Jack and Mr. Grin

by Andersen Prunty

  Yanking Mr. Moran’s shirt sleeve up, Jack bared the brand on his left forearm. Now, looking at it, even momentarily, he didn’t see how it could be anything but an ‘H’ and an ‘E’.

  He pinched Mr. Moran’s papery skin between his thumb and forefinger and gave a healthy yank. Jack put the brand in his pocket.

  The old man screamed, spitting at Jack.

  Then he was calm, lying there on the floor of the car and breathing deeply.

  Jack knew the decent thing would be to stick around at least long enough to ask him if he was okay but he was through doing the decent thing. At least for the day.

  Sam was dead but he couldn’t mourn.

  Mr. Moran may be injured, may even need medical attention but he couldn’t wait to find out.

  Gina was the only thing that mattered.

  And now, if he didn’t find her, then Sam’s blood was on his hands. Sam’s death would have been in vain. Jack wasn’t going to let that happen. He was going to do what he started out to do and now, he had no doubts, he would relish the kill. If he could find Mr. Grin, there would be no hesitation. No conscience. No mercy.

  Jack took a deep breath and plunged off the other side of the freight car and there was something inside him that hoped Gina was right. Because he thought, maybe, in a magical world, the odds would be a little more even.

  Twenty-three

  Jack stepped out of the freight car and into the Wilds. This was the most thickly wooded area in Alton; the rest of it, like most mid-size cities, given up to overdevelopment and urban sprawl. The trees, still with most of their leaves, made it seem prematurely dark. Full dark was still a couple hours away but, in the Wilds, dusk was upon him. Still thinking about the others who may be branded— Joey, the customer in the coffee shop, the bus driver, the old lady on the bus (hell, maybe everyone on the bus), the cashier at the gas station— made him nervous. Here, in the Wilds, there were plenty of places for them to hide.

  He stood for a moment, hesitant to move. Whichever direction he chose, he knew, might be his last. He may not have the chance to go back and repeat his steps or choose some other path.

  Time was short.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  The now familiar dual sensation of hope and dread made its way down his spine to sit in the pit of his stomach.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket, wondering exactly when he had put it back in there, and flipped it open.

  “Yeah.”

  “JACK! JACK!” Gina’s voice. Frantic. Frantic but welcome. She was still alive. She was still able to scream and that was something. That was everything to him, at this point.

  “Gina. Gina.”

  “He knows where you’re at. He’s coming after you—”

  And her voice was gone. Replaced with grunts and moans. The sounds of smacking flesh. Screams. Screams unlike Jack had ever heard before.

  But where are you, Gina? he thought. Where the hell are you?

  “She’s right, shitcrawler.”

  Then the connection was gone.

  A shot cracked through the early dusk.

  Jack’s stomach lit up, on fire. He’d been hit.

  He dropped to his knees, his head jerking in the direction of the shot, wondering when the next one was going to come. He was not going to let it end this way. He told himself it couldn’t end this way. He couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around it at this point. To wake up to a beautiful Sunday morning only to die in the woods beside some abandoned trains was not something he could understand.

  Another shot followed but that one must have missed because he didn’t feel any biting pains.

  Then he saw her.

  Moving behind a tree less than twenty feet away.

  The woman from the gas station.

  It was like everything he had thought was coming true. He felt helpless but knew he couldn’t just lie down and die. He felt helpless because he wondered who else could be surrounding him. And he wondered how they had guns. Well, he thought, Mr. Moran was kind of a given. Old Republican shits like him always had guns. And, of course, he thought, the woman from the gas station probably kept a gun under the counter or in the safe. For self-defense.

  While she was behind the tree, he darted up, off to his left, and hid himself behind a tree. What a fun game this is, he thought.

  She started out from behind her tree and momentarily stopped when she noticed Jack was no longer on the ground where she had left him.

  Desperately, he scanned the ground around him for anything he could use as a weapon. He also scanned the surrounding woods to see if there was anyone else lurking there.

  Nothing.

  On both accounts. Nothing.

  The only thing he could do was try and work himself behind the mad woman. She walked toward the freight car and Jack crept to the next tree. If he knew where he was going he would simply take off in that direction but he didn’t and, with the mad woman, the branded woman, wandering around, he didn’t have the time to stand around and try to decide.

  The pain in his stomach eliminated whatever patience he may have had left. Luckily, the wound didn’t seem to be an incredibly huge one and he figured it must have missed most of his vital organs.

  The woman continued to stand there, hunched over. Jack realized she was searching for some kind of scent. Trying to pick him up.

  His time was short. And, he thought, he could really use her gun. She had already fired two shots and that meant there were probably at least four more in there. If there were going to be other people in these woods hunting him, those four shots would be essential.

  He had to try and take her down before she could manage to get any more off.

  Taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the searing pain in his gut, he darted out from the tree, rapidly approaching the woman.

  Drawing closer, he realized how burly she was. Taking her down might not be as easy as he thought. Nearly to her, he tripped over a branch and went flying. Luckily, he hit her in the back of the knees before she could even turn around.

  She went down and he was immediately upon her, trying to seize her gun before she could aim it at him.

  Her lips pulled back in an angry snarl. He saw the brand, burned into her left forearm.

  She fired off another shot but it went astray. Reflexes, he thought.

  She tried to throw him from her but he held on, digging his knees into her solar plexus. He put his left hand around her thick left wrist, his fingertips sinking into the soft flesh. With his right hand, he grabbed the lump of flesh bearing the brand. All the while, she pounded on his back with her right hand. Each blow sent shuddering waves of pain and nausea through him.

  He tore at the flesh. It came away in his hand and he now held another brand like some bizarre trophy. Up this close to her he could read her nametag, the one with all the little smiley faces. Her name was Donna. He remembered now. Donna was lucky, he thought. Donna almost died. But as soon as the brand was yanked from her flesh, Donna just lay there like she had been somehow... deactivated was the only word Jack could think of to describe it.

  She didn’t cry out in pain.

  She didn’t thrash.

  Clearly, she no longer wanted to kill him.

  She just lay there, that far away look in her eyes. Jack grabbed the gun, keeping her from seeing it.

  “You look familiar,” she said, dreamily.

  “You waited on me earlier. At the gas station,” he said.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “You’re out by the train tracks. You need to go home and get something on your arm before it gets infected.”

  She nodded, without really understanding what he said. He grabbed her arm and held it up in front of her. Her eyes widened. “Ohhh,” she said. “How’d that happen?”

  “Must have fallen. Lucky I found you out here,” he said.

  He got up from her, before she could wonder about why he was straddling her.

  “I gotta go,” Jack
said.

  He began backing away from her, still scanning all around the woods.

  Gina had said Mr. Grin would be coming after him but did that mean the man himself would seek him out or did it mean he would be sending the branded after him?

  Donna stood up, still dazed, and began drifting back to the freight car. He figured she would make it home eventually. Looking down at the twisted piece of skin in his hand, he realized he didn’t need another one and dropped it on the ground. Then he stopped, bent down, and picked it back up. He didn’t know why. Routine, he supposed. He stuck it in his right pants pocket with the other brands.

  Twenty-four

  Dusk deepened into night. He continued to wander, lost, through the Wilds.

  How big were they? he wondered. How long did they go on?

  Things were not right, had not been right for a very long time, and it was easy for him to imagine the Wilds continuing forever. From now until his death. He refused to see that his death was something inevitable, trying to ignore the pain from the buckshot in his legs and the bullet in his stomach. He felt around on his back to see if he could feel an exit wound but he didn’t. He imagined the bullet sitting in there. At times, he thought he could even feel it. He coughed and spat mucous into his hand, checking for blood. He’d always thought that was serious, when blood came from areas it normally shouldn’t.

  The air was cooling down again. A mist swirled through the woods. They were impossibly dark. No streetlights or lights from passing cars. No warm glows from the windows of houses. He missed the light. He searched desperately for the light, any light, keeping his ears open for sound. At this point, he thoroughly expected to be attacked by just about anyone. Nothing was outside his sphere of paranoia. Luckily, he had Donna’s gun. Jack didn’t know guns but he figured it was a .22 revolver. Since he had been hit by one of its bullets, he hoped it was only a .22. Those, he thought, were the least lethal. Checking the cylinder, he saw that it did indeed have three bullets left. It was amazing he even knew how to do this. Sometimes watching movies paid off.

  Time was running out. He would not hesitate shooting anyone. He probably wouldn’t hit them if he shot at them anyway. As long as he didn’t hit them in the heart or the brain they probably wouldn’t die. Just look at him. He was limping along just fine after taking a shot.

  He pulled his phone out to check it and noticed it was now dead.

  His heart sank, but a part of him was grateful the battery had lasted this long. It was nearly dead this morning. Jack was woefully neglectful about charging it. But that meant all contact was severed until he found Mr. Grin and Gina.

  Or until Mr. Grin found him.

  He thought again about Mr. Grin coming for him. That made a strange sort of sense. If Mr. Grin could catch him before he made it to Gina, even if Jack managed to take him out, there was no guarantee he would find Gina. If she were even still alive.

  He didn’t want to think about that but he had to. He was dealing with a complete and total psycho. Not just any complete and total psycho, either. One who was gifted with something like supernatural powers. To think Mr. Grin would even come close to losing this battle was something Jack didn’t think was possible.

  His mind felt fevered.

  His stomach burned.

  His legs were rubber. He felt like he could collapse at any minute.

  But up ahead...

  Yes, up ahead, he could see a light. Something that could very easily be a sign for a motel. Only, if it was abandoned, why would its sign still light up?

  Behind him, he heard shuffling noises.

  He turned around to look in that direction and, in the wan moonlight, he saw them.

  All of them.

  Everyone he thought might become branded. They were all right there behind him. Joey. The woman in front of him at the cafe. The bus driver. The old lady on the bus. Amber, Tim’s teen bimbo. And, of course, Tim himself.

  Jack aimed the gun at them.

  What would it help?

  He was outnumbered. If he actually managed to hit any of them, which he highly doubted he could, one of them would still be on him.

  He didn’t have time to think.

  He didn’t have time to stand here and take them on individually or as a group. He had no particular desire to hurt any of them.

  So he ran.

  He ran toward the light he thought he had seen.

  His legs protested but they moved. His stomach burned and twisted in pain. Running, he imagined the bullet in there, jostling all around, a little metal virus. His lungs groped for air and, all the while, he could hear that mob behind him, coming closer and closer.

  The Wilds began to clear a little bit and Jack could see the light ahead of him was coming from what had to be the motel. It didn’t come from the sign like he had originally thought. It looked like it came from the lobby. As he sped closer, he could see there was a sign, standing in the middle of the parking lot, but it was not lighted. Although, it looked like it had been at one time. The letters were blackened, the whole sign looked like it was covered in soot. It announced itself, in a font no longer used on signs, as the Hotel Eternity.

  Jack’s feet smacked the asphalt as the bus driver opened fire. He saw sparks from the corner of his eye. Waited for the bite of another shot. Felt the cool, slightly slimy steel of the lobby door’s handle. Pulled the door open. And stepped into another world.

  Twenty-five

  The lobby was cool and brightly lighted. Jack half-expected the mob following him to come charging through the door or shoot until the glass shattered.

  He wondered how the door still had any glass in it at all. The windows were the first thing to go on any abandoned building. Especially one out in the middle of nowhere that had been abandoned for as long as this place.

  He could see them out there, standing around in a lame half-circle, looking at one another. They grunted and snarled and for a horrifying moment, Jack thought they were going to rip each other apart. And found himself wanting exactly that to happen. If they did that it meant he didn’t have to deal with them anymore.

  But they didn’t.

  The bus driver pushed his hat back on his head and reached out with his right hand to touch the brand on the cafe lady’s arm. Then he pulled it off. She did the same for him. Joey pulled off the old lady’s brand and she returned the favor. Tim Fox and Amber removed each other’s brands, like some sadomasochistic form of foreplay.

  All of them holding a disgusting tab of skin in their fingertips, they approached the door of the lobby and placed the brands on the cement in front of it. Then they drifted back toward the Wilds.

  Jack stood there, sick and sweaty, marveling at what had just happened.

  He fought the urge to vomit or pass out.

  “May I help you?” a voice said from behind him. Jack knew from the voice that it wasn’t Mr. Grin.

  He turned and a man stood behind the counter in the lobby.

  Looking around the lobby, Jack thought the Hotel Eternity did not look abandoned at all. A little outdated maybe but it looked like a finely restored vintage room rather than some abandoned place. He was not at all surprised to find something he had not expected.

  Jack approached the counter.

  “I’m trying to find Gina,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”

  The clerk was a thin man, wearing a dark red shirt and brown tie. His hair was close-cropped, his eyes a hypnotic blue. The corner of his mouth twitched in a feeble attempt at a smile.

  “Do you have something for me?” the clerk said. He had a name tag and Jack read, half-amused, the name ‘Mr. Thick.’

  “What do you mean... like money?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t have any money. And I don’t have time to play games. Look... I’m in a very serious situation here... Maybe you can help me out, huh? Do you have anyone staying here?”

  “More people than we can count.”

  “Have you seen
anyone come through here who looks like, I don’t know, a portly guy who smiles a lot?”

  “I can’t help you without some form of offering.”

  Mr. Thick’s upper lip again twitched slightly, as though he was trying to stifle a laugh and Jack thought he saw a faint... flicker run through the man. Like a line going down the TV when the cable’s getting ready to go out.

  Jack pulled out his cell phone and put it on the counter. Mr. Thick quickly slapped it away, sending it thumping onto the floor.

  “Vulgar things,” he said, smoothing the front of his fitted shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “That’s all I have.”

  “Then I cannot help you.”

  Mr. Thick turned and Jack saw another one of those strange ripples course over his body.

  “Wait!” Jack said. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out the three brands, laying them out on the counter.

  Mr. Thick looked down his long nose at the hunks of bloody, some hairy, flesh.

  “That is not nearly enough,” he said.

  “Hold on,” Jack said.

  He crossed the lobby to the front door. Opening the door, he bent down, his stomach screaming, and picked up the six brands placed there.

  “How ‘bout now?” he said, putting those on the counter.

  “I may be able to help you.”

  “Great,” Jack said.

  “But you’ll have to help me get this laundry to the back.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Mr. Thick ducked down behind the counter and came back up. “I can’t lift it by myself,” he said.

  Jack went around behind the counter, looking down at the huge white canvas laundry bag.

  “Where you going with it?” he asked.

  “Just to the back room there.”

  “I’m not in the best condition right now.”

  “I don’t really need your brawn. It’s just... awkward is all.”

  Together they bent down and hoisted up the heavy laundry bag. Jack thought his insides were going to squeeze out through the bullet wound but the fact this man may be able to help him eased the pain somewhat. They carried the laundry bag through a door and into a room containing a heavy mahogany desk and some gray filing cabinets and not much of anything else.