Cave Crawlers Read online

  CAVE CRAWLERS

  Alex Laybourne

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2017 by Alex Laybourne

  Chapter One

  June 1984

  Declan Howland looked down at the ground beneath him. His arms shook as he held his weight and tried to reposition his feet.

  Sweat stung his eyes, and his jaw hurt, it was clenched so hard. Scrambling, kicking at the tree as if hoping he could create a foothold in its trunk, Declan realized that it was no use. He had made a stupid mistake, trying to climb too fast. For what? Just so his mother wouldn’t see what he was up to?

  Declan could hear his brother playing back closer to the house. Two years younger than him, Justin was a quiet and most definitely a geek, but Declan loved him.

  His fingers slipped, losing their grip on the tree branch, a moment of panic surged through his young body. Everything slowed down, from his fingers slipping one by one, to the moment of weightlessness, where he hung in the air, three meters up, and but a few centimeters too short.

  Declan knew the impact was coming and tried to brace himself for it, but before he had the chance, time caught up with him and he was hurtling towards the ground. The rain from the day before meant the grass was wet, cushioning his fall to a small degree. It just wasn’t enough to stop the bone in his left arm from snapping as a result of the impact.

  The air rushed out of his lungs, momentarily silencing his screams. That changed, however, the moment he tried to turn and get back to his feet. As soon as he applied pressure to his left arm, a shooting pain surged through his body, overloading his brain with a burst of agony so hot that even Declan could not stop from crying out.

  He closed his eyes, hoping the sound didn’t travel to the house.

  “Declan?” He heard his brother calling his name, worry heavy in his voice.

  Declan wanted to shout to him, to tell him to stay away, but it was too late.

  “Declan, are you okay?” Justin hurried to his brother, dropping into the wet ground beside him.

  Declan opened his eyes and looked up at his brother’s worried face, the round eyes wide with the constant stream of questions that always seemed to be flowing. His curly brown hair was wild and unruly from rolling around in the grass with this Action Man toys. Behind him, he saw the blue sky with subtle wisps of cloud feathering the view.

  “Justin, get –” he couldn’t finish the sentence for he was cut off by the alarmed cry and heavy gait of his mother, who was approaching the two boys at full speed.

  “What on earth has happened here?” Peggy Howland asked, her voice not asking, but accusing, the course of events already created in her mind. “What did you do?”

  As always, her eyes turned towards her youngest son.

  Justin looked up at his mother, terror evident on his face, as the blood drained from his cheeks and the realization of what was to come hit him.

  “Nothing, Mama,” Justin said, backing away. Even at the age of ten, Justin knew enough to understand when he was cornered. When to fight, when to run, and when to stay quiet.

  The only problem was that for Justin, none of the approaches ever seemed to offer a different outcome.

  “I fell, Mama,” Declan said from the floor.

  He held his injured arm, cradling it with his right as if it were a sling. Pain brought tears to his eyes, but he would not let them fall. The emotion was not something that was shown in front of the adults in the Howland household. It was kept and stored away for after lights out, where the pillows of duvets could stifle the boys’ cries.

  “What have I told you about lying, Declan, honey?” Peggy asked, crouching down to stroke her son’s hair across his sweat-soaked forehead. Yet even as she did so, her gaze never left Justin.

  The younger brother was frozen. Caught in the headlights, he had nowhere to run.

  “I’m not lying, Mama. I was climbing the tree, and I fell.” Declan stared up at the tree branch he had been so desperate to reach.

  “It’s alright, baby,” she whispered, rising from her crouched position on the floor.

  ‘Mama, no,” Declan cried out, as his mother walked away.

  “Quiet now, baby,” Peggy replied as she bored down on Justin, who stumbled backward, whimpering.

  “I didn’t, Mama, I was playing –” Justin stammered.

  “Liar, you pushed him, didn’t you?” Peggy screamed, raising her hand.

  “Mama, I fell, please, don’t hurt him,” Declan cried out, trying to force himself to his feet, but the pain in his arm sent him crashing back into the wet ground.

  Peggy flung out her arm, the back out of hand catching Justin across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor, where he lay crying.

  “Mama, please, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even see. I was playing Action Man,” Justin pleaded, pointing from the floor to the second-hand toys that were scattered through the garden.

  Peggy stood over her youngest son, her nostrils flared, and her face flushed with rage. “Just you wait until your father gets home.”

  Turning, she helped Declan to his feet and hurried him back into the house. The whole way, Declan had his head turned back, looking at his brother, the afternoon sun glinting on the trail of tears that streaked his cheeks.

  Justin remained on the floor, his head throbbed from the impact of the blow, and he was scared to stand in case his mother saw him and came back to vent her wrath some more. The wet grass was cool against his burning cheeks. Digging his fingers into the soft earth beneath him, Justin wished the ground would open and swallow him. Anything would be better than what he knew lay in store for him. It was only when he heard the growl of his mother’s Volvo roar from inside the garage that Justin found the strength to get to his feet.

  He walked slowly, his body shaking with a cold that was driven by the fear that stood beside him, stroking the back of his neck, making him shudder, Justin gathered his toys from the garden and took them inside.

  The house seemed that much larger when he was left on his own. When he was younger, it scared him, but now, he had learned to relish the space and the silence of the house. He could move freely, without counting the steps to avoid the three that creaked. He didn’t have to tiptoe past his father’s study, although even alone, he would never dare open to door or go inside.

  Once he had his toys tidied away, he looked at the TV and considered setting on the cartoons, but there was work to be done still.

  With a sigh, he went to the kitchen and started doing the dishes. The radio was on, and Michael Jackson was singing his new single, Thriller. The music made Justin dance as he washed, careful not to get any suds on the floor.

  As Michael finished, another band came on that Justin liked. He had seen them on the TV a few weeks before, and his dad had caught him watching it. He called him a faggot and sent him to his room without dinner. Justin didn’t understand. He liked the song; it was catchy. Music helped to take his mind away from the house and the world around him. It distracted him, which was normally a good thing, sweeping him along like a waking dream.

  It came as quite a surprise, therefore, when the music suddenly ended and plunged the house into near silence. The only sound was the gentle fizz of the remaining suds in the sink, and the tap, tap, tap of a foot on the linoleum floor.

  A voice in Justin’s mind told him not to turn around, but he knew he had no choice. His father stood in the doorway, his arms folded, his mechanics overalls stained with grease and oil. His father owned his own garage in town and always smelled of motor oil. It didn’t matter if he was home for lunch, fresh out of the shower, or heading to church on a Sunday morning, he always smelled like a car engine.

  “H … Hi, Dad,” Justin stammered, trying but failing to hide
his surprise.

  “Where’s your mother?” he asked, his voice more of a growl. He strode across the kitchen, heading to the fridge. He wrenched open the door and pulled out a six-pack of beer. He yanked two cans out of the holders. Opening one, he downed half the can and gave a long, loud belch. “I asked you a question.”

  “She … she had to take Declan to the hospital. He fell, fell from the tree,” Justin whimpered. He didn’t want to step off the booster step he used to reach the sink, but he had to.

  Doing so made him feel even smaller, especially as his father bore down on him. A tall man by any measure, his father cut an imposing figure.

  “Oh, that’s not good. I hope he didn’t break anything,” Jackson Howland said, almost as if speaking to himself.

  “How did he fall?” Jackson asked, his eyes focusing on Justin.

  “I didn’t see, Daddy. I was playing in the grass. He said he was climbing and just fell.” Justin backed up as his father took a long step closer to him.

  Justin tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His heart thundered in his chest as he stared into the eyes of something he didn’t understand. Parents were supposed to love their children, but Justin feared his beyond any ability to describe. He didn’t know if there was a word for it, for the way his father looked at him, or for the anger he let control him, but if there was, Justin would have used it to describe his life.

  “That must have been frightening to see him like that, right?” Jackson said, finishing the beer and throwing the empty can into the sink, where it crashed into the remaining soap suds.

  “Yes, Daddy.” Justin didn’t understand the question and didn’t know if he was supposed to say yes or no, but silence was an even worse choice.

  “Well, I’m sure the doctors will fix him. Come here.” Jackson dropped to his knees and held his arms open for Justin to slide into his embrace.

  Hesitant, Justin took small, uncertain steps, his shoes squeaking on the floor. He approached his father, who stood patiently waiting. Then, like the Venus flytrap his brother kept on the window sill in his bedroom, his arms closed, and he was trapped in their strong embrace.

  “You lying little shit,” Jackson growled. “If you hurt that boy in any way, then there will be hell to pay.”

  Jackson was fast, switching his weight, he thrust his left leg out, placing his foot on the floor, his knee bent at ninety degrees.

  “Daddy, no, I didn’t hurt him. He fell,” Justin said, struggling against his father’s grip. It was an impossible task, he knew that, but the desire to survive and escape the pain that he knew was coming always brought out the fight in him.

  Jackson released his grip on his son momentarily, in order to get a better hold. He grabbed Justin by the wrist, twisting it behind his back, pushing it higher and higher until Justin screamed in pain. The pressure was enough to lead Justin like a dog on a leash, he pulled him over his knee, controlling him with one hand, while the other grabbed the drying towel from the kitchen side.

  “I ain’t got a belt, so this will have to do, you disrespectful bastard,” Jackson roared.

  “Daddy, please, no, no, Daddy.” Justin squirmed as his father yanked his trousers down to his knees, exposing his rear end and genitals to the cool kitchen air.

  “Shut up, and take what’s coming to you. Be a man, for once.” Jackson lost himself in the rage that haunted him, controlling his actions as if he were a junkie and the high of rage was the only thing that could help keep him sane.

  The first strike from the towel stung, but Justin kept his mouth shut, biting down on his lip to keep from screaming.

  The second and third began to burn, and after that, the pain just flared, rising up like a fire, swallowing more and more of him with each strike.

  Justin lost count of how many times his father whipped him with the cloth, but he stopped after a time to twirl the towel into a much finer instrument.

  By the time it was over, Jackson was panting and Justin was crying; his body burned and he could barely feel anything. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth from where he had bitten his lip so hard he broke the skin.

  Jackson pushed his son off of him and stood up. Staring down at his half-naked son, he opened the second beer and gave a grunt of disappointment. “Get to your room, I’m done with you.” Turning, he stalked his way across the kitchen and into the living room.

  Lost in the inferno that raged within him, Justin remained where he was. Rolling onto his back, the cool floor soothed his flesh. He knew he needed to get going. If his dad came back for another beer and found him in the kitchen still, then it wouldn’t end well for him.

  He moved with a heavy limp, using every ounce of strength he had left to support himself, Justin pulled himself to the stairs and up into his room.

  Justin barely had the strength to crawl under the bed covers, he curled himself into as tight of a ball as his body would allow, cocooned himself within the duvet, and let the tears take him away.

  Justin didn’t know if he slept, or how many hours passed, but he finally heart Declan come into the room, closing the door behind him.

  Justin tried to keep still, but his body ached, and even the slightest movement brought a whimper from him. He had grown deaf to them, but in the silence of the room, there would be no mistaking it.

  “Justin?” Declan asked, his voice gentle.

  Justin gave no answer, so Declan climbed onto the bed and put his arm over the ball of blankets and boy. “It’s going to be alright, Justin. I’m going to look after you.”

  The embrace was separated by the blanket, but Justin felt the warmth nonetheless. It brought a fresh wave of tears to his eyes and shudder to his breaths. “Why?” Justin didn’t understand. Declan had an easy ride; he never got into trouble.

  “Because that’s why big brothers are for,” Declan said, laying his head on the pillow. The boys drifted off to sleep, as they often did, only with each other for comfort and a desperation for any kind of slumber, for even the worst nightmare would be a joy compared to the one they lived every day.

  Chapter Two

  Declan’s cast ran from around his thumb up to his elbow. It was a creamy color and hard as a rock. Justin had been all too pleased when Declan said he was allowed to draw on it.

  “Go on, it was the doctor’s orders,” Declan said as Justin’s hands trembled, just short of making contact with the cast.

  “What if they don’t like it?” Justin asked, his voice timid and shy.

  “It will be fine, trust me.” Declan smiled, and Justin felt better. He drew a pair of figures. One him and the other his brother. They were smiling happy boys, a football drawn suspended in the air between them.

  The picture was a lie. They never got to smile too much, and throwing a ball would never be tolerated.

  “Sorry we couldn’t go to the pool,” Declan said a few hours later as they sat in the garden, beneath the shade of the same tree Declan had tried to scale.

  “It’s okay. I like hanging with you.” Justin looked up at his brother and smiled, before returning his attention to the card he held in his hand. It depicted a 1967 Chevy Impala, and while Justin didn’t know the meaning of the different statistics listed on the bottom of the card, he sure knew which one he was going to use. “Quarter mile, seventeen seconds.”

  “Dang, you win again,” Declan said, handing over his card before fisting the air as he saw the next card in his deck.

  The boys would spend hours playing Top Trump. They had three decks between them. Two were full, while the muscle cars one was missing two cards. However, that was their favorite deck, so they often played it anyway.

  “Justin Howland, what do you think you are doing? Sitting there playing games while there is work to be done. The dishes won’t just clean themselves you know, and the vacuuming needs doing also.” Peggy stormed halfway down the garden, allowing her squawking voice to carry the rest of the way.

  “I did the dishes last night,” Justin whined; an act h
e regretted almost instantly.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young man. Your brother is injured. He can’t do anything, so march inside right now and get those chores finished.”

  Justin got up from the ground and brushed himself down. “Yes, Mama,” he said, letting his head hang low as he walked towards his mother’s impatient figure.

  “You are getting worse by the day,” she growled as she turned and moved back towards the house.

  “It’s not fair, I want to play with Declan,” Justin couldn’t help but complain.

  “That’s just it. You want to play, but laziness is a sign of the devil. You are a lazy little boy, and nothing good happens to lazy people,” Peggy snarled, picking up her pace.

  “I’m not lazy, Mama, I just want to play outside. Please let me stay outside, please.” Peggy stopped walking and spun around to face her son, who had stopped walking and stood with a child’s defiance on his face.

  “You want to stay outside?” Peggy moved towards him. “Really, you want to stay out here?”

  Justin backed up a couple of steps as the sudden realization of what his mother meant dawned on him.

  “No, Mama. I’ll come inside and clean up.” Justin backed up another step, as his mother refused to slow down or change the direction of her movement.

  Peggy lashed out, grabbed Justin by the wrist and pulled him to her.

  “Mama, no,” Justin screamed, panic consuming him. “Mama, not that, please. No! No!” Justin fought against his mother’s grip, but there was no use. The grip was not to be broken, and Justin was dragged across the garden to the shed. The small wooden shed was dark and dank. Justin hated it. That was where the spiders lived.

  “You wanted to stay outside, so here you go, stay outside.” Peggy forced her son into the shed and slammed the door shut, only missing Justin’s fingers by a few millimeters.

  The darkness was not quite total, as the gaps in the wooden panels that formed the walls of the shed let slices of light through in various quantities. Not that it provided any comfort, for all it did was create even more shadows that danced around Justin’s head.