Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  ‘But look on the bright side,’ said a familiar voice in her head. ‘You’ll get to wear that lovely dress forever in the afterlife.’

  “Brian!”

  He appeared in front of her. A black husk with white shining teeth and eyes and ... was he naked?

  “Where’s your clothes?”

  “What?” said Brian, looking down. “Oh, they must have burned off.”

  He looked like a lava-grilled stripogram beamed straight out of Pompeii’s red light district.

  “Where have you been? Are we safe? Get me out of this chair.”

  He bent down to untie her, grimacing slightly and ... was that a hole? She caught a flash of daylight – three flashes of daylight! – as his chest passed in front of the door.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked. The area around the three holes were streaked with purple and appeared to be weeping. “I can see right through you.”

  “It’s nothing. I can either absorb bullets, or let them pass straight through. Think of it as extreme body piercing.”

  He started picking at the knot securing her wrists. “And don’t worry. We’re safe. For the moment. There’s one little thing we need to do then we can go home.”

  “What little thing?”

  “A small little thing.”

  He was infuriating! But at least he’d untied her hands. She flexed her shoulders, rubbed her wrists and inspected the raw red line the cord had left.

  “Did you find out if Abbiati’s a demon?” she asked.

  Brian shrugged. “That’s one of the small little things we’ve got to do next.”

  “What? No! I’m not going near Abbiati again. I’d rather stay here!”

  “Don’t worry.” He pulled and picked at the knot securing her legs. “Abbiati’s not going to be around. He’s um ... experiencing the insurance protection industry from the client’s perspective. He’ll be too busy dealing with that.”

  The cords around her legs loosened at last. She staggered to her feet, massaging life into her thighs, brushing the dust from her hideous dress, inspecting her over-the-top hair for singed ends.

  “You are going to tell me where’ve you been and what happened?” asked Brenda.

  “As soon as we get this last job done. It’s time-critical and there’s a lot to tell. Now grab hold.”

  He held out a blackened stick with fingers on the end. Brenda hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to grab hold of. His hand looked like it’d snap and his skin ... she wasn’t sure if it would flake or smear. And if she got some on her clothes would it still be part of him? A little shapeshifting remnant that she might never get rid of?

  “Come on,” urged Brian. “There really isn’t much time.”

  “That him?” asked the ghost, nodding a spectral head towards Brian. “I’d’ve stayed with the rats.”

  She had a point. But Brenda was a crime fighter and crime fighters had to grab hold of black flaky things now and then. It was in their job description.

  She held out a tentative hand and let Brian grab it. His fingers felt remarkably strong. Then the warehouse blurred to grey dust...

  Chapter Sixteen

  The grey dust picked up streaks of blues and blurring browns and greens as they raced across town. Brenda felt dizzy and disorientated. And then hot. They materialized in a burning room. A study by the look of it. A paneled wall was on fire. Part of the ceiling too. Smoldering flakes floated down from above. Smoke seeped under the closed door.

  “Oh God, this isn’t Hell, is it?”

  Had Brian taken her to his home?

  “Don’t be silly, Brenda. We don’t have flammable furnishings in Hell.”

  He hurried to the window and sneaked a look outside. “This is Abbiati’s study. We’re here to search the place before the fire department – or anyone else – gets here. Can’t see anyone yet. So get searching.”

  “What for?”

  He turned away from the window. “Anything unusual or incriminating. That computer will do for a start. Any address books, medical files, a nice gleaming safe.”

  “Medical files?”

  “Especially medical files. I want to see if Abbiati had any medical procedures in the last ten years.”

  She was about to ask why when his voice sounded inside her head.

  ‘No time to explain. Someone very nasty could arrive any minute.’

  “Who?”

  “Could you start looking?” He tapped his left wrist where a slight lump was all that remained of his watch. “You might not have noticed, but the room’s on fire.”

  Brenda gave him a hard stare. And then noticed something smoldering float past her face. She jumped back, then glanced up to see a flame shoot out from the burning wall behind her and lick across the ceiling directly overhead. The desk on the far side of the room suddenly seemed a much safer place to be.

  She picked her way across the room to the desk, ducking and dodging, while Brian moved along the walls, looking behind paintings and tapping his feet on the floor. She’d disconnect the computer and search the desk.

  “Found it,” said Brian.

  Brenda glanced over. He’d found a wall safe behind a square of paneling. He swayed in front of it. Which looked ... odd. Was he conjuring some kind of opening spell? He almost fell over, throwing out a hand to grab the wall just as it looked certain he would topple sideways.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’ve felt better. Keep looking. There’s not much time.”

  She continued disconnecting leads from the desktop computer, glancing over at Brian whenever she could. There was definitely something wrong. He wasn’t using his left hand. His arm just hung there. And the way he was standing – at times he looked hunched.

  “I’m fine,” said Brian, his voice sounding far from fine – tired and tetchy. “Just search the desk.”

  Brenda obeyed. Was this what he was like when he’d performed too much magic?

  She pulled the top right-hand drawer of the desk open and began to rifle through it. Pens, business cards, scraps of paper, elastic bands and paper clips. She flicked through cards, speed read the papers. Nothing interesting from what she could see. She moved to the next drawer.

  Magazines and correspondence. She went through them as fast as she could, rarely reading more than an opening sentence or a title before throwing them aside. She could smell smoke and the fire was spreading – spitting, crackling sounds coming from the burning paneling along one wall. And other sounds – muffled crashes and bangs – from the rest of the house.

  Brian was staring at the wall safe, his right hand pressed against its door. His head glistened like lacquered metal – whether by effort from his task, illness, or heat from the fire she couldn’t tell.

  A siren sounded in the distance.

  Brenda pulled out the next drawer and the next, setting them on the desktop. She emptied the larger of the two, throwing the contents out. They could use it as a box to carry stuff back with them. If Brian was strong enough to carry it.

  She shot him another look. He’d barely moved and his eyes were closed. And the smoke was getting thicker.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! She sped up her search, barely looking at papers and envelopes before throwing them into the keep or discard pile. No medical files. No correspondence from doctors or hospitals. Maybe he kept them elsewhere?

  She ran her eyes around the room. The smoke was pouring in from around the door. That whole area was a cloud of fog.

  “Done it,” said Brian. There was barely any triumph in his voice. He had the safe door open. He was reaching inside. The ceiling above him was ablaze.

  “Hurry up!” shouted Brenda. “Grab what you can and let’s go.”

  He didn’t answer. He was sifting through the material one-handed. Come on, Brian!

  Outside, the sirens were getting louder. She picked up her keep drawer and ran towards him. “Throw it all in here.”

  She tried to push him aside, but he wouldn’t budge. But he did s
tart shoveling the contents into the drawer she’d jammed between them. Lots of large brown envelopes, folders, a gun and stacks of money. Her eyes went from the gun to the bundles of bills. There had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe a million. She felt excited and dirty at the same time.

  “I’ve got this,” said Brian. “Help me tuck it under my right arm, then grab the computer.”

  A shred of burning flotsam landed in the drawer. She hooked it out, using an envelope, then pulled the drawer away from Brian. “Come on,” she urged. “It’s safer over here.”

  She hurried back to the desk, coughing. Smoke was everywhere now and she was sure her hair was burning. Brian staggered against her. She gave him the drawer, helped him tuck it under his right arm, then turned and grabbed the computer.

  “Put my left hand on your shoulder,” said Brian.

  She looked at his left arm hanging limp by his side. How was he going to teleport them through space when he couldn’t even lift his own arm?

  “We can leave this stuff behind,” she said. “It’s not important–”

  He cut her off. “Just do it.”

  She grabbed his left hand and placed it on her shoulder, holding it there. Now go!

  Something major exploded in the house. The door and windows shook. Smoke stung her eyes and throat.

  “Come on, Brian! Now!”

  The room blurred, then sharpened again. She wasn’t sure if it was Brian or her eyes. Come on, come on! A siren wailed nearby. Wood crackled and spat. Smoke billowed. She held her breath. Everything turning white, then grey, then white again.

  The featureless white dissolved into greens and blues. They were outside, floating slowly across a lawn. The house was behind them, flames licking from upstairs windows and the roof. Two fire engines were racing up a long drive. And then gone – blurred into a visual soup as they picked up speed, the greens and blues blending together in a streaky mess. Seconds passed. Brian’s eyes were closing. His head dropping forward...

  “Brian!” she shouted, but no sound came out. She was in a silent noiseless bubble shooting across country. Or into space. Or God knows where. Was Brian in control any more?

  ‘Brian!’ She formed the word in her mind and fired the thought at his sinking head. ‘Are you all right? Wake up! Brian!’

  No answer. No eye flickering open. He was slumping forward. She squeezed his hand, pushed her left elbow forward to support his chest then...

  They materialized. Brian started to fall sideways. She tried to grab him, but she had the computer under one arm. He fell, dropping the drawer and spilling its contents.

  It was only then that Brenda became aware of her surroundings. They were by the side of a long, straight road. Cornfields stretched for miles in all directions. Not a car, not a person in sight. Wherever they were it wasn’t home.

  o0o

  Two men stood under a stand of ornamental maples watching the fire trucks arrive at Abbiati’s burning home. They were alone and unobserved, a quarter of a mile from the house at the edge of the grounds.

  “I see what you mean,” said one to the other. “We have a problem.”

  The air around the two men shimmered, then both figures disappeared.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brenda swept the horizon. It could be Ohio. There was corn. Acres and acres of it. But, equally, it could be anywhere in the Midwest. Or the Steppes for that matter. She didn’t recognize a thing. She was miles from anywhere, and lost.

  She knelt next to Brian. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. Should she feel for a pulse? Would he have a pulse? She didn’t even know if he breathed.

  She watched his chest, looking for a rise and fall. If there was any movement, she couldn’t see it.

  She grabbed his wrist, felt for a pulse – nothing – peeled an eyelid back...

  Dead eyes stared back. She held the palm of her hand over his nose. Was that breath? Something tickled at her palm. She looked around for a mirror, a cold surface, a feather. Something to prove he was breathing.

  She looked further afield, combing the grass verge that ran between the road and the corn. And found a feather. She held it against Brian’s nose and watched. The feather moved. Not much, but every six seconds or so, it moved. Something in there was breathing.

  But for how long? He had three holes in his chest. One where his lungs should be. She leant over his chest and looked closer. There was no blood – red, green, or any color. Nothing was seeping out. The wound looked clean. Horrible, tinged with reds and purples, but clean. For all she knew, he was healing fine and the real problem was overexertion through too much magic. He might sleep for a few hours, then wake up perfectly restored.

  Or he might die in the next minute.

  She growled in frustration. Why hadn’t he prepared her for this? If he was hurt, he could have said, and given her instructions.

  She narrowed her eyes and gave him a long hard look. Could he be faking? Another test to see how she coped under stress?

  She sighed long and hard. And to make matters worse, she really needed to pee.

  She cast a furtive eye up and down the road. Not a car, not a house, not a person in sight. She looked at Brian. Gave him a poke. Waved her hands in front of his eyes. Well...

  She walked off to find a spot, stopped, took another look at Brian, then ran back and turned his head away. Thinking that might not be enough, she put a large manila envelope on his face. Satisfied that her modesty had been afforded an adequate level of protection, she stood up, gave the road another horizon to horizon peer ... then knelt down to rummage through the drawer for a non-important piece of paper or two.

  Now all I need is for a car to drive by while I’m in mid-squat. Look, mommy, there’s a dead body and a lady peeing. How many points do I get for that?

  Luckily, no points had to be awarded. But that was about as lucky as Brenda felt. She had no phone, and she was in the middle of nowhere with a char-grilled Brian. How was she supposed to get them back home? Stand by the road and dazzle drivers with her radioactive lobster dress? Wait for them to crash into the cornfield, then steal their car while they lay unconscious?

  She took the manila envelope from Brian’s face. Who in their right mind would stop to give the pair of them a lift? One look at Brian and they’d either drive off, or insist on calling the police or an ambulance.

  Of course there was the gun ... and the money. The inner Brenda came spluttering to life. Are you mad? You can’t hold up a car? Where are they going to drop you? Outside your home? Or are you going to take their car and leave them here so they can flag down the next car that comes along and call the police?

  She had a point. And if the police found her, how would she explain Brian and the gun and the million dollars? If the money wasn’t hot, the gun would be. Why else would Abbiati keep it in his safe? It was probably used in a murder and Abbiati was either hiding it, or holding it for leverage against the murderer. Neither possibility would do Brenda any good. She’d be in possession of a murder weapon!

  She heard a car in the distance.

  Panic. She had to get Brian out of sight which meant ... the cornfield! She grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him in – one row, three rows, seven rows deep. Was that far enough? She ducked down. And remembered the computer and drawer full of money. If a driver saw that by the roadside they might stop.

  She ran out. The car was visible now, a quarter of a mile away and closing. She knelt down and scrabbled at the envelopes and papers, the money and the gun, stuffing them back into the drawer and resting the computer on top. It was heavy and awkward, but she picked it up and hurried back into the corn, keeping as low as she could. She reached Brian and dropped down even lower, keeping her back to the road and her head tucked in. The car drove past. Then slowed. Shit! Shit! Shit! The driver had to have seen her. It was a straight road in the middle of nowhere and her dress was so bright it could be seen from outer space. Even if they drove off now, they might come back late
r to look. Or tell a friend.

  The car stopped. She couldn’t see it, but it had to be forty, fifty yards away. If it began to reverse...

  She had to act quickly. She couldn’t let anyone see Brian. Or the gun. Or the money.

  A car door opened.

  Brenda took a deep breath. What if the driver was a cop? Or a felon. She had to have a story...

  And she’d need money. She took the computer off the drawer and placed it carefully on the ground. Then grabbed a large manila envelope and emptied its contents into the drawer. That should do. It was large enough to take a stack of bills without drawing too much attention. She stuffed forty, fifty, sixty thousand dollars inside. Then stood up, brushed herself down, patted her hair, and stepped out of the corn.

  The driver was middle-aged, short and squat with a red weather-beaten face. He was wearing overalls and driving a pick-up. Probably a farmer, thought Brenda. Followed by a more worrying thought. Maybe the farmer who owned the cornfield she’d just walked out of.

  “Are you all right?” he called.

  Brenda slipped into character, while putting as much distance and corn between her and Brian as she could without breaking into a run. She bit her lip and clutched nervously at her envelope.

  “Not really. I had an argument with my boyfriend and he pulled over and left me here.” She let her bottom lip quiver. “I thought you might be him, so I hid.”

  “He left you here?” He looked up and down the road. “To walk home by yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.” Brenda sniffed back a tear. “He ... he gets angry very easy. I don’t ... I don’t even know where I am. He’s been gone thirty minutes.”

  She lowered her head and had a stab at crying.

  “I can drop you off at the next town if it’s any help,” he asked.

  “Could you?” she said, raising her head and pitching a brave smile.

  “Of course.” He smiled too. A fatherly smile. Brenda had her lift.

  Now all she had to do was figure out what she was going to do when she reached town. Look for a phone? Who would she call? Not her family. They’d ask too many questions. Even if they did drive across two states to collect her, how would she explain the new nose, boobs and hair?