Bring Her Back

by Jeff Strand

  You lose it completely every once in a while, stomping on Robert and Lucas' bodies, smearing them across the floor. They come apart more easily the second day. You want to start cutting them up, but you're afraid you'll break the hacksaw blade, and you'll need that for Marty.

  You're delirious. You can't sleep with rotting bodies in the room with you. Your vision blurs. You can't get that goddamn door open. More than once, you go completely berserk, trying to kick it down and not caring if Marty hears, but door remains solid, and Marty doesn't come to investigate. He's probably not in the house.

  How long has it been? It can't be more than three days, because you die if you haven't had anything to drink in more than three days and you're not dead. It might be different if you'd slurped up blood but you didn't.

  You left Abigail's arm sewn to yours. That might not be smart. Its decomposition might be seeping bad things into your bloodstream. But the arm saved your life and you don't want to get rid of it. You will eventually. Just not quite yet.

  And then, one fine day, you hear the sound of a sliding lock.

  You perk up.

  You stand next to the door.

  More locks open.

  You tense up.

  The door swings open.

  You wait. You've gone through too much in this room for it to end with the irony of you killing somebody who was here to save you.

  Nope. It's Marty.

  He looks surprised to see you up and alive. He also looks surprised to see the severed arm still attached to you. His looks of surprise happen very quickly and you may be misinterpreting their meaning; either way, he's surprised.

  He's even more surprised when the hacksaw blade comes down upon the top of his head.

  You give it one really good pull, and as you know, the scalp bleeds a lot. It bleeds so easily that head wounds can look scary and serious even if they're minor. You want to make sure this isn't a minor wound, so you drag him down to the floor and hit him with the hacksaw blade, over and over as if it were a hammer.

  He puts up his hand to defend himself, and the blade gets him right in the webbing between his index and middle fingers. You bet it hurt. Bad idea on his part.

  Marty struggles, but you're the one with the hacksaw and the rage. You start to think that he might overpower you. Then you successfully open up his neck and know that everything will be okay.

  Everything is going to be just fine.

  twenty-three

  I went upstairs.

  I wasn't sure whose house I was in. It definitely belonged to a bachelor. I drank water until I threw it up, then I drank some more. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and wolfed it down.

  I went into the bedroom to find some fresh clothes. I put on clean underwear, socks, jeans, and a t-shirt—all way too tight, except the socks, but better than walking around in bloody boxers.

  It was nighttime. A car was parked in the driveway, with a large suitcase in the back seat. Marty was going on vacation or skipping town. The car was locked, but there were keys hanging next to the door. I unlocked it and brought the suitcase back into the house.

  The suitcase was filled with clothes, toiletries, and cash. Lots of cash. If this was from the blue duffel bag that had caused me so many problems, there was more than one person's share here.

  I took the suitcase back out to the car. I popped open the trunk, figuring that was a better place to store it, but realized why Marty had put it in the back seat when I saw Bernice's dead body. Apparently she'd been able to protect her husband but not his share of the cash. She'd been willing to die for him, so I suppose it was poetic that they'd both met their end by being shot in the back of the head.

  It was dark out and it wouldn't have taken long to carry her inside, but I'd probably used up all of my luck in not having witnesses, so I decided that I'd get rid of her body later. I'd be respectful.

  I went back inside and had another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Took a long shower and changed into a different set of clothes. I went with a long-sleeved shirt this time.

  I found another suitcase in the closet and filled it with food. That went into the car next to the other one.

  Things were looking promising.

  The only problem was my face.

  My face had been on the news. Surely the police hadn't stopped looking for me. If I now had the opportunity and the means to get out of town and hide away somewhere, I didn't want to lose it all by being identified.

  I returned to the basement. The various implements that Robert, Marty, and Lucas had tried to scare me with were on a shelf outside of the room where I'd been a prisoner. Most of them were sharp. I could use them to make my face different, right?

  I gathered up a few of them and took them back upstairs to the bathroom, so I could watch what I was doing in the mirror.

  Just to be clear, I didn't fancy myself a skilled plastic surgeon. That's not what I was going for. I wasn't trying to make my face look like somebody else. I held absolutely no illusions of being able to perform anything delicate. I was trying to ruin my face.

  I don't expect you to understand. I don't even want you to understand, because agreeing with my motivation reflects poorly on you.

  Yes, it hurt.

  Yes, I had to stop a few times. But each time, I worked up the courage to continue.

  I didn't mess with my eyes.

  I got rid of my nose almost completely. After the stench I'd endured while locked in the room, I was happy for it to be gone.

  I cut into my mouth more than I should have.

  I carved elaborate patterns into one cheek, and random slashes into the other. They went well with the scratches I'd already accumulated.

  My face was bleeding too much for me to be sure if I'd done a thorough enough job. If I hadn't, I'd just have to fix the spots I'd missed. But once this scabbed over, nobody would see my face and connect it to the picture they saw on TV.

  I bandaged it up, which was a pain in the ass with only one working hand. Then I retrieved the rest of the stuff I needed (including Abigail's body, and yes, I realize how morbid that sounds) went out to the car, and drove far out of town. Driving with only one hand was also a challenge, but sometimes you have to adapt.

  * * *

  As I drove, I wondered if I could have just worn the bandages instead of disfiguring myself. I had a nice little chuckle at my foolishness.

  * * *

  When I was incapable of driving anymore without falling asleep at the wheel, I checked into the seediest motel I could find. I removed the red bandages and checked myself out in the mirror. I'd done a pretty good job. I couldn't tell it was me.

  * * *

  I had no idea how to find Marc, but now that I had a suitcase full of cash I had the means to hire a professional.

  The guy didn't even blink when I walked into his office. I'm not sure if he was good at hiding his revulsion, or if he'd seen so much in his many years on the job that my face was no big deal. I'd cut the stitches and removed Abigail's arm before I left the motel, because I simply couldn't expect a private investigator to conduct business with me when I had somebody else's decomposing arm sewn to my body.

  He typed away at his computer. "Yep, got him."

  I leaned forward. "Seriously?" I had to concentrate not to lisp.

  "He's using his credit card in Nashville. A few random charges, but for the past three days he's bought coffee at the same place between 8:15 and 8:30."

  I'd expected the P.I. to stretch this investigation out for a few days to boost my fee. I never imagined he could solve my problem with a couple of minutes of tapping on a keyboard. It was nice to know that there were still good people in the world.

  "What if I wanted to talk to him privately?" I asked. "I mean, really privately."

  "Is he the one who did that to your face?"

  "Yes, sir." Marc had set the chain of events into motion, so, yes, he'd done this to my face. I wasn't lying.

  T
he P.I. nodded. "I can set you up with a place in the area. You can talk to him as loud as you want."

  So I drove to Nashville. I dropped Abigail's body off at the cabin the P.I. got for me, checked into a terrible motel so I wouldn't have to sleep in a cabin with her dead body, set the alarm for 7:00 am, and then slept for about fifteen hours. I'm not sure if I didn't have nightmares or simply didn't remember them when I woke up; either way, it was a restful night.

  As I took a shower, it occurred to me that I'd never removed Bernice from the trunk. I chided myself for being forgetful. It would have to wait until later, though—I had work to do.

  I parked across the street from the coffee shop at 7:45 and waited. At 8:17, Marc went inside. He'd bleached his hair and was growing a beard but it was still clearly him—he wasn't as skilled at the art of disguise as I was. A few minutes later he came back outside. The hand that wasn't holding a cup of coffee was completely bandaged up. I watched him get into his car, then started my engine and followed as he drove out of the parking lot.

  After a few blocks, I lost him.

  Oh well. I'd try again tomorrow.

  I spent a while trying to find a suitable place to dispose of Bernice's body. With only one arm, digging a grave wasn't really an option. I mean, I could have done it if I wanted to be an inspiration to others, but I wasn't in the mood to do the work and I didn't want to spend money on a shovel. But I also didn't want to just chuck her in a Dumpster. Finally, I found a pond where nobody was watching and gave her a water burial.

  I slept for another fifteen hours. Guess I was tired.

  Marc bought his coffee at 8:21. I wondered if his consistency meant that he had a day job. This time I didn't lose him. I followed him for about a mile and a half to a small office building. He did look like he was dressed for a desk job. Maybe he'd decided to turn his life around and work his way up the corporate ladder.

  He flashed his badge at a scanner on the door and went inside.

  I supposed this meant I had eight or nine hours to wait.

  Not a problem.

  He came out around one, but he was with another guy. I didn't want to follow him to wherever he was having lunch; no sense taking the risk of getting caught. I didn't mind sitting in the car.

  He returned around 1:45, laughing with his co-worker.

  At 4:30, he left the building and went to his car.

  I followed him to his apartment building.

  I lost sight of him before he went into his apartment, but that was okay. I just had to keep narrowing it down. I sat in the car and stared at the entrance.

  At 7:14, he walked out of the building.

  At 7:16, he was in my trunk.

  twenty-four

  I suppose I could have done more to the cabin to make it scarier, but again, I wasn't trying to be the killer in a slasher flick.

  The cabin was plenty scary on its own. This wasn't one of those cabins that's really just a rustic house. This was a "no electricity, no running water, one-room, cobweb-filled, kerosene-lantern-lit" cabin.

  Marc was sobbing when I pulled him out of the trunk, and he kept sobbing as I dragged him inside and shoved him to the floor. "It's not my fault!" he shouted. "None of this was my fault!"

  "I disagree," I informed him.

  He held up his bandaged hand. "They broke all of my fingers! All five of them! I'm sorry that they messed up your face, but I've suffered too!"

  I tapped my mangled chin. "They didn't do this."

  "They didn't?"

  "No."

  "Who did?"

  "Me."

  Marc stopped crying for a moment. He cocked his head as if he didn't believe me.

  "Then you don't need to kill me," he said. "My fingers are never going to heal right. They broke every knuckle."

  "They murdered Abigail."

  Marc's mouth dropped open, the face of a man suddenly realizing just how dire his predicament truly was.

  "I didn't tell them to do that," he said, scooting away from me. "I had nothing to do with it. I would never have hurt her. It's not my fault."

  "Don't talk any more," I told him.

  "What can I do? How can I make this up to you? I'll do anything."

  "There's nothing..." I trailed off. I'd never considered it before, but maybe there was something he could do. "I'll let you live if you can do one thing for me."

  "Yes! Whatever it is, I'll do it!"

  "Bring her back."

  Marc frowned. "What?"

  I walked over to the sheet I'd draped over Abigail's body and pulled it away. You couldn't quite tell that her body had been in two halves, though it was obvious that her left arm was no longer attached. My plan had been to confront Marc with the horror of what he'd wrought.

  "Bring her back," I repeated.

  "I don't understand."

  "What the hell is there to understand? Bring her back. Bring her back to life! Give me my Abigail back and I'll let you walk out of here!"

  "This is a joke, right?"

  "Why the fuck would you think that right now I'm in the mood to tell a joke?" I asked him. I was positively enraged that he would think I was kidding. I wouldn't have dragged him out to this cabin and splayed out my dead girlfriend's body for a goddamn sight gag.

  "How—how would I—?"

  "That's not my problem! It's yours! Bring her back to life, you piece of shit! I don't care how you do it! Fix this!"

  Marc looked at me closely, as if still searching for signs that I was messing with him. There were no signs, because I wasn't.

  "You can't bring a dead person back to life," he said. "This isn't a zombie movie."

  "You'd better turn it into one."

  "I've got money hidden away."

  "I don't want your money."

  "You can use it to—"

  "I said, I don't want your money, and I also know that you most certainly do not have money hidden away, so you're lying to me."

  "Please, Frank—"

  "Bring her back."

  Marc glanced over at Abigail. I assumed he was trying to figure out how he'd go about that task.

  I winced in pain. I hadn't realized that tears were flowing down my cheeks, and the salt burned my wounds.

  Marc very slowly got to his feet. He looked like he might be planning to make a run for it. I stepped in front of him and the door, then folded my one arm in front of my chest to make it clear that this would be a bad idea on his part.

  "I can get you help, man."

  "Bring her back. Bring Abigail back."

  "It doesn't fucking work that way, Frank!"

  "Then you have nothing to offer me."

  Marc glanced at her corpse again. "Okay, okay, okay, I'll see what I can do. I'll talk to somebody."

  "No. You're trying to trick me."

  "I'm not, I swear."

  "If I let you go, you'll never come back."

  "You can come with me."

  "We're not leaving this cabin."

  Marc closed his eyes and took several quick deep breaths. "Okay, all right," he said, opening his eyes. "I can't just wave my hand and magically fix this. I need materials."

  "What kind of materials?"

  "Blood."

  "What kind of blood."

  "Virgin blood." Marc nodded and took another deep breath. "Virgin blood."

  "I don't believe you."

  "If you want me to bring her back, I have to get virgin blood! That's the only way!"

  "What are you going to do with it?" I asked.

  Marc hesitated. "Pour it into her mouth."

  I just stared at him. It was probably difficult for him to interpret my expression, considering what I'd done to my face.

  "I have to pour it into her mouth," Marc repeated. "It's the only way this will work. If you're not going to trust me, there's nothing I can do."

  "Are you lying to me?"

  "No."

  He was lying to me. I knew in that moment that he couldn't really bring her back to life. He was just
playing along, hoping for an opportunity to escape.

  "I'm going to kill you for what you did," I told him.

  "Will that make you feel better? It makes you just as bad as me!"

  "I don't kill innocent people."

  "You're killing a helpless person!"

  "You're not helpless. You're able-bodied. You're just a chickenshit."

  "This won't fix anything," said Marc.

  Perhaps he was right. I was certainly willing to entertain that possibility. But I'd promised Abigail that I was going to give her the chance to get revenge—so, yes, I'll confess that I talked to her when I brought her into the cabin—and I wasn't going to go back on that.

  I tackled Marc to the floor. I only had one arm, but he had five broken fingers, and it evened out.

  And then, because this was Abigail's vengeance and not mine, I picked her up by the back of the neck and smashed her into him. Even with two arms I couldn't have done this if she had a full, fresh body, so things ironically had worked out for the best in that regard.

  I did this again and again. It was hurting Abigail more than Marc, but I'd known that was going to happen. All that mattered was that Marc was not faring well.

  He screamed and sputtered.

  Marc lay on his back, dazed, as I continued to bash her into him. Her bones become more and more visible, and some of them cut deep.

  "Please stop..." he said, through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

  I did not stop.

  When my arm got too tired to continue, I just pressed her against his face, putting my weight on her to grind the bones into him.

  "Say uncle," I told him. He couldn't speak and I wouldn't have stopped even if he could—I was just trying to be funny. Abigail would've liked that.

  After a while, he wasn't moving but I wasn't sure if he was dead or not. My arm wasn't tired any more, so I resumed bashing him with Abigail. She was getting all over the place.

  Eventually, Marc was deceased. Not even the most incompetent of doctors would have proclaimed him to be otherwise. Nobody was going to bring him back.