What Do Monsters Fear Page 20

  Peter sniffled, wiping his running nose on his arm. He dropped the shotgun and fell to his knees, an involuntary scream forcing its way up from the depths of his stomach. His throat ripped as he roared into the night. “You see this, you cocksucker? I’m useful! I’m worth something! I’m somebody! You’re nothing! Nobody needs you! I’m not afraid of you! I have people waiting at home for me who care about me . . . I have people who care . . .” Peter’s chest ached. He rubbed at his nose, wiping away cold liquid. His shoulders hitched. People cared about him. People loved him. If he could just get back home to Beth and talk to her, he stood a chance of having a family . . . An actual family. No matter how minuscule a chance that might actually be.

  A light lit up over the treetops like a distant star. The hum of an engine cut through the roar of the fire. Peter watched in shock as a helicopter drifted closer, its blades chopping the air.

  He fell to his knees and cradled his face. “Thank you . . . Thank you.”

  He cried for Henry. He cried for Donald and Walter. He cried for all the others who lost their lives because of Jerry Fisher and Harris Dawson. But mostly, he cried for himself. Not out of sadness. Out of joy. He was alive.

  He had a life to start, one with a chance.

  Peter’s vision blurred from the tears, multiplying the helicopter. He wiped his eyes but the choppers stayed. Three of them.

  Cold air rushed over Peter’s skin as the choppers lowered into the bottom of the yard, kicking up snow in all directions. Peter covered his face and breathed through his mouth, the loud blades wheezing down in an ear-busting screech. Trees bent, flailing in the sharp gusts. Then the rotor-blades fell still, the engines still jittering.

  The side doors on all three choppers flew open and ten men hoped into the snow, one of them yelling orders, his voice muffled behind his headgear.

  . . . Are they wearing riot uniforms?

  Flashlights clicked on and blinded him. Peter squinted and craned his neck to see beyond the glare, scanning the cockpits of the three choppers. His heart skipped a beat as he found exactly what he hoped he would not: A man in his mid to late sixties sitting in the leftmost helicopter, wearing a black winter jacket and a woolen hat.

  “. . . Harris Dawson.”

  The group of men jogged towards the house, and Peter recoiled as he saw their flashlights mounted to assault rifles. A badge adorned each of their chests. A logo of some sort.

  Peter recalled Jerry Fisher’s story of how Dawson’s work got funded. How Dawson Rehabilitation was nothing but a cover for the man’s true research. Whoever funded it must have an awful lot of money. Perhaps enough to hire a small army to keep everything under wraps and leave no evidence . . .

  One of the men stepped forward, flanked by two others.

  “In position,” he shouted. “Go!”

  The seven remaining men shot towards the house, their rifles raised. The man in front of Peter lowered his gun, his face obscured by his visor. Peter could hear someone speak via a headphone set inside of the helmet. The man nodded then turned his attention back to Peter. “Sir, Mr. Laughlin, you need to come with us.”

  Peter wasn’t afraid. He’d had enough of that already. “Where?”

  The man listened to his head-piece once more before nodding. “That information is classified, Mr. Laughlin.”

  “Who are you people? Why doesn’t Dawson come down here himself and see the mess he’s made? See the lives his research has cost? Hell, I should just kill one of you and let Phobos take your body, let you all see the monster he’s unleashed into this world! Do you even know what’s going on here?”

  At that, the two flanking soldiers raised their rifles. Peter walked towards one, pressing the cold steel of the barrel to his chest. Sharp pressure sunk from the tip into his ribcage. He pressed harder and looked the soldier in the face. “Go on. Do it. You’ll be unleashing a monster. You know that. Don’t intimidate me with your big guns, little man. Lower it and get on with whatever it is that asshole is paying you to do.”

  Peter turned his attention to Harris Dawson in the chopper and flipped him the finger. Even at this distance, Peter could see a smirk spread across the bastard’s face.

  You find this amusing, you sick fuck?

  “Fine,” Peter said. “I’ll go with you. Not like I have a whole lot of other options. Lead the way.”

  “Subject is on route to Chopper A,” the first soldier said into his headset. “Stand by.” He turned back to Peter. “Come with me.”

  Peter followed the man back to the helicopter. Halfway across the yard, he chanced a glance back at the farmhouse and watched as the dining-room collapsed. Fat flames lapped at the night sky, each one reaching higher than the last.

  Good riddance to it. Let it burn. Let it all burn. The books. The bodies. Turn them to ash and let them be forgotten.

  A smile spread across Peter’s face as he trudged on. Back home, his grandmother waited. Beth waited. His child waited. Whatever these people planned to do with him, he did not know. But neither did he care.

  He’d lived enough of his life in fear.

  Things were going to happen, good things, bad things, and he had no control. All he could do was walk forward with his head held high and his destination set, for better or for worse. If these men wanted to kill him, then that’s what they would do. If that happened, Peter wouldn’t know either way. They’d probably take him out with a silenced pistol in the back of the head on the chopper ride. He wouldn’t know, either way. And that didn’t scare him.

  The soldier opened the helicopter side-door and waved Peter onboard. Peter climbed in without a word, taking a seat and buckling his belt. Two of the men climbed in beside him and sat with their guns across their laps. Peter returned to his thoughts. Those men didn’t scare him.

  If they let him go home, well then he’d spend what few days his grandmother had left with her, building up a bank of memories. Memories he’d cherish and keep until the end of his days, no matter how many were left. He’d make a visit to Beth. If she wanted to see him.

  Even if she didn’t, all he could do was offer his support for their child and make sure she knew he’d be there. He’d always be there. She deserved the best, and Peter would try his hardest to be that for her. His best. After all, for the first time he could remember, he was clean.

  There was a chance he could see his child. That chance, no matter how small, was the greatest thought of all. It made his heart jump into the back of his throat. It made his stomach quiver. A kid was on the way.

  A grandmother, a possible partner, and a child . . . That was more than enough reason to keep going. Far more than he thought he’d ever deserve or get. And because of that, he kept his head high as the engine picked up in volume.

  The pilot called back. “Takeoff in five.”

  For the first time in years, Peter’s fingers itched to play the guitar. Songs brewed inside him again, that old familiar feeling making his whole being sing with excitement. A visit from the Muse, like Santa Claus... The possibility of creation. Peter welcomed the longtime friend with open arms. Music needed to be made. So much music.

  Perhaps enough to start a career again. A comeback album. Solo record. To hell with everyone else. He’d go it alone. He’d simply do whatever it was that he could. That was enough. Because most importantly, he was going to live.

  And all the fear in the world wasn’t going to stop him.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANKS TO: CONOR MCMAHON, BOB Ford, Tristan Thorne, Matt Worthington, Erin Sweet-Al Mehairi, Patrick Lacey, David Murphy, Russell Coy, Kealan Patrick Burke, Elizabeth Jenike, Eric Beebe, John Urbancik, Os Andres, Kevin Liffey, Cooper Gordon, and Ivan Byrne.

  © 2017 Matt Hayward

  Cover © 2017 Keelan Patrick Burke

  All rights reserved.

  Post Mortem Press - Cincinnati, OH

  www.postmortem-press.com

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, l
iving or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.