The Deadsong

by Brandon Hardy

  Nothing. His extra sense only groped through a void. The only thing he felt was that the snakes were no longer in their den.

  Something very dark and very shady slid on its belly beneath the decaying façade of Hemming, and it was much scarier than the fear his snakes inflicted. Generations of farmers, mill workers, schoolteachers, policemen, auto mechanics––all seated against a southern gothic conspiracy, as far as he was concerned. He concluded that all of those people who had welcomed him with open arms into the community, all of those friends, all of those colleagues, all of those kids whose lives he had helped change, all of them with hearts as black as a candle’s flaming core.

  Those damn Sand Mountain shakers.

  There were no good people left in this town, he thought. Just people. People who were on your case and ready to strike you down for doing or saying the wrong thing. Everyone was against him. In his mind, he had been doing a service. Granted, a very unusual service that had been bestowed upon him by his father, but Ellis had accepted his destiny and purpose many years ago.

  You can’t try to rationalize or justify the things people do. They just do them, and you have to accept that. They’re people––just quacking, chattering heads moving blindly through each passing day––and they’ll be the first and the last to tell you they’re not perfect.

  Gee, sorry, I’m only human.

  Save it for the wildcats.

  Michelle waved at him through the decorative glass window cut into the front door. He grabbed a stainless steel coffee thermo from the passenger seat and opened it. He slid something out into the palm of his hand––a nickel-plated Derringer two-shot with a pearl grip. Amber streaks from the arc lamps on the other side of Lutton Street flashed across the barrel.

  The gun was registered to his wife. He bought it for her after their bungalow had been burglarized last Christmas. With all the crazy kids and druggie lurking in the shadows, Ellis felt she'd be more at ease with something to protect herself in case the creatures of the night came knocking again.

  They would come, but not for her. Not tonight.

  Ellis gassed the wagon up Lutton Street and prepared to eliminate the monster he had created, and he wouldn’t need the snakes to do that.

  4

  After his father left, Duke sat on the edge of his bed looking at his scarred reflection in the mirror tacked on the back of his bedroom door. The swelling had gone down considerably since the attack, but the jagged laceration that ran from his cheek to his mouth seemed to grow the longer he stared at it.

  Someone was at his window. He got to his feet and looked out and saw Jared behind the glass. Duke reluctantly let him in, but the personal resentment and anger were gone. If anything, he was ashamed of his behavior that escalated to the fight––the one that never happened. The one that led to him being attacked by dozens of those damn snakes he hated so much. It had been a close a call, he thought, that’s all.

  He drove on through. Life goes on.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Duke said. “What’s in the bag?”

  “You might want to sit down. We don’t have much time.”

  “If you came for an apology––”

  “Just sit down. On the floor,” Jared told him. Duke obeyed.

  Jared carefully put the gym bag on the floor and unzipped it. He pushed up his sleeves and rolled his eyes up at his buddy, hoping this would work.

  “Here, I've got something for you. Look inside. Go on, it's okay.”

  Duke scooted closer and slowly pulled open the flap. Gooseflesh had already broken out on Duke’s arms and neck.

  “Don’t scream,” Jared warned.

  When Duke saw the snakes, the scream caught in his throat and he couldn’t get it out even if he wanted to. They slid out onto the floor and moved around the mounds of dirty laundry piled up on the carpet.

  “I want you to listen,” Jared said, “but not to me. To them.”

  “Jared––”

  “In time, they’ll listen to you.”

  Duke began to shake like a paint mixer. His brain signaled flight, but he just sat there with his legs crossed, watching them watch him.

  “They won’t hurt you.” Jared drew his finger along the scaly backside of one of them.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because right now, they listen to me.”

  The serpents lay still with their eyes fixed on Duke. One of them slithered up to him, smelling him with its tongue.

  “You can’t escape destiny. You were meant to be their master.”

  “I don’t understand. How are they––” Duke heard something he couldn’t describe. It was low, recessed in static, but there. It was musical, pleasing. Duke looked around for the source. “What is that? Can you hear that?”

  Jared shushed him. “They’re singing to you.”

  “Oh my God, this is…unreal. Now what?”

  “Like I said, we don’t have much time. After I go, I want you to do something for me.”

  Jared handed him a scrap of paper. Duke unfolded it and read what it said. When he finished, he looked up at Jared, nodding.

  “But not until you’re ready,” Jared said.

  “What does it feel like?”

  Jared cocked his head. “What does what feel like?”

  “When you… you know…use them?”

  “You’ll find out tonight. Take this, too. It was written by one of your ancestors.”

  Jared pulled out an old leather-bound book with a Latin title on the front. A few pages fell out of it as Duke took it from him. Jared swept them up carefully and put them in Duke’s hand.

  “These pages will tell you how to do it. The rest of the book will tell you why.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Duke said. “I don’t even like…snakes.”

  Jared shrugged and checked his watch. “Well, you better get use to it. I’ll tell you what I know, but the rest is up to you.”

  Duke looked at the piece of paper in his hand. He didn’t recognize the name scratched across the top, but he knew the place written below it:

  The Arlo County Jail.

  5

  The TV never lies. The news anchor on Channel 2 delivered the customary deadpan account of the County Fair Massacre and a breaking report of Alan Blair found dead earlier this morning. Gina turned up the volume and listened, fighting back the tears threatening to spring forth from their salty reservoir.

  Their bags were packed and ready to go. Gina had already written their mother a note and planned to put it on the dining room table for her to read when she woke to cook breakfast the next morning. The young Starkweathers would be out of this hell hole soon enough. Only a few more hours until Jared rode up to carrying them far, far away from here…

  Dylan and Gina sat in silence for a while, trying not to look over at their mother. Linda got up and went out on the front porch. Gina followed her, trying to find the right words and the courage to ask them.

  Linda sat next to the front door, rocking, gazing at the stars above the trees stretching up into the night sky.

  “It’s hot tonight,” Gina said, squatting down on the stoop and rolling her eyes up at her mother.

  “Your father and I use to sit out here at night when I was pregnant with you. I read you stories and played music from the stereo that’s now in the garage. He read the paper by porch light. He didn't have time to read the paper in the morning. Since we’ve lived here, I’ve only once sat out here alone. But that was a long time ago, well before either of you came along.”

  Gina took off her hat and waited. Linda rubbed her hands together nervously.

  “I had just gotten off work. There was something in the oven. I can't remember what it was. Your father was working, and I was sitting right here when the man first came.”

  Gina shuddered.

  “He was wearing a suit. His hand was soft when I shook it. His nails, neat and manicured. And that smile…”

  A car went past the house.
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  “I thought he was selling something. And whatever it was, I wanted to buy it. I can't explain it. He was just so…charming. He sat there.” Linda pointed to Dick's favorite chair on the other side of the door. “Then he got to talking, and oh he was a smooth-talkin, silver-tongued fella.”

  “Go on,” Gina said.

  “He asked me if I had children. I said no because I didn't then. The rest of the conversation is kind of a blur now, but I remember watching my hand float to the paper, sign my name. After that, I felt this…tingle in my belly. Just for a moment.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I didn't believe him at first, but it was like I was under a spell, Gina. He offered me what I couldn't have, and I wanted it so badly. More than anything.”

  “Say it, mother!”

  “It had been happening for a couple of years then. The snakes. At the time, no one knew what to make of it. How could I have known?”

  Gina got up and folded her arms.

  “Stories got around, mostly from Sand Mountain, but no one took them seriously. I didn't. Until…”

  “Until it started making sense?”

  Linda nodded. “I can’t protect you from it, Gina. I'm so sorry.”

  “But you knew,” Dylan said, stepping out onto the porch.

  Linda looked down at her hands again.

  Gina’s eyes burned into her mother’s. “You killed me before you even had me.”

  Linda jumped to her feet. “How dare you!”

  “Your silence bought all this,” Gina said, her eyes dark and wet. “Do you not see that? Wake up!”

  “Get out of here. I need some time to––”

  “What? Think about it? You've had time. You've had eighteen years to think about it, and still you haven't said a goddamn thing.”

  Linda slapped her. Gina stood there with her mouth gaped open like a fish.

  “I have to go,” their mother said. “Dylan, give me my keys.”

  “Mom––”

  “Now, Dylan!”

  He opened the door and reached inside, taking the Buick’s key from the bowl on the table by the door. She snatched them from his hand and left.

  Thunder groveled out towards Durden. Storms were coming. Bad ones. Might even see a twister or two, the news had said. Storms were always brewing around here, but not just the kind that swept overhead like a marvelous armada. There were others, ones that grew silently behind closed doors, and the damage was rarely seen but always certainly done.

  Hurry, Jared. Please hurry.

  PART THREE

  REAPING SEASON

  CHAPTER NINE: DEAD OF THE STORM

  1

  Martha Kemper dropped some tomatoes in the sink and ran the tap. She had just begun humming “America, the Beautiful” when she heard a knock at the back door. She dried her hands and opened it. Ellis Pearson stood there with his arms folded. She noticed he looked unusually pale. His eyes were almost slits cut into the orbital sockets of his skull. A good night’s sleep must have been running around on him like a two-timing whore. Maybe he had the flu bug. If he did, she sure as hell didn’t want to catch it.

  “Martha.”

  “What can I do for you, Ellis?”

  “Is Jared home?”

  “He came in just a minute ago. I think he’s still here. I'll check. You want some water or something? You sound––”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Martha shrugged and opened the screen door for him. “Suit yourself.”

  Ellis went in and followed her up the stairs. Her footfalls were like those of a rhino that had had too much to eat. She hitched her dressing gown as she marched up the steps and grabbed the banister with an arthritic hand.

  “He in some kind of trouble?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” Ellis said. “Just wanted to talk to him.”

  He stuck a hand in his jacket.

  Once they reached the second floor, Martha led him to a door at the end of the hall with a Steelers pennant taped on the front.

  “Jared!” she yelled, and then tried the brass knob. It was locked. “Zip it up, boy. Mr. Pearson’s here. Wants to talk to you. You ain’t in trouble, he says.”

  Jared cracked the door. “What do you want?”

  Ellis pushes his way past Martha into Jared's room and bellowed “Where are they?” He saw a suitcase on the bed with clothes thrown it.

  Then he saw the bat in Jared’s hand.

  “Boy, you put that down!” Martha said.

  “He's gonna kill me, Momma. Get outta here!”

  “Are you outta your mind? I'm gonna give you to the count of––”

  Ellis snatched the bat from Jared, spun around, and pushed Martha against the wall. “Shut up, Martha! Shut up! Shut the fuck up, woman!”

  Martha screamed for help, swatting at him with her flabby arms. She fought, but it was futile. She fell and crawled to the stairwell. She was still screaming when Ellis broke her face. He heaved her up with his foot and let her tumble down the stairs.

  He ditched the bat, brought out the gun. “Dammit, Jared, I need to know where they are.”

  “They're not here.”

  “Then where are they?” Ellis cocked the hammer and raised his eyebrows. “Call them.”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess we’re going for a ride.”

  2

  The key was still hidden behind the SAND MOUNTAIN WELCOMES YOU! sign by the front door. Garrett let himself into the sanctuary and flipped on the lights. The place was much smaller than he remembered, but nothing had really changed all that much. The old baptistry drapes had been replaced and Motley had put in a PA system for his loyal disciples who were hard of hearing.

  Garrett wrinkled his nose. The smell hadn't changed either.

  He felt his front pocket just to be sure he hadn't forgotten something very important. It was there.

  Excitement and dread jolted him into action. This was supposed to be a collaborative effort with his buddy Stark, but he figured Dylan might have chickened out at the last minute, and that was okay. Probably best he stayed at home anyway.

  He crossed the sanctuary and tried the door leading down to the basement. It turned freely.

  He opened the door and listened just in case someone was down there. Still not entirely sure he was alone, but eager to get this over with, Garrett descended the staircase. The basement was lighted by a single white neon cross plugged in beside a bookshelf cluttered with Sunday school workbooks. Garrett recognized some he had used when he was a little boy. But the basement wasn't used for Sunday school back then. It had been a storage area where the church family kept paint, wood scraps, supplies, and lots and lots of gasoline. They had saved gallons of the stuff in preparation for the apocalypse or in case some other disaster struck.

  Garrett was counting on the barrels of gasoline being here, but they weren’t. Only two second-hand couches, a bookshelf, a small coffee table, and a few posters of a cartoon Jesus taped to the cinderblock walls.

  He had to act fast in case they came back right away. But Garrett knew they were out on a mission––just as he was on a mission of his own. If it all went according to plan, those crazy shakers would have to seek communion elsewhere.

  Part of him wished those Sand Mountain folks could watch it happen. Another part of him toyed with the idea that maybe, just maybe they had taken the gasoline with them.

  Garrett noticed the floor had been taken up. The horribly soiled shag carpet was gone. A roll of faux tile linoleum stood propped up in the corner. Below it, a five gallon bucket of Paradex commerical floor adhesive caught Garrett’s attention. The FLAMABLE warning printed on its side was enough to put his plan back in action.

  3

  Just over the ridge separating Goose Creek from a traffic jam on Whippoorwill Road, Jared rested against a towering maple tree with his hand clamped tightly over the oozing hole in his abdomen. He hadn’t seen the bullet coming once they had parked and walked out in
to the woods, but Jared could see it on Mr. Pearson’s face: he had come completely unglued, and what little humanity his mentor had left was slowly ticking away.

  Ellis had never killed anyone before. Not really. He willed the snakes to kill because he that’s what he’d been told to do. Before he went off his high horse and knocked a home run to Martha Kemper’s melon, he’d never had the personal desire to inflict pain or death upon anyone, but her voice…that shrill, nasally, whiney voice just irked the shit out of him and he had had enough.

  Ellis turned and watched for cars through the clearing.

  Jared stumbled along, dizzy. “I know I left them around here somewhere.”

  “Don’t play games with me,” Ellis said, tired and deliriously disconnected from reality.

  A storm was coming. Jared hoped it would come quickly so he could make his escape, leaving Pearson out here. He was running out of time and he hadn’t expected this.

  The cold nose of the gun pressed into his back. They walked for a while longer until a brook appeared. Water spilled over the rocks, sparkling in the pastel moonlight.

  “Kneel down, Kemper.”

  Jared dropped to his knees beside the brook and looked up at this sad man pointing a gun between his eyes. Ellis Pearson carried the illusion of power, but when he wasn’t behind an army of snakes––or a gun––he was just a man. A man with fear crawling beneath his skin.

  A man with a body as frail as butterfly wings.

  Ellis sighed. “I’ll just have to find them myself. I’m sorry it has to end this way, but I don’t have a choice.”

  Jared knew the snakes were out of his hands now and he could no longer call upon him to chow down on Mr. Pearson. It wouldn’t kill him, though. Jared knew that. But it would have slowed him down. All Jared had left was his own acuminated physical strength and nothing else.

  Jared lunged at him and a shot rang out, piercing the night.

  4

  The nine o’clock news began as Sheriff Robertson kicked back in his rollaway chair. He had finished all of the night’s routine paperwork and hoped for the next hour to silently pass so he could go home and crawl into bed with his wife. He pulled out his pocket knife and whittled at a pencil for a while until the door to his office opened. Young Deputy Cooley entered with two steaming Styrofoam cups. He put one on the desk and held the other under his chin, blowing off the vapor. He looked tired, and why not? It’s a tough job with days full of deadly shootouts and saving damsels in distress––like in Cowboy Carson’s epic television show, perhaps––but Deputy Cooley was no cowboy. He had spent the majority of his day tearing citations for speeding drivers, which was not very exciting or heroic by any means.