Lance Brody Omnibus

by Michael Robertson Jr.

  Lance’s heart was about to burst from his chest, the truck getting impossibly closer with each millisecond. He sucked in a deep breath and yelled, “BenAndJenBenAndJenBenAndJenBenAndJenBen!”

  Deputy Miller’s body shook, like he’d gotten the most violent of chills. His eyes rolled forward, bloodshot now and watering. He saw the road, saw the truck. He screamed. Lance screamed. The brakes were slammed, the wheel was jerked. The police cruiser missed the truck…

  But it flipped over and rolled off the road and rolled through a field and came to rest upside down fifty yards away. Lance heard crashing metal and cracking glass and the sound of Deputy Miller’s screams. And then he heard nothing.

  16

  Lance slowly opened his eyes, saw a ceiling fan wobbling back and forth as it spun lazily above his head. The ceiling was cracked in a few places, but clean. He tilted his head and saw the rest of the room: warped wooden floor, antique dresser and full-length mirror, a nightstand with a glass of water and a Monday-through-Friday pill container beside a pair of thick reading glasses. Warm light spilling from a small lamp. He lay on his back atop a small bed, a hand-sewn blanket covering him up to his waist. The room smelled of apples and cinnamon, warm cider … or maybe pie.

  “You need to be more careful.”

  His head darted left and found Annabelle Winters gently rocking back and forth in a rocker in the corner. There was an open book on her lap and Lance saw it was the Bible.

  “You have the gifts, and you have the strength, but that’s nothing if you’re careless.”

  “Where am I?” he tried to ask, but his voice didn’t work. His vocal cords pinched.

  “You were lucky this time. Miller was always one of the good ones. If it’d chosen someone else—well…” She trailed off, and Lance knew exactly what she meant.

  He tried to sit up further and

  There was an explosion of light and pain. His head throbbed and there was something warm trickling down the right side of his face. His right arm tingled, and when he squeezed his hand into a fist, he cried out. Something in his arm was on fire, burning beneath the skin with every twitch of his fingers.

  He opened his eyes and the small room was gone, replaced by the sideways view of the rear interior of Deputy Miller’s cruiser.

  Lance lay on his side, his head pressed against what felt like a bed of needles. He sat up, slowly, and when the cruiser began to spin in his mind he vomited onto the floor. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing his racing heart to steady a bit. He looked down to where his head had been and saw the bits of broken glass, touched the side of his face and felt a few loose shards stuck to his cheek. He pulled one out with a sting and dropped it, watching it fall into his pile of puke. He took another deep breath, closed his eyes again and mentally examined his body. Aside from the head injury and whatever was wrong with his arm, he appeared to be okay. If Deputy Miller hadn’t—

  Deputy Miller.

  Lance looked through the partition and saw the lifeless body. Miller’s torso had been nearly impaled by the steering column, his body slumped and askew and his neck hanging at an angle that told Lance all he needed to know.

  Ben and Jen, he thought, and he was filled with a great sorrow in knowing the happy family would never be the same. They had suffered a tragic loss, and they didn’t even know it yet.

  And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.

  (You need to be more careful.)

  He should have never gone to the school alone, a stranger walking down the road, looking like trouble. He knew better. He could have waited, asked Leah to drive him and show him what he needed to see. But he’d been careless. And now a man was dead.

  He heard a voice, close but faint. He looked up and turned around, and through the rear glass he saw a man wearing faded jeans and a solid red t-shirt talking animatedly into his cell phone. In the distance, the semi was still parked in the middle of the road, its door hanging wide open.

  The truck driver. He’s calling for help. I’ve got to go.

  He wasn’t sure why the last part of that thought occurred, but it did. The man who’d been driving the truck was surely on the phone with 911 or whichever emergency services line he’d called, and the people who arrived would definitely be able to treat his wounds and make sure he was okay and handle the situation with professional training and skill sets.

  But eventually, the questions would start. Questions Lance would likely not be able to answer truthfully.

  And to make matters worse, if whatever plagued this town could possess one cop (one of the good ones), it could surely possess somebody else. Lance didn’t have time to take chances right now. He’d gambled once today, thinking he’d made the right choice, and it had nearly killed him.

  He glanced at the shattered glass next to him, then followed the trail of shards to the window. The pane of glass was half-missing, a diagonal section with jagged edges all that remained. Lance raised one his large sneakers up, his head pounding with the motion as he leaned back and his right wrist screaming, and then carefully kicked at the remaining glass. It was splintered and full of spiderweb cracks already, and it only took three soft kicks from Lance’s size fifteen foot to finish the job. The rest of the window shattered outward and fell to the ground.

  Lance took another glance toward the truck driver, heard the words, “I think they’re both dead, you’ve got to come quick!”

  He had to move quickly. He winced as he sat back up and pulled himself forward. He gripped the edges of door where the window had been, a few splintery remains digging into his fingers, and then he used his legs to push off and threw himself over the edge and forward, falling to the grass. He felt the urge to vomit again but closed his eyes and counted to ten and willed himself to keep it down. When he opened his eyes, the truck driver was staring directly at him, phone pressed to his ear, mouth hanging open like a man who’d just seen a magic trick.

  Lance stood, slowly, and reached inside the busted window. He pulled his backpack from the wreckage, slung it over his shoulder. Just as the man came out of his startled state and started to say, “Hey! One of them is alive!” Lance turned and ran as fast as he could toward the trees, which were only a hundred yards away but in his current state felt more like a mile.

  There was shouting behind him, screams to stop and wait and that help was on the way. When Lance didn’t stop, the yelling became angrier, profanity interlaced with accusations of Lance being crazy and stupid and obviously up to no good.

  Lance did not stop to turn and look. His head felt ready to burst and his arm hurt with every movement, but Lance was still in decent shape and his lungs didn’t complain much. He reached the tree line and entered the woods and did not stop for another fifty yards. Only then did he bring himself to slow down and turn to see if the truck driver was following him.

  He saw nobody.

  He held his breath to listen and heard nothing but the rustling of the branches and leaves around him. The truck driver was not coming.

  He had to move. He had to get away.

  But he had no idea where he was.

  Leah.

  He slapped at his shorts pocket with his right hand and groaned at the pain. His cell phone was still there. He reached in and pulled it out and scrolled through his contacts. Found Leah’s name and pressed SEND.

  She answered almost immediately, and to her credit, she didn’t interrupt or ask too many questions as he quickly explained he’d been in an accident and needed help. He told her he’d been at the high school, told her what direction they’d been heading, and told her he was currently a woodland creature.

  She told him to keep walking, that he’d come out on the other side right along Route 19. She’d be waiting.

  Lance ended the call, double-checked to make sure the truck driver wasn’t following, and then started to walk.

  17

  Lance hiked his way through the woods, and eventually he heard the distant sounds of sirens, emergency crews comi
ng to handle the wreck he’d just escaped. He wondered if they’d search the woods for him and quickened his pace. He covered what he guessed to be roughly half a mile before the tree line reappeared and he stepped out into the sunlight. Just as Leah had said, maybe twenty-five yards ahead, the faded blacktop of Route 19 stretched to his left and right, seemingly heading nowhere in both directions. He looked around at the empty fields and tried to get his bearings. He figured the motel was to his left, though he couldn’t be sure how far. To his right, if he kept walking twenty miles, he guessed he’d hit the town with the Holiday Inn and other bigger-town amenities Leah had alluded to.

  He was ashamed that for the briefest of moments, just a fleeting flash of an idea that popped into view and then vanished before it could be fully absorbed and comprehended, he wanted to walk right. Wanted to trudge the twenty miles on foot and maybe hope for a kind person to stop and offer him a ride and leave Westhaven and all its evil behind.

  He’d left his home—been forced to leave was more accurate—to move on from his painful past and avoid the unpleasant drama that was sure to follow. It had taken every ounce of will he’d had to step onto that bus and leave behind the only world he had known. He’d picked the destination seemingly at random, the first ride out of town, never imagining that where he ended up would be just as problematic as where he’d left. In the brief time he’d spent in Westhaven, he’d been looped into a terrible secret, a secret he understood better than anyone else in town, and had now been attacked twice. This last time, it had nearly been fatal. How many more chances would he get? Despite his insatiable longing to see his mother’s face again, he was fully aware that he was not ready to join her in whatever form of afterlife perhaps existed.

  Lance wanted to live.

  Between the choice of uncertainty and death, he chose uncertainty.

  And was it really a coincidence he’d ended up in Westhaven? Was it really just happenstance he’d decided to stay at Bob’s Place and had met Leah and learned of this town’s horrible history? He almost rolled his eyes at his mother’s words.

  The universe is too smart, too calculated for us to accept the concept of a coincidence, Lance. Do you, a person with your gifts, honestly believe things could be so random?

  They’d had a similar conversation on more than one occasion, especially as Lance had gotten older, but this particular speech had stuck with him for years, like a favorite scene from a movie. She’d said it after they’d watched an episode of The X-Files on Netflix one night. Something from the show’s plot had provoked it, and Lance remembered that the only answer he’d offered was a half-hearted I don’t know. He hadn’t been in the mood for philosophical discussions that evening. He’d loved his mother more than anything on earth, but at times she could be exhausting.

  And now, another of her tidbits of wisdom floated down to him, and he knew there was no way he was going to head right and find that Holiday Inn.

  I know you didn’t ask for this, Lance, but you have it. And whatever higher power decided you were meant for this, you are indebted. You have an obligation. Don’t you see, Lance? You are a bright spot in a dark world. You are meant to help people. And that’s not something you can turn your back on.

  The sound of a car engine caused Lance to stiffen, and he briefly considered turning and diving back into the trees. But it was too late for that. The car was only fifty yards away and had definitely spotted him. He stayed in place and tried to look innocent—as innocent as one could look with a blood-streaked face—and watched as a black Toyota 4Runner slowed down and pulled off the road, parking directly in front of him.

  The passenger window rolled down and Leah’s face brightened his mood. “You look like crap,” she said. “Get in the back.”

  Lance didn’t comment or question. He got in.

  The 4Runner was a newer model and its owner had kept it clean. As Lance squeezed into the rear seat, having to twist his feet sideways to fit behind the front passenger seat, he noticed the floorboards looked freshly vacuumed and the air smelled of pine and Armor All. The seats were black leather and the trim was tan. This was a nice car. He looked at the driver and saw a tall, heavyset woman wearing black yoga pants and a long-sleeved Westhaven High School t-shirt. Her black hair was short and spiked with gel, her mascara was heavy and her eyeliner was thick. She looked as if she could be about to step onstage with a punk rock group and smash a few guitars.

  As Lance took in the woman’s features in the rearview mirror, he suddenly realized she’d been staring right back at him. This silent staring contest had lasted nearly thirty seconds before Lance realized nobody had spoken since he’d gotten into the car. Embarrassed for being caught gawking, he said the first thing that came to mind.

  “I’m sorry if I get blood on your seats.”

  The woman looked at him for another second or two, then turned to Leah, eyebrows raised.

  Leah giggled. “I told you. He’s not like anyone you’ve ever met.” Then, quickly turning to Lance, “But … you know … in a good way!”

  Lance’s head felt woozy and he was still breathing hard from the run through the woods. His heart was beginning to settle, though, and it felt more reassuring than he’d expected to be back with a friend.

  “Don’t worry about the seats, honey,” Miss Mascara said. “But I am worried about the blood. Let’s get you somewhere we can take a closer look.” Her voice was throaty and sultry. Based on her appearance, Lance would have guessed her to be close to Leah’s age, probably a little older. But based on her voice? She could be forty-five and a chain smoker.

  None of this mattered now. Lance felt the urge to vomit coming back, and he groaned a bit and started to lay down across the seats. “Need to go,” he said, barely a whisper. “They might try … and find me.”

  “Who?” Leah asked.

  But Lance’s eyes were closing as he felt the car begin to move.

  Who? That was the question of the hour.

  “The motel,” Leah said. “Let’s get him there and you can do your thing. Then we can talk.”

  Lance felt the car accelerate and then the woman craned her neck back to him and said, “Try and stay awake, honey. You might have a concussion.”

  Thankfully, the ride was short and Lance managed to let the girls help him out of the car and into his motel room. He sat on the bed and Leah ran to get him a bottle of water from the lobby, and the woman in yoga pants came in a minute later holding a large red first-aid kit.

  “Lance, this is Chuck Goodman’s sister, Susan,” Leah said. “She’s a paramedic. Lucky for us, right?”

  (Do you, a person with your gifts, honestly believe things could be so random?)

  Lance, despite the headache and the dull fire in his arm, could only offer a small laugh at this revelation.

  Miss Mascara—Susan—gave Leah another questioning look. “I think he might be delirious.”

  Lance laughed again, harder this time, and then held up his hands. “No, no, it’s just …” I miss my mother. “You reminded me of a joke somebody told me one time. I’m fine. Mentally, anyway.”

  Susan set the first-aid kit on the bed next to him—it was huge, the real deal, not some tiny thing you’d buy at Walmart for your family fishing trip—and unzipped it, flipping it open and donning a pair of surgical gloves.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s take a look.”

  Soon after Susan started her work, the sound of a police siren came fast and then faded as it traveled past on Route 19.

  18

  Susan Goodman asked Lance to lie back on the bed and he did so, his eyes focused on her makeup-heavy face as she asked him questions and probed at his head and body. She popped a few pills into his mouth and he swallowed them down with a gulp from the bottle of water, not concerned about what he was ingesting. He trusted this woman. He could feel her warmth the same way he could feel Leah’s.

  A short time later, and after nearly falling asleep twice in the process, Lance listened as Susan t
old him he had a small laceration on his scalp, but nothing a little glue and a small bandage couldn’t fix. His wrist, however, was definitely sprained, and maybe had a small fracture.

  “I’m leaning toward it being sprained,” Susan said as she slowly helped him sit up, “because I think the pain would be a lot worse if it was broken.” She poked and prodded at his wrist a little more, and only when she attempted to bend it down did Lance grimace in pain. “See?” she said. “I can wrap it now to stabilize it, but a proper brace would probably do you well.”

  Leah had brought a wet washcloth, and Susan cleaned Lance’s face of the dried blood. Then she wrapped his wrist thick with gauze and clipped it tight. She stood back. “How do you feel?”

  Lance stood, slowly, and was happy that the room didn’t spin or wobble in the process. He took stock of himself, searching his nervous system for anything in disarray. Aside from a dull ache from his head wound and the pressure in his wrist, he felt fine.

  “I think I’m okay,” he said. Then, without thinking, he took a step forward and hugged Susan, the top of her head coming in just below his chin. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

  Susan laughed and stepped out of the embrace. “That might just be the drugs I gave you talking.”

  Leah laughed.

  Lance shrugged. Drugs or no drugs, he was grateful for Susan’s help. Her appearance was definitely out of the ordinary for a young Southern woman, but there was no denying her kindness and her skill.

  “So,” Susan said, “Leah here tells me you think you can tell us what happened to our brothers. I asked her what you could do that the police couldn’t, but she wouldn’t really tell me.”

  Lance looked at Leah. She gave him a What was I supposed to say? look.

  “But,” Susan continued, “frankly, I don’t care what you know or do, or … whatever. All I care about now is answers.”

  The room stayed silent.