Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody

  Jerry, ever the sycophant, was nodding enthusiastically at his wife’s side. He even set his lips in a snarl in time to Ophelia’s own expression. Warren could never tell if Jerry was loyal to his marriage out of a real desire to be with his shrew sister or out of financial dependency. Most likely the latter; Ophelia was only obsequious or courteous to those above her station. Why she chose to shack up with a rat from the low end of society in spite of lofty ambitions and tastes was a puzzle best left unfathomed.

  “P-please,” Warren said, indicating for them to enter and find a chair. Trickles of icy sweat were running down his spine. He hoped none of the anxiety he felt gnawing at his bowels was showing on his face. “If you’ll just take a seat and s-start eating … there’s a lot to c-cover.” He tried to finish with a smile but his lips faltered.

  Cynthia was the first to seat herself. Just the catalyst Warren needed.

  Jerry followed suit, remarking how much a waste it would be to let dinner grow cold as he noticed the many bottles of vintage wines and spirits lying in the open liquor cabinet and the piles of fruit-filled pies and sweets laden on the dessert cart.

  They stepped into the dining room until they were all finding a place at Warren’s table. In the six years since their mutual, ill-gotten windfall this cosy scene had never once come to pass.

  The door swung shut with a barely audible click. A second later there was a louder thrum and several heads turned to regard the door. It was the only way in or out.

  Warren could see suspicion written in Paul’s gaze through his thick glasses as their eyes locked across the landscape of delectable delights.

  “Uh, that door has a h-habit of sticking. I h-had stronger h-hinges installed to ensure that it closes flush,” Warren lied. “Dig in. No need to stand on any formalities. We’re all f-family.” The words were meant to diffuse the growing tension yet produced the opposite effect.

  Again it was Cynthia who came to Warren’s rescue. She reached out, poured herself a generous glass of sherry, and began to daintily stack green beans and baby carrots on her plate. It wasn’t long before all hands were reaching for bits of the proffered banquet. Decorum was loosely observed, fingers snatching a portion for their owners before another could steal desired morsels away.

  Jerry sat closest to the mini-bar and desserts, of course. Ever the greedy lush, that one. Next to him Ophelia wanted to turn up her nose at the food. The selection was too … quaint for her tastes. Without complaint she joined the feasting, but only after realizing no one else was going to remark or refuse. Harry, sitting next to her, stacked his plate with both turkey legs and one of the wings and trying to heap half the mashed potatoes and cobs of corn onto an ever crowding plate. Just for good measure he added a rack of lamb to the towering foodstuffs before withdrawing his plate to consume its weight. Cynthia, her place directly opposite Warren, patiently waited out the initial feeding frenzy before finding the rest of her share. That left Paul, hoarding shrimp cocktails, to fill the remaining chair between Cynthia and the gap.

  They’re eating, Warren sighed in relief. His own plate remained bare; no appetite to cater to. The delightful scents did naught but cause his stomach to roil. The next phase was about to begin.

  Warren had to swallow a few times to work moisture back onto his tongue. This was happening. Pricks of nervous sweat beaded on his skin as his body flushed cold. He wiped them away surreptitiously. Keep it together for just a bit longer.

  Beneath the table, out of view of prying eyes, Warren uncapped a syringe and manoeuvred it beneath the white sheet. Once in place Warren’s thumb depressed the plunger.

  Seconds ticked by.

  “Salt.”

  At Ophelia’s demand Jerry sprung into action. His rat-like head twitching back and forth in search of a shaker, at last spying one right in front of the place setting covered by the white sheet. He reached across.

  The sheet jumped.

  With a cry of astonishment Jerry fell back into his seat. Around the room silverware clattered against china.

  Ophelia blurted a string of obscenities as a fleck of freshly baked dinner roll touched her silk blouse. Flying hands followed, the smack of flesh on flesh mingled with the tinkle of gold bracelets as Ophelia’s palm connected repeatedly with the nape of Jerry’s neck. No one came to Jerry’s rescue.

  The white sheet continued to rustle and twitch.

  “What is this?” Paul asked with more than a trace of annoyance as he pushed his glasses back into place with a manicured thumb. Harry was frozen in mid-motion, a cracker full of beluga hovering outside his mouth.

  Warren took a deep, calming breath and slid out of his seat. “It’s time,” he grabbed a corner of the sheet and flourished it off its hidden occupant.

  No turning back.

  The stench of medicinal disinfectants and old, desiccated flesh escaped into the air. Even accustomed to the odours of the laboratory, Warren cringed away from the initial smell. The wrongness pervaded the dining room, smothering the delectable scents of feast meats and vegetables.

  The revelation brought gasps of horror from Warren’s guests.

  It bore the shape of a man, features hairless and shrivelled. Skin was parchment dry and rough, pale as a terminal cancer patient’s. There were no eyes in the cavernous holes that were once eye sockets. Its mouth was full of black and yellowed teeth, several of which were missing. Straps crisscrossed the naked body, a spindly collection of emaciated limbs once belonging to a healthy male specimen, holding the occupant in place.

  The mouth opened, exposing a gray tongue that flopped against teeth like a fish out of water. The head lolled and rolled back and forth on a neck of loose, hanging flesh. No sound ushered forth and that mute silence was more perturbing than the most bloodcurdling shriek. The Thing attempted to buck and twist, the straps stymieing movement.

  Jerry jumped out of his seat, the heavy oak chair hitting the wall and gouging an ugly scar in the wall’s cherry-wood panelling.

  “W-what is it?”

  Warren clapped his hands together as he faced the Thing. A twinkle flashed in his eye and a childlike grin spread across his face. It was all about to come out. Weight sloughed off Warren’s shoulders in a quickening avalanche. The end, near.

  “Warren, what the fuck is going on?”

  Ah, Ophelia, Warren thought. Ever the eloquent one. She was on her feet in an instant, hands clapped around her mouth and nose in effort to ward off the smell. Her voice pitched high, strands of coifed hair escaping their intended places. “You little shit, what is this?” Ophelia gagged on lungfuls of the detestable air.

  Harry slammed his fist on the table. A ladle fell out of the mashed potatoes with a gooey plop. “Enough of this! Warren, whatever the hell that is you better get rid of it. ‘Phelia, Jerry, sit down. Now!” Just like Harry, always able to bellow loudest.

  “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be taking orders from you anymore, Harold. No one is going to do-as-you-say-or-else,” Warren said and laid his hands on the shoulders of the Thing in the chair. The wizened skull swivelled toward his left hand, thin-lipped mouth gaping wide, rotten teeth glistening with thick slime. Warren quickly removed his hand, patting the creature on the head before stepping away.

  “Listen here you dumb–”

  “No, you listen. All of you,” Warren jabbed finger at them like an accusing judge. “We’re filth. Scum. Evil. We crossed the line of simple human decency. And for what? For money that we could have had freely with just a modicum more patience and respect. We murdered out of pure greed and avarice and for that we shall pay.”

  That set them back on their heels. It would ruin them if just one of their number decided to blab. They couldn’t believe it was Warren – nerdy, geeky little Warren – whom would betray their secret. Uncle Gerald’s death was not the result of a long-standing battle against an intractable and incurable disease like the world outside this room believed. The dining room was filled with murderers.

  “Warren, we all a
greed. We all agreed. Even you,” Cynthia said, hands calmly folded atop the table. He turned to his sister and felt his thunderous expression soften. Cynthia was the one person whom Warren might have spared this fate, at least she had not been frivolous with her share of the blood spoils. She was known in the upper echelons for her work as a charity organizer and sponsor, but it was not enough. Not nearly enough. He had never heard a word of shame or regret pass her lips, as content as the rest of them to revel and cavort on another’s dime.

  Harry, Cynthia, Ophelia, Jerry, Paul. Each guilty in equal measure; Warren did not exempt himself from the list. He had gathered them to receive their apportionment of the retribution.

  “That’s it,” Paul, silent until now, rose from his chair. He tossed his napkin onto the table and smoothing his Armani suit as he turned to leave. “I’ll have none of this farce. You can bet I’ll have my lawyers come down on you like the Wrath of God. Whatever it takes I’ll have you locked away so deep they’ll forget they ever saw you, Warren.” Paul grabbed the doorknob.

  It turned. The door, however, remained firm.

  “What the hell is this?” Paul glared back at Warren, pushing his slipping spectacles into place. He struggled to get the door to open to no avail. “You’re in deep enough, you little shit,” Paul whirled around, cool mask fallen away. “You want to add unlawful imprisonment to your list of idiot moves today? You can’t keep us here. Open this goddamned door!”

  “No one is leaving. I had hydraulic pistons installed in the doorframe. Once closed, the door won’t reopen. Not from this side.”

  Ophelia was spouting a colourful string of obscenities as Paul started for Warren, coming up short an arm’s length away from the Thing in the chair. The Thing tracked Paul’s movements even bereft of eyes.

  It was Cynthia who had the most level head, retrieving her cell phone and dialling out. The vexatious chiming of a busy signal greeted her ear. Cynthia checked her signal, “Does anyone’s phone work?”

  Ophelia grabbed her own phone, checked the bars and threw it down in disgust. Plastic casing shattered, splinters finding their way into the strained carrots and creamed corn. “You bastard. What did you do to the phones?”

  Paul reached into his jacket to check his device, “Dead,” he confirmed. “Warren, you’re going to pay through the nose for this. Guaranteed.”

  The Thing strapped into the chair was swivelling its head back and forth like an infant unable to focus its attentions. Every outburst was a new source of interest. When Paul again attempted to slide around, the Thing strained mightily against its bonds, mouth questing to reach him. Paul jumped back. “Son of a …”

  Harry was glaring death at Warren from across the table. Luckily the combination of dessert cart and liquor cabinet was enough to block the path from the other end. Warren had no illusions about how long he would last in that behemoth’s grip; concern for a five-thousand dollar suit the only thing keeping Harry from jumping across the table and inflicting violence upon Warren’s person. The proximity of the Thing in the chair was a concern second to Harry’s vanity. Even so, Warren positioned himself behind the hideous Thing in the chair as a precaution. All he needed was for Harry to start reliving his old football days and attempt a flying tackle.

  “What the hell did you do to our phones?” Harry roared. The man practically trembled with unvented rage.

  “Nothing,” Warren replied affecting nonchalance despite the fluttering of tiny wings in his stomach. A calm was descending and Warren embraced it; tranquillity of the soul he could never find no matter how many bottles consumed. “This room is constructed to block outside signals.”

  “Oh, you’re dead. Dead.” Paul was busy tapping buttons on his PDA. Soon he was holding the device up and panning the room with the tiny camera lens embedded in the back. “Keep talking. Every word will be a nail in your coffin.”

  Let him record, Warren thought. It might help to illuminate their sordid tale for whoever managed to find the remains of the approaching tableau of the macabre.

  Threats continued to hurl across the table. Harry and Paul each continued to triumph with their own brand of intimidation. Ophelia, surprising everyone, offered Warren more money if he’d let them out. Jerry protested and received a smack across the jaw for his trouble.

  Such a wonderful family gathering.

  Warren reflected on the rotten core within his siblings. There was no saving grace amongst them.

  Nothing would alter Warren’s course. The miraculous calm had cleared his head and stilled his nerves, and no need to guzzle a bottle! Warren was in control. It was a totally new experience, so long bullied and overlooked by his family. With such freedom, such clarity, Warren was assured his path was true.

  He laid a hand on the evening’s Guest of Honour. The Thing twisted and lurched but could not swing its emaciated head enough to reach Warren’s flesh.

  “Don’t you recognize him? Our Uncle Gerald?”

  Shock and incredulity greeted the pronouncement.

  Jerry, unable to fathom the scope of things taking place around him, sank back into a chair that was no longer beneath him. He dropped to the floor with a thud. Ophelia’s face turned as red as the beets on the table, cheeks puffing in apoplexy. A scathing diatribe bursting forth in a torrent of incoherent rage from her glistening lips. The others embraced the news with better self-control. Cynthia flushing a pale, alabaster white, pale even for her naturally pasty complexion. Paul took another step back, hand straying to his chest while he blinked repeatedly; PDA forgotten. Harry continued huffing and fuming, fingers flexing into fists.

  “Let’s all say our most heartfelt thanks to Uncle Gerald for giving us everything we have. Today is Thanksgiving after all.”

  Harry took action. “Fuck this.” The former football star shoved his youngest sister aside and trampled her useless husband on the way to the door. Harry pounded the wood with a meaty fist, the thumps echoing down the empty hallway. “Let us out of here!” Hammer hands became straight rights that splintered wood but did little to force the door.

  After the third punch Harry howled in agony and fell away. Warren impassively watched his oldest brother cradle a broken wrist and stagger away.

  “While all of you were frittering away your share of our ill-gotten inheritance, I was wracked by guilt over our crime. Our sin,” Warren said returning to his seat at the head of the table. For the first time in years he felt a total quietude of the soul. It felt … good.

  “We are all equal in culpability,” Warren continued. “I waited for so long for our judge to appear, for heavenly retribution to descend and smite us. Anything offering forgiveness or punishment. But no, it was not to be. As a man of science it was hard to beg a higher power for absolution, you can imagine. But I tried. And then, one day it finally materialized. Providence showing the way. You can imagine how equally difficult it was to accept, a deus ex machina solution, but the evidence I gathered bore out. Conclusive testing. There is but one way we can hope to erase the stains and balance the scales of our misdeeds. It found me. All the better because our uncle’s was the innovative mind that made this possible.

  “Do any of you know how many compounds Valinson Pharmaceuticals has stockpiled, waiting for federal approvals and testing to complete? Or how many so-called failures we house in the clean vaults?”

  From across the table Cynthia, head bowed, whispered, “Please. Don’t do this, Warren.”

  Warren felt the slightest twinge of mortification rush through him. He was about to murder the remnants of his family. Just like they all murdered Uncle Gerald. For money, wealth and power.

  Warren crushed the feeling and sat up straighter.

  “No,” he said firmly. This was not about material things; this was about justice long overdue. Murder could be redeemed by death and death alone.

  Uncle Gerald’s attentions swung his way. Warren let himself imagine the bobbing of that skull-like visage to be supportive confirmation. He nodded back.

/>   “Did we give Uncle Gerald a choice? We tinkered with his meds, causing a fatal reaction because we had grown weary of the cycle of deathly illness and miraculous recovery. We wanted the old curmudgeon to just die already, fork over the empire to a bunch of ungrateful brats. We rationalized, saying it was justice for the years Aunt Linda suffered under Uncle Gerald’s domineering. Everyone blamed him for Cousin Stefanie’s suicide when he disowned her over the issue of her sexual preference. Our father – his own brother! – cursed his name on his deathbed for a lifetime of petty evils. We all hated him for various personal incidents and cruelties.

  “And for that we labelled him worthy of execution. But was that really why? No! Sheer greed the cause.”

  Warren ticked off the list of their crimes.

  Paul had wanted the money for his real estate company. Shady dealings that saw more people fall into homelessness than domiciled. Not to forget the prostitutes or cocaine.

  Ophelia needed the wealth and notoriety of being an heir to the Valinson Pharmaceuticals name for parties and socializing, hobnobbing with the blue-bloods and affairs with rich and powerful men.

  Jerry, the penultimate used-car salesman, for the crumbs Ophelia would throw his way.

  Harry had to cover up the feelings of inadequacy and failure at not making it into the pros, “And hide your secret of diddling little boys. Oh yes, Harry. We all know about your tastes,” Warren said.

  Harry’s eyes shot wide. He looked around, ready to violently deny the accusations before seeing the looks of revulsive acknowledgement.

  “My own damnable research and experimentations required financing. At least Cynthia did something worthwhile with her spoils. Yet not one of us was willing to stand on our own merits, make our own way through life and amass our own fortunes. Impatient and too lazy to earn it.” Fury was flowing freely, years of repressed anger and shame tumbling out with such vitriol.

  “What right did we have? What right?”

  Dumbfounded silence was the reply. No one met his gaze. He had finally done it. Warren had shamed them. Every crime uttered was stark truth.