Terminal

by Brian Keene

  Distraught? Yeah, I fucking damn well guess she was. When I think back to what Benjy had looked like . . . His chest was—it was open, and . . .

  I don't want to talk about that anymore.

  Maybe Martha was right all along. Crazy old Bible-thumping “Oh my . . .” Martha. Maybe a blood sacrifice was the only thing that could wash away the sins we committed, the innocent blood of a lamb. Maybe Benjy was the expiation that she said the Lord required. I was a sinner and I asked to be saved. The Lord granted my wish but took Benjy's life in return. That's the only way I see it. I've tried and tried to wrap my brain around it. Why was he given such a unique gift, only to have it taken away—to have his life taken away? Expiation makes sense to me—and at first, I hated Him even more for it. Hated Him, and feared Him too.

  They tried John and me separately. We both had public defenders. Neither knew what the fuck they were doing, or didn't care, or both. John got ten to fifteen years and is eligible for parole in eight. I was sentenced to a term of not less than fifty years and not to exceed my natural life. Natural life—what the fuck is that? I'm up for parole in fifty years, maybe. John and I both testified that Sherm masterminded the whole thing in response to my cancer, and that we were just a couple of duped accomplices, and the bank security cameras documented much of it, but all that defense did was save me from getting a death sentence.

  A death sentence . . . I think about that a lot, especially at night. Of being strapped into the electric chair and what it would feel like as all that electricity surged through my body. Of being tied to a gurney and feeling the cool wetness of an alcoholic swab on my arm (to prevent infection), followed by that final sting as the needle delivered a lethal injection.

  I think a lot about death.

  Michelle. Well, she hung in there during the trial. She showed up every day, looking as pretty and beautiful as the day I'd met her. Sometimes she brought T. J. and other times she came alone, while her mom babysat. The trial was hard on her, but it was harder on him. She sat behind me and she held my hand when the verdict was read, and she didn't cry. She stayed strong.

  Roy, Oscar, Kim, and Sharon testified at the trial. None of them brought up Benjy's abilities. Oscar tried to, just the once, but the prosecutor objected and his statement was stricken from the record. I don't know what happened to any of them after that. Except for Roy.

  Here's a weird thing. The bank security cameras captured the heist, but when it came to Benjy's healing acts, all the footage became snow. An electronic glitch I was told. My lawyer tried to use that in our defense, but it didn't work.

  During the trial, I was a guest of the York County prison. After sentencing, they moved me to the D block of the Cresson State Prison Facility. It's not so bad here. Definitely better than county jail. Nobody has tried to rape me or make me his bitch. We've got cable TV in the cells, and monitored Internet access once a week. I watch a lot of Howard Stern and Comedy Central, and anything with girls in bikinis. They've got me working in the library, which beats the hell out of slaving in the kitchen. I lift weights in the gym, something I never had time to do before on the outside, and I read a lot. Elmore Leonard. Richard Laymon. Western novels by Ed Gorman. The Bible. Like I said earlier, I guess you could say that John's vision and Benjy's powers made me a believer. In fact, I'm scared not to believe. I asked God for some proof and He sent me some, Old Testament style.

  In addition to the books, I read the newspaper too. I get the Hanover Evening Sun, though I have to wait an extra day for it to be delivered. It's weird to read about my old hometown, and to know that it continues to go on, that the people I knew survive and get on with their lives, even though I'm not there anymore.

  I only have one cellmate, a guy named Edgar, who's in here for killing his girlfriend while driving drunk. She went through the windshield, flew about fifty feet, and smashed her head open on a retaining wall. Died on impact. Edgar was charged with vehicular manslaughter, except that Edgar insists he wasn't driving. He just can't prove it.

  Same situation as me, if you think about it. I didn't kill anybody in that bank. I just can't prove it.

  Inside this place, we're all innocent. Except for in our hearts. Our hearts convict us, and in my heart, I'm guilty as sin. I killed those people. Their blood is on my hands. Innocent blood. Blood of the lamb. Expiation.

  Michelle only came to visit once a month, since it was a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Hanover. She brought T. J. to the prison once, on the first visit, and that just about broke all three of us. He couldn't understand why he had to talk to Daddy through a telephone, and why I couldn't come around to the other side of the thick glass window and give him a hug. I've never seen him cry so hard.

  I didn't sleep that night, and a few days later, Michelle and I agreed it would probably be better not to bring him. I don't call them, because you can only call collect from prison and we don't have the money for that.

  Her last visit was two months ago, and the last letter I got from her was yesterday. It wasn't even from Michelle. It was from her attorney, letting me know that she was initiating divorce proceedings. I didn't expect that, but I guess I can't blame her. I'd love to know where she got the fucking money to do that, though. Maybe another guy. I can't picture her and T. J. with someone else. Can't imagine her making love to another man or T. J. calling someone else Daddy. It makes my stomach hurt in ways the cancer never did. It's a hollow, wrenching kind of pain.

  That's all. There's nothing else to tell.

  Okay, well there is one other thing.

  I said that except for Roy, I didn't know what had happened to any of the hostages. But I know what happened to Roy after the trial. And I know what happened to Sandy, Sheila and Benjy's dog. And to John. Especially John.

  Sandy was the first, just a brief end-of-the-broadcast item on the news. “A tragic ending to this brave dog's story.” They recounted how Benjy was killed in the bank by a stray bullet, and how Sheila had committed suicide by stepping in front of a bus one month later. Apparently, Sandy was taken to one of these no-kill animal shelters after Sheila's death, and got adopted by a new family. She'd been with her new owners for a week when she was hit by a car. They found her in the yard, dead. There were no witnesses. In fact, nobody heard brakes or tires, or even the sound of Sandy yelping. One minute she was playing in the yard. The next minute, she was roadkill.

  That was two weeks ago. Roy's obituary appeared in the paper last week. He died of a sudden massive heart attack. The newspaper mentioned that he was a retired sales representative for the foundry, and that he was survived by several nieces and nephews, just like he'd told us in the vault. A sidebar article mentioned that he'd been a hostage during the robbery.

  John died last night.

  Even though we're both in the same prison, I've never seen him. I haven't seen him since the robbery. I wanted to, but he was in A block and I was in D. We had no contact with each other, and inmates aren't allowed to send each other mail, even if they're in the same prison. He was here. My best friend was here with me the whole time, imprisoned inside this fucking building, and I couldn't see him because we were on different blocks. Each block takes meals and goes out into the yard at different times. I kept hoping that I'd run into him in the library one day, but I never did. John never was the type to read.

  One of the correctional officers told me about it at breakfast this morning. They found him in his cell around midnight. He was dead. The coroner hadn't released an official report yet, of course, but the cause of death appeared to be a gunshot wound to the stomach. That was impossible, since none of the inmates, the guards, or even his cellmate had heard a shot. It was unlikely that a pistol could have been smuggled into the prison in any case. They'd tested his cellmate for powder residue, since the two of them were locked in their cell at the time. There was no trace. Now A block is locked down and everybody is being questioned. They want to talk to me later today too. Routine questioning, they said. But there's nothing routine ab
out it. What am I supposed to tell them? That the hole in John's belly is the one that Kelvin put there? That Benjy healed it and now that he's dead it's come back? That Benjy could perform miracles and the miracles died with him?

  At least I tried to save him. At least there's that. Look, I don't know what the final outcome is. I don't care if you believe in what Benjy could do or not. All I know is that I believe. I wanted proof and I got that proof. But I never meant for Benjy to get harmed. That's not what I wanted.

  Life handed me a crap hand. But I played the cards I was dealt. I still don't know what happens to us when we die, but I know this—I tried to do the right thing. In the end, when everything turned to shit because of my stupid, fucked-up mistake, I tried to do the right thing. And in my heart, I believed.

  I still do. I don't know if that gives me redemption or absolution, but I know that, wherever he is, Benjy has forgiven me. He knows I tried to save him, and he knows that I've found belief.

  Maybe that's enough.

  Edgar has six more months till he's out. On the wall, he's got a short-timers' calendar. Every morning when he wakes up, he marks off the days until his release by putting a big, black X through them.

  I started a short-timers' calendar too. Started it right after I got back from breakfast, in fact, as soon as I heard about John. I haven't cried yet for my friend, because I think I'll probably be seeing him soon. It won't be Jesus coming for me. I think it will be the voices, the voices that John said he heard. The ones that I heard too. The sharp, cruel little voices.

  I remember Sherm, right after he'd killed Dugan. He was shouting at something to shut up and get out of his head. I think Sherm knew the voices well. I think they'd been whispering to him for a long time before we even met him.

  I just crossed off a day on my short-timers' calendar. I don't feel good at all. I'm weak, and I've started losing weight again. My throat hurts and the headaches are back, along with the nausea. Last night, I got a nosebleed while I slept. My pillow was crusted with dried blood this morning.

  I have cancer. At a very advanced stage. It's growing, growing at an alarming rate.

  It's terminal.

  The court sentenced John to ten to fifteen years in prison. He was eligible for parole in eight years, but he got out much earlier than that. I was sentenced to a term of not less than fifty years and not to exceed my natural life. That's not much time. Not much time at all. It's a death sentence.

  There's only one thing left for me to do. In a little while, I am going out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.

  Please hold me until I get back.

  Please—hold me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BRIAN KEENE is the two-time Bram Stoker Award winning author of several novels and short story collections, including The Rising, Fear of Gravity, No Rest For The Wicked, and City of the Dead (the sequel to The Rising). His work has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines, and several of his novels and short stories have been optioned for film. He has also edited several anthologies. He lives somewhere on the border between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Insanity, where he spends too much time writing, walking his dog, pulling bank jobs, and drinking tequila. He enjoys planning crimes with his readers. Contact him at www.briankeene.com.

  Other Books by Brian Keene:

  THE RISING

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  FEAR OF GRAVITY

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED

  NO REST FOR THE WICKED REDUX

  NO REST AT ALL

  TALKING SMACK (audio book)

  4X4 (with Geoff Cooper, Michael Huyck

  & Michael Oliveri)

  As Editor:

  BEST OF HORRORFIND

  BEST OF HORRORFIND II

  PRAISE FOR BRIAN KEENE

  Winner of two Bram Stoker Awards for

  Best Non-Fiction in 2001 and for Best First Novel in 2003

  “A master wordsmith and storyteller.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Brian Keene is the next Stephen King.”

  —Horror Review

  “Brian Keene has revitalized the horror genre.”

  —Suffolk Journal

  “A major new horror novelist.” —Cemetery Dance

  “Brian Keene takes horror to a new level.”

  —CelebrityCafé.com

  “Brian Keene is a prodigious new talent.”

  —Ken Foree, star of Dawn of the Dead

  “Absolutely kick-ass. Flamboyantly violent, action-packed, and verbally straight-up on delivering the goods.” —John Skipp

  “More terrifying than anything currently on the shelf or screen.” —Rue Morgue

  “Dynamite and dynamic!” —Avon Grove Sun

  “Not for the squeamish!” —Library Journal

  “Brian Keene reminds us that horror fiction can deal with fear, not just indulge it.” —Ramsey Campbell

  “Brian Keene is one of the best new writers in the genre. Some of the most original, outrageous, and skillfully crafted fiction being produced in the field today.”

  —Edward Lee, author of Messenger and City Infernal

  “Brian Keene is part of the next wave, bound to become a significant part of the genre.”

  —Tom Piccirilli, author of A Choir of Ill Children

  PRAISE FOR Terminal

  “A tour de force of twists and turns that never really settle into a comfortable mold . . . a gritty work, dark and desolate as the lives and dreams of its characters. A fine novel by a talented author. Highly recommended.” —Cemetery Dance

  Be sure not to miss

  THE HOLLOW

  the next exciting novel from

  Brian Keene

  Coming from Bantam in Summer 2006.

  Read on for a special preview . . .

  THE HOLLOW

  On sale in Summer 2006

  It was on the first day of spring that Big Steve and I saw Shelly Carpenter fucking the hairy man.

  Winter had been a hard one. Two books to write in five months' time. Not something I recommend doing, if you can help it. There was a lot of pressure involved. The sales of my first novel, Heart of the Labyrinth, caught my critics, my publisher, and even myself by surprise. It did very well—something that a book of its kind isn't supposed to do, especially a mass-market paperback with no promotional campaign behind it.

  So, flush with success, I quit my day job—only to learn that I wouldn't be getting a royalty check for at least another year. We'd already blown through the advance: mortgage payments, car and truck payments, new living room furniture for my wife, Tara, and a new laptop for me. Plus, I'd spent quite a bit of my own cash traveling to book signings.

  If I'd had an agent, maybe he would have explained that to me. Or maybe not. Personally, I'm glad I don't have an agent. They require fifteen percent of your earnings, and I was broke.

  I could have gone back to work at the factory, but I figured that if I applied myself to the writing, I'd be making about as much money as I would at the factory anyway, so I decided to follow what I love doing.

  Tara still worked, insisting that she pay the bills while I stayed home and wrote, but we couldn't survive on just one income. Thus—two more books for two different publishers in five months' time, written just for the advance money, which would see us through the winter. Nice chunk of change, but when you totaled up the hours I was working, the advance for the next two novels came out to about a buck eighty an hour.

  But we needed the money.

  The pressure got to me. I started smoking again, and drank coffee nonstop. I'd get up at five, make the daily commute from the bed to the coffee pot to the computer, and start writing. I'd work on one novel until noon, take a break for lunch, and then work on the second novel until late evening. After a full day of that, I'd take care of business—reading contracts, responding to fan mail, checking my message board, giving interviews—all the other things that constitute writing—and then go to bed
around midnight.

  During those rough months, I'd have gone insane if not for Big Steve. Tara brought him home from the pound to keep me company during the day. Big Steve was a mutt—part beagle, part Rottweiler, part black Lab, and all pussy. Despite his formidable size and bark, Big Steve was scared of his own shadow. He ran from butterflies and squirrels, fled from birds and wind-tossed leaves, and cowered when the mailwoman came to the door. When Tara first brought him home, he hid in the corner of the kitchen for half a day, tail between his legs and his entire body shaking. He got used to us fairly quick, but he was still frightened by anything else. Not that he let it show. When something—it didn't matter what, the Ferguson kid or a groundhog—stepped onto our property, the Rottweiler inside him came out. He was all bark and no bite, but a robber would have had a hard time believing that.

  Big Steve became my best friend. We watched TV together. He listened while I read manuscript pages out loud to him. He liked the same beer as me, and the same food. Most importantly, Big Steve knew when it was time to drag my ass away from the computer. That was how we started our daily walks, and now they were a scheduled routine. Two per day—one at dawn, shortly after Tara left for work, and the second at sundown, when she was on her way home. Tara commutes to Baltimore every day, and it was at those times—when she first left and when she was due home—that the house seemed especially lonely. Big Steve had impeccable timing. He'd get me outside and that always cheered me up.

  Which brings us back to Shelly Carpenter and the hairy man.

  When Tara left for work that morning, on the first day of spring, Big Steve stood at the door and barked once—short and to the point.