Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25148755-20140720064244

Ooook. This one needs a little explanation. I wrote the following about four years ago, at the time planning on trying to build it into a book. Unfortunately I don't have the attention span for that so I got about fifty pages in before it got buried. There was a bunch of it I liked though and I have a few ideas about how to potentially have it complement the other stories I've written/sketched out. I pulled it back out tonight for the first time, heavily edited it and removed a whole bunch of extraneous bullshit that in retrospect was solely superficial. My issue is that it still runs long (about 20 pages), and its not done yet...I feel like there's at least one major scene left in this story (it'll be obvious what that is if you read it) and even then I'll need to pick back up with the main character at some point down the line. I'd absolutely love some feedback on a couple things:

1.  What if anything could/should be cut out?

2.  Does it work? It's considerably different from the other stories I've written so I want to make sure it's worth putting the effort into finishing it.

And then obviously if there's anything else that might be constructively beneficial. As always, thanks for reading!

________________________________________________________________________

The Soldier

I can hear the screams of men, and gunfire.  I can smell their fear. They know something is in the dark, something strange, menacing, and very, very hungry. 

Oh God-blam-the fuck is that-blamblam- It hurts-blamblamblam-please don’t-blamblamblamblam-Noooooooo- blamblamblamblamblamblam…….

I wake trembling in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around my legs. A few feathers drift lazily through the air from where I can see my pillow ripped open, lying against the far wall. I look across the bed to the nightstand, the green LED lights telling me it’s 4:30 A.M. It was the dream again, the same dream. I glance reproachfully at the remains of a fifth of whiskey and a half empty bottle of sleeping pills lying on its side by the clock. It’s not that they have ever kept the nightmare from me before, but I still have hope it's just a question of finding the right quantity.

My hand still slightly shaking, I grab the bottle and take a healthy swallow, then drop it empty to the puke-green colored carpeting that passes as decoration in my bedroom. It burns, but that’s just fine. Knowing I will never get back to sleep and with only another thirty minutes before I had set my alarm to wake me anyway, I throw on coffee and jump into the shower. It’s cold, but that’s just fine too. I stand there, eyes closed, arms bracing me against the wall, head bowed under the frigid stream of water, and try to forget.

I stay like that for several long minutes. Finally when my skin is practically blue I get out and towel off, shivering from the chill. My name is Michael Landry, and today I am a high school history teacher at the Haverbrook Prep School just outside of Philadelphia.

The shower is just what I needed. Already the vivid horrors of my dream have begun to slowly fade back into my subconscious. I know all too well that they will be back in full force when I manage to finally drift to sleep tonight (they always are) but even this slight reprieve is welcome. I look in the mirror and decide the dark bags under my eyes can be attributed as much to a genuine lack of sleep as my ill-advised bender. I quickly run a razor over the rough stubble of my beard and briefly attempt to tame my mop of brown hair still sticking up at odd angles. Not that long ago I’d have gotten reprimanded if it was half this length. I return to the bedroom and dress in the dark slacks and grey button-down shirt that has become my unofficial teaching uniform. I have worn one uniform or another for most of my life and consider it a shameful waste of time to spend too much effort worrying about what to wear.

Moving to the kitchen I decide to take advantage of my unexpected time this morning and scramble some ham and eggs to complement my coffee. I note that besides the few remaining eggs and a half-eaten package of assorted lunch meat my refrigerator is virtually bare, not counting a three-day expired carton of milk and two cases of beer. I grimace at the trash can sitting next to the refrigerator, currently overflowing with empty takeout containers. Slapping the egg-meat concoction between two slices of only slightly stale bread I throw on my black pea coat to ward off the chill November air, grab my thermos, throw yesterday’s graded quizzes into my valet, and head to the door.

Gripping the coffee and valet under my arms and the sandwich in my mouth, I punch in the six-digit code to my state-of-the-art security system. I step outside and fumble with my keys to work the three separate deadbolts securing the giant steel slab that serves as a front door to my first floor apartment. All these extra precautions might seem a bit much, but Overbrook makes up for its insanely cheap rent with an even more astounding crime and murder rate. With that in mind I probably would have considered upgrading my security even if the events of three years ago hadn’t shown me exactly how many scary things existed in this world. That experience is also what prompted me to start carrying the tiny glock currently concealed in my ankle holster.

I am on good terms with Gabe Parr, the aging head of security at the school who generally shares my view on gun control: make sure you’re the one with control of the gun. Gabe had been enlisted twenty years in the Army, just missing the tail end of Vietnam and retiring as a master sergeant following the first Gulf War. Sounding like a cross between Sam Elliot and Ernie McDermont, he is all NCO; crusty, hard-bitten, and essentially every platoon sergeant I’ve ever known rolled into one. Even after finding out that Haverbrook had no weapon searches to speak of, I revealed to Gabe that I carried shortly after starting the job. I reasoned his position would make him the most likely person to find my gun during the course of a normal work day. To my surprise, he was completely supportive.

I would later learn some of the circumstances behind Gabe’s enlightened opinions. On one occasion we had gone out for drinks he confided in me that his youngest son Billy had been killed two years earlier in a mugging by a strung out junkie looking to score some quick cash. His boy had been sixteen and carrying five dollars on the way home from evening basketball practice. The lone witness to the crime said the druggie took the money then, apparently angry that his efforts had been wasted, shot the boy out of spite. Unfortunately, the witness had been unable to clearly identify the junkie’s features in the gathering dark. The murderer was never caught.

“That bastard’s still out on the streets, Mike,” Gabe had said, his eyes red and bloodshot from barely controlled tears as much as the five beers he had already downed in our hour at the bar.

“He’s out there and my boy, my boy is cold dead in the fuckin’ ground. Where’s the goddam justice in this world, you know? Where’s the goddam justice?” He took another long pull. “My boy’s gone and that fucker’s still out there.”

Suddenly his unique perspective on my possession of a personal weapon became crystal clear.

The walk from the train station to Haverbrook is a short one, and I find myself walking past the large asphalt parking lot and up the wide cement lined path to the main entrance just a few minutes past six. The entire building is a study in architectural extravagance. Enormous granite archways, steepled turrets, and literal tons of red-brown brick specifically tailored to partner the masses of authentic ivy twining their way down every discernable vertical surface make the whole gala resemble more an exclusive postgraduate university than a college prep school. The official seal is carved into the peak of the entryway arch, its motto, “Mens, Corpus, Animus” proudly emblazoned beneath.

I spot Gabe as I pass through the archway into the entry hall. He is manning the main door himself, as he does every morning. Once during my first year, I asked him why.

“Mike,” he told me, “I man the front cause when the shit hits I want it to go through me first. Twen’y years in, through more action’n I can remember, a’int anything in this world can walk through that door that I a’int seen, fucked, ‘r blown up more’n twice. S’while some greenhorn’s busy pissin’ hisself, I’ve a’ready drawn ‘n put ten rounds in the muther fucker, center mass.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I couldn’t argue with his logic.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Morning, Gabe, how’s it going?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Ah not s’bad, Mike. Only sorta wanted to gnaw through m’arm at the elbow when I woke up ‘n saw the wife this mornin’. Still a marked improvem’nt over the last one.” He spits into the used Styrofoam coffee cup he has perpetually in hand, a huge wad of tobacco wedged in his lower lip.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Good to hear. We still on for hitting the bar tonight?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Depends. *spit* You still drink that Yuengling bullshit?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“You know it.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“*spit*When you gonna give that shit up ‘n move to a real, ‘merican beer? Like Bud.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Gabe, we’ve been over this a hundred times. Yuengling is American. It’s brewed in Pennsylvania. Hey, not that I care but didn’t the dean tell you not to dip on the job anymore?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Sure did. An’ I don’t. *spit* Jus’ don’t any less neither. Pick ya up at nine.”

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">After receiving my discharge from the army I got in a pretty bad way. Chronic alcohol abuse will do that to you. I applied to Haverbrook in response to a notice that they were looking for a social studies teacher specializing in military history. I figured dropping my name into that particular hat couldn’t hurt. Imagine my surprise when the school not only asked me in for an interview a few days later, but ended it by offering me the job. Fortunately only riding a slight buzz at the time, I had enough control to take it.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Apparently the school board saw ‘West Point Graduate’ and ‘Overseas Combat Experience’ as enough to move me ahead of the dozen or so certified academics I was in direct competition with. Two older board members with prior service experience, argued my case effectively to the other eight, stating that no one was better qualified to teach military history than someone who had actually seen combat. Competent professional educators would always be available for the picking and worst case scenario the board could fire me after a semester and hire one of them.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I won’t say that the Haverbrook job was exactly what I needed to get my life back on track. It’s just a job, albeit one with a good salary and better benefits. It serves my purposes: pay the rent and keep me in booze. That’s all. I won’t say that one simple act of getting a job made my landlord less a prick, the nightmares disappear and the world a better place for everyone to live in. It didn’t. My landlord Mr. Peacomby is still a prick. I attribute that to gratuitous levels of inbreeding. My dreams only become worse, more horrifying with each retelling. My men are still dead.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Officially founded in the early 1900s, Haverbrook can actually claim history back to prerevolutionary times when a one room schoolhouse stood on the very spot. That first tiny structure only occupied one small corner of the total grounds allotted to the school which actually encompass almost twenty square miles of rolling, wooded terrain. The athletic compound is by far my favorite building at Haverbrook, specifically because one of the many perks associated with being a faculty member is unrestricted access to any and all of the equipment and facilities. Since I no longer have two hours of physical training scheduled into my day by the government this fact alone has allowed me to stave off the approaching degrading effects of middle age.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Today was the last day of before Thanksgiving break so after class lets out I decide to go for a run. It’s the perfect kind of weather for it, mid-fifties and no breeze; just warm enough not to start out cold, just cool enough not to easily overheat. The main gymnasium contains a locker room for faculty use only, complete with a small bank of washers and dryers. Such amenities are convenient since they mean I don’t need to be constantly transporting workout clothes back and forth on the train.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Distance melts away as the ground speeds beneath my feet. Most days I will try to put in five or six miles on the winding forest paths, and there are enough of them that I only need to repeat routes every couple weeks. Today is one of the more difficult routes I frequent, five and a quarter miles of almost constant elevation change. About halfway into the run, my legs are burning and I feel my breathing shorten as I near the top of a particularly brutal hill.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I pause at the summit for a moment to look back and take in the view. Vast acres of untamed wilderness stretch behind me. The crisp snap to the air makes everything seem somehow sharper, but in doing so only accentuates the grey deadness that has insidiously seeped into every aspect of the environment. Hazy, translucent clouds rise in front of a pale sun that seems a shadow of its normal self. It sets very early in the day now, and the shadows are already long. The deciduous trees that blaze like a campfire in the autumn rise up below me, now eerily foreboding in their stark nakedness. The faintest hint of wind stirs the branches, its passing causes the trees to sway and groan with almost malicious intent. I feel a shiver trickle down my spine that has nothing to do with the weather. These are woods the darkest fairy stories were spun from; these are woods that are Alive. Only the distant third floor of the Haverbrook library, just peeking up over the tree tops, serves as proof that I haven’t been unwittingly transported through some magical doorway into a land populated by creatures terrible and unknown. Unbidden, my thoughts turn to memories of another time, another darkness, and the things I found there. Disturbed, I start running again, faster than before, the sun slipping closer to the horizon. As I descend from my vantage point back into the trees, the darkness grows rapidly deeper, the shadows thicker.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''This can’t be right. Even in winter the sun doesn’t set this quickly, does it?''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Appearing out of nowhere, thick black storm clouds have replaced the wispy grayness I observed only moments ago. Deep peals of thunder ride wicked through the seething black seas above. The wind, once only a faint whisper, has become a tormented howl, the death cry of a wild beast. The trees no longer gently sway, but thrash and buck wildly as if trying to uproot themselves from the very earth that holds them. Massive sheets of icy rain begin to pelt down from the heavens, soaking me through to the bone. Instantaneously, a mild afternoon has been replaced by a savage tempest. I fly down the hill, the storm raging about me. Branches seem to reach out to snatch at my arms, roots and stones rise up to tangle my feet. Suddenly, an incredible blast of pain ignites my right shoulder sending stars shooting through my eyes. I cry out, tumbling to the ground. As I roll, a jagged stump appears in my vision, too fast to avoid.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Pain.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Blackness.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I lay there, not seeing the dueling lightning flashing high above the trees, not feeling the drenching rain that continues to pour down on my still form.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Michael.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">A voice cuts through my mind, feminine but underlain with steel.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''So tired. Just want to lay here. Ignore it. ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Michael. You must listen. There isn’t much time.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''Go away. Just a voice in my head. Leave me alone.''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Events are in motion. The storm is a portent, a harbinger of things to come. They sent it for you, hoped it would kill you. They know you have a role, but they can’t know how important you are or they wouldn’t have stopped there. “

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''They? Who…what are you? ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 200%">“Quiet, there’s no time! We have to….wait. Oh. Oh no. Michael, you need to get up. You need to get up and get the hell out of there. It's coming!”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">My eyes flutter open. Disoriented. Can’t tell how long I’ve been out. The storm still thrashes crazily around me. I ease myself into a sitting position and gingerly assess myself for injuries. There's a large lump raised above my left eyebrow, and I can feel a sizeable gash running along my scalp, although it doesn’t seem too deep. I won’t be able to tell if I need stitches until I can get to a mirror. A sharp stab of pain beams directly to my brain as my fingers probe the wound, so I quickly stop. Various cuts and scratches from my fall are spread sporadically over my arms and hands in addition to a particularly nasty one along my left shin. My shoulder still throbs, not the blinding agony that sent me flailing earlier, but a dull ache emanating from deep inside the tissue.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''Was I struck by lightning? Don’t remember hearing any thunder, so what the hell… ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">My head snaps up as a deep, inhuman roar rises above the fury of the storm, reverberating over and again through the trees. The ache in my shoulder flares sharply. I suddenly remember the words of the disembodied voice in my head. Still dazed I uneasily stagger to my feet. Concussion based hallucination or not, getting the hell out of here seems like an excellent suggestion.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I manage to find the path and haltingly begin to make my way back towards the athletic facility. The storm continues unabated, bathtubs of freezing rain continue to drench my shivering body, shearing winds carry the chill deep into the marrow of my bones. Lightning flashes periodically, lighting up the pitch sky as brightly as midday. Dizzy, my foot hits a rock in the path. The whole world lurches as I barely manage to catch myself, the throbbing wound on my scalp making my head feel like an abused bass drum.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I stumble along as fast as I am able, occasionally pausing to glance behind me. If they weren’t soaked through, the hairs on the back of my neck would be standing at full attention. Impossible to see or hear anything over the fury of the storm, some primal sense held over from my caveman ancestors blares a warning at me that I am not alone out here in the dark. The savage roar I heard shortly after waking doesn't repeat itself, but in truth I don’t know if that disturbs me more or less. If I hear it again, that means whatever made the sound exists and is somewhere in the woods with me, but at least I would have an idea where. As it stands I can assume the unworldly sound was just a carryover of the delusions brought on by my head injury, but can’t manage to shake the chilling feeling that the beast is simply remaining silent, hunting me.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">At last, after an eternity of fleeting glances and barely avoided falls, I finally emerge from the woods along the path, the school stadium lying before me. The electric lights of the gymnasium several hundred yards down the paved walkway burn cheerfully, oblivious to the violent events of the night. I urge my wooden legs to greater efforts and blessedly make it to my destination, throwing open the door and tumbling inside. I sit there sprawled in the facility entryway, trembling from the cold and fear, watching the storm rage outside.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">After what must be several minutes, I manage to gather the will to painfully regain my feet and work my way through the building and down the long corridor to the faculty locker room. The building is deserted, the silence making the noises of my struggling movements seem all the louder. For a moment I wonder at the complete lack of people, before remembering virtually all sports practices have been canceled in lieu of the pending week of vacation for the Thanksgiving holiday. Gaining access, I immediately move to the row of sinks and the mirror to get a better assessment of my injuries. The bump above my eye is considerably swollen and will soon turn into an ugly looking bruise. On the plus side, the cut on my scalp is actually more of a scrape and doesn’t appear to require stitches. The cuts on my arms, hands and shin are superficial, but will hurt and itch like crazy while they heal. Suddenly seeing past the painful details, I struggle to recognize the haggard, beaten looking figure returning my stare from the glass.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''You’ve had worse. God knows, you’ve had worse. That time…that was a lot worse.''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I grimace, my reflection perfectly duplicating the motion. Turning on the faucet I grab a handful of paper towels and begin to carefully daub at the dried blood and dirt around my cuts, not wanting to inadvertently open them again. Satisfied that they have closed up well enough to allow it, I strip off my sodden workout clothes, throw them into one of the dryers, and step into the shower. I set the water to scalding. I stand under the steaming water trying to rub the kinks out of my neck. A small throb in my shoulder reminds me of the incredible pain that first sent me on the way to my current condition.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Reluctantly turning off the shower head, I dry myself, wrap the towel around my waist and return to the mirror. Although certainly cleaner and free of the caked dirt and blood that previously clung to me, I still paint a terrible picture. The cut on my scalp shines red just below my hairline, and an enormous purple bruise has now begun to complement the generous swelling above my eye. I turn my back to the mirror and turn my head so that I can observe my shoulder in the reflection to see the scars located there.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Three long marks extend the length of my shoulder blade; the lines are jagged due to the poor nature of the canvas they were inscribed upon. Aside from the nightmares, they are the only proof I have of the reality of the most horrifying experience in my life; the terror and bloodshed that occurred in a Middle Eastern cave four years ago. Tonight the marks are inflamed and wet, as if I had just received them instead of having worn them for so long. Had I not just showered, I’m sure fresh blood would still be oozing from them, though all of my other cuts and scrapes are closed and dried by this point. Just so, as I look in the mirror tiny red beads slowly begin to form along their length. Without warning, an intense pain radiates outward from the center of the marks.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">At that moment two things happen simultaneously. First, all the lights in the locker room go out leaving me in absolute darkness. Second, I hear the unmistakable sound of the main entry door closing and the slow steps of someone or something entering the building, the otherwise utter silence serving to augment the noise.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The emergency generator kicks in, backup lights humming to life and bathing the room in a weak amber glow. I run to my locker and hurriedly dress, almost tripping myself on my pants, taking care to loosen the glock in its holster once I have it strapped to my ankle. I throw my coat on, twinging at the pain now continuously radiating from the scars, and grab my valet. The whole process only takes me about thirty seconds, a holdover from years of uniform drills in the army where soldiers who don’t make the time limit are met with insidiously creative punishments.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I creep silently over to the locker room door and gently ease it open just a crack, feeling slightly foolish; odds are the noise I heard is just a student, or maybe a guard Gabe sent to check on the facility. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever is now occupying the athletic wing with me is somehow connected to the bizarre events that have already occurred this evening. Its arrival and the loss of power to the building seem too timely to be mere coincidence. I peer out and down the dimly lit hallway through the slit in the door. At first I don’t see the thing, not until its eyes catch the light, gleaming a sinister shade of red. My breath catches in my throat as a wave of pure terror thunders through my suddenly rigid body. My shoulder screams, almost as badly as in the woods. My mind is struck dumb, crazed gibbering crowds out all rational thought.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">God my God it’s just like that time just like the last time got to be a dream got to be can’t really be happening I’m still unconscious on the trail from hitting my head that’s it but this seems to be so real what if it’s not a dream then I have to move have to do something why the fuck does this keep happening to me…

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I’m only frozen for a single long moment until my brain unconsciously kicks into analysis mode. This feeling of unreality is disturbingly familiar, but other than the fantastic nature of my subject, it is not so different from some reconnaissance missions I have been on. Twenty yards down the hall, the creature stands on two legs and appears to be about eight feet tall. Definitely not a student. Not a guard either, unless Gabe decided to try out some biomedical mutants in the rotation. Other than its immense size, I can’t determine any further details about the entity because of the way the shadows seem to bend around it; almost as if light is absorbed once it gets within about a yard of the creature. As I watch, it raises its head as if sniffing the air. A chill runs down my spine as I realize that’s probably exactly what it’s doing. Its head snaps forward, its incredible blood-red eyes fixed directly on the door concealing me. Ever so slowly it begins silently stalking down the hallway, hunched into a hunting posture, moving with the powerful grace of a natural predator.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">My fight or flight response frantically initiates. Logically, I have no knowledge of the identity of the creature, and the glock only holds four bullets. Something that size, it’s possible the gun would be empty before successfully incapacitating it. The military doctrine drilled into me stresses only committing to a fight when possessing knowledge of the enemy, initiative, and a decisive advantage. At this point, I lack all of those. I reach the conclusion to conduct a tactical withdrawal; to say I’m retreating sounds so much more cowardly. Fortunately, Haverbrook has equipped all its locker rooms with multiple exits for use in the case of an emergency, although I hardly think my current situation was considered in their plans.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">As smoothly and quietly as I’m able, I gently close the door and throw the deadbolt, locking it from the inside. I have little hope that the flimsy metal will impede the monster for more than a couple seconds, but I will take any opportunity to up my odds for survival. Wounds throbbing uncomfortably, I hobble to the far side of the locker room to the emergency exit as quickly as I can and push through it emerging into a utility hallway. No alarm sounds; the electricians must have foolishly attached the warning system to the primary power grid, though it’s not as if help would be able to reach me in time anyway. I break into a limping run towards the shining red exit sign that seems impossibly far away. Just as I reach it I hear what can only be the sound of a rudely abused deadbolt shearing in two and the locker room door being thrown inward off its hinges.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I kick the exit door open, finally reaching the outside of the facility. To my relief, the storm has abated, though in its wake an unnaturally thick and viscous fog has crept in, sinuously enveloping the world in an incredibly dense cloud of white and reducing visibility to little better than nothing. I consider my options. I could try to hide somewhere nearby, but it seems the creature is tracking me by smell or some other method and would likely find me fairly quickly. That means my best bet is to put as much distance between me and it as fast as possible. I glance at my watch and see that it is just now a quarter past six. If I push myself, I may be able to make the six twenty back towards Overbrook. I make my decision. Pain and exhaustion slowly overcoming my rush of adrenaline, I stagger forward towards the station. I really hope the bloody train is on time.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">For once, it is. Just as I reach the station the train rolls in. Furtively throwing futile glances back into the impenetrable whiteness for any sign of pursuit, I wait off to the side of the double doors for the train to discharge its few passengers. Standing up is an effort. A professionally dressed, moderately pretty woman looks up in passing and gives me a startled glance as she readjusts the bag on her shoulder. I must look a wreck. The sickly smile I return only seems to disturb her more. I enter the car and fall onto one of the hard plastic benches facing the rear of the train, roughly dropping my valet next to me.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">As the train pulls out of the station, I heave a sigh of relief. Whatever that thing was, I seem to have managed to outrun it so far. If my luck holds, I'll be able to get home to my apartment and retrieve some firepower significantly more substantial than the glock. The heavy weight of my giant 50 caliber pistol would feel remarkably comfortable right now, as would my semiautomatic shotgun loaded with double ought six.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The real question on my mind is what the hell that thing was. Granted, it isn’t the first otherworldly entity that I’ve seen in my life, but a large part of me still wants to put that last time down to trauma based hallucination. Besides, this one was physically different, though the strange feeling of unreality is absolutely the same. I have never heard of anything like this creature outside of comic books and fairy tales. The odds that one man would randomly encounter more than one of these things in a single lifetime have to be astronomical. Therefore logic suggests there must be some connection between the two meetings, but what?

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The lights flicker. I look around the compartment and notice I have it almost to myself. In fact, the only company I have is a homeless man I somehow didn’t see when I first got on, sprawled unconscious across a bench towards the rear. I can’t blame him for wanting to get out of the storm, but briefly wonder how he has managed to avoid the conductor since he doesn’t look like he would be able to afford a ticket. Or even half a ticket. I pull my monthly-ride pass from my inner coat pocket and place it into the plastic slot on the back of the seat in front of me as my shoulder sharply throbs causing me to look up.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The first thing I notice is that my formerly sleeping homeless companion is wide awake and sitting at rigid attention. The next is that his eyes are fixed in an unblinking stare directly at me. They are remarkably bloodshot, so red that they bear a disconcertingly close resemblance to the eyes of the creature that was pursuing me earlier. The man slowly stands, his unwavering gaze attempting to bore straight through me. I return his stare, matching its steadiness if not the intensity given by the preternatural color of his eyes. I can feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand erect and a rash of goose bumps flush down my arms. I find myself mentally reviewing years of close combat training as my hand, almost of its own accord, slowly edges down towards my right ankle and the tiny glock concealed there.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I take stock of the man twenty-five feet down the car from me. On the surface, other than his startling eyes, there is nothing that would make him stand out in a roomful of derelicts. He stands about 5’7” with an average build and looks to be in his mid to late sixties. His grey hair is as long and matted as the snarling beard that practically explodes out of his lower face. He is wearing grey sweatpants and trashed sneakers, his toes showing through a sizable hole in one of them. A dark, ratty fleece hat on his head, he is bundled in an old Vietnam-era Army issue jacket, and I briefly pause in my assessment to wonder if he is a veteran. He is carrying no obvious weapons I can see, but I know many ways for an average person to conceal any number of blades, pistols, and other violence inducing implements, many more if that person is clever.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Still, with those eyes…that would be a hell of a coincidence if the two weren’t somehow related.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I grab my shoulder, grimacing as white hot pain lances through it and brings stars to my eyes. Regaining my awareness I realize the man has moved the complete length of the train car impossibly fast and now looms directly over me. Before I can think, much less begin to clear my gun from its holster, his hand flashes down and traps my wrist in an iron grip. A crazed, sneering grin on his face, the man’s other hand seizes my left shoulder and pins me to the back of my seat, the whole movement taking no more than a fraction of a second.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">With his face mere inches from my own it is nauseatingly obvious he has not bathed in some time. Dirt and other substances whose identity I fear to guess are smeared indiscriminately over skin and clothing alike. Several gigantic flies flit about, buzzing continuously and occasionally pausing to alight on his face, hands, and elsewhere. A sickening cocktail odor of sweat, ammonia, and something sulfurous permeates the air around him as his breath wheezes in and out of his mouth through excessively crooked teeth the color of jaundice. I notice several are missing. I also note those remaining have been filed into wicked points that look sharp enough to shred skin and tissue like so much wet toilet paper. This close to them, the unfaltering scrutiny from his hypnotic eyes becomes an indefensible onslaught; I feel as if my consciousness is being forcibly drawn into some blasphemous otherworld through a blood-red portal. For a second, I see myself struggling, drowning in molten fire that snaps and swirls where his irises should be, growing to the point not the smallest speck of white is visible in his eyes. Realization hits me like a thunderbolt.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">God, he and that monster aren’t connected; they’re the same fucking thing.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">In the back of my mind a deeply buried, primal instinct tells me that at this moment something is profoundly wrong with the world; the presence of this unknown entity whose very being mocks the laws of reason, a living nightmare that has escaped its realm of sleep. The most unnerving part is that I have felt this way countless times before: once, three years ago in a dank underground cavern in the middle of a war zone, and every night since while suffering those horrifyingly real dreams of the impossible things my eyes tell me they saw there. A long black tongue feeling like rough leather licks the dried blood from my scalp. I sit completely still, shocked beyond movement, mouth slightly ajar.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Mmmm, yes, this the one, the one yes, this him,” the man-thing mumbles. I gape up at him.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Still, not right no, not right…supposed to being has it, doesn’ t being has it. No, no doesn’t being has it, but supposed to being. Where’s it being little soldier boy, eh? Where’s it being hiding it at?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“…Hiding?” I somehow find my voice. “I think, ah, I think you must have the wrong man. Sir. I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a school teacher. I teach history. In Haverbrook.” Some incredibly small part of my brain mentally chastises the rest of my consciousness, which is currently in the process of wetting itself, to stop being such a silly, helpless little bitch. And I used to call myself a soldier? No wonder I didn’t make it all the way through to retirement.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Hee, hee, hee, calling Bealz ‘sir’, thinking he being teacher, being teacher of little childrens, teaching histories he thinking, “ the man-thing giggles.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Bealz is knowing saying that those who can do, and those who can’t teach. But you can do little soldier boy. Little soldier boy can do and little soldier boy will do little soldier boy will if Bealz would let little soldier boy do. Teaching of histories you thinks you teaching, histories of men, but not histories, not right histories, and little soldier boy not one to teach them. Little soldier boy one to being doing things little soldier boys to being doing if Bealz being letting him, but Bealz not supposed to being letting him. No,, but Bealz not sure if Bealz supposed to not being letting him if he not being has it. Little soldier boy the one supposed to being has it, but something being wrong. Supposed to being here, but being here not. Where being it, little soldier boy?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">A small angry spark flares seems to flare in my mind and I manage to offer up at least the pretense of resistance. I’ve always hated it when people get in my face, probably why I had such a tough time at basic training. The non-pants wetting part of my brain gives a tiny cheer.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Frankly, Bealz, or whatever the fuck your name is,” I glare at him with what I hope is significantly more confidence then I actually feel, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Now get your damned hands off me!”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">My anger only seems to amuse him.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Hee, hee, damned hands, yes, damned hands, damned arms, damned Bealz,” the dirt-smeared, leathery skin of his face crinkles around the flaming pools glowing in place of eyes as he laughs.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Little soldier boy does knows more than he thinks he knows he does, but no, little soldier boy not knows what little soldier boy supposed to knows he does not. What Bealz to do? Bealz supposed to being finding little soldier boy, finding little soldier boy Bealz has, but little soldier boy supposed to being has it. Hmmm.” The man-thing’s mouth closes in a hard line as he contemplates this dilemma. I will admit his issue has me completely confounded as well, but for entirely different reasons. Suddenly his face lights, red eyes shining even brighter like two miniature stars that found themselves trapped within a prison of flesh and bone. The same wicked smile again stretches across his mottled lips, razor-like teeth seeming to glint in the harsh electric light of the train car.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Ah, but little soldier boy already marked by Dark One yes, marked and so Bealz can find again, find again Bealz can little soldier boy’s mark from Dark One, and then Bealz can make sure little soldier boy not to doing little soldier boy things.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Gripping my arm and shoulder, the man-thing pulls me even closer and hisses in my ear, “You belonging to Dark Ones now, little soldier boy. Once you being has what you supposed to being has, Dark Ones being taking that what belonging to them.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">He abruptly releases my arms, shoving me back painfully hard against the unforgiving seat. The instant I'm free to move I snatch the glock from my ankle, jump to my feet and snap into a two-handed shooter’s stance, simultaneously disengaging the safety and thumbing back the hammer. Slightly dazed, I find myself alone in the train car. The creature pretending to be an old man is gone.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I sit, sprawled in the overstuffed easy chair that comprises roughly half the furniture in the small area designated as a living room in my apartment. Aside from a threadbare, second-hand patchwork rug covering most of the floor the only other piece is a squat table supporting my television which currently stares hollowly back at me through its black, empty black screen. I’ve been home two hours. I am unbelievably drunk. I drop the empty bottle from my hand to join its relatives on the floor. From the look of things it’s a family reunion; attendance is high.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">People get drunk for lots of different reasons. Some people think they become the life of the party when they’re wasted. Others want to fit in to a particular crowd. Some, like me, drink because the muddling effect of the alcohol occasionally dulls the pain of particularly traumatic events or memories. The really lucky ones are actually able to use it to forget. I have never had that option. God. I wish I could forget. I want to forget. For me the alcohol only takes the edge off the memories. Sometimes. Most of the time it doesn’t even do that, the buzz just sort of gives me something else to focus on. But, like tonight, if my thoughts happen to turn to that time…to that place…to that…thing. I shudder involuntarily. God, so much blood, so much pain, so many screams, so many, so many…

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I lurch up from the chair and run, staggering to the bathroom, flinging myself at the toilet. I barely make it before an inadvisable amount of alcohol forcibly removes itself. Twice. I stay hunched, clinging weakly to the bowl. All hail the porcelain god.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Sometime later, satisfied that I have finished retching for the moment, I return to the living room stopping by the fridge to grab another beer along the way. I just threw up a bunch of alcohol; need to keep up the pace if I don’t want to start sobering up. I settle back into my chair. As always, despite my best efforts, I have perfect recollection of the evening’s events.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">After my encounter with the unworldly thing disguised as an old man on the train, I frantically searched the car for any sign that it was still there, or where it might have gone, or how it got there. I went over the length of the train car for a second time, replaying the sequence of events yet again, trying to convince myself that the whole thing was just a dream, that I’m not crazy, when the Overbrook stop arrived. I picked up my valet and exited the train, the glock still held in my right hand and concealed in my coat pocket.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">From that point, I think my brain shut down for a little while. I remember the walk home, but it’s like looking at it through a thin film of gauze, or underwater; the motions seem slower, the time takes longer. Fog still crowded around me, but I hardly noticed the lack of vision its sinuous creeping provided. I have walked the path a hundred times, my legs worked on autopilot. I was about a block away from my apartment when the man spoke to me.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Hey, man, that’s a nice fuckin’ coat.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I turned slowly towards the voice, aware but not aware. I could feel my body move, but like a puppet on strings pulled by someone else, or watching a recording of myself on television. I dimly comprehended the two men facing me under the muted glow of a streetlight, barely more than boys really. In a different world, I might have taught them history. God knows what circumstances forced them outside on a night like this. Doesn’t really matter. One stood around six-two, the other a bit shorter each dressed in the current urban fashion, their clothes loose and baggy. Both had bloodshot, sick looking eyes, and builds entirely too skinny, emaciated. The small part of my mind that still acknowledged my surroundings registered that these two were extremely dangerous.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“You fuckin’ stupid or somethin’, man? Whas that fuckin’ look you givin me, man? Yo, Tio, I think our boy here be trippin’ or sumpin.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Tink you might be right, Dre. Look like sumbody beat the shit ‘out dis fool already. You trippin’, bitch? Awfully nice fuckin’ coat to be trippin’. You best be givin’ that over here.” The smaller of the two cautiously approached me from the side, wary as if I were a sleeping dog that might suddenly wake and decide to take a snap at his hand. In a way, I suppose I am. I stood still, dully looking ahead. I felt a slight pinch from the marks on my shoulder.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The one called Dre gave me a look over. “Hey, Tio, what’see got in the bag, man? Tink he’s got some bills in there, man?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Lessee what’choo got in this bag, m’man. See if you got some money on you.” Tio started to remove the valet strap from my shoulder.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">A moment later he was sitting down on the ground, hand clamped to his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers. One of his teeth lay next to him on the wet pavement. I stared at him in surprise. Looking down at my hand, knuckles bleeding, I realized hit him.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“The fuck, man? What the fuck?!” Tio’s face was livid.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Dre howled with laughter behind him. “Yo, Tio, man, that bitch popped you good! Right’n ya fuckin’ hole! Ha ha ha!”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Tio wiped his lips with the back of his hand and spat, another tooth flying from his mouth. His face was set in a hard expression. “Gonna be the last thing he does too, man.” Tio’s speech sounded off as he tried to talk around two missing teeth. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the streetlight catching the small hard blade. “Think you funny, mutha fucka? Think you just gonna hit me a’int nothin’ gonna happen? You fuckin’ wrong, man. You dead fuckin’ wrong!”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">His lunge was wild, sloppy, but would still do serious damage if it connected. Seeing it through the slow-motion fog that my mind was currently operating in, I had all the time in the world to sidestep. Catching the arm holding the knife and tightly gripping his wrist with my right hand, I drew my left back and drove my palm against his elbow, hard, simultaneously jerking his wrist towards me. With a sickening snap, Tio’s arm bent the wrong way against the joint, the knife clattering to the ground. He screamed.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“AAAAAAOOOO myfuckin’god ohgod ohgod myarm muthafucka brokema goddamarm….”

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I let him go and he crumpled to the ground, curling into the fetal position. He cried, cradling his broken arm. “Oh god it hurts it hurts it hurts god oh god…”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Tio!” Dre’s expression was one of open shock. Apparently, this was the first time any of their potential victims had ever resisted. “You crazy sonuvabitch. Shouldna fucked wid ma homey, man. You jus’ bought yusself a one way ticket to hell.” I bent and picked up the knife, folded it into my coat and stood straight, hands in my pockets, my face placidly unaware of the whimpering heap at my feet. Dre lifted his sweatshirt and I saw a large .45 caliber handgun stuffed into his pantline. “Gonna make you scream, bitch. Gonna make you bleed.” He reached for the gun. Emotionless, I pulled my glock and shot him.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">It’s always surprising to me how loud gunshots really are. In shoot-outs on television, the characters have lengthy conversations punctuated by witty quips while firing gigantic machine guns, explosions going off all around them. In real life, a gunshot is an incredibly loud, harsh thing. When bullets are flying the last thing anyone thinks of is banter.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">In this case, it took a second for me to regain my hearing enough to recognize Dre’s inarticulate cries over the ringing in my ears. His pistol lay next to him on the ground where he feebly thrashed, shocked at the gaping hole that suddenly appeared in his shoulder as if by magic. I calmly stepped over and kicked the gun away sending it skittering across the street. I stood over the wounded man frowning.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''Just because things didn’t work out for him tonight doesn’t mean a thing. Next time it might be someone else he tries to mug. Next time it might be Billy Parr.''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">A bright flash of rage flared up inside me. It must have shown in my eyes; Dre’s cries quieted to soft, helpless whimpers. I pressed the barrel of my glock to his cheek and roughly gripped his wounded shoulder, painfully hauling him to a standing position.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I should kill him; it would easily be justified as self defense. ''Already tonight I’ve seen there are monsters in the world I'm powerless to do anything about. I should take care of the ones I can. ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Dre’s eyes went wild, he began pleading.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“P-please, man. Don’t kill me, man! We weren’t gonna do nothin’, please man I’m sorry I’m so sorry pleeease, oooh God, don’t kill me!”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">He started to cry uncontrollably, the harsh metal of my barrel still digging into the side of his face. I smelled as his bowels emptied themselves. Tio silently watched from where he lay terrified on the ground, his broken arm bent unnaturally, fear plastered across his bleeding face. My finger tightened on the trigger.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Suddenly a sharp flare of pain emanated from my shoulder, wiping away the fog that had been clouding my mind. It’s as if a veil was lifted; for the first time I observed the situation with perfect clarity. I saw the hurt, frightened boy in my grasp, his hysterical breaths coming in short gasps. I saw myself as I must look to them, a wrecked, half-crazed madman with a gun.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">My God, what am I doing?

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Dre grimaced as I dug my thumb into the bullet hole and leaned in close, talking low into his ear.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“You and your friend go to a hospital. Stay out of my neighborhood. If I see you again, you’ll consider this night a pleasant memory.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I let him go and he bonelessly fell to the ground with a cry of pain. Tio managed to get enough control of himself to help Dre to his feet again. I numbly watched the two of them stumble off blindly into the fog in the general direction of a hospital, horrified at what I had almost done. I looked down at the gun still gripped in my hand and shuddered. I flipped the safety back on and reholstered the weapon, picked up the single piece of expended brass from the pavement and put it in my pocket.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">The rest of the walk home was uneventful. I took my time, knowing that the frequency of gunshots and gang violence in this neighborhood would not hurry a police presence. I couldn’t stop shaking. I finally reached my building, opened the front door with my tenant key, and walked down the hall to my door, apartment #7. Moving like an automaton I unlocked the three deadbolts in succession, heaved open my slab of a door, stepped inside and disarmed the security system. I dropped my valet by the door and painfully shrugged out of the pea coat that attracted so much unwanted attention on my walk home. Hanging it on the hook by the door, I moved through my small living room towards the bathroom attached to my bedroom, briefly making a side trip to grab the first of what would ultimately be many beers from the kitchen. I finally heard approaching police sirens in the distance, not that I had anything to worry about. The fog was thick enough that all of our features were sufficiently protected from any potential witnesses.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I stripped, tossing the gun in its holster onto the nightstand next to the bed. I examined my shirt, a dark smear of blood from the oozing mark had soaked through the shoulder. I checked over my wounds and confirmed my initial assessments. The scalp was ugly but shouldn’t require stitches. The lump above my eye wouldn't win me too many beauty pageants, but once the swelling went down would be fine. I may even look almost normal by the time classes resume after Thanksgiving next week. All my other scratches and cuts were superficial, although the itching as they heal will be considerably uncomfortable. Most curiously, the mark on my shoulder had reverted to looking like it always had, dead pink scar tissue. Without the stain on my shirt as testimony, I would be inclined to believe I had imagined it bleeding earlier.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Even though I just showered before my escape from the school, the ensuing events left me with a decidedly unclean feeling. The frigid roar of water from the shower head was blessedly welcome. I stood there for long minutes, taking deep pulls from my drink. Toweling off, redressing, and about fifteen beers later find me in my current position, slouched in my armchair, drunk as hell. As I sit staring into space and contemplating the pros and cons of yet another beer, a sharp three raps issuing at the door cause me to hurriedly lurch to my feet.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''Shit, shit, shit…did that thing follow me? Gotta get a gun. No, think logically, it wouldn’t be knocking. Maybe someone saw the earlier attack? Friends of Tio and Dre maybe. Got to get my gun! No, wait, could be police canvassing the area. But they’ve never done that before, even with that murder a couple months ago. Still, if it’s cops I shouldn’t answer the door armed…what the hell is going on?''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I unsteadily creep over to my giant slab of a door and stick an eye up to the peep hole to find the stony features of Gabe Parr staring back at me.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">''Right. Drinks at nine. Completely forgot. Can’t imagine how. Ha. Ow my head. ''

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">With a little effort I manage to work the deadbolts and heave the door open enough to admit the school guard.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Evenin’, Mike, you bout ready ta…,” he stops short on the threshold as he catches sight of my trashed features. “The hell happened ta you, boy? You look like ya either decided ta challenge a billy goat to a head buttin’ contest an’ lost or made a pass at my first wife. Same difference. You get in a fight er somethin’? We need to go kick some ‘banger ass?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Ah no, Gabe, no fights. Well, I guessh there was a fight, but that’s not where I got theesh. The fight came later and I kicked the shit out of thosh guys. Coupla junkies.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Huh. Good. But then what in blazes did ya do ta yerself? That’s a pretty nasty gash ya got on yer noggin’ there.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Eh, I was out running the trailsh at school when it started to rain. Shlipped an’ took a header into a tree stump. It’sh fine, shouldn’t even need stitches. Hurtsh like hell though. Beers'h been helping with that.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Gabe steps farther into the apartment, a single raised eyebrow the only sign of his disapproval as he sees the heaping remains of tonight’s earlier binge littering the ground of my living room.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Guess ya went an’ got started without me.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Sorry. Totally shlipped my mind that we were going out, what with the head injury and all. Pretty sure I should call off going out for tonight, but you’re more than welcome to hang here for a bit. You want a beer? There’sh more in the fridge. I need another one too. Here, I’ll go get ‘em.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Na, hang on there, Mike, just hang on. I don’t want a beer and you sure don’t need any more either. Looks like ya already drank enough fer both of us tonight anyway.” He takes my arm, leading me back over towards my easy chair. “Why don’tcha take a seat over here an’ I’ll go rustle up a pot’a coffee right quick an’ help ya sober up some.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Yeah?” Hot anger flashes red across my eyes. I hate being patronized. “Well how about ‘screw you’ instead? What do you think about that, Gabe? I don’t want to sober up! It’sh my house you piece’a…”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Gabe’s grip on my arm becomes suddenly hard and painful. A dull grey steel slides over the normal sparkle of his eyes.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Mike, I’m gonna stop ya right there. Yuv obviously been through some stuff tonight and I aim ta talk to ya in a bit here an’ help ya work through that, but I’m not gonna let ya be self destructive ‘bout it. Now, ya got two options. Ya can either take a seat nicely an’ wait fer me to go make’a cup, er I can put ya in a seat an’ go do tha same. Same result, different way’a gettin’ there. Yer smart ‘nuff ta know which one’ll be less grief all ‘round. Now, ‘fore ya start gettin’ ideas ‘bout tryin ta kick my ass too, ya should pro’lly consider somethin’. Ya might be hot stuff with a coupla’ junkies like the pair you ran into tonight. Hell, ya could maybe even hang with me onna good day. But right now, in yer condition, ya really don’t have much a choice in the matter.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">I instantly become aware that Gabe has put himself into a calculated position where he possesses all the leverage and makes both of our body weights work in his favor.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“So, what’s it gonna be?”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">As he applies the lightest bit of pressure to make sure he gets his point across, I can feel how precariously overbalanced I am even without the added effects of the alcohol. There’s no doubt in my mind that Gabe could put me into the chair as easily as he says.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“ Fine.” I turn and slump into the chair sullenly. “Asshole.”

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Good choice. Now, won’ be a minute. Then we kin talk ‘bout what’s got ya in this state. Ya should prolly think ‘bout whatcher gonna say, cause I’ll tell ya, boy, I’ve both seen an’ participated in enough benders ta know it wasn’ gettin’ whupped on by a tree’r winnin’ a fight ‘gainst a coupl’a punks that set this off. You just set there an’ think about it.”

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">For the next several minutes I sit in my chair, glaring venomously towards the kitchen as I hear Gabe clattering about.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Hey, Mike, where d’ya keep the coffee?”

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Intsant’s on the top shelf of the fridge. Filters are in the cabinet above the pot,” I answer grudgingly.

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">“Got it, thanks.”

<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%">Finally I sigh and inwardly concede defeat. It’s obvious that Gabe isn’t going anywhere and that I’m in no position to do anything about it. I settle back more comfortably into the chair and close my eyes, mentally trying to halt the room’s slow spin. Think about what I’m going to say. The man makes a good point; I need to figure out how I can successfully appease Gabe’s annoyingly friendly concern without coming off sounding like a drug addict or a mental patient. Relating the events as I actually remember them occurring sure isn’t going to cut it. I found that out the hard way three years ago. All telling the truth then got me was six months of psychiatric evaluations, a lifetime’s worth of bad dreams, and a truckload of self doubt and loathing. Trying to tell Gabe that I had disembodied voices in my head giving me instructions and was subsequently attacked by a giant nightmare creature, a disturbingly creepy old man, and a couple of druggies would go over about as well as trying to throw him out, if less physically painful. Best case scenario he just thinks I’m crazy, tells me to get help, and I lose a perfectly good friend. Worst he assumes I'm strung out on something and hauls me down to the drunk tank at the police station to sober up.

<p style="text-indent: 0.5in; margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 200%"> <ac_metadata title="The Soldier (Unfinished Draft)"> </ac_metadata>