by Glen Krisch
The people boarding were anxious, eager to be away from the city. Just to complete his playacting, he stopped and waved to a couple sitting on one of the wooden benches. They looked to be about his parents' age and they gave an indifferent wave in return. He turned and made his way to the back of the bus before he drew any attention.
The bus jumped as it started and kicked into gear. The people crowding around him took out headphones or crosswords or paperbacks to wile away the time. Kevin was antsy. He had nothing to do to ward off boredom. Or fear. He was buzzing off the sugary cookies he'd just eaten, and needed to take a leak. The door for the restroom was nearby. He stood, taking his backpack with him.
He realized he was going to finally take a leak on a bus. Just what his dad wanted him to do in the first place. If only… if only.
Kevin stayed in the cramped restroom long after he had flushed the stainless steel bowl, his urine mixing with the mysterious blue fluid, dropping into some holding pod. To help dry up the tears that flowed as soon as he entered the restroom, he thought of aimless stuff--T.V. shows and comic books and his new school. But what lingered after everything else drifted away was feeling of responsible for the death of his dad, that he had somehow killed him. He knew he would never be free of the thought. He wiped the few tears from his eyes with a gritty paper towel before returning to his seat.
The engine roared beneath him, and it was easy to let it lull him to sleep. As he closed his eyes, he hoped the next time he opened them he would find himself looking at the arching sign of his hometown bus station. Warren Cove: pop. 7220.
When he woke groggily, he looked out the window. The driver had stopped the bus, and the folding doors at the entrance were open to the chilly dusk air. He saw the bus driver wobbling back to the bus after purchasing a fill up of gasoline. Held in her meaty arm were at least three packs of Zingers and a two-liter of cola. A couple of passengers came aboard after finishing off hastily smoked cigarettes. In no time, the bus was moving again with night rapidly descending. Kevin had no idea where they were or how soon he would be home. He was chilled from the cold air coming through the open folding doors. He unzipped his backpack to take out his windbreaker, but it wasn't there. He could have sworn it was in the main pocket. It wasn't in the medium sized pocket, either. He must have lost it.
He thought back on where he could have left the windbreaker, tried thinking of the last time he had it. The last day or so had been relatively warm, so shirtsleeves had suited him fine.
The water fountain. It was the last place he could remember having it. He had taken it off so he could fish out the change. His mom would be so pissed if she found out he'd lost it. The bus rambled on, and Kevin tried to block out the thought of his mom. He no longer had a mom. If he had a mom then she would be in danger by association. Goosebumps danced up his arms, over his shoulders and across his back. He pulled the fabric of his gym shirt tighter, knowing that as he got closer to home, he still didn't know what he expected to find there.
When he opened his eyes, it wasn't to the familiar Warren Cove sign or the bus driver stopping off for more gas and junk food. A terror-filled shriek tore at his eardrums. He snapped awake, as did everyone else aboard the bus. The driver slammed on the breaks, the wheels skidding along the gravel-littered blacktop. As the bus came to a stop, the shrieking also stopped abruptly. An eerie silence filled the bus.
A man seated halfway to the front called out, "Did you hit someone? Maybe we should check…"
"I didn't hit nobody. I never hit nobody in my life," the driver shouted back.
Passengers peered out windows, everyone keeping their ears perked for that stomach-turning shriek. Sure enough, it started again, crying out in fear, pained to the point of near-rapture, and the shrieking became louder with each passing second. Kevin gathered his backpack and readied himself for the unexpected.
Quite suddenly, the roof of the bus came crashing in, bringing the shrieking in with it in the form of a woman. The passengers pushed away from the crumpled body. Shattered bones stuck through skin, and the body was doubled over at a weird angle as if it had no spine. Kevin pushed along with everyone else as the bus emptied. He had to duck under the caved-in section of the bus roof, and as he lowered his head he saw her smashed face and that she was still alive. She was, in fact, smiling. As he tried to walk by, she reached out for him with an arm that had far too many joints. Her blood-thick laughter carried with him as he exited the bus, the cold wind ruffling the thin cotton of his shirt.
"Dear mother'n Jesus. JesusJesus," the driver spouted at Kevin as he walked past her. The passengers formed a small circle outside the bus, rubbing their arms for warmth, hugging one another, scared out of their minds.
"What the hell is that?" one passenger asked.
"What do you think? It's a dream you dumb ass. You think a woman falls through the sky, comes crashing through the roof of a bus moving through corn fields could be anything else?"
"Well, maybe…"
"Haven't you read the news or seen the T.V.? Have you had your head stuck up your ass the last three days?" The man was livid. His wife took hold of him, burying her face in his chest. "God damn it! What a fucking world we live in."
"What do we do now?" a timid-looking woman asked.
"I don't know, but my cell phone doesn't work out here."
"I'm not getting back on that bus, not with that… that thing in there."
Kevin folded his arms across his chest, not sure what was going on.
The falling dream's laughter became louder, a wheezing liquid-sick noise. Something crashed within the bus, and looking through the windows, Kevin saw the dream-woman walking down the aisle, toward the front of the bus.
"Hell with that. Damn bus company can get their damn bus," the bus driver said. "Next town's just up the road. I'm gonna huff it, find a motel." She was opening a pack of raspberry Zingers as she walked away toward a low halo of light just over the horizon.
"Hey, what's the next town?" Kevin shouted.
"Podunk piece of shit. Warren Cove," the bus driver called out over her shoulder.
The falling dream tumbled down the bus steps, her shattered limbs unable to carry her weight. She was a broken bundle of twigs, blood dripping over her denim clothes looking like black syrup under the light of the weak moon.
The crowd of passengers scattered. Kevin didn't need to be told twice. His hometown was just over the hill. He started sprinting, quickly leaving behind the other passengers, passing the bus driver as she bit into a Zinger, an indulgent look on her face. He took a quick look over his shoulder before he lost sight of the stopped bus. The falling dream writhed on the gravel shoulder, writhed under the pain of her wounds. Somehow she still laughed, coughing up convulsive mouthfuls of blood. But she started to fade and soon disappeared altogether. As Kevin crested the hill, he saw the outskirts of Warren Cove, saw the abandoned and familiar Michael & Son's Service station (where he used to buy his baseball cards before it closed a year ago).
Kevin heard the falling dream's shriek. Somewhere high up, far away, falling through the air, enraptured by the thrill of falling, frightened by her impending impact, the falling dream carried on her cycle of life and death.
Kevin slowed as he reached the service station. It looked run down, more so than when he left Warren Cove at the beginning of the summer. Plywood boards covered the windows now, and they had graffiti decorations. Drew luvs Emily, one read, with a big black X through the Emily. Below it, another name, Taylor Swift. Kevin didn't need to think about it. Right away, he knew who Drew was. Drew Johanson had bullied him last year, had punched him in the face at the bus stop the day Kevin wore a new pair of Nike's. Emily what's her name--she was some cheerleader from Harrison Academy in Claremont, the next town over. After coming home with a fat lip, Kevin's dad had a little talk with Drew after school the next day. He had taken off early from work, had stopped Drew outside the school, and pulled him aside to where no one could hear or see them. By the en
d of the conversation, his dad had Drew crying. The big bully was crying. To top it all off, his dad drove the bully home.
That night over dinner, his dad told him that Drew Johanson was someone to feel sorry for, not fear. While blubbering to his dad, Drew mentioned his clothes were from the Salvation Army because his family had no money. His dad drank his paychecks and his mom worked all the time. While telling Kevin this, he put his strong hand on his shoulder, gaining his full attention. He told him that humiliating Drew by letting him ride the bus with his eyes all puffy from crying would only make him strike out at some smaller kid again. That's why he drove Drew home while Kevin had ridden the bus that day.
At first, he was mad at his dad. Kevin had wanted him to punch Drew's lights out. But as time went on, Kevin had gained a deeper appreciation for his dad. Not only that, but Drew Johanson had left him alone.
Kevin thought of all this when he saw that one spray-painted plywood board at Michael and Son's service station. His memories of his hometown came flooding back, seemingly with every step he took closer to his home.
Kevin walked by the baseball field where he hit his first home run. Actually, it wasn't much of a hit. It was a looper over the first baseman's head. The ball trickled down to the right field corner. When the fielder threw the ball back to the infield, it squirted through the infield, all the way in to foul territory. All the while, Kevin was tearing tail around the bases. The opponent's pitcher scooped up the ball and threw home, but Kevin was already popping up from his slide, a cloud of dirt flying everywhere. He smiled at the memory. Smiled even more when he remembered how his family had gone to Renaldi's on Main Street for a celebratory pizza.
Since passing Michael & Son's, a noticeable amount of ease came to his limbs. His shoulders were no longer tense, and his pace slowed. He tight-roped the concrete curb down Chase Avenue. When he reached Winfield Road, the road where he grew up, his heartbeat picked up again. He could see the Stover Realty sign still in the front yard, a white beacon a block away. The houses were quiet and dark as he walked by. The Ruby's, the Hanover's, Scotty Beckman's. All asleep, all unaware that Kevin had come home.
When he finally reached his house, it looked so much smaller than his memory. A dollhouse version of what was in his head. The lawn was mowed, but looked jagged, as if cut with a pair of pruning scissors freehand. The bushes lining the front walk had over-grown their manicured shape--some kind of plantlife on steroids. It seemed like a stranger's house.
Did I ever live here?
The eaves needed a coat of paint. Funny how he never noticed the eaves when he lived here. The kidney shaped rock was still where he remembered it, under the bush near the front door. He turned it over and picked up his spare key. They had been in such a rush to move to his grandma's house and so blinded by the loss of his dad they had forgotten about little things. He wondered what else he would find once inside.
He pushed aside the realtor's lock box and unlocked the door. When he pushed it open, the door's weather strip gave him a swooshing hello. Once he closed the door and had the key in his pocket, tears again formed in his eyes. The smell of the house did it. It smelled warm and soothing. It smelled like family. He blinked away the tears and walked to the empty fireplace. He lowered his backpack to the floor, only now realizing how sore he felt. He nearly collapsed to the floor of the empty living room. Using his backpack as a crude pillow, Kevin settled in, closed his eyes. In seconds, he was asleep, sleeping the deep and easy sleep of someone who is finally home.
The stars over Warren Cove cut through the sky as thin clouds peeled away. The moon was a dewy apparition haunting the darkness for the short while before it fell to the horizon. The still and somber night soon became unsettled. Dogs barked at shifting shadows. Cats clawed at doors for their owners to let them inside. Children wept, their eyelids tightly bunched as they slept, fearful of the nightmares stalking about their minds. The night had been set on edge, and there was a clear and simple reason. Mr. Freakshow was on his way.
Chapter 21
A policeman was kind enough to drive Carin and Maury back to her mother's house. The early evening sky looked like a new bruise. Dark purple and sore. High winds off Lake Michigan roiled the clouds, bullying them into dropping their fat raindrops. As the squad car pulled up to the curb, the cold late summer rain pummeled the windshield. The street was lined with a few unmarked cars and hastily parked squad cars. An ambulance drove by, leaving the scene without lights flashing or siren blaring. They exited the dry interior of the squad car and hurried through the growing puddles to the front of the house. Just outside the door, a group of policemen milled about the front yard, their clothes heavy with rain. They all seemed to be smoking, all of them inhaling deeply, inhaling like the smoke would purify them of what they had seen inside.
"I don't want any part of this. Even if they took her away, I don't want to see where they found her," Carin said to Maury.
"Don't worry. Just stay by my side." Since he approached her at the police station, she had given in to his influence. He was the one who suggested coming back to the house. She had vehemently opposed the idea, but he reassured her it would only be for a few minutes.
"We'll get the photos of Kevin for the policemen, then we can start our own search." He was also hoping to get some idea of where the boy had gone. Something at the house could jog Carin's memory.
The policeman who drove them stopped before they entered the house. "Folks, you don't have to worry about getting near the crime scene. The immediate area, the living room, the hallway leading to the kitchen, we have that blocked off for the investigation. We've cleared the west side of the house--the bedrooms, bathroom, and so forth. You can go there as long as an officer tags along."
"I have the photos in my room. I'm also going to get a few things. I don't think I could stay here. Ever."
One of the milling policemen dropped his cigarette to the wet grass and stomped it out with his foot.
Quite suddenly, anger surged through Maury. "Pick that up," he said, an unfamiliar strength to his voice.
"What?" The policeman was young, brash. He would look as big as a football player even without his Kevlar vest.
Carin stopped just shy of the door. As far as Maury could tell, she hadn't noticed the group of officers, and hadn't been able to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.
"The cigarette. Pick it up. Show some respect." Maury said, his voice stern. He didn't know what had come over him. He was never demonstrative, and would never envision speaking up to a policeman. He glared at the policeman, and he felt like he would vomit if he said anything more. If this young bag of muscles wasn't going to pound him, he was at least going to ask for his driver's license, and run his info through whatever supercomputer the police used to dredge up dirt on people. If they had a file on Maury that contained only suspicion and insinuation, it would fill a file cabinet.
The policeman picked up the butt and dropped it in an empty Coke can he was carrying. "Sorry." He looked like a beaten dog. Maybe he saw the strain on Maury's face. A buzz seemed to travel through the other officers, but no other interaction took place. Maury heard a muffled chuckle from the group as he turned away and entered the house.
"Thanks. Mom always took care of the yard herself. She worked hard. I appreciate it."
"No problem. Let's get the pictures so we can get you out of here."
Maury didn't want to see her mother's blood any more than Carin did. He couldn't tolerate the sight of blood, and he had already seen enough today to last a lifetime. Lucidity was in ruins. At least three people were dead. Nolan Gage, his daughter, Nicole, Peter What's-his-name. Four. Four people dead if you count Carin's mother. How high would the death toll soar? If they could find Kevin quickly, Maury could limit the damage. If Maury killed the boy, Mr. Freakshow would be no more. He would take his killing ways with him. And Juliet would no longer be in danger. At least from the boy's nightmare.
The police officer shielded Carin fr
om the view of the living room as they walked toward the bedrooms. Maury did his best to avoid seeing the bloodstains, the bits of flesh undoubtedly smashed into the carpet after they took away the ravaged body of her mother. But the smell. It reminded him of when he was a kid, long before the apartment fire, when his family had picnicked at a roadside park. The sun was shining, a breeze whipped through the trees. Dale was horsing around with the souvenir black bear statue from Machesney State Park, where they had just camped for a week. Dale roared like a bear in his little kid voice as their mom spread the blanket and their dad readied the food. But the wind picked up, changing directions, ruining the picturesque end to an enjoyable vacation. The stench hit them like a physical blow. Like road kill--flattened meat, seeping internal fluids seeking lower ground--this odor magnified ten fold. Their father didn't know he'd chosen to picnic a quarter mile from the Fredrickson Meat Co., a meat packing plant in the middle of nowhere, a place where two hundred people slaughtered animals and processed meat for a living. A plant surrounded by miles of postcard scenery.
The rotting flesh stench of the meat packing plant was in Carin's childhood home. The stench of thousands of slaughtered animals at a quarter mile away.
Maury didn't realize Carin had left him and was down the hall, in one of the bedrooms. While she was gathering a few belongings, he had subconsciously turned to face the living room, with its framed family photos, dated furniture and small T.V. He was looking in on a slaughter, seeing the stains that would never leave this place, a man wearing a brown tweed jacket, a loosened and wrinkled tie, checking the murder scene for any left behind clues. Maury's head was swimming. The bluntness of this. The crudeness. Stumbling away from the living room, he made it down the short hallway to the bathroom and closed the door. He turned on the faucet and waited to heave up whatever was in his stomach.