Limbus, Inc. Book II Read online

  Dolan shut his eyes again and the world went black, but only for a second or two before it blew up in rage. He saw the multi-colored smear of tracer fire and heard screams of agony and felt the crunching thump of mortar rounds striking the earth. That last mission had been a horror show and the experience had stayed fresh in his brain along with every mistake he’d ever made and every life he’d taken. The past was out to get him. It was always happening in real time, like a video buried deep in the marrow of his bones.

  “Excuse me.” Dolan opened his eyes and the room returned and the men snapped back into focus. A bead of sweat rolled down his face, seeking a path through the stubble on his chin.

  “I was drinking a lot, of course. I thought it helped me cope. I crawled through the grass and hid in the trees and I killed people with knives and guns and wires. I went to the desert more than a few times. I was good at my job, getting in and out of scary places to get heavy shit done. I became a pretty sneaky guy. In fact, the guys I worked with called me Snake. Look, I saw some things and I did some things. We were fighting in dirty little wars you didn’t know about back home, but to be honest, the combat wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that I always dealt with it by drinking and doing drugs. In the end, you see, I wasn’t any better than my old man—not really, except that I didn’t beat up my own kid. Of course, I haven’t had that opportunity.”

  The clock ticked. Someone coughed and another man blew his nose as if in counterpoint. Dolan tapped his burned fingers on the podium. He continued. “What I did was I beat up other men. Every chance I got, even back home. I fought hard and partied hard when the mission was over. I never questioned anything. I never cried. Never. Not in all those years, from my childhood on. Now I know that was a weakness in me and not a strength.”

  The electrician muttered, “Amen to that, too.”

  Dolan said, “So, what happened was the dude they called Snake was in his fair share of fire fights. He got real sick of it and drank a swimming pool worth of booze. Still, he did three tours straight up without complaining. So, eventually, when it was my turn to get my own shit blown up, bad leg and all, they shook my hand and told me thanks a lot for everything, here’s some money, but now it’s time to go home. I didn’t want to, but I had to come back to the world. So I did. I came here. Back here to the States.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and Dolan heard the first rain drops ticking gently on the window pane. He felt his mouth going dry. The hard part was coming. The clock on the wall ticked forward remorselessly, steadily marking time as if alerting him to the approach of his own death. He wanted to forget, but the meetings kept forcing him to remember.

  “I was home. But now I had no idea what to do or how to live. I wasn’t Snake anymore. I was just another vet. It was… difficult.”

  The men listened and waited. Some of them already knew what was coming.

  “The thing is, I understand the truth now,” Dolan said. “The problem wasn’t that I went to war. The problem was that I never came back.”

  And now a few of the men nodded together, like a bunch of puppets, and that simple gesture of solidarity communicated a level of understanding many of the other guys could not share. The support from the vets was palpable and it touched Dolan and enabled him to continue.

  “A few years ago, I got married to a girl I’d known in high school,” Dolan said. “Her name was Phyllis. She made me promise to stop drinking so I white knuckled it. I stopped. We got pregnant pretty quickly. I was working nights back then. See, the sunlight hurt my eyes and made me jumpy. Loud noises threw me off. I felt a lot safer at night. Some of you understand that.”

  More nods from the vets.

  “Guys, I need to get the rest of this out quickly. The thing is, I started boozing again, and then one night, I was pretty bombed by the time I got home. There was somebody in the house, somebody who broke in while Phyllis was there alone. The cops said he was likely about to rape her just when I got there, but apparently, that hadn’t happened yet. She was probably knocked out cold by then and her nightgown had been torn off. I was hammered and I came in loud and stupid and too damn drunk to know what was going on. I caught a glimpse of a big man wearing a stocking mask. The guy sucker punched me. He clubbed me and dumped my ass on the living room floor. He had a gas can with him and for some fucking insane reason started a fire just as he left.”

  Some of the men in the room who already knew this story started to wipe their eyes. Dolan’s face remained expressionless, though his voice got a lot huskier. He did not cry. He rubbed his temples.

  “I tried to make it to the bedroom,” Dolan said. “God knows I did. I tried my best to get her out. It was too hot and they told me she was already gone by then anyway, probably from the smoke inhalation and the blow to the head. Not from the flames, thankfully. Me, I got these burns on my hands and lower arms, but that was it because drunks are lucky that way for some reason. The fire department showed up just in time and dragged me out of there and an EMT treated the burns or it might have been too late to keep my fingers.”

  He was on the verge of babbling now, so Dolan slowed down to take a breath. “What it’s like now? Well, now is that I am sober almost nine months. I’ve worked my steps. I don’t want to drink or get high again though I know this is a one-day-at-a-time proposition. I’ve made friends and want to go on. I can’t say I’ve accepted everything exactly, but at least I’ve stopped hating myself every day for what happened. I would give anything to bring my wife back and make up for my mistakes but that’s not the way life is. That’s not the way things work. So I want to forget, but I can’t.”

  More thunder, much closer than before. The rain was pouring down now, drops tapping on the roof like a line of Irish dancers. Lightning flashed outside, and a fork of shadows ran down the meeting room wall. Dolan decided he had nothing more to say, so he brought his share to a close.

  “The shrinks tell me it wasn’t my fault. Not her death or the war, any of it. They say that it makes no sense for me to brood any longer. They say that sometimes shit just… happens. You know something? They’re right. In the end, it was just like all those times in action when my friends got hit or died instead of me. In the end, the sad truth about life is that it often comes down to simple random chance. It did that time. So I lived and Phyllis died.”

  Dolan closed his eyes. “And so did our unborn child.”

  Dolan left to sit down. The men applauded him but a fresh rumble of thunder drowned them out.

  *

  Big storms came and went for most of the week. Dolan found a room at a sober living house but only stayed there for two nights. The other guys in the room farted a lot and talked about sex and wanting to get high again. Dolan was fed up with that mindset. He wanted space of his own and longed for genuine solitude. He found a cheap apartment on the edge of the barrio and slept there instead. It smelled like dog shit and damp wood, but it was near the back stairs so he could come and go without having to talk to anyone. He ran a lot and found some ways to work out without equipment, but mostly at night.

  During the day, Dolan went through the newspapers and down to the unemployment office looking for work. Nothing good came up. He figured the circles under his eyes and his burned hands and the long stint in rehab had something to do with not getting hired, but by this time, Dolan didn’t really give a damn. He could just get by on his small check from the government, so being out of work wasn’t the end of the world. Eventually, he’d need to find a job, but there was no rush.

  The solitude helped. Dolan felt better away from other men, and though he bought a porn magazine for his room, in reality he’d pretty much lost the taste for sex, much less a girlfriend. His dark superstitions told him he was nothing but bad luck for women, just like his old man. It wouldn’t be fair to get involved, and it just wasn’t his way to go and hire someone.

  He still hadn’t cried, but Dolan survived. In time, he tapered off going to AA meetings. The constant stre
am of sad stories began to wear him out. He couldn’t produce enough empathy to sustain them. He was also getting sick of the sound of his own voice. In truth, Dolan didn’t care to feel anything anymore. He wanted to stay under the radar, maybe make some extra money and figure out some way to move on with his life. Most of all, he just wanted to forget.

  The big storms stopped eventually but rain visited on and off, and the air stayed crisp and cold as if snow was coming soon. That sounded nice, the idea of having a white Christmas. The snow made everything seem clean and quiet. It wasn’t long before Dolan went back to staying up all night and sleeping during the day. That was better than trying to fit in and talk to people. He got books from the library and read until his eyes burned. He slept at dawn. Ear plugs blocked the traffic noise and sheets of tinfoil taped to the window kept the sun out.

  Dolan walked a lot, especially late at night when the dimly lit streets were empty. The city smelled nice right after the rain. Most of the time staying sober wasn’t that difficult. Sometimes the liquor store on the corner winked at him with neon eyes as he walked down the sidewalk. Snake Dolan thought of it as a painted whore riddled with disease and he gave it a wide berth. Eventually, he walked in there to buy a candy bar or some beef jerky and prove to himself that he didn’t have to buy any booze. The cold bottles of beer still twinkled in the harsh light and whispered obscene things Dolan couldn’t quite make out. One night, he came close to getting a six-pack but he bought a newspaper instead. He stopped going inside unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Dolan knew he had to get busy and find work soon or he’d end up taking another trip down nightmare alley. He took the newspaper for a stroll down to the all-night coffee shop to look at the want ads. He always skipped the front page and the stories about the sagging economy and the dysfunctional government he’d once been willing to die for because the whole politics thing threatened his serenity. He just folded the paper to the ads and stuck it under his arm. He walked on.

  The sidewalk was damp with rain and a bum in the shadows near the glass entrance asked him for money for food. Dolan searched his pockets and found a few bills and some coins; he handed the change over, but it was only fifty cents or so. The man muttered something obscene and decidedly ungrateful under his breath.

  The old restaurant was almost empty. A pair of stoners sat in the back, pigging out on apple pie and ice cream, and a wino wandered in to steal some crackers and take a piss in the men’s room. Dolan sat down at the counter. The waitress was old enough to be his grandmother. She wore thick glasses and had white, pimpled skin like a plucked chicken. She looked ridiculous in her little skirt and white apron. Her name tag read AMY. Dolan called her by her name, borrowed a pen, and asked for a cup of black coffee. He had a twenty, a five, and a one in his pocket. He broke the five paying for the coffee.

  The place was old with red plastic booths patched in spots by electrical tape. Fake plants managed to droop as if dying of thirst. The windows were dirty. Insipid music flowed from hidden speakers—some old songs he remembered from high school re-played by a mediocre, slightly out of tune orchestra.

  Amy brought Dolan his cup. It tasted like thirty-weight motor oil. Dolan poured in sugar, stirred, and sipped anyway. He scanned the newspaper ads and circled the ones that looked promising. Some construction stuff that didn’t require a particular set of skills, a phone sales job you could supposedly do from home, and a few other things that seemed legit. One ad was circled in black and popped off the page because it had a tiny globe covered with small dots. The miniature logo reminded Dolan of the waitress and her weird skin.

  LIMBUS, INC.

  The word Limbus seemed vaguely familiar to Dolan, but he couldn’t have said why. Maybe he’d seen the logo somewhere over the last few days and just hadn’t noticed? Had he seen it on a billboard or stapled to a wooden pole or something? Studying the ad gave Dolan an odd, slightly queasy feeling of disorientation.

  Amy returned to re-fill his cup and her approach startled him. Dolan thanked her and asked for some water and went back to reading the ad.

  LIMBUS, Inc.

  Are you laid off, downsized, undersized?

  Call us. We employ.

  1-800-555-0606.

  How lucky do you feel?

  “Not very,” Dolan said aloud.

  “What, hon?” Amy asked. “Did you want to order? Maybe a piece of pie?” As if on cue, the two young stoners got up and headed for the door. They were giggling about something. In the neon glare, their eyes looked like sunburned flakes of skin. Like something he’d seen accidentally back in the burn ward. Dolan shivered.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine with the coffee, thanks.”

  Amy went back into the kitchen to chat in Spanish with the fry cook. Dolan sat alone, just the way he liked it. He looked at the ad again and shrugged. It didn’t say anything about the job. He assumed it was a company that would require an advanced degree or something. He did not circle it and folded the newspaper back up. He was down to his last twenty odd bucks. His next check wasn’t due for a couple of weeks and rent was coming up. He’d have to get busy in the morning.

  Dolan left the coffee shop and went back out into the night air. His breath looked like puffs of smoke. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and went for a long walk. The next block over had a couple of Indian restaurants and a trendy bar or two. He cut through the parking lot behind the bar, intending to come around to the back side of his place. The gangs owned the streets at this hour, no sense in cruising for a bruising. The sky above was speckled with bright stars. One street lamp and a sliver of moon lit the sidewalk ahead.

  He spotted the two gang bangers immediately. They were holding up the wall of the trendy bar, hands in their jacket pockets, drooping baggy pants and fake gold chains. One was black and had his head shaved, the other Hispanic with a buzz cut. They had set up shop and it was going down. They were waiting for somebody. Dolan gave them a wide berth and acted like he hadn’t seen a thing. It was none of his business, after all.

  The door to the bar opened and a well-dressed man stepped out gingerly, like he was more than a tad drunk. Dolan saw him clearly in the street light. He was pretty good sized with a haggard face and a sharp nose and dark eyes. He wore a black suit and had his hair all slicked back like some villain in an old-time movie. He straightened his suit and sleeves, clumsily flashing what looked to be a platinum Rolex. Dolan saw the two bangers shift position. One of them had a little piece of pipe in his grip.

  Ah, shit…

  Dolan was on the move before his conscious mind made the decision. He turned sharply and headed toward the drunk. He kept his hands in his pockets and the newspaper under his arm, like an ordinary man who’d just decided at the last second to get a night cap before last call. The bald banger seemed to sense something. He grabbed at his friend’s sleeve but just missed it. The pipe was already up and the drunk turned just in time to block the blow and cry out from the pain as the weapon came down on his forearm.

  Dolan feinted at the kid with the pipe but took on the one with the shaved head instead, slamming a shoulder into him, driving him back into the wall. The kid’s breath whooshed out and Dolan kneed him hard, just to make sure he’d stay down. As Dolan spun around, the pipe caught him with a glancing blow on the lower back. It hurt his kidney. Pissed off now, Dolan leg-swept the other banger and the pipe clattered to the sidewalk. Dolan stayed in a crouch. He kicked the bald kid in the side of the head and took him off the board. He stepped back. It was over.

  Dolan felt high on the adrenaline. He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to get involved, but had to admit the action sure felt good. He stood up slowly, rubbing his lower back. The drunk was still holding his forearm. He looked stunned by what had gone down and how fast it had all happened.

  “Thank you,” the strange man said. “Looks like I owe you one.”

  “I’m good.” Dolan shrugged. “Just be more careful next time.”

  The dark man
stuck his hand out. “I’m Mr. Cranston.” He gave no first name.

  “Mike Dolan.”

  Cranston took his burn-scarred hand without flinching. Music thumped from inside the bar. The two gang bangers sat up moaning and edged away along the cement while still on their asses. Dolan stared them down but ultimately let them stumble away. When he turned back to face Mr. Cranston, the older man was holding out a hundred dollar bill in one hand. His craggy face was half in shadow, and under the neon light of the bar sign, he suddenly looked a tad demonic. Dolan blinked away one harrowing PTSD flashback. He focused on the money.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Dolan said without conviction. The cash sure looked good. The big bill waved in the breeze like a woman’s skirt.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Mr. Cranston said, reading his expression. “I’m very grateful for your kind intervention.”

  Pride warred with need. Snake Dolan still thought of himself as a soldier and the hundred bucks felt like chump change from a rich man’s couch. He didn’t have much left to cling to but right then, for some odd reason, integrity felt more important. Even than paying the rent.

  “Like I said, I’m good. You can put that away.”

  Mr. Cranston took the bill back and Dolan felt a small burst of confidence return. Cranston returned the money to his thick wallet. He produced a business card instead. Dolan told himself to turn and walk away. He pretended not to see the card. Mr. Cranston did not lower his hand. His gaze was intense and his eyes somehow hypnotic enough to hold Dolan in his tracks. Dolan did not care for the feeling. He blinked first because a rain drop landed on his nose and rolled down his cheek like a long-forgotten tear.

  “Perhaps you’re looking for work,” Mr. Cranston said. “A lot of men are these days. If so, here’s the number of an associate of mine, a Mr. Goodfellow. Call him tomorrow and say I referred you. Believe me, I’m certain we can find something for a man like you.”