Screaming to Get Out & Other Wailings of the Damned Read online

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Laura

  After Nightfall

  Holes

  Screaming to Get Out

  Home

  Ricochet

  Mutant

  Captivity

  Witness

  Balance

  The Smile

  Christian Woman

  The Wasting

  Breaking Point

  About J. F. Gonzalez

  Also by J. F. Gonzalez

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  SCREAMING TO GET OUT

  & Other Wailings of the Damned

  Introduction:

  AS I WRITE this it is the middle of spring. Outside, it is a warm, but pleasant 73 degrees. The sun is shining. There is a mild breeze in the air. If I were to step outside and take my laptop to work off the side of the front stoop of my house, where I have converted the garden into a sitting area lined with stones complete with Lay-Z-boy chairs and little end tables, I would probably produce nothing. Instead, I’d yearn to get up off my chair and take a walk. Or I might just be inclined to get in my car and drive. Roll down the windows, hit the main highway that leads to the turnpike and head west.

  Never to return.

  My life as of late has been very much like the title story in this collection—I feel stuck in a rut, I want to escape the confines of my self-made prison. I want to leave the state of Pennsylvania which has been home, of a sorts, for the past twelve years and return to where I feel most at home, Southern California.

  But I am also torn between both worlds. I love the peacefulness and serenity of the open country, especially in the spring. I love the coming of fall as the leaves on the trees change color. I love not having to bump asses and elbows with hordes of people just to take a drive up the street to the corner convenience store for a gallon of milk and some toilet paper. I love the sound of the crickets at night on summer nights and I love the blinking lights of the fireflies that buzz around my house like little twinkling stars.

  Despite that, I have come to find annoyances in this state – its strange township tax laws, its liquor laws, and its indigenous people (the Amish). I find it annoying that if I want to experience any kind of food that isn’t white-bred, middle-of-the-road cooking (or Italian....more on that in a moment), I have to drive thirty or forty minutes one way just to experience it. In my old Pasadena neighborhood, I just had to walk up the street and take my pick of cuisine from all over the world. Here, in rural PA, it seems the only cuisine available is Amish-food (basically, PA Dutch cooking), sandwich and burger shops, and Italian joints.

  Now don’t get me wrong...I love Italian food. But Italian places are on every street corner out here the way Mexican restaurants dot the landscape throughout the greater Los Angeles/Orange County/San Diego stratosphere. One tends to tire of it after awhile. And for the record, no, I never got tired of Mexican food when I lived in California because...well, I had so many other choices, too! Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Southern/Creole, various Middle-Eastern cuisine (Armenian was one of my favorites), Morroccan, Ethiopian, British/Irish pub fare, and your standard American steakhouses.

  If there’s a correlation between food, my wanting to get the hell out of Pennsylvania and back to my birth country, and the stories in this collection, well...I’ll figure it out. Needless to say, all of us are, in a sense, screaming to get out of something. A bad job, a bad relationship, or simply out of an embarrassing situation. Me, I want to get out of Pennsylvania and I want to break out of the mid-list and attain a higher level of income with my books. You might be screaming to get out of something else.

  All of these stories, in a sense, came screaming out of me. They demanded to be written at some point in my life, and because they just begged me and pleaded with me and – finally – screamed to be let out, I let them. They went on to live various lives between the pages of paperback anthologies, magazines, and, in some cases, on the digital screens of web magazines. With a few exceptions, most of them were not written with money in mind – that usually comes later, after the creation of the art is accomplished. The fact that they achieved some kind of life prior to their being included in this volume is a minor miracle in itself. My including them here is my way of preserving them in the annals of my overall body of work. After all, as much as most writers don’t like to admit it, most readers miss individual stories as they fly by in magazines and anthologies. The only way your story gains any sense of immortality is through the reprint market (specifically the Year’s Best compendiums) or within the pages of a collection, where your hardcore readership will finally get to savor them.

  I tend to see short story collections as a benchmark of accomplishment. They provide a time capsule. Some of my favorite short story collections are often compiled in this manner. They aren’t compiled in regard to theme or mood or subject matter. Besides, I don’t think I have enough material within a certain theme or subject matter to gather them all in one book (you’ll never see The Collected Vampire Stories of J. F. Gonzalez or The Best Western Stories of J. F. Gonzalez for the simple reason that I’ve only written three vampire stories and one western...those would be very small books).

  I don’t begrudge other writers for compiling their collections with stories that share a similar theme or motif. My feeling is, if they have enough material, go for it! But, for the most part, my favorite collections have simply been gathered by their respective authors without regard to theme or sub-genre or whatever – they’re just books of stories: Dark Carnival by Ray Bradbury comes to mind; so does Night Shift by Stephen King; By Bizarre Hands by Joe R. Lansdale and In a Lonely Place by Karl Edward Wagner are two stellar collections that are all over the map. Another one is Peaceable Kingdom by Jack Ketchum.

  Subsequent collections by many of these guys may have been undertaken with certain themes or moods in mind, but I would be hard pressed to guess which ones. Most collections are compiled from a writer’s recent output – a good example are Stephen King’s short story collections, starting with his first, Night Shift. I compiled two in this manner (Old Ghosts and Other Revenants and When the Darkness Falls); a third collection, the slim eBook version only The Summoning and Other Eldritch Tales was done at the invitation of Delirium Books and it gave me the opportunity to do something different, which was collect all of my published Mythos tales together.

  (Aside: I officially have three previous full-length collections. Maternal Instinct was originally supposed to be a short novel but the publisher decided at the last minute that he wanted a book with more pages to justify his price point. I had already compiled most of my best output in Old Ghosts and was forced to find additional material to add to Maternal Instinct. I still think of Maternal Instinct, the book, as the original short novel and not the collection it became).

  The volume you hold in your hands was compiled the same way. I wish I could tell you what criteria I used in determining which stories should be reprinted, and in what order. To me, it’s akin to a rock band coming up with a concert setlist – you include your favorites, the critical/fan favorites and most popular, and you plug in a few from the latest album and a deep album track or two from a few albums back...in the writer’s case, this would be stories that might not have gotten as much press as the others but that you still kind of like; it might also include some recent efforts and some new, never before published stuff – as I write this, two such pieces are included in this volume (although by the time this book comes out, they will have already been published in England). As for the improvisation, the drum solos, etc., well, that’s why w
e have things like introductions and story notes and acknowledgement sections in these things. Right?

  This collection spans about fifteen years worth of work. The oldest story in this collection was written in 1998. The latest was written late last summer (2012). They range in theme and mood and run the gamut to the quiet, to the kind that get under your skin, to the out-and-out screamers. Or at least I think so. Some of them also have a B-movie feel to them- after all, that’s what I seem to do best.

  With that out of the way, why don’t we get started?

  BEFORE I LET you get to the stories, I have a few people I’d like to thank and acknowledge:

  Paul Goblirsch for his enthusiasm for publishing the limited edition of this collection.

  Special acknowledgement must be made to Tim Deal, Shane Ryan Staley, Nanci Kalanta, Arthur Sanchez & Keith Graham, James Beach, Bill Hughes, Dru Pagliassotti, David C. Hayes & Jack Burton, Marc Ciccarone, Jason Duke, Jack Bantry, Ty Schwamberger, and Kyle S. Johnson & Douglas F. Warrick for buying and publishing these stories, or soliciting them from me in the first place.

  Other editorial and colleague peeps: Don D’Auria, Shane Ryan Staley, Gord Rollo, Gene O’Neill, David J. Schow, Tom and Billie Moran, Larry Roberts, Brian Keene, Shane McKenzie, Mike Hawthorne, John Skipp, Jacob Haddon, John Pelan, Lee Seymour, Dallas Mayr, Tom Piccirilli, Nate Southard, Ryan Harding, Mike Lansu and the rest of the crew at 34th Street Films, Wrath James White, Richard Christian Matheson, James Moore, Debbie Daughtee, Robert Swartwood, Mike Lombardo, Brian & Lesley Conner. Tod Clark, Jamie La Chance, and Bob Strauss get bonus points for pointing out all my mistakes and making me look good.

  To Steve Calcutt – we tried.

  Last but certainly not least, I’d like to acknowledge the support of my family: Cathy J. Gonzalez, Hannah Gonzalez, and Rosie Grace Gonzalez; Jesus and Glenda Gonzalez; Trish & Tim Chervenak, Samantha Chervenak and Max Chervenak; Debbie Martinez, Nick Nave, and the entire El Paso contingent (there’s so goddamn many of you, but you know who you are); also to my friends and family who supported me and kept me sane during the first few months of 2013 – Cathy, Brian, Coop, Bob, Lombardo, Swartwood, Mom, Debbie, Scott, Brian, Dave, Laura & Chip, RC, John & Elsa.

  There will be more of this stuff; you can count on it!

  J. F. Gonzalez

  Lititz, PA

  June 10, 2013

  Laura

  NAOMI STEPPED OUTSIDE to get the morning newspaper when the man jumped out from behind the porch retaining wall and grabbed her arm.

  “Don’t scream,” he said in a hissed whisper. He gripped her arm tightly. “I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t scream.”

  She held back a scream. His grip on her arm tightened, and she caught a glimpse of a handgun. “Okay, we’re going to walk to the front door of your house. You aren’t going to do anything funny. We’re going inside. Okay?”

  She nodded and felt the tears come. The hot summer sun beat down on her face and she had to struggle to keep from crying. A thousand thoughts ran through her, but the most important one was keeping him away from Laura, her daughter.

  “Let’s move,” he said.

  Nudging her firmly, he escorted Naomi back up the driveway to the front door of her house. He kept the gun on her, shielding it from possible sight from neighbors with the cover of his body.

  Naomi’s key ring was still in her hand, and she automatically inserted the house key in the lock and turned it. The door opened, and he ushered her inside and closed the door behind them.

  The sound of the lock engaging felt like the lid of a coffin slamming shut over her.

  The curtains were drawn over all the windows, shrouding the house in darkness. As if he knew the layout, the man ushered her through the foyer into the family room. He pushed her towards the worn sofa and pointed the gun at her. “When’s your husband get home?”

  She got her first real good look at him, and despite the fact everything was happening so fast, she was able to see that he was a big man and had a look of desperation. “I...I don’t...please, don’t hurt me...”

  “When does your husband get home?” His tone was more demanding, more desperate.

  “I...I don’t have a husband,” Naomi said, the words slicing through her as they came out. Even now, after two years, it still hurt to talk about Larry and what happened to him. “It’s just me.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “I swear, it’s just me!” She fought to keep the panic out of her voice. “Please, don’t hurt me, I swear I won’t tell anybody, I won’t tell—”

  He pointed the gun at her. “Get up!”

  “What?”

  “I said, get up!”

  She got up.

  “Come.” He motioned for her to follow him. Naomi followed him, her nerves too shattered to do anything else now.

  Once in the kitchen, he started opening drawers. “You have duct tape?”

  “Y..yes,” she said. “First drawer on your left.”

  He found the drawer and opened it. He pulled a roll of duct tape out and regarded her for a moment. “Turn around and get on your knees with your hands behind your back.”

  Trembling and crying, she did as she was told. She slowly lowered herself to her knees, ashamed at herself for crying but not able to stop it. She hoped that whatever happened, it happened fast and Laura wouldn’t get home until it was all over and the man was gone. Please God, get this over with, please just let him tie me up and ransack the place, let him take whatever he wants to feed whatever addiction he has, but please don’t let him still be here when Laura gets home.

  She felt rough hands grab her wrists and begin binding them with the duct tape. She doubted he was in possession of the handgun still—she wouldn’t think he’d be able to bind her like this while armed—but she imagined he’d set it down close by. No way in hell was she going to try making an escape in this position. He had the upper hand.

  When he was finished binding her hands behind her back, he stood up. “Okay, on your feet. Come on.”

  He guided her back to the living room toward the couch. “Sit down.”

  She sat down on the sofa. He was looking around the room, as if casing the place. He was a good-looking guy, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with black hair and tanned skin. He appeared to be in good physical shape. He was dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt and white tennis shoes. Aside from the handgun he was brandishing, there was nothing about him that stood out.

  Keeping the gun trained on her, he backed up toward the French doors that opened onto the backyard patio. He peered through the blinds. "Where's the bedrooms?"

  "Down the hall," she said. Her stomach was doing slow flops in her belly.

  "You have a shower I can use?"

  "Yes."

  "Where were you going?"

  She decided to be honest and tell the truth. "I was going to the store for some groceries."

  "You have a job?"

  "Yes." A lie, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

  "What do you do?"

  "I'm a child psychologist." It was the first thing she could think of, especially when it came to dealing with Laura.

  This seemed to affect him. He fidgeted with the gun, his left hand rubbing his face. “A child psychologist, huh? Just what I need. Jesus.”

  Naomi didn’t know what to say. Everything had happened so fast. Had she said the wrong thing?

  He picked up the roll of duct tape he'd left on the kitchen counter and placed the handgun down. He pulled out a strip of duct tape. "What about kids?"

  "No kids," she said quickly, hoping the lie wouldn't backfire. Do whatever you came here to do and then get out, just leave!

  He knelt down in front of her and began binding her legs together at the ankles. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. He tore off the long strip of duct tape that now bound her legs together and pulled a smaller strip off. "I need to use your shower and clean myself up a little. Then I need to rest. Okay?"

 
; She nodded. She wondered if he was running from something, or if he'd committed some kind of violent crime. "I'm gonna tape your mouth shut so you can't scream, and then I'm gonna use your shower. I'll leave the TV on. Okay?"

  She nodded again, feeling a tear slide down her cheek.

  He picked up the remote control and turned on the TV. There was a commercial for some fast-food restaurant on, and he turned back to her. "Okay?"

  She nodded again and he taped her mouth closed and left her there, bound and trussed up, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

  A moment later she heard the shower start up.

  The commercial ended and the news came on.

  Her captor's face loomed large on the screen. In the background, a popular, local newscaster reported what was being considered a major story. "...shot and killed a hospital security guard, identified as forty-eight year old Herb Eckman, as well as twenty-nine year old Carol Whitman, who was identified as a Hospital Administrator, when a nurse tending to his four-year old son, Henry Oliver, found the suspect in his room attempting to remove the breathing tube—"

  Her eyes grew wide as the story rolled on. She could only sit up in rapt attention, the suddenness of the story overwhelming her.

  "...Greg Oliver had fled when officers arrived at the home he shared with his wife and young son. His wife had called 911 saying Greg tried to drown their son Henry in the bathtub. Despite attempts to fight him off and save Henry, the boy was unconscious when Mr. Oliver fled the scene. The child was rushed to UC Irvine Medical Center where he was listed in grave condition. A bulletin was put out for Greg Oliver's arrest, and he remained undetected until this morning when he showed up at the hospital and managed to sneak past security. When Emily Bacon, a Critical Care Nurse who works in the Pediatric Unit, walked into the ICU, she saw Greg attempting to remove his son’s breathing tube. When Mr. Oliver attempted to flee, Mr. Eckman tried to stop him. That’s when Greg Oliver opened fire with what appeared to be a nine millimeter handgun."