THE DEAD
By David Gatward
InkWell Publishing
Published in eBook format by InkWell Publishing
in association with Lucas Alexander Whitley
521 5th Avenue, Suite 2600
New York, NY 10175
Original Copyright 2010 by David Gatward
eBook Copyright 2013 by David Gatward
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
1 Rotting Meat
It was when Lazarus opened his bedroom door that he noticed the smell.
‘What the hell's that?’
He’d been on the phone for the past half hour to Craig – best friend and wannabe best-selling novelist – and was in serious need of a leak. It was late night, early morning. Two o’clock was coming round quickly. Lazarus hadn’t yet bothered to get undressed and his black jeans and black T-shirt made him look like a shadow gone walking. With school now over for the summer, he wasn’t too bothered about getting much sleep. And anyway, he liked the night; always had. Darkness felt comforting, the midnight hours always a quiet break from life, particularly the school days he hated.
‘What’s up?’ asked Craig.
‘A smell in the house,’ said Lazarus. ‘It reeks like rotting meat!’
For a second he just stood there, holding his left hand up to his nose, the phone in his right against his ear. He chanced another sniff. It was rank.
‘Smells like the kitchen bin after a month in the sun,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure I emptied it this morning.’
‘You doing domestic chores?’ said Craig. ‘I’m amazed!’
‘I’m home alone, man,’ said Lazarus into his cellphone. ‘The babysitter’s gone.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
‘Seriously,’ said Lazarus, unable to hide the happiness in his voice. ‘Just upped and left. Found a note on the kitchen table telling me to call the agency for a replacement – as if!’
Lazarus edged forward into the hallway. The bathroom was at the other end of the hall and he was getting desperate.
As he walked on, the only sound in the house other than his sockless shuffle was the faint ticking of the many old clocks his dad collected. He hated the sound – his dad seemed to care more for them than he did him. When he wasn’t working, he was fiddling with the things, tinkering here and there. He certainly spent more time with them than with Lazarus, polishing them and making sure their timing was right, that they were wound up just so. Lazarus just didn’t get what his dad saw in them. They were just clocks after all. Why couldn’t he be interested in something decent, like cars? Clocks were just sad and a little pathetic. Lazarus dreamed of taking a sledgehammer to the whole damned lot of them.
‘Can’t believe she left you,’ said Craig. ‘You think this is how it’s going to be with you and women from now on?’
‘Ha ha,’ said Lazarus, dead pan.
‘She give any reasons?’
‘Some crap about missing her boyfriend and needing to see the world,’ said Lazarus, finally reaching the bathroom. ‘You know, the usual blah-blah-blah emotional stuff. Just a minute …’
Lazarus put the phone down and thirty seconds later pulled the flush.
‘Much better,’ he said, picking up the phone again after washing his hands.
‘I heard everything,’ said Craig. ‘Thanks. No, really.’
Lazarus laughed and headed back to his room.
‘What about your dad?’ asked Craig. ‘Does he know about the babysitter?’
‘Hasn’t a clue,’ said Lazarus, a smile creeping across his face. ‘Is that sweet or what?’
‘You lucky bastard,’ said Craig. ‘When’s he back?’
‘No idea, just said he was away on business and left me with the usual: a firm handshake and enough money to buy takeout for a month.’
‘Nice.’
‘Oh, it was emotional. Always is. You know Dad.’
Craig laughed. ‘Wasn’t she due to leave anyway?’
‘Yeah,’ said Lazarus, ‘but not till after my birthday. And that's still two weeks off.’
‘Oh yes, the big sixteen,' said Craig, his voice an attempt at sounding mysterious. 'Old enough to join the army, become a dad, but not drive a car; where’s the logic in that? How’s the weird smell?’
‘Gone,’ said Lazarus. ‘How freaky is that?’
‘Not very,’ said Craig. ‘Now your dad being generous – that’s weird.’
Lazarus, now back in his bedroom, lay down on his bed. He knew what Craig was getting at. Dad never made much of birthdays, of anything really. His life was his work, though how being a locksmith and security consultant could be so interesting utterly baffled Lazarus. But this birthday was going to be different, apparently.
A year ago, they’d made an agreement: he’d clean up his act at school and his dad would give him something on his sixteenth birthday that would change his life. The thought made Lazarus laugh, but not in a good way. What the hell was there his dad could ever give him that would do that?
He still hadn’t any idea as to what this something was. His dad had given no clues. Not a hint, nothing. The only thing his dad had ever given him of value was a small silver key on a thick silver neck chain on his thirteenth birthday. It was for good luck, apparently. Well, it hadn’t brought him any, had it? Except for a bit of attention from girls, who thought it looked cool and always commented on it. That was something at least. So he always wore it. But as far as jewellery was concerned that was where it started and stopped.
Craig came back with, ‘You reckon the deal with your dad still holds?’
‘I’ve held up my end of the bargain,’ said Lazarus, his voice hard. ‘He’d better hold up his.’
‘True,’ said Craig. ‘You’re Mr Clean at school now.’
Lazarus had never liked school. He found lessons both easy and boring and the rules and restrictions pointless and suffocating. He didn't break the rules on purpose, it was – in his mind at least – just something he had no control over. Like when he'd refused to cut his blond hair for eighteen months, then hacked it off short and ragged himself late one night. And dyed it black. He still wore it the same way: unruly, uneven and gelled to hell.
As everyone else struggled with quadratic equations, European history and Biology, Lazarus coasted along. It irritated those around him, frustrated his teachers, disappointed his dad, drove himself crazy.
Detention was a weekly occurrence, but he’d never been expelled, and that was for two reasons. One, he’d always had the sense to make sure that any of the trouble he caused never went too far. What was the point of burning the school down when it was so much more fun to break in now and again and write far too accurate limericks about the head of the math department on the display boards in the classrooms? And two, he aced everything. Well, everything except for the exams couldn’t be bothered to take.
Lazarus sank back into the pillows on his bed and stretched out. The house, large and silent, was now his castle. He smiled to himself in the knowledge that he could pretty much do what he wanted till his dad came home. Like go get a snack at two a.m. Awesome.
He sat up and swung his legs off the bed as Craig came back with a question about what his plans were for the summer.
‘No idea,’ Lazarus said. ‘Can’t do much till Dad’s back anyway. What about you?’
‘Funny you should ask,’ said Craig.
‘I didn’t,’ smiled Lazarus. ‘You did.’
Craig said, ‘How do you fancy going away for a few days? Down to my parents’ motor home? It’s not exactly luxurious, but ... Anyway, they’ve decided I’m old enough to go on my own if I want to, but
only if someone goes with me.’
Lazarus grinned. ‘You need someone to tuck you in at night?’
‘No,’ said Craig. ‘I need someone who looks old enough to get served at the bar.’
The idea of going away for a few days to goof around in an RV with Craig was appealing. ‘It’ll have to be after Dad’s back,’ said Lazarus. ‘That OK?’
‘Totally,’ said Craig. ‘Now about that movie I lent you. Did you watch it tonight? What did you think? Did you like it? Or was it simply too complex for your tiny brain?’
Lazarus went to answer, but as he stood up to head off on his snack-finding mission, his head suddenly swam and his vision went fuzzy. Then he toppled forward on to his knees, almost cracking his head open on his desk.
And he just knew he was about to throw up.
2 Burned Wood
Lazarus puked.
‘What’s up?’ asked Craig, hearing Lazarus groan and sounding almost concerned. ‘You been at your dad’s liquor cabinet again?’
Lazarus didn’t answer. Instead he leant forward, bracing himself against the floor with his hands, focusing his mind on not being sick, forcing his stomach to keep its contents, swallowing. Bile was in his throat and that horribly familiar metallic taste was round his mouth, like the sensation of sticking his tongue on a battery to check if it was live. It was a stupid phobia, he knew (and that was why no one knew about it), but being sick really did freak the hell out of him.
‘Lazarus? What’s up?’
But Lazarus wasn’t listening – he was concentrating on not being reintroduced to the contents of his stomach.
He slowly reached a hand up on to his desk. He shook his head to clear it, opened and closed his eyes, rubbed them. White stars burst behind his eyelids and his stomach flipped. Then a strange piercing sound inside his skull made him wince and his ears popped. It reminded him of the one and only time he’d ever been on a plane – the sensation as it had climbed into the sky. But why it was happening now in the middle of the night he had no idea. Maybe he’d stood up too fast. Yeah, that must be it. But God he felt awful.
Eventually, the feeling subsided. Lazarus pushed himself up from his desk, opened his eyes and looked out through his window. It was a black night, winter-dark despite it being July, and clear, the moon like a smudge of chalk on a blackboard. And it was cold. The summer had been a total washout since a few hot days in May. The gardens around the house were all in shadow, staring out over an old, sleepy Somerset skyline laced with trees and newly built houses attempting to blend in.
‘Lazarus? Are you OK? What’s up? You haven’t gone and died on me, have you?’
‘Yeah, sorry man,’ said Lazarus. ‘Stood up too fast I think.’
‘Sounded like you fell over.’
‘That’s because I did,’ said Lazarus. ‘My head went all weird and I thought I was going to throw up. What were you saying?’
‘The movie,’ said Craig. ‘You loved it, right?’
‘Oh that,’ said Lazarus, his head still a bit groggy, thinking back to what he'd just finished watching. ‘Your recommendations suck.’
‘It’s a classic!’ said Craig, his voice all mock shock and despair. ‘Director's a genius. You’ve got no taste.’
‘Guess not,’ said Lazarus and walked across to his bedroom door. His head was clear now, and a snack was definitely necessary. ‘For some reason, badly dubbed seventies Italian horror goes right over my head. What have you been up to, or do I not need to ask?’
Lazarus knew Craig was smiling.
‘Watching Most Haunted!’ said Craig. ‘Best-of DVD.’
‘You just like the woman who hosts it.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Craig. ‘And I’ve been writing again. Just finished this amazing book about how adults go nuts and start killing anyone younger than nineteen; awesome stuff! Really inspired me.’
‘You're crazy,' said Lazarus. 'So what are you getting me for my birthday?’
He dreaded the answer; Craig had a reputation for buying him useless crap. Last year he’d trumped everything: Lazarus still hadn’t found a place to put the wicker pig. Apparently Craig had looked for a wicker man – some pointless horror movie reference – but only found a pig.
Craig said, ‘A personality and taste. You feeling better?’
‘Yeah,’ said Lazarus. ‘Food to the rescue of a dodgy stomach.’
‘Good call,’ said Craig. ‘I’ll join you.’
Phone to his ear, Lazarus strolled back over to his bedroom door and pulled it open. He sniffed the air. ‘That smell’s totally gone.’
‘You sure it wasn’t just a fart?’ said Craig. 'Your guts are always rotten. I blame all that moldy cheese you eat.'
‘It's blue cheese, you jerk,' said Lazarus.
Lazarus didn't say any more, but he was a bit confused. He hadn’t a clue what the smell was or where it had come from. He wondered if a garbage truck had gone past, but it was too early for anyone to be out picking up trash.
He walked on. To his left, the landing gave way to the stairs. At the top of these was the main bedroom – his dad's – occupied by nothing but practical furniture, neat clothes and pictures of his mom. The stairs themselves turned a hundred and eighty degrees in a large, oak sweep to the hall on the ground floor.
Lazarus walked down the first flight on to the small landing halfway between the floors. Moonlight glanced through a towering stained-glass window above it, casting a blurred smear of color from the glass down the stairs like spilled paint. By the time he stepped forward to make his way down to the ground floor, the smell had totally gone.
At the bottom of the stairs, his feet feeling the cold of the old quarry tiles that covered the hallway floor, Lazarus stood for a moment in the darkness sniffing the air just to make sure. No, the there was no trace of any stench. It wasn’t coming from his right, which led off and round past the downstairs toilet and his dad’s study. Neither was it coming from the left, which led past the living room.
With a shrug, he hung a left, past the living room door, through the dining room and in the kitchen.
‘Well?’ said Craig. ‘What was it?’
‘No idea,’ said Lazarus, reaching out to open the fridge. The light lit up the kitchen and made the night on the other side of the window above the sink seem all the darker. He could hear Craig fixing himself some food. ‘What are you having?’
‘Fish sticks,’ said Craig. ‘Gastronomic heaven! You?’
‘Grilled cheese,’ said Lazarus. 'With ketchup.'
A few moments later, the bread and cheese was off of the stove then onto a plate. Lazarus left the fridge door open, preferring the light it cast to that of the main one in the ceiling above. It made the night seem more immediate.
The sandwich was soon gone and the kitchen again plunged into darkness. Lazarus could now see clearly through the windows without the reflecting light from the fridge. The garden out back was still. The tree that grew at the edge of the worn brick path seemed to lean under the weight of the moonlight on its leaves, but unlike Lazarus, wasn’t suffering from all the clouds and rain. If anything, the world looked greener, he thought, but was it really too much to ask for a summer to at least drip a little bit of sunshine into the day now and again?
Lazarus walked through to the dining room. He caught the faint image of his reflection in a mirror on the wall. On his right arm, just below his T-shirt, the mark he’d had since he was a baby stared back. It was a burn, with ragged, torn edges. It was the only scar he’d gotten from the car accident, the one that had killed the mother he couldn’t even remember.
He quickly pushed away any thoughts about the woman his dad had fallen in love with all those years ago. He’d never known her. She was gone, dead. And there wasn’t any coming back, he knew that for sure. She was just a face in photos in his dad's bedroom and around the house. Photos his dad made sure, almost religiously, were utterly free of dust.
‘Time to hit the sack,’ said Lazarus. ‘You around tomorr
ow? Feel like having a DVD-athon?’
‘Totally,’ said Craig. ‘But only if I get to choose the movies. Your taste sucks.’
Lazarus heard Craig yawn. He was about to say See you tomorrow, when, from directly ahead of him, the smell came again, driven by a gust that came out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.
He coughed, gagged, nearly threw up. Then just like before, his head spun, his ears popped, but he managed to steady himself before he hit the deck, reaching out for the wall. The sensation made him groan, and for a second he thought he was going to pass out.
‘Now what?’
‘It’s that smell again,’ said Lazarus, shaking his head. ‘It’s come back. It’s unbelievable!’
‘Rats,’ said Craig. ‘Can’t be anything else. I’d put your shoes on if I were you; the little buggers’ll have your toes.’
‘Can’t be rats,’ said Lazarus, walking back into the hall. ‘I’d have heard them or noticed them or something before now, wouldn’t I?’
The smell was getting stronger and he was finding it a real struggle to breathe. His hand firmly clamped over his mouth and nose, he looked down the hall and saw something that hadn’t been there when he’d come down the stairs earlier on. And it made him stop dead. A faint red glow was licking out into the hall from under the living room door, like it was trying to taste the tiles.
Perhaps he’d left the television on? It certainly wasn’t a fire – one hadn’t been lit since back in February. But that’s what it looked like. And that was impossible.
‘It’s coming from the living room,’ he said at last, his eyes fixed on the strange glow, his feet refusing to move. ‘And I know this is going to sound totally nuts, but there’s a red light coming from under the door, like the fire’s been lit.’
‘A fire?’ said Craig. ‘I know the summer’s been a bust, but I didn’t realise you were such a wuss. I bet you’ve got a warm blankie too, haven’t you?’
But Lazarus didn’t laugh. With the smell again and now the weird red light, he was having trouble not just freaking out on the spot.
The Dead Page 1