Sleep Tight

by Jeff Jacobson

Genres: Horror; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Thrillers

Synopsis

Sleeping With The Enemy They hide in mattresses. They wait till you're asleep. They rise in the dead of night to feast on your blood. They can multiply by the hundreds in less than a week. They are one of the most loathsome, hellish species to ever grace God's green earth. Thought to be eradicated decades ago, thanks to global travel they're back. And with them comes a nightmare beyond imagining. Bed bugs. Infected with a plague virus so deadly it makes Ebola look like a summer cold. One bite turns people into homicidal maniacs. Now they're in Chicago. And migrating to all points north, south, east, and west. The rest of the world is already itching. The U.S. government and the CDC are helpless to stop it. Only one man knows what's causing the epidemic. And the powers-that-be want him dead. "A fresh new talent with an amazing ability to astonish." --David Morrell, bestselling author of First Blood

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

7:13 PM

December 27

The change in cabin pressure squeezed Viktor’s skull mercilessly, yanking him out of a dreamless void and thrusting him into cold, hard reality as his international flight out of the Koltsovo Airport in Yekaterinburg descended into Chicago. He blinked; the rows of seats ahead of him floated, drifting from side to side in his blurred vision. His heart raced. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach threatened to erupt. He didn’t think he had eaten anything since a rushed breakfast before the flight.

If that was true, he hadn’t eaten in over eighteen hours. Had he been asleep the entire flight?

Not sleep, his body insisted. Something worse.

Viktor swallowed. Carefully. Something was very, very wrong. Under everything, even beneath the shakily controlled panic, there was something else.

He itched.

The sensation was insidious. Awful. Excruciating. He froze. He couldn’t put his finger on where he could scratch. It seemed to appear all over and nowhere at once, as if the horrible sensation slithered throughout his body with the speed of thought, stretching out its jagged fingernails to caress just under the skin of his armpit, his face, the center of his back, his scrotum. He reached a trembling hand out and took hold of his water bottle.

The thought of the tepid liquid triggered an eruption of nausea and he let go.

Across the aisle, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit tucked a paper cross into a Bible and gathered his belongings. Viktor slowly turned to the right. It felt like the bones at the base of his skull were grinding glass between them as he moved his head. The seat next to him was empty, and in the seat nearest the window, an older woman studied her crash-landing instructions, working hard to avoid his stare.

The captain’s voice clicked over the whispered hum of air rushing past the fuselage. He spoke for a while in a southern Russian accent. After the announcement, one of the flight attendants translated his announcement into German and then still another gave her best shot at an English version. “This is Captain speaking. Continuation of final approach is fast approaching. If everyone please can sit still, putting seating belt on, remaining calm, we will be landing in Chicago in few short minutes. Home of Cubs footballs and Blackhawk hockey. Ha. Ha. Ha. Also Al Capone.”

Viktor unbuckled his seat belt. Struggled to his feet. He hoped he could make it to the bathroom before one of the flight attendants tried to stop him. He wasn’t sure what would happen then.

Sweat collected under the illicit cargo hidden carefully along both sides of his chest and stomach. Acutely aware of these small lumps, he knew he had to look truly awful as he found his feet and stood, hitting his head on the overhead bin.

The nice leather jacket, the new jeans, the crisp white shirt were all supposed to convey that he was the lazy son of someone rich. But the new clothes couldn’t hide how he felt. He was tall and underfed, and he lurched up the aisle like a scarecrow running from a storm. Passengers flinched when they saw him.

Viktor made it inside the restroom before any of the flight attendants said anything. He sagged inside the plastic door, trying to slow his breathing. He turned on the light above the mirror and saw that he was much worse than he had feared.

His eyes were red and began to weep in the light. His skin had gotten frighteningly pale. It didn’t make sense. His heart raced; his face should be red from all the blood surging through his body. He fumbled with the buttons to his crisp white shirt, and lifted the heavy T-shirt underneath.

The cargo was still there. Still quiet. Still unmoving.

“Don’t worry. They won’t get loose. No. It’s the squeaks that will get you caught,” Roman had said in his native language. Roman was a man full of nervous laughter and nicotine.

When Viktor stepped into the back room of the vet office outside of Yekaterinburg, he found the tiny cages, each no bigger than a toaster, on the operating table in a neat line. His passport, student visa, two credit cards, a driver’s license, and just over three hundred dollars in U.S. currency had been stacked in the opposite corner. Down there, some of the metal surface was still smeared with congealed blood.

Roman held up a wisp of a vest, made from flesh-colored nylon pantyhose. He laughed. “I know, I know. It looks like something a prostitute would wear.”

Viktor stripped to his underwear and stepped into it. He slid the straps into place, stretching the nylon from underneath his crotch, knotted it together at the hips, and ran it up the sides of his stomach and chest until it ended in a loop around each shoulder. Roman tied these across his shoulders.

“Trust me, they all wear these. I know a man who carried twenty-four lizards and snakes into Los Angeles not four years ago.”

Viktor held up his arms and turned in a slow circle.

Roman said, “These animals? They will have it easier than you, my friend. Nineteen hours without a cigarette! Put on your pants. Walk around. We have . . .” He checked his watch. “Forty-three minutes.”

“Until the flight?” Viktor asked, confused, trying not to let any panic show.

“No. Until we leave this office.” Timing was everything. A difference of an hour in the international flight time could mean life or death for the cargo.

Viktor went to splash water on his face in the cramped airplane bathroom, but the sound of the trickling water wormed into his head and he suddenly spewed bile onto the mirror. His legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, dry-heaving into the metal sink. He hoped the gagging sounds couldn’t be heard outside of the bathroom. Reaching up, he managed to pull one of the paper towels out of the dispenser and laid it on the damp bottom of the sink. Using that, he wiped some of the sweat off his face.

It made no sense. Why was he so sick?

One of the pouches along his left side twitched and squirmed. Another, on the right side, started to move. And yet another.

They were waking up.

He clearly remembered the rest of the preparation in the veterinarian hospital, watching closely as the vet placed a syringe on top of each cage. Each syringe held such little medicine they looked almost empty. The man waited patiently, until Roman, checking his watch, gave him a nod. The vet put a heavy leather glove on his left hand and opened the first cage.

He gave an injection every five minutes. Then they would squeeze each animal into yet another nylon pantyhose, twisting the material to trap it. The ends were then tied to straps in the vest. In the end, Viktor carried six on each side, each lump no bigger than a computer mouse.

“Good! Good! You look good!” Roman said, once Viktor had put his shirt back on. “Turn around. Good!” Viktor walked around the tiny operating room, experimentally swinging his arms.

“Try not to sweat,” Roman offered.

The vet remained still the entire time, until he spotted movement. It was a tiny bug, venturing out of the sixth cage. The thing was no bigger than the head of the eagle on the old American coins they had given Viktor. The vet squashed it with his thumb and flicked it away.

Viktor could remember the ride to the airport, the perfunctory bribe in customs, a quick toast of ice-cold vodka in the airport bar, then the long walk to the plane. He found his seat, flirted unenthusiastically with one of the ugly attendants, and tried not to think about landing in Chicago.

After that, absolutely nothing.

A sharp rap at the door. “Sir! Sir! We are landing very soon. You must take your seat.”

Viktor tried to respond; his voice came out garbled as if his tongue had forgotten how to create words. It must have worked for a moment because the knocking stopped.

He stared at himself in the mirror again. Just land, get through customs, and then outside, where a van is waiting. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through his nose.

Everything was going to be fine.

A thin trickle of blood slid out of his left nostril.

Viktor swore and wiped it away. More blood collected on his upper lip. He realized he could use this to his advantage and wound toilet paper around his fist, then pressed it to his nose. He was now just a passenger with a bloody nose because of the dry air in the cabin. That was all.

Something tickled his stomach.

At first, he thought it was just that maddening phantom itch. But this felt different. Something was moving across his skin. He pulled his shirt up, and there, crawling along the sparse black hairs around his belly button, was a tiny bug. Without hesitation, he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and felt an insignificant, unsatisfying crunch. Examining his fingertips, he found a faint smear of blood.

The attendant knocked on the door again. Louder this time. “Sir! I insist, sir!”

Viktor wiped the remains of the bug on his new jeans, jammed the blood soaked tissue back to his nose, and opened the door. He glared at the attendant over the tissue. The phantom itch crawled across his scalp.

When the plane finally landed, Viktor was afraid he couldn’t stand. He waited in his seat until nearly all the passengers had disembarked, effectively trapping the older woman next to him. She didn’t make a move to get up, gripping her purse in two tight fists, staring unwaveringly at the perky young starlet skipping through warm surf on the cover of the in-flight magazine stuffed in the pouch on the back of the seat in front.

Viktor didn’t care. He wedged his hands under his thighs, anything to hide the shaking. He couldn’t stop licking his lips. The vibrations in his head threatened to spin out of control and he fought against the seizures that echoed throughout his body. The shaking built. His feet thrummed against his carry-on bag. Drool spilled from quivering lips. A distant burst of his heartbeat.

Abruptly, everything slowed down.

He stopped shaking. Wiped his mouth. The sounds of muttered conversations as the passengers filed past and pulled bags out of the overhead compartments seemed to be coming from underwater.

Viktor took a deep breath. Sweet relief flooded through his body, leaving him dazed and warm. His eyelids slowly slid shut. His breathing slowed.

Now the woman next to him really didn’t know what to do. She thought he was asleep. The last of the passengers filed out. She hit the button for one of the attendants. Down at the front of the plane, the group looked back at her. When they saw Viktor, the attendant who had kicked him out of the lavatory started up the aisle, shaking her head.

She stopped a few seats away. “Sir. Please, sir. You are to leave now.”

Viktor didn’t move. Neither did the woman next to him.

“Sir. Sir.” A little louder.

The attendant looked back at her group and shrugged.

Viktor gasped and jolted awake. The woman next to him flinched and let out a hushed yip.

The pain was back with a vengeance, drilling into the nerve cells in his stomach and behind his eyes, sparking agony as it burrowed deeper. He scrambled to his feet, spun, and almost fell back into the seat.

He licked his lips and grabbed his bag as tremors shook his limbs. Despite the loss of control, he still managed to hang on to the handle in one hand and pull himself along with the other. The attendants backed away as he staggered down the aisle.

Someone at the far end of the tunnel spoke into a phone. Viktor didn’t like that.

When he got within four feet, he bared his teeth and growled at the flight attendant on the phone.

She flinched and dropped it.

He leaned away and stumbled up the ramp, out into the bright lights of customs, and took three hitching breaths. A bewildering labyrinth of lines that looked like they had been laid out by a couple of drunk government employees waited impatiently, all strung together with fake velvet ropes. Thirty or so passengers stood in line, sneaking glances back at him.

Their eyes crawled across his skin.

One of the pouches squirmed against his left hip and just like that, that furtive itch scrabbled across his back and Viktor couldn’t take it anymore. He finally simply surrendered and let the shrieking in his head blot out everything else.

7:24 PM

December 27

“Those flowers really bring out the color of your eyes,” Sam told his partner.

“Damn. Can’t tell you how touched I am that you noticed,” Ed said. “Keeps me up at night sometimes, worrying if I’m handsome enough.”

Sam tried not to smile and sipped his coffee instead. A snowstorm out over the Rockies had delayed Ed’s girlfriend’s flight, and the coffee had gotten cold and bitter while they waited.

It was late, and O’Hare was quiet. Bleary-eyed travellers trickled down the escalators from customs upstairs. Below, in the baggage claim area, most of the benches were empty; a few people sat along the snaking conveyer belts, waiting impatiently for the airlines to track down missing bags.

Sam looked back through the double set of glass doors at their unmarked Crown Vic. Calling it unmarked was a joke. Everybody in Chicago knew damn well that nobody drove Crown Vics except cops and those poor deluded schmucks who bought them used for God knew what reason at police auctions. Sam had left it parked illegally right in front of the doors on the lower level, where arriving passengers spilled out of O’Hare. It had been out there long enough to collect a halfhearted, thin layer of snow from a minor snow earlier. He wasn’t worried about any tickets though; O’Hare’s security, like everybody else, knew enough to leave it alone.

Technically, they were supposed to be supporting the anti-gang units in one of the pointless sweeps of one of the Chicago Housing Authority’s worst buildings on the South Side. But that was like spraying a wasp’s nest with water. All it did was piss everybody off.

Ed and Sam decided their time was better spent picking up Carolina.

Sam caught sight of his reflection. A wiry guy in his fifties with thinning gray hair glared back at him. The expression on his face caught him off guard. He looked like he might kick a dog for the hell of it. This surprised Sam; he was actually in a decent mood. As decent as his moods could get, anyway.

Ed, a heavyset black man the same age as Sam, waited for his girlfriend with a deep well of patience born of decades of endless stakeouts and too much fast food etched in his crinkled eyes. He held his flowers upright, not upside down, against his leg, like some guys. Not sideways either, held with indifference in crossed arms. Ed stood in a wide, relaxed stance, yet held those flowers as if they were growing out of a northern Illinois meadow at high noon.

Sam checked his watch. 11:47. Carolina’s flight was nearly two hours late. They had been hoping to pick her up, drop her off, and be at the sweep for all the paperwork at the end. He was pouring the coffee into the water fountain and thinking of something to tell Commander Mendoza when he heard gunshots at the top of the escalator.

Ed left the flowers on the floor between the escalators and they stormed up two and three steps at a time. Ed glided into customs, his old .38 Special held with both hands, elbows loose. It carried six hand-loaded .357 caliber shells. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be carrying anything that powerful, but the big revolver had been grandfathered in when they changed the rules.

Sam, on the other hand, preferred a more modern Glock, with a nine-shot clip. He wasn’t so much concerned with power as quantity. He’d rather spray lead all over the place than chose his shots carefully. If he had to shoot, then chances were he’d empty the clip, and probably the next one too.

Sam popped up a few steps behind and went right as Ed broke left.

They saw a tall, rail-thin male, standing at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the maze of blue rope lines. The man had a semiautomatic pistol jammed into the soft tissue under his chin.

A security guard, bleeding from his hip, crawled slowly away. The rest of the tourists and passengers huddled against the booths and examination tables.

Viktor’s eyes were closed. His shoulders quivered, as if low, vicious jolts of electricity shot along his backbone every few seconds.

It was clear that he had disarmed the guard and fired a few rounds. But that didn’t explain why the tall man was bleeding too. Ed and Sam got closer. He appeared to have ragged slashes across his face and neck. Blood collected in the crotch of his jeans.

The detectives got close enough to see the blood seeping into the industrial carpet as it spilled down his shoe.

Sam said, “Put that fucking gun down.”

A sob burst out of Viktor. A low, guttural cry.

Sam tried again. “Put—”

Underneath the fresh blood, muscles under Viktor’s arm twitched. The pistol started to come down, and the darkness of the muzzle grew larger every second as the detectives came within range.

Ed fired.

Viktor’s left eye disappeared and his head flopped to one shoulder. His long frame sagged and collapsed. One of the passengers uttered a short, sharp scream, but that was all.

Silence bloomed as gun smoke drifted toward the ceiling.

Sam held up his star and addressed the witnesses. “Chicago PD. Everybody relax. It’s over. Now, is anyone else hurt?” He bent to examine the bullet wound in the guard and winced. It looked like the bullet had gone through the bone, only an inch away from the outside of his hip. The man’s face was knotted in pain. Sam patted his shoulder. “Hang in there. Must hurt like a sonofabitch. Didn’t hit any arteries or anything though. You’ll live.”

Ed flipped open his cell phone and began to speak, giving the dispatcher a quick summary of dry, emotionless facts.

Sam stood. “Any doctors in here?”

An older woman raised her hand. “I am nurse,” she said with a heavy Russian accent.

“Great,” Sam said. “Can you help him out? You employees, does anybody have a first aid kit around here?”

Somebody brought out a kit and Sam gave it to the nurse. He stepped back, letting the nurse get to work. He waited until Ed got off the phone, and they approached the body together.

Viktor looked like he was still in as much agony in death as in life. His mouth was open, upper lip curled up, baring his teeth. He had landed on his back, one leg curled awkwardly under the other. There was a fist-sized hole in the back of his skull.

“Shit,” Ed said.

Sam nodded, looking around at customs. “That’s exactly what we just stepped in, brother. You got any ideas?”

“Not right now.”

“Me, neither.”

Sam squatted next to the corpse, pulled out a pen, and used it to gently lift Viktor’s leather jacket. He couldn’t see any passport inside, and guessed that the ID must be in his back pocket. But he didn’t want to turn the body over. No point in messing up the evidence any more than necessary. He understood only too well they were facing a serious political shitstorm and blizzard of paperwork. The realization made him very, very tired.

He peered closely at Viktor’s fingernails. They were full of crinkled strips of skin and clotted blood. “Lacerations,” he said quietly, indicating the slashes across the corpse’s face, neck, and arms.

Something moved under Viktor’s shirt.

Sam dropped the pen and stood quickly. Ed already had his gun back out. “Fuck is that?” Sam asked.

Under the shirt, a small lump wriggled along Viktor’s stomach. It paused, as if resting a moment, then continued, heading for his waist.

“Goddamnit. I don’t want to put another hole in this sonofabitch,” Ed said.

Sam retrieved his pen and used it to lift the shirttail, revealing more deep gouges sliced across Viktor’s abdomen.

Something dark and furry burst into his face in an eruption of brown wings.

“Oh, fuck!” Sam blurted and fell back.

The animal flitted away, rising and dipping as it whirled throughout the hall.

“It’s a goddamn bat,” Ed said with a shaky laugh. They ignored the fluttering bat overhead for a moment and turned their attention back to Viktor. Sam lifted the shirt again, this time peeling it back to expose the nylon straps and pouches strapped to Viktor’s torso.

More of the pouches were moving. Sam said, “Better let animal control know.”

7:39 PM

December 27

Airport security showed up first, cordoning the area off and hustling the witnesses to a series of rooms for statements. Then the paramedics hauled off the bleeding security guard. Chicago PD wasn’t long after, and soon customs flickered with popping flashbulbs. The FBI was informed, and two sleepy guys in blue suits showed up and looked like they expected somebody to bring them coffee. Another couple of guys in darker suits showed some official-looking credentials to get inside, but would neither confirm nor deny they were from the CIA. The boys from Homeland Security barged in and started barking orders. Nobody paid much attention. Some poor bastard from the FAA rushed around, looking lost and unable to answer any questions.

The word “terrorist” hung in the air like the gunpowder from Ed’s .38.

The bat had disappeared.

Once they’d given their statements to everybody, Ed and Sam sat back and enjoyed the circus. They knew damn well they were in for one hell of an ass-chewing from Commander Mendoza in the morning, but for now, it was fun to just watch the show as the various departments and agencies fought for jurisdiction. Apparently, the man had come from one of the more interesting countries in Eastern Europe, as far as the government was concerned. And no, they would only share information with the local Chicago cops if the situation demanded it, and only if they deemed the public health to be at risk.

But when three astronauts in blue plastic suits with the initials CDC stenciled in no-nonsense letters a foot high on their backs appeared at the top of the escalators, the arguing trickled into silence. The men from the CDC conferred briefly with the FBI agents, then moved on to investigate the body.

A squad of soldiers followed and formed a seven-man perimeter around the body. The rest took posts at various points throughout the room. They wore air filter masks, plastic covers over their fatigues, rubber boots sealed with duct tape, and surgical rubber gloves. Two more carried supplies for the guys in charge.

The FBI agents started moving everyone back. It wasn’t hard. All of the fight had gone out of the various agencies. It was clear that the CDC was now in charge, and nobody was protesting. Nobody wanted to go to war with the CDC.

Germs didn’t fight fair.

Once someone was dead, you could stop worrying. Get him somewhere cold where the medical guys could cut him open and figure out what killed him and you were good to go. But when that particular agency got involved . . . all bets were off. If you could catch some kind of god-awful flesh-rotting disease from a corpse, then nobody wanted to fuck around. Everybody started to look for excuses to get the hell out of there.

One of the FBI agents addressed the crowd. “Need your attention for a quick moment, folks, make sure everybody is up to speed. As of now, the body of the suspect will be handed off to the custody of the CDC.”

The guys from the CDC ignored all this and used long tongs to place the remaining bats in small jars with lids connected to a complicated air filtration machine. One stood back and instructed the others. His voice was inaudible as he leaned over the body. He stepped back and unfolded one of the thickest body bags Sam had ever seen.

“So we’d like to turn the scene over to them,” the FBI agent continued. “If we can have everyone file out in an orderly fashion, we’ll finish up the debriefing and a few other things in no time.”

Ed said out of the side of his mouth, “What ‘other things’?”

“My money’s on some kind of decontamination song and dance.”

They wandered over to the edge of the escalators and saw the CDC guys spraying everything down with foam that expanded over every surface with sea-green bubbles. Behind that was more air-filtration equipment. Buckets to step in. Collapsible rooms to march through.

“Fuck that. I paid sixty bucks for these shoes,” Ed said. “They ain’t hosing ’em down. And Carolina’s flight still hasn’t landed.”

“So much for your flowers.”

They walked away from the escalators. Sam acted like he was retrieving his briefcase, picking up a thin one abandoned in the shooting. He made a show of checking his watch as everyone crowded around the escalators. While he appeared to be merging into an organized line, he joined his partner in the far corner and they slipped through one of the employee-only doors.

7:57 PM

December 27

Tommy Krazinsky kissed his daughter Grace good night, tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and arranged Grace’s stuffed animals so they formed a protective wall around her. He made sure to slip her favorite, some kind of puppy with butterfly wings, under the blanket, so that Grace could cradle it in the crook of her small arm.

“I’d hate to forget Princess . . . who’s this again?”

“Princess Tianna Fuzzycakes, Daddy.” She watched him with a four-year-old’s solemn eyes.

“Of course. She’ll keep you safe, okay?”

Until tonight, Tommy had been able to stay with his daughter until she fell asleep on Sunday nights, but tonight was his first night at his new job. His best guess was that it would take just under an hour to get downtown. He didn’t own a car and would have to rely on Chicago’s rather unreliable public transportation. At least he didn’t have to catch a bus. Tommy could walk to the Red Line and catch an El straight downtown.

He was about to start work for the Department of Streets and Sanitation. Although he would normally start his shift at the division headquarters on the West Side, tonight he’d been summoned downtown.

He kissed Grace’s forehead again. “Sorry, baby. Daddy loves you, little one.” He kissed her forehead once more and stood. Shrugging into his coat, he said, “I’ll see you soon, okay? Don’t worry about anything. Daddy’s gonna fix it. I’ll straighten things out with Mommy. I promise.” He patted her bed and left before his voice cracked.

Mommy was Kimmy. Kimmy was Tommy’s ex-wife. They had been high school sweethearts. Their relationship had gone slowly but steadily south when Kimmy had finally discovered why men were so gosh darn nice to her.

Tommy had loved her before she had blossomed into a knockout: long black hair, the grin and eyes of an angel, and the body of a lustful demon. Her father had been a complete and utter drunken wreck, and she had fallen hard for the only boy who showed her kindness. Throughout high school, Tommy was the only man who had mattered in her life. In her mind, their lives were predestined. The two were going to spend their lives living in Bridgeport, barbecuing on weekends, cheering for the Sox, raising kids, attending St. Mary of Perpetual Help on West Thirty-second Street every Sunday and holiday, and pretty much living within the nexus of the Stevenson and Dan Ryan expressways for the rest of their lives.

That didn’t work out.

But by then, she’d already had Grace, and Tommy was sleeping on the couch. Four years later, she was living with Grace in a three-room flat in Wrigleyville. Her mom, Florence, owned the building, and lived downstairs.

While Tommy was able to spend weekends with Grace, he and Kimmy didn’t talk much if they could help it. Grace wasn’t in school yet, but Tommy could see a whole new set of issues clouding up on the horizon when that happened next year.

He gently closed Grace’s bedroom door. He stood for a moment in the middle of the long hall. The living room and front door in the shotgun apartment were off to the left. Kimmy was in the kitchen off to the right. Tommy knew better. He knew he should turn left and leave quietly.

But his daughter’s fear made him angry. He turned to the right.

“What do you want?” The words hit him before he’d stepped into the kitchen.

Tommy shook his head, held his palms up, like he was surrendering. “I don’t have time to argue. She’s four years old, for Chrissakes. Why in the hell would you tell her there’s goddamn monsters in the closet and under the bed?”

“You don’t have to take care of her five days a week. You don’t know what it’s like. She’s an angel, I’m sure, when she’s with you. She’s not like that here. No. Here, she won’t stay in her goddamn bed. You go be Father of the Year somewhere else. I’m her mom. I’ll take care of it. I’m sorry, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” She flipped the page of her magazine.

“I shoulda known better than—”

“You’re going to be late. Do you know what that means?”

Tommy nodded, slowly. He couldn’t resist getting the last word in and said, “Shoulda known better,” and left.

Tommy had had an assault charge filed against him last year.

Kimmy had taken Tommy to the mall, forcing him to buy new clothes. She sent him into a store, waiting with Grace in the food court. When Tommy got back, he found Kimmy openly flirting with a group of college dipshits. Grace was a few seats over, sitting next to some stranger, telling him what crayons to use in her coloring book.

Tommy immediately sensed some seriously unpleasant vibes from the guy. Tommy stepped up to the table and told Grace to go sit by her mother. Kimmy turned and finally noticed Grace sitting so close to the guy. She