Dastardly Bastard(44)

He found himself under a shadow cast by a figure at his side. Donald looked up, trying not to cry. “She didn’t deserve this.”

No. She didn’t.

“She deserved better than me.” Donald whimpered. He couldn’t even look at Sunne’s body. He wouldn’t allow himself to look.

Donald, come back. We need you.

“Who are you?”

You don’t remember me?

Donald thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, he just might.





31


MARK SIMMONS STUDIED THE PHOTOS on the walls, looking over the scars that remained with him. The wars and the horrors men were capable of played out in front of him in stunning photographic detail. He trembled, shocked at how good he was at capturing the terrible side of the world as he knew it.

“The dead call from your work,” Annabelle said. “Do you remember these fallen brothers?”

Mark shuddered. “Yes.”

“You made a living off the trials and tribulations of others, Mr. Simmons.”

“I was telling their stories.”

“You were reaping the rewards of their deaths.”

“I did what I was called to do.”

“Ever following the voices of many and never having one of your own.”

“These men died for my freedom!” Mark slammed his fist against the wall of photos. “That means something to me!”

“Oh, does that help you sleep at night? Or is it your job security that soothes you to sleep?”

“Listen, you don’t under—” Mark turned to confront her, but the woman’s corpse was gone.

Then, he saw her walking further down the hall. Mark looked down the long corridor. At the end, it narrowed into darkness. From that place came sounds—yells, gunfire, explosions—all things he had heard over and over again in his travels. They were the sounds of the dead and dying.

“Where are you going?”

Annabelle didn’t answer. She stopped at the edge of the darkness and reached into it. The blackness began to swirl. Colonel Jorge Flemming of the 15th Cavalry stepped out of the shadows beside her. His mangled arm dangled from his side, the result of a discharged grenade. To Annabelle’s left, Private First Class Frank Murdoch emerged, crawling on his stomach, pulling himself along with bloody arms. His body had been ripped in two from the blast of an enemy’s rocket propelled grenade as he had attempted to carry the injured away in his Black Hawk. More dead followed, walking, dragging, crawling their way toward Mark. He was suspended, unable to move, as the approaching horde closed the gap.

“These men were your spoils,” Annabelle said, turning to face him again. “Remember them.”

“These men are dead, yes, but not forgotten. They live on in my photos,” Mark said. “In my memories.”

“Yes. Your memories. Your memories sustain us.” Annabelle moaned. She tilted her head back, sounds of pleasure coming from her gaping maw. “More. Remember more. Who are these fallen brothers and sisters?”

“Judge Clemens, 29th Platoon, killed by friendly fire, Baghdad. Francine Moulton, 56th Airborne, shot down over Kandahar. Denise Nunuez, Second Armored Division, tank took fire south of the Pakistani border. Greg Woolward—” Mark continued, spitting out every name, every death, reliving them as he spoke.

“Yes! Yes! More.” Annabelle jerked and twitched. “Sustain us, Mr. Simmons. Sustain me.”

Mark…

The voice was distant, but Mark somehow managed to hear it over the moans of the dead.

“Who’s there?”

“Do not listen to her, Mr. Simmons. She’s not meant to be here.”

“Who? What?” Mark’s head felt funny, full.

Ignore that thing.

“No! You shall not claim him!” Annabelle’s roar echoed down the hall. Mark felt as if his ears would bleed.

He’s mine, bitch!

Mark felt himself being pulled backward. Annabelle charged, reaching for him. What was left of her face wore an expression equal parts desperation and anger.

As Mark was tugged further away, Annabelle began to wither. She became less there.

Pressure. Mark closed his eyes against a blinding light.

“I see you, girl!” Annabelle raged, her voice turning into a chorus of many. “And when I find you, I shall rend the flesh from your bones. You and all the rest!”

Mark shot up and out of the hallway, Annabelle’s voice fading as he left the place of the dead.

His eyes fluttered open; his temples pounded. Annabelle’s legion of voices still reverberated through his head.

Two forms hovered above him. They seemed familiar.

“Glad you could join us, Mark,” a woman’s voice said.





32


LYLE LAKE TRAVERSED THE CROWD of the Bay’s End carnival while calliope music played in the distance. He found his parents buying food at a concession stand. The sign above read: Jaleel’s Treats. His father stood at the counter, staring up at the menu, a large stuffed panda tucked under his arm.

“Oh, oh, oh! Can I have a corndog?” Lyle pulled the panda out of his dad’s grasp, hugging the fluffy thing to his chest. “Thanks for holding onto this for me.”

“No problem, Brody.” Dad smiled down at him. To the cashier, a middle-aged black man in a green shirt and khaki shorts, his father said, “A corndog for the boy, and… what did you want?”