Pale Immortal

by Anne Frasier

Oh, God.

  He scrambled up off the mattress. Arms outstretched, he moved forward through the blackness, taking high, awkward steps, trying to recall where the holes in the floor were.

  He made it to the door and paused, his heart hammering.

  She was out there. The crying coyote woman.

  Don't leave. Stay here, where you're safe.

  Safe?

  He was losing his mind here. He was starving to death here.

  He squeezed through the narrow opening. As soon as his feet touched soft ground, he took off. To the right was the way out. He remembered that. To the right, past the graveyard, down a lane.

  His eyes were open so wide he thought his eyeballs would fall out. His legs ripped through tangled vines, and his boots broke dead twigs. He could make out some shapes that were dark and low to the ground. That were darker than the rest of the darkness.

  Bushes? Or cloaked, crouched people?

  His arms and legs pumped; his chest rose and fell, and his lungs burned. His foot caught and he was hurtled forward, slamming into the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

  "Help me!"

  She was closer now. She was following him.

  Shit. Oh, shit.

  He scrambled to his feet.

  Suddenly, off in the distance, appearing and disappearing between tree trunks, a light caught his attention.

  He ran for that light, his lungs raw, his legs shaking.

  Alba's house. Must be Alba's.

  He didn't take his eyes off the light.

  He fell. He got back up. He fell again. And got back up.

  Don't stop. Don't look back. Just run. Run like hell.

  He came to a gate.

  Locked.

  He climbed to the top, swung both legs over, and dropped to the other side.

  He heard a sound—like the release of a spring— immediately followed by a solid metal snap.

  Raw, tearing pain ripped through his ankle.

  Run. Keep running.

  His eyes refocused on the light, which he now recognized as a kitchen window. He launched himself toward it. His leg was jerked out from under him.

  He screamed.

  She was grabbing him. The coyote woman had him by the foot and was pulling him back. He screamed again and dug his fingers into the ground, trying to wrench himself away, trying to kick himself free.

  Clang.

  Like the rattle of a heavy chain.

  The pain in his ankle was intense. Worse than anything he'd ever felt before in his life.

  He curled around and reached for her hands, her claws—and touched cold metal. Something metal was wrapped around his ankle. Something metal with jagged teeth.

  A trap. The kind of trap hunters used. Attached to the trap was a chain, the chain attached to the fence.

  The inside of his boot felt slick and warm. It took him a moment to realize that it was filling up with blood.

  "Alba!" he screamed. "Alba!" And then, "Help me!"

  Working blindly, he tried to separate the locked teeth of the trap. Dizziness washed over him, and he blacked out.

  When he came to, he was lying on his back, the pain in his ankle so intense that his muscles were bunched, his teeth gritted hard enough to snap his jaw.

  In the distance a light flashed.

  The house. A porch light. A flashlight.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Somebody had heard him. Someone was coming.

  He could see the light wending its way toward him, bouncing, getting brighter and closer.

  He wanted to go home. Even if it meant going home to his mom. He wanted a bed. A shower. Food. Sleep. He didn't want to die, not like this.

  "Who's there?" the man with the flashlight demanded. It sounded like Alba.

  "Here! I'm here!" Graham shouted, his voice snagging on a sob.

  The man with the light closed the distance between them, until Graham could see that it was Alba.

  "Oh, my God," he sobbed. "Am I glad to see you. My foot! I caught it in a trap. I'm bleeding all over!"

  Funny that he'd tried to kill himself not long ago and he hadn't been scared for a second. But this was different. A trap. A trap meant for an animal.

  When Alba didn't hustle, Graham grew impatient. "Hurry! You have to get me out of here! You have to get me out of this thing!"

  Who would have put it there? Who would have left something like that there, right out in the open? Right by a gate where anybody could step on it?

  He was already imagining being taken to the hospital and having to come clean about running away. He didn't like hospitals, but that was okay. Better than losing his fucking foot.

  What was Alba doing? Standing there, looking at him.

  "Help me!" Graham shrieked. "Get this off me!"

  He was freaking out.

  Still Alba didn't move any nearer. Finally he spoke: "I put the trap there."

  "W-what?"

  "I'm not that strong, and it was hard to set."

  "Are you crazy? What were you thinking? Anybody could have stepped in it. I stepped in it. What were you trying to catch?"

  "You were supposed to stay at the church," Alba said. "But I was afraid you might get tired of it. I was afraid you might decide to leave."

  Graham stared into the blinding light, unable to see Alba's face. But Alba could see his, and Graham's expression had to reflect the sick horror he was feeling, even though his mind was still denying what he'd just heard.

  "Last night I caught a feral cat," Alba said. "The night before, a raccoon. But I set the trap for you."

  Chapter 29

  Graham was having a really fucked-up dream.

  One of those dreams that seemed more real than real life. One where you could actually feel pain. A lot of pain. In his dream he'd been running and he had gotten his foot caught in a trap. Right now his foot and ankle hurt like hell with a deep, heartbeat throb.

  Wake up. Wake up so the pain will stop. So the nightmare will end.

  He kept repeating the command until he finally woke up.

  Or so he thought, but it ended up being one of those trick dreams. One of those dreams where you thought you were awake, but you were really in another stage of the dream.

  His foot and ankle still hurt; he was still asleep.

  Open your eyes. Maybe that'll work—just open your eyes.

  He did.

  Broken rafters above, filthy mattress below.

  The church at Alba's place.

  Home, sweet home.

  But something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

  He was bound up tight in some kind of Harry Houdini thing. A chain had been wrapped around his body over and over, his arms left free. The heavy links trailed away to encircle the leg of a nearby pew attached to the floor.

  Travis jumped up from the back of the building. "Hey, man. I was startin' to think you was never gonna wake up."

  The nightmare was real, the pain in Graham's leg intensified now that he was awake. "Unchain me." His voice came out a hoarse croak.

  He tried to sit up but couldn't. Even the slightest movement made the pain a million times worse. Dark spots floated in front of him.

  "You pissed him off," Travis said in a voice that was too casual for the situation and made Graham wonder if maybe he was still dreaming. "You can't ever piss him off."

  "Who? What are you talking about?"

  "Alba."

  Graham closed his eyes and let his head drop. He tried to calm his breathing so maybe the pain wouldn't be as bad. It didn't work. If your pain was a ten and it fell to a nine ... that wasn't much of an improvement. "Unchain me," he gasped with drama that would have been embarrassing as hell if he had given a shit about that right now.

  "Sorry, dude. I can't."

  Graham's mind was a mess, but not such a mess that he couldn't figure out what had happened. "You abducted me."

  "No. No, man."

  "Yes, you did. And now I'm a prisoner. Isn't that right?"

  "No!
No, you weren't! Not until now. Not until you pissed him off."

  "Don't you mean until I tried to leave?"

  Anger surged through him, and he momentarily forgot about the pain. "Come on!" He strained against the unforgiving metal. "Unchain me, asshole! Can't you see how fucking lame this is? How fucking stupid?"

  "He told me to watch you and make sure you woke up. I guess you lost a lot of blood. But I gotta get outta here before dark. I can't stay here after dark."

  "Why are you doing this? What's in it for you? I mean, I thought we were friends." Bullshit, but it seemed like a good tactic. And Graham had liked Travis more than he liked Travis's buddies.

  "We're going to become immortal," Travis said.

  Graham always knew Travis was stupid, but he'd never guessed how stupid.

  "What does Alba want with me? I don't get it."

  "He said you're bait."

  Like ransom? Graham wondered.

  His mom didn't have any money, but maybe Stroud did. How much did writers make? He'd never really thought about it. The famous ones probably made money, but he didn't think Stroud was famous. He'd never once run into anybody who'd ever heard of him. But then, he didn't hang out with people who read books.

  Travis pulled out his cell phone, punched his thumb across some buttons, then lifted the phone to his face. "Yeah, he's awake." A pause. "He seems to feel okay." He turned to Graham. "You feel okay, don't you?"

  What the hell?

  "Here." Travis crouched down and held the phone to Graham's ear. "He wants to talk to you."

  "Sorry I can't be there," came Alba's voice over the small phone. "But today's our dress rehearsal for the play."

  Graham's stomach dropped.

  Over the past few days Graham's world had become incredibly small. He'd almost forgotten about school and the play. About Isobel.

  Alba was roaming around playing cool drama teacher when he shouldn't be allowed near those kids.

  "How do you feel?" Alba asked.

  Graham had always thought he'd had some experience with insanity—spending his life with a sick woman he sometimes refused to think of as anything more than the Uterus—but Alba took craziness to a new level. The calm normalcy of it all was too much.

  Graham blew up. "You crazy son of a bitch!" He wanted to say more, but the rage and frustration exploded in his head and made him dumb and confused. Suddenly he wondered who the real crazy one was here.

  "Sorry, Graham," Alba told him. "You seem like a nice kid."

  Graham let out a loud sob, distantly aware of Travis hunkered over him, the hand with the phone next to his face. "My fucking foot is going to fall off, and you're critiquing my personality? I'm going to lose my foot!"

  "I have to go," Alba said, his voice casual and unchanged. "Someone is here. Hello, Isobel. No, come on in. I was just signing off." Then, back to Graham. "Talk to you later, dude," he said in what he probably assumed was coolspeak.

  It obviously worked. Everybody seemed to be falling for it.

  Travis closed and pocketed the phone, then stood up. "It's getting dark. I gotta go. Need anything?"

  "What do you think?"

  "Sorry," Travis said. "I really am." He looked around, picked up a blanket, and tossed it over Graham. "Things'U be okay. You'll see."

  "I might die," Graham said. "Did you ever think about that?"

  "It won't happen."

  But Graham could see the idea made Travis uncomfortable. "I'm probably dying right now."

  "You just need to rest, that's all."

  "My foot got cut half off by some rusty piece of metal." He didn't know if it had been rusty or not, but it sounded good. "I need a tetanus shot. I probably need antibiotics; otherwise I'll get gangrene. Otherwise my foot will rot and I'll get blood poisoning and die."

  He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to see what damage had been done, but he made himself unlace his boot. "Pull it off," he said, extending his leg.

  Travis shook his head and took two steps back.

  "Come on. Don't be a chickenshit."

  Guys like Travis didn't like to be called chicken. Travis stepped forward and grabbed the boot with both hands.

  "Easy," Graham said.

  "What if your whole foot comes off in the boot?"

  "Come on. Pull it."

  He gave it a slow tug.

  Sweat broke out on Graham's upper lip. A second later his entire body was drenched, and the pain had him squeezing his leg with both hands and clenching his teeth until they should have shattered.

  "Oh, man," Travis said once the boot was free.

  The sock that used to be white was burgundy.

  "Pull off the sock."

  Using a finger and thumb, Travis peeled off the sock and dropped it to the floor. "That's some nasty shit, dude. I think I see a bone." He leaned closer. "Two bones." He looked up at Graham, who was breathing fast and hard through his mouth, still gripping his leg. "That is awesome," Travis said. "I mean, I can't believe you're not screaming your fucking head off."

  "Okay, so now don't you see why you need to let me go? You need to take me to a hospital. Just dump me at the door of the emergency room. I won't say anything to anybody. I swear."

  Travis's gaze left the foot he was still holding, went to an area near the door, then returned. "I can't do that." He let go of Graham's foot and began to back up. "Do you know what kind of trouble I'd be in if I did something like that? Man." He shook his head. "That would suck. That would suck so much."

  Graham lowered his foot to the filthy mattress and propped himself up on his elbows, trying to concentrate through the pain-induced stupor. "Think about what you're doing." But Graham knew it was a lost cause. Travis had made up his mind a long time ago.

  Travis spun around, grabbed a small paper bag from the church pew, and slid it across the floor, where it bumped against the mattress. "I brought you some stuff. A little something I ripped off from my mom. I'll be back tomorrow."

  "I'll be dead tomorrow," Graham said, staring into Travis's eyes, hoping to draw out some spark of compassion. All he saw was nervousness and fear.

  "I didn't bring a flashlight. I gotta go."

  Travis slipped through the doorway. Graham listened to the sound of his feet pounding over the ground. Then he gave in to the pain and collapsed against the mattress.

  Later, as darkness crept in through the cracks and around the corners, Graham forced himself to open the bag Travis had left. The brown paper was soft from being handled so much. Inside Graham found a beer, a candy bar, and a prescription bottle.

  No water?

  No real food?

  In the dim light he read the prescription. Vicodin. No secret what that was for.

  He twisted off the cap, shook the single pill into his palm, and downed it with beer.

  He'd planned to take only one swallow, but he was so damn hungry and thirsty. He emptied the bottle in less than a minute. Next came the candy bar, unwrapped and finished off in five bites. Chocolate and peanut butter. He'd never been crazy about candy, but it tasted amazing.

  His stomach must have shrunk, because suddenly he felt stuffed. He'd managed to forget about his foot for a few minutes.

  He bent his leg to look at it. Thank God it was almost dark. Otherwise it probably would have scared the hell out of him.

  Dizziness washed over him, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  Fainting.

  He let go of his foot, straightened his spine, then tumbled over backward against the mattress, losing consciousness.

  Graham drifted in and out of sleep. There were times when he awoke and knew his head was screwed up. His thoughts were weird, and they floated off in directions that had nothing to do with his present situation.

  Other times he would wake up with a terrible start, his leg raw fire, his heart pounding. He was going to die here like this. Rotting on some filthy mattress in the middle of nowhere.

  He floated___

  And dreamed that animals were ea
ting him, chewing on his leg. He could hear them munching. In his sleep, in the throes of his nightmare, he let out a scream that woke him up. He sat upright, staring into the darkness.

  He'd never felt so alone in his life. The loneliness of this new existence was driving him crazy. From the corner of his eye he saw a movement. He gasped and turned.

  Blackness. How had he seen anything when it was pitch-black?

  From outside came a wail. He squeezed his eyes shut even though it didn't change anything, and he begged for morning to come. The pain in his leg was worse now. The Vicodin must have worn off. He grabbed his leg and rocked back and forth.

  What time was it?

  He couldn't even guess. Maybe early. Maybe before midnight. Or late. Almost dawn. He tipped back his head and let out a cry of frustration and rage and pain. And then he began shouting, crying for help. Maybe somebody would hear him. Maybe somebody would come.

  Suddenly he heard a bird. Then another. With his eyes wide-open, he began to make out the vague shapes of pews, the altar, windows.

  Morning was coming. Thank God.

  And then he heard a new sound. Something closer than the wailing. Something right outside, scratching at the door.

  His breath caught, and he focused in the direction of the sound.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  A raccoon, he told himself. He exhaled, then inhaled raggedly.

  Black had turned to gray.

  More scratching, followed by a moan.

  A human moan.

  The door couldn't be closed or opened all the way. It was always ajar. In that opening a hand appeared. Low to the ground, very near the floor.

  A hand.

  Followed by an arm and long, tangled hair.

  Jesus.

  A woman in a torn dress came crawling across the floor toward him, dragging a pair of lifeless, bloody legs behind her.

  The fabric of the dress seemed vaguely familiar.

  No. No, it couldn't be.

  He had to be dreaming. He had to be asleep.

  The woman tilted her head and looked up. He could just make out a single eye peeking between two curtains of matted hair that was tangled with twigs and moss. She lifted a hand—a broken-nailed, bruised, and bloody hand—toward him. In one long exhale, she gasped: "Graham."

  How many times had he had this dream? This nightmare?