The Burning House

By Chris Metteer

Sean McNabb reaches the top of the best-sellers list with the publication of The Cursed Man. It accurately predicts that spaceships will come to Earth and destroy that which needs destroying. Berlin and Phnom Penh are first. Washington, D.C., is next. Now McNabb is seen as a threat as the Prophet of Doom. Some even see him as worthy of death. He sees the man who is his most sinister threat at a reading in San Diego. The man confronts him as he signs copies of his novel. He says McNabb is a tool of the devil and all such tools deserve to burn in hell. McNabb deflects his threat with sarcasm. The man McNabb who calls Shadow Man presses on and asks McNabb to sign his book with these words: Dear Nadine, it's hot in here. McNabb is stunned. Does this man know McNabb's former lover Nadine Walker in Mississippi and that she also saw accurate scenes of the destruction of Phnom Penh? Does Shadow Man also believe she is deserving of a fiery death? It's only the first threat as McNabb's future is put at risk, the safety of his family is under attack, and the support of those he loves is shaken. Will his secure lifestyle burn to the ground? Will death divers find success as they try to kill him? Can the love of his wife survive the onslaught? Will the love of Nadine Walker resurface? Those are questions that tear apart McNabb's life continually. He only hopes he can survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Metteer
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005150341

Chris Metteer

I was a veteran writer/editor at several great newspapers in the American West. I rely on my journalism instincts in almost everything I do. My latest work, The Search for Circe, concentrates on broken relationships, emotional wounds from childhood and divorce, and attempts to find redemption.I love to travel and learn something every day. I enjoy family, good friends, cappuccinos, good beer and Manhattans, great movies, and novels that grab me by the collar and pull me along. Life is good.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Shadow Man

The man stays at the back of the room, pressing against the wall like a shadow wanting to hide in deeper shadows. He stands out from the crowd in San Diego despite his efforts to do the opposite. I have spoken at author readings in a crowded room before, and there are three discernable subgroups. Many observers look at me with worshipful eyes, like I’m a man invited to a banquet that accepts so few and never them. Those are the unpublished authors. Those who regard me as a pariah look angry. Then there are those with pure hate. They are the kind of people who persuade me that only lunatics feel comfortable in today’s world.

Shadow Man is even more threatening.

The Cursed Man sits atop the best seller lists for eight weeks now. It isn’t Mein Kampf I create on my laptop. I never call for the barbecuing of Cambodians and Germans, yet many blame me as if I have cosmic power to lure spaceships to Berlin and Phnom Penh. I hear this in whispers and occasional shouts. I also see clots of white-hot venom on social media.

I often look back at this from the beginning. I was just a guy in Denver with a story idea whirring through my mind. I want my main character Darrington Circe to face a collection of odd situations, so I imagine a fear-inducing preacher shouting about the end of the world. The man refers to mass death, pools on the ground and the possibility those might be blood and human fluids. How did I know that fifteen other writers penned those same words in their novels? How did I know that those writers would be brought together so a publishing house could investigate the statistical improbability? How did I know those words would be used on an international newscast in the wake of the attack on Phnom Penh?

This much I do know: The Cursed Man directs millions of dollars to me and lands my face on the cover of Writers Digest. I must issue an addendum here for the doe-eyed sycophants in my audiences. The headline reads Sean McNabb, Prophet of Doom. No one wants that burden placed on their shoulders. I prefer the cover of People in which I’m lauded as The Sexiest Prophet Alive.

I am truly heartbroken that my lofty financial status is carried on the backs of dead souls. Would I reject what I have? To avoid allegations and murmured death threats? Yes. To lose the money and freedom? Not a chance. My greatest achievement isn’t that I have piles of money. It’s that I have an ungodly amount of freedom because of that money. There is existential gravity in that difference. That somehow leads back to Shadow Man in San Diego.

I sit at a small desk and sign copies of my novel after each reading. I glance up at each face and ask what he or she prefers I write on the inside title page. Most suggest a name and ask that I make this a personal message. I often stand and put my face by a shoulder so they can take a selfie, which they show off to close family and fellow members of book clubs. I never pay attention to the next person in line. I wish I changed that routine for Shadow Man.

He dresses in gray khakis with a gray jacket that zips up to his neck. His glasses are so dark that I can’t see his eyes. I look up and see my reflection in his lenses. He holds a copy of my novel in one hand and has the other hand tucked into a jacket pocket. I signal to my bodyguard by rubbing my right earlobe that something might be amiss. Shadow Man speaks before I can.

You are a tool of the devil. Such tools shall perish in the fires of hell.

I try sarcasm to show I am not afraid.

Is that what you want me to write for you?

He smiles.

No, write this. ‘Dear Nadine, it’s hot in here.’ Then do your squiggly little signature.

I rub my right earlobe again. This man knows the name of my former lover in Mississippi. Does he also know that Nadine Walker saw the same scene of destruction I did and put it in a computer program prepared for the Department of Defense? Does he also believe she is a tool of the devil deserving of a fiery end?

My bodyguard steps toward Shadow Man. His smile vanishes and he leaves. He shakes me up so much that I have my publicist announce that personal autographs are suspended for the rest of this session. Only pre-autographed copies are now available.

Shadow Man slips out of the room and the hotel. He leaves behind a concern that buries itself like a barb in my soul. My security team scans video from hotel cameras and sees the man walk to the boulevard and simply disappear to the left on the sidewalk. No car to identify, no license number to trace, no clear shot of his face. There’s only his sinister charge that I’m owned by Satan and deserve to be in hell.

Chapter 2 – Home Life and Horror

There must be a strong counterbalance to the episode in San Diego. It comes from my family. I can be the good house husband because we are swimming in cash, gold, and property. Today my freedom means I take our two boys to summer day care. I like that job. First, it gives Mel (she’s Melissa, so you don’t think this is one of those same-sex arrangements) freedom from one task. Second, it gives me a chance to spend time with the boys before they are off to roughhouse with buddies, and I am free to create my latest brilliance. My greatest moments now go something like this.

Mel walks into the kitchen and puts her right arm around my waist.

It’s time to pee on a stick, she whispers into my ear. I believe our latest sexfest is going to have a serious impact on my uterus.

You sure?

I think you hammered home a winner. Good job, McNabb.

Her smile tickles my ear, and I laugh. This moment frees our souls.

We lost our third child to miscarriage. We work like dogs to create a fourth. Apparently the five-times-a-day routine of sex has its desired effect. The pee stick will give us the necessary information. We pray fervently for a plus sign.

You better get going so these guys get to school on time, and she swats me on the butt.

My passengers on this and every other school day are Sean McNabb Jr., a.k.a. The Big Kahuna, age six, and his talkative clown of a brother, Michael, age four. I anchor them in their car seats in the back. We have five miles to cover in West Palm Beach, and I use roads well-known by neighbors so I don’t hit a bottleneck on A1A. I avoid I-95 and the Florida Turnpike at all costs.

I emerge from a residential street and start to pull onto one of the avenues that leads to a bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. I check in both directions. The coast is clear. I glance in the rearview mirror as Michael tells his same lame joke about a chicken crossing the road. (He’s never going to be the next Robin Williams.) He throws his arms in the air after finishing the punchline.

I turn again to look out the front windshield, and everything goes to hell. A vehicle to my left, racing, a blur in time but frozen in memory, white hood and silver grille locked in my vision, then the spray of window glass reduced to small pebbles with sharp edges. Metal hammers at my left side. Pain screams amid the horrifying jumble of motion. There is the smell of old dust caked under fenders, and the stench of oil and fluids bursting forth, the compression of steel and glass and time, then the twisting kaleidoscope of images as the car is pushed onto its side, rolling over like a dying carcass.

I struggle for clarity when the rolling stops. Frightening reality trickles in.

Turned upside down.

Strong smell of gasoline.

Silence from the boys in the backseat.

Chapter 3 – Vision in Blue

A hint of light. My mind wanders in a fog, awareness at the most basic level. Numbness. Brain tries to activate. Something wrong. I am wrong. Mouth so dry that my tongue is stuck. Feel a straw being inserted into my mouth.

Drink slowly, Sean.

Rush of cold water. I gag momentarily.

I said to drink slowly.

New rush of cold water. The voice is calming. My eyes refuse to work. Light too bright. Roll my head to the left.

I’ve got to be going. Be safe, Sean.

Image of blue clothing. Sound of the soft voice. Little else sifts through the fog. (What the hell’s happening? Can’t tell. Can’t see. Person doesn’t identify.)

Press of soft lips against mine. Touch of a tongue against my upper lip.

Love you every day of my life. I will be yours forever.

Another kiss. Blue figure vanishing. Close my eyes. Tired, so damned tired. Clouds deepen. Sinking into the darkness of drug-induced slumber.

Chapter 4 – Invaders

Spaceships hover over Washington, D.C, on that darkest day in American history. Lt. Col. Clay Torres sits in the command center monitoring alien activity over America. He seethes at what he’s seeing. The killing craft are stationed over the most important places in his nation, but the might of the U.S. military is powerless to stop it. It lacks strength because the leaders calling the shots – from the Oval Office to those charged with military responsibilities – don’t have the spine to do what is required.

His America is under attack. His capital is threatened. These are his brothers in arms, grunts on the ground and proud warriors of the Air Force. They are forced to act like cowards. Troops are only as brave as their leaders. Amoebas have more courage than the American brain trust.

He watches the scene of a single spacecraft hovering over the White House. He wants to shout (Damn it, why do we sit here?), but such abruptness is sure to startle others in the room. He’s second in command here, and he knows the propriety of hierarchy. The power here is Gen. David Steinberg, U.S. Army. He’s one of those who navigates his way up the chain of command by being skilled and following orders. Torres wonders whether Steinberg ascends to his current rank because he is a Jew, but he discards that quickly. He’s had enough people talk behind his back that he rose in the ranks because he’s Latino. He finally speaks quietly but firmly.

May I interject something here, General Steinberg? He stays silent for a second. Steinberg’s only action is to turn in his direction, so he continues. We have missile capabilities to rain down on any enemy, yet we sit here silent. Do we wait for these things to repeat Cambodia and Berlin? Do we wait for the annihilation of America?

You are ignorant of history, Steinberg says in that authoritative, controlled manner that irritates Torres like a burr in his boot. We lost this game when we didn’t detect these ships before they arrived. So, tell me, Torres, what happens when we launch the missiles? Do we destroy the spaceships? Do we miss and hit our own people? And if we do destroy the spacecraft, where do they land, and what kind of destructive power would that unleash? We know these ships can wipe out hundreds of thousands of people in a split second, yet you are eager to attack them with unknown consequences.

He stops for a couple of seconds.

I don’t launch under those circumstances. No thinking man would.

I most respectfully disagree. Torres sits higher in his chair. Pardon me, General, but we are emasculating the United States of America. We’re now a slave nation. Our ultimate strength has been in the military’s ability to defend our soil against attack and lash back at those who threaten our sovereignty. Might may not make right, but it sure as hell lets the enemy know who we are.

The gantlet has been thrown down. Steinberg walks closer to his philosophical adversary.

Are you willing to gamble with the lives of everyone in the District of Columbia to flex your muscles? I’m not. Military power has its place. This isn’t one of them. I go along with what the civilian authorities are doing.

What exactly is that? Cowering like beaten dogs.

Steinberg walks to where he is one step behind Torres’ chair.

Here’s a short synopsis. Berlin and Cambodia were surprised by the sudden arrival of these ships, so they had no time to prepare. We did. We just never expected that we could be third on the hit list.

Steinberg puts his hands on the back of Torres’ chair. The colonel hates the idea that this man can control his movements as well as challenge his heartfelt beliefs.

Now we are bombarding the spacecraft by another means, beaming pictures of humanitarian efforts by Americans. We are using images of American troops marching into Paris as liberators, anything that could paint the U.S. in the most positive light. Our problem is that we have no idea who or what we’re dealing with. The fear is that they see us as the ones who drop nukes on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. We hope our chosen images mitigate any response.

Steinberg stops for a few seconds.

Our hope is that they will pull back without doing anything.

Wishful thinking. Torres won’t shrink back. Again, I respectfully disagree. I think we will soon watch millions of Americans be obliterated. I don’t want that on my conscience.

Steinberg simply walks away.

This is madness, Torres thinks. The U.S. military has become so unable to respond. That goes back to the aftermath of 9/11, when America should have dropped atomic weapons on Kabul and Baghdad and followed up with relentless attacks until those heathens were bombed back into the Stone Age. Then there would have been no need to lose so many American lives on Iraqi and Afghan soil. The message would be simple: Challenge the U.S.A. and your top criminals become bloody corpses. Truman had the right idea.

I can’t change policy, Torres thinks, but I can change it where my authority allows. I will make it a point to be aggressive in any area under my control. That would go for everyone from computer programmers to those on the ground who can deliver death in an instant. There will be a Black Ops nature to what we do. We will never sit here and be like we are today. We won’t be rats hovering in darkness.

Torres mulls his general plan of attack until the first blinding flash appears. Three areas of D.C. and northern Virginia erupt into balls of flame. The White House is scorched into nothing in a second. A wing of the Pentagon is hit. Langley suffers. The humbling of America begins.

That was eight months ago. Times have changed. Torres has the power to determine American response in his own corner of the military world. His elite group will be a killing machine. Not even the fearsome power of these spaceships can survive.

That will happen, of course, because he has been given necessary authority and personnel. President Warren Catchings is his staunch ally. It’s great to have respect from nothing less than the Oval Office.

Chapter 5 – The Awakening

Recognition of light. Somewhere in that light is a soft voice.

Sean? Sean? I’m here, baby.

Press of flesh against my right hand.

Baby, you hear me?

I fight through more mental fog. Face to my right. Whole bunch of crap on my face and tubes up my nose. I start to reach up, but she keeps my right hand from moving.

Leave those things alone. They are there to help you.

Recognition. Lovely woman. Thank God it’s Mel. Then memories. Flash of white. Impact. Bits of glass showered against my face. More pain than I’ve felt in my life.

I instinctively flinch at the memory.

What the hell? I ask. Mouth is dry. Feel little strands of thick fluid as I pull my tongue away from the roof of my mouth.

Then more memories. Terrifying memories.

The boys, I say in a shriek strangled by a dry throat.

Mel pats my hand.

They’re both okay. Cuts and more blood than a mother likes to see, and muscles so sore they can hardly move, but they are healthy enough to eat ice cream.

I hear her laugh, which is so welcome. It sounds so sweet.

They are okay, Sean. Don’t worry about them.

The fog starts to settle. I want to stay lucid. Want to talk. Want to feel Mel near me.

What kind of stuff they have me on?

Morphine drip. They wanted to wire you up to Dilaudid, but I hit the freakin’ roof when they said that. No way they’re pumping that crap into my husband.

I see her face clearly for the first time. God, she looks good.

Thank you, I manage to say.

She picks up a yellow cup and holds a straw up to my mouth.

Drink, she says. You have IV fluids, but let’s get more water into you. Don’t want you to get dehydrated.

The splash of cold liquid is wonderful. I take a second swig. I notice the rest of the room. Plain white ceiling with acoustic tiles that look like they’re decorated by shotgun pellets. Hear the beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor. See twin lines from bags suspended above me. Morphine and liquids. A nurse walks into the room, a black woman about as wide as she is tall.

Well, our boy is awake, she says with a nasal tone. Welcome to the sixth floor, Mr. McNabb. I’m Denise. I’ll take care of you until 10 tonight. Tell you what, I’m going to slow that morphine so you don’t drift into dreamland too soon. Got a few things I need to do. Blood pressure, take your temperature, drain a urine bag. You know, the reasons they pay me so well.

Denise snorts a slight laugh. Mel starts to scoot back her chair so Denise has room to work on the right side of the bed.

Don’t go, babe, I say.

I’m here full time, Sean. Just will do a little shuttling to the boys’ room up on the eighth floor, where they are probably running the hospital out of chocolate ice cream. They are okay, Sean. Just a little dinged up. A few stitches, sore muscles, nothing more.

I manage to smile. Mel only looks more serious.

There is something we have to talk about, Sean. Your injuries are pretty serious.

I look over at Denise, who is adjusting the flow of morphine. She nods. She walks back around the bed to a place just to my left.

If you are going to be awake more often, I want the button for calling the nurses over by your right side. I want you to be able to contact us when you need help, she says.

Leave it where it is.

I start to reach for the button. Mel practically screams.

Leave the fucking button alone.

I move my left arm. A morsal of pain screams. There’s something much worse. I look to my left. My arm is a stub that ends about four inches below my shoulder. It looks like a manatee’s severed flipper swathed in white bandages.

I feel Mel squeeze my right hand. Denise touches my left shoulder gently.

They had to take the arm, the nurse says. The bone was shattered, and veins, arteries, and muscles were shredded beyond repair. They had to amputate, Mr. McNabb. There was no other option.

More bad memories. Pain like a cruel master. Metal and glass and rust and dust drifting away. Sparks and the deafening whir of a sawblade against metal. Wondering how close to my face the blade is. I remember the strong smell of gasoline and the worry about me and the boys being engulfed in flames. I manage my best statement at the time.

What the fuck?

I stare at my stump until the morphine kicks in again with full force. The room folds in on me.

Chapter 6 – The Other Woman

Sorry for his choice of words. Mel sounds apologetic. He did dip into his cussing.

He’s a helluva lot better than others I’ve seen. He has the mouth of a nun compared to some. Those dudes broaden even my vocabulary.

Denise huffs then laughs. She reaches out and puts her hand on Mel’s shoulder.

He’ll do just fine once he processes everything. It’s a damn shock to the system. There will be interesting times with physical rehab. My guess he will take it as a challenge to get better. Some fight it, ya know.

Mel only smiles.

Sean loves to prove others wrong. All he has to hear is someone say he can’t do something, or he doesn’t have the will to get it done. That boy will kick ass once that happens.

They walk out the door and lean against the wall just outside Sean’s room.

Your husband has been rather popular, Denise says. He got seven calls from some woman name of Suzanne Carpentier. The gals at the nurses’ station didn’t give any details about his condition. That’s all protected by HIPAA.

Dear, dear Suzanne. She’s a bulldog. She’s Sean’s literary agent and hovers over him like he’s her prized possession, which he is. She has a great condo on the Upper East Side.

Denise looks quizzically at Mel for a few seconds, then it all clicks into place.

He’s THAT Sean McNabb? the nurse asks. "The Cursed Man McNabb? Hell, haven’t read the book yet, but everyone says it’s spooky reading, what with all the spaceships flying around. Gotta read that book."

Denise smiles.

Think he’ll autograph a copy for me?

He’ll give you a free copy and sign it. It might be a scribble because he’s not right-handed.

Well, damn, how about that.

Denise starts to turn away, then spins on her heel.

Oh, there was one other visitor. Said she was a friend of the family. She stopped by his room for just a couple of minutes. Woman in military uniform. Ya know, that camouflage stuff.

Mel looks puzzled.

We don’t know anyone in the military. Camouflage? Beats the hell out of me.

That blue stuff is Air Force. Only place like that around here is Homestead, but they trimmed that place down after Hurricane Andrew about blew this city clean away.

When did she show up?

Right after Mr. McNabb was brought back from the recovery room. She was waiting. Funny thing, though. She kept herself hidden and kept watching down the hallway. Once we got him into his room and all hooked up, she walked in and visited. But like I said, she was there for just a couple of minutes.

Mel shakes her head.

Doesn’t make any sense. Damn, I wish I would have come down with him. That would eliminate one mystery.

Yes, that would, Mrs. McNabb.

Denise continues walking away as Mel heads into the room.

Denise has a mental wrestling match. Does she tell Mrs. McNabb about what she saw, how that military woman kissed Mr. McNabb in a way only lovers do? That might be taking too much for granted. She doesn’t want to drive a spike into a good marriage if she doesn’t have to. Still, she hates the idea that a wife is being taken advantage of.

Chapter 7 – Dinner and Mayhem

Torres has the apprehension of a teenager on a first date. He can command troops and assemble an attacking force that can fill the skies, but a woman this beautiful is another task. However, this is a business session over dinner, and there is no sexual worry to consider. At least there shouldn’t be, but Nadine Walker makes a man think differently. She won’t be wearing camouflage. Torres wonders what she will wear for their informal talk in a somewhat formal setting.

He chose this restaurant because he can get a private room away from spying eyes and sensitive ears. After all, this is top-secret business, and she isn’t just another member of his team. This is a woman who turns heads wherever she goes, and for good reason. Ms. Walker is special. His military training tells him not to think of any woman in such a way, but with some women that can’t be avoided. Any man remembers Ms. Walker for a long time.

Torres can see the front door from where he is seated. There is the rush of blinding light as the door swings open, and there she is. She wears a simple dark blue T-shirt that’s tucked under a wide-sash white belt, and she has on navy blue pants and black shoes with the smallest heel. Her hair isn’t in the tight bun she wears when she’s on the base. Curls cascade onto her shoulders, which are soft and rounded. Torres feels a surge of maleness deep inside.

Her smile is more awesome than any clothing she is wearing.

Colonel Torres, she says as she extends her hand.

We are off the clock here. Call me Clay.

Well, if that’s what you want, Colonel Clay.

You miss my meaning.

I picked up on your meaning. I’m just having some fun with you.

Torres apparently isn’t very big on jokes. She admits he looks snappy, then winces because that phrase sounds so Minnesota, so provincial. He has on a blue suit and a white shirt without a tie. His shoes are polished so well that they almost glow. He stands up, and she sees him in a different way than in their first meeting yesterday at Homestead. He isn’t wearing any insignias that designate him as an Air Force officer. He’s just a handsome, 6-foot-2-inch man with touches of gray on his short-cropped black hair.

I’ll have to be more aware of your jokes, Ms. Walker.

He clumsily waits for a few seconds. He hopes she will say it is time to abandon formality and let him call her Nadine. There’s no such invitation. He finally walks up to the maître d’s podium and informs him that Mr. Torres and his partner are here, and that they have