Sick Inside the Citadel

By Benjamin Welton

"She was clearly dead. In the few seconds that I looked at the body, I could tell that her death had something to do with the knife sticking out of her throat."

A trophy wife tired of her husband's fetish. A pair of rednecks plotting to rob a gated community. A black metal musician who recorded himself murdering his girlfrien

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terror House Press, LLC
• Release date: Apr 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951897116

Benjamin Welton

Benjamin Welton is a writer originally from Morgantown, West Virginia. His work has appeared in The Atlantic, Military History, the American Conservative, and other publications. He is a former member of the U.S. Navy who now lives in New England.

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ALSO BY BENJAMIN WELTON

Doomsters at the Drive-In: Doom Metal-Approved Fright Flicks

Hands Dabbled in Blood

First Fears

Copyright © 2020 Terror House Press, LLC.

First edition published by Benjamin Welton, 2019.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means (whether electronic or mechanical), including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-951897-11-6

EDITOR

Matt Forney (mattforney.com)

LAYOUT AND COVER DESIGN

Matt Lawrence (mattlawrence.net)

Excerpts of this book were published, in somewhat different form, by the following magazines and websites: Schlock! Webzine, The Fall of Cthulhu, Terror House Magazine, Crime Factory, New Pop Lit, Atop the Cliffs, Vantage Point, and Aberration Labyrinth. The author would like to thank each publication for their support.

TERROR HOUSE PRESS, LLC

terrorhousepress.com

Table of Contents

A Sloth’s View on Life

Trach’s Death Ray

Halcyon

The Last Will and Testament of Philip Alan Dennison

Suffocato Clamoribus

Fetish

The Impulse

Kane’s Hollow, WV

Lakenecks

A House in Fairmont

Poetry

A Sloth’s View on Life

The guy sitting across from me was about 28, over six feet, and as thin and worn-out looking as any picture of Burroughs. His eyes bore the hallmarks of incessant crying, as well as nonexistent sleep. In short, he looked like shit and he was sitting on my couch, which also happened to look like shit. He held in his hands a photograph, something that I hadn’t seen since the last time the Cubs had won the World Series (which coincidentally had been the last season of professional baseball). The picture was a daytime shot of three people milling around in a park. The man in the foreground looked 18, with long, unkempt blonde hair and a blue poplin shirt that looked like a hand-me-down. The other man in the picture looked about the same age and his brown hair was similarly ratty. His flannel shirt looked a little cleaner, though, and this might’ve had something to do with the girl standing closely to him. She was wearing a white cotton blouse that had rather short sleeves. Her bare arms bore the traces of exercise; their curvy, toned ripples were just enough to invoke fitness, but not enough to draw accusations of butchness. I would describe her face (which I assumed was pretty), but her back was turned in the picture; no beautiful mug for old Lukey boy, no means of identification.

The guy took the picture back after I was done with it, and before placing it in his breast pocket, he spent another few seconds ruminating over these three individuals. He looked hurt because they weren’t talking to him. Maybe they never had talked to him, or maybe they never will again. Either way, he wanted desperately to talk to someone, and on that day, that someone was me.

I am here, Mr. Borchard, because I heard from a friend that you’re exceptionally good at finding people.

I’ve found five out of seven so far. That’s not too bad…considering the circumstances.

Yes, of course. My name is Craig Doyle. I used to work at a hotel before it all happened. I was a doorman.

Ever used your coat to cover a sleeping bathroom attendant?

What? I don’t understand what you’re saying.

It’s immaterial; something from my life before.

Which was?

I was a college student for a while. I even managed to graduate. Then I worked as a librarian, which I enjoyed very much. Just me and all the old, lost things of culture. Anyway, this isn’t about me and my tribulations. Please get down to business, Mr. Doyle.

"Okay. The three people in that picture are all my friends…excuse me, were. Martin and Ricky are dead. They were killed when SCD first hit. Martin worked on the docks, so he was one of the very first ones in the whole city to develop it. It took longer with Ricky, but he died just the same. I often wonder why I’ve been so lucky, and then I remind myself that this isn’t luck."

He looked down at his chewed-up hands, which showed signs of recent overuse. His nails were merely yellow crescent moon stubs that looked like they were retreating back into his skin. His wrists were dented and had a purplish hue to them. He had been interrogated at some point. His whole appearance (not to mention his age) made him a likely suspect. The police probably thought he was PPD (Post-Human Plague Dealers) or a member of one of the many anarchistic groups that had sprang up after the government acknowledged the existence of SCD. They had probably kept him for a while, judging by the deepness of his wounds.

What about the girl in the picture?

That’s exactly why I am here. Her name is Magdalena Cortez. She disappeared four days ago.

And you would like me to locate her for you?

Yes, precisely.

Okay. First, I already have a problem with this. I have no idea what this girl looks like. The picture you just gave isn’t worth a dime, so do you have any other pictures of her?

I am sorry. I do not.

How do you expect me to find her, then?

I can describe her to you. I know her well. We…we are lovers; boyfriend and girlfriend. We’ve been dating for over a year now, and I can still feel every inch of her on my fingertips, especially now that I cannot actually hold her.

Craig Doyle hugged himself then. His embrace was tight, and he kept his eyes closed the entire time. I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment. I started playing with my BIC lighter to suppress the awkwardness. He noticed, and soon came back to the present.

I’ve been such a mess since she disappeared. I cry a lot at night, and I sometimes play the videos we made together over and over again.

Well, since you don’t have any other pictures of her, can I see these videos?

I can mail them to you. For now, I can tell you what she looks like, what she smells like, and how her voice sounds.

It’s not much, but it’s better than going into this thing totally blind. Try not to poeticize this either; I can’t find people based on their exaggerations.

In an hour, he told me all about Magdalena Cortez. She was 22, Honduran, and somewhere around five feet even. She spoke with a strong Spanish accent, and she had a sparkling personality. I highly doubted that that sparkling personality would last in the current environment, so I didn’t delude myself into thinking that she’d embrace me with open arms. The new world changed people, and even an angel on earth like Magdalena Cortez would be a little meaner than she once was. I left my apartment with my pistol just in case.

It was raining that day, so I dipped into the cafeteria on my block. Ever since SCD hit, cafeterias had made a comeback, and now there was one on every block. It made me feel old when I remembered that this used to be the case with Starbucks, but that was considered a luxury now. I grabbed a bowl of soup and some coffee and sat down by the window. I pulled out my case notebook and diagrammed my plan of attack. Craig Doyle gave me the names and addresses of some of Magdalena’s friends, so I would pester them with questions right after my perfunctory chat with Detective Vince McAvoy, my friend in Missing Persons. I questioned whether or not he would see me since Missing Persons was by far and away the busiest department. Before SCD, that distinction had belonged to Homicide, but now the city was considered the safe zone where people fought to stay alive and keep them out, not leech off and exploit one another like they used to. It’s funny how tragedy—real, Biblical tragedy—makes humans just a little bit better. Well, for a while at least.

The walk to the precinct made me think about what the crack in this peaceful façade would look like. Even though I had food and coffee in my stomach, I was still the same old morose bastard that I’d always been. When I reached Detective McAvoy’s desk, I figured that the first outbreak of homicidal violence in the city since SCD would somehow involve an attack on a hospital.

Luke Borchard. The goddamn thorn in my fucking side. What miracle do you want me to perform this time?

Detective McAvoy was a short, bulldog-looking black man with a Thelonious Monk goatee. He was about 50 years old, and he could easily kick my ass. His tight polo shirt clearly showed well-sculpted pecks and biceps. It looked he was one flex away from exposing his gym membership.

I am looking for another lost, unrepentant soul. At least this one sounds pretty.

Got sick of chasing after dudes?

I am open-minded.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing more than anything Edward Lear ever penned. Look, I need your help again. Do you have anything on a Magdalena Cortez? She’s a Honduran national, about 22, and she’s been AWOL for four days.

Who’s paying you now?

Did you wake up today and decide to ask all the wrong questions? My client has a right to privacy.

Borchard, you’re as thoughtless as any piece of trash stuck under your gumshoes. No one has privacy now. There are CCTV cameras on every block. We’ve got national ID cards now. Hell, my men don’t even need a warrant to barge into any apartment or house at any time. This is Missing Persons. We’ve got the governor’s blessing to do whatever it takes by any means necessary.

People do love to give their freedoms, don’t they? All in the name of a little security.

Don’t hand me none of that bullshit. That kook Krasinsky down the hall is one of them libertarian shitbirds too, and he feeds me that same line every day. If you ask me, that’s nothing but scared white folks trying to justify their guns and their bad deeds. All I care about is getting people back from the brink, and if that means interrupting dinner, then so be it.

Will you help me or not? You owe me one after the Seong case, and you know it.

Christ. Are you going to hold that zipperhead over me for the rest of my life?

That’s a dirty word, McAvoy. It offends me.

Fuck you, you vulture. We both know that you ain’t got feelings. All you care about is getting the green into your greasy hands.

So you’re slandering me now. Wait until my lawyer hears about this. She’s Asian, too.

Alright. I’ll see what I can dig up on this hot tamale of yours. I can’t promise anything; it’s a mess out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jesus came tomorrow.

He’d probably turn around and call the whole thing off. We’re not worth it.

For once, you’ve said something I agree with. I hope the whole shithouse burns with all the rats still in it.

The first name on Craig Doyle’s list was Sonal Ramkaree. Her apartment was on the third floor of a rather posh building in what had formerly been the city’s business district. The door was mahogany brown, and after the tiny Indian girl opened it, she revealed the apartment’s lush interior. The afternoon sun was calmed by gingham drapes that reached all the way down to the linoleum floor. There was a bar counter connected to the kitchen, which was about as big as an airplane’s restroom. The living room took up most of the floor space, and its main attraction was a comfortable brown leather couch. There was a glass coffee table with a coffee table book on it. The book had probably come from the bookcase that abutted the coffee table. The bookcase was wooden and black, and it was covered with framed photographs. All the pictures contained Ms. Ramkaree and an attractive blonde girl. Here they were by a waterfall; here they were hiking up a mountain. Clearly, this was Ms. Ramkaree’s partner.

So, Craig Doyle gave you my name? Have I done anything?

You think I am a cop or something?

You seem like the type. I used to watch a lot of those detective shows. You know, back when there was such a thing as TV.

Never liked it myself. My name is Luke Borchard, and I am a locator.

A what?

I locate people for the lovesick, the homesick, and the generally just sick. They pay me, though.

A private detective?

No, I prefer locator. I don’t carry a badge or a photostat.

But you do carry a gun, unless you have a tumor in your arm.

Good eyes. Were you a cop before all of this?

No. I was a paralegal. Not too far off, right?

"Same vein. Hopefully, our shared love of the law will make this easier. I am looking for Magdalena Cortez. Do you