“Do something,” Mia whispered.
Officer Gentry turned towards her; his face was pale and grave. “What can I do?”
“Stop it,” she said. “Stop this from happening.”
Officer Gentry hesitated; he was afraid. This wasn’t a chapter in any police book he read, nor was it the topic of dispatch discussion. This was a whole new thing. And he was a paycheck cop, not an unsung hero.
Gentry pointed his gun towards William and the violence suddenly ended. William’s hands dropped to the floor and Mia ran to his side. A second later cold air brushed by Gentry, who felt goose bumps cultivating his legs.
“Oh dad,” Mia was saying. “Are you alright?”
The Bakisi was standing on the counter now, sizing up Mia and Gentry. They didn’t know they were being watched; they didn’t know what was happening.
Neither Mia nor Gentry had considered the notion that ‘something unknown’ was with them. Mia was too shocked and Gentry figured William had killed his wife and then sliced himself up somehow. Of course, this didn’t quite fit; it wasn’t what he’d seen. But then again, what he saw was impossible. And he was tired. And his wife was making him crazy. And his mind was playing tricks on him. And his shift was almost over. And he wanted to go home.
With so many excuses ready for action, Gentry’s memory turned against him. He tried to find something logical to believe in. He tried to find a suitable answer––the perfectly square peg for this flawlessly round hole. There was a battle. And William was in the corner with blood across his face and chest; he had broken fingers and a shattered leg. How could a man do that to himself Gentry wondered, and why on earth would he?
As Gentry lowered his gun, William opened one of his eyes. The other eye was puffed shut and would not open. Ever.
William said, “We’re not alone.”
Then Gentry made a decision, the wrong one. He pointed his gun at William’s chest and said, “Sir. Don’t move.”
“What?” Mia barked in anger. “Are you crazy? My father’s hurt and my mother’s dead! Call the hospital!”
As Gentry considered her words, the Bakisi attacked.
77
James dreamt as he slept. Inside his dreams he could see those he had killed, and those he watched die. He also suffered a discovery of fatality, a discovery of bereavement. The journey started at Johnny’s house…
* * *
The gun went off and Johnny died. He sat there in the chair for a moment, unmoving. He didn’t fall; he lifted his head. His eyes were red and bulging. Smoke drifted from his nose and the bubbly hole on the flipside of his skull. A stream of blood, teeth, and charred tongue, ran from his mouth, his gums, and down his chin. It seemed to flow forever––like a film clip, edited and looped.
Then the image changed; the loop changed.
Johnny stood up. He stepped away from the chair that had become soaked in blood. A lump of soft, wet tissue fell from the back of his skull. As the meat hit the floor his feet began moving with strange uncharacteristic ineptness, as if his intellect had fallen below any logical level, below the echelon of instinct. He walked past the police officers that stood in his living room drinking coffee, taking notes and snapping photographs. They didn’t see him; no one could see him.
Only James could see Johnny, the living corpse.
Johnny fumbled his way outside and walked along Tecumseh Street alone. The street was quiet, the air was still, sound was non-existent. There was something on the road ahead: Doctor Anson. A car had run him down; his chest was crushed.
Johnny laid his hand on Anson, then kept walking.
Anson’s dry unmoving eyes opened. He stood up, put a hand to his chest and hobbled along behind Johnny. His back was clearly broken; he was in agony.
On the road ahead a crowd had gathered. Johnny and Anson entered the swaying mass of men, woman and children, walking past an excited dog, a lanky black man that was dialing a number on his cell phone, and two teenagers that seemed ready to fight. They walked past a fat man that rubbed his giant knuckles into an open fist. They walked past a man with green eyes that was close to hysterics. Still, there was no sound. Not even a trace of noise could be heard. James could see that people’s eyes were focused on a single house; the bungalow James had crashed into. The fire had been put out. Only the smallest threads of smoke filtered into the heavens through the blackened wreckage.
Johnny and Anson stumbled up the hose-wet driveway. The crowd didn’t look, didn’t notice. James––the only person that could see the dead staggering into the bungalow––watched from a perspective that swung from viewpoint to viewpoint, changing with independent will. Sometimes he would be above Johnny and Anson, a bird’s eye-view. Other times he would be in front, watching the blood flow down Johnny’s face. But now––as Johnny and Anson entered the home––James seemed to be floating behind them. He watched the streaks of smoke drifting through Johnny’s skull.
The men slumped past officers, firemen, and a man that looked like a politician. They entered the living room through the clutter of the front door and stood near the wreckage.
James could see the car, the debris, and the nearly incinerated bodies of two children that were lying among the soot in strange undefined heaps. He could see the children’s mother, her fried corpse.
Johnny touched his hand upon each of them, one at a time. The skeletal remains revealed the mysteries of their ruins. The bones and blackened innards that had endured the fire came together. Bodies without flesh began standing, shifting, walking.
James continued floating; he watched from a new angle.
The dead walked into a room where two more children lay: a four-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. James hadn’t seen these two before; this was new. They were not burned. No, these two children had suffocated; they had drowned inside the poisonous air.
Johnny laid his hand upon each child, first the boy, then the girl.
With Johnny’s touch the children opened their frozen eyes, aloof with unquestioning death. Behind the stone glare James saw a congregation of fear. It was a fear unknown to the living, a fear that was as deep as the sky above the sky and the universe that encased it. The children, alive but dead, were afraid and pathetic. Their faces and hands were charred from the smoke. Dried tears had carved lines of semi-cleanliness in their cheeks.
Johnny held the youngest by the hand and all seven of them left the house. They moved through the crowd, crossed the street, and entered a backyard.
Stan and Emily were lying in a bloody, tangled pile. Stan’s throat had been torn from his neck and his right leg had been broken. Emily’s eyes had been pushed into her brain; her bottom lip hung severed from her face.
Both husband and wife awoke from their slumber and followed in silence, limping in Johnny’s shadow, and guided by Johnny’s hand.
Nine bodies now, they walked through the backyard in a cracked row and crawled the fence in anguish. They crossed the schoolyard and entered the school. Inside the gymnasium four more waited in death. A thirteenth and fourteenth rose from the hallway. A fifteenth came from the schoolyard; a sixteenth and seventeenth joined from the parking lot.
Then came Nash, the tattooed man that had been pulled through the car window. His neck had been broken; his head was twisted in circles and pulled free. It hung by a thick, meaty thread. His face banged off the small of his back as he walked. Blood poured on the ground behind him, leaving a messy trail.
The dead walked across town; they entered Debra’s complex.
Johnny extended his hand twice more.
As Tina stood, the Johnny Cash wannabe opened his eyes. With a broken spine he lifted himself to his feet. The pair followed this grisly spectacle holding hands, for Cash had no center of balance, and Tina––no eyes to see.
There were twenty-one bodies in all, moving in a scattered cluster. Johnny no longer gathered corpses, no longer hunted the dead. That part of the journey was finished now; a new chapter had begun.
&n
bsp; They walked from town together, leaving Martinsville behind. They walked the empty roads and the dark highways. And James recognized those long terrible roads, those thin, empty highways. It was the path to Debra’s cottage.
The dead were coming.
The dead were coming tonight.
78
As Elmer stood up, Helga saw Franco lying on the ground. His eyes were open and blank. Blood was smeared across his face.
Eyes locked in place, she gasped, “What have yu-you d-d-done?”
Helga couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She never heard the struggle between the two men, and the last thing she expected was this. Moments ago she was making tea; she wondered if Franco had wanted a cup and stepped outside on a whim. Truth was, when she offered him coffee or tea he always said yes. Asking was just a formality. It was part of the routine.
“Franco’s dead,” Elmer said.
Helga looked away from her dead husband, into the eyes of the maniac. “But why? Wha-why would you d-do this? He did nothing to you!”
Elmer stepped over the corpse and into the moonlight. The clouds in the sky changed position and the light between them all but vanished. The wind blew a forceful gust and Helga stepped back. A fly landed on her face and she swatted it away.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Get out of here. Leave us au-alone!”
She saw Elmer’s mouth. Blood was dripping from his chin; he looked like a vampire. She considered running but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that an elderly lady running away from a psychopath in the dark was a pointless endeavor. He was too young and she was too old. He’d catch her quickly and kill her soon after.
But what other options did she have?
She could fight, but she’d lose. She could scream, and hope to be saved. Or she could talk to the man. She could try to reason with a psychotic killer. Her choices were terrible.
“Listen,” Helga said nervously, backing away as she spoke.
“No. You listen.” Elmer said, keeping pace with her footsteps. “I’m going to kill you and I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to snap your neck with my hands.”
“You don’t hu-have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Then why do it? For the the-the-thrill?”
“I can’t let you go, lady. Not now. You’ve seen my face. You’ve seen my work.”
“I can’t see anything. I’m old… and it’s dark out here. I don’t nu-know who you are or what you’ve d-done. I don’t know au-anything.”
“That’s too bad, ‘cause it doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does!”
“Not to me.”
“You can turn au-away right now. You can leave me au-alone. The Lord will pa-punish you if you don’t follow in his fa-fa-footsteps.”
Elmer giggled; the woman was hilarious. Sometimes her cheeks puffed out and sometimes her eyes bulged and sometimes her lips looked like they were pinned together with a clothespin. Call NBC; this old broad needed her own sitcom.
“The Lord’s not here, lady,” Elmer said. “He stays away from me most of the time. In fact, he’s never around when I need him and I don’t think he’ll be around when you need him. Honestly now, do you?”
“Oh yes… he is h-here! The Lord is here. And he’s wa-watching you. He’s watching us! The Lord is everywhere. He’s here right now and he pa-pap-punishes the wicked!” Helga couldn’t help it; she spit in the air trying to say the word ‘punishes.’
Elmer smirked. “I’m afraid not.”
“His word is not to b-b-be questioned!”
“You’re trying to talk me down, scare me a little… is that it?”
“I’m trying to reason with you. For Gu-Gu-God’s sake, think about your soul! You’re better ta-than this. Don’t think for a minute that you can do au-as you please, killing and terrorizing and d-doing all the terrible things that you’ve been du-doing, and then what? Will you sit among the faithful at the end of your d-du-days? It doesn’t wa-work that way, although so many think that it does. You can’t say, Lord I’m sa-sar-sorry… sorry, on your deathbed and expect all to be forgotten. You can’t. You just can’t. Repent now and be saved now, for the Lord disciplines the wicked. He saves the m-merciful. Beg his forgiveness right here, right n-n-now, for it is not too late to follow in the footsteps of the Lord. Once the bell tolls there’ll be no more fu-fu-footsteps to fa-follow, can’t you see that? You can’t follow his word when the sermon is over. Follow his w-word now, and he will la-la-lead you to the Promised Land!”
“Fuck that. You’re trying to escape. But you’re too old to run, and too smart not to know it. Frankly, I’m impressed. But I’m smart too, and I’m not falling for it.”
Still backing away, Helga said, “But the Lord––”
“It’s not going to work, lady. You need a new angle.”
“I don’t want to die,” she blurted out, more afraid now than before. She didn’t realize it, but she had stopped thinking about her husband. The shock of his death had come and gone very quickly. And religion, she discovered, wasn’t the solution she was looking for. It was a tool that wasn’t working, the wrong approach. He was right; she needed a new angle. “I don’t want to die. Not here, not b-by your hand.”
“I don’t know if you realize this or not, you stupid stuttering whore… but I don’t care. This isn’t about what you want. This is about what I want.”
“Please, b-be reasonable.”
“But it’s your time to die. And I am being reasonable. Let me enlighten you on a thing or two. First of all, there is no God.”
“O-oh yes t-there is.”
“No. There isn’t. Think about it. This planet has been here for billions of years. People have been evolving for millions of years, long before organized religion. You say that ‘two-thousand years ago Jesus came!’ But two-thousand years ain’t squat when you’re talking about the big picture. What happened to all the people born before Jesus, huh? No heaven for them, I guess. What a rip-off.”
“You d-don’t under… s-s-s-stand! It was Jesus ta-that––”
“No! You don’t understand. I’m going to kill you, and when I die there won’t be a bearded man wearing a toga standing at the golden gates wondering why I would do such a thing. End of story.”
Helga kept walking. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to say. This guy wasn’t kidding around. He was planning on killing her, and he was going to enjoy it. Oh God, how do you reason with that?
“Where do you think you’re going,” Elmer said with a sneer. “You’re going to do a little backwards fancy-step all the way to New Jersey? Is that it?”
“Maybe. I don’t want to da-da-die today.”
“But you’re going to. That’s the bitch of it.”
“What cu-cu-can I do to change your m-mind? Tell me, and I’ll do it! You can ha-have anything that you want. You can hu-have everything.”
“You can stop moving away from me. How about that?”
“No. I can’t do that ta-that.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll grab me, and with the Lord as m-my witness, I believe you’ll kill m-me.”
“That’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“But it is.” Elmer wrinkled his nose and slowed his pace. “Can I ask you something, lady?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Be straight with me. This is your house, right? This isn’t some summer home… you’re here all year around, aren’t you?”
Helga swallowed back her lies, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Do you have any guns inside? I need a gun.” As Helga’s expression changed, Elmer knew the answer. A poker player she was not. “You do, don’t you? You’ve got one.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Stay out of ma-ma-my house.”
“Where is it?”
“I’ll nu-
nu-never tell you anything. I’ll never tell you w-where they are.”
Elmer giggled. “They? How many do you have, lady? A whole trunk full, apparently.”
Helga took one step too many and her balance shifted. She fell off a three-foot ridge, landed hard against the beach and expelled a grunt. Elmer, who laughed as she fell, stood at the edge of the drop off looking down at her, wind at his side. As his laughter tapered, he watched Helga in admiration, feeling his excitement building inside; he loved anticipation. It was the best.
“You’re a smart woman,” he said, nodding his head and licking his lips. “Very smart, and very well spoken for a stuttering whore. A bit too church-lady for me, but over all, I’m impressed. Congrats.”
Helga was moaning now. The unexpected fall injured her back.
“Any last words?”
Helga felt a tear roll down her cheek. She thought about her situation. She thought about her life. She thought about her husband lying dead in a pile with his face ripped apart and she pushed that thought away. If she was about to have a conversation with Saint Peter she wanted to make sure the last thing she said here on earth would earn his blessing. She inhaled a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. With her chin out and her hands balled into fists, she said, “The Lord is my Shepard. There is n-n-nothing I shall want.”
Then she screamed.
79
Debra drove another eight seconds before she finally stopped the car. With her arm resting behind the seat, she backed up. She had just driven past a woman on the road, and the woman needed help. But the road was dark and she couldn’t see much. And Debra’s wasn’t a great driver, at least not when driving in reverse, without her glasses––at night.
She expected to see the girl right away but never did. Finally she stopped the car, opened the door and stepped outside. The wind was blowing, causing her hair to fall in front of her eyes.
She held her hair back with her hand, and said, “Hello! Is anybody out there?” No response. “Hello!”
The Dead Parade Page 15