by Blake, Bruce
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Gabe?”
She giggled. “Oh, I think you know.”
“You missed me? You’ve come to tell me you’re finally ready to grab a drink with me? Give up your archangelhood for a chance to spend some time with me?”
Her smile remained as she shook her head and pulled a scroll out of a back pocket with no right to fit one. She held it out to me; swallows whistled in the willow above, teasing me.
“I was afraid you’d say that.” I took the scroll, careful our fingers didn’t touch but wishing they did. “Anyone I know?”
“No.” She curled and uncurled her toes, kneading mud and duck shit between them. “Does it matter?”
“Not really.” I turned to Dido. “I guess our other plans will have to wait.”
She didn’t respond. Hell, she might not even have been breathing, making me ponder whether spirits drew breath or not...I’d never noticed.
“Hey Gabe, do you know where we can find a guy named Chan Wu?” I turned back to her, happiness brewing inside me at the prospect of gazing upon her again the way it must do for a puppy realizing its master is home, but she’d disappeared already. The swallows hopping between branches took to the air with a throb of tiny wings as though they shared one mind. They raced for the horizon with the speed of a flock chased by a hungry hawk.
“Haven’t seen her do that before,” I muttered and faced the young girl. “What’s going on? Cat got your tongue?”
“Is she gone?” she asked out of the side of her mouth, not moving her gaze from the ducks bobbing back and forth on the pond.
“She’s gone.” I leaned my elbow on the back of the bench. Dee released her breath, lips fluttering. One question answered. “What was that all about?”
She finally directed her gaze my way. “She hates me.”
***
I pulled the thorny branch of a blackberry bush off the sleeve of my coat and pushed on over the soggy ground covered with decayed leaves frosted around the edges. A drainage ditch seemed an odd spot, but that’s what it said on the scroll; we were close, so I decided to let my curiosity free. Honestly, I’m not sure why I kept it in check so long.
“How can you think Gabe hates you? That...woman doesn’t hate anything. I caught her loving on a mosquito sucking her blood one time.”
Okay, I made the mosquito bit up.
“She does.”
“But why?”
“Just the feeling I get from her.”
“Come on, Dallas. What happened?”
“Leave it alone, Icarus.”
“Ric.”
“Dido.”
“Whatever. Tell me why you think the most loving being in the universe hates you and I’ll use your preferred name.”
She hesitated and I thought she might be considering my proposal.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“It’s close. Don’t change the subject.”
“No, Icarus, look.”
“Ric.”
She raised her arm and pointed; I took the bait, but it turned out not to be bait.
Ahead, the drainage ditch flowed into a culvert tall enough for a man to walk through if he wasn’t afraid to bump his head once in a while. Running water gurgled into it and disappeared into the darkness beyond; a shadowy figure crept out of it. My heart skipped a beat or two.
“Shit! What time is it?”
Dido regarded me with a shrug and a look designed to make me feel stupid for thinking an eight-year-old would have a watch, so I hauled up my sleeve and read the time on mine.
“Eight thirty-three. Damn it. T.O.D. was scheduled for eight thirty-two. You made us late.”
“What? What did I--”
“Come on.”
I hurried forward, slipping on the muddy bank and worrying I’d end up in the water with a twisted ankle and a wet ass. The figure paused beside the mouth of the culvert and I searched the shadow around him, but didn’t see anyone else.
“Thank God.”
“What?” Dee pressed right up behind me, peeking around my back.
“He’s not running. Do you see anyone? Black overcoat?”
“No one other than you.”
It was true, I’d liberated my overcoat from a carrion I’d found melted outside the door of my motel room not so long ago. I resembled one of the bad guy and might have worried the newly dislodged spirit would panic at the sight of me, but the likelihood he’d ever heard of a carrion was slim, never mind knowing how one dressed.
I needed to take action to keep him from bolting because, in the tangle of brush and brambles, he might be difficult to catch. My companion proved a disembodied soul wandering around on their own was a better option than one taken to Hell, but I wanted another tag-along as much as I wanted the complete collection of ABBA LPs. No one needed more ABBA, and I’d be better off without more black marks on my record, too.
In my concentration to keep my feet, I’d forgotten the spirit’s name. I considered pulling the scroll out of the inside pocket of my coat and rereading it, but it was getting too dark to see the angelic calligraphy, so I searched my foggy memory. A short and simple name, I remembered that much.
We moved closer and I kept my gaze on him, my mind rolling through a list of possibilities.
Dan. Bill. Al. Sean. Todd. Dick.
He was staying put, rocking back and forth foot to foot like he either needed to take a wicked piss, or in deep consideration about taking off. Of all the names, Todd seemed closest, but not quite right.
Todd. Tad. Ted. Tim...Tom!
That was it. But what was his last name?
Fuck it.
“Tom!”
He glanced toward us and I waved, hoping to keep him calm until I got my hands on him. His disquieted rocking ceased. I jumped over a large limb torn from a tree in some recent storm and splashed through a puddle of mud that sucked at my shoe. I despised the squishy muck soaking through my sock, plastering it to my foot, but sacrificing my comfort put me close enough to grab him if he made a run for it.
He didn’t. Instead, he stayed where he was, his gaze sliding from me, to Dido, to the water in the drainage ditch near his feet.
A set of rusty iron bars designed to keep people and animals out blocked the culvert. The cage protecting this end appeared solid and properly spaced, but the ones on the far side must have failed because amongst the leaves, garbage and branches caught against the bars, a body lay face down, water gurgling around it.
“Who are you?” Tom asked.
“Friends,” I said pulling up beside him. I didn’t put my hand on his arm yet, but it hovered close by.
He nodded toward the corpse. “And who’s that?”
I hesitated before answering—a habit I needed to break with a rookie tagging along. In the space I left, Dido walked through the grate, stooped, and grabbed the body by the shoulder to roll it over, exposing Tom’s dead face.
Body and soul were of similar age: late teens, I figured. When Tom-the-spirit recognized Tom-the-body, he gasped and took a shocked step back; his spirit foot went off the bank and into the water, causing him to stumble and, coincidentally, removing his arm from within my reach.
Then he took off into the bushes, heading up the grade leading to the street above.
“Shit.” I glared over my shoulder at Dee with her hand on the corpse’s shoulder and a surprised expression added to her repertoire. “Don’t just sit there.”
I splashed across the six-inch-deep stream—not too deep, but enough to kill, apparently—then blundered my way up the hill in pursuit of the wayward soul.
I reached the top to find he’d paused, waiting for a break in traffic before crossing. A fresh spirit’s lack of realization that cars and other solid objects can’t hurt them, and walls can’t stop them, came in handy for me more than once.
My fingers wrapped around his arm at the elbow, firm but not too tight. He didn’t try to get away, but looked at me with sadness evident in his
eyes.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“Well, if memory serves me,” I said, thinking back to the address on the scroll, “we’re going bowling.”
He looked confused; I smiled.
“It’s where you go after that’s important. Don’t worry, it’s all good.”
Dido made her way up the hill and arrived beside us. I gave her a dirty look and led Tom away, escorting him to a bowling alley downtown to meet an angel who’d be clad in a pristine white suit and have white-blond hair to take him the rest of the way.
As we walked along the side of the road, I glanced across the street and saw a person standing where we’d just been. Maybe someone waiting for a ride, a curious on-looker wondering why I’d crawled up out of a drainage channel, or a homeless person with nothing better to do than stare at cars. None of those options rang true.
I stopped and stared back through the passing traffic at the figure. The dark made it difficult to see the person’s clothes, but I’d swear whoever it was wore a black overcoat and a wide brimmed hat pulled low. I gritted my teeth, the muscles in my cheeks bulging, and swallowed hard. A second later, the shape grew hazy, as though surrounded by twisting shadows, then disappeared.
“Carrion,” I whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
The TV was off.
Cory looked from the blank screen to his mother’s bloated face and back three times. He didn’t think she’d moved—she couldn’t on her own, of course—or been moved. He didn’t really think she’d decided death was entertaining enough and had switched off the television, but perhaps her bulk shifted far enough to depress the remote control’s power button.
After returning to close the front door, he crossed the short entrance hall into the living room where he leaned on the back of the couch and looked at the bottom cushion. The remote control still rested beside her thigh where he’d left it. Cory frowned.
“What have you been up to, Ma?”
He straightened and scratched his head. Maybe a blackout; that would shut the TV off, but not turn it on again when power resumed. He’d check the alarm clock in his room because, when a power interruption occurred, it left the numbers flashing.
Mud crumbled from his boots as he pivoted on his heel and went back to the hall. He stopped in the arched doorway, staring at the open bedroom door he was sure he’d left closed.
Someone’s been here.
Cory took a step into the hallway, breath held, and cringed at the clomp of his boots on the floor. If an intruder was still in the house, they’d hear his every move. Cory bent, unbuckled his boots, and removed them with quiet care, leaving them lying in the hall as he approached his bedroom door.
Like a child playing hide and seek, he peered around the doorway and into his room. Empty and exactly as he’d left it. And the numbers on the digital alarm clock weren’t flashing.
He hesitated on the threshold with one foot in the hall, the other in his room, debating his next move. Anyone who entered his house would have called the cops when they found his mother stinking up the place. If not, why not? He pondered the question for a few seconds before deciding that standing in the doorway to his empty room wouldn’t provide the answer. He crept along the hall, sock feet whispering on the floor, and looked into the bathroom. Nowhere to hide, except behind the closed shower curtain. He stole up to the tub like a cat stalking a bird, and threw the curtain aside.
Nothing but soap scum.
Fifteen minutes later, Cory had finished a thorough search of the house: kitchen, dining room, both bedrooms, bathroom and, finally, living room. He even pushed against the access to the unused attic space, but found it painted shut. Satisfied he was alone with his mother’s rotting corpse, he locked both doors and returned to the living room, intending to slouch on the sofa and watch some crappy TV show with his dead mother to distract himself from his recurring thought:
Someone is looking for me.
At first, he suspected Manny, the teenage thug who picked on Trevor, but dismissed the possibility. Surely when presented the opportunity to call the cops and report a dead body propped up on the couch watching TV in Cory’s house, the gutless bully would have jumped on it. Cory looked at his watch and saw he’d been home for over twenty minutes. If someone sneaked out the back door while he searched for them, the cops should arrive any second...if they’d been called.
One way or another, he realized he’d have to get rid of her.
But who wouldn’t call them if they saw her?
Cory’s forehead creased with thought as he sagged onto the couch to figure out how to proceed, but inhaled a sharp breath when his ass hit the cushion. He bounced to his feet and reached around to touch the lump at the base of his spine with careful fingers. It seemed smaller, more painful, and its shape had changed.
Thoughts of the cops and someone looking for him left Cory’s mind as he headed down the hall to the bathroom. He entered the small room, closed and locked the door out of years of habit, and pulled off his shirt. Reaching for the button at the top of his pants, he hesitated, staring at a square of black above his bellybutton reflected in the mirror, and another beside his right nipple. He tapped each with his finger and found them hard like the one on his back.
What’s happening to me?
He pondered the hard squares for a moment before undoing his pants, turning his back to the mirror and dropping his jeans and underwear to the floor. Any other time, he’d have been shocked by the six new black patches spread across his back at irregular intervals, but the bump at the top of his ass crack distracted him from their presence.
Rather, the lack of a bump.
Cory stared at his reflection in the mirror, breath captured in his lungs and pulse beating in his ears.
Instead of the red, irritated lump he’d become accustomed to seeing at the base of his spine, the skin had broken and a black protrusion three inches long hung from the spot. Two inches wide at the base and tapered to a narrow end, the thing resembled the business end of a whip.
Cory stretched his neck to see it over his shoulder or around his side, but couldn’t, so he returned to staring at its reflection.
Then it moved.
“Fuck me.”
The thing flicked and slapped the fleshy cheek of his ass, then dangled against his crack. It lay upon his flesh, touching him like some foul, perverse phallus. He watched it wide-eyed, until it snapped like a whip again.
Or a tail.
Cory stumbled yanking his feet out of the tangle of pants and boxers around his ankles. He steadied himself with a hand on the edge of the sink until he got free of them, then grabbed the knob to open the bathroom door, cursed himself as he fumbled with the lock, then threw it open hard enough to bang against the wall. He hurried into the kitchen clad in nothing but his socks and yanked the top drawer open. Cutlery jangled and he pushed aside errant forks and spoons, table knives and a plastic set of measuring cups. The silverware clanking and clinking sounded a racket in his ears.
Where is it?
He slammed the drawer, fuming that his mother didn’t clean up after herself, and spied the handle of the chef’s knife sticking out from under a pile of soiled dished. Cory pulled it free, careful not to send the teetering stack of dishes crashing to the kitchen floor.
The implement, a Henckels, was the one expensive piece of cooking equipment they owned, and they only had it because Ugly Robert refused to cook without a good quality knife in his hand. He’d never used it for more than chopping onions as a topping for his speciality meal, and the only one he made—hamburgers—but it served its purpose. At that moment, Cory was glad they had it. He turned to go back to the bathroom, but paused when he saw the dark gunk smeared across the blade.
Remnants of chocolate cake and God alone knew what else clung to the steel.
Cory cursed under his breath and took the knife to the sink. As he scrubbed the blade, the appendage flicked against his ass as if suspicious of the teen’s intent
ions. He scoured faster.
A minute later, he’d returned to the bathroom and leaned in, his face close to the mirror as he looked deep into his own eyes. His hands rested on the edge of the sink, his fingers choking the handle of the chef’s knife hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
“You can do this,” he said aloud and filled his lungs, then let the air out, fogging the bathroom mirror.
Cory straightened and inhaled again, pulled his shoulders back. He put the nail of his left index finger under the bottom edge of the black square beside his right nipple and lifted it away from the skin. It tugged on the flesh beneath with bearable discomfort. He flipped the knife around and raised the tip toward his chest.
The blade quivered in his grip. He hesitated, blew the air from his lungs through pursed lips, and moved the tip of the knife toward his chest, intending to insert it beneath the square. The point ticked against the hard surface. Cory took a second to calm himself, then re-aimed and tried again.
The tip sank into the soft flesh under the hard shell and pain shot through Cory’s pectoral muscle. He withdrew the knife and a drop of blood flowed from beneath the hard spot, tracing a trail of red down the side of his chest. Cory wiped it away with his left hand, smearing it across his ribs.
“Fuck it.”
He spun around and positioned himself to see the black thing dangling from the base of his spine, lying against his pale flesh as though trying to hide in the crack of his ass. He reached for it with his left hand, hesitated an inch away and scrutinized its reflection in the mirror. Shallow ridges ran around its circumference, its surface shiny, making it resemble a piece of wet hose or a thick, black worm. Cory balked at the thought of touching the thing, didn’t want to look at it or think about why it grew from him or where it came from, but he forced himself to continue.
His fingers touched its black surface and the tail-thing flicked away.
Cory relaxed, let his arms dangle at his sides, inhaled deeply and smelled the tang of his own nervous sweat. The knife’s cold steel brushed the outside of his thigh and he flinched at its touch; the black protrusion fell back against his ass and lay unmoving on his flesh. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Cory tensed, his jaw clenched tight, and his left hand darted out to grab the tail in his fist.