Dark Doses Read online

  Or scare the crap out of someone you really want to take down hard.

  #

  Smack!

  The raging cut off.

  Timmy snuck up to the kitchen doorway and peeked in.

  “Not another word about money, Roger,” Mom growled, jabbing a finger at his father. Dad stood across the kitchen island from her, his hand working his jaw side–to–side, shock smeared across his face.

  “You took the little slut to Jamaica with you,” Mom continued. “Bet you bought her more than a plane ticket and hotel room, didn’t you? Was it worth it? Did she offer you plenty of tonsil massages? Spread those legs on demand?”

  Dad’s hand slapped the marble counter, balling up into a quivering fist.

  “If you ever touch me again, Doris, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Punch me? I sure wish you would. It’ll give the judge more to consider as I take you for everything. Go ahead,” she sneered, thrusting out her chin. “Be a real man.”

  Dad’s cheek sported an angry purple blush; the rest of his face tinted bright crimson, as if he’d just staggered in from a sunscreen–free beach day. Heat surged, radiating off his dad. Mom’s wish seemed about to come true.

  Timmy leaned around the corner for a better look.

  “You wicked bitch—,” Dad hissed but he swallowed the rest at a head jerk from Mom.

  “Go up to your room.” She turned and glared. “And shut the door.”

  Timmy gulped. “Am I going with Dad now?”

  Her icy glare swung back over the island.

  “Not tonight. He’ll pick you up in the morning after breakfast. Is your bag packed?”

  “No.”

  “Do it! And I don’t want your butt down here again. Your father and I have much to discuss. Privately.”

  “Okay. Night, Mom and Dad.”

  They muttered something, turning their backs to the island and each other, as if he’d somehow affronted by including them both in a single goodnight wish.

  Up the hall, Timmy lingered. The kitchen conversation resumed in sharp whispers, only parts of which he could make out.

  “… more careful … see us fighting….”

  “He’s not stupid, Doris….”

  “… think I know? … nightmares every night, thanks to your….”

  Which reminded him.

  Timmy took a detour through the study and snatched a fresh set of rechargeables. The set upstairs wasn’t drained but why take dumb chances? Not with the nightmares. Mom was wrong; those two weren’t responsible for his nightly terrors all week long. That blame fell squarely upon him.

  He gave his parents full credit though for the reoccurring migraines, and he had a real bitch of one now. Timmy took a second detour through his mom’s bedroom. Hidden behind a mass of brown bottles crowned with ivory childproof caps, he found the aspirins, pried off the idiotic lid, and shook out six tablets. They felt like tiny bones scraping down his throat.

  Back in the hall, the kitchen whispers swirled.

  “Keep that teenage slut away from my son….” Mom.

  “For Christ’s sake, she’s in her twenties, owns a house and works in a bank.”

  Whore. Slut. Bitch. Various female sex parts.

  Mom liked referring to the ‘other woman’ in such creative ways and wasn’t bashful about doing it. She also enjoyed stressing that Christine—Chrissy, as the slender woman on his father’s arm had introduced herself to Timmy—lagged Dad’s age by seventeen years. That fact Timmy struggled to comprehend why it mattered so. Mom never explained.

  He went upstairs, shut his door on the irate whispers and settled behind the computer. The thin flat panel glowed with a warm light, welcoming him back like a true friend. With a few finger flicks on the touchpad, he spoofed his mom’s parental snooper into thinking his PC remained asleep and accessed the net.

  Damien Jules had e–mailed a token after patiently enduring Timmy’s lament over the school’s excuse for Friday lunchtime enchiladas. Damien knew all about stream dueling, his reputation at it being respectably adept, though he refused to compete anymore. Smart boy. Timmy dragged the token out of the encrypted mail store and admired its design. Shaped like a round coin, it portrayed a lightning bolt slicing off the top of a bald man’s skull, spilling brains and blood onto a golden treasure chest. With a flick and a ching, the Net Ringer app ate the token.

  ‘McAndrews accepts only business calls,’ a popup advised. ‘Is this for business purposes (Y|N)?’

  He chose ‘Y’. A second later a voice scratched through the speakers.

  “Charlie here. What’s your pleasure?”

  “I—” Timmy leaned forward and mumbled into the pickup. “I want to buy a stream.”

  A long stretch of hiss passed before Charlie responded.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, you’ve no net profile. Return calls are denied. Video is blocked. Most of your attributes are blocked. You sound like a kid. Why don’t you ask me if I’ve got Prince Albert in a can and get this over with?”

  “It’s no joke. I’m a customer.”

  “You’re underage, right? Of course you are.” Charlie sounded like he’d had a long day. “Here’s what you need to do. Ask mommy or daddy to tell you about the birds and bees. Tell them you’d like to see pictures and movies to understand better. If they want to buy some, send them to me. Got it?”

  “I want scary streams, not… not what you said. Terrifying stuff. The worst you got.”

  Again the hiss assaulted Timmy’s ears.

  “Okay, kid. Sorry about that. I can do scary. Have you browsed our catalog? They start at twenty for low to medium fear factors and go as high as a thousand for the real Hollywood–looking productions. I’ve got multipacks too, if you need several at a pop. One–click purchase from the web, just like the big boys. Easy.”

  Timmy gulped. “I don’t have a net account.”

  “No account? Then get Mom or Dad to set one up. It’s simple. They register you as a minor on the Homeland Security web site and enable supervised financials by linking their credit card. You’re good to go.”

  “You don’t understand. My parents can’t find out. I have to do this alone.”

  It sounded like Charlie whistled into his pickup.

  “I want to mail you some money,” Timmy continued.

  “Snail mail? No, no. Bad idea, kid. FedMail Corp got a whole crop of new regulations when they spun off of Uncle Sam. Those regs are vicious, especially regarding dealing with minors.”

  “My friend said you could help. Can’t you just take my money and send me a stream?”

  “I’d love to help. Really. But I enjoy the fact I’ve never tasted prison food, and I’d like to keep my track record perfect. Selling illegally to a minor blows that. Sorry.”

  “Then I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Do that. Good luck.”

  Timmy slid the pointer over the DISCONNECT button.

  “Wait,” Charlie said.

  His finger froze in mid tap.

  “You’re dueling. That’s it, right?” Charlie asked.

  “What if I am?”

  “Losing?”

  “Maybe. A little.”

  “A lot, eh?” A sigh blew through the speakers. “What system do you have?”

  “Sony I.S.”

  “The Immersion Station has fantastic production abilities, kid. Some of the best on the legal market. Did you think about crafting your own stream?”

  “Tried that. It sucked chunks.”

  “Maybe you should give it another shot. Listen, the secret to success is to compose something that’s a part of you. Don’t just create something you hope will work. Make it you. Be you. Pour your raw feelings and deepest emotions into it. Hold nothing back. See if that gets the result you want. Okay?”

  “I—”

  “Look, kid. Nobody’s going to deal with you, except people you really don’t want to be dealing with. Let me text you
something: two links. The first gives more advice on producing streams with real heart and bite. The second is for a tool. Plug it into your stream when composing and, during playback, you’ll get an idea of the effect. That’s all I can do.”

  “Thanks, mister.” Timmy unblocked text messaging and saved the two links. He severed the connection. The speakers hushed.

  Link one led to a website with fascinating tidbits, giving him plenty of frank coaching. He devoured it all like a famished man wolfing down what could be his last meal. Link two yielded the tool Charlie mentioned, which he stored for future use. He unblocked the parental snooper and the computer went to deep sleep with a fading whir of fans spinning down.

  Packing for Saturday with Dad was a breeze. The fresh rechargeables snapped into the halogen Q–Beam. Then he had time to kill. Lots of it.

  Comic books came first. Harry Potter followed. He soon tired of Hogwarts, having reread it ten times already, and turned to his homework, fifth grade math and accelerated sixth grade reading. When the house darkened his room light at 10:00 pm, he flicked on the Q–Beam and inspected the underside of his bed. As usual, his search uncovered nothing but skittish dust devils.

  Angry voices wafted through his door, punctuated by the crash of glass shattering. The aspirin helped ward off his fatigue. It did nothing for his throbbing head. He slipped in earbuds and escaped into movie soundtracks.

  He caught himself almost dozing off at 12:30. Downstairs was quiet at last. The Q–Beam still blazed, and another check under the bed came up empty. He swapped out memory needles in the micro–player and let obnoxious, blaring opera carry him to 2:17 while he paced circles, heel to toe, clockwise, then counter–clockwise.

  Around.

  And around.

  And around.

  Eyes tearing, head pounding, mouth sucking one jaw–splitting yawn after another, Timmy could hold out no longer. Cursing his weak body, he managed one final check under the bed before collapsing on it.

  At 3:47, Joshua’s monster struck.

  First the bed rocked, jolting him awake. The frame shook and twisted, forcing him to clutch the mattress to keep from being bucked off. Then a mass of tentacles erupted from underneath, encircling the bed with a wall of slimy arms that writhed and snapped. With an ear–splitting roar, the arms entwined over his head and collapsed, smothering him with noxious fumes of putrid fish and rotting seaweed. They crushed the air from his lungs and began sawing, rending him asunder with endless rows of stinging suction cups. He howled as each sucker clutched and extracted tiny globs of flesh, stripping his bones bare.

  It ended with Mom’s concerned face hovering over him. He snapped his mouth shut and wheezed while his heart boomed in his ears. She muttered some ugly things about Dad as she held him close. As 4:15 slid by, he dozed again in her arms.

  At the thunk of a door in the driveway, Timmy forced himself out of bed. He choked down breakfast before he and his dad sped off in the Porsche. Dad didn’t make one block before starting in. He grilled Timmy on how much Mom drank, how many pills she took, what kind they were, were there any that came from unlabelled bottles, did she scream at him, did she hit him; the usual barrage of probes. Timmy had to recite everything Mom said about his father, repeating the ugly stuff several times and enduring Dad’s ferocious rebuttals. By the time they reached Chrissy’s house, his head ached all over.

  She stood in the driveway as they pulled up, wearing a Dallas Cowboy’s tee shirt, skimpy running shorts and flip–flops. Tossing out a ‘Hi, guys,’ she locked lips with Dad while Timmy fetched his gym bag. He left the two entangled by the car, dropped the bag in the spare bedroom, and flicked the game room plasma set onto Cartoon Network. Chrissy soon joined him and pretended to be interested for ten minutes before vanishing into the back with Dad. Timmy waited with his animated friends for his slice of father quality time.

  Later, lunch came and went beneath the Golden Arches before they sped off to watch the Angels slaughter the Rangers under a gloomy Arlington sky. Timmy claimed a stomachache from the ballpark dog, peanuts and nachos as an excuse to hit the spare bed early that night. The pair didn’t seem to mind.

  He proved a theory at Chrissy’s. No monster attack occurred while he dozed in the lumpy trundle. He figured Joshua must have somehow linked the creature to his own bed, which was a despicable act because Timmy’s sleep usually stunk away from home, something Joshua couldn’t have known but lucked out on. Still, he got his first full night’s rest in a week.

  The Sunday morning return trip sucked chunks. Dad spent the whole time urging Timmy to come live with the two of them, declaring it was for the best, saying it would be the greatest, most perfect thing since Disney World’s creation, blah, blah.

  “Christine loves you like a son,” Dad said. “And I have a surprise, a big secret just for you. In a few months, you’ll be getting a baby brother or sister. Way cool, huh?”

  Timmy wished his head would split open and end the pulsing agony, like the bald man’s image on the MacAndrews token.

  The Porsche hadn’t even exited the driveway before Mom began the debriefing. Her particular interest zeroed in on the slut. What did she wear? How did she act? Did she do things with his father in front of him, things that made him uncomfortable? Were there other men she did things with? Other women maybe? Objects? Or food? What did they say about his mother? He spilled everything under her merciless wringing, saving the best for last. She raged when he mentioned Dad’s desire for him to come live with them, claiming Hell could never get that frigid. In fact, a mean judge soon would dictate just how few times Timmy had to visit the man each year, according to her. When he revealed Dad’s special secret, she exploded and dove for the phone.

  Timmy again shut the door on downstairs yelling. He figured a long discussion lay ahead between his mother and father capped by many hours of her fuming in solitude, if the pattern held. He stood by his bed, made by Mom at some point, and stared at the Star Wars comforter, stretched immaculate and tight. It looked so cozy and inviting. So deceptive.

  Now was his chance.

  He could banish Joshua’s monster. Himself. All he needed was a little cooperation from the monster’s creator.

  Be you.

  Charlie’s words echoed in his skull as he booted the computer and Immersion Station. It was well after dinner when he finished. He was exhausted, starving, tingling with excitement, and amazed how clear and wonderful his head felt.

  Snatching a peanut butter sandwich from the kitchen, he peeked in on Mom. She was shut in the media room—the entire afternoon from the looks of it—and not going anywhere soon. He stared through the French door panes at the back of her head lolling in the La–Z–Boy. She had all wall consoles going, even the one usually devoted to monitoring the parental snooper. As fast as confirmation numbers flashed by, another catalog materialized, scrolled to some trinket, and deposited the booty in a shopping cart. Timmy couldn’t keep up with the flurry of purchases. They only slowed when her hand fumbled for the half–empty highball glass beside a pair of Cutty Sark bottles.

  The sticky sandwich vanished before he plopped again behind his computer. One flick and a row of avatars appeared, caricatures resting in a tight line of comical bunk beds. As their soft snores tickled his ears, Timmy panned down the row until he found the one desired. He flicked and a ringing alarm clock tap–danced atop the avatar. To be safe, he switched over to his counter–snooper and confirmed the high transaction rate still blazing within the media room.

  Switching back, an icon wearing a punk’s face glared at him. An animated tongue waggled from the icon’s mouth while a neon exclamation point blazed over it. Wet sounds sputtered from the speakers. Timmy tapped.

  “What crap is this? You wake my computer and you’re not there?” The icon snarled.

  One flick blinked the screen, revealing the face of a young, blond–haired boy twisted with a matching snarl.

  “Sorry, Joshua. Just checking on my mom. Listen, I’ve got a new
stream for you. A real scary one.”

  “Sure you don’t want to surrender now and spare yourself a lot of serious pain?”

  “Huh–uh. I’m ready for the next round. You gotta try this.”

  Joshua rolled his eyes. “I hope it’s not like your first chunky one, the one where you got me lost in the grocery store crying for my mommy. That was soooo dumb. Dumbest I’ve ever seen. Dumber even than Carter’s spooks and witches crap he sent me last year. I hate dumb stuff.”

  “Nothing like that. I swear. Just give me another chance. One more, please!”

  Joshua blew out a protracted breath. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about our little duel. Thinking it was a big mistake. You don’t seem to be up to the challenge and I don’t have time or patience for a chunky noob.”

  “But—” Timmy gulped and forced his voice back to a slow, measured tone. “You’re right. You don’t. That’s why I’m sure you’ll agree this is the winning stream.” His fingers strummed and a new icon dropped beside Joshua’s face, this one depicting a bulging surprise package wrapped in shimmering paper tied up with a huge red bow. “You’ve taught me well, Joshua. You’re so damn awesome, I’ve learned how to win from fighting just one round in our duel. Thanks. It’s been sweet.”

  For a long, painful moment Joshua’s eyes studied him.

  Take it. Take it.

  Timmy held his breath until finally the blond head nodded.

  “All right. One last time for you. This had better be utterly terrifying or I’ll make sure nobody watches another of your pathetic streams ever again.” Joshua’s face blanked as his attention diverted. The surprise package vanished.

  “You’ll love it,” Timmy promised. “Tell me what you think tomorrow at school.”

  “Oh, good thing you rang. I about decided to blow off making a fix for that teeny–tiny problem under your bed. Here.” A chemist’s beaker emblazoned with a big red cross spun across Timmy’s screen. “Use it. Get some sleep. You’ll need lots before playing my next round, assuming you get the chance that is.” Joshua’s image melted into the punk, which reappeared back in bed.

  The beaker sat there, blinking. Tempting.