The Impossible Coin (The Downwinders Book 2)

by Michael Richan

  They left the car and ran across the desert floor. Winn was faster than Marty, who began to slow after a hundred yards. When Winn got within shouting distance of the tree, he began to yell.

  “We’re coming, Brent! We’re coming!”

  Winn arrived a moment later, skidding to a stop. He felt his stomach drop the moment he saw Brent. There was a lot of blood soaked into the sand around his legs. Brent’s head had fallen to one side.

  Winn knelt down by his friend and looked at him. He felt tears beginning to form, sensing that things were too far gone. Marty arrived a few seconds later.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he said, kneeling on the other side of Brent. He reached out to feel for a pulse, then he lifted Brent’s head.

  “Is he alive?” Winn asked.

  “I’m sorry son, I don’t think so,” Marty said. He looked down at Brent’s legs. “I think we’re too late for the tourniquet, too. My god, what happened to him?”

  “They came through the trailer court, looking for him,” Winn replied, wiping tears from his face. “They took him to the cave. It’s because I gave him the coin. They wanted to be repaid. This is my fault. I killed him.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Marty said. “You didn’t kill him. You gave him that nickel out of kindness.”

  “They took him back to the cave,” Winn said. “I know I promised you I wouldn’t go in there, but I had to do something. They were going to drain him, like the mountain lion. When I got there, he was already strung up. I used your flash bomb to distract them, but it knocked everyone out. It was way more powerful than you said it would be. We had to be asleep for hours, because when I woke up it was daylight outside the cave. We tried to escape, but Brent got caught at the entrance. They tore at his legs while I tried to pull him out.” Winn broke down and began to cry.

  Marty walked around Brent and pulled Winn to him, trying to console the child. “You did nothing wrong. You tried to save your friend.”

  “He begged me not to leave him here,” Winn said as he sobbed. “I told him I had to go for help, so I took my bike and went to your place. He said I was ditching him. He died by himself. And now they’ll come after me.”

  “I don’t think so,” Marty said. “If Brent bled in that cave, son, they got their payment.”

  Marty turned as he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  “Winn, listen to me,” Marty said. “They’re going to ask you what happened. You tell them everything except about the coin and the ghosts, alright? Don’t bring up that stuff. You two fell asleep in that cave, and Brent was attacked by a mountain lion. They won’t believe you if you tell them anything else. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah,” Winn said, still sobbing.

  Two EMTs arrived with chests, and began working on Brent. They appeared horrified at the sight of Brent’s legs. They stopped after a few minutes. One of them turned to Marty. “He’s dead. We can’t move him until the sheriff’s office clears it.”

  Winn burst into a fresh round of tears and Marty hugged him tightly. They waited next to Brent until a deputy arrived and the questions began.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Winn fell back into the sofa, exhausted. He leaned back and closed his eyes, wanting to sleep. School had started early that morning, with an extra football practice before first hour. After school had been another practice which had wiped him out physically. They were playing longtime rivals this Friday, and the coach was working them hard in preparation.

  After practice came work, his shift at Fred Meyer, where he stocked shelves for four hours. The only relief he’d had all day had been during his break at work, when he and Jim shared a joint behind the store dumpster in the back parking lot.

  His mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so he assumed she was working. He turned on the TV, and local news was on every channel. Still no cable. She’ll never get cable, he thought as he clicked the channels and left it on the one with the handsomest newscaster.

  He wasn’t hungry, but he found himself getting up and searching the refrigerator. Nothing appealed to him. He enjoyed the feeling of the cool air, and considered pulling up a chair to sit in front of the open fridge until the rest of the trailer cooled down.

  Instead, he closed the door and walked back to the couch, falling into it. He kicked off a shoe and it flew a couple of feet into the air before landing on the other side of the room. Then he kicked off the other shoe, and felt the squishiness of his sock. He wondered if he’d sweat so much it was soaked all the way though. He reached down to look at it, and saw the blood.

  Fuck! he thought, leaning back on the couch. Not again!

  He slipped his shoes back onto his feet and walked to the bathroom, not wanting to leave a trail of bloody footprints. Once there, he sat on the closed toilet and removed his shoes once again, the fluorescent light of the bathroom brightly illuminating the dark crimson liquid that had soaked his socks.

  This had happened twice before. The last time, he was changing in the locker room when he noticed the blood. He’d been able to make it to the shower in privacy that time, washing it away and wearing gym socks for the rest of the day. The first time it happened was about a month ago, here at home, at the end of a day, like today. He had freaked out when he first saw the blood, and spent almost an hour examining the skin of his feet and ankles, looking for something that could account for the bleeding. He hadn’t found anything then, and he was sure he wasn’t going to find anything this time, either. He peeled the wet socks from his feet and placed them into the sink, trying to avoid any drops hitting the floor. He stepped into the tub and used the shower to rinse off, watching as the red washed off his skin and down the drain. He took the opportunity to take an entire shower, enjoying feeling clean after a long, sweaty day. As he stepped out of the shower, he saw the blood soaked socks in the sink, knowing he’d have to rinse them out before his mother got home. He wrapped a towel around himself and walked back into the trailer. It was almost ten forty-five, and he knew tomorrow morning was going to come early. He turned off the TV and walked back to the bathroom. He leaned over the sink and turned on the water, twisting the socks and trying to get as much of the blood out of them as possible.

  This has got to stop, he thought. The nightmares, the visions, and this…it’s too much.

  He knew the difference between guilt and phenomenon. He’d spent almost a year with a counselor after Brent’s death nearly six years ago, meeting once a week and going over how he felt. Marty was a big help in the first few weeks after it happened, reminding him again and again that Brent’s death was not his fault. But he lost touch with Marty almost immediately when his mother moved their trailer to a different park, wanting to get away from the tragedy and the neighbors. It was ten miles away, and too far for a bike ride. Marty had tried to stay in contact, dropping by on his own, but his mother’s dislike of Marty had grown, and she forbade him to contact him or do anything with him. As a result, over time they’d fallen out of touch, and he felt bad about it. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Marty, and he knew it was well over a year. He felt he could really use Marty’s advice right about now.

  He wandered into his bedroom, bringing the socks with him. He closed the door and hung the socks over the back of his desk chair to dry, then tossed the towel on the floor and pulled on a pair of briefs. He dropped into his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  He felt incredibly lonely. He was used to his mother not being around. Even when she was, she was distant. He had few people he could turn to, who understood his situation and gave a rat’s ass. With his estrangement from Marty, there was no one he could talk to about the River. And he had few friends. Brent had seen to it.

  His mother had been on his case for years about his lack of friends since Brent’s death. He knew she saw him as an anti-social loner, unable or unwilling to interact with other kids his age. She pushed him to get out and meet people, but he pushed right back. He saw what happened to people when he got friendly with
them, and he was done with that.

  Maybe I should go see Marty, he thought. I’ve got a car now, it’s not like I’d have to pedal my bike for miles in the hot sun. I don’t have a shift tomorrow, I could stop and see him after school, see how he’s doing. Ask him about the blood, and the visions. Tell him about my friends, what’s happened to them. Maybe he’ll have some idea of what to do.

  Then again, maybe not. I’m sixteen now, and I’ve got to learn to deal with all this shit on my own. Be an adult. Can’t run crying to Marty over every little thing.

  He closed his eyes and found himself rapidly drifting off to sleep.

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  Winn awoke in excruciating pain. His legs ached, and he felt sharp stabs in his flesh as though someone was attacking him with a knife. He sat up and pulled the covers from his feet.

  There were a half dozen Z-flies latched onto his legs below the knee, slicing at his skin and ripping it from his body, using their centipede arms to move the strips of removed flesh to their mouths. In horror he saw that they’d already stripped his feet bare, and were working their way up his legs. He moved his feet, and his saw the bloody bones of his feet wiggle in response. He screamed.

  The Z-flies turned to look at him. He saw them detach from his legs and fly toward his face. He swatted at them, feeling nothing in the air. Was he in or out of the River?

  Am I dreaming? he wondered.

  He stopped screaming and lowered his arms. Looking down again, his legs were whole.

  He felt his forehead – there were copious amounts of sweat. He took big breaths, trying to compose himself. The clock on his desk read three-thirty.

  Something was different, out of place. He looked at the desk again – the socks he’d placed over the chair were gone.

  My mother, he thought. I wish she’d stay out of my room.

  He turned on the light by his bed and winced as his eyes adjusted. He saw the socks on the floor, near a chair at the base of his bed. They were not lying on the floor, but upright – as though something he couldn’t see was filling them.

  He dropped into the River and saw Brent, sitting in the chair, staring at him, the socks pulled over the bones of his feet. Winn felt scared and sick at the same time.

  Brent! Winn thought. Stop! Please stop torturing me!

  Brent’s features had changed. They weren’t just the simple features of a ten-year-old boy. They’d become something caricatured by whatever force was keeping Brent going. His lips curled a little, his cheeks were hollow, and there was a power in his eyes, something driving him. He looked consumed by anger.

  You ditched me, Brent said, looking at Winn. But I’ll show you how it’s done. I’ll never ditch you. Never.

  A chill went down Winn’s spine as he saw Brent fade from view. The socks collapsed on the floor.

  Fuck! Winn thought, falling back into bed, his head hitting the pillow. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, pounding fast. He means it. He really means it. He’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Winn tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but he was too wired. He kept feeling things crawling on his legs, and he responded by kicking them, which kept him awake. He knew nothing was there, but the sensation felt so real he couldn’t resist reacting. It felt to him as if this went on for hours; on the verge of sleep, something on his legs, kicking them away, trying to sleep again. Over and over.

  When he finally awoke the next morning, he felt like shit. He knew he’d be a basket case at school and practice.

  I’ve got to get a handle on this, he thought. I’ve got to do something. I can’t keep ignoring it. It’s getting worse and it’ll take me over soon.

  He resolved to stop at Marty’s after school. He didn’t care if his mother found out – this was something he needed to do, or he’d go insane.

  ▪ ▪ ▪

  His stereo was blaring Odditorium, and The Dandy Warhols were singing about how everyone was totally insane when he pulled the dumpy Corolla his mother let him drive into the parking stall by Marty’s trailer. There was a new Caddy parked in the other stall – Marty must have upgraded since the last time I saw him, he thought. At least he’s home.

  Winn walked up to the gate surrounding Marty’s lawn and before he could open it, Marty appeared at the door.

  “Want some lemonade, stranger?” he asked, smiling.

  “Sure,” Winn said, walking into the gate. “You must have heard me pull up.”

  “How could I not with all that noise you were blaring?” Marty said. “That’s a nice ride you got there.”

  “It’s a piece of shit, Marty,” Winn said. “I’m always afraid it’s going to conk out on me. I’m not sure why it keeps running.”

  “When did you get your license?” Marty asked, letting Winn inside and closing the door.

  “Nine months ago,” Winn said. “Got a job at Fred Meyer, and my mom broke down and bought it for me so I could make it back and forth to work.”

  “God, look at you, all grown up, working and driving,” Marty said, handing him a chilled can of lemonade from his fridge.

  “I drink beer, Marty,” Winn said. “You don’t have to feed me lemonade anymore.”

  “It’s called contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” Marty said. “You gotta be twenty-one.” Marty sat with his beer and popped the can. “Howya been, kiddo? You look like crap.”

  “It’s been OK, but things have gotten worse lately,” Winn said, opening the lemonade and taking a sip.

  “From how tired you look, I’m guessing nightmares,” Marty said.

  “Bad ones. Last night I dreamt my legs were being eaten by Z-flies.”

  “I should never have told you about those.”

  “It’s not just that,” Winn said. “I see him. He appears to me. Last night he said he was never going to leave me. He said I ditched him, but he’s never going to ditch me.”

  “Maybe that was a dream, too?” Marty asked hopefully.

  “No, I was in the River,” Winn answered. “He was in my room, sitting on a chair at the foot of my bed. He’s pissed. He’s never going to stop.”

  “I admit that dreams can be frightening, but in reality they’re just a nuisance,” Marty said. “You can learn to ignore them, understand them for what they are.”

  “It’s not just dreams, Marty. Last night when I got home from work, my socks were soaked with blood. I didn’t have any cuts, the blood wasn’t from me. It’s the third time it’s happened. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve slipped my foot into my shoes and found spiders inside, even if I dump them out before I put them on. When I was swimming at school last week, my legs seized up. I couldn’t move them, kick with them. When I got out of the water I was fine.”

  “It could have been just a seizure,” Marty said.

  “It wasn’t,” Winn said. “The worst of it is that I can’t have any friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t have any friends, because Brent does evil things to them. If I get close to someone, he wrecks it.”

  Marty scoffed.

  “It’s true!” Winn said. “Just after we moved to the new trailer court, I met Scott. He was my age, and we became friends and hung out all the time. He got a cut on his leg, and they had to amputate it. Said it was flesh-eating bacteria.”

  “Well…” Marty said, unconvinced. “That could be a coincidence.”

  “Taylor, at school. Excellent track runner, was headed to state. We became friends, and within two weeks he broke both his ankles while practicing a hundred-meter dash. How do you break both your ankles? If he can run again, he’ll never do it well enough to race. He’s fucked.”

  “That wasn’t necessarily because of you,” Marty said.

  “Evan and I became friends in vocational ed,” Winn continued. “We were supposed to hang out one night, but he crushed his leg under a car he was working on. Now he walks with a limp.”

  Marty stopped with the comments and sat silentl
y.

  “Don’t you see? It’s Brent. He’s determined to ruin any friendship I ever have. I stopped trying to be friendly with people, and then he started up with the nightmares and the hallucinations and the blood.”

  “You think he’s still mad at you?”

  “I know he is,” Winn said. “His words to me last night were, ‘You ditched me, but I’ll never ditch you. Never.’ He’s going to torture me for the rest of my life. I’ll never be able to sleep. I’ll never have any friends.”

  “There really was blood in your shoe?” Marty asked. “Or was it a vision of some kind?”

  “It was real blood,” Winn said. “I had to wash it out with real water. It’s not some kind of guilt trip where I’m inventing all this in my mind, Marty. This shit is really happening to me. That’s why I came to see you. I’m in trouble. Things really suck.” Winn lowered his head.

  Marty lowered his gaze to the table and seemed to think about things for a while. Winn worried that Marty might be convincing himself that Winn was crazy, and he’d find some excuse for not helping him. When Marty finally looked up, Winn wasn’t sure which way things were going to go.

  “Well,” Marty said with a very serious look, “there is something we can try. But I want to be sure, first. I want to see Brent myself. Then we’ll discuss plans.”

  “Alright,” Winn said, a little confused. “How are you going to see Brent, exactly? I can’t predict when he shows up.”

  “If he’s still around, I know somewhere he’ll show,” Marty said.

  “The cave?” Winn asked.

  “Oh, god no. The tree.”

  Winn looked at Marty. He’d been out to the tree several times after Brent’s death, but not recently. He had a love/hate relationship with the tree. He used to go there to remember Brent, but he stopped when Brent’s presence at the spot became overbearing. He hadn’t been back since.

  “You’re right, Brent will be there,” Winn said unenthusiastically.

  “Let’s go, then,” Marty said. “Let’s try my car again. I’m not sure yours will make it.”