Debra, alone now, took her eyes from the road and looked into the sky. She heard the rain before seeing it, like angry fists pounding against a steel drum. No rhythm. All rhythm. Waves of rhythm. Titanic drops of rain slammed the car. She blinked twice, astounded by the sudden downpour. She pulled her foot from the gas pedal, pressed the brake and threw the wipers on full blast. But her vision had narrowed. It was becoming non-existent––even with the vehicle slowing, even with the wipers blasting and her body arced towards the windshield, the rain was in control now. The rain had taken the land.
Noticing that her window was down a couple inches and water was getting inside the car, Debra lifted a hand from the steering wheel and crushed a finger against a button on the door. The window hummed, then closed. Alone in the car, the dusty seats and stale air caught her senses. Her finger tapped the button, once, twice. She opened the window a little bit, just a crack, and then closed the window again. Her thoughts turned to smoking––the taste, the smell. But why smoking, she wondered. She hated smoking and had given it up long ago, so why here? Why now? She hadn’t smoked in weeks.
But what about girls-night––when was that? Last night?
She pushed the thought away. Girls-night didn’t count.
She thought about the rain. She thought about the difficulties of driving and considered stopping at a convenience store. Yeah. Stopping at a convenience store. That would be nice, a nice little break, but not to buy cigarettes, of course. No. She just wanted to get out of the rain for a minute or two, pick up a bottle of juice, or a cup of coffee, or maybe one of those super-fattening but terribly delicious chocolate ice-cream bars, but not cigarettes. Buying a pack of cigarettes would be stupid, a total waste of time and money. The pack would go stale. She wouldn’t even smoke it. And besides, she didn’t enjoy smoking now. It tasted bad, like the bottom of an ashtray. Hell, she wasn’t sure why she started in the first place.
Her (smoking) fingers tapped the window button.
Tap; tap; tap.
Well, maybe she knew why she had started. Yes, on second thought, of course she knew. She was young and foolish. It was the cool thing to do. Her friends were doing it, and even if they weren’t doing it they thought she was cool when she was doing it. Wasn’t that right?
Yes. Of course it was.
Tap; tap; tap.
Whatever. Who cares? Who fucking cares if smoking is cool, or not cool, or good for you, or bad for you… she was a Non-Smoker now and nothing would change that, no matter what.
Tap; tap; tap.
She liked the sound of that, a Non-Smoker.
Tap; tap; tap.
And yes, she had quit before, and then she started again. It was a stupid thing to do. She knew that, everybody did. Why start again, she wondered. Why would anyone start again? Smoking was a stupid thing; it was mindless and unnecessary. It gave you bad breath. It gave you cancer. It turned your skin into a bowl of spaghetti wrinkles and made your (smoking) fingers (tap; tap; tap) yellow.
Debra pushed on the button. The window dropped an inch. She pushed the button again. The window raised an inch.
Tap; tap; tap.
Still, she thought. One cigarette would be nice; just one, for old times sake.
A shot of vodka would be nice too––with a cigarette.
After two minutes, Debra slowed the car to a sluggish crawl and turned a corner. Picking up speed, she clicked the radio on––static––then off. Ten minutes after that she turned another corner. At the side of the road, standing next to a large green and purple bush (which reminded her of a meadow, or maybe a marsh), Debra spotted a man with his hands raised. He was smiling. He looked friendly and helpless.
Although she didn’t know it, the man was Elmer.
Elmer, soaked to the bone, waved and smiled like he needed assistance.
Debra ignored him. She didn’t have time for strangers. Not now. Not today. She didn’t even have time to stop at the convenience store to get a bottle of juice, or a cup of coffee, or maybe even an ice-cream bar (tap; tap; tap). She needed to see James. She needed to keep on moving, because she was twenty seconds away from being there.
“Sorry buddy.” Deb mumbled, pulling the car into the cottage driveway. “Some other time.”
* * *
Elmer watched; then turned away with a grin.
Deep inside the gloom of the rain, another car was approaching. He figured it was Switch.
Let the games begin, Elmer thought. Let the games begin.
94
James saw headlights in the driveway. He leaned the shotgun against the wall, opened the door and stepped outside.
Debra parked her car in the center of the lane and ran towards the cottage. “Get inside James! It’s pouring out here!”
As they stepped inside, Debra said, “We need to talk.”
James closed the door and locked it. Then he put his arms around her, ran his fingers down her back and kissed her.
Debra, standing in the hallway, quickly pulled away. The kiss seemed forced, strange. Wrong.
“James––”
“I know, I know. We need to talk. Trust me, I get it. You want to tell me about this girl you picked up and you’re in a hurry to do so. But I need to tell you a few things too. And I need you to understand something, because I didn’t lose my mind this afternoon, and I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I’ve been a victim all day and I’ve made a few mistakes. Sure I have. I’m really sorry for everything I’ve done. I need you to understand this, okay baby? Please… I’m sorry. Can’t you understand? I’m sorry.”
“Shut up a minute, will you? Fuck. I just got here and you’re all over me. Christ, you’re such a dickhead. Give me some breathing room; will ya buddy? What the hell is wrong with you?” Debra raised her eyebrows and laughed, but not in a happy way. It sounded like a laugh of frustration, annoyance and resentment.
She needed a fucking cigarette.
James watched her expressions, her emotional release. She needed time and she didn’t want to jump into the thick of things. He could understand that. He could sympathize. He could ram his shotgun right down her goddamn throat and pull the trigger but he didn’t have time. The clock was ticking. He needed to explain the situation. Explaining seemed essential: the key to everything.
“Yeah,” James said. “You just arrived, but Debra… we need to talk and we need to do it now. Something’s out there… I know it.”
“What the hell is your problem? I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I’ve never been like this.”
Debra walked down the hall, shaking rainwater from her hands. She opened the fridge door and squatted. Then she pulled a bottle of water from the bottom shelf. After a quick drink she stood up, leaned against the counter, ran her fingers through her hair and said, “You lied to me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Did you take hostages? Yes or no?”
James looked down, eyes on the floor. He put a hand on his face and pushed his fingertips into his brow. With a mind full of lies and a heart filled with truth––and the urge to blast her head clean from her body––he wondered what to do. The truth wasn’t good and he knew it. The lies seemed like an easier road. And blowing her head off seemed to be the best of the bunch. He wondered how her brains would look dripping from the ceiling.
Debra took another drink of water. “You did, didn’t you? You’ve taken hostages today. Why? Why the fuck would you do that? Have you gone crazy?”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Are you kidding me? How can you accidentally take hostages? What are you, some kind of terrorist now?”
“How do you know this? How do you know I took hostages?”
“It was on the fucking news asshole, on CNN. I saw footage of you––”
“Footage?”
“Yeah, from security cameras in my building.”
“Oh my, really? You said your buildin
g didn’t have cameras!”
“Well… whoops. I guess I was wrong.” After a long, ugly pause, Debra said, “What the hell is going on today? Honestly, have you gone mad?”
James, biting his tongue, said, “Debra… Franco is dead. Someone, or something, killed him. And I heard screams, screams that didn’t come from a man. I think the beach has a few more dead bodies lying on it. You want answers. I get that, but you need to know a few things first.”
Squinting her eyes, Debra said, “You mean Franco––”
“Yeah.”
“Franco… my neighbor?”
“Yes.”
“Oh James.” Debra stepped away from the counter and walked across the room. “Did you kill him?” she asked, thinking that he had.
“No, Debra. I swear on my life, I didn’t touch him.”
“Honest?”
“Of course! Don’t you know me?”
Debra realized that for the first time ever, she was afraid of James. Wondering if she was in danger she said, “Not today I don’t.”
“Debra…”
“How come everywhere you go people are dying, and how do you know Franco’s dead? How do you know that he’s dead if you didn’t do it?”
“I found him outside, and look at me…” James opened his arms, as if to say, “I didn’t do it.” But with the shotgun in his hand he looked like a total creep.
“I don’t know why I came here,” Debra said flatly.
“Either do I,” James said. Then he pointed the gun in her direction.
“James?” Debra said, stepping back. “What are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing.”
Debra felt her nerves tighten. James was about to kill her. She knew this now; it was completely obvious.
On the driveway, headlights cut through the pouring rain.
The game was about to begin.
PART FIVE:
THE GATHERING
95
The hot August temperature was gone. Lightning cracked, thunder roared, and between the two events heavy clouds pushed out wave after wave after wave of rainwater. The water flooded the ditches and overwhelmed the lanes. It drowned the flowers and shrubs while submerging the grass. The wind, which had come and gone throughout the day, had returned once again in all its powerful glory. Trees were swaying, branches were cracking, and animals––both large and small––were hiding or finding shelter. On the far side of the cottage, where the beach had transformed into sludge, the lake had become a volatile place where no sailors dared to set sail. And beneath the instability and regimented confusion of the rocky waves, the fish and the sea-creatures found refuge in deeper, colder waters, where the storm had little, if any, effect.
James lowered the weapon and ran to the window. Debra, confused, followed. Together they stood in the hall watching the downpour drill pockmarks into a driveway that had become a mucky, mud-drenched nightmare.
“Who’s here?” Debra said very softly, almost whispering. She nodded her head towards the light on the driveway.
James spoke quietly too, not that it was necessary. The rain was loud on the roof. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s your parents.”
“My parents? I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Look at the weather. Nobody comes to the cottage on a day like this. Why come when it’s raining?”
James scratched his head. “I don’t know, but who is it? Who else would be here, if not your family?”
“Maybe someone’s lost, or in the wrong driveway?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
The headlights turned off. Two doors opened and the car’s interior lights came on. Two figures stepped into the rain and both doors closed together. CKH-UNK was heard in stereo and the yard fell into a darkness that seemed absolute.
“I can’t see anything now.” James whispered. He reached out and held Debra’s hand. “Can you see? What are they doing?”
Debra considered resisting his touch but thought better of it. She didn’t want to fight with him, nor did she want to upset him. She didn’t trust it. Still, she found his touch repulsive. “No, I can’t see a thing.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know. Are they coming this way?”
James lightened his grip and allowed Debra’s hand to fall away. He held the shotgun against his chest. “Who are they? Cops? Are they cops? Do you think?”
Debra shrugged. She looked at the gun and felt a nervous spike. With caution she asked, “What’s that for?”
“What?”
“The gun. Why do you have it?”
“I told you. Things aren’t right. We’re in danger.”
“Why did you point it at me?”
“I didn’t. I was pointing it at them.”
Debra considered his words. She didn’t believe him, but she had to believe him. The only other possibility was that he was about to kill her. And she wouldn’t think that, although it seemed like the truth.
“Okay,” she said distrustfully. “But do you really need a shotgun? Haven’t you gotten into enough trouble with that thing?”
“You just don’t understand.”
“Make me understand.”
James shook his head in frustration. “Whatever.”
“Where did you get it, anyhow?”
“Sue’s place.”
Debra, thinking terrible thoughts, said, “Oh God.”
“What?”
Debra didn’t respond. Instead she moaned.
“What? What’s wrong now?”
“Just… don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You’re scaring me. That gun is scaring me. This entire situation is scaring me. Why the hell did you bring a gun? Do you really need it? Do you want to kill more people today?”
“No.”
“Did you kill Franco?”
“Debra,” James said, with a heartrending expression. “Come on.”
In the past, when Debra was upset, James knew what to say. He could make things better with a few simple words. He could make her smile; make her forget the concerns and dilemmas that plagued her mind. But here, now, James couldn’t manipulate the conversation in his favor. Truth was, none of this made sense. He was as nervous as she was, a nervous wreck. And he wanted to shoot her. He really did, more than anything else. He wanted to shoot her and stab her and pull out her eyes. And he would. Oh yes. He would; he promised himself that. It was just a matter of time.
Debra looked outside, feeling the goosebumps surging on the back of her neck. “Where did they go?”
James rubbed a hand across the window in the door. Then he coughed twice, still feeling the effects of the fire. His lungs had taken quite a beating; they seemed to be filled with a coat of black dust. He could hear his throat producing a thin wheezing noise, reminiscent of a child’s rubber squeak-toy.
“I don’t know where they are,” he said. “I can’t even see the car. Can you?”
“I think so.”
James put his hands against the glass like binoculars. A few seconds later he said, “How is that possible? My eyes are better than yours and I can’t see shit.”
“I have my contacts in.”
“Still…”
Ignoring James and his complaining tone, Debra tapped her fingers together. Tap; tap; tap. Something felt wrong, something she couldn’t express or explain. It was like she was standing on a landmine.
She looked at James, wondering if his eyes were always so dark.
96
“There’s so much rain,” James said. “I can’t believe it.”
“We should call the police now, right?”
“What’s that?”
“I should call the police now.”
James reflected on the fire, the burning children and the emergency vehicles that raced to the scene. He remembered the school and the chaos that was inside of it. He thought about Johnny and then blocked his thoughts. He said “no” without realizing it, and with his ey
es closed he stepped away from the window feeling a light, yet painful twinge inside his chest. He wondered if he would have a heart attack.
“Why not?” Debra asked.
“What?” James opened his eyes. He wanted to shoot Debra more than ever. But he wasn’t ready yet. His thoughts were swaying. He thought about the Bakisi and the urge to kill came down a notch.
“Why not? Why shouldn’t we call the police? If you’re innocent, I mean. If you’re really innocent, explain it to the cops. It might be a pain in the ass, going to court and everything, but I’ll stand by you. I promise.”
“I don’t think we should get the police involved, Debra. At least, not yet.”
“If we’re in danger we should call them. It just makes sense.”
As the words were spoken, Debra realized that the police had told her to stay close to home. She questioned her actions, her words. How much trouble have I caused myself? she wondered. Will I be charged for something? Have I gone that far?
As Debra’s mind rehashed her conversation with the police, James was up to his eyeballs in his own thoughts. He wanted to explain, wanted Debra to understand that before anything else happened––meaning that before the police were involved––he needed to kill the Bakisi. It was the only way.
Lightning blasted the sky, startling both of them.
“Who do think is out there?”
Debra shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the police.”
“Did you call them?”
“No.”
Honest?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you James. But you’re being stupid.”
James felt his shoulders slump. “Listen Debra,” he whispered. “There’s something you need to know.”
“What is it?”
The sound of breaking glass filled the air, followed by an unusual, awkward TH-THUMP. One of the bedroom windows had just been destroyed.
The Dead Parade Page 19