Selected Stories

by Nate Southard

  There was a clicking sound behind him as the glass doors locked.

  “Lockdown complete,” a mechanical voice said. “Extermination sequence commencing.”

  Adam heard the hiss of gas seeping into the room. He let out a scream and fell to his knees. He was only a few feet from the glass doors, and he looked out on freedom as his lungs seized.

  Blood gouted from Adam Clark’s nose and mouth as he bucked on the surgical table. A trio of orderlies in matching blue tried to hold him still, but he was wild, finding the strength of ten men as his mind snapped and his heart collapsed.

  Karen Davies, head of recruiting, switched off the virtual reality program, and the helmet attached to Adam’s head stopped buzzing. His body bucked a few more times, then fell still as his EKG flatlined.

  Karen stepped out of the training room and picked up the phone outside, dialing Mr. Rose’s extension.

  “Hello, Mr. Rose,” she said. “We just finished with Mr. Clark.”

  She swept her crimson hair back over her ears. “No, I’m afraid he wasn’t management material. I’ve got three more interviews this afternoon, though. One of them might pan out.”

  She thanked Mr. Rose and hung up the phone. She stepped back into the training room, where the orderlies had already disposed of Adam’s body and were now mopping the blood off the floor.

  “How much time do you need?” she asked.

  “Few minutes,” one of the orderlies answered without looking up.

  “Good.” She stepped outside, picking up the phone again and dialing her receptionist.

  “Shelly, who’s our next interview?”

  “Ryan Willis. He’s from accounting.”

  “Great. Please send him in.”

  WORKING THE BAG

  Jerry woke Marshall by clamping a hand over his mouth. Marshall’s eyes popped open, wide and startled, but he never made a sound. His body barely moved. Good. Rita lay asleep next to him, and she probably wouldn’t take Jerry’s visit so well. It was three in the morning, after all.

  Slowly, Jerry pulled his hand away from the man’s mouth. Marshall looked up at him, the burning in his eyes somewhere between annoyed and furious.

  Jerry held out a beer, offering it, but Marshall waved it away. He shrugged and left the bedroom, somehow managing to remain quiet as a mouse even as he stumbled. He knew Marshall would follow.

  He plopped down on his friend’s couch and cracked open the beer. He took a long pull off the can, sucking down most of its contents before wiping his moustache dry on his sleeve. How many was this for the night? He’d lost count an hour or so ago, back when he’d decided he didn’t give a shit. He’d finished the first twelve-pack of High Life, then stolen another from the Grab-N-Go off of Route 71. He wondered if the clerk had come to in time to get his license plate.

  Nancy would say he’d knocked back too many, of course, and that he had a serious drinking problem. Too bad she’d lost the right to hum that little tune when she’d shoved half her clothes into a suitcase and run out on him.

  Marshall appeared at the mouth of the hallway, wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants that were damn-near close to falling apart. He looked right at home in his living room, which Rita had decorated in a charming manner best described as farmhouse shit-box.

  “Fuck, Jerry. It’s three in the goddamn morning.”

  Jerry shrugged and finished the can, tossed it in the general direction of the front door. “I need to work the bag.”

  “Think I hadn’t figured that out? Why else would you be here?”

  “I need to, Marshall.”

  “Well, I need to sleep. So do you. Go home and get some rest. You’ll feel better once you’ve puked it all up in the morning.”

  He shook his head. He had another beer in the pocket of his denim jacket. He realized how pathetic that was, even as he popped it and knocked back a swig. At the moment, he didn’t care.

  “The bag, Marshall. I need to.”

  Jerry heard a sigh and saw his friend rub his temples with the tips of his fingers. At least, he thought that’s what he saw. Everything blurred a little bit.

  “Nobody works the bag at night. That’s what we all agreed to, wasn’t it? We start doing it at night, and sooner or later somebody’s gonna wander out to the barn to see what we’re doing. You want that to happen? You have any idea how the fuck we would explain something like what we do out there?”

  “I don’t care. Just give me the key, if that’s what you want. I’ll lock up when I’m done.”

  “I’m not trusting you with something like that, Jerry. Not when you’re shit-faced.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not—”

  “No?”

  “Well, fuck you all the same.”

  Marshall sat down next to him. His expression remained friendly, despite the obvious frustration. “Jerry, I know. It’s been shitty for a lot of us, and I know it’s been real bad for you. I wish I could let you, but you know I can’t. Right? What if Rita found out? You think she’s gonna understand something like that? I know she wouldn’t.”

  “Nancy left tonight. Said she’d had enough and packed up to stay with her sister in Frankfort.”

  “Shit.” Marshall’s eyes drooped shut. His head swung back and forth. Even through the blur of alcohol, Jerry could tell his friend felt bad.

  “I’m sorry,” Marshall said. His voice was quiet, barely a whisper. “She say why?”

  “Did she have to? We’re losing our place, Marshall. I got no money coming in, and this time next week I’ll be sleeping in my goddamn truck.”

  Marshall nodded. They both knew he didn’t have to say anything. Things had slipped from bad to worse ever since half of downtown went belly-up. Everybody was suffering, but Jerry had been in half a world of shit even before the bottle plant closed up for good. Now, he struggled day and night just to keep his head above the septic contents of his life.

  But it was three in the morning.

  “I’m sorry, Jerry. I just can’t risk Rita finding out.”

  Jerry leveled his gaze, willing himself to appear somewhat sober. He thought about his words good and hard, making sure he didn’t slur a single syllable.

  “How about I just yell real loud? How about I just wake Rita up right now and tell her everything?”

  He watched Marshall’s face scrunch up like somebody had grabbed it and smooshed it together. The guy looked ugly as sin and mean as a branded bull. Too bad. He needed to work the bag, and Marshall was giving him a bunch of shit about it. The bastard had dug his own hole; let him crawl out of it.

  “You wouldn’t.” Marshall’s voice quivered a little, not much, but enough to tell Jerry the guy was crumbling.

  “I would, Marshall. What the fuck I got left to lose?”

  “Jerry—”

  “Nothing. I got Jack and Shit, and ain’t either one of them worth a good goddamn. Don’t you try telling me I wouldn’t do it. I’ll wake Rita and walk her out to the barn myself. Then I’ll let her watch me work the fucking bag until I feel like crawling in my truck and sleeping all this shit off. I can promise you I’ll do it, Marshall. You don’t believe me, just give it a go.”

  Marshall breathed long and deep. Jerry kept his eyes on his friend, trying like hell to keep them glued in place despite their desire to slip shut. Marshall had to let him into the barn. Had to let him work the bag.

  Finally, the man nodded.

  “Okay, Jerry. Let me get my shoes.”

  Moments later, they stood outside Marshall’s weathered tobacco barn. The October air scraped at Jerry’s skin, and he hugged his arms as he waited for his friend to unlock the door. He wondered if Rita had ever asked Marshall why the barn suddenly needed a padlock big enough to stop the Incredible Hulk or if she’d even noticed it. Probably not. She didn’t give a damn about the barn once harvesting season was over and done, and there hadn’t been one of those in two years.

  He watched as Marshall inserted a key he kept hidde
n only God knows where into the padlock and turned. The chunk of metal popped open, and Marshall pulled the whole thing free. Jerry found himself wondering about locks as Marshall threw open the latch and shoved the entire thing in his pocket. Maybe if he could learn more about them, he could get a job as a locksmith, something like that. He shrugged the thought away. He knew he wasn’t good for much but stamping bottles, and that job had disappeared for good. Now, he couldn’t even get a job shoveling shit for the county.

  “Jerry, you want to help me with this?”

  The words ripped him from his thoughts. He shook his head, trying like hell to clear himself up, then stepped alongside his friend and grabbed the tall, wooden door. Together, they got it rolling along its suspended track, metal rumbling over metal.

  “God, don’t let this wake up Rita.”

  “Shit, Marshall. You really think that’s what He’d want?”

  “Point-fucking-taken.”

  They opened the door about three feet, no more. They just needed enough room to get through without banging into something. As soon as they were inside, they grabbed the door and pulled it shut again. Only then did Marshall reach over and jerk on the nearby chain. A single bare light bulb flared to life, stabbing light into Jerry’s drunken eyes.

  “Motherfuck!”

  “You wanted to work the goddamn thing, not me. Try to remember that while you’re busy pissing and moaning.” Marshall threw a latch on this side of the door, threaded the padlock through and slapped it closed. “Safe and clear.”

  Jerry’s eyes adjusted, and he examined the barn he’d been in so often over the last few months. Faded straw over a dirt floor. Beams of brown wood coated with dust, each piece of timber cracked and ready to break. The beams filled the barn, stretching all the way to the rusted tin roof, where they served as rafters. Once upon a time, tobacco had hung from them, drying. That was back before most of the county’s soil had turned to dirt dryer than the Sahara. Now, the wood supported something else. It held up the bag.

  Marshall moved past him, toward the middle of the barn. He followed closely, pausing only long enough to snatch up an old Louisville Slugger somebody had propped against a column. He ran his fingers over the smooth, cold wood. Stains the color of rust marked the maple, memories left behind by the last man to work the bag.

  He looked up to find Marshall staring at him, eyes narrow and dark. “Think maybe you can just start with your fists tonight?”

  “Why? You feeling sorry for it?”

  “No. I’m worried about noise.”

  “There’s never anything louder than a grunt, Marshall.”

  “You know that ain’t true.”

  “Pussy.”

  “Just…Just do it for me, okay?”

  He dropped the Slugger to the ground, sending up a puff of dirt and hay dust. “Whatever. Just get the fucking thing ready.”

  “Could use some help.”

  He leveled his eyes at Marshall. He knew there was meanness in them, and he didn’t blink until he was sure his friend had seen all of it.

  “Right,” Marshall said. He turned away and got to work.

  Jerry leaned against one of the wooden columns and eyed the baseball bat at his feet. He wanted it, wanted it in the worst way. Sure, laying into the bag with fists helped, but really wailing on it with a good chunk of lumber proved so much more satisfying. Right now, he needed all the help he could get, and leaving the Slugger behind wasn’t going to be easy. He decided the best way would be to ignore the damn thing. Instead, he concentrated on Marshall.

  His friend stepped to a nearby post and unhooked a chain. The steel links reached high into the rafters, where they looped through a pulley before dropping toward the floor again. The hook at the chain’s dangling end inched its way downward as Marshall worked hand over hand. He didn’t stop until the hook was maybe a foot above the floor, then he secured the chain’s opposite end to the post once more.

  The space beneath the suspended length of chain looked like the rest of the barn’s floor at first glance. Then Marshall kicked the straw away with one booted foot, and the wooden trapdoor became visible. Five planks nailed together, an iron ring on one side. Marshall grabbed the ring and pulled the door open, revealing the pit where they’d all decided to keep the bag.

  The bag. Who had been the first to call it that? Jerry knew he hadn’t done it, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t Marshall. The name fit, though. It fit better than any glove ever did.

  “Hands up,” Marshall said. No reply came, so Marshall kicked down into the pit three times, hard and fast. “I said, ‘hands up!’ ”

  The hands appeared as two dirty fists. Dried and cracked blood coated the wrists below them, the handcuffs they wore digging into the flesh. Both hands—both arms—shook with weakness and terror as Marshall hooked the chain between the cuffs. They looked pathetic, but Jerry knew the rest was worse.

  Marshall looked up, catching his eye. “You sure?”

  He nodded, but it was a slow movement—one he had to think about good and hard.

  “All right, then.” Marshall returned to the post and took the chain up in both hands once more. This time he pulled, though. His hands worked rhythmically, drawing the chain back through the pulley. Slowly, a few inches at a time, the thing they called the bag rose into view.

  What remained of its long, golden hair hung down in matted clumps the color of greasy dishwater. The raw scalp around these locks had scabbed over in places, kept bleeding in others. One eye had swollen shut. The other remained bright and aware despite evident fatigue. A flattened mash of flesh and cartilage marked where its nose had once been. Its lip was busted open and swollen.

  Black and yellow bruises decorated its torso, arms, and legs along with a collection of cuts, scrapes, lesions, and sores. The lines of healthy muscle remained, would most likely never disappear. The thing’s weakness came from something else, from a fall that should have killed it but didn’t.

  The wing they hadn’t sawed off at the shoulder unfolded and flapped once, twice, gusting wind as it lifted the bag’s body to one side before letting it drop back down. The feathers that had once been white and soft as down had faded to a hopeless shade of gray, the color of pure despair.

  Jerry looked it up and down. All in all, the bag didn’t look much like an angel anymore. It didn’t look like much of anything but a dying animal longing to be put out of its misery.

  Memories floated through his mind. He remembered the panicked call from Marshall, telling him to get his ass over to the farm to see what had landed in the backfield. He’d arrived with George Jensen and Steve Freeman, and Marshall had hurried them back in his old rust bucket of a truck. They’d all stood around it, looking down and trying to figure out if they’d gone crazy, and then Steve had been the first to plant a boot in its ribs. Nobody needed to ask why. They all knew what had happened to Steve in the previous year.

  He saw them all discussing what to do, saw Marshall drag out the chain and the hacksaw. He heard the thing screeching in torment and felt his heart flutter with emotion.

  Jerry shoved the memories away. The bag always did this, always tried to fill him with these thoughts and feelings that might make them soft. It was a bullshit move, and it pissed him off. On top of everything else, this useless thing hanging in front of him was trying to play him for a puppet.

  He pushed himself away from the column and waded forward on drunken feet, curling his hands into fists the size of beer mugs. His upper lip peeled back into a sneer, and he saw the bag look at him with that one good eye.

  He struck the eye first. Motherfucking thing had it coming.

  The thing that had once been an angel moaned as its head snapped back. Jerry didn’t give it a chance to recover, but instead plowed his other fist into its ribs. Air rushed from the thing’s lungs, and Jerry slammed a punch into its solar plexus, making sure it wouldn’t get its air back.

  “High and mighty piece of shit.” His breath was already getting ra
gged and thin. He knew he wasn’t in shape, and the beer sitting in his belly like a mound of baking dough sure didn’t help. Still, he only paused long enough to wipe a bubble of snot from his nose before landing another quartet of punches into the bag’s midsection. A fifth punch cracked across the thing’s jaw and tore a scream from its throat.

  “You don’t care, do ya? No, you don’t give so much as a squirt of piss. Just like He doesn’t!”

  The bag wheezed, lips moving, trying to form words. Jerry reared back and kicked it in the gut, cutting the words off at their source.

  “I’m talking now! This is my fucking show!” He grabbed what remained of the thing’s hair in both fists and dragged its head forward, meeting its diminished gaze with his own burning eyes.

  “You think you’re better than me? Is that what you think? You and Him, the two of you just think we’re all a bunch of backwoods pissants. Well, fuck you and fuck Him, and don’t you even think about spouting that Mysterious Ways bullshit! Is that what He did to you? That why you fell down here? Or did you piss Him off, step on the wrong toes? Is that what we did? We somehow make Him mad at us? Is that why the whole fucking county is dying, and us along with it?”

  The bag let out a long moan, then managed to form words with its cracked lips.

  “Told you before. I don’t know.”

  Jerry spit in its face and then grabbed the Louisville Slugger off of the floor.

  Marshall waved at him with frantic hands. “Don’t, Jerry.”

  “Fuck you.” He took two more steps, cocking the bat, and then laid into the bag with everything he had. The piece of maple swung again and again, pounding against muscle and bone and broken flesh. The angel winced at first, then groaned before finally crying out.

  He continued his assault as images began to flash through his mind. First overtime being cancelled at the factory, then the layoffs. Walking out on the last day before they shut the doors and locked them, never to be opened again. Buying that bottle of bourbon on the first night, buying a cheaper bottle the next. Fighting with Nancy the first time, hot words that cut and jabbed. Sleeping on the couch a night at a time, then permanently. Finally, he saw last night, the first time he’d hit her, sending her sprawling and bleeding to the cracked kitchen linoleum.