dash and searching for a hurting song. The half-ton rolled under the birch canopy, over the clay access road, the radio blasting quick explosions as he searched each station. Fuck you boss, Craik shouted! His fist hitting the roof!

Deep, baritone lyrics blurted out from the radio, I went down and the flames went higher, and they burned, burned, burned, the ring of fire!

Goddamn! Johnny Cash!

The highway sign stated Redden, the city of promise, was just 25 miles away. It was time to get more bait.

Teeth on bone, the gnashing sounds from the pit transcribed onto the pings and creaks of the half-ton. The truck had taken Michael’s thoughts from below ground to the clearing. As the Ford disappeared into the access, the silence left him where he felt most comfortable. And that’s when he was alone. The creatures, the pit, they were all attached to the promise. Each thought a tentacle twisting like hickory roots, each demanding, each tearing at him.

There were 20 demons. Soon there’d be more, all driven by one burning desire. To find the Angel Maker!

Hell wouldn’t stop until the Angel Maker was caught and destroyed; its flesh and spirit torn from it and roasted. The gray creatures were Tripes, seers. They sensed poisoned thoughts that the evil secrets humans had, but couldn’t act on. Tripes absorbed sickly dreams like sponges, and redirected them back through the group in a stronger overpowering signal. They nudged, pushing humans to act on their sickly cravings, and in doing so becoming part of Hell’s legions.

More of the creatures meant more killing, more random multiple killings, more misery. Sandhiem knew the end. The end days meant less of him until he was nothing, expendable. When the gates of Hell opened he would be just another underling. That is, unless he found the Angel Maker first! An almost unnoticeable grin lifted over his mouth. Power is knowing something that everyone else doesn’t!

His car moved from the clearing, its taillights glaring through the rising dust, peering back at these beginnings.

They’re seers, so why don’t they see me? he whispered. Past the clearing, 20 feet into the forest, the Tripes vibrated in a tight throbbing pack. Their eyes stretched up in their sockets, sweat dripping along their gray thin bodies. Grunts bubbled from the pack, excited guttural noises rising, floating towards Redden.

Thirty miles away in the far side of Redden, fire from the furnace reflected off Calvin’s glasses. His teeth glistened in his smile. He’d just felt it! Something had just changed in him. He suddenly knew what mother wanted him to do; dismember teenagers!

Billy

WHY IS IT THAT OTHERS saw what I was capable of, but not me?

I saw what they had, gifts and hope. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew I wasn’t much but dead promises. I never forgot what it was like to be young: constant loneliness, told to, but never reaching the places I was supposed to go, the places past my fingertips. Sometimes as a child, I explored, always alone. One day I heard a voice, a whisper for just a moment. It said: Come closer, closer, see? We have a secret.

Redden’s 73rd Avenue Square was supposed to be more, a meeting place in the core. It was supposed to be an oasis, a sacred garden of trees and fountains. But it was a dying place. Cracks in the concrete heaved across the square like fissures. Green things struggled to live, died, replaced by others. City workers stumbled through the square, ripping out the dead plants for replacements, pulling out the no longer living with soon to be dying.

In the square, a 20-foot pillar of welded hubcaps and a black cast-iron staircase were the commissioned art. They shared opposite ends of the expanse. The steps on the staircase lead nowhere, akin to the man hiding beneath them.

His scraggly beard and hair lit his eyes. They watched the lunch crowd, studying, as he, struggled to listen.

Billy’s heart pounded. He stared through the stairs, safe in its shadows; Redden oblivious of him. He watched a few moments then retreated against the retaining wall, exhausted.

The things he saw, how did he get them out? They made no sense. They’re just crazy thoughts! Billy mumbled. He held his face, looking through his fingers. Each person was bathed in light, silver and chrome, blue and orange green. Recently, Billy began to see light. It spoke to him. Are you alright?

His eyes cowered towards the voice. She was older, the age where you began to shrink, 75 maybe 80? He was bad with age. You had to see someone. Billy saw around them.

I noticed you under the stairs; I wasn’t going to say anything, but…

Her voice trailed, not her smile. She resembled Betty White with dyed red hair, only taller and heavier. Her green coat fell past her shins. The black and white deck shoes peaked from the ends of her red slacks.

Billy crossed his arms over his chest.

Your shirt is yellow.

She blinked then broke into a hearty laugh.

You know, I can’t remember! She paused then fumbled with her coat. A piece of shirt poked from the buttons.

Yellow. You’re good? she smiled.

Billy put a hand on his forehead, squinting up at her. I’m crazy.

She shook her head uncomfortably, forcing herself to grin, looking away into the square then back at the homeless man. Well, I’m Merriam; we’re all a little crazy. She smiled again.

He stared into the crowd where she’d just looked, then glanced back at her. I mean, they call me crazy, crazy Billy!

No! You’re trying to find where you belong like the rest of us.

She smiled one last time, nodded then slowly hobbled away. He watched until she almost crossed the square.

You’re here to paint. He thought. That’s how you shine! You’re an artist, your light longs to paint. Pencils, when you were a girl drew on everything, walls, paper and table. They told you to stop until you forgot. They’re in you, canvases healing, joy, big bliss! You are, when you paint! Billy shook, staring at the ground. Merriam reveals big bliss through paint, big bliss! Billy pulled the hood of his parka lower over his face and pushed from the wall. Holding the waist of his jeans, he stumbled over in his lace-less boots sprinting across the expanse.

Painter! he shouted. Big bliss!

Merriam held the railing with both hands. She turned back toward the commotion just as Billy reached her. You’re here to paint, he wheezed. You don’t remember, but your soul knows it!

Ex… Excuse me?

Billy stood at the foot of the railing, breathing heavily.

Paint, big bliss!

She glanced at the faces of nearby onlookers. Billy’s eyes danced at the aura around her, his lower lip rising in confirmation. Big bliss!

He turned from Merriam, running into the square behind him.

People walked past Billy as if in slow motion, each step, each sway captured, deciphered by Billy, all of them shrouded in an aura.

Anthony Verez took a sip of his coffee, suddenly awake to the approaching lunatic. He’d been immersed in the conversation, directing, controlling it. Now, over the rim of his coffee, he watched the approaching idiot.

The crazy man ran toward him and his two co-workers, the idiot’s arms waving in the air.

Billy listened to Anthony’s light! It was all around him, three feet, a warning. The light was crimson, almost ochre.

Too far away, you’re forgetting to forgive.

Get away from me! Anthony shouted.

The coffee pressed against his lips. Billy reached for Anthony, hitting the cup and spilling the coffee over Anthony’s shirt. Billy fell to his knees, safe under his coat, rocking back and forth. Big bliss the other direction, forgive! Anthony shook; his hands by his shoulders, the white shirt beneath his black jacket, covered in Americano.

What the? Really, you piece of shit, really! Why me? Why the hell is it always me?"

Anthony lunged at Billy, swinging at him, trying to punch him.

I’m sure he never meant it. Merriam shouted out of breath, kneeling by Billy, holding him.

Because he’s retarded, he gets a pass?

Let’s go Tony. A co-worker grabbed his arm, pulling him.

Keep that idiot away from me, better keep him away, I’m serious.

The three walked away, Anthony turning, shouting more threats, the trio, disappearing into the crowd. She brushed Billy’s parka, grinning.

What happened? I watched you from the stairs; you ran right to him and caused a ruckus. That’s not good.

Billy glanced at her nervously, his fingers locked together on his stomach. What happened, in that moment? he said.

What happened? she asked, concerned. What moment?

So long ago, the moment that became our path, our walk strewn with leaves. Would it be any different if I were you, or you me?

Billy pulled off his hood moving closer to her, whispering in her ear. I can see your soul.

He jumped to his feet, studying her reaction.

Merriam struggled to stand, staring at the ground, nervous, her eyes, slowly rising, meeting his.

We’re not living; we’re only waiting, aren’t we? he whispered.

Merriam stood motionless, watching him, breathing in and out. Yah, that’s it, Billy said excited.

He put a finger over his mouth and reached in her right pocket, pulling out a napkin. He held it in his palm, stroked it with the other, carefully, unfolding it. A pencil drawing was etched over the napkin. ‘August,’ was written on the bottom.

It’s perfect. He said softly almost inaudible.

She watched dumbfounded, then turned away, her eyes welling. It’s nothing, she said.

Merriam’s tears skidded down her cheeks, pooling on her chin, falling and dropping onto her hidden yellow shirt.

No! It’s everything. His voice was stern, certain. It’s big bliss.

Merriam rubbed her eyes with the cuff of her jacket, fighting to smile.

Who are you? she smiled through her tears.

He moved away from her handing the napkin back. Billy.

He turned and ran. Haphazard, left then right, Billy ran as if escaping someone or something unseen.

Merriam watched him, until he was almost out of sight, unaware of herself speaking out loud. I’m a painter. Her aura was suddenly brighter.

Billy ran past the stairs to the far end of the square, sprinting across the avenue, collapsing in an alley by a dumpster.

He sat against a brick wall, staring into the palm of his hand, imagining Merriam’s drawing. A good thought on the tip of his tongue, but something unseen spoke to him.

Billy, be silent, be still, don’t move, don’t move!

He looked to the sidewalk. Dozens of people walked in both directions, squeezing past one another, all unaware of it! The gray red creature shivered on the sidewalk, its claws bent at its chest, snout bending; its hooves clacking on the concrete.

Billy remained still against the wall, unmoving. The creature huffed at the alley shadows, its fire-orange glare searching. It grunted one last time and trotted away. Stuck to the bricks, Billy’s heart pounded and his lips were moving, but he was unable to speak. I, I didn’t see it. I’m crazy Billy! I’m crazy Billy! He thought.

Bang!

The noise rocked Billy from the creature. The bags of garbage arched into the blue pulverized dumpster. It’s lunchtime! the gravelly voice shouted.

Billy stood, neurotically glancing at the sidewalk, pulling up his pants, shuffling to the other side of the dumpster where the man who threw the garbage waited.

Billy looked into the dumpster, smiling up at the boss.

Hey Leon, scraps from the diner? Billy asked cheerfully.

Short, the rolls of Leon’s stomach hung over his black pants. One hand rested on his T-shirt, his thumb tapping on a faded image of Def Leppard. His other hand played with the chrome chain hanging on his hip.

The tips of his boots were placed purposefully just over the edge of the dock; his bleached platinum buzz cut making his boots darker, more demanding. His hair made his pudgy oily face shine.

So the rat comes for the cheese, Leon sneered. Why are you always the first loser to show up for handouts?

Billy’s fingers pressed on the edge of the dumpster, his boot heels, rising, dropping, he ready to jump.

I think because I’m always hungry? Billy smiled.

He glanced at Leon, and then back at the bags.

Can I get ‘em boss?

"‘Can I get ‘em boss?’ You pricks piss me off. You think I only take care of the café, you piece of shit? I bust my goddamned ass for all the shops, and yet, every day here you are! Where’s my free meal?

Where’s my handout, you asshole?"

Billy listened, listened as Leon shouted, trying to see the boss’s light. Billy couldn’t, though, too hungry for the garbage.

Leon waited, bided his time, watched the piece of shit wait, pay the price! Back in there he was a joke, a desperate flakey nothing. Out here, especially in these moments, he was the law! Leon yawned then nodded at the dumpster. Billy jumped.

He rolled onto the bags. Tearing at the first, his hands dug through warm coffee filters and toast. He pushed further, piles of wet newspapers, eggs and orange peels. Excited, Billy split open the second and swallowed, blinking at the stacks of half-frozen hamburgers.

He tore into the bag, devouring a patty. This is good stuff, boss! He mumbled, grinning through a full mouth of burger, powerless to stop talking.

Aura’s dark green, but there’s some yellow! Your stepdad was wrong. You’re not boss. You’re not nothing!

Several thoughts pinged through Leon’s head, not the least his secret. He’d heard the idiot say something, and whatever it was it had gotten his attention.

What? What did you say? Leon spat.

Billy stopped chewing, forcing a smile. You like helping girls, especially young ones. Billy swallowed. They’re not ready, boss!

You calling me a pedophile?

Billy stared wide-eyed, carefully shoving hamburgers into his pockets.

Love, you deserve love, but from a woman, that’s all.

Get out! Leon shouted. Get out!

What’s up, boss? a voice suddenly slurred.

Green Jacket! Leon shouted, sounding like he’d just been saved.

The pirate-looking drunk stood in the alley, looking 30 years older than his 40 years. Green Jacket weaved, barely able to stand, wearing a green army jacket with blue track pants; the tongues of his lace-less runners bent outward. Green Jacket ran a hand through his stringy gray hair. With the other, he dug into his pocket, pulling out a half pint of bourbon.

You got a problem, asshole? he slurred to Billy. Green Jacket mumbled to himself as he twisted off the cap.

He tipped the bottle, draining it, just as another three drunks stumbled down the alley, reaching the dumpster and grabbing Billy as the bottle smashed on the ground.

I know you! Green Jacket shouted. You’re the freak. He grabbed Billy by the throat. You’re the freak!

Hit him! Leon shouted! Hit him!

Anthony Verez pushed through the front doors of the office tower. This was another shit day in this shit city! They were on his time now, Verez time. That meant, time for a smoke! He cupped his hands around the end of the cigarette, lighting it as he strutted, destination alley!

Green Jacket wrestled Billy to the ground, driving a knee into his stomach. He glanced at the ground, grabbing at the empty bottle, holding its neck and slamming it into Billy’s face.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Billy screamed.

He lifted the bottle above his shoulder, smashing it into the freak’s face again, while punching the freak with his other fist, again and again.

Billy’s legs kicked from beneath Green Jacket, his legs becoming still as the bottle smashed in pieces into his face.

Billy lie unconscious in the alley, black ochre blood smeared on his face. The conqueror sat on the prize, feeling whole, beaming up at the boss.

He’s a troublemaker, he deserved it! Leon pouted.

He pointed at Billy, jabbering, backing away. Leon stared nervously at the group, running his hands over his face slowly backing through the doors, slamming them behind him. Green Jacket stood, dizzy, weaving over the freak.

You fugging worked him good! Fugging worked him good! One of the crew squealed!

Green Jacket grabbed the bag of hamburgers from the dumpster, and stumbled with his crew down the alley. The garbage hung from his shoulder, his other hand running through his greasy hair.

I should a got something for that! he slurred, sharing his toothless mouth.

This is our place now, our place! He shouted, feeling a surge of confidence, the laughter fading and ending as they rounded the corner at the opposite end of the alley.

Anthony watched, leaning against the bricks. He took a pull from his smoke, his grin rising as he meandered to the idiot

Isn’t it funny how these things work? Anthony pawed at the stain on his dress shirt, as he unzipped himself and a stream of urine splattered over Billy.

Anthony Verez’s shoes echoed in the alley, his discarded cigarette sizzling in Billy’s hair, day then night, slowly, methodically reclaimed, crazy.

MINT

WONDER AND BEWILDERMENT were the first steps that I had taken; it was my path, through childhood wonder. Soon the clearing led to a forest of people, and these people were as tall as trees. As I walked through the forest, I became uncertain, afraid. I became lost in a terrible place and fell asleep, unconscious yet always stumbling further, always a thought, a longing to go back to where I started from.

Calvin thought the van was a classic: an orange 1992 Windstar, mama’s Windstar! It moved rhythmically over the slick back roads. The tick in the engine gave away that it wasn’t simply mechanical, made in some factory. It was a miracle breathed into life from the other side! He didn’t know how, but the van protected him and made him feel safe, like a fort made of blankets and couch parts.

The Windstar made their dream possible. He and maw would be together tonight! The van was a big part. It was the flaming chariot!

Calvin pushed a finger into the bridge of his glasses as the van rolled to a dirt pile. He killed the engine, leaving the lights on, examining the mud. The hill was soaked from the recent downpour and covered in dead thistles.

Rain was like mama. She also washed away the mud and weeds, and all the lies, leaving only the truth, him and her. Calvin pushed the travel mug into his nostrils and inhaled. The mint ignited in his sinuses, changing him, giving him the strength to launch.

The bottom rim of the mug pressed lightly in his chin, the top rested just below his glasses. He imagined the chamber in the mug’s chrome lid, a sanctuary for maw and him. It was dark. His body would touch the screamer’s body as it begged; the shining blade digging, gouging in it! Half of him was here, in the van by the dirt pile, even in the distance by the fire with the screamers. The other half was with mama in her garden on the other side, and the only way to her garden was screaming!

The last raindrops fell from the morose clouds above, dropping like crystals. Benny sat in the mud with his legs crossed, studying, hypnotized by the jewels. It wasn’t the pills he’d taken or the bottles of malt. It was the secrets in the rain. They came from somewhere. It was the somewhere that was trying to reach him. He kind of understood the rain message. The crystals had come a long way to speak to him; he was alive in their message and now, the fire made him anxious. He didn’t belong here.’ When you’re nowhere and there’s nowhere to go, where are you?’

A chill ran up Benny’s spine. Wow! Where did those words come from? He lifted his hands to the sacred crystal gifts, smiling at the clouds just visible in the dark.

Silvia watched from the fire, all her just 18 years, slightly concerned. The kid was wasted. She’d seen enough of them. Every night another one showed up, never ready; greener then hope. She never talked to them, kept everything inside, maybe not as much as before, but now, she talked only when there was something worth saying.

She was a veteran of Redden’s toilet. The Skin was a cakewalk for woman like her. Black-tar heroin and hunger, dirty brown hair, shivering fear and forgotten shame, everything hung depressingly on her, the shirt, the sweats, and the down jacket. She felt responsible for the well-being of every shithead that flushed here.

Silvia picked a rock from the mud and tossed it into the fire. She felt the stares of the underlings sitting near the heat, and waited until there was a break in the never-ending goddamned gibberish.

Anyone know that tool?

A few looked the rest ignored her.

Silvia shot to her feet. Anyone know that! She yelled, pointing to the empty dark.

Two girls turned and glanced, whispered, huddled, and squealing in some secret.

Silvia sat back on the pail, her fingers feeling her last cigarette. She wasn’t smoking it! She wasn’t sharing her last smoke with the randoms. She hated them. She’d wait. In the Skin, you became an expert at waiting.

She stared past the fire to where the kid had just been.

Calvin reached across mama’s seat, rolling down her window. The ether was overpowering. It was more powerful than mint, not screams, though, not screams!

Oaks lined the street. Their gray trunks were set 20 feet apart, their canopies reaching, and touching near the tops. Another batch of yellow, red leaves floated to the ground, landing on the piles of dying leaves already there.

The van blurred past, lifting leaves into the night, some chasing the van, some floating onto the roots, some the same dying blood red the screamer would be.

Calvin felt the bump, the back of the van rolling over the lip between the driveway and the garage. Home! He pushed his glasses back up, watching the door close in the rear view. The meat was back there motionless, but not for long.

Calvin dragged it through the garage under its arms, up the three wooden stairs. After clearing the landing, he continued unceremoniously dragging the meat down the steps past the hot water tank into the chamber. A few moments later, it was chained above the metal slaughter trough.

He took the stairs in two steps. He’d sensed it as he’d inhaled mama’s mint tea. Mint could let him hear mama, but not see her. She said he’d see her clear enough through the screaming.

Calvin felt the smooth edges of the buckle as it unfastened. The small hairs on his back stood as his jeans caressed down his legs. He dropped his underwear, facing the mirror, bare as a new-born, ready to be born again in the garden with mother. It was time to dress for the leap to the other side.

Something was biting, pinching into the bones on his wrists. Benny opened his eyes; they felt massive, heavy, a hundred feet tall. He was higher than he remembered. The crystals! The rain gifts, they were above him, right there in the clouds. That’s what this was!

Benny looked up at the night. Something was wrong! The dark had edges. He could see them. He followed the lines the best he could.

A deep burning hit him, scorched in his stomach. He wasn’t outside! Hello? Benny whispered. The chains clinked around him, pinging, going silent, the sounds not echoing forever like in the Skin.

Hello? I’m sorry! I just wanna…

Creaking! The sound of wooden steps! Benny stopped breathing, listening, as every part of him tuned into the unmistakable sound. There was the subtle creaking made by the bending of wooden steps. He listened and looked into the dark where the sounds came from. Benny looked into the dark to his left, feeling gutted.

Someone was standing in an open door. Benny’s mouth dropped, trying to speak, his breathing and the chains he was trapped in breaking the silence.

‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t come out. There was other words right there, but the person standing in the dark stole them.

Air sucked down his throat as the person moved closer, mere feet from him. Benny was owned by the dark, the silhouette floating past him, stopping directly in front for a second, and then vanishing.

I wanna go home, I just wanna go home please, please! Benny cried, begged.

An electric sound suddenly buzzed. He turned towards the sound locking on a red laser thread. The beam shot from the near wall to his chest. His lungs emptied, his full weight hanging in the wrist clamps, his knees buckling. The light beaded from a video camera mounted on a tripod a few feet in front of him.

An exploding slapping sound sliced split through the silence, reverberating through the room. Benny’s shoulder’s burnt in pain, feeling as if they’d been stabbed with a thousand needles, then, light exploded in the chamber, filling it, but emptying Benny hollow.