The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  His head fogged and his eyes watered.

  A flap of skin with wiry white hair attached hung down near Mr. Joseph’s right ear, like his head was a banana with some of its skin peeled away. It jiggled as he struggled to get to his feet. But it was the hole, about the size of a golf ball, and what was visible within—a glistening, gray-pink mass that looked like a bunch of worms had been stuffed inside the old man’s head—which caused Toby’s heart to momentarily stop.

  Strangely, hardly any blood was pouring down Mr. Joseph’s face, just a trickle, nor was there much blood sprayed on the linoleum; just some meager streaks, along with some white shards that looked like pieces of skull, and Mr. Joseph’s gun.

  Toby blinked away cold tears. “Ambulance,” he breathed. “I have to call an ambulance.”

  “Monsieur Fairchild,” Mr. Joseph said, managing to get both arms up on the chair. “Oh Monsieur Fairchild, what are you doing here?”

  “Where’s your phone?” Toby said absently, unable to deal with how a man could have a portion of his head blown open, and still be alive. All he could process at that moment was that a man was badly hurt and that Toby needed to call for an ambulance.

  But he remained glued to the spot, his body numb.

  There was a smashing of glass and Toby gasped. The empty bottle of rum had fallen onto the floor as Mr. Joseph pulled at the table to ease himself into the chair. Once seated, he reached up and gingerly touched the open head wound.

  “There’s no need for an ambulance,” Mr. Joseph said.

  “Of course there is,” Toby said. “You’re hurt, we have to get you to a hospital.”

  “If you want to help, get some bandages, gauze and some tape from the bathroom.”

  A crazed laugh almost escaped from Toby’s mouth. “Bandages? Tape? Mr. Joseph, your head...”

  “Toby, please, either get me those things, pick up the gun from the floor and finish the job. Or just leave. But please, believe me when I say you don’t need to call an ambulance. You don’t need to save me.”

  Toby blinked and, in a small, frightened voice, said, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Down the hall, it’s the first door on your right.”

  Toby stepped forward, dodging the mess of broken glass and spilled rum. When he passed Mr. Joseph, Toby glanced at the wound, at the flap of skin, looking like a large hairy horse’s tongue, and in his mind he screamed:

  It’s impossible... how can he still be alive?... what’s going on?.. what’s... going... on??

  A small voice in his head told him to get out, run on home and hide under the covers, pretend he wasn’t seeing this, pretend this was all some horrible nightmare.

  But he headed into the bathroom where he found the bandages, a roll of gauze and tape in the cupboard under the sink, and then headed back into the kitchen, where Mr. Joseph was mumbling, “I’m a failure. I can’t do anything right.”

  Toby swallowed, said, “Here we are Mr. Joseph.”

  Mr. Joseph didn’t move. He just sat there gently weeping, babbling to himself. After a few minutes of standing there watching, Toby cried, “What the hell’s going on? Tell me!” Toby was also crying, but instead of swiping away the tears, he just stared at the old man until finally Mr. Joseph turned and looked up at Toby. He looked devastatingly sad, though, surprisingly, his face and eyes were dry.

  He reached up and took Toby’s free hand.

  Mr. Joseph’s skin was cold, icy cold, but Toby didn’t pull away.

  The old man rested Toby’s open palm against his chest.

  “Tell me, what do you feel?” Mr. Joseph asked.

  Breathing in rapid spurts, unsure exactly what he was asking, Toby answered, “Just your shirt.”

  “No, beyond that. What do you feel?”

  Toby swallowed. Tried to clear his mind. He concentrated on what he felt beneath the thin layer of fabric.

  He answered without giving it much thought. “Nothing.”

  Mr. Joseph nodded. He let go of Toby’s hand and closed his eyes. “Exactly,” he said.

  It didn’t click straightaway. Toby stood breathing heavily, sweaty palm pressed up against Mr. Joseph’s bony chest, his brain a hazy fog of confusion and emotion.

  But then it dawned on him, as his own heart thumped in his chest and throbbed in his ears.

  Mr. Joseph had no heartbeat.

  Mr. Joseph wasn’t breathing heavily; there was no rum-soaked breath blowing against Toby’s face. Mr. Joseph wasn’t breathing at all.

  Toby snapped his arm back. He shook his head at the realization. “Impossible,” he breathed.

  “You weren’t supposed to find out,” Mr. Joseph said, eyes still closed. “Nobody was supposed to find out.”

  “You’re...you’re...” Toby stepped back, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

  “Toby, please, you don’t understand.”

  “...dead,” Toby whispered. His head started spinning and he feared he would either throw up or, worse, faint.

  As Toby backed towards the kitchen door, he heard Mr. Joseph say: “It’s not what you think, Monsieur Fairchild. Please, let me explain. If you just let me explain, you’ll see, I’m not a monster.” The old man’s voice was distant, tinny. With tears streaming down his face, Toby staggered outside, turned and hurried along the side of the house, away from Mr. Joseph.

  With confusion and fear crashing over him, he stumbled home and made it up to his room without waking his parents.

  He jumped into bed and pulled the covers high over his head. It would be dawn in a few hours, but all Toby saw was darkness.

  Curled up in bed, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the millions of thoughts that were rolling around in his head. He wished he was ten years old again, free from any real problems, where the biggest decision in life was chocolate, vanilla or strawberry.

  Hell, he’d settle for rewinding life back just a few months. That way, Frankie would still be alive and Mr. Joseph would just be the strange old hermit who lived across the street.

  Damn it, why do things have to change? he thought, and by the time the sun rose, the pre-dawn incident almost seemed like a bad nightmare.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Toby sat at the kitchen table, the letter from Mr. Joseph open in front of him. He had read it three times. He was still trying to process it all.

  He felt numb and utterly drained, like he’d just finished running ten miles, then climbed up and down a mountain, all while battling the flu. He hadn’t slept a wink, instead lying under the covers, trying to digest what had happened last night. When his door opened at around seven and either his mom or dad looked in on him, he pretended to be asleep.

  It was only when, an hour after hearing the front door bang shut for the second time, and his bladder straining to the point of agony, he hopped out of bed, eased his pain and, throat parched, headed downstairs.

  When Toby entered the kitchen, he found two items of mail waiting for him on the table: one was a note from his mom. It said:

  Hope you’re feeling better today. Rest easy. See you tonight.

  Love Mom.

  Toby scrunched up the note and threw it into the trash. Rest easy, sure. He wasn’t hungry, the mere thought of food turned his stomach, so he poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and sat down at the table.

  He downed the orange juice in three big gulps, taking with it two aspirin, then poured himself another glass. He was unbelievably thirsty.

  He then picked up the second piece of mail—an envelope with his name written across it. Toby tore open the envelope and slipped out the sheet of paper.

  His breath hitched, his stomach tightened when he saw who it was from. Toby had been tempted to throw it into the bin as well, but he was curious to know what it said. So, despite the sickness in his belly, Toby had read:

  Dear Toby.

  I’m sure you don’t want to hear from me, but I feel I need to explain some things to you. I didn’t get a chance to l
ast night. First, I understand how scared and confused you must be. You were never meant to find out about me. Nobody was ever supposed to know about me. But, now you know. Or at least, you think you do. I can only imagine what must be going through your mind, what you think I am. Most of your assumptions will have come from the movies you’ve watched, or the books you’ve read. Forget it all, Toby. Reality is much different than the movies. It’s a lot more complex. What I am now isn’t who I always was. I was a normal human being, once. But it’s too complicated to explain in a letter. I’m sure you think of me as a monster, and I understand your feelings. It must’ve come as a big shock to you.

  I will understand if you feel the need to tell someone. The police, your parents. I’ve always feared that someone will find out my secret, and to be truthful, I’m amazed nobody has in all the time I’ve lived in this country. But I was resigned to the fact that my discovery was always a possibility, and have prepared myself for it. So, armed with this newfound knowledge, I leave it in your hands to do what you think is right.

  My door is always open to you, Toby. If you ever want to come back, I will explain in greater detail about how I came to be the way I am. Maybe then, you will see that I’m not so scary after all.

  Best wishes,

  Jack Joseph

  Afterwards, Toby had sat staring at the letter, unsure of what to do or think. So he read it again and again, hoping that by doing so would help him begin to understand or at least come to terms with the situation. But reading the letter three times hadn’t helped. He was still just as confused and his head still pounded. He guessed there was only so much pain a headache tablet could take away.

  When the phone jangled, it felt like a jackhammer hammering into his skull. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, considered letting the machine pick up the call, but he was sure it was his mom and he knew she’d keep on calling until he answered, so he got up, strode over to the phone, snatched the mouthpiece off the cradle and mumbled, “Yes?”

  “Well aren’t you in a good mood?”

  Toby sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “So I figured,” Gloria said. “Are your ribs causing you problems?”

  “Yeah, my ribs,” he said.

  There was a pause. “Are you sure you’re okay, Toby? You sound... different.”

  “Different? How?”

  “I dunno. Like you’re annoyed that I called. Like you don’t want to talk to me.”

  Toby sighed again.

  Tell her, a voice told him. Go on, tell her everything.

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, Gloria. Really, I’m just tired, I’ve got a headache and...”

  Go on, spill your guts. You know you want to. You have to tell someone!

  “...I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  Another silence. “Do you want me to come over?”

  Toby closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to say yes; he did want to see her, he never grew tired of looking at her, he loved being around her, she made him feel alive. But ultimately he felt like being alone. He didn’t know yet whether he was going to tell anyone—even Gloria—about Mr. Joseph; Toby wasn’t sure what to think about any of it.

  “Toby? You still there?”

  Toby snapped out of his thoughts. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m still here.”

  “So do you want me to come around? I’m supposed to go visit my grandmother in Akron, but I can probably get out of it.”

  “No, it’s all right. You go, I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? You really don’t sound too good.”

  “Really, I’m fine. All I need is a good sleep.”

  “Okay. Well, I just wanted to see how you were doing. I might call you tonight, depending on what time I get back.”

  “Okay. Have fun.”

  “Sure,” Gloria said with a huff. “It’ll be a blast.”

  After they hung up, Toby remained standing by the phone.

  It would be so easy to dial the number of the Belford police. Tell them about Mr. Joseph. Let them deal with it.

  Sure, like they’d believe me. A teenager rings up and tells them that their neighbor is a zombi? Sure, they wouldn’t laugh me off the phone...

  How can he talk? I didn’t think zombis spoke? I thought they just shuffled around, wanting to eat people...

  Jesus, I didn’t even think zombis were real!

  Toby wanted to scream. He hated Mr. Joseph for putting him in this position.

  But then Toby reminded himself that he was the one who spied on Mr. Joseph that night. He was the one who, when he thought he heard a gunshot, went over to investigate instead of either minding his own business or waking up his parents.

  Mr. Joseph was right—Toby wasn’t meant to find out the truth, so who was he to go around telling the world about his secret? It was none of his business.

  He just wished Frankie was still here. He could’ve talked it over with him, they could’ve gone through this together.

  So what do you say, Frankie? We weren’t far off. Drinking blood and eating chickens sounds about right for a zombi, don’t you reckon?

  With tears burning his eyes, Toby grabbed Mr. Joseph’s letter and headed back upstairs. After placing the letter in the bottom drawer, at the bottom of a pile of comics, he climbed into bed, pulled the covers over his head and lay in the stuffy darkness.

  He was still in bed under the covers when his mom arrived home from work.

  Toby heard her banging around downstairs, then her footsteps clomping up the stairs. Soon his door opened and his mom whispered, “Toby? Are you awake?”

  Toby considered playing possum, but knew that no matter how much he wanted to hide away from the world, he couldn’t avoid his parents forever. So he pulled back the covers and said, “Yeah.”

  His mom stepped into the room. She had a mild look of concern on her face. “Are you okay? You haven’t been in bed all day, have you? I tried calling a few times today, but all I got was the machine.”

  He had heard the phone ringing, but he hadn’t wanted to leave his cocoon, so he remained in bed.

  “Not the whole day. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure? Do you feel sick? Are your injuries acting up? Maybe it’s about time we go to the doctors for a check-up.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Well you don’t sound okay.”

  Toby wanted to tell her all about Mr. Joseph, he wanted to unload all his fears, all the weight that was pressing on his mind. But he worried if he did, he would either be taken straight to a shrink, his mom frantic that he was delirious, spouting a whole lot of nonsense about no heartbeat and zombis, or, if she did happen to believe him, that either the cops or an angry mob would be at Mr. Joseph’s door so fast not even Superman would be able to catch them. And he wasn’t sure he wanted that, as scared and confused as he was.

  Toby needed more time to think about things before he was ready for his world to change again so dramatically. “No, really, I’m okay.”

  “If you say so. You know you can talk to me if you need to. Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

  Toby hadn’t eaten all day, and though he still wasn’t hungry, his stomach was empty, so he crawled out of bed and headed into the bathroom.

  He used the toilet, showered, changed into jeans and a shirt.

  At just before six, the doorbell rang.

  Who could that be?

  Toby knew it wouldn’t be his dad—his dad wasn’t due home for another ten minutes, and besides, why would he ring the doorbell?

  So Toby wondered: Was it Suzie? Come over to apologize for the other day?

  As Toby started down the stairs, another thought came to him, and he stopped, gazing at the front door below, head suddenly dizzy, heart pounding.

  Surely not, he thought. Would he risk coming over to my house?

  Toby remained on the staircase, sweaty hand clutching the banister. When the doorbell chimed again, and his mom called out from the kitch
en, “Toby, would you get that?” Toby hesitantly continued down the stairs.

  What am I going to say to him if it is Mr. Joseph?

  Toby reached the door. He gripped the doorknob, took a deep breath, and when he opened the door, was relieved to see Gloria smiling at him, looking as radiant as ever.

  “Gloria,” he said.

  “Surprise.”

  She had on a short denim skirt that ended a few inches above her knees, and a white blouse. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, showing off her long, slender neck.

  “My grandmother wasn’t feeling well, so we came home early. Thought I’d pop around, see how you were doing. After how you sounded on the phone...”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. You wanna come in?”

  “Okay.”

  Gloria stepped inside. As Toby closed the door, he caught a whiff of her perfume—a fruity scent, like strawberry. He breathed it in and his head went swimmy.

  “You look tired,” Gloria said. “Still no luck in the sleep department?”

  Toby shook his head. He was moments from leaning forward and kissing her, but before he got the chance, his mom strolled into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, hello Gloria.”

  “Hello Mrs. Fairchild. I came over to see how Toby was doing.”

  “Well, he tells me he’s fine, but I’m not so sure. Did you want to stay for dinner?”

  “Oh, no, my mom’s expecting me home.”

  “It’s no hassle. I’m making chicken drumsticks and salad. There’s plenty to go around.”

  Gloria looked at Toby.

  Toby nodded. “If you want to.”

  Gloria smiled. Looked back at Toby’s mother. “Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes.” With a smile, his mom left.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I mean, if you’d rather be by yourself tonight...”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. I’m glad you’re staying for dinner.”

  And he was.

  “Good. Maybe afterwards we could watch a DVD? You’ve got enough here to choose from. Something light and funny, like There’s Something About Mary.”