by Demers, Matt
“Help me drag him,” James told Kovac. Kovac pointed at the racking. They pulled Bondy’s unconscious body by the arms and slid it to the first row of racking.
Kovac dug into her pockets and pulled out two zip ties. “Bondy insisted everyone carry these. ‘You never know who’ll need restraining’, he tells us.”
“Guess he was right,” James chuckled. “Jade, there’s a boat out back. I’m heading to an island not far from the Greenville town line. Boblo Island itself is far from safe, but there’s a city of boats in the bay. Last I heard they’ve got things pretty good.”
“How do you know they’re still there?”
“I don’t.”
Kovac mulled over it, scratching her right temple. “Looks like I don’t have much of a choice but to tag along.” She glanced down at Bondy, whose eyes began to flutter.
Kovac dangled the crib keys. “I’ll grab Thomas and meet you back here. Just watch yourself with the production guys. Especially Wilcott. He knows.”
They needed firearms, so James grabbed the keys and made way to the production bay. He limped through the dock exit, down the hallway, and out onto the production floor. The workers sat idly by the dwindling supply of barrel kegs.
“Ain’t it the fucking traitor,” Wilcott spat. “Where ya goin’ jaundiced James? Joey don’t play well with strangers.”
Bondy never told them. Showed how much he trusted his own crew.
By the time James crossed the lot, unlocked the entrance, unlocked the crib, gathered rifles and tossed whatever handguns could fit inside a footlocker, James heard the broken skylight glass crunch under someone’s foot. It was exactly who he hoped it would be.
Wilcott was far too close to jet back to his friends now. The frozen look on his face told James the kid had no idea these weapons existed. He didn’t need Kovac for that one.
“So Wilcott. You’re the production lead, you organize the shipments, but somehow Bondy and Kovac managed to keep from you the very thing that all that whisky bought. Looks like they never trusted you.”
James stepped out of the cage with the mother lode of munitions. Wilcott only stared. Even in the dank factory, his gel still gleamed.
“Tell you what, boy. You get through me, and this crib is all yours. Then you got all the firepower for yourself and you can run this joint with an iron fist. You can chase me, Bondy, Kovac and whoever else you don’t like right out the front gate.”
Wilcott appeared unconvinced until James set his weapons down. Unsure turned to cocksure expression. James stepped away from the guns and they approached each other.
“What makes you think once I’ve got my hands on those guns I’ll just let you walk out of here,” Wilcott said.
“That’s the spirit.”
“Guess you didn’t get enough of my fist last time—”
“Said your proctologist.”
Wilcott stepped back with his right leg. He reached back and swung a hook, this time at James’ face. James was far from 100-percent, but he managed to duck enough to make the punch little more than a glancing blow.
James countered with a straight left — not much harder than his knockout of Bondy, but right on the button. His knuckles popped the soft tissue of Wilcott’s solar plexus. Wilcott dropped to the ground with his knees together, arms over his head to protect himself from the next shot. Poor bastard was no stranger to a beat-down.
“Don’t move,” James warned. He locked the crib, grabbed his munitions and headed for the exit. Before he closed the door, he turned to Wilcott who still cradled himself on his knees.
“Hey Wilcott.”
The boy peeked through his arms to look.
“Clean up that mess before I get back.” James pointed at the bits of beef that used to be Joey Abdel-Shahid. Wilcott nodded. James was never coming back.
The other production workers gave James no trouble, not with the pile of fuckshitup he carried. Before he opened the door to the staffroom hallway, they rushed toward the vestibule leading to the factory. James wondered if they would find Wilcott kneeling with his pants wet, or collecting body parts with a broom and dustpan. Either way, he’d have explaining to do.
James returned to the receiving room where Kovac stood by the bay door with the priest. She had one hand on the priest’s elbow while hugging a black bag of vegetables to her chest. The priest carried a rucksack on his back, a duffel bag in one hand and James’ rucksack in the other. He looked vacantly into the concrete.
“He makes a good mule,” James said.
Kovac pointed to his hoodie. “He chose it himself.” The black hoodie read, Hell’s Angels Support Costa Blanca. “You Americans love irony,” she added.
“Usually,” James smirked, “but it’s a bit overdone this past year.”
James took a glance at the racking, where Bondy still lay sleeping, chin tucked into his sweater. An egg already swelled on his forehead.
“I hate the ‘c’ word,” Kovac said. She raised her left fist to reveal a red splotch where she connected with Bondy’s face. Some people need to be told twice, it seemed.
They headed out to the docks and jumped aboard. Kovac settled the priest and their belongings into the bow, while James cranked the pull cord. The motor rumbled to life. He took hold of the tiller and pointed the boat downwind. The fog had lifted, and the clouds had begun to crack.
“You hungry?” Kovac asked. She held up a cupped hand of cherry tomatoes and snow peas. James eyes widened and began shoveling the tender vegetable into his mouth as fast as he could chew.
They headed toward Crystal Bay, where James hoped to see a line of pontoon boats roped together, facing Boblo harbor, residents joyful to see a new face or two in this crazy, crazy world they’d have to adjust to.
“What’s your first name?” James said through munching teeth
Kovac laughed. “Katrina,” she said.
THE END
About the Author
Matt Demers is new at this horror novel thing. He has released one other novel – Ronda Rousey: The Biography, as well as countless smaller projects under different names and genres. His finishing move is the Atomic Leg Drop.
Contact Matt: [email protected]
Bonus Stories
I really tried to make Dead Earth longer for you, but just throwing in filler isn’t a cool way to go about it. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and to make up for its length, I’ve included a couple short stories by yours truly. The first is about a dead guy (traditional zombie) who dies, but keeps is old job, and has to go through the everyday grind with the living. It’s kind of a dark comedy. I hope.
The second tale is based on a real story about someone who explains, via the internet, what it feels like to be shot point-blank with a gun. Kind of morbid and interesting. Most of it is indeed fact. Flip the page and enjoy!
My Name is Dave and I am Dead
My name is Dave and I’m dead.
The coroner finished my autopsy, gabbing away as he stitched me up. It wasn’t often he could make small talk with his work.
“Brain aneurisms are like limp dicks,” he said. “You never see them coming.”
Indeed. I was only 38.
Being dead is pretty shitty, as you’d expect. Despite it, I convinced my boss, Andrew, to keep me on the schedule at Wilson’s Gas & Variety. My health coverage, however, was another matter.
“You’re dead.” Andrew told me while checking off inventory on his metallic clipboard. “Dead people don’t need benefits. They don’t use prescriptions, and they don’t need check-ups.” He flipped a page and thumbed through a box of Payday chocolate bars.
“But I could use massage therapy once in a while. Sometimes I get a lil’ stiff.”
“Pump five is waiting.”
It was hard to say whether my death or the new Snack-and-Go gas bar across the street really killed my coverage. No one wanted full-serve anymore. Not with at-the-pump debit. But Rainy days like today were the exception, and tips were good in bad we
ather, only not for the reason you might expect. People stuck folded fives, twenties and fifties through a crack in the side window, only to smell something they didn’t like — me — proceeding to flee without change. One rainy day per week kept my tips hovering between two and three times my pre-mortem income. But—
“Go home,” Andrew ordered unexpectedly while I punched “unleaded regular” for a Volkswagen Jetta. Cars were lined right to Fifth Ave. Rare in this economy.
“Go home? Why?”
“I’m sick of customers complaining. You smell like a burnt perm when you get wet.”
“First you take my benefits, now my shifts? Dead people have rights too, you know. I’m marching right down to Blue Cross to report you.”
“Fine, but for the love of god, do something about that smell.”
I shuffled over to the Snack-and-Go for Axe body spray. A large notice stickered to the glass sliding door read:
No shoes?
No shirt?
No pulse?
No service.
Why? It wasn’t like there was an epidemic. In fact, I’m the only dead person I know.
I headed for Blue Cross Blue Shield anyway. Because of the cataracts, I walked the nine blocks instead of driving. Half way, a suspicious stray beagle took one sniff and gave that terrified-mesmerized look the way dogs do. I ran from beagle Bob as fast as my waterlogged body would allow. Before I slammed the side entrance door shut, the dog nipped me in the leg. The next morning I’d find out he took a golf ball size chunk out of my calf. Ruined my cargo pants too.
The insurance rep — to my surprise and benefit — was a friend of my mother. Before she shook hands, Mrs. Jensen balled some Kleenex and shoved it up her nostrils, giving them a pig-like flare. She acted like it didn’t happen. So did I.
“Dave? I thought you died?” Mrs. Jensen asked, nasally.
“Yeah, I did.”
She broke eye contact and pretended to smudge imaginary grit along the edge of her desk. People get weird once you confirm that yes, you are in fact dead.
“So, you’re still walking around, eh? Now isn't that somethin’.”
It was something. But I didn’t like the attention, mainly because of the questions, which had become repetitive.
What is heaven like?
Is getting through airport security hard?
Are you going to eat my family?
Now I know how bodybuilders feel — how much do you bench?
Thankfully, Jensen cut to the chase. “If you weren’t your mother’s son,” she warned, “we’d close your file. Even then, if she didn’t come in person and —“
“What?”
“Your mother stopped in today. Adamant that we cover the funeral costs, which seemed perfectly fine at the time, given she never mentioned your unique…situation.”
Too late. Blue Cross had already handed my mom the cheque for the…my funeral. Jensen turned a blind eye.
There I sat, three days later, eating iceberg lettuce at my own funeral reception. I had my benefits back too, although soon that wouldn’t matter.
Why go on with the funeral? Ma is very particular about family events. Assigned seating at Easter, presents opened in chronological order of age at Christmas. That sort of thing. And her love of militant family gatherings didn’t die with me. More importantly, the fully financed funeral was a cheap excuse to gather the extended family. Most of them owed her money.
Ma hovered over me as I sat eating. “Are you enjoying your funeral, hun?”
“Why did you sit me at the kiddie table, Ma? Is it because I’m dead?”
“Don’t look so glum, Davey. Your mother worries easily.”
“Mom, stop talking third-person. You’re not a pro wrestler—” Ma was gone before I could finish, sprinting for the collage table to, no doubt, straighten photos. Never mind the real David, who needed now more than ever, real straightening.
The wake came next, which is ass backwards from the way funerals work, but leaving the coffin for a lunch break killed the eternal, timeless death schpeal (according to Marty the mortician).
I couldn't convince Ma to keep the wake closed-casket, and the casket’s inner lining was uncomfortable. Family — most of whom I never met — lined up to take a look at me laying cross-armed, eyes closed, pretending not to notice. My nephew kept jumping back in line. He whipped out a broken car antenna from his back pocket each time — the old collapsible chrome ones — and extended it like a light saber with one flick. Then he poked me in the ribs repeatedly, without mercy.
“Hey, Marty,” I whispered to the mortician after Car Antenna Stabbing Part III. He smiled sheepishly as he approached, his gaze darting around the room, embarrassed someone might spot him talking to a corpse even though everyone knew this corpse did just that. Since I no longer stunk, I chalked it up to social stigma — talking to the dead was simply beneath the living.
“Aren’t you supposed to be playing dead?” he probed.
“I am dead.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ve got a question and it’s important. Does my insurance cover the burial?”
“It did, but your mother opted out. Says that Gas & Variety needs you more than Heavenly Rest. Sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”
My heart didn’t actually sink cause it can’t, but the rest of me seemed to. No way could I afford a last minute burial. Marty echoed my thoughts:
“You don’t make a third of what it will take to do up a last minute dig.”
Wait a minute. The rainy, smelly tips earn me almost exactly that — three times the amount. Marty handed me the total on a torn piece of envelope.
“Deal,” I said immediately.
“We don’t even have a grave marker carved,” Marty warned.
“Good. I’ve got a plan for that.”
After most of the family shuffled out, I hobbled through the side exit to the alley where the back door to Lee’s Laundromat stood ajar. I used their ATM to clear my chequing account and headed back to the funeral home to hand it all to Marty.
“David Earl Wilcott — what are you doing out of your coffin? I told you to wait until everyone left.” My mother stood wide legged, fist over hips like Superman. Marty’s office loomed behind her. It was time to just lay it on.
“Sorry, Ma. I know how you like things to be just so. I’m just unhappy is all.”
“Was it the coleslaw? I told them ten times if I told them once that you preferred the creamy kind. Some people just can’t—”
“The coleslaw was fine, Ma. It’s just...”
“It’s being dead isn’t it? It’s getting to you.”
“Yeah. Being dead is a pain, Ma.” My shoulders finally relaxed. She was the last person I expected to understand. Mrs. Beatrice Wilcott could never read anyone. But here she was.
Mama burst into tears and ran at me with open arms. It was the first time I saw her cry since I was eight, when a day before a family BBQ, the drycleaners couldn’t remove the wine stains from her favorite tablecloth. Now she cried for me. She hugged me tight.
“I love you so much, Davey.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“And I’m sorry you’re dead,” she cried.
“Me too, Ma. Me, too.”
Marty personally drove the hearse, planted the marker and dug the hole. I had no audience — thank god —just Marty and the engraver, who now carved the final letter of my epitaph by the beam of Marty’s pocket light. I took one look at his finished handiwork, grinned, then jumped into my newly pimped-out casket with goose feather interior.
Finally, and better late than never, I was proudly buried in the second last row in Heavenly Rest Cemetery, three markers down from the grandparents who I never met, and the uncle who used to touch me.
“Here lays David Earl Wilcott,” my grave reads. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
What’s it Feel Like to Be Shot by a Real Gun?!
YahooAnswers.com is a site you can go to post questions abo
ut something you’d like to know, or you can answer someone else’s question.
Some of my favorites:
“Why is my poop green?”
“I love the smell of used Band-Aids. Am I weird?”
For me, YahooAnswers was simply a quick laugh. But last week, after I popped in and sorted the questions by “latest”, a question stood out like a black man at a Phil Collins concert. The question:
“What does it feel like to be shot by a real gun?”
I clicked the “answer this question” icon. I knew first-hand. Five years ago, I took a magnum round point-blank to the chest. And I’m about to tell you, in detail, what it’s really like.
Oh yes.
I shouldn't be alive to write this. If there was one thing I remember during the morphine drip, it's what Dr. Earnhart said: “The chances of you surviving until now are about the same as being attacked by a wolf in New York City, three days in a row, by three different wolves.”
Mind you, I’m OK now, considering. I’ve got some residual problems to say the least, but at least I'm alive.
The real problem is that the incident has come to define me. People used to ask me how tall I was (I'm six-five), but anyone that reads the Detroit Free Press knows who I am, and so instead of “Do you play basketball?”, I get:
“Did it hurt?”
Yeah, it hurt motherfucker. I’ve heard all kinds of anecdotes about how people “go into shock”, like a warm and fuzzy time-out chair from the gods. Not me. No sir-e. I felt the full-force of what was happening.
Let me give you advice — don’t walk in a seedy area with a laptop backpack, especially one that reads “Lenovo”. A tough looking gal demanded I hand it over, but the backpack and the computer were two weeks old, so I had no intentions of giving it up. When gangsta Jill pulled out .44, I thought it was fake -- too large and bulky to be anything but Fisher-Price. Wrong-o.
The round struck me at 1,550 fps -- five times the rate of a paintball gun. It was the most jaw-dropping impact I could ever imagine — nothing could have prepared me. Imagine someone strapping a chainsaw to a Dodge, then ramming it full-force into your chest, the saw shattering your rib-bones and teething through hot flesh.