Dastardly Bastard(26)

“Annabelle, I’m sorry.” He reached forward and put a hand on her right shoulder. He would never get used to seeing the remains of those left behind. Whether or not he believed in a soul was debatable, but there was something, something that left people when they died. That part of a person weighed a great deal. Mark could feel it resting upon his shoulders.

“I know.” Annabelle’s good eye snapped open. The iris was dry, bloodshot.

Mark screamed. His body reeled backward of its own accord. He was dragged out of the tent wall, his body passing through as if he were made of nothing but air. The presence pulled him along, into the fray of battle. Roaring men fired loud rifles. Tanks dispersed their payloads, decimating whatever their shells found. Bodies were torn apart. Life was a roll of the dice.

Mark tried to cry out, but there was nothing left in him. He’d already cried those tears, had already come to the understanding that evil lurked in the hearts of men. And sometimes, those men were the good guys.

He was made to watch a group of civilians being processed into a line against a wall, while enlisted men in American uniforms formed a kill squad. Most of them were smiling.

Images blurred by at the speed of light. Short bursts of horrid acts followed by gleeful celebration drove Mark toward the edge. He could feel himself breaking. He needed to break. Wanting to forget it all, Mark closed his eyes and prayed for it to end.

The eyes of the dead beckoned. Mark wanted to help, but they were already gone. Already laid to the pile. Burning.

Voices came.

“Poor people.”

“They never had a chance.”

“Fucking camel jockeys got exactly what they deserved.”

“Most of those were friendly, Cap.”

“We got ‘em. Don’t worry.”

“May God have mercy on their souls.”

“They don’t believe in the right God. Remember that!”

Mark reeled, dizzy. Unable to keep his eyes shut any longer for fear he would be sick, he opened them.

He was somewhere new.

The hallway was just wide enough for his large frame. He felt cramped, as he had in the Prius. He didn’t even have room to extend his arms at his sides.

Both walls were covered in photographs depicting stories he’d been sent on over the years, fading memories of the reporter he used to be. His mission to Iraq was supposed to have been one of unbiased reporting. Mark had been told by more than one man wearing stripes that he shouldn’t go on with the stuff that looked bad, not if he “wanted to see another Twinkie.” Those innocent men and women should have had their story told. But he’d been weak, deleting pictures at the behest of men with hearts blacker than night.

“Mr. Simmons.” Annabelle’s voice echoed off the small confines of the hallway, sounding far too loud in Mark’s ears.

He turned to find her behind him. Her corpse beamed, and her mostly intact mouth curled up at the corners in a hideous smile. The contrast was stunning, the utter horror of her face, offset by that grin—Heaven and Hell in profile.

“Where… where am I?”

“You are with me, Mr. Simmons.”

Mark realized her mouth didn’t move when she spoke. The young woman was in his head. She’d made herself at home in his thoughts.

“Where would you like to be?”

“Home. In my bed. Asleep and dreaming this entire thing.” His recliner and fridge full of beer would beat a nightmare any day of the week. He wondered absently if his goldfish were still alive.

“You are home.” Annabelle tilted her ghastly head. A pinkish liquid dribbled from the remains of her hollow eye socket down onto her left shoulder. “This place is now your home.”

“I don’t know this place. I would know my home.”

“I promise. It is.” She gestured to the pictures lining the walls around them. “This is you, Mr. Simmons. All of you. All that you ever were and will be. This is your home. Your past, present, and future life. Everything. Remember, Mark. Remember for me.”

Mark stood in that hallway, lost in time, studying the photos with a reminiscent gaze. His life played out before him in stark relief. Every piece of who he was resided on those walls—forgotten times, tarnished memories, reoccurring atrocities, tides of war, the dead and dying.

Are we nothing more than fleeting thoughts? Images captured on glossy paper? A product of our memories? Is that all we are?

“These are your memories, Mark.” He noted that she had stopped calling him Mr. Simmons. “Your memories remain. Your memories sustain.”





21


JALEEL WARNER SETTLED IN BEHIND Lyle so he could get a good look at the pictures on the boy’s cell phone. Id floated beside him, sparks popping off its misty form.

“What am I looking at?” Lyle asked, sounding confused.

“That’s you, little man,” Trevor said. “Heading for the cliff. You tried to off yourself.”

Not exactly how Jaleel would have put it, but he supposed the guy was right.

“They must be starting at the most recent pic,” Justine said.

The still frame was of Lyle’s first step toward the chasm’s void. He’d pushed off the rock face, but his hands were still planted, palms against the stone. What bothered Jaleel was the entity above the boy’s head, a darkness thicker than any shadow he’d ever seen.