Raising Stony Mayhall

by Daryl Gregory

  “Captain José Daniel’s,” Stony said.

  “Yes!” Kwang said. He handed the glass to Stony.

  Stony took a sip and shook his head. “Wretched. Truly abominable.”

  “Abobida—abob—shit.” Kwang took the glass from him. “You’re not even buzzed, are you?”

  “Did you really think this would work on me?”

  “But you’ve had twice as much as me! You should be, I don’t know—”

  “Dead drunk,” Stony said.

  Kwang barked a laugh. “You know what? We should light the next one.”

  “No. Definitely not. No fire, Mr. Cho.”

  “Don’t be an old woman. You know I made out with Junie once?”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “I think she wanted to see what it was like with a man of the Asian persuasion. That’s why I have to go to college—to get some pussy! You know how many girls I’ve dated in this town?”

  “You do not want to compare scorecards with me.”

  “One. For two weeks!”

  “Sherry was a nice girl,” Stony said. “Dumb as a box of rocks, though, and that face …”

  “Shut up, you never met her.”

  “Oh, you still have feelings for her.”

  “Yeah, I got a feeling. A deep, deep feeling.” He stood up suddenly. “I have to piss.”

  Stony retrieved a rag from the sink and started wiping up spills. He didn’t think the alcohol was having an effect on him, but something was churning. One moment he was happier than he’d felt in a long time, and the next he was almost floored by sadness. Maybe Kwang’s state was contagious. In the old days it had been. Whatever Kwang wanted, he wanted. Whatever Kwang loved, he loved. Only lately had he realized how simple that had been, how wonderful. And Kwang had saved his life. When police brought Kwang home that Halloween night, his parents grounded him for a month. He’d taken the fall for Stony, and he never squealed, never complained, and never held it against him.

  Kwang came down the hallway carrying a shoe box. “I found something,” he said. “I was cleaning out my closets the other day, and—well, here.” He handed Stony the box.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Stony said. “You know how I love cardboard.” Inside was a clump of red knitted cloth. He picked it up.

  It was a ski mask. No, the ski mask. The black U was still sketched on the front.

  “I can’t believe you still have this,” Stony said. At some point he’d traded the Unstoppable for Jack Gore, the invincible dead boy for the Deadtown Detective.

  It looked much too small for him, and he pulled it onto his head anyway. The bottom of it came down only to his lips.

  “You look like Mushmouth,” Kwang said.

  “Wuss ubba, Fabba Alba.”

  The phone rang. Kwang collapsed into laughter.

  “I think I should get that,” Stony said.

  “Wait, it’s my mom.” It came out isssmamom. “If we answer it too quick, she’ll know we were up.”

  Stony glanced at the kitchen clock, a big gold sunburst above the cabinets. It was nearly 1 a.m. “I don’t think your mom thought you’d be in bed by nine.” He pulled off the mask and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  The voice on the other end was crying. “Kwang?”

  “Junie, is that you?”

  “Stony! Oh God, Stony. I have to get out of here.”

  “Where are you?” All he knew was that she’d gone out with the hair metal crowd.

  “You have to come get me. Please don’t tell Mom. You can’t tell Mom.”

  “Junie, what happened?”

  “I’m at Sarah’s house. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Sarah Estler?” Stony turned to Kwang. “Do you know where Sarah Estler lives?”

  “I think so. Yeah. Northdale.”

  “Okay, we’ll be there—Kwang will be there in ten minutes, okay? Will you be okay for ten minutes?”

  She hung up. Stony stared at the phone. He wanted to call her back, but he hadn’t gotten the number. “Can you drive?” he asked Kwang.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go.” He grabbed car keys from a hook by the door and went out to the garage. He walked very carefully, got into the car, and put the keys in the ignition.

  “We should open the garage door first, don’t you think?”

  “Good idea.” He put his head down on the steering wheel. “Just gimme a second.”

  Stony pushed open the garage door, then went to the driver’s side of the car. “Get out. I’m driving.”

  “You don’t know how to drive.”

  “I taught myself.”

  “When?”

  “When I was thirteen.” He’d made up a list of skills that he needed to learn, and driving had been top of the list. “Just get in the passenger seat. You navigate.”

  Despite the feeling of urgency, he drove slowly. He didn’t want to give the cops any excuse to pull them over; this time, Kwang was too drunk to pretend to be a drunk, at least in any well-timed way. The boy was already passed out with his head against the passenger window. Also, Stony had never driven on a road before. He’d only lurched up and down the lane of the farm, at night with the lights off. He hadn’t practiced much since he was thirteen, but he thought he still knew how to do it.

  Keeping the car between the lines was more difficult than he thought. When he came to a turn—the farm lane didn’t have any turns—he swung wide and nearly struck a car in the opposing lane. He slammed the brakes and the car squealed to a stop. Kwang didn’t even wake up.

  Stony began to talk to himself, becoming his own driving instructor, giving himself encouragement.

  He knew the streets of the town from the maps he’d studied, and he knew how to find Northdale, but he didn’t know the Estlers’ address. As it turned out, he didn’t need it. On the first road he turned down, cars were parked along both sides of the street. The party house was obvious. Music blasted from the windows, the front door was open, and teenagers stood on the lawn. Was Junie watching for him? He stopped the car and laid on the horn. The teenagers looked at the car, then ignored him. He hit the horn again, but nobody walked out of the house.

  Stony drove a little farther, then pulled in at a neighbor’s driveway. “Kwang, you have to go in there and find Junie.” He punched him in the shoulder. “Kwang!”

  Kwang didn’t move. His eyelids didn’t quiver.

  Stony got out of the car, went around to the passenger side, and opened the door. “Come on, man. Now.” He shook Kwang by the shoulders, slapped his face. But he was unconscious, inert. Dead drunk.

  “Fuck.” Stony shut the door, turned toward the house. He’d have to go inside. Maybe everyone would be too drunk to notice his dead skin, his black gums, his milky eyes.

  Sure.

  He started across the lawn, stopped. The red ski mask was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and tugged it over his head.

  Nobody on the lawn paid him any attention, but as he stepped onto the porch a kid in a Motörhead T-shirt looked at him and laughed. Stony said, “I’m looking for Junie Mayhall. Do you know where she is?”

  “I don’t know, inside?”

  He didn’t want to go through the door. The place was crowded.

  “Can you go get her?”

  “What are you going to do, rob her? And what’s wrong with your face?”

  Stony pushed through the people clogging the door. In the living room he grabbed a girl by the arm and she yelped. “Where’s Junie Mayhall?” He had to yell above the music. She pulled her arm away and he asked someone else. Then someone else. Someone thought she was in the family room downstairs, so he headed toward the stairs.

  Three boys—teenagers, probably, though they looked older—started up as he started down. “Is Junie Mayhall down there?”

  “She’s fine,” one of them said.

  That stopped him. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with her.” The one in the middle stepped aro
und his friend. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and two leather wristbands. “Who the hell are you?” He reached to grab the mask.

  Stony brushed his hand aside. “Get out of my way.”

  “Fuck you,” the boy said, and pushed Stony in the chest.

  “No,” Stony said. “Fuck you.” He put two hands on the boy’s shoulders and shoved. He fell into the boy behind him and they went down in a heap. Stony stepped over them. The remaining kid, a boy not older than thirteen or fourteen, grabbed Stony by the shirt. The arm was pale, skinny. Not much flesh at all.

  For the first time in his life, Stony felt it. It ran like a hot wire, up from his spine, to the base of his skull. His mouth opened on its own.

  He wanted to bite. He wanted to bite hard.

  The boy jerked his hand back.

  “That’s right,” Stony said. “I’m smallpox. I’m a fucking ICBM.”

  He turned away from them, went the rest of the way down the stairs. The room was dim and hazed with cigarette smoke. Pot, too, he guessed; he recognized the smell from his sister’s clothes. Perhaps a dozen people sat on couches or on the floor. He finally spotted Junie curled up on the carpet in a corner of the room, between a lamp and an armchair.

  “Junie? Junie?”

  She looked toward his voice. Something was wrong with her eyes. Her pupils were so large, making her look excited as well as scared.

  Something struck him in the back of the head, something solid and thick. He felt no pain. He half turned, seized an arm—he didn’t know if it belonged to one of the boys from the stairs or someone new—and yanked. The person screamed and fell aside. Someone else stepped forward and punched him in the jaw. Once again he felt nothing. It was no worse than getting shot in the chest.

  He turned his back on the attackers and reached out a hand to his sister. “Can you walk?”

  A blow to his back made him take a half step forward. Then someone yanked the mask from his head.

  He turned. It was the boy with the wristbands.

  Stony grabbed him by the throat. The movement was so fast, the boy didn’t have time to flinch. With his other hand, Stony reached out behind him. “Come with me, Junie.”

  She grasped his hand and Stony stepped forward, still holding the boy by the throat. The boy backpedaled awkwardly. Stony walked him back to the doorway, then up the stairs. When he stumbled, Stony held him upright. His face turned cartoon red.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Stony pushed the boy away from him, into the bodies of the onlookers. Only a few people seemed to understand that there was some sort of fight going on.

  Stony led Junie outside. Halfway across the lawn he glanced back. Figures filled the open doorway, staring at him. The wristband boy broke through their ranks and shouted hoarsely.

  “We have to hurry,” Stony said to Junie.

  She was babbling about being sorry. He didn’t know what she’d taken, but it must have been strong. He opened the back door for her and told her to lie down. Then he jumped into the front. Kwang was still passed out.

  He started the car, put it in gear, looked over his shoulder, and pressed on the gas. The car lurched forward, and he slammed on the brakes. Reverse, reverse! He changed gears and backed out. At the end of the driveway he spun the wheel—the wrong way, but he quickly corrected and got the car pointing in the right direction.

  He heard shouts, and someone slammed the trunk of the car. Oh God, he thought, please don’t dent Mr. Cho’s Buick.

  He put the car in drive and gunned it. He turned at random, zigzagging through the residential streets, sure that they were going to follow him. Then suddenly the street he was on ended at a T-section with a two-lane road. He couldn’t remember if he’d come in this way, or if he was on the other end of the neighborhood. He turned left and floored it, driving with one eye on the rearview mirror. So far, no lights were following him.

  Junie was crying. He said, “You okay back there?”

  She sobbed harder. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  Stony knew he’d blown it. Why did he fight with those boys? Why did they have to keep attacking? They’d seen his face. They’d seen him with Junie. And now they’d be calling the police, reporting one of the living dead.

  It was an accident, he thought.

  A light in the rearview mirror caught his eyes. Headlights, moving up fast. He crested a hill, too fast. The car seemed to float for a moment, not quite airborne, then slammed down on its suspension. Junie shouted.

  “Whoa,” Kwang said. “Where are we going?”

  “Not now,” Stony said.

  A sign flashed past. The junction for Route 59! He knew where he was. The entrance to the road was at the bottom of the hill. He braked, but he had too much mass, too much momentum, and he stomped harder. The car began to skid. Kwang yelled. Stony tried to correct the skid—and then they were spinning.

  Kwang slid into the passenger door with a thump. Another thunk might have been Junie hitting the back of the seat. Stony gripped the wheel, willing the car to stop, but the vehicle seemed to move in slow, heavy motion, spinning and traveling at once, like a planet revolving as it glided through its orbit. Through the windshield he saw an open field, then a patch of highway, then a line of trees … and then headlights. Too close, too bright.

  The windshield turned white.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1982

  Easterly, Iowa

  e’d read that people in car accidents sometimes lost all memory of the event. He wasn’t that lucky. Each moment had been captured as a vivid image, then set running in his head, a series of educational slides. Here is the windshield exploding. Here is the dash, suddenly curled over them, a solid wave. Here is Kwang’s body half swallowed in plastic and metal. The pictures kept coming—click, click, click—so that he could barely see the room in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the closet full of clothes, the half-filled suitcase on the floor. With his working hand he grabbed a jacket from a hanger and threw it into the pile. Still the images flickered, every moment of the crash and after.

  Only the sounds, the words, had been erased. He knew that he must have heard Kwang’s voice first, but he couldn’t remember what his friend had been saying. Something about the pain, probably. Or an appeal to God. Stony tried to open the driver’s-side door, but there was something wrong with his left arm. He twisted in his seat, managed to pull the handle, and half fell, half crawled out of the car.

  The vehicle that had struck them—a blue pickup—sat a dozen yards away, its grille crumpled, its windshield crazed with white impact webs. A man with silver hair stared at him through the starry glass. Stony couldn’t tell if he was injured.

  He turned to the back door of Mr. Cho’s car. He couldn’t see Junie, and thought that she must be on the floor. He yanked at the door with the arm that was still working. The metal squealed and popped, and the door opened. The backseat was empty, the floor was empty.

  He could not process the impossibility of it. She was gone. Raptured.

  Then he noticed that the rear window had been blown out. They’d been hit in the front, but the car had been spinning. Had she been thrown clear? He began to call her name. He walked to the trees beside the highway, crossed back to the fields on the other side, then back again.

  A car stopped, then another. At some point someone must have driven to find a phone, or neighbors had called to report the accident, because an ambulance arrived, and then a fire engine. The banks of strobing lights helped him find her.

  She was curled up under a tree, twenty or twenty-five feet deep in the woods. He knelt next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move except to blink at the ground a few inches from her face. Her cheeks and forehead were puffy and white, as if she were suffering from some allergic reaction. He remembered talking to her, pouring words over her, but he could not remember what he said.

  Someone had spotted them under the trees. Flashlight beams lit up the surrounding grass and leaves. Perhaps they called ou
t to him.

  Junie was talking, too, or trying to: Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. He bent over her and felt her breath on his skin. He must have asked her what she was saying; that was the natural thing to do. He flattened onto his belly, his forehead touching hers. She inhaled, a quick sharp breath, and said, “Run.”

  An orange-jacketed man, a fireman or paramedic, appeared next to him. Stony didn’t remember what he said; he was studying his sister’s face.

  “Run,” she said again. “Run. Run. Run.”

  But he failed her again. He didn’t move—couldn’t move—away from her. And then the man in the orange jacket played his light across Stony’s face. He started to say something, and then stepped back as if he’d been punched. He called for other men in a thin, barely controlled voice, but the panic was rising in him like a siren, clear enough even for Stony to hear. Maybe he knew what he was seeing. Maybe he wasn’t sure. But finally, finally, Stony obeyed his sister.

  He closed the half-filled suitcase with his good hand. He was forgetting things, he knew. He’d been imagining this moment for years, picturing it as clearly as the escape from the Deadtown prison in book 5 of the Jack Gore series, Bad Brains. But now that the moment was upon him he realized he hadn’t prepared at all. There was no one here to help him. When he’d made it back to the house, after twenty minutes of frantic running through pitch-black fields, he’d found the lights on in the kitchen and living room, but his mother gone. A quick check of the driveway confirmed that she’d taken the car.

  They must have called her. She’d be at the hospital, with Junie. And soon enough, they’d be coming for him.

  He opened the trapdoor to the basement, tossed the suitcase below, and jumped down. He went to one of the shelves and reached up to bring down a thick book. When he was ten he’d stolen an idea from the Hardy Boys and carved a hiding place out of the pages. Inside was $220. His life savings, his emergency fund, his ticket out of Easterly. And also, he knew, completely inadequate. The plan had called for getting to Chicago and hiding out with Alice. He’d planned on driving there, but that was out now. He didn’t think he’d ever drive again.