Caveman (Wild Men 1)

“Still here.”

“Good to know, fucker. Would it have hurt you to let me know? Or your mother who’s going stir-crazy, not knowing where the hell you are and if you’re okay.”

I scrub a hand over my face. This headache is fucking lethal. “Yeah, well. You tell her I’m fine, all right?”

“No can do. She needs to hear it from you.”

“The hell she does.” I’m lifting my thumb to end the call, when he sighs.

“Wait, Matt.”

Unease touches my spine like icy fingers. “What?”

All the questions trip on the tip of my tongue—is he sick? Is his girlfriend okay? Wait, did they have kids? I can’t fucking remember. Did something happen?

But at the same time I don’t wanna know. One more stone around my neck will pull me down into the void—that stinking chasm of my dreams, and the memory drag a soft moan from my throat.

I can’t. Can’t fucking go back there. My breath catches, and I slam my hand into the wall for support.

“I’m just worried about you,” he’s saying. “And the kids.” When I don’t reply, he grunts. “Look, where the hell are you at, anyway? Your mom said you headed out to bumfuck nowhere.” He hesitates. “Or something like that.”

“None of your business,” I wheeze.

“Matt. Hey.” His voice changes. “Why do you sound like that? Are you okay, man?”

He needs an answer if he’s gonna leave me in peace, so I force it out. “Yeah.”

But obviously, it’s not good enough because Zane goes off instantly.

“What the fuck’s wrong? Where are you? Is there someone there with you? Does your chest hurt?”

“Fuck you, Zane. I’m not dying.” I disconnect, my hand shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.

I’m not dying, although it sure feels like it. In fact, I’m not even entirely sure I’m alive. Or awake.

For years now I haven’t been able to tell reality from nightmare, and today’s no different.

When I return home after work, I’m fucking beat. I sort of sleep-drive my pick-up outside the house and throw it into park, then sit there for a long moment, gathering my wits.

I’m so damn tired.

The sky is deepening. The clock is ticking. I finally open the door and climb out, the thump of my boots too loud in my ears. Since banging my head against the pick-up door will only make my headache worse, I convince myself not to try it.

Instead I head toward the house, one foot in front of the other. I climb the three steps of the porch and reach for the door handle.

That’s when I see the paper stuck to the wooden surface. I blink, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks, but the fucking paper is still there.

Stuck to my door with a knife. Big bold letters at the top of the paper proclaim YOU WILL SUFFER FOR YOUR SINS.

It’s like the fucking movies, only this isn’t supposed to happen in real everyday life.

My life. On my door, my house with my kids inside.

Jesus Fuck, the kids. And Octavia.

I try to push my key into the lock, but my hands are shaking too bad. I bang on the door, yell their names, try again until I somehow manage to insert the key into the damn lock and throw the door open.

“Mary! Cole!” I tear through the living room, my ears straining for a sound. The kitchen is empty, and so is the store room. “Octavia!”