Coin-Operated Machines

by Alan Spencer

  That ended the call. Willy was knocked back two steps when the phone shot back onto the receiver. The steel plate slammed down over the digits. Willy leaned against the counter so he wouldn't fall back. He was breathing hard, almost panting.

  "Get it together." Willy paused to catch his breath. "Who was that lady?"

  She called him "Chuckles." His uncle called him that, but who else would know that? The answer soon came to him, though it didn't make any sense. It was Suzie, Willy's great grandmother. She had died when he was twelve. She lived on the same block as his aunt and uncle did.

  "Why did I get Suzie when I dialed my wife?"

  This would be a trial and error process.

  Willy gained the courage to shove another quarter into the slot. This time he dialed the police. The line picked up this time. The words sounded like the person on the other line was talking in a speeding car that was driving through a tunnel.

  "Yeah."

  Willy scoffed at the reply. "That's all you've got to say? 'Yeah?' I've seen people burst into pieces and melt into nothing, and, and—'Yeah' is all you've fucking got!"

  The man sounded like he was sucking on a cigar and really getting his mouth around it. "You know, I always thought the cops should be judge and jury/the cops know people/the judges in their courtroom aren't on the streets/they don't talk to people/the judges don't know how to tell truth from lies/they can't read into people/they know jack shit about their community/so I figure the cops should decide guilt or innocence/hey, I've got another idea/how about put the electric chair in the local prisons/let the cops throw the fuckin' switch/drive-thru frying/do that so the other perps out there know who's the boss/crime doesn't pay/drive-thru frying, yeah/streamline the punishments/we take back our communities/we make honest people out of the scum of the earth."

  Willy hung up. He'd been talking, asking the man questions, but the cop wouldn't stop going on about his "drive-thru" electric chair idea.

  "Trial and error," Willy whispered to himself.

  Willy dialed the police again after inserting another quarter.

  "/I always thought handcuffs weren't enough/they should shock the perp every time they resist arrest/"

  The same cop was going on and on about his ideas.

  Willy left the phone on the hook a moment. He turned away from it and noticed the steel slot on the fridge. It covered the handle and the edge of the door so it couldn't open without being unlocked. He inserted a quarter, the hooks released, and he opened the fridge. It was stocked with enough food to feed a family of four. He decided to grab and a beer and before he could think of anything else, it slammed shut on its own.

  "Just what is that the hell about?"

  Willy popped the tab and drank the beer anyway.

  The cold beer helped dial down his thoughts.

  "This is happening. Okay. This is real. So treat it like its real. Keep calling people."

  Willy dialed the number of his best friend. The phone rang ten times before someone picked up. "I could've banged them all/I was young enough, and the girls were out there/enough pussy to fill a stadium/I had my whole life before me/I look back, and man, it makes me wonder what could've been/there's all kinds of sizes, shapes, and tastes—and believe me, they taste different/pussy, man, I could've had all kinds/but I had to get her pregnant/one mistake/one time/that's all it took."

  Willy furrowed his brow and hung up the phone.

  That clearly wasn't Steve Oaks, his best friend. It sounded like another friend of his from high school. A kid named Patrick. Patrick used the phrase "Enough pussy to fill a stadium" during gym class when the boys were playing basketball and the girls were playing volleyball on the other side of the gymnasium.

  Why did the phone direct him to Patrick instead of Steve?

  Willy followed many paths of logic. Maybe he had misdialed. The phone was dialing random people, no matter what buttons he pressed. No, maybe the phone wasn't dialing random people, because so far, they were all people he knew at one point and time. And another point, Patrick was dead. Suzie was dead. The cop, he wasn't sure who he was, or if he was deceased. One thing was for sure, not one time had the phone called someone directly.

  Only one way to find out if what's true is true.

  Does this phone only call dead people?

  Let's find out.

  Willy dialed Uncle Tim's phone number. The line didn't dial. It stayed on as if the other line had answered and didn't reply.

  "Uncle Tim? You there? It's Willy. I don't know what's going on. I drive out here to hear a reading of the will—your will—and people are dying left and right. You've got to help me. I know you're dead, and this is crazy. Yeah, it's all crazy. I can't make sense of it, but here I am talking to you so God tell me something so I can survive this."

  The line stirred. Then voices over voices carried on like they did outside before Jenna fell into pieces.

  "This is your chance/you've been waiting for so long/tell him what he wants to know/the time to play is now/tell your nephew what's happening/tell him what he's in for/we're ready to start/your dreams and ideas will burn so bright."

  Then the voices ceased. Each layer quieted itself one at a time. When it settled, there was silence on the other line. Then someone talked. Willy was absolutely certain it was his uncle who was speaking.

  Uncle Tim said, "Take your money downstairs, my boy. Get ready, because this is going to be soooooo much fun."

  ANGEL

  Angel had been on the track team in high school. This was at a private school in Beverly Hills. She won numerous trophies for the quarter-mile relay, but now that she was in her late forties, de-conditioned by drugs, alcohol, and unemployment, she was nearly vomiting after racing from the hotel after only traveling four blocks. Brock's presence incited too many conflicting emotions. The main conflict being that she hadn't changed one bit since the last time they were together in rehab. Brock had cleaned up and was about to marry his old friend, Hannah. His life looked pretty damn good. She, on the other hand, had countless strings of failed, abusive relationships, and a mean cocaine addiction. Her life looked pretty much like shit.

  Angel forced herself to keep up a jogging stride moving down the road. She hoped to find a house, a bridge to hide under, or anything other place to stay out-of-sight. She kept pace up until she was alerted by the car that pulled up to her. It was a heavy-duty pick-up truck. She was about to scream for her life when she noticed it was Dean, her boyfriend, behind the wheel. He too had been delivered into this place of dangerous confusion. He gave her a kind smile while pulling up next to her. The man was like her, a washed up Hollywood producer whose drug fix became number one over everything else. They were both hopeless.

  "Hop in," Dean invited. "We're getting out of here right now."

  Angel accepted the offer and stepped up into the truck. Angel explained to him what happened to her since they were split up. Dean kept quiet. He drove on, staring out at all corners of the area to ensure their safety.

  "Can you believe Brock's here?"

  Dean shook his head. No, he couldn't believe it.

  "What's wrong with you?" The vibe Dean cast was disconcerting. The life had been taken from him, it seemed. "Did something happen to you? Are you hurt?"

  Angel couldn't remember much about the last time they were together beyond going unconscious when the man with the golden axe attacked them while they were looking for their coke hook-up. The hook-up was a guy named Seth who was supposed to provide them a fun day at the local hotel once they were done with business. "A spa day," or as they liked to call it, "a snow day." The meet-up never happened. Seth couldn't be found.

  "Nothing happened to me," Dean insisted, making a left turn into the road that led into the woods. The branches cast moving shadows over both of their faces. "I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm scared like you, is all."

  Angel kept quiet. She knew about Dean's mood swings. He could be reaching to hug her one moment then swinging his hand to hit her the next. "
I'm glad you're okay, Dean. Thank God you're here. I don't know where I'd be without you."

  When she stroked his leg, he stiffened up. He'd been jerked from deep thought. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  Dean snapped at her, clutching the wheel white-knuckled. "How many times do I have to fucking tell you, I'm fine. I'm a-okay. So quit asking me. Shut up."

  Angel scooted away from him towards the car door. She clutched the handle, wondering if she should bail herself out and start running. She had no reason to stay with him beyond an easy coke-connection, and she hadn't had the cravings since entering Blue Hills.

  Sensing her change of heart, Dean apologized. "Listen, I'm a bit weird right now. It's been hell. I'm sure it's been hell for you too. I'm sorry I got angry. I only want to get out of here."

  "Me too," Angel said, though meekly. She still harbored the dreadful feeling something was different about Dean that shouldn't be different. "Let's just get out of here."

  Driving down the wooded road, they were quiet for a time until Dean spoke up again. "I've learned a few things about what's happening here."

  "Like what?"

  Dean cleared his throat. His eyes were buggy while surveying the woods. Sometimes he was straight-faced, then he jerked in shock seeing something in the distance she couldn't locate. "I've been following that man around. The one who attacked us. The one with the axe."

  "I remember him."

  "He does things to make us the way we are."

  "What does he do?"

  "He alters our bodies. The dead talk to him and tell him how to do it. He splits us open when we're not awake. He gets inside of us, Angel, and modifies us. He makes it so we need money to survive. But why do it in the first place? Who's benefiting from altering us like that? Nobody," he cackled under his breath, "except for the dead. They're the ones doing this. I don't know why because it doesn't matter." Under his breath, "Only one thing matters."

  Spinning the wheel, the truck suddenly shot to the side of the road. Dean slammed the brakes, and without a seatbelt, she struck her nose against the dashboard. Her head exploded with a nagging and burning sensation. Her eyes clouded up with purple blotches. She was dizzy and disorientated. Dean was garbling nonsense under his breath. He was talking to no one, giving himself instructions aloud, then seizing her by the throat, pushing her up against him, his face twitching with maniacal ambitions.

  "You saw what that axe man did to those people. He ripped it right out of their backs and pulled it right out. I know what's inside the box. I know what's inside of you, Angel! I NEED IT!"

  Angel came to once she caught the knife shine in his hand. What Dean had pulled out from underneath the seat. He raised it up, the blade aimed downwards to delve into her back. Defending herself, she managed to jiggle the door handle and took a freefall backwards. Scooping herself up with her hands after hitting the ground, her feet propelled her forward. She created as much distance from Dean as possible.

  Escaping ten yards, she was halted by the cutting howl that erupted from within the truck. She turned around, intending to achieve a brief glimpse of her boyfriend. Seeing him, she was compelled to hurry back to the truck. Angel was horrified and astounded. A gulf of blood fired out of the driver's side window as if blasted from a high powered hose. What confused her was the sound of metal clanging, of coins clashing together, as they pinged against one other.

  Ignoring the blood and its origin, Angel lunged for the money, stealing a bloody handful in each hand, before the coins gained a life of their own. Moving, shifting, traveling, they were drawn by an invisible force into the woods. Further on down the road, copper, nickel, and bronze specks were diminishing flecks of light and refractions. The money in her hands slipped between the cracks of her fingers, flying up, and then coming back down only to be dragged into the woods and sucked into the distance.

  Angel remembered the quarter firing out of James's forearm back at the hotel room. She turned to the car, the side door leaking red from it's bottom crack. The windows had shattered. The coins had acted as bullets, and there was Dean's head turned inside out, a blob of pink pulp and skull shards. Both his eyes had been minced into strings of meat. She navigated the gory work of what used to be a man and noticed how his chest had also spat out the money from inside of him. His fingers, bent in tension, were split in half. His arms were diced and riddled with wounds. All of him was ruined.

  Angel backtracked from the truck. She was shaking her head in denial, unable to breathe, choking on the images that would forever be a cruel stamp in her mind. Awkwardly putting her feet down, she stumbled and fell to the ground. She was weak now, literally unable to move. She tipped onto her side, laying down in the middle of the road, and the sleep she once experienced in the hotel took hold of her once again.

  FOOT WORK

  Brock asked James, "Are you sure you know where this guy lives?"

  They had walked for what seemed many miles. Every block showcased another lifeless body who couldn't come up with enough money to stay alive. Brock was growing leery of the surroundings, a residential area where he caught shifts of movement within houses. He knew others were alive watching them, sizing them up of worth. Everybody in this town was a criminal or a thief.

  Murdered victims littered the roads as well. Stinking bodies. Victims with their throats slit, and others with a large hole in their backs the shape of a box. James would say aloud who they were and what they did for a living as simple condolences.

  "That was Margaret Chauffer; she used to play the organ at the Methodist church. Tim Hanover was the deputy sheriff. Linda Evanson sold used cars alongside her husband Mike. That's little Wendy Milford. I only know her because she sold me Girl Scout cookies."

  James bent down next to the next female body up ahead, turning her over and gasping in shock. "What are you doing here, Nora?"

  Nora had received an axe wound to the face, what opened up her sinus cavity, both her eyes wide as if seeing the blade come down moments before it hit home. James pet the tangles of her dyed, platinum blonde hair. "You came here because they tricked you, didn't they? Why did they do that to you? Why couldn't they leave you alone?"

  Brock lowered down next to him, but the man was shoved him away. "Back off. This is my sister. She doesn't live here. She had nothing to do with this. They," sobbing hard, "they tricked her into coming here."

  Brock stood back, letting the man mourn without interruption. "That's how they brought me here too."

  The words did nothing to console James. Brock didn't blame James for needing a moment. Brock averted his attention to the local houses on the block and caught a strange sight. Many of the trees had the steel square and slot on them. So did garage doors, windows, doors, and in patches of lawns, stamped into the dirt. The road had many of them too, and Brock was stumped as to there purpose.

  Things were changing, and he couldn't help but rouse James from his moment. "We really should get moving. I don't like what I'm seeing one bit."

  James kept crying, his head against Nora's chest. He was trying to soothe himself. He refused to accept his sister was deceased.

  "I'm sorry, James, but I don't like what I'm seeing here. The sooner we get to that man's house and get some answers, the better."

  "I can't leave her," James whispered, rocking her body in his arms. "We can't beat this place. We just can't. We're up against so much we don't understand."

  "What if this continues outside of Blue Hills? What if more people keep coming here? Other loved ones and friends of people will die too. They have my fiancé, and they've taken over my sister. Who else will they take, James? Eventually everybody."

  "We can't win," James said in resignation. He glared up at him with seething eyes. "Quit lying to yourself, Brock. This is something stronger than all of us. Beyond our help."

  "Then I'll die fighting. I'll die looking for Hannah. I don't care."

  The wind picked up. Brock caught an acrid whiff of burning flesh. It was real, not the incorporeal matt
er he'd come upon previously. Someone had set fire to a body. He caught a tower of smoke filter up through the woods miles off.

  James left his sister on the street, suddenly afraid to be near her. He pointed a shaky finger at her body. Brock eyed the dead woman many moments before he noticed the square of steel on her neck the size of a rubber eraser with a slit in the center.

  "That wasn't there moments ago," James said in a hushed voice. "I didn't see it happen, and I sure as hell didn't hear it happen. It just appeared. No cause. No reason."

  Brock pointed up the road. "We need to get moving. Something's changing, and I don't want to be out in the open when this reaches its full potential."

  "You're right," James agreed, finding himself again. He took the first steps up the road. "The axe man's place isn't too much further. Maybe half a mile."

  It was then the words emanated from the sky. They were projected with a bass resonance that shook everything, including the leaves from the trees. "Die fighting/die you will/death is ours to give to you/try and fight us/you will surely writhe in the agonies of hell/so the real game will begin /play our games/for hell has grown tiresome/killing life is what we do now/so die fighting/die in our name/die playing our games."

  Death tainted the air. The burnt flesh fog reeked. Brock thought of hundreds, perhaps thousands of bodies fouling up the air. It was like a gas breathing up from the ground. Pockets of earth exploded in dirt clods and tufts all around the area, spitting out thick plumes of yellowish vapor. Then up from the holes came the gurgling, boiling, popping black oil.

  Now, they wouldn't walk to Chuck Durnham's house.

  They would run.

  Brock heard James blather directions to the house under shaky breath. They raced on, turning from one residential road to the next. They made a turn and were running on a back road. "The man...he...lives...off the beaten...path...the house is alone...his father's old property..."