Will the Sun Ever Come Out Again?

by Nate Southard

  “How much farther, do you think?” she asked.

  The rowing sound stopped as Jim turned around to gauge their distance from the bank. “Let’s go another fifty yards. After that, I think it would take another four years of drought for this crap to get found.”

  “I hope so.”

  “At a certain point, I think hope is all we have left. Jesus, I wish I had some more coke.” He shoved the oar into the water again.

  “Because that’s what you need right now.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining earlier.”

  “That was well before I got slapped with body disposal duty,” Rose said.

  “Everybody’s a goddamn critic. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

  “You better.”

  “Just tell me how.”

  She thought about it a second. “The Killers are playing Frank Erwin next month. I want tickets and the night off.”

  “The fucking Killers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. Jesus Christ.” He flattened out his oar, and the canoe sliced to the right before coming to a stop. Looking around, he lifted the wood from the water and laid it across the boat. “I think this’ll do it.”

  “At last. So do we just toss these?” She looked at the bag by her feet and tried to forget what was inside. A few hours ago, she’d just been a chef with a fondness for various drugs. Now, she was dumping a body that was God knows how old and just might have belonged to some kind of monster. She hoped she could course correct after such a strange left turn.

  “Guess so. Tear some holes so it sinks.”

  “Sure thing.” She took hold of the bag closest to her and ripped a pair of holes in it with the kitchen knife. The air inside whispered out, and she thought it smelled old, stale. Maybe it was her imagination, but she couldn’t be sure. There was too much weirdness in the moment to be certain.

  She heaved her bag over the side. There was a splash, followed by another as Jim did the same with his. By the dying moonlight, she watched the bag float on the water’s rippling surface for a moment. Then, they began to sink. A bubbling sound drifted upward as the black plastic disappeared beneath the water. Soon, the lake was still again, and they were alone in the quiet.

  “That’s that, I guess,” she said. She turned to Jim, and she saw a strange look on his face. “What is it?”

  “Can I trust you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “No one can ever know what we just did. You know that, right? I need to know I can trust you to keep it a secret.”

  “Jim, you know I can.”

  “Do I?”

  His hands wrapped around the oar’s wooden handle, and Rose thought she saw his knuckles whiten with the effort. She thought about the knife that now rested in her lap. How fast could she grab it?

  “Jim, come on. How long have I worked with you? I could have left at any point this year, once business started going downhill. Did I do that? Nope. I believed in you. So, believe in me. You’re not the only one who would get in trouble if this got out. Think about it.”

  Rose watched as he did just that. For a moment that felt like hours, he watched her, and she could almost see him inch toward his decision. She shifted her hand closer to the knife’s handle, but then Jim let go of the oar and held up his hands. He shook his head, his expression apologetic and embarrassed.

  “You’re right. Sorry. I just...fucked up night, y’know?”

  She sighed and then smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

  “You want to head back?”

  “More than ever.”

  “All right, then.” He scooped up the oar and stabbed it into the water. Grunting with the effort, he turned around the canoe and got them moving toward the shore again.

  They wound through the hills around Lake Travis until they found a secluded spot. Thomas piloted the bulky Lincoln down a road that was little more than two gravel ruts gouged in the ground. He drove in silence, his face grim. In his mind, he saw Doris Hubbert cry as she took the kitchen knife in her hand and dug it deep into first one forearm and then the other, opening herself up so she could bleed to death on the kitchen floor. He hadn’t looked at Jenkins then, and he hadn’t looked at him since. For all he cared, the old man could die or disappear or burst into flames and burn into nothing but ashes. Thinking about the perverse bastard left him feeling sick.

  Finally, the Lincoln exited the woods, and Thomas saw the waters of Lake Travis lapping at the shore. The sun had set, but complete dark hadn’t arrived. It didn’t matter much. They had one last piece of business to attend to, and then they’d go their separate ways until the next mess needed fixing.

  Thomas killed the lights and then the engine. For a long time, he sat perfectly still, hands on the wheel, looking out at the black water. He searched deep in his soul and wondered if he could keep doing this or if maybe he should take the route he’d convinced Doris Hubbert to take. Maybe that would be easier. Hell, maybe it was just the right thing to do.

  “I had the same thoughts when I first started,” Jenkins said.

  Thomas blinked. Slowly, he turned to look at the man. He was gazing out the window as he lit a cigarette.

  “Can you…?”

  “What?” Jenkins asked. “Can I read minds? Don’t need to when it’s written all over your face like that.”

  Thomas rubbed his face with both hands. “I just don’t know if I can handle this.”

  “I know. Nobody does. You have to, though. Simple as that.”

  “What we did today—not what we did, but how we did it—it’s cruel.”

  The old man inhaled and then blew a plume of blue smoke out his window. “It’s necessary. Don’t confuse the two.”

  “We could have snapped their necks without saying a word.”

  “Wouldn’t look convincing, not with four in the same day.”

  “Guns, knives.”

  “Sloppy. Room for error.” Abruptly, the old man shouldered open his door and climbed out before leaning his head into the car. “Come on. You need to see this.”

  “See what?”

  “Come on.”

  Thomas climbed out of the Lincoln and followed Jenkins to the trunk. The soles of his shoes scraped over the rocky shore, the sound like ghosts moving through the canyon. When he reached the trunk, the old man wrenched it open. The chained bag waited inside, the thing inside beginning to move again.

  With surprisingly nimble fingers, Jenkins untied the drawstring at the top of the canvas sack and opened it, pulled it down to reveal the face of the thing they’d been transporting all day.

  The dying light somehow still reflected off the bone white face that looked just removed from humanity. From within deep, shadowed sockets, its eyes burned orange and red. Past its black and desiccated lips, Thomas saw the broken teeth and the fangs, the stone he’d shoved in its mouth to keep it from biting any more humans. The thing hissed past the obstruction in its mouth, and it was a sound of both hunger and hate.

  “Look at it,” Jenkins said. “Take a good, hard look. Our job is to make sure things like this stay hidden. The world isn’t nearly ready for something like this. What we do, it isn’t pretty, but it’s necessary.

  “We kill people because we have to, and over the years it will get shockingly easy. What we can do, we can do for a reason. The job gives us terrible powers so we can do terrible things. It makes us a little more than a regular person, though. The longer you do this job—and believe me, you’re stuck with it—the harder it’s going to be for you to feel like a human and not something like this. Or something like me.”

  Jenkins reached out. Thomas flinched and then regained his composure as the old man’s dry palm pressed against his heart.

  “Do what you can, Gregory Thomas. Hold onto this as long as possible. You’re in this job forever, but try to remember that it’s just a job. It’s not what you are. We get downtime between incidents. Use it wisely. Save puppies, for all I care. Just remember that when you’re on the
clock, you’re on the clock.”

  Thomas nodded. He thought he saw sadness in the old man’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Silently, he watched as Jenkins drew the bag over the hissing beast’s head and pulled the string taught once again.

  “All right,” the old man said. “Let’s sink this thing and go home.”

  Ben stares at Gregory Thomas, who sits on the couch with his legs spread, wrists resting on his knees and hands hanging down. The old man looks like a big kid, a child who grew up before his time. Between them, a paper sack sits on the coffee table, a dark stain along the bottom.

  “What do you mean I know what went wrong?” he asks the intruder.

  “You’ve known for a while,” Gregory Thomas says.

  “Apparently not.”

  “You cry yourself to sleep a few times every week. You sit here and sulk. Every now and then you try to go out and prove you can function like this, but it doesn’t work out, does it? And you still talk to her. Every single day, you still talk to her.”

  Ben feels himself sink into sad thoughts. He wants to protest, but he knows the man is right. Maybe he thought he’d be better alone, but now he has doubts. They creep into his thoughts every day, and he can’t chase them off no matter how hard he tries.

  “What does that have to do with the bags?”

  The man’s head cocks to one side and then rights itself. “Who did you call that first night? You wanted to make sure she was all right. Who did you tell everything to once you couldn’t keep it bundled up anymore? Like it or not, she’s a part of you, and you’re a part of her. And the two of you fit together very well. It’s not perfect, but it never is. No matter how much we want it to be, sometimes as good as it gets is, well…as good as it gets.”

  Ben feels a little dizzy. He can’t quite believe everything. The bags, the man on his couch: it’s all too surreal, and it’s sent the entire world spinning.

  “What’s in that bag?” he finally asks.

  “In here?” The man picks up the bag and hefts it. “A few more teeth. A finger.”

  “What? Where are you getting this stuff?”

  He holds up a hand, telling him to take it easy. “It’s not one of hers, so what does it matter? She’s still waggling all ten. When the police run it, however, they won’t find any matches.”

  Ben stares at the man. He stares and tries to make some kind of sense out of it all.

  “Wait a second…why the bags at all? You could have sent a goddamn card or something!”

  “I’ve been fixing things a long time. For the most part, it’s pretty gruesome work. Sometimes you get stuck in old habits. It affects these little…side projects.”

  “Old habits?”

  Gregory Thomas stands. Ben steps back, the reaction sudden and full of fright.

  “Yes, old habits. Try not to get stuck in your own.”

  Thomas reaches out and places a hand on his chest. Ben feels his heart thud against it, a bass drum.

  “Do what you can, Ben. Hold onto this as long as possible. You fall into bad habits, you might never break free. Take it from an old man.”

  He tries to think of a reply, a retort. Instead, he stands in stunned silence as the man shakes the bag a few times.

  “I’ll just take this with me. I don’t think you need it.”

  Gregory Thomas reaches the door and pauses, hand on the knob. “One thing….”

  “Yeah?”

  “No one ever finds out about this. I mean it. You even consider telling somebody, and you’ll either see me again or somebody who isn’t quite as nice. It won’t be a good meeting. Understand?”

  “Um…sure. I understand.”

  “Good.”

  The man leaves, shutting the door behind him, and Ben continues to stand there. In his mind, he sees Melissa’s face. She smiles, and the tears rush to his eyes. He wipes at them with trembling fingers, and then he fishes his phone from his pocket and gives her a call.

  Rose slept late. Exhaustion had woven itself through every inch of her body. When she opened her eyes, the sun was bright and streaming through her window, something she hadn’t seen in longer than she could remember. Panic rushed in, but then she remembered that Jim had told her to sleep in, that after their night and then a full shift, she deserved a day of sleep. He’d place the call to her sous chef personally.

  She looked at the clock and saw it was just past ten. Screw it. She’d grab a few more hours. Not like she hadn’t earned them.

  Sleep had almost taken hold again when somebody knocked on her door. At first, she tried to ignore it. If it wasn’t the mailman dropping off a package, it was probably Jim wanting to talk about what they’d done. She doubted she had the strength for such a discussion. Maybe in a few hours.

  The knock came again, a little louder, but no more urgent. In that moment, it dawned on her that it might be the police. Panic fluttered in her chest as her eyes snapped open again. She sat up and leaped out of her bed. Looking down, she saw she was wearing a T-shirt and little else.

  “Coming!” she called. As quickly as she could, she climbed into a pair of jeans. Looking out her window, she saw a few cars, but nothing that looked like a squad car or even a detective’s sedan. Her heart slowed, and her breath came a little easier. Probably the mailman, maybe Jim. She wouldn’t know until she checked.

  She walked barefoot across the fake wood flooring of her living room. The early morning chill bit at her, but she didn’t mind. It wasn’t like she was still asleep.

  The knock came a third time.

  “Goddammit, I’m here.” She twisted the deadbolt and then the thumb lock on the doorknob. If it was the mailman, the delivery had better be spectacular.

  A man who looked to be well into his seventies waited on the other side of her door. He wore an old, slightly wrinkled suit. When he gave her a pleasant smile, she thought she caught a hint of sadness in his eyes.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” the man said. “My name is Gregory Thomas, and I’m with The Department of Health and Human Services. May I come in for a moment?”

  DEEPer

  WATERS

  “You smell that?”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You can’t smell it? It’s the morning, the sun hitting the world and waking everything up.”

  “No, I don’t guess I smell it.”

  “Figures. Something’s all around you, and you can’t even tell it’s there.”

  “Maybe it’s the river, Charlie.”

  “I know what the goddamn river smells like. This is something different. It’s something powerful, vital. It’s like sniffing life.”

  “You say so. All I can breathe is that green fuckin’ water.”

  Charlie Crawford--“Charlie Crawdad” to his friends and “that rotten asshole” to just about everybody else--leaned out the open floor-length window and looked at the flooded street below. The thick, oily river water was at least five feet high now, probably closer to seven or eight. He ran his fingers through his short black curls and shook his head, a smile spreading across his thin lips. When the Ohio spilled her banks, she did it fast and with gusto.

  “I think she’s angry,” he said. He blinked a memory away before returning his attention to the man at his side.

  Jimmy Mills shot a glance at the flooded street. “You mean the river?”

  “I do.”

  “What’s it got to be pissed off about?”

  “Ain’t an ‘it,’ Jimmy. The Ohio’s a ‘she.’ Always has been. If you realized that, maybe you’d know why she’s pissed.”

  “Because chicks are always pissed?”

  “See? That’s why you’re single.”

  “You’re single too, asshole.”

  “Because I choose to be. Folks--especially women--have a habit of getting hurt when they get too close to me.”

  “That so?”

  “In my experience.”

  “You sayin’ I’m gonna get hurt, Charlie?�
��

  “Who knows? We ain’t that close.”

  “You decided to hole up here and wait the flood out.”

  “You’re paying me to make sure your place don’t go all Atlantis on ya. Not exactly the same thing.”

  “Whatever.” Jimmy leaned out the window and spit a long stream of crud into the water below. “So why is she pissed then?”

  Charlie’s smile looked like a block of ice. “Still haven’t figured it out?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “And keep you from learnin’ something? No way in hell. Now come on. Let’s go downstairs and have a look.”

  A shadow of worry crossed Jimmy’s regularly handsome features. It almost matched the shadow cast by his River City Rollerderby cap. “You sure that’s--”

  Charlie slapped him across the back, his smile stretching. “Shit yeah, it’s a good idea! We used grave ash, didn’t we? You and I both know there ain’t shit gonna bust through that.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Probably? I oughta feed you your own ass, you wave probably at me. C’mon, you frightened little bastard. Let’s go downstairs and have a look.”

  Charlie tried not to laugh at the frightened expression Jimmy wore like an especially ugly mask. If the man wanted to piss himself, he didn’t need to be snickered at for it. But hell, if Jimmy was still scared even after he’d brought Charlie in to shore the place up, then getting his panties up in a bunch was the least of the man’s worries.

  The thought did bring a chuckle to Charlie’s lips. If Jimmy had any idea...

  The sound of water scraping against the storefront’s brick reached his ears seconds before his foot touched down on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. Jimmy’s Diner--The Spot--wasn’t much, but it was functional. The ovens hadn’t blown up on anybody, and the grill only burned the hamburgers half the time. Didn’t appear to affect Jimmy’s wallet at all. The Spot did a real crackerjack business, and Charlie seriously doubted any of Jimmy’s regulars would stay away if they saw the state of the cramped kitchen. As long as the food tasted good--which it did through some strange miracle--the fine folks of Sulfer, Indiana probably wouldn’t give a good goddamn.