The Dead Saga (Novella Part 2): Odium Origins Read online

  “Rest in peace, Daryl and Brown Eyes,” I murmur.

  “Pardon?” Jessica glances nervously at me.

  I shake my head sadly. “Nothing.”

  THE BOOK NERD

  One.

  Susan.

  I look down at the pots soaking in the sink, my hands already red and sore from all the scrubbing I’ve been doing. Two more plates and one pan to go. I can’t contain my sigh. I scratch at the crusted food on the side of the pan with my fingernail to see if it needs a little longer to soak—finding that it does since the cooked-on food doesn’t budge. I sigh again, though I know I probably shouldn’t complain: after all, I was the one who offered to host the dinner party for Ken’s work colleagues. If it helped Ken, then it helped him, us—me. If it meant he was happy and he left me to my own devices—left me to my books—then I was happy.

  When work was quiet, he hung around the house all day, bossing me and the cat around and leaving dirty laundry all over the floor. It’s always better when he’s at work. Everything just runs a little smoother.

  “Susan!” Ken hollers from the dining room, his loud voice echoing down the hall to me.

  I roll my eyes at the sudsy water and grip the edge of the sink. His voice is like nails down a blackboard to me—everything about the man has become unbearable. Maybe that’s the problem: maybe I’m the problem and not him. I look down at the dirty water again, my shoulders slumping, and sigh once more.

  “What is it, Ken?” I ask, already knowing what it is. It’s the same routine every night, regardless of if I’ve been slaving over the oven for most of the day. Or if I’ve cleaned the entire house from top to bottom, so that everything was set up for him to impress his boss. Yes, it’s the same routine every single night: I cook, I clean, he rules over me and the cat with an iron fist. So I know what is coming next, though I ask anyway.

  “Su-san!” he hollers again as if he didn’t hear my reply, punctuating my name in that way he knows irritates me.

  I dry my hands on a dishtowel, turn away from the dirty pots, and head toward the living room where my husband and his boss are—better be quick before he really loses his temper with me. I make my face more pleasant as I go into the room, turning my frown upside down and giving a smile to his colleague and then to him.

  “Yes, sweetie, what can I get for you?”

  He scowls at me, his jowls wobbling as he talks. “I was just telling Phil here what great chocolate chip brownies you make. Thought you could whip us up a batch.”

  “Sweetie, it’s eleven thirty. I was just about to head to bed—once I’ve finished the kitchen, anyway.” I can’t keep the lament out of my words.

  Ken offers his boss a courteous smile, hefts his large frame out of his chair, and turns to me, looking me dead center so I know he isn’t messing around.

  “Susan, I want you to take that sweet ass of yours to the kitchen and make us some chocolate chip brownies. I won’t ask you again.” His nostrils flare as he adds on the last line, and it takes everything I have to not gulp loudly.

  He’s right: I don’t want him to ask me again. I remember the last time he had to ask me to do something twice. Still have the damn scar on my right palm from it. Who knew the bottom of a pan stayed so hot even after ten minutes? Besides, maybe I should just be grateful that the rest of his co-workers have left and there’s only him and his boss Phil left to cook for.

  I blink back from the painful memory, my palm feeling sore. “Sure, sweetie, I’ll go make some, I’m sorry. I’ll have to pop out to the store and get the ingredients though.” I smile at him, glad to see his anger subsiding.

  “Ken, it really isn’t necessary,” Phil says from the opposite chair as he puffs on a fat cigar.

  Ken has purposely let Phil smoke in the house, knowing how much I hate it, but I don’t say anything—I never do. I’ll just have to do an intensive clean tomorrow when Ken is out at work, because he hates the smell too, and he’s only allowing it to further aggravate me.

  I manage contain the groan of pent-up frustration residing in the pit of my stomach, and glance down at Phil. “It’s completely fine. I should have made them earlier today. Besides, they really are delicious, I’m sure you’ll love them.” I pat Ken on the arm, and he sits back down in his chair without another word.

  “There’s some things on the grocery list you should pick up while you’re there too.” He scowls at me, but instead of explaining that I was going to go tomorrow, I nod and smile.

  “Oh, and bring us some more drinks before you leave for the store.” Ken looks back at Phil and continues his conversation, dismissing me. I pick up their empty glasses and head back to the kitchen.

  I take back two fresh scotches on the rocks before I leave for the store, the time hitting just past midnight as I climb into our car. I drive through the darkened streets, the roads empty of anyone else stupid enough to be out at this time on a Tuesday night, and can’t help the stray tears that trail down my cheeks. I don’t even know how my life got to this, how I ended up in such a loveless marriage with a man I can’t stand to be around—a vile, overweight bully who loves to torment me.

  He didn’t used to be like this—we didn’t used to be like this. We loved each other once, before a freak accident forced Ken out of his job. He used to drive all around the country selling high end products to big companies, but after his accident, he ended up out of work for three years. For some reason, he blamed me. Or maybe he was just envious and jealous of me because I had a job. Either way, when he finally landed a decent job that would pay the bills he forced me to quit mine, insisting that we didn’t need my wage now and saying that he had to prove to everyone that he was still the man of the house after relying on me for so long.

  So now he’s bitter and angry, full of spite and hate for me, and I for him. I don’t even care that he hits me, that he mentally abuses me; after living the past two years with him bullying me, my resolve has gone and all I care about is making it through the next day without pissing him off some more. Anything for the easy life.

  I should leave him, yet for some reason I don’t. I’m still here no matter what he does to try and destroy our marriage. Is it the fear of him or the fear of the unknown that drives me back to him after all the abuse?

  Two.

  The store is quiet when I arrive, and I grab a basket and carry it to the first aisle, picking up the groceries on the list. There’s nothing terribly urgent but I get it all anyway. At least I’ll have more time tomorrow to get the smell of cigar smoke out of the sofa.

  The radio is playing softly in the background, and I hum along to it, lost in my own thoughts as I collect my groceries. I walk to the checkout, and the young girl behind the till blows a bubble, letting it pop loudly before offering me a small smile. She’s young, can’t be more than twenty, with a blunt black bob and deep blue eyes.

  “Busy night?” I ask politely.

  She doesn’t answer, but shrugs and continues to ring up the food. I bag it all up into brown paper bags, pay the young girl, and head for the exit. As I’m going out, a man is coming in. His hood is up, covering his face from view, and if it weren’t for the God-awful smell I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him. I prefer to keep my head down and keep to myself, especially at the time of night it is.

  However, as I pass him, he reaches out a hand and I yelp, turn, and quickstep to my car across the parking lot, trying not to drop my bags as I fumble in my pocket for the keys without having to stop.

  His hood is still up and it almost sounds like he’s growling as he stumbles after me, so I quicken my pace, imagining the absolute worst possible scenario of being attacked and robbed by a junkie. I glance behind me seeing, that he’s still following—though his pace is slow, and since I’m now flat-out running, he’s lagging behind. I drop the bags at the side of my car and hit the unlock button, open the door, and quickly throw the groceries inside before climbing in and slamming the lock down on the door.

  The hooded man
reaches the side of the door, but it’s too dark to see his face. Strangely he doesn’t go for the handle but bangs his hand on the window and makes me scream. I start the engine and peel away from him as quick as I can, feeling almost certain that I just ran over his foot. Yet when I look in my rear view mirror, I can see that he has turned and is headed back to the store without even a limp.

  “Shit.” I slam on the brakes, making them squeal loudly on the blacktop. He doesn’t notice, though, and continues. I pull out my phone with shaking fingers and dial 911, but the stupid phone won’t connect and just keeps on giving me a busy signal. I slam my hand on the wheel and curse again before turning in my seat to look at the hooded man headed back into the store. The cashier is in there—there should be a security guard somewhere, but I hadn’t seen him when was inside.

  My chin trembles and I take a great gulp of air, almost choking on it because it seems not to want to go down my throat to feed my burning lungs. Tears well in my eyes, and before I can change my mind I slam the car into gear and reverse all the way back to the front doors of the store. It’s light inside, almost glaringly bright compared to the suffocating blackness outside. I scan the store, looking out of the right-hand passenger window, not spotting the bubble gum chewing assistant or the creepy hooded junkie. I try my cell phone once more but it beeps at me, and I throw it on to the passenger seat in anger.

  Unclipping my seat belt, I take a deep breath, knowing I can’t leave that poor woman in there alone without any warning. We women have to stick together—and what sort of human being would I be if I didn’t at least warn her? I scan the floor, looking at my discarded groceries and wondering if any of it could be used as a weapon. I rummage around, hastily pushing the things back into the bag, and check out the floor, finding Ken’s tire iron under the passenger seat. I grip it firmly and slap it against my palm, cringing at the mild pain it causes.

  I suck in another shaky breath and release it slowly while I watch the illuminated storefront and get ready to get out of my car. I consider the idea of just shouting from the car door to warn her, but decide that could send the guy into a panic and make the situation worse for the woman. Ken calls me a goody two-shoes, and I guess he’s right. I know he wouldn’t even be considering walking into a situation like this, risking his own life for someone else. But I can’t just walk away from this—from her—knowing that she could be in danger. Call me an idiot or call me kind; I just don’t want someone’s death on my conscience.

  I finally turn to my left, ready to exit the car, and am met with the face of another man—if you can call him that. His face is beaten to a pulp, swollen and bleeding. I panic, thinking that he’s possibly been attacked by the same junkie that chased me, and my hand instinctively goes to the handle. But then this man hits my window with the palm of his hand and bares his teeth at me, and I let out a small yelp of surprise and jump in my seat.

  His other hand comes up to hit the window and I yelp again as he begins to pound both hands on the window and growls at me. Growls! A small splinter cracks through the window and I scream as it abruptly implodes on me, showering me with tiny pieces of glass. The man reaches in and grabs at me, his hands finding purchase on my hair, and he leans in and begins to yank on my long, red locks.

  I scream and pull away, the smell of him invading my nose and making me gag. I feel the metal of the tire iron in my hand and swing out blindly, feeling it hit him in several places, but his grip never loosens and he never responds in pain—not unless his constant growling could be considered that. I swing back hard as his body leans further into the car, almost leaning down onto my lap, and somehow I manage to hit him hard on the crown of his head. The sound of metal on skull makes a sickening cracking sound, and then I feel the tire iron sink into his skull.

  The man stops moving with my hair still clutched in his fist, and I realize I’m screaming as I pull and tug my head to get away from him. My hand has let go of the tire iron, leaving it where it landed, embedded in his skull, and I don’t know what scares me more: the fact that I am now weaponless or the fact that my weapon is still implanted in someone’s head. I hear the sound of my hair ripping free from his hand, and I can finally look up at the destruction.

  He’s still leaning half in the car, hanging over the broken glass of the door, which is cutting into his body. Blood trails down the doorway, toxic-smelling gases escaping from his stomach cavity. His hand is closed tight around a clump of my hair, strands of it sticking up through the top of his fist. His head hangs low, the tire iron firmly implanted in his skull. Broken pieces of head and brain matter are splattered across his hair and up the length of the weapon, and the sight makes me gag. I cover my mouth as vomit rises from my throat, spraying out between my fingers and covering my lap and steering wheel in the partially digested meal I ate earlier.

  I sob loudly, squeezing my eyes closed, and try to take a deep breath, but the panic won’t stop rising, the smell of the dead man invading every orifice and making my eyes stream. I turn to look at him again, gagging but not being able to vomit anything out of my empty stomach. I push at his shoulder gently, trying to get him out of my door, but he doesn’t budge. I push again, putting a hand on either shoulder and feeling his body move ever so slowly. I push once again, harder this time, feeling spurred on when his body begins to slide backwards until the force of his own weight pulls him out of my doorway and I sob again at the sound of his body hitting the ground.

  I take a shaky breath, staring straight ahead. Now that I’m not screaming I can hear sirens in the distance, the wails of police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances all melding into one excessively loud siren. A blast rocks the horizon, a cloud of smoke with a ball of fire underneath it exploding into the night sky. It illuminates the car park and brings the dark world back into focus.

  I gasp, a low moan of terror building in the back of my throat as I stare straight ahead at the people stumbling toward me. Men, women, children—they are all coming forth as if called up from hell. Blood tracks their paths, gore and viscera hanging from different orifices.

  My vomit-covered hand comes to my mouth as I hold back another scream, and just before the first blood-covered hand pounds on the hood of my old Ford Festiva, I slam the car in gear and scream away in a trail of rubber and smoke.

  Three.

  “Ken!” I pull the keys from the ignition and jump out of the car. It starts to roll backwards down the drive with the door still open, and I jog to catch up to it with a curse. I climb back in and pull the handbrake on before diving back out and running to the front door.

  I turn the handle and push forward, but the door doesn’t open and I slam into the dark wood with a pained cry. I step back in confusion and try the handle again, jiggling it in place, but it still doesn’t move. I look to the window to the left of the door, seeing the curtain twitch, and I frown in confusion.

  “Ken? Open the door,” I say more quietly. I glance behind me to see if I’ve been followed, but I’m all alone, apart from the bloody evidence of my recent murder dripping down the side of my car. I squeeze my eyes closed and open them again. “Ken, open the door,” I shout.

  “Keep your damn mouth shut, woman,” he calls back from inside.

  “Then open the door,” I whisper back. I look back behind me, the snapping of a twig somewhere making me feel nervous and edgy.

  “I can’t. How do I know that you’re not infected?”

  I look at him through the window, only being able to discern a small part of his face. “What are you talking about? I need help, I need the police.”

  “See, always bringing trouble to the door,” He huffs, and even through the door I can hear his annoyance.

  “It’s not my fault. There was a man, he attacked me, another woman might be in trouble.” I gasp as I think about the poor woman that I just left. “Oh, Ken, quickly—I need to call for help for her.”

  “How do I know you’re not one of them? One of those things that’s on the news.”
r />   I glance back behind me, hearing another explosion going off in the distance. My heart feels like it’s about to explode from my chest, and I don’t remember the last time I felt this livid with Ken. He’s finally showing exactly how much I mean to him and how selfish he really is, and where it should hurt it doesn’t; it just makes me angry. I hear talking coming from inside the house and realize that Phil must still be inside.

  “Phil? Open the door for me immediately,” I whisper-shout.

  “Don’t you speak to Phil like that, woman. That’s my boss and you have no right to—”

  I cut him off when I kick the bottom of the door. “Open the door NOW, Ken, before I kick the damn thing down. I’m not messing around anymore.” I kick the door again for good measure. I have no idea what is going on in this town tonight, but I do know that I’m about to completely lose my temper and smash a window if he doesn’t open the door for me. Three years of suppressed anger are slowly bubbling to the surface, and right now all I want to do is throttle him with my bare hands. When the door doesn’t open and I’m met with silence from within, I kick the door again and yell at him. “Ken, so help me…”

  “Hold your damn horses, you crazy bitch. I’m opening up,” he yells back.

  I turn around at the sound of footsteps, but I can’t see anything. The streetlights flicker and shut off. Seconds later they come back on, and I suppress the urge to yelp or scream. I hear the key in the door and the loud creak as Ken opens it up. He looks me up and down with a grimace.

  “Damn, woman, what did you do to yourself?” He points at me, jumping back as I charge past him and slam the door closed.

  “I was attacked, Ken, not that you care. I was attacked—twice.” I shudder. “My cell phone isn’t working, I need to call the police, there’s a woman at the store who might be in trouble.” I think about the man I buried my tire iron in. “And a man, that,” I look away, “a man that I think I killed.”