Cold Dead Past

by John Curtis

  Gene shifted from foot to foot and squeezed the bars. "No. Don’t worry about that. It’s in a safe place. Now can we please go?"

  Frank drifted right up to the bars, almost nose to nose with his brother. "You know I love you, don’t you Gene?" His tone was flat and lifeless.

  "I love you, too," replied Gene. A puzzled look came across his face as the corners of Frank's mouth tilted up in a slight, Mona Lisa smile.

  Gene grabbed his shoulders through the bars and shook him. "What the fuck are you on about? Just get me out of here, will ya?"

  Black bile began to flow from the stigmata in Frank's palms. Putrefaction filled the air and Gene wrinkled his nose. With one hand, he pulled his t-shirt up over his mouth and nose, attempting to stanch the flow of the sickly-sweet stink to his olfactory lobe. Gene felt himself being pushed back, as if the odor were a physical manifestation, and loosened his hold on Frank.

  "Oh, gosh! Shit, man, it smells like something died."

  The irony of the remark caused Frank to roar with laughter as he reached through the bars and took Gene’s head in his hands. His grip was vise-like as he pulled his brother face to face with him at the bars.

  Frank's visage changed. He was Gene's big brother again. It was a bit of the old Frank that still dwelled somewhere deep inside of him. Inside the cold thing that he had become. Even as he began to squeeze harder and felt Gene squirm and wriggle like an eel caught in a trap, there was no change in his countenance. His face was locked in a warm smile, his eyes looked deep into Gene.

  Gene’s face flushed and he grimaced as the pressure on the sutures joining the bones in his skull increased. "Frank," he exclaimed, "what are you doing Frank? Help me! Somebody!"

  Frank’s face remained a mask, unchanged, as Gene kicked at him through the bars, tried to pull his hands away. The screams changed to a gurgling hiss and Gene’s grip on the bars slackened. Frank could feel the blood pulsing at Gene's temples. Then, a loud crack and it was over. The skull crushed, there was nothing to stop the jagged bits of bone from scraping and intruding into the gray matter they had been designed to protect.

  Frank cradled Gene's head in his hands for a moment. Then, as the body slumped and he could feel it’s full weight stretching the vertebrae in the neck, he released it with the benediction, "Sometimes you can love someone too much, brother."

  The pleasant fantasy complexion that he had displayed was cadaverous once again; his eyes again cold as ice and deadly dark. The perfect predator, except for that one guttering flame deep inside which represented his humanity and sweet grass summers of his youth.

  Deputy Swanson had been left on duty at the front desk, busily fielding anxious phone calls. It made him sweat. He had barely mastered the keyboard when they installed the new dispatch system. The switchboard left him positively goggle-eyed with its blinking lights and the continual buzzing from the flood of calls.

  He had completely forgotten about Gene. Swanson had missed the first cry for help. It wasn't until Gene had let out one last, baleful scream for aid that he had noticed something was amiss. He leapt from his chair and headed for the gun cabinet, from which he took a shotgun and a box of shells. He fumbled with the shells, dropping as many on the floor on the way to the cell block door as he managed to get into the weapon's magazine.

  The first thing that Swanson noticed as he stepped through the door was that half the lights seemed to have burnt out. He could barely see to the end of the row of cells. Swanson toggled the light switch on the wall next to the door a few times, with no result. The next thing he noticed was a total lack of sound.

  He was in a kind of twilight, caused by a fog that emanated from a point near the end of the corridor, in front of Gene’s cell. No, when he thought about it, it was more like all the light was being drawn to one place, so that it wasn’t bright enough to see anything without squinting. Crazy shadows were cast along the walls and floor; geometric patterns that rotated and bent like the ones in a kaleidoscope.

  He shook his head to try to dispel the disorienting effect and stepped into the corridor, shutting the steel door behind him to insure that no one could come up from behind or escape if they got past him.

  The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. There was a shclick-shclick sound as he pumped a shell into the chamber of the gun. That sound a pump shotgun makes puts the fear of God in burglars and can make the most avid bar brawler into a timid milquetoast. He announced that he was a motherfucker who meant business.

  Swanson squinted and listened. Nothing. "Gene! What are you doing down there? Gene!"

  The deputy’s voice sounded unnatural. There were no echoes, no ringing as it bounced off the concrete walls and floor. The syllables flowed out of his mouth smothered with a heavy wool blanket, every word clipped short at the end.

  "Gene!" he yelled once more as he took a step. There was no sound of boots on concrete. The word seemed to run away from him down the hall in the direction of the cell.

  When he looked up at the ceiling lights, their illumination appeared to bend and flow in the direction of the cell, too. Swanson went forward a couple of steps more. The floor had dropped from beneath him completely and been replaced by an air mattress.

  Someone had attached weights to his ankles and seemed to be piling more on with each step he came closer to Gene's cell. His breathing became heavy and labored. Perspiration stained his clothes. What seemed to have taken hours, when he checked his watch, turned out to have taken just a little over a minute. Swanson looked to his right and saw Gene’s body there, leaning against the base of the cell door. Little crimson streams flowed from his nose and ears, trickling down along his jaw line like gory rouge.

  Swanson wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. His perspiration made the shotgun feel cold and slippery. It took all his concentration to keep a firm grip. He turned away from the bloody mess, retched violently.

  When he looked up, there was Frank. He was a shimmering study in soft, glowing pastels. The room temperature began to fall as Frank's outline became more distinct.

  With each breath he took, moist vapors flowed from Swanson's mouth and tumbled to his feet, where they curled around his ankles and crawled across the floor. Swanson blinked and suddenly the apparition before him was a cherubic, rosy-cheeked, and smiling 12-year-old.

  The deputy stammered as he spoke and took his shotgun in both hands, pointing it in Frank’s general direction. It was just enough to be threatening, but insured that he wouldn’t accidentally shoot someone who didn't deserve to be shot. Who could be more innocent than a kid?

  "What… What are you doing here?" he asked, with a slight quaver in his voice.

  Frank gave a disingenuous smile and replied, "I came to see my brother." He pointed toward the crumpled figure in the cell. "But he looks like he’s hurt. He’s hurt bad." He followed this with a whimper.

  Swanson took a sliding step to the side, keeping his eyes on this kid, who had no right to be here, and took another look at the body. Gene had a stupid grin on his face. Why did he have that grin?

  Swanson shook his head and leveled the barrel of the gun at Frank’s chest. This was all wrong. All the weird shit. What happened to the floor and walls? A tingle suddenly ran from the base of his spine up to his scalp, causing the hairs on his neck to prick up and gooseflesh to run down his arms.

  Frank stepped toward him, which caused Swanson’s muscles to twist into knots. His fingers gripped the weapon in his hands even tighter. His trigger finger rubbed lightly against the hooked piece of metal. A bead of sweat traced a pachinko machine route down the furrows in his brow as he said, "I don’t think that you should move any closer, kid."

  Frank stopped short and looked up at him, all dewy-eyed and seemingly devoid of bad intentions. He was no longer the innocent child he appeared to be, but Swanson had no way of knowing. No suspicion. And that was his undoing.

  "But what’s wrong with him, deputy?" He waved his hand toward the cell. "Mebbe you could take a look
at him," he continued. "I sure hope it ain’t serious."

  The deputy felt himself being drawn to a spot at the front of Gene’s cell. The conveyor belt was moving him inexorably forward toward… what? Swanson had no desire to fight it. The magnetic force encompassed his body and propelled him onward. He felt warm again and something in the boy’s voice was soothing.

  His arms dropped to his waist and the shotgun pointed impotently off to the side. His eyes fell on Gene’s body; the blood from his nose, mouth, and ears now turning a dark crimson, almost black, as it coagulated in a halo around his head.

  "You’re right," Swanson said softly. "He sure does look like there’s something wrong with him."

  "Well, I’m glad you’re here, deputy," replied Frank. "My daddy always said to go get the police if there were ever a problem."

  Swanson’s expression was vacant and he had trouble formulating a thought. His head was full of cotton and he just wanted to drift off. For Frank, the whole process was a game. This was not the end, just a means, as he probed the deputy’s mind, swimming through memories of family picnics, childhood bumps and scrapes, he grew bored.

  Slowly, black tendrils rose from the concrete floor and began to wrap themselves around Swanson’s ankles. They inched their way up his legs and then wound around his torso. He didn’t notice, still transfixed by Gene’s body.

  Frank smirked as the deadly vines retreated back from whence they came, slowly drawing the deputy down with them. By the time Swanson became aware of what was happening to him, he was buried up to his chest in the floor. As he attempted to wriggle his arms free, the concrete around him seemed to ripple like a breeze-kissed pond.

  He used all the strength he could muster to turn to Frank and plead, "Help me."

  Frank stood there, watching with his shark's eyes, as the deputy slipped in up to his chin. Frank evaporated, bit by bit, as the concrete floor around Swanson began to solidify. The man felt himself being crushed, slowly, and all that he could manage were some raspy, angry gasps. The last thing that Swanson saw as he became a permanent addition to the cell block was a Cheshire cat grin.

  CHAPTER 29

  Meg opened the door to the sheriff's station, figuring that it was as safe a place as any to wait for Jay. She walked up to the counter and looked around. There was dust over every surface, shaken loose like powdered sugar by the explosion. She thought to herself how glad she was that she wasn't the one who would have to straighten up that mess.

  "Hello."

  The switchboard sat unattended, its lights blinking forlornly. The only sound she heard was an occasional hiss from the radio and some messages between deputies at the fire scene. It sounded as if Greg and Jay might be gone for a long time, so she let herself through the swinging gate and walked to the coffeemaker by the back wall.

  The coffee smelled burnt. Meg could see grounds in the bottom of the pot, but she didn't feel like making a new one. She filled up a styrofoam cup and added some creamer and sugar. She took a sip and her nose wrinkled up as she reached for more sugar.

  Meg had never really taken a look around the station. She had been there before, of course, visiting at the front desk and in Gary's office, but she didn't have the slightest hint what really went on there. She did know, though, that the cell block door was never left open, even when there were no prisoners. She had heard Gary chew out a rookie about it once. It was a cardinal rule and one of the few that even the Sheriff followed to the letter.

  She walked over to the door. Next to it, the gun cabinet hung open. She thought to herself that this was probably another one of those cardinal rules, broken. She took a deep swig of coffee, wondering whether she should chance a look beyond the cell block door.

  "Hello," she called, plaintively. When there was no answer, she was relieved that she had an excuse to beat down her curiosity and walk away. Then, just as she started to turn, there was a "clang" from inside the cell block.

  Meg downed the rest of the coffee, tasting the dregs at the bottom, sour and grainy, on her tongue, and set the empty cup on the nearest desk. Cautiously, she stepped into the doorway.

  "Hello?"

  The rest of the station was like an oven, but when Meg stood at the cell block entrance, she felt cold, humid air washing over her face. It caused her cheeks to flush and she shivered. She wrapped her arms round herself, took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold into the corridor.

  The fluorescent lighting was now overly-bright and harsh, giving the grey paint a flat, antiseptic look. The first thing that she saw as she got close to the last cell was an upturned bucket about three feet from the cell door. She stepped around it and then, when she looked down and saw what had become of Gene, her eyes widened in horror. Her hand went up to her mouth as she stepped back and stumbled over the bucket. She came down hard on her ass, knocking the wind out of her. For a moment, she saw stars and had trouble focusing her eyes. When things did clear up, she saw the bucket, almost at eye level, overturned. Around the outline of it, Meg could see a corona of oily chestnut hair.

  She shook her head and blinked her eyes and it was still there. She looked from the bucket to where she could see Gene lying against the bars a few feet away and did a quick calculation about whether what was hidden from her view behind the bucket could be worse than that bloody mess.

  Meg kicked the bucket out of the way. There, up to his shoulders in the concrete floor, was deputy Swanson. She gave out a yelp and crab-walked her way back against the far wall. Her breaths came in hard gasps.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

  The bucket rocked back and forth on its side in the far corner, like a metronome. She used the rhythm to time her breaths, taking in deep draughts of air, releasing them in great puffs of cottony exhaust until she had regained her composure.

  She shook her head and took a good look at the face. The late Deputy Swanson appeared to be sleeping. Curiosity overcame her fear as she got to her feet and walked around the embedded corpse. Meg couldn't stop staring down at the face, which seemed to her as if it were tilted up so as to speak. And then, it did.

  The shutters flipped up on the vacant, dry eyes. Then, the jaw dropped and slammed back shut so that she could hear the teeth click. It dropped again and the mewling howl of an alley cat burst forth. Meg jumped back.

  "Holy shit!"

  The eyes stared blankly as the head cocked to one side.

  "Hello, Margaret," it said.

  It was Frank. She remembered his voice. It still sounded like he was in the middle of puberty and every once in a while, it cracked. Meg fought to retain her composure and gave him an icy reply.

  "It’s so nice to see you again. And my friends call me Meg, but, then, I'm not certain I'd include you in that group."

  "Oh," said Frank. "Meg. I'm sorry."

  "You know, if you wanted to talk to me, you didn't have to do something quite so dramatic."

  "Tonight's taken a lot out of me, this is just... easier."

  "If you think that you're scaring me, you're not. I was the one girl in class who enjoyed horror movies, remember? You can shock me for a minute, but you aren't going to scare me off."

  "You're not scared now, but I can tell you, you'll be scared by the time I'm through with my work."

  Meg scowled. "I'm not sure that I'd call what you've been doing work and I doubt you'll ever frighten me if this is the best that you've got. I've seen real trash on the screen with better performances."

  Frank's voice took on an angry edge. "It is work. My work. They all deserved what they got. They killed me and I’ve been so lonely and I just don’t appreciate the way you all left me and then there’s Jay."

  She shook her head. "Jay wants nothing to do with you. He was your best friend, but you’re dead now. The world revolves, time moves on, people change. Everyone dies, some sooner than others and they should stay dead."

  "And some have to pay," he retorted.

  Gary and Jay entered the station, stomping the snow and slush from their f
eet. Gary took a quick look around the office.

  "Goddamit. Swanson! Where the fuck is he?"

  He walked through the gate and over to the switchboard, which blinked at him furiously.

  "I told him to watch Gene, but he wasn't supposed to drop everything else."

  "He's probably back checking on Gene or something."

  They headed for the cell block and the first thing Gary noticed was the gun cabinet lying open.

  He pointed to it and said, "I'll have his ass for sure for that one. He knows better."

  Jay checked out the guns as he walked past and almost ran into Gary, who had stopped short in the doorway to the cell block. He turned to Jay with his finger to his lips and then pointed to the end of the hall, where Meg appeared to be in a conversation. At first it looked as if she were talking to a mannequin’s head. Gary turned back to Jay and said, in a stage whisper, "Oh my God, that's Swanson!"

  They stood in the doorway, watching the interchange. It was more like a monologue. The only person they could hear was Meg. Frank’s message was for her and her alone. Swanson’s jaw went slack and seemed to unhinge, as if he were a ventriloquist’s dummy at rest. It slammed shut hard enough this time that some of the teeth broke and the bits clicked as they hit the floor. A frown crossed its lips before Frank continued.

  "Listen. This is a friendly warning. I always liked you. Stay out of my way. This is between me and Jay, now. I don’t want to have to hurt you."

  "I can’t stay out of it. I’m in love with him. If you do anything to him, you bastard…" She set her jaw firmly.

  Jay had slipped closer and overheard her pronouncement, which took him by surprise. Somewhere inside he’d been hoping for his second chance, he had just never thought it would come at a moment like this.

  For him, it was kind of a turn-on, actually, that she seemed willing to fight for him, to protect him like a mother bear protecting her cub. When she gave the head a hard, swift kick to the nose, he also came to the realization that he didn’t want to have her mad at him, either.