Resurrection

by Sara Reinke

  He walked toward Charles’ prone form, keeping the gun trained on him. “Stay back, Jay,” he said, as Jay started toward Jo. By now, she was trying to get away from Charles, and struggling desperately against her bonds. “Let me get his gun first.”

  He stood beside Charles’ body and moved to kick the pistol out of Charles’ hand and across the corridor. When Charles’ hand moved, his arm swinging up to level the pistol squarely at Paul’s head, Paul reacted instinctively, jerking back, his own gun arm taking automatic aim. Vicki and Jo screamed in unison, as Jay darted forward to knock Paul out of the way.

  “Paul―look out―!” he screamed, and then both guns fired simultaneously, their resounding blasts overlapping in a deafening crescendo. Jay caught Paul and knocked him sideways, but it was too late. Even as they crashed together to the floor, Jay could feel the humming within his hands, the deep and insistent heat stoking already, and he screamed again. “Paul, no!”

  He sat up, leaning over his brother. Paul blinked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise. His breath wheezed in a long, whistling shudder, and with it came blood, spurting out of his mouth, choking him, spraying across his face. The bullet had caught him in the upper chest, near his heart, lung, and the critical blood vessels that surrounded them. Jay could tell from the sodden sound of his breathing that Paul’s lung was punctured; he could tell from the rhythmic spurts of blood from the wound that his heart was pierced. Now every frantic, desperate beat pushed him closer to death.

  “Paul…!” Jay gasped. He cradled Paul’s face between his hands, shaking his head. “Oh…oh, God, no…!”

  A glance over his shoulder told him why his hands were thrumming so urgently. Charles Toomis was dead, the floor behind and beneath him splattered with the spongy remnants of his brain, and a widening pool of his blood. Jay felt himself being pulled toward Charles’ fallen body; his hands ached to go to him, settle against him.

  “Paul…!” he whimpered helplessly, staring at his brother, aghast. I won’t leave Paul! Christ, no, please, not for this―not for that man! Please, no!

  “Jay…” Paul croaked, his voice little more than strained breath. As he tried to speak, more blood spewed from between his lips, and he choked feebly.

  “I’m not leaving you, Paul,” Jay said, as much to that damnable power within him as to his brother. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

  Even as he spoke, he felt his hands moving of their own accord, abandoning Paul and reaching for Charles Toomis. No! Not this time―not like this! I won’t do it! I won’t! Paul is dying―he needs me! He needs my power!

  But he was helpless against it; he’d always been helpless against the energy searing through his hands, and he turned, crying out hoarsely as he left Paul and crawled toward Charles, kneeling above his body.

  No, God, no, please! he thought, struggling to hold his hands still, to defy the thrumming, wretched urge within them. “Please don’t make me do this!” he screamed.

  He pressed his hands against Charles’ face and his head snapped back, his eyes turning up toward the ceiling.

  He saw Charles’ deathscape, a vivid and violent montage of images flashing through his mind. He saw Charles’ vision of eternal bliss; bloody tools of unimaginable torment, puddles and piles of fetid, congealing meat. The stink of rot filled his nose and horrifying, anguished shrieks resounded in his ears.

  He saw women bound and gagged, suspended by chains from meat hooks He saw them strapped to hospital tables, their feet bound in delivery stirrups, their legs forced apart. He saw them trussed and chained to a seemingly endless number of unfamiliar, terrifying apparatuses and devices, all of them crying out, choking, all of them with enormous, bulbous, nearly grotesque breasts, and all of them faceless. Their heads were smooth globes of flesh broken only by lipless slits for their mouths.

  This is how he sees them, Jay realized, feeling his throat constrict as his gullet wanted to heave. God above, this is how Charles Toomis sees the world―how he saw Jo and Marie…all of those women…! Not as people…not as human beings, but as things…as meat…!

  “I knew you’d come,” he heard Charles say, and he whirled, his feet skittering beneath him on the blood-slickened floor. Naked light bulbs hung from the blood-spattered ceilings, casting ghastly, stark illumination on the grisly scenes surrounding him. He saw Charles standing beneath one bulb, his thick, nude body glistening with sweat and smeared with blood. He was in the process of taking one of the faceless creatures of his deathscape from behind, keeping his hands clasped firmly against the swollen curves of its hips as he drove himself repeatedly, savagely into it. Soft, choked mewls escaped the slit of its mouth with every blow; he’d drawn a leash around its throat in a crude garrote, and with each thrust, he’d jerk the line more tautly, throttling it.

  “I knew you’d come for me,” Charles said, grinning broadly at Jay. He heaved in sudden, explosive release, and as he did, he wrenched back on the leash. The faceless thing thrashed beneath him, choking futilely for breath, and as Charles’ climax subsided, so, too, did its death throes as it strangled. It slumped to a limp, lifeless pile on the floor.

  “You…you sick son of a bitch,” Jay whispered, backpedaling.

  Charles nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said, still smiling. “And you’re going to bring me back.”

  “No,” Jay gasped, shaking his head. He stumbled into one of the faceless things that hung suspended from a meat hook by a pair of wrist manacles; it had been motionless and silent until his touch, but now it began to jerk and wriggle against its chains, its voice escaping in harsh, birdlike caws. Jay cringed, frightened and repulsed, and Charles laughed at him.

  “Yes, you are, Jay. You can’t control it. You can’t stop yourself. It’s what you do.” Charles walked toward him, spreading his arms widely to indicate the endless scenes of horror that surrounded them. “Just like this is what I do.”

  He held out his hand, and Jay―to his dismay―felt himself reaching out instinctively to take it. “No…!” he gasped, but he couldn’t stop. Charles was right; this was what he did. It was beyond his control.

  “I told you, Jay,” Charles said as he hand settled against Jay’s, and his fingers closed firmly. “We’re brothers, you and I. Twin souls―two sides of a coin.”

  Jay stared at Charles’ blood-smeared hand pressed against his own, and his brows furrowed. He looked up, meeting Charles’ gaze, seeing the hateful, sadistic triumph that gleamed in his dark eyes. The corner of Charles’ mouth lifted in a crooked, victorious little smile, and a new heat ― fury ― stoked within Jay.

  “Fuck you, Charles,” he seethed, planting his free hand against Charles’ chest and shoving mightily, sending the larger man back a surprised, stumbling step. He wrenched his hand free of Charles’ grasp and balled his hands into fists. “I’m nothing like you, you sick son of a bitch. And you’re wrong ― I can stop myself. I will.”

  He shoved the heels of his hands against his temples and closed his eyes, his brows furrowed deeply as he struggled with all of his might, as he fought the power within him. “I am not bringing you back!” he screamed, throwing his head back and shrieking the words. “You son of a bitch, it’s my power ― mine! It belongs to me and I’m not bringing you back with it!”

  He sensed a bright flash of light surround him, and felt it strike him like a hurricane-force wind. He jerked, his breath snatched from him, his entire body seized with crushing, crippling pain. He cried out hoarsely, convulsing, and then it was gone. He crumpled forward, catching himself on his hands, gasping for breath.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, tasting blood in his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue as his body had seizured. He opened his eyes warily, spit against the floor and looked up slowly. The hideous deathscape of blood and violence was gone, and he found himself in the hospital basement again, crouched near Charles’ dead body. “Jesus!” he gasped, scuttling back, shoving Charles away from him.

  He heard Paul moan his name softly, feebly, and he whirled
, scrambling back to his brother. He leaned over Paul, catching his face between his hands. “Paul!” he cried. Less than thirty seconds had passed since he’d touched Charles, and no one else had even realized what had just happened.

  “Get…get Vicki out of here,” Paul whispered to him. “Don’t…let her…see me. Don’t let her…see…”

  His eyelids fluttered, drooping closed, and as his breath escaped him in a heavy, lingering sigh, blood peppered Jay’s face. “No!” Jay pleaded, his tears spilling freely. “No, no, I’m not leaving you! I can do this, Paul! I can bring you all of the way back.”

  Paul lay still, his chest falling motionless. As his life waned, Jay felt the energy within his hands stoke a thousandfold, and he wept, leaning toward his brother’s face, speaking against Paul’s ear as he died. “I’m with you,” he gasped. “I’m right behind you, Paul. Please don’t be scared. I’m right behind you. I can do―”

  And then the light struck him again, slamming into him with all of the brutal force of a runaway train. It crushed the breath from him, wrenching his head back and forcing his voice from him in a helpless, agonized shriek. The light swallowed the world, blinding him, searing through his mind and he fainted.

  * * *

  Everyone’s deathscape was different. That was one thing that always surprised Jay. As a child, he was raised to believe that heaven was some wondrous, golden place where the souls of the good gathered after death, and basked in the warm glow of God’s eternal peace and love.

  But in reality, death was different for everybody. To Danny Thomas, it had been a world filled with downy clouds, just like heaven was portrayed in cartoons and movies. Danny had been a child and hadn’t known enough to imagine any more than this. To Eileen O’Connell, Jay’s high school friend, heaven had been a broad meadow surrounded by an autumnal forest, with a mirror-smooth lake in the middle to catch the fading golden rays of sunlight at dusk. Jay had recognized the place―Squire’s Pond, near her family’s farm. And he’d known just where to find her ― sitting in the low-hanging branch of a crooked oak tree overlooking the water, just where he’d always found her in life. Jo had envisioned an endless bed, the perfect diversion for a woman who had otherwise known little comfort or freedom from stress in her life. Charles Toomis’, of course, had been a place of endless misery and atrocity.

  And when Paul died, Jay found himself standing in the side yard of his parents’ farm in Barnham, Kansas, the place where he and Paul had grown up. The ground was covered with a blanket of snow a good four inches deep, and the sky was painted a pale shade of grey almost to match. Paul had loved the winter, and the escape from school that had come with snow days in childhood.

  Jay caught the sweet fragrance of wood smoke in the wind and canted his face back. He watched smoke curl in soft, spiraling tendrils from the farmhouse’s chimney. The air was bitterly cold, stinging his face, and he blinked up at the sky, momentarily frozen with poignant, fond memories of this place, this season.

  He could see the twinkling, multicolored lights from the Christmas tree in the front window as he walked up onto the porch. He stomped his feet and opened the screen door, listening to it squall on its hinges like an out-of-tune fiddle. No matter how often or how fervently his father had oiled that door, it squawked when it opened ― just like no matter how often or furiously their mother had chastised Paul and Jay, the door always slammed with a sharp report when it closed.

  Jay opened the front door and walked into his house. Warmth immediately pressed against his face; the aroma of cooked sausage filled his nose. He could hear clattering from the kitchen, and followed the sounds. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to find his mother at the sink, elbow-deep in sudsy water, cleaning up breakfast dishes.

  Their German Shepherd, Bowzer, didn’t even look up from its bowl as Jay approached. Jay could hear it munching noisily on whatever breakfast leftovers his mother had awarded it. There was no sign of Paul at all, and Jay stood quietly by the stove, looking at his mother, tears flooding his eyes and choking his throat.

  It had been three years since Dolores Frances had died, and yet she stood there washing dishes, as youthful and alive as she’d ever been. Her greying blond hair was pinned back behind her ears to keep the curls from drooping into her face. The sleeves to her lilac-colored cardigan sweater were turned back above her elbows to prevent them from getting wet. She glanced over at Jay and smiled at him. “There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep until noon. Well, you’re too late for eggs and sausage, young man, but I can fix you some toast, if you’d like. Sit down.”

  She had died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine. Jay hadn’t wanted to go to the visitation; he’d been terrified of being so near to his mother’s body, but Lucy hadn’t understood. Lucy hadn’t known about his power, and she’d shamed him into going.

  “Your poor father is just brokenhearted, Jay,” she’d told him in a conversation that was eerily prophetic. “He’s lost his wife―how would you feel in his place? His entire world is gone. He needs you there.”

  Jay had spent the entire visitation in the corridors of the funeral home, unable to approach the viewing gallery. His hands had tingled the entire time, despite this effort at distance, and he’d busied himself by holding the then-two-year-old Emma, bouncing her in his embrace and helping her explore the quiet corners and stately receiving rooms of the funeral home.

  When the visitation was over, he’d thought himself safe. He’d waited while his wife, along with Paul and Vicki, met with the funeral home director to discuss the final arrangements. His father, long since overcome with grief, had already left for the evening.

  Jay had walked too close to the viewing room, and the heat in his hands had stirred. He’d been helpless against it. Even with his daughter in his arms, he’d been drawn toward the casket, an unwilling marionette powerless against the command of a cruel puppeteer. He’d tried to stop himself, just as he always had, but it had never worked before ― or since, for that matter ― and it hadn’t worked that day. He’d balanced Emma against his hip and looked down into the casket at his mother’s waxen, painted face. He’d reached out with one trembling hand, whispering out loud in a desperate, futile plea. “Please, God, no. Please, no…please…”

  He’d touched his mother, but there had been nothing to restore. Her body had remained, but she’d already been embalmed. There was no blood left, no vital tissues to renew. He’d touched her and stumbled back as the light had struck, and something within his mother’s corpse was reignited, if only for a moment. Her eyes had opened, the wax seals holding them closed breaking audibly, and she’d tried to open her mouth. Her lips had been sewn together discreetly, as was customary, so nothing had escaped but a muffled, mewling sound. Her hand had darted up and out of the casket, closing against Emma’s soft, plump wrist. His mother had heaved, bucking momentarily, violently in the casket, while her eyes rolled about in her skull and her voice squealed out of her sealed lips.

  It couldn’t have lasted long, no more than thirty seconds. Nothing could have lived with only embalming fluid and preservatives within it. But there had been impossible strength in her icy grasp, and it had left bruises on Emma’s arm. The baby had screamed in fright and pain, and her piteous wails had been enough to snap Jay out of his stupor. He’d stumbled back, wrenching Emma away from his mother’s grip, his eyes flown wide in horror. He’d clutched the shrieking girl against him, watching, aghast, as his mother continued to struggle in her casket, her strangled cries fading as her strength waned. At last, she’d fallen still, whatever life he’d restored within her gone once more, and Jay had turned, rushing from the room only seconds before his lunch of consolatory casseroles and too much red wine had come spewing up from his belly.

  Dolores’ brows lifted gently, as if she knew what Jay was thinking, what horrific memories had suddenly twisted his face with angst. “Never you mind about that,” she said, patting her hands dry on a towel. She brushed the cuff of
her knuckles against Jay’s cheek and canted her head, trying to draw his gaze. “It’s ancient history and long-forgotten.”

  In the fleeting moment he had touched her in the funeral home, Jay had been able to see his mother’s version of heaven. It had been this house, this place ― this room. Her heaven had been her home.

  He blinked at her, his tears spilling. “Mom…” he whispered, trembling. She went to him, drawing him against her, and he wept against her shoulder, clutching at her. “Mom, I’m sorry!” he gasped against her sleeve. “I…I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry!”

  “Hush now,” Dolores whispered, stroking her hand against his hair. “I don’t want you to worry about it anymore. There was no harm done to anyone.”

  She stepped back from him, taking his face between her hands. She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him, pressing her lips against his brow. “I know you can’t stay,” she said. “I know why you’re here, Jay.”

  He nodded, still trembling, his breath hitching. Dolores turned, walking away from him, heading for the kitchen door. “He’s under the sink, in your old comic-book place,” she said. The dog, Bowzer, moved as if on unspoken cue, abandoning the breakfast scraps and padding after her into the dining room.

  Jay stood in front of the sink for a long moment. How many countless hours had he and Paul spent in that oversized cabinet, with shoulders hunched and knees drawn towards their chests, an old flashlight propped against the pipes so they could read?

  He squatted, folding his legs beneath him, and opened the cabinet door. “Hey,” he said.

  Paul glanced at him. In this, his deathscape, he was a young boy again, no more than ten or eleven years old. “I’m reading here,” he said, his brows narrowed slightly. He reached out, snatching the cabinet door and moving to swing it closed again. “Wait your turn, dirt monkey.”

  “Paul,” Jay said, catching the door, staying it with his hand. “I need you to come back with me.”