Wake the Wicked

by Christian Baloga

  At that moment, Quentin's legs gave out and he toppled over. The excess liquid battered his face, burning him like acid. He coughed and spat up brown phlegm. His insides sizzled and churned with resentful fury.

  A moment later, Quentin heard the click and churn of metal, then a long squeak of a door. He was too weak to move, his eyes too burned to open, and his throat too sore to speak.

  He felt a chilling breeze flow over his raw skin and a worried voice spoke to him, "We need to flush you out, okay baby?"

  It was Trish. Must think I was poisoned, Quentin thought, unable to react.

  She fumbled through the cabinets, trying to remain calm. She knocked aside a glass cup. It shattered across the counter. She tried again, this time snatching up a tall plastic cup. She filled it to the brim and poured it into Quentin's sore mouth. He choked. Water bubbled and gushed out his mouth, yet she continued pouring one glass after another down his mouth.

  After a couple of minutes, Quentin regained sight, but was still unable to speak. Firm hands opened his mouth and forced in another river of choking water. Trish's gray pantsuit was drenched from the splashing water and her hair went from a neat ponytail to a wiry mess.

  Once Quentin mustered enough energy, he raised a hand to block his aching mouth. "You're going to pull through, don't worry, baby," she said, knocking his hand aside. She flooded him with more water.

  The burning in his throat and mouth returned in wrathful spurts, and a moment later he threw up a pool of vomit. He wiggled his feet and legs. And once he had enough strength, Trish guided him to the door.

  Her chubby hands were warm, and he watched thick pulsing veins wiggle like earthworms under her dark skin, taunting him. She nudged him forward, but he paused. He was thirsty.

  "What're you doing? We're going to the hospital," she said, trying to push him forward.

  Quentin's thirst prevailed, and he hustled her down to the ground by the neck. She wrapped her arms around him in an attempt to stabilize the fall, but instead his thorny back pierced her bare skin and she released. Her head cracked off the floor.

  No sooner did he lower in on Trish with her arms pinned to the floor, bony hands latched onto his back and wrestled him to the floor.

  Quentin snapped out of his altered state of consciousness at once and saw Rennin hovering over him on all fours.

  She was alive!

  “You left me for dead,” Rennin said in miserable tone. “How could you?”

  Trish sat up. “What the hell’s going on?” she asked, massaging the back of her head with her right hand.

  “That your wife?” Rennin nodded toward Trish. “So, did you tell her?”

  “Tell me what?” Trish fumbled to her knees.

  Quentin looked down, ashamed.

  “Quentin, are you listening to me?” Trish waved both hands in the air as if signaling for a taxi.

  “He’s been smoking dope and drilling his dick in me while you were gone,” Rennin said with a tone of excitement.

  Quentin pushed Rennin off. Her frail body slid across the wet floor.

  “What?” Trish asked. She began to laugh. “Quentin, this true?”

  Quentin caught sight of his skin. It was no longer tinted green. He looked at the floor where thorns were scattered like spilled coffee beans. He brushed his hands through his hair. Wilted tendrils stuck to his hands.

  The concoction had worked!

  “Guess this makes things easier for me,” Trish said to Rennin, then turned to Quentin. “I wasn’t on a business trip.” She paused. “I was with Jim.”

  END

  Raga Bones

  "Mom, doesn't it feel like she's dead?" I say, sifting through my sister's wooden toy trunk. It's compressed with stuffed animals, bringing me back to childhood, when I'd rip off their heads and hang them on a string over my sister's sleeping eyes and wake her by playing an old music box. I loved watching her waking reaction from inside the closet.

  "Klaudia," mom scolded. "Don't say things like that."

  Tickled pink from getting that kind of reaction, I smile and dust off a stuffed lamb, stained with brown filth. By accident, I inhale the dust and let out a walloping sneeze. "You sure she doesn't want any of this stuff?" I ask my mom, who's busy sifting through a box of grade-school art projects.

  "Jools said throw it all out. Doesn't miss any of it. Probably forgets half of it anyhow." She pauses to think. "She's been in Maine for what . . . five years now?"

  "True. It's time to get rid of it," I say. "Anyway, you deserve that sewing room in here that you've always wanted. It's well overdue." I begin chucking the toys away as quickly as I can into a black garbage bag beside me.

  "Agreed," mom says, knocking over a pink perfume bottle. She flinches out her hands, but she's too slow. It pops against her knuckles and smashes to a hundred pieces on the floor. An overbearing fog of sweet baby powder and alcohol takes over the tiny room within seconds.

  "Mom," I pause, curiously lifting a tattered brown doll that had been tucked away at the bottom of the wooden trunk. I brought it closer. I could smell, despite the perfume, a stench of cheesy vomit. Hair made out of kinky twine stuck out of its head like sun-baked straw, handmade for sure. "Did Jools sew this?" I ask, rubbing two fingers carefully over a single glass bead attached to the grubby head, like a hair clip.

  "Might have. Never saw it before. Poor thing looks like it survived a mud slide." She pushes up her glasses and leans in closer. "That's mold. Klaudia, please throw that away before we catch something."

  I open the plastic bag, waiting until she turns, and place it off to the side, shielding it behind the trunk, beyond my mother’s sight. My phone vibrates inside my pocket. I look at the caller ID. It's Wade. Shit, I'm hanging out with him today. I ignore the call, immediately sneaking the doll into my floppy hobo bag. "Buh bye," I say reluctantly, taking a stand. I lean over and give mom a peck on the cheek. "Love ya."

  "Leaving already?" she asks, picking up shards of blue glass in one hand and placing them in the palm of her other.

  "Yeah, sorry, I forgot I'm meeting Wade and a couple friends at the lake. They're all waiting for me. I'll come back tomorrow and clean this room up."

  I don't feel good about leaving mom, but I already made a promise to Wade. A beep sounds from within my pocket, alerting me of a voicemail.

  With growing repugnance, mom curls her upper lip and mutters, "Wade . . ."

  Sometimes I think she forgets I can make my own decisions now. I still live at home, but I'm 23, not two or three. I don't want to argue with her. I already know, she hates the guy. I've heard it over and over, he's a drug-dealing pervert from Assland. Ashland: a close-by hick town where it's rumored they all fuck sheep and inbreeding is a regular community activity. Besides, he sells pot, which I don't even consider a drug. Mom's old school.

  I leave the room before she could toss anymore disgruntled sighs of disappointment at me and hightail it to my car, a gray hunk of dull metal with wobbly wheels and a horde of paper air fresheners that dangle from the rearview mirror. Vanilla, clean linen, green apple, forest fresh, ocean breeze, strawberry, midnight storm . . . When the scents collide, they give off the stench of a flower garden surrounded by fresh garbage.

  * * *

  I drive past a hand-painted wooden sign, one I've read a million times: “Welcome to Ashland: A small village with a big ol' heart.”

  The slogan is true. I've never met an unfriendly person from Assland, but by far, Wade is my favorite. He went to high school with Jools. They’d hung out with much of the same people. But after graduation, they all drifted apart. A few left the area for work, others moved away to college, like my sister, and the rest either overdosed or live at local bars, except for Wade. He didn't do drugs or go to college or move away for work.

  I look back and think about how different my sister is from that group. She's an overachiever with a high paying city job, she likes to read textbooks for pleasure, and her house looks like it should be featured in one of
those homes and gardens magazines. She's nothing like the rest of them.

  And I don't know how it happened, maybe it was fate, but Wade and I gravitated toward each other after she left.

  All this reminiscing about Wade muffles my concentration and I plow over a thick tree limb. I swerve. My bag whacks against the back of the passenger's side seat and for a brief second, I hear the release of disembodied mumbling echoing off every corner of the car. I swerve off the road, trekking through loose gravel.

  Once stopped, I check the rear view mirror, then the side mirrors. My car shouldn’t be making noises. It was inspected last month when I got the engine repaired. I hate cars and wish the damn thing would blow up already. I twist back around and continue the drive.

  Before long, my frontal sinuses begin to vibrate into spasm and I become dizzy. I tighten my fingers into a fist, and with a few swift whacks to the head, the spasm goes away and I feel better. At times, when the air freshener scents combine into that pungent odor, it worms its way into my nasal cavity and begins hacking away at my brain. At least, that's what I imagine goes on. I open the window.

  Stones from the dirt road ping against my car as I near the lake. Streaks of thick cloud begin to veil the summer sun and the twinkling water changes to a stagnant sheet of silvery glass. I park near the boat dock, tuck away my cell under the seat and get out. The moment I open my bag to throw in my keys, an odor of vomit finds its way into my nostrils. I reach into the open car window and remove a teddy bear shaped freshener that smells like black licorice. I wrap its elastic string around the doll’s head, throw it back into my purse, and head to the dock, where an anchored boat sways, waiting for me.

  Other than Wade, I don't recognize the other four gazing up at me in the boat. With a quick wave, he invites me to jump in. They each toss me an emotionless nod after he calls out their names for a quick introduction. They all wear sunglasses, which probably shields irritated eyes. "Sorry I'm late." I already forget their names.

  I hop into the boat. It rocks, startling a girl across from me wearing a brown bikini. She grabs a guy next to her wearing a garish silver necklace. She groans. Wade finishes off a bottle of beer and tosses me a full one. I take a seat at the back, next to a shirtless guy sporting a full sleeve of tattoos.

  Without warning, a grumbling sound of a ferocious engine pounds against the lake’s surface. Wade presses the gas pedal to the floor. We all jerk back.

  Bikini girl loses her grip on necklace guy and topples down to the deck, knocking out one of her sunglass lenses on my knee. I bite my lip, trying hard not to laugh.

  I hold out a hand as she struggles to get up. She ignores me. "Alright then . . ."

  Every aimless twist and turn leads us through the lake. Cold drops of water spit at me from every angle. Again and again, Wade turns back. His bloodshot gaze checks on us, making sure we're having fun. I return a smile, wishing it was just him and me on the boat.

  Over the engine's roar, I hear a sharp mumbling, like the one I heard while driving. Tattoo guy shoots me back a look. Did he hear it, too?

  "Hey," I say, pretending I didn't hear a thing.

  "Sup?" he asks and turns back toward me as the boat makes a sharp left turn.

  We all hold on to whatever we can. Wade's deep laugh makes me laugh and I take a sip of the warm beer.

  "Who wants to go on the tube first?" Wade asks, taking his foot off the gas.

  After waiting, I break the silence. "I'll go."

  "You even bring a bathing suit?" silver necklace guy asks.

  "Nope, but I've got these." I lift my shirt, showing off a purple and black lace bra with ribbon trim. He grins.

  "You're joking," the bitch next to him says with one eyebrow raised way too high to be acceptable.

  I don't answer her and take off my shirt. I look much hotter than she does in her shit brown bikini. I'm happy I wore this little number today. Although I forgot about meeting here at the boat launch, my gut told me this morning that I'd see Wade today. A girl can never be too prepared.

  I bet my freckles also look cute in the summer sun.

  The boat comes to a standstill. I slip off my tight jeans and throw a towable water tube in the lake. The tube is attached to a twisted heap of thick yellow rope which is tied to the back of the boat. Necklace guy untangles the yellow rope and tosses it into the water. Tattoo guy is now facing my direction. Silly what you have to do to get people to be amicable.

  I hop over the side of the boat and into the tube. The water is ice cold.

  Wade stares at me, lost in a drunken stupor. I lie on my front. And now, with my back exposed, I raise my butt a little higher to give it that extra oomph. I push off the side of the boat and give a thumbs up as I drift away.

  "Let's go," bikini girl yells to Wade. "She's ready."

  Wade juts back, nearly slipping off the captain's stool. He smiles, giving me two thumbs up. I lock a tight hold around the tube's thick handles. As the boat creeps forward, the tube stretches and I wonder when it was inflated last.

  As we pick up speed, icy water smoothes over my body, numbing my extremities. Although I'm a good distance from the boat, I can still see everybody checking me out. I take a quick look back; my tan ass is showing. Well, I hope they like it because I’m not letting go of these handles.

  Bikini girl reaches over to the other side of the boat, where I was seated. Wade makes a u-turn and I can see the girl take something out of my purse.

  "Hey, what the fuck," I yell, but nobody seems to hear me over the engine. Bikini girl says something to the others, but I can't hear a thing and I'm too far away to read her lips. The three in back hover close. It’s like they forgot I can see them.

  I don’t have much in the bag; bubblegum, a couple dollars, tissues, makeup. And that doll. "Fucking rude," I yell, but they pay no attention.

  By now, Wade must be going 40 mph, and at this speed, the water slaps my face, nearly blinding me. I gasp for air, but cold water fills my mouth. “Stop,” I yell, but they don't seem to hear me. And I can no longer see them through the furious wall of lunging water between us.

  A high-pitched screech tears through the sound of the engine, through the relentless punches of water, and into my waterlogged ears.

  For a moment, I see bikini girl throw an object out into the water. Then, without warning, I hear a thunderous boom and, moments later, the tube slows to a drifting nod. Water smoothes over my extremities and I no longer feel like I'm losing a battle with the lake. My vision trembles and I feel dizzy.

  I wipe the water from my stinging eyes. I can see, although now I wish I was blind.

  About fifty yards away, what was moments ago a racing motorboat filled with boozing youth now thrashes against a lone wooden dock, its white underbelly exposed, no one in sight.

  My first and only concern is Wade. I roll off the tube and swim toward the capsized boat. Two bodies splash to the surface, then a third. They all seem to be gasping for as much air as their lungs could hold. None of them are Wade.

  I pass them by and clamp onto the wooden dock. I try to catch my breath. My lungs hurt.

  Then, something grabs my leg. My fingers clench down on the dry wood. Splinters tear away at my skin. I scream as my body takes a dip in water.

  Before noticing I was set free, I feel a sudden splash of water erupt from behind. I haul myself up on the rickety dock and tumble head first onto the wooden planks. I hear a gasp for air, then a deep voice.

  "Klaud!"

  Wade desperately reaches for me. He coughs up a glug of water. I grab his arm and pull him up next to me. A mixture of blood and water flows from a bloody gash on his right leg, reminding me of a crimson streak of lightning. We lie on the dock, trying to settle our thumping hearts, shivering as the breeze wafts against our wet bodies.

  "I, I’m sorry," he stutters. "You okay?"

  I nod. "What the hell happened?"

  "I heard a scream, so I looked back, thought it was you, but it was wasn't. And then we flip
ped the boat and cr—"

  Before he could finish, footsteps, trudging on loose planks from behind, interrupt.

  "I screamed then," bikini girl says to necklace guy with her arms crossed. "I pricked my hand on something."

  "You guys o-okay?" Wade asks, lifting himself up.

  I interrupt, "What did you prick yourself on?" Could it be something from my bag? I want her to admit she was rummaging through it.

  Without hesitation, she looks at me straight in the eyes and explains, "That doll. We bumped over a wave and it fell outta your bag and I picked it up to put it back and something stabbed me, so I threw it out. I didn't mean to. It was my reaction."

  Liar! I remember seeing them all rummaging through it. It doesn't matter now anyway. That bag is somewhere bobbing along the lake floor next to the seaweed and trout. I don't want to make things worse for Wade, so I clench my mouth to keep the nasty things from spewing out.

  "But don't blame me for this mess." Bikini girl points down to the capsized boat, then looks over to Wade. "If booze-brain over here paid more attention to the wheel and less to your ass crack, we'd still be out having a good time."

  It takes a great amount of self-control to stop myself from catapulting her off the dock and smashing her head in with the nearest largemouth bass. Wade helps me up and stumbles over a loose plank. I thank him and take a look at the bobbing boat.

  "I'm out." Bikini girl walks toward land. Necklace guy follows close and tattoo guy follows him.

  "I'm happy you okay," Wade says to me. His breath reeks of beer, and he begins a stumbling trek toward land.

  "Want me to stay here till you get somebody to help with this?" I ask.

  "Nah, t'morrow. Goin' to finish party . . ." He walks farther away, murmuring a gargle of slurred incoherencies.

  I take a step forward and hear something below the dock, right under my feet. The boards are too close together to see between them. I hear it again, disembodied mumbling. I crouch over the dock's edge and look underneath where a tiny figure drifts closer—the doll.