The Fury E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Bridgette Celine is a private investigator hired by a Mafia boss to keep tabs on his daughter, who has recently been lured into an East Harlem clairvoyants' society.

Bridgette learns that the Society is a front for a murderous crack gang, and that their network is empowered by an unnatural power, leaving death and destruction in its wake. As a centuries-old prophecy threatens to come to pass, Bridgette finds out that she's deeply connected to the cult and its mission.

Soon, she'll have to face her own dark heritage, and is catapulted into a vortex of devil worship, drug dealing and murder.

Medieval European flair combines with edge-of-your-seat suspense in The Fury, John Reinhard Dizon's riveting supernatural thriller set in modern-day New York City.

Leseprobe

The Fury

John Reinhard Dizon

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2021 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover Art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Chapter One

He had run an exhausting race across the arid plains. He ran over sunbaked fields of bleached grass, along the banks of muddied streams, across boulder-strewn cliffs. He had reached the limits of his endurance, realizing they would have him eventually. Fear had long given way to naked terror, which hardened into ruthless desperation. His heart was exploding in his chest, his lungs bursting from exertion. He knew that he would soon be dead unless he could find refuge. Yet he knew there was none for his breed along the wastelands of the Kalahari.

Their voices were audible to his razor-keen sense of hearing, and he realized they were slowly gaining on him. The steady patter of running feet in mechanical pursuit was like an echo of his own heartbeat behind him. He clambered over the ridge, daring a split-second glance that saved his very life. The bushman’s throw was perfect, the handmade spear soaring in a graceful arc. It would have plunged between his shoulder blades had he not twisted with a frenzied yelp. He lost his balance, hitting a strip of loose shale which sent him sliding off the ridge.

His ribs slammed against a boulder as he fell, knocking the wind out of him. The hunters were swarming the cliff above him, yelling unintelligibly, poised to hurl their spears one last time. He tried to scramble to his feet, crawling on all fours, realizing that he was about to breathe his last…

Buda Sakumbe was jolted from his nightmare, his bedsheets soaked in sweat. His eyes bulged in terror as he stared wildly around the darkened room. His lungs filled with the cool night air as he trembled with relief, realizing it was just a dream. The dread that it could happen again, in this time and place, made his guts churn with anxiety. He knew he would not be able to go back to sleep, yet he also knew it did not matter. Since he had come to this place, he had met no one, gone nowhere. There were only the blackouts…and the nightmares.

He knew they would come for him eventually, and the nightmares would begin anew. He knew he was here for only one purpose, and he could only hope to understand his role in this strange and distant land.

He had been one of them, a proud member of the San tribe living in what the white man called the Central Kalahari Game Reserve in Botswana. His people lived off the land, using their poison-tipped spears to hunt game to feed their families. It was during the hard dry season when the Witch had come to him, at the time when the San settled in around the rapidly-drying waterholes and the white men tried their hardest to move them onto the farming settlements. It was during this time when the Witch convinced him that the Spirits could help him protect and defend his family and his people.

She took him to her cave where she taught him the prayers and the rituals, and how to cast the spells. He met her in the secret place when he was out hunting, and she would bring him away and take him back. She always gave him water to take back, plenty of water for his family and friends. The water was precious, life-giving. In exchange for the water, he gave his time, and in time she taught him great and terrible things. Together they brought great evil against the white man in his homeland, and death to those who invaded the Kalahari. He was named the village hounga1, and had used his powers to bring blessing and healing to the tribe. Only now, his people had turned against him, and she had come to bring him to safety. She gave him a new name and found him a new home. This new home, however, was unlike any place he had ever known, and he was sacred.

He fell back into his bed and wrapped his sheets tightly around himself, panicked by the memories of the past and the fear of things to come.

Johnny Devlin downed the rest of his Heineken, adding the bottle to the waitress’ loaded tray after she replaced the empties with a fresh round. He watched with amusement as his teammates tried to make time with the buxom brunette over the din of the music blaring from the PA system. They were almost shouting at each other in conversation, sitting in their regular booth in a dark corner of Manitoba’s in Alphabet City.

They could have been mistaken for a motorcycle crew, and as they got drunk, they would have welcomed a challenge. They were deep in Hell’s Angels territory, and could have cared less. They were the Zombie Squad, a top secret, officially non-existent black ops unit of the New York City Police Department. It was a task force assigned to the cases no one else dared take. The pay was high, as was the casualty rate. The length of service was notoriously short. Most of those who left the squad were emotionally or physically crippled, or dead. The guys who signed up were cowboys who were sick of revolving door justice and would break all the rules to get the job done.

“What do we got on the Carson murder?” Benny Roscoe sidled over by Devlin. The four detectives were dressed in black, wearing leather jackets, T-shirts and jeans. They generally worked alone though would call upon each other whenever necessary. Some cases were just bounced around between them until someone got a handle on it, then they would join forces and crack it wide open. This happened to be one of them.

“Not much more than Homicide,” Devlin sipped his beer. “It looks like just another drug killing, but I think it was just too messy. Carson was a happy camper, he made good money, he was a good earner, he never skimmed. He was a good guy to deal with, and he was moving up in the world, but not too fast. It looked like somebody was trying to send a message, and I’d like to find out who and why.”

“Them Homicide chumps just about shit their drawers when they found out me and Flash were scrounging around up there,” Romeo Browne chuckled. “I heard Vice wasn’t too happy either. They get all bent outta shape when we score on those cold cases. It tells all the big shots how their brown noses aren’t doing their jobs.”

“Those bastards don’t want to get to the bottom of anything but their Scotch bottles,” Ozzy ‘Flash’ Shadizar liked to say. “They figure if they wait long enough, those dealers’ll end up killing each other before the cops have to step in.”

“Problem is, all them brothers and sisters getting killed as innocent bystanders,” Browne shook his head. “I can’t stand by and see that happen.”

“That’s right, and once the blacks are all gone, then they stand by and watch the Puerto Ricans get killed, then the Dominicans, then the West Indians,” Roscoe preached to the choir. “They don’t give a shit if every poor person in the City goes six feet under as long as they got their pension waiting when it’s over.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, though. Why an attack dog?” Devlin tried to wrap his head around the situation. “You gotta feed the damned thing, it shits all over the place, it barks, it attracts fleas. Granted, nobody’s gonna rat out a posse, but the thing’s gotta be more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe you sic it on Carson to scare people, keep everybody in line, but where are you gonna keep a thing like that?”

“Tore his face off,” Roscoe grunted. “Ripped some bone right off his skull. I mean, how big was the frickin’ thing? What kind of dog does shit like that?”

“That was the third victim,” Flash pointed out. “We always say that three’s the charm, that’s when we step in. If the beat cops and the detective squads don’t jump on a case by then, they never will. There’s been two other dealers that got torn up recently. If we don’t nip this in the bud, it’ll go viral, and we’ll never get a handle on it. We come up a day late and a dollar short, the animal rights people’ll come in behind us and tie a knot in our tails. Plus, if the things get rabies or some shit, children are gonna start get bitten. I’m with Johnny, we need to give this priority. You know when the papers get it, it’s out of our reach.”

“Okay, look, I’m going to go riding with Vosberg tomorrow night,” Devlin decided. “I’ll get a solid lead and we’ll squeeze the shit out of it. Something’s gotta give, it always does.”

“Vosberg?” Flash was exasperated. “C’mon, John. That rat is gonna burn all our other leads, you know that. That piece of shit drives everybody underground, the way he operates. Don’t do it.”

“What other leads are we talking about, Flash?” Devlin leaned back in the booth.

“Man, you getting desperate now,” Browne squinted. “I’ll tell you what, if me and Benny go up there tomorrow night, I guarantee we gonna come back with some fresh leads.”

“Well, Vosberg can’t burn what we don’t have,” Devlin told them. “Flash, if you go up there and talk to some of your Grenadan bros, and Romeo and Benny go do what they do, I think I can get enough done with Vosberg for us to do some serious dog hunting.”

“All right,” Benny always brought enthusiasm to the table. “It’s Zombie time! They’re gonna be dancing to the beat of the living dead!”

Devlin smiled quietly, sipping his beer as he looked out into the neon-drenched shadows of the notorious rock club. He had a creeping foreboding that this case was going to be very, very different.

The beautiful young woman sat nervously in the seedy storefront, surrounded by religious statues and spiritual curios in the fortune-telling parlor on 137th Street in Harlem. The young black man who sat with her was not sure what this fine piece of white sugar was doing here in the first place. He did not know what he was doing here either. All he knew was that Kenya was getting weird, going into business with the West Indians and jacking around with these palm-reading tarot bitches. It was almost as if the operation was relocating to this stink-ass welfare tenement, and dudes were getting killed just for asking why.

“Madame Nola will see you now,” a giant black man dressed in a black suit and tie came out from the back room behind the counter to greet them. “Thank you, young man, that will be all.”

“Okay, ya’ll be cool,” the kid was quick to make his exit. He remembered his grandpa talking about the Black Muslims in the Sixties coming around in suits and ties, building an army and taking over Harlem. These new dudes had people talking, but they were more like robots than anything. Nobody knew where they came from, what they did or where they went, but there seemed to be more and more of them as time went on, and the only one they seemed to be talking to was Kenya. And that mofo was getting weirder and weirder.

“Annabelle,” the tall, golden-skinned mulatto with the feline green eyes and the gypsy style came over, taking her forearm in both hands. “I am Madame Nola. It is so good to meet you.”

“It’s wonderful meeting you too,” Annabelle cooed. She was dressed in a beige designer dress, her long brown hair curled and styled, framing her lovely face and draping her proud bosom. “We’ve spent so much time in the chat room, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“Spiritual connections know no bounds, my dear,” Nola smiled softly, leading her behind the counter to the curtained room in the back. “Yet they grow so much stronger once we’ve made physical contact. There is just so much ahead of us, so much to learn about each other, so much for us to explore together. I am so glad you finally decided to take this leap of faith. Together we will create miracles, and we will truly go where no women have ever gone before.”

“When will I get to meet Miss Goyette?” she wondered. “You told me so much about her, it feels almost like I’m going to meet a saint. I’m so nervous, I don’t think I’m even ready for it.”

“You will meet her very soon, Anna, and I will guarantee that you will be ready,” Nola assured her as they stepped into a parlor out of a bad fortune-telling movie. There were garish red curtains and drapes everywhere, surrounding a red Persian-carpeted floor upon which sat a large round oak table featuring a huge crystal ball. “Our journey will begin here, and when you can see more clearly, clearly than you have ever seen before, Miss Goyette will come to you. I can feel your gifts, child, I can feel your power. Miss Goyette will come to you soon, very, very soon.”

“When do we start?” Annabelle asked softly.

“Very soon,” she repeated. “Your quarters will be in the back, through that door. It is a modest area, with a convertible sofa and a kitchenette. If you need anything just call me on the cell phone. I stay upstairs with Miss Goyette, she is elderly and needs someone to tend to her. There are books on the coffee table, I ask that you read them so that you can prepare yourself for the journey ahead. It is important that you fill your mind with the things that we are about to explore. Familiarize yourself with these things, so that we can move as quickly as possible and do not have to spend much time staying in one place in order for you to grasp them.”

“Oh my gosh,” Annabelle giggled nervously. “This sounds so exciting.”

“The journey is only getting started, my child,” Nola held her forearm again in a way that gave her goose bumps. “We’ve only just begun.”

Bridgette Celine had started Parisienne Investigations on a wing and a prayer after graduating from John Jay College of Criminal Justice a couple of years ago. It all started over a drink with a grade school classmate, Phil Selah. They met by coincidence at the Downtown Bar and Grill on Court and Amity Streets in Brooklyn’s Cobble Hill area where she was born and raised. Phil had recently passed the bar and was opening his own law office in Brooklyn Heights. He guaranteed her plenty of work if she could serve subpoenas for him, and she agreed to refer any domestic surveillance clients as the need arose. Things worked out well, and after two years she had paid off her small business loan and was now hacking away at her student loan.

Recently she had gotten an e-mail from a lawyer named Jack Nelson who wanted her to do a surveillance job for him. She thought it odd that he had arranged to meet her at the upstairs room at Sam’s Restaurant across from the corner of Court and Baltic Streets in Cobble Hill. Though it was a family business operating over a half century, they almost never used the upper floor. Apparently the owners held whoever Jack Nelson represented in high esteem.

Bridgette was a tall, beautiful woman whose childhood friends called her Bridge due to her 5’10” stature. She had long chestnut hair that reached to her lower back, alluring velvet eyes, a smallish nose and a full lipped smile. She was seeing Bobby Mendoza as of late, and their relationship was getting to where she knew he would be spending the night at her apartment on Warren Street sometime soon. Mendoza was a GVN who had been assigned to home health care with one of her recent clients in an insurance fraud investigation. They hit it off and began seeing each other socially, and right now its seemed the sparks were flying.

She was hoping to get some more of these surveillance jobs, as she was now charging $150 an hour for her services. Phil had gotten her some connections with a couple of his classmates at the NYU School of Law, and she would charge them a $150 flat rate to serve a subpoena or deliver a court document for them. Things were picking up, and if Nelson represented a wealthy client she might end up having to hire an assistant to take care of her routine jobs.

It was a short walk to Sam’s Restaurant, and she did a quick workout before making breakfast and watching Good Morning America before heading out for her 9 AM meeting. She realized that Sam’s normally opened around 11 AM, which meant they were making the place available two hours early. That said a lot more about this prospective client. As she approached the restaurant she saw the Mercedes-Benz parked out front, and continued smelling money as she walked down the steps and found the glass door open.

She entered the restaurant and saw a dark-haired man wiping down the bar. She announced herself and he motioned for her to go upstairs. She ascended the wooden-railed staircase to the upstairs dining room where Jack Nelson sat reading the paper and drinking coffee at a table by the window. She introduced herself and they shook hands before she took a seat and thanked him for a cup of coffee from a steamy decanter.

Jack was a tall, lanky Irishman with thick glasses and a frowsy look about him that seemed as if he slept in his clothes. It made Bridge suspect an alcohol problem. He seemed pleasant enough, and exchanged remarks about the weather and nearby traffic before getting to the matter at hand.

“So have you done many stakeouts---surveillance jobs---before?”

“A few. Mostly spouses trying to find out what the other was up to, that kind of thing.”

“Would you have a problem working in what might be considered a high-crime area during the daytime?”

“Well, I don’t want to get in over my head, or take something that might be better suited for a male investigator,” she admitted. “What’d you have in mind?”

“My client is wanting someone to keep tabs on his daughter,” Nelson replied. “She has recently moved away from home and has gotten herself an apartment in East Harlem. It’s a very unusual situation, considering the fact that she has left a very comfortable environment in Bensonhurst. Naturally my client is very concerned over the hazardous surroundings she has exposed herself to, and he would like some detailed information about her living conditions and her new associates before he plans his next course of action.”

“Obviously we’re going to have to establish some ground rules, and we may have to alter them as we go along,” Bridge sipped her coffee. “I’m not going to do any interaction with gangs or drug dealers. Plus I’m not working after dark. Also, if anyone in the area gets a fix on me, I’m pulling out. I’m not being paranoid, I’m being realistic. Like I said, you might want to consider someone of a different race or gender for something like this.”

“My client has had me surf the Internet extensively for the right person, and believe me, it has been a painstaking search,” Jack emphasized. “Ms. Celine, I understand your fee for this type of work is about $150 an hour.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Nelson,” she mused, “we’re going to have to take into consideration the situation I’m going to be dealing with.”

“The top agencies in New York City charge $500 an hour. We will pay you $750, on your terms.”

“Wow,” she wrinkled her brow. “Who do I have to kill?”

“Just someone to keep an eye on,” Nelson smiled, opening a folder which he pushed across the table to her. “This is Annabelle Rossini. These are recent pictures, along with a profile and some other pertinent information.”

“Wait a second. She’s not related to the Rossinis, is she?”

“Well, her father happens to be my employer, Giovanni Rossini.”

“I think that pretty well sinks it,” Bridge closed the folder. “I’m not getting involved in any Mob business.”

“This is entirely a personal matter,” Jack insisted. “It has nothing to do with any of Mr. Rossini’s business affairs. As a matter of fact, Mr. Rossini is putting up a guarantee for your edification. He has written you a check for twenty thousand dollars that will be a bonus payment once your assignment is completed. If, at any time, you come across any indication of illegal activity during this investigation, Mr. Rossini will willingly forfeit the bonus amount.”

“Twenty thousand?” she murmured.

“In other words you may as well cash it in good faith.”

“So what am I looking for?”

“All the information you need to get started is in the folder,” Nelson advised her. “We believe Ms. Rossini---Annabelle, or Anna, as you will---has made contact with a fortune teller named Mrs. Goyette who has a storefront in East Harlem. Anna has been interested in fortune telling, astrology, that sort of thing since she was a child. Mr. Rossini now admits that he may have been too indulgent in that regard. He let it get out of control, and she started making connections on the Internet that led to the situation at hand. She has always demonstrated a certain clairvoyant ability, and these people in Harlem have convinced her she has some kind of power they can help her develop. She left her father a note when she left, and of course, he had her traced to the location where she is now. He now feels that a professional investigation is best in case this turns into a legal matter.”

He pushed the check across the table, and Bridge quietly slipped it into the folder.

“I’ll send the payment electronically to your online account. Be sure and e-mail me with the number of hours worked and any expenditures. You can send me your reports via e-mail as well. If Mr. Rossini decides that we should meet for any reason, I will notify you twenty-four hours ahead of time.”

“Well, I guess we’ve got a deal,” Bridge conceded. “I’ll go over the material in the folder, if I have any questions I’ll call or e-mail. Today’s Monday, I should be on the case by Wednesday at the latest.”

“Time is of the essence,” Nelson replied gently. “I’m sure you can appreciate a father’s concern.”

“If everything checks out, I’ll go out tomorrow,” she said grudgingly.

“Splendid,” Nelson shook her hand. She gathered her things and departed, realizing that she was about to undertake the most important case of her career.

Chapter Two

“Hey, Pop, my little girl gonna need some diapers.”

It was the terrible pronouncement that set the horrible scenario into motion once again. They were the words that nearly brought tears to his eyes. The old man peered up apprehensively from his gray-and-white television set at the scrawny young black girl frantically bouncing her crying infant up and down in her arms.

“Don’t bounce her around so much,” the old man pleaded. “You upsettin’ her.”

“The shit and piss in her diaper is what’s upsettin’ her,” the girl shot back. “Hey, Jamal, the ol’ man say the baby cryin’ ‘cuz I be bouncin’ her around.”

“Hey, Pop,” the tall, dreadlocked black man swaggered over, laughing in his Jamaican accent, “de fucking kid be covered wit’ shit and’ piss, what you t’ink we got to do about it?”

“Change her diapers,” the old man lowered his graying, balding head. His gnarled black hands gripped the ragged arms of his armchair tightly

“Well, how we gonna do that, we ain’t got any money,” the girl kept bouncing the squalling infant. “Think you can help me an’ my child out, Pops?”

“You know I ain’t got no mo’ money,” the old man rasped.

“Well, Pops, ain’t we got good news for you!” Jamal cackled, hopping over to Pop. “You welfare check come in for you, old man, all you need to do is sign it!”

“All I ask, “ the old man spoke hoarsely, as Jamal brought his $500 Social Security check over to him, “is just one jar of Welch’s Grape Jelly. You know I’m an old man, I doan eats nuffin’ but breakfast no mo’, and there ain’t nuffin’ I’d like mo’ than a little jelly, REAL jelly, on my bread in the morning. I know y’all do what you will with the rest, but thass all I ask…thass all I ask.”

“Ole man,” the girl rushed up indignantly to him with the crying baby, “you know I takes care of your breakfast here every morning’ wifout fail, an’ you gonna sit there and bitch about whut kind o’ grape jelly you getting’ on yo’ toast!”

“Now, you fuckin’ bitch, you been telling’ dis motherfuckin’ shit…!” the angry young man grabbed hold of the infant, ripping it out of the black girl’s hands. “You want me to t’row dis fuckin’ thing out de motherfuckin’ window…!”

“No!” she screamed, as Jamal threw the living room window open with his free hand. “Please don’t kill my baby! I’ll do whatever you say…oh, please, Pops, don’t let him kill my innocent child!”

“Don’t…don’t do it, “ the old man pleaded gruffly. “Everything all right around here.”

“Okay, ol’ man,” Jamal slipped the drying child onto the tattered couch by the cracked and peeling wall. “I give this bitch a fuckin’ break on account of you. But, you fucking junkie whore…” he whirled furiously toward her, “if I find one more motherfuckin’ cigarette burn, one more rope burn, one more cut on dis ol’ motherfuckin’ hide, you gonna pay out your fuckin’ ass…!”

With that, he swung with all his might, slapping her viciously across the face, laying her flat across the floor in a sobbing heap.

“I can’t take this,” Pop buried his face in his hands. “Please…don’t do this…”

“C’mon, you fuckin’ bitch,” the Jamaican grabbed the girl by her arm. He wrenched her up from the floor and shoved her violently towards the doorway leading to Pop’s bedroom, one which he hadn’t used since they had taken over his apartment over a year ago. “You gonna say your fuckin’ prayers and do your penance, baby, or you gonna burn in hell just like they been telling’ you in church, you hear me, you slaveass bitch?’

Pop began crying softly as the sound of the screaming infant mixed in with that of the violent rape taking place in his bedroom. He knew that the vicious cycle was set in motion once again. He would rape and torture her, then leave her with some of that crack stuff that the devil had sent to this planet Earth as the scourge of the people of God. She would smoke very last bit of it, while Jamal was cashing his check after he forced Pop to sign it. While Jamal was spending every last cent of that money on more of that crack, the girl would go berserk and begin torturing Pop in revenge for everything Jamal had done to her…

God, he knew he had not been a good man all his life…he had had his bad times, and he had also had his good times. But he hadn’t sinned every single day…

So why, then, was God punishing him every single day?

Pop bent forward as far as he could, sticking his fingers into his ears, his silent screams unable to block out the screams of anguish, from the couch, from his bedroom, from his very soul, that exploded in his brain…

Why, why, why?

Miss Hodge could hear the yelling and the screaming, the pain and the suffering that went on throughout her tenement building. She had been delivered, though, praise the Lord, and she would adhere to the faith of the believers which had gotten the saints themselves through tribulations much more horrible than this, and would get her through just as it had thus far.

Yes, she had endured the tribulation of the heroin addicts, who ran yelling and screaming through the building back in the late ‘60’s. They had ripped her off a couple of times back then, but the last time they broke her arm and stole her Social Security check back in 1972, she had discovered the miracle of Direct Deposit checking. Her check, according to the kindly black social worker girl who set it up, would never come to her mailbox again. It would magically appear right in her bank book, even though she would never see it. She could write her checks for the landlord on the first of the month and they were never returned. He would bring her the once-a-month box of Instant Nonfat Dry Milk from the welfare people, and then she would lock her door, safe and sound against the powers of darkness with the word of God to deliver her.

At first she resorted to prayer and fasting, but it got too hard for a 70-year-old black woman like herself to handle. Thirty days might have been the limit for Jesus and his saints, but an old woman like herself ended up crying from hunger night after night, and that surely was no way for a Christian soldier to be.

She finally began breaking frugally into the stockpile of canned goods she had put away for the Second Coming, but her ravenous hunger caused her to deplete her supply in a way that was positively sinful. Besides, she had a new problem now with the accumulating garbage. The rats and the roaches were now taking over her kitchen, in fact, the entire apartment. There had to be a way, a light shone along her path in the Word of God that would surely deliver her.

And, by glory, there it was, in the gospels themselves, telling where John the Baptist went out into the desert and existed on nothing but locust and wild honey for all that time. She had also recollected these wild stories about people in these foreign countries who ate chocolate-covered ants and fried grasshoppers and the like as delicacies. She even remembered stories told about the Federal Government knowing that certain amounts of insects that actually got into portions of canned foods, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it as long as it remained below accepted proportions.

The first time she put a waterbug in her mouth she nearly became hysterical, throwing up terribly and washing her mouth out for hours. The horrible memory of its legs scrambling around against her tongue and teeth had taken care of her appetite for yet another day. Still, when the ordeal had passed along in her mind, the terrible pangs of hunger returned, and she knew she would have to deal with it once again.

It was indeed the legs, the wings and the antennae that were most horrible. The fluttering and the flicking…but, then, one didn’t swallow a chicken whole, or a steer unbutchered…it had to be cleaned. Of course.

She began catching the waterbugs, one by one, and putting them in closed coffee containers. They were next placed in the refrigerator, where they froze to death. She could then de-leg them with trembling fingers (they were still horrible!) before storing them in larger containers where she could store enough of them to make one daily meal.

After months passed, she started setting these primitive rat traps, which was infinitely more difficult due to the terrible struggling of the horrid creatures. It took much prayer and meditation to complete this task, but eventually she got used to killing them by refrigeration (the ice drawer was much better for this) and then skinning them like the raccoons of her native Alabama in her childhood years. The meat was a blessing from heaven, and even the pelts were so useful for winter insulation. The discarded parts served to draw even more roaches, but the blood eventually scared the other rats away, and it was only the bugs from there on.

There was a white girl at the door, though, who said she was from the welfare people, just this very morning. The landlord had been there on the first, she told the girl, and she could not reopen the seven doorlocks (seven was the Biblical number of perfection) until next month…but the white girl said she would be back with the landlord tomorrow. If she did, Mrs. Hodge decided, she might open the door. But only after more prayer and meditation, lest she fall prey to the forces of evil that had taken over the building in which she lived…

At least there was the Instant Non-Fat Dry Milk, praise the saints and angels. That was the blessed consolation that had truly preserved her humanity, preserved her sanity…

…but she was an old woman, at the end of her days, and sometimes it seemed that the cross she had been given was somehow too heavy, maybe somebody else’s, not really meant for a God-fearing, churchgoing (back when it was safe) person such as she. Perhaps this was the Great Tribulation come of age, and the Rapture was nigh, to take her away from all this…

…still, sometimes her heart would ache when she thought of just having a blessed cup of tea, as she had enjoyed in the morning of yesteryear, and just one piece of lightly toasted bread with butter…

Sometimes it made her cry. And she would, just to let it all out, before she returned to the comfort and solace of the Holy Word, which would continue to deliver her from all evil.

Carrie Samuels was also starving to death.

She had been able to get what provisions she could and store them on the nightstand by her bedside when the social worker came by. She had also asked the social worker to stay with her until her grocery delivery arrived, and though the lady had to make a return trip, she was able to oblige. She only did so because Carrie seemed on the verge of a breakdown should the worker had not agreed to comply.

Only now the bottled water had run out, and all that remained were the gallon jugs full of urine that she had funneled from her bedpan. She recalled stories of people lost at sea who had to drink their own pee. She did not remember if they died or not. She did know that you could die from drinking sea water, and she was pretty sure she would have tried that first. She had long since run out of crackers and cereal, but that was not as bad. She actually could not remember the last time she was not hungry, or had a full meal.

Before this curse befell her, she had been making it on cat food. Cats were finicky as opposed to dogs, and the cat food companies had to sell a better quality food for them. It was more expensive than dog food but tasted much better. Plus it was about half the price of tuna fish, and double the portion of potted meat. She had confided with folks her age at the clinic when she visited now and again, and she found out she was far from the only one who resorted to that trick to make ends meet.

If only the social worker showed up a few days earlier, she would have a fighting chance. With the water and the crackers gone, she could probably try to sleep through it but the thirst would drive her crazy. In a different day and time, she could have tried to throw something (but what?) through the window to attract attention, but with all those burglar bars, that was not going to work for her.

She could try and make it to the refrigerator, just like she had tried and failed before. Only each time she tried, it got scarier and scarier. And if she fell, she would not even consider the consequences. She would reach the other side, realize the Blessed Hope that she had devoted her whole lifetime to. She was not about to let hunger and thirst steal the glory of everlasting life from her, even if her last days on earth were to be filled with torment.

Still, it was worth at least one more try. Plus it was not yet bedtime. If she slipped and fell, maybe someone would hear her scream. If she was able to hang onto the edge long enough, maybe someone would save her. Plus, if they saw what she saw, then she would have a witness and maybe someone could help her find a solution, at least move her out of this damned, damned building.

She got up and crawled over, dangling her feet off the edge of the bed. She started to lower them to the floor, just before it began moving tantalizingly away from her tiptoes. She inched them lower, and at once the dark mist appeared between her feet and the floor, almost as if it was becoming an invisible barrier that would not let her reach through. Yet it was still in sight, and maybe if it did not disappear just yet, she could land upon it and race as best she could to the kitchen, the blessed kitchen, where she would just remain sleeping on the floor if she had to until the social worker finally arrived.