Waking Lazarus

by T. L. Hines

  Where was he? He concentrated. He could remember doing something with his dad. Grocery store? Movie? Wait. Ice fishing. Yeah, ice fishing and . . . that was all his mind would give him right now. That, and a sense he couldn’t quite explain, something like the way he’d felt when Mom had dropped him off at kindergarten the first time. Yes, it was that: the feeling of missing—not missing Mom, exactly, but missing all the same—and it tasted like a mouthful of pennies.

  He stifled a gag, trying to swallow the awful taste of copper, and froze when he felt the sheet brushing his face. Yes. He was in a strange place. Maybe an unsafe place. He wanted to throw off the sheet, but he was afraid to move. He had spent many nights under the protective cover of a sheet in his own bed, hiding from the creaks and moans that blew through the farmhouse where they lived. Even now, he told himself that’s where he was: home in his own bed, huddled under his own sheet, just a few feet down the hall from Mom. Yet he knew this wasn’t his bed. The cold metal biting the bare skin of his back said as much.

  A sound came to him from the terrifying world on the other side of the sheet. A repeating sound in a steady pattern: click-click-click-click. Footsteps. Moving toward him. Jude closed his eyes again. No, this wasn’t his home, wasn’t his bedroom. And that meant the person walking across the floor wasn’t his mother.

  Maybe, if he stayed very still, he wouldn’t be seen. He held his breath and listened, feeling the dull beat of his own heart pounding in his head.

  Suddenly the sheet lifted from his face. He felt it but kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see whoever, or whatever, had come for him.

  Silence. No movement, no voice. After a few seconds, Jude ventured a peek, thinking he had perhaps imagined all of it. The harsh fluorescence of the hospital morgue’s lighting attacked his pupils, forcing him to squint against the glare.

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw a woman staring at him. Though he didn’t know the woman, her warm smile seemed . . . safe. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. Instead, she simply held out her hand. He returned the smile and reached out, guided by a need to touch the offered hand. To make sure she was real.

  Jude Allman was back from the dead.

  2

  BECOMING

  Now

  The Hunter moved quickly, putting away the chloroform-soaked cloth while lifting the child’s limp body and rolling it into the black Dodge’s trunk.

  In precise terms, the Hunter was not human.

  Certainly the Hunter had once started as a human, but had progressed, evolved even, to a higher plane. Now the Hunter was something much more, a being of a higher order, unconstrained by human emotion.

  The Hunter had simply become.

  Of course, the Hunter still needed to interact with others; that’s what the Normal’s role was. The Normal presented a typical presence to other people, mixed in with them, made them believe it was one of them. Hi, how ya doin’? Nice day, ain’t it? How are the kids? These were the kind of pithy things the Normal had to say, the kind of blather lower beings disgorged in conversation. The Normal was good for that sort of thing, actually seemed to like idle chitchat occasionally. On some levels the Normal perhaps tried to ignore the existence of the Hunter, maybe even feared the Hunter’s roles. Stalking. Trapping. Killing.

  Not that the Hunter really liked killing. Killing was, in fact, the Hunter’s least favorite part. It had been enjoyable once, a very long time ago, in the early stages of becoming. But not now.

  The stalking. That’s what brought the sweet taste of anticipation to the Hunter’s tongue, what made the back of his head crackle and spark. When hunting, he was quiet and careful, almost invisible. Definitely scentless. The trick was to never let the Quarry smell excitement. Before he started, he always rubbed dirt—dark, loamy dirt was best—on his exposed skin to mask the scent of excitement. If he didn’t, the strong, citrus smell of his excitement would overpower carefully laid plans, alerting the Quarry.

  The Hunter didn’t look around, concentrating only on the immediate tasks. Wandering gazes invited suspicion, and suspicion made people notice. This didn’t really matter, though, because no one would recognize him. When he was the Hunter, he walked with a practiced limp. He gained forty pounds, thanks to a padded body suit. He even cocked his head to the side and imagined himself as a hunchback. That was all his Quarry would ever see: the Hunter, not the Normal. They were two separate figures, two separate lives.

  The Hunter opened the front door of the car, slid into the seat, and sat motionless. Killing. Killing was too messy, making the Hunter feel hollow. The way he had felt after breaking toys as a child. He always regretted breaking the toys, making them worthless bits from the past. But even worse, he hated ruining the future: a broken toy was useless, empty.

  The Hunter sighed and retrieved a cigarette from the pack on the car’s dash. He didn’t smoke, not when he was the Normal. But he was careful to do so when the Hunter, to do everything differently.

  He inhaled the dry, crisp tang of the tobacco and let a tendril of smoke slide from his lips, wondering if there might be someone like-minded wandering the streets out there. An opposite doppelganger who loved the actual kill, for instance. Maybe, if he could find such a being, they could complement each other, work together, confide. Perhaps, here on God’s green earth, he wasn’t the only one who had become.

  He stubbed out the cigarette after just a few puffs, stubbing out thoughts of similar beings along with it. Of course there were no others. He was special, a unique creation all his own.

  He looked at the watch on his wrist, watching as the analog second hand ticked its way around the face. Time to lock up the Quarry.

  Two smells always comforted the Hunter: root cellars and burlap. They made him think of his father, a worthless drunk who had riddled his liver with cirrhosis by age fifty. In fact, drinking was one of two things his father had seemed to do well. That, and gardening.

  When the Hunter had been a child, he had figured gardening must be easy. Had to be for his dad to be so good at it. But he only had to try gardening once to figure out the task was considerably more difficult than hoisting a bottle of Aces High whiskey.

  He had planted carrots, corn, and potatoes. Then the weeds took over. No matter what he did, the weeds infested his small garden patch, mostly a low-growing viny thing that sprouted white flowers. And the more he hoed, the more he dropped to his knees and yanked vines, the more he sprayed the leaves of the weeds with chemicals, the more the weeds laughed in his face, taunting him.

  A mason jar of gasoline and a match had solved the weed problem permanently. True, that meant torching the corn and carrots, but such was a small sacrifice to watch the weeds shrivel and burn. The weeds didn’t laugh then. They screamed. A beautiful, vibrant, orange-colored scream filled with flecks of purple.

  His father’s penchant for gardening, almost as strong as his penchant for cheap whiskey, meant they had to store vegetables. Every autumn was spent canning the garden’s bounty: beans, pickles, carrots, beets. For three solid weeks their home was filled with the low, chattering whistle of a pressure canner. Somewhere underneath that shriek, if you listened closely, was a faint clinking made by the jars bouncing together inside the canner. So many times as a child he had resisted sneaking into the kitchen and unsealing the canner’s lid. In his childhood mind, releasing the lid would surely cause an explosion of shattering glass and boiling water. Even reflecting on it now, years later, he still wished he had opened the canner once, just once, to see the jars inside detonate in a poetic ballet of splintered glass.

  His father had converted the basement of their home into a root cellar, where they stored jar after jar of canned treasures from the garden. And next to all those jars sat burlap sacks filled with potatoes. Late at night, after his dad passed out, he often liked to sneak down into the basement root cellar, breathe in the smell of fresh dirt and burlap.

  Mice liked the root cellar, too. They couldn’t do much to the canned vegetables, bu
t often the mice chewed through the burlap to get to the potatoes. Sometimes the Hunter himself chewed on the burlap. He wasn’t sure why, but chewing burlap was comforting. Right.

  Other times he just liked to catch the mice and choke them. Their whitish-gray forms wriggled, squealed in his hands as the life drained from their bodies and into his own. Sometimes the mice would even bite, though he didn’t mind this. He savored the sensation, embracing the pain and watching the blood trickle from his fingers. And really, the pain of the biting mice was nothing in comparison to the pain his father inflicted with belts. Or cigarettes. A shovel, once. He had learned to stay away from his father when the late afternoon rolled around, when the beer or liquor took hold. Father couldn’t control his behavior, which was part of why Mother—

  Never mind that. Burlap and dirt. Comforting scents.

  The Hunter opened the door to his current home, similar in so many ways to the childhood home that still haunted his thoughts. The house had a deep root cellar, stocked with a fresh supply of burlap bags. He liked to store things in root cellars, too.

  His Quarry had been very loud, squirming and screaming after the chloroform wore off. But now, a few hours later, the Quarry didn’t move much. The fun part was ending.

  Soon the toy would be broken.

  When he was young, yes, the Hunter enjoyed killing the mice. But when he matured—when he became—the thrill of killing wore off. Now he really didn’t like killing.

  Killing was his least favorite part.

  3

  HIDING

  The man who called himself Ron Gress awoke, as he did every morning, in a sweat-stained panic. He always spent the first few minutes of each day sitting in the recliner where he slept, gulping deep breaths and trying to slow the jackhammering of his heart.

  Keep it secret, keep it safe. He said it in his mind, over and over, a kind of mantra that calmed his body, stilled his nerves. Keep it secret, keep it safe.

  Ron looked at the table next to his recliner. The arms of the old-fashioned alarm clock were nearly touching as they pointed down: 6:27. 6:28, maybe. He liked having the old clock with hands; it was gentler, more trustworthy than its digital cousins. Not that he really needed an alarm clock—he managed to wake within five minutes of 6:30 A.M. every morning without one—but it was still comforting to have the clock there, just the same.

  A control center for an elaborate alarm system sat below the clock. He pressed a button on the system, changing the crimson LED from ‘‘Status: Armed’’ to ‘‘Status: Disarmed’’ with a short beep. He sat in his chair a few more minutes, remaining absolutely still, holding his breath as he listened for noises in the house. A squeak. A scrape. Anything indicating an intruder. Of course, he knew there couldn’t be any intruders inside his home, especially with the alarm system. But it was comforting to listen, just the same.

  He stood and began his usual morning ritual. First, he walked through every room in the house, opening closet doors, looking in dark spaces, searching for electronic bugs. He knew he wouldn’t find anything.

  But it was comforting to check, just the same.

  When Ron felt certain he was alone in the home, he followed his gnawing stomach to the kitchen. Along the way, he turned on the television and flipped it to the local morning news. The set percolated to life, blaring something about a local kidnapping.

  Inside Ron’s cupboard was a place setting for one: one plate, one bowl, one glass, one fork, spoon, and knife. He reached for the bowl and spoon as he listened to the television. The newscast wasn’t really about a kidnapping; it was a report on the recent string of child abductions. Within the past six months, kids had mysteriously disappeared in Bozeman, White Sulphur Springs, Harlowton, Miles City, and even a few hours south in Cody, Wyoming. None in Red Lodge, where Ron lived, nor nearby Billings. But the reporter wasn’t afraid to suggest such a thing could happen. After all, in that ratings-happy, give-’em-something-big world, the sensational was perfectly normal. It had to be. Ron himself knew something of that world, once upon a time when . . .

  He let go of the memory. Keep it secret, keep it safe.

  At the refrigerator, Ron checked the milk’s expiration date—still four days out, he should be safe—and splashed some on his Grape-Nuts. The television faded into the background as he wandered to the single chair at his small dining table.

  The town of Red Lodge had a long reputation as a refuge, a place to escape the physical world. In the late nineteenth century, outlaws such as ‘‘Liver-eating’’ Johnson and the Sundance Kid often came to the remote wilderness of the area to hide from their growing infamy. Keeping it secret, keeping it safe.

  Red Lodge was still a fine place for someone with a past to hide. Buck pines and cottonwoods intermingled along the banks of gurgling Rock Creek, while the granite peaks of the Beartooth Mountain Range—every bit as rugged as their name suggested—were the ancient sentinels protecting the town from the twenty-first century.

  How long had he been in Red Lodge now? Seven years? Some- LAZARUS thing like that. He couldn’t quite remember; when he tried to wipe out memories of who he’d once been, he also wiped out memories of other things. At times like this, when Ron tried to take old thoughts off the shelf and examine them in isolation, he failed. His mind had thrown a thick, heavy blanket over all of it. If he tried too hard to think about details, the blanket lifted, letting a ray of recognition light up whole memory banks.

  He took another bite of Grape-Nuts. Better to leave that blanket undisturbed.

  The sun marched into the twilight of late afternoon when Ron returned to his home. After putting in eight hours at the school, he was ready to be cocooned safe inside, away from all the prying eyes.

  He didn’t mind being a school janitor. In a fitting way, it was pure. Honest. He showed up on time and did his work without complaining; in return, no one hounded him. Or asked questions.

  But occasionally, he knew he was being watched at work. Especially after school hours. When all the kids went home, and the halls echoed every clank of the mop bucket, he sometimes felt their eyes boring into him. Waiting. Encouraging him to do . . . something. But he had figured out long ago to act unaware of the staring. Just go about his business, pretend he was oblivious. After all, if he let on, they would surely send more people to watch him. Or maybe do something even more drastic.

  That was why he had to lock his home, beginning with the knob on the handle. Then the chain. A dead bolt. And another dead bolt. He turned the action on each of the locks to make sure they were all engaged. You could never be too careful.

  Satisfied the door was properly secured against the outside world, Ron turned and walked toward his bedroom. The security system needed to be armed.

  A knock came on the door before he’d gone more than two steps. His heart shrank, shriveled, and refused to contract for a long moment. Had he been followed? He stood still, listening.

  Another knock, accompanied by the muffled voice of a woman. ‘‘Hello?’’

  A third knock, louder, more insistent. Ron stood in place, held his breath. They had probably sent her, and that would mean she might have an infrared monitor to let her see inside his home. But if he stayed still—absolutely still—

  ‘‘Jude Allman? I know you’re in there.’’

  His stomach somersaulted, and he felt his legs turn to oatmeal. Jude Allman. He hadn’t been called that name in years. Not since he’d been in Red Lodge. Not since he’d left Jude Allman behind and become Ron Gress, trustworthy school janitor. This was trouble. Serious trouble.

  Ron (Jude) cleared his throat and moved toward the door. For the first time, he wanted a peephole in the door to let him see the person outside. He knew, of course, that if he ever installed one, they would sneak into his home and reverse it so they could see him in the magnified fisheye. But he still wished for the peephole, just for a moment.

  Keep it secret, keep it safe, Ron (Jude) reminded himself.

  ‘‘I just want to talk,�
��’ the voice said.

  He would have to respond if he was going to get the faceless stranger off his front step.

  ‘‘What did you say?’’ he yelled through the door.

  ‘‘I said I just want to talk.’’

  ‘‘No, before that.’’

  ‘‘I’m looking for Jude Allman,’’ the voice answered.

  ‘‘Never heard of him.’’

  A slight laugh from the other side of the door. ‘‘Everybody’s heard of Jude Allman. You’re not a very good liar.’’

  Okay. She wasn’t going to leave. He had to stay calm, especially if she was one of them. Unless . . . maybe, just maybe, she was a reporter. He had always figured some ego-tripping journalist would finally track him. And if she was just a reporter, he could handle her.

  He’d handled them before. He could probably even convince her he wasn’t Jude. (Ron, he was Ron.) Sure. He’d fooled a lot of people, stayed under the radar for several years. He could deflect some news jockey sniffing down a dead trail.

  He had to. If he didn’t, the report might get back to them.

  The man who called himself Ron Gress, and who had once called himself Jude Allman, reached for his first dead bolt. ‘‘Just a minute,’’ he said as he fumbled with the knob, then worked the other dead bolt and locks with increasing urgency. He wanted to see the person who waited on his doorstep, the person who had managed to track him across several years and lifetimes.

  He cracked open the door, then peeked outside.

  He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Someone different. Someone who loomed large, and who gazed at him with icy steel eyes. Instead, the woman who stood there was rather small, with chocolate eyes and light hazel skin. Maybe she was Indian. Or Hispanic. Or a light-skinned African-American. Or a mix.