Bryan Smith: Soultaker

She stood and stretched, her lean body magnificent in the dim light. She looked to Trey like a warrior goddess of myth, her body bathed in the blood of battle, but he knew the truth was nothing as fanciful as that. A warrior goddess, or just about any other significant source of power, would quake with terror in Myra’s presence.

She donned a cloak, beckoned to Trey with a slap of hand on thigh, and they followed the other members of the Sacred Circle out of the building.

Outside, the wind that came up was like a cold hand closing around Trey’s bare flesh.

Jake dreamed of the hot blonde girl he’d flirted with at the bar, the delectable little thing he’d belatedly realized was Moira’s baby sister. In the dream, they were on their first date. They were at a drive-in movie theater showing an all-night marathon of B horror movies. There hadn’t been a drive-in theater in Rockville since the early ’80s, but that’s where they were, and they were engaged in the traditional activities of a couple on a drive-in date-kissing and groping. Then the dream shifted, the way dreams do, and they were walking through a fog-shrouded cemetery. Jake felt a sense of dread, and he tried to coax Bridget back to the car. He didn’t know why they were here-Bridget wouldn’t tell him-but he knew she was up to no good.

Bridget came to a stop at a grave with a large headstone flanked by identical granite goblin statues. Jake read the gravestone’s inscription and felt a chill crawl up his back: “Here lies Moira Ann Flanagan. May she rot in hell.”

Then Bridget began to disrobe, shedding her blouse and exposing large, milk white breasts to cold air. It was a dream, yes, but Jake knew it was cold by the way Bridget’s large pink nipples jutted. She stepped out of her skirt, seized Jake by the wrist, and pulled him down to the ground. He was already nude and erect. He didn’t remember undressing, but his clothes were gone. Bridget pulled his erection into her, and Jake was buffeted by conflicting feelings of erotic exhilaration and disgust at the obscenity of fucking young Bridget on her long-dead sister’s grave.

But that wasn’t the worst thing.

The worst thing was what happened to Bridget’s face just as he was about to come.

It began to change.

Jake awoke with a gasp, and sat up panting in the bed in Stu’s guest bedroom. He couldn’t remember precisely what had happened to Bridget at the end of the dream, but whatever it was had been awful enough to propel him instantly out of sleep. Jake drew in a few more big breaths and waited for his heart to slow to a normal rate. He almost never had nightmares, and the few he could recall tended to be mundane, such as falling from a great height or inexplicable classroom or mass transit nudity.

He recalled some of the more disturbing details and felt fresh disgust. Not wanting to think about it further, he threw back the covers and bounded out of bed. His head throbbed at the sudden motion, and he gritted his teeth against his first hangover in more than a year. It was mild, but its presence was unsettling. He popped some Tylenol, showered, dressed, and left Stu’s house, locking up with the spare key his new roommate had given him the night before.

Stu lived in a middle-class neighborhood at the southeastern edge of Rockville called Washington Heights. Most of the houses were single-story red brick cookie-cutter prefabs, and Stu’s rental was no exception. But Jake had lived in apartments most of his adult life, so the little house was like a sprawling manse by comparison.

Jake climbed into his Camry and drove out of Washington Heights. His destination was a far less reputable address, the Zone. Short for Combat Zone. The Zone was a sprawling maze of cheap living units that had once housed thousands of soldiers during the Second World War. The Rockville army base was decommissioned after the war and the area became home to hundreds of low-income families. One of those families had been the McAllisters. Generations of McAllisters grew up, lived, and died there, some of them spending the bulk of their lives within its confines, subsisting on welfare and food stamps, rarely venturing farther than the corner store for a case of Old Milwaukee and a carton of smokes.

As Jake drove into the Zone, he was surprised to see that there had been some drastic improvements in his long absence. Many of the houses had been renovated, and the kids wandering its narrow streets looked clean and healthy. He didn’t see any cars on blocks, or any aluminum litter glittering in the sun. The Zone had once been a great repository for empty beer cans. Not so anymore. It was amazing. Somewhere along the line the residents of this formerly blighted place had discovered some fresh sense of community pride and spirit. It was still a poor neighborhood-this was evident in a number of little ways-but it no longer reeked of decay. It was alive and vital.

Well, holy shit, Jake thought.

The change struck him as nothing less than miraculous.

And so he experienced a profound disappointment when he arrived at his childhood home. Aside from some obvious renovations to the small house’s exterior, little had changed. The yard was overgrown. A Camaro was up on blocks in the middle of the yard. The telltale glint of crumpled beer cans was evident even through the tall grass.

Jake parked the Camry and got out. As he walked up the short drive to the front door, he had an impulse to turn around, get back in his car, and get the hell out. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to see these people. Not now. Not ever. His body rebelled against it. His forefinger trembled as he stabbed the doorbell button. He waited a while before realizing the button didn’t work. Then he steeled himself and rapped a fist on the glass outer door and yelled, “Mom! It’s Jake!”

He heard a crash from somewhere within the house-glass shattering on a floor, from the sound of it-followed by a screeched curse. Then there was a clomp of bare feet on linoleum and his mother was scowling at him through the pane of grime-stained glass. She pulled the door open, seized him by the wrist, and pulled him inside.

Jolene McAllister slapped him hard across the face. “That’s for being gone ten goddamn years. Don’t your family mean nothin’ to you?”

Jake gaped at her. He hadn’t expected any tearful reunion, but this was ridiculous. Then again, it was just like the McAllisters he remembered. Hit first, ask questions later. Jolene’s aggression was a direct link to that awful past, and being hit made him feel like he was seventeen again, the age he’d been when he’d finally left this fucking hovel to move into a friend’s apartment on the other side of town.

Jake put a palm to his stinging cheek and rubbed it slowly. “You still pack a wallop, Mom. But get this straight. I came here to help Trey. I still care about him. You, I don’t give a shit about.” His mouth curved a humorless smile. “That answer your question?”

Jolene’s bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits, and he could see the muscles in her neck working as she ground her teeth. Jake braced for another slap. If it came, he was out of here. He’d find another way to help Trey.

Then Jolene started crying. Tears welled in her eyes suddenly, then streamed down her face, etching messy trails through her heavily applied mascara. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. Jake rolled his eyes and waited for the storm to subside. Other than being older, his mother hadn’t changed a bit. She was still mean. Still abusive. Still a drama queen. And she still dressed the same, wearing a skimpy pink tank top and cutoff denim shorts that hugged her narrow hips and rode up high on her blotchy thighs. Also present was the same old profusion of cheap jewelry-clacking silver bracelets, large, dangling earrings, and several necklaces. Her long fingernails were painted a tacky shade of glittery purple, and her huge helmet of permed blonde hair would have made even the most shamelessly garish ’80s hair-metal singer cringe.