scritchh … krr-thump!
What were the critters doing, having a party out there? She smiled at the thought, but her fears stayed close by. Her mind flashed to the loaded shotgun her husband kept stowed in the corner of the closet. No sir, that was just silly. A last-ditch option. Sure, with a little prompting from her man, she’d fired the thing a time or two, but she hadn’t enjoyed it, not one bit. Thing could blow a hole in a concrete wall.
She settled for an alternative.
In a flurry of movement, she flicked the clock radio to FM jazz oldies, then burrowed herself under a mound of pillows and covers. Creating an opening with her elbow, she inhaled cool air. With the muffled sounds of Duke Ellington lulling her to sleep, she curved her body into the space her husband usually occupied.
She missed having his little potbelly to wrap her arms around—two spoons in a drawer. Life really wasn’t all that complicated; people just liked to make it that way.
In her billowy cocoon, Eve began to snore.
Through the lace curtains, Asgoth saw the still form beneath the eiderdown. The inactivity confused him. Hadn’t the woman heard his noisemaking? Was she a hard sleeper? This was supposed to be easy. He’d coordinated events flawlessly thus far, and his friends in Silverton had waylaid Mr. Coates without a hitch.
Now it was a matter of executing the rest of the plan. If he failed to placate the Consortium’s members, he had little doubt as to his next destination.
Hell …
Under another name perhaps—Fresno, Salem, Olympia—but hell all the same. He ground his teeth at the thought of further isolation.
After midnight, a set of lights sliced through the rows of corn at his back, then stabbed at the side of the barn. Mr. Coates had arrived. After the necessary delay, the boys in Silverton had carried out Asgoth’s orders by getting the man’s rattletrap van back on the highway.
The vehicle now wobbled from view around the far side of the barn, the lights went out, and springs creaked as the driver disembarked. Mitchell Coates entered the barn with a large canister and gas mask in hand.
Asgoth grinned. Time to wake the lady. To let fear become a weapon.
He dropped an object into the potting soil, then with a gnarled branch, clawed at the siding along the bedroom window.
Clay stepped into the kitchen. His mother was fluttering about, excited about the newest cookware she’d purchased at her ladies’ gathering this evening. Gerald, set into action by her presence, was tying off a garbage bag and marchingout to the garage. His sporadic grunts were all the response Della needed to continue her exuberant chatter.
Clay moaned. High school revisited. Mom and the old man deep in denial, coping with their relational flaws by gorging on activity, by heading separate directions in the name of calendars and commitments and kids. Long reign codependency.
See, Dr. Gerringer, I’m beginning to recognize the symptoms
.
As Clay tried to slip down the hall, his mother’s voice caught him halfway.
“Oh, Clay, you’re home.”
“Yep.”
“Did you see the baking stone I …”
Clay elbowed the door closed, dropped a rented Xbox game on the bed.
Della came to check on him, as though she held a lifetime pass into his privacy.
“Whaddya want?” he barked at the door.
“Your day go well?”
“Yeah, sure.” Stretched on the bed, toes hanging off the end, he felt infantile and foolish. “Not exactly the job I would’ve picked, but it pays. As usual, the old man has my life mapped out for me.”
“It’s his way, you know that. He wants the world for you.”
“I’d rather he just butted out.”
“He’s trying to help. He sees the difficulties you’ve faced in the past year, and it upsets him that he can’t fix everything for you.”
“I’ve never asked him to.”
“Been quite some time since we all lived under the same roof, Clay. We all have adjustments to make. You’ll have to give me some
What were the critters doing, having a party out there? She smiled at the thought, but her fears stayed close by. Her mind flashed to the loaded shotgun her husband kept stowed in the corner of the closet. No sir, that was just silly. A last-ditch option. Sure, with a little prompting from her man, she’d fired the thing a time or two, but she hadn’t enjoyed it, not one bit. Thing could blow a hole in a concrete wall.
She settled for an alternative.
In a flurry of movement, she flicked the clock radio to FM jazz oldies, then burrowed herself under a mound of pillows and covers. Creating an opening with her elbow, she inhaled cool air. With the muffled sounds of Duke Ellington lulling her to sleep, she curved her body into the space her husband usually occupied.
She missed having his little potbelly to wrap her arms around—two spoons in a drawer. Life really wasn’t all that complicated; people just liked to make it that way.
In her billowy cocoon, Eve began to snore.
Through the lace curtains, Asgoth saw the still form beneath the eiderdown. The inactivity confused him. Hadn’t the woman heard his noisemaking? Was she a hard sleeper? This was supposed to be easy. He’d coordinated events flawlessly thus far, and his friends in Silverton had waylaid Mr. Coates without a hitch.
Now it was a matter of executing the rest of the plan. If he failed to placate the Consortium’s members, he had little doubt as to his next destination.
Hell …
Under another name perhaps—Fresno, Salem, Olympia—but hell all the same. He ground his teeth at the thought of further isolation.
After midnight, a set of lights sliced through the rows of corn at his back, then stabbed at the side of the barn. Mr. Coates had arrived. After the necessary delay, the boys in Silverton had carried out Asgoth’s orders by getting the man’s rattletrap van back on the highway.
The vehicle now wobbled from view around the far side of the barn, the lights went out, and springs creaked as the driver disembarked. Mitchell Coates entered the barn with a large canister and gas mask in hand.
Asgoth grinned. Time to wake the lady. To let fear become a weapon.
He dropped an object into the potting soil, then with a gnarled branch, clawed at the siding along the bedroom window.
Clay stepped into the kitchen. His mother was fluttering about, excited about the newest cookware she’d purchased at her ladies’ gathering this evening. Gerald, set into action by her presence, was tying off a garbage bag and marchingout to the garage. His sporadic grunts were all the response Della needed to continue her exuberant chatter.
Clay moaned. High school revisited. Mom and the old man deep in denial, coping with their relational flaws by gorging on activity, by heading separate directions in the name of calendars and commitments and kids. Long reign codependency.
See, Dr. Gerringer, I’m beginning to recognize the symptoms
.
As Clay tried to slip down the hall, his mother’s voice caught him halfway.
“Oh, Clay, you’re home.”
“Yep.”
“Did you see the baking stone I …”
Clay elbowed the door closed, dropped a rented Xbox game on the bed.
Della came to check on him, as though she held a lifetime pass into his privacy.
“Whaddya want?” he barked at the door.
“Your day go well?”
“Yeah, sure.” Stretched on the bed, toes hanging off the end, he felt infantile and foolish. “Not exactly the job I would’ve picked, but it pays. As usual, the old man has my life mapped out for me.”
“It’s his way, you know that. He wants the world for you.”
“I’d rather he just butted out.”
“He’s trying to help. He sees the difficulties you’ve faced in the past year, and it upsets him that he can’t fix everything for you.”
“I’ve never asked him to.”
“Been quite some time since we all lived under the same roof, Clay. We all have adjustments to make. You’ll have to give me some
Similar Books
