Dwelling by Thomas S. Flowers Page B

kitchen.
    Johnathan smiled and took hold of her. He held her close and kissed her, slowly and deliberately. “Thank you,” he said, pulling back, still holding her in his arms. “Thank you for believing in me, even when I can’t.”
    Karen said nothing. She pulled Johnathan closer and hugged him, hard. It was a deep meaningful hug filled with warmth. He closed his eyes, breathed in her sweet shampoo. What is that? Fructis? Whatever it was, he loved it. When he opened his eyes again, he could see his coffee mug still sitting on the kitchen island. Ricky’s burnt corpse was screaming silently beneath the dark brown ripples.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 7
     
     
    BOBBY’S CURSE
     
    Bobby
     
    Dusk was coming. Bobby had spent the entire day walking, partially running, something he hadn’t stopped doing, even after his hasty exodus from the Army and the embarrassing Chapter 5-13 handed down from some quack fifth-floor wizard . Bobby was heading south, on a wayward journey toward Santa Fe, toward Luna’s place in Hitchcock, toward his cage.
    Bobby had to stop several times to scrape shards of broken glass from what remained of his shoes. These were his best pair, his only pair. Worn to the bone Nike Jordan’s. The elongated check mark well faded beyond recognition. These were Bobby’s old running shoes from his soldiering days, back when they had been pearl white and the logo burned bright red. Now the only thing that burned was the heels on his feet. He could feel blood pooling in his socks.
    Bobby ignored the pain, as much as he could. He could not stop, not without consequence. Not for drink. Not for food. Not for anything. Not even the itching desire to panhandle on some littered intersection holding another poorly constructed cardboard sign inked in blood to make enough change for a bottle of whiskey. No . Not today . Bobby kept his feet moving. Dusk was coming and tonight there would be a full moon.
    Luna would have taken off the locks. Please God, let Luna have unlocked the cage. Bobby prayed. Over on the horizon, the sun was dying into a ridge of commercial buildings and multiplexes. From the look of the sun, Bobby knew he hadn’t much time.
    He started trotting as fast as his bloodied feet would carry him. Each step was a painful reminder that he desperately needed new shoes. In an attempt to block out the pain, he thought of Luna and the last time he’d made the trip toward that old, rotting batting cage, his temporary salvation.
    Luna owned land on the outskirts of Hitchcock, land her grandfather had left her. It wasn’t much to look at now, overgrown with rotting logs and orange-rooted Oriental bittersweet weeds, but Bobby could tell it had been something else entirely in some past era, perhaps when her grandfather had been alive. From what little Luna had mentioned of the man he seemed the type to enjoy gardening, mowing, and battling with stubborn weed-eaters, a real panorama of blue-collar culture.
    The batting cage was hardly visible now, blanketed with a vast civilization of vine weeds. Bobby favored the Madeira vine the most because the weed made everything it covered seem like large green sleeping giant. Though most of the cage was covered, the east side of the fence, which faced Luna’s modest two story country home, was free of debris, as was the gate and the curious collection of Master Pad locks and the three thick steel chains wrapped around the post.
    Luna would keep it locked. Except for today, she keeps the batting cage locked…Oh God, I hope she unlocked it. What if she didn’t? What are you going to do hero? What if she’s not there? The area is rural enough, but there are still people around. How far would It go? In towns miles away. No telling. No telling. Jesus, I hope she unlocked the gate…I hope she’s there.
    Bobby turned right down some unnamed, war-torn back-country road, the afterbirth of Houston proper. There was an awkward signpost, bent deep at the gut, its