Part 14 (2/2)

w.i.l.l.y dialed the number of his best friend. The phone rang ten times before someone picked up. ”I could've banged them all/I was young enough, and the girls were out there/enough p.u.s.s.y to fill a stadium/I had my whole life before me/I look back, and man, it makes me wonder what could've been/there's all kinds of sizes, shapes, and tastes-and believe me, they taste different/p.u.s.s.y, man, I could've had all kinds/but I had to get her pregnant/one mistake/one time/that's all it took.”

w.i.l.l.y furrowed his brow and hung up the phone.

That clearly wasn't Steve Oaks, his best friend. It sounded like another friend of his from high school. A kid named Patrick. Patrick used the phrase ”Enough p.u.s.s.y to fill a stadium” during gym cla.s.s when the boys were playing basketball and the girls were playing volleyball on the other side of the gymnasium.

Why did the phone direct him to Patrick instead of Steve?

w.i.l.l.y followed many paths of logic. Maybe he had misdialed. The phone was dialing random people, no matter what b.u.t.tons he pressed. No, maybe the phone wasn't dialing random people, because so far, they were all people he knew at one point and time. And another point, Patrick was dead. Suzie was dead. The cop, he wasn't sure who he was, or if he was deceased. One thing was for sure, not one time had the phone called someone directly.

Only one way to find out if what's true is true.

Does this phone only call dead people?

Let's find out.

w.i.l.l.y dialed Uncle Tim's phone number. The line didn't dial. It stayed on as if the other line had answered and didn't reply.

”Uncle Tim? You there? It's w.i.l.l.y. I don't know what's going on. I drive out here to hear a reading of the will-your will-and people are dying left and right. You've got to help me. I know you're dead, and this is crazy. Yeah, it's all crazy. I can't make sense of it, but here I am talking to you so G.o.d tell me something so I can survive this.”

The line stirred. Then voices over voices carried on like they did outside before Jenna fell into pieces.

”This is your chance/you've been waiting for so long/tell him what he wants to know/the time to play is now/tell your nephew what's happening/tell him what he's in for/we're ready to start/your dreams and ideas will burn so bright.”

Then the voices ceased. Each layer quieted itself one at a time. When it settled, there was silence on the other line. Then someone talked. w.i.l.l.y was absolutely certain it was his uncle who was speaking.

Uncle Tim said, ”Take your money downstairs, my boy. Get ready, because this is going to be soooooo much fun.”

ANGEL.

Angel had been on the track team in high school. This was at a private school in Beverly Hills. She won numerous trophies for the quarter-mile relay, but now that she was in her late forties, de-conditioned by drugs, alcohol, and unemployment, she was nearly vomiting after racing from the hotel after only traveling four blocks. Brock's presence incited too many conflicting emotions. The main conflict being that she hadn't changed one bit since the last time they were together in rehab. Brock had cleaned up and was about to marry his old friend, Hannah. His life looked pretty d.a.m.n good. She, on the other hand, had countless strings of failed, abusive relations.h.i.+ps, and a mean cocaine addiction. Her life looked pretty much like s.h.i.+t.

Angel forced herself to keep up a jogging stride moving down the road. She hoped to find a house, a bridge to hide under, or anything other place to stay out-of-sight. She kept pace up until she was alerted by the car that pulled up to her. It was a heavy-duty pick-up truck. She was about to scream for her life when she noticed it was Dean, her boyfriend, behind the wheel. He too had been delivered into this place of dangerous confusion. He gave her a kind smile while pulling up next to her. The man was like her, a washed up Hollywood producer whose drug fix became number one over everything else. They were both hopeless.

”Hop in,” Dean invited. ”We're getting out of here right now.”

Angel accepted the offer and stepped up into the truck. Angel explained to him what happened to her since they were split up. Dean kept quiet. He drove on, staring out at all corners of the area to ensure their safety.

”Can you believe Brock's here?”

Dean shook his head. No, he couldn't believe it.

”What's wrong with you?” The vibe Dean cast was disconcerting. The life had been taken from him, it seemed. ”Did something happen to you? Are you hurt?”

Angel couldn't remember much about the last time they were together beyond going unconscious when the man with the golden axe attacked them while they were looking for their c.o.ke hook-up. The hook-up was a guy named Seth who was supposed to provide them a fun day at the local hotel once they were done with business. ”A spa day,” or as they liked to call it, ”a snow day.” The meet-up never happened. Seth couldn't be found.

”Nothing happened to me,” Dean insisted, making a left turn into the road that led into the woods. The branches cast moving shadows over both of their faces. ”I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm scared like you, is all.”

Angel kept quiet. She knew about Dean's mood swings. He could be reaching to hug her one moment then swinging his hand to hit her the next. ”I'm glad you're okay, Dean. Thank G.o.d you're here. I don't know where I'd be without you.”

When she stroked his leg, he stiffened up. He'd been jerked from deep thought. ”Are you sure you're okay?”

Dean snapped at her, clutching the wheel white-knuckled. ”How many times do I have to f.u.c.king tell you, I'm fine. I'm a-okay. So quit asking me. Shut up.”

Angel scooted away from him towards the car door. She clutched the handle, wondering if she should bail herself out and start running. She had no reason to stay with him beyond an easy c.o.ke-connection, and she hadn't had the cravings since entering Blue Hills.

Sensing her change of heart, Dean apologized. ”Listen, I'm a bit weird right now. It's been h.e.l.l. I'm sure it's been h.e.l.l for you too. I'm sorry I got angry. I only want to get out of here.”

”Me too,” Angel said, though meekly. She still harbored the dreadful feeling something was different about Dean that shouldn't be different. ”Let's just get out of here.”

Driving down the wooded road, they were quiet for a time until Dean spoke up again. ”I've learned a few things about what's happening here.”

”Like what?”

Dean cleared his throat. His eyes were buggy while surveying the woods. Sometimes he was straight-faced, then he jerked in shock seeing something in the distance she couldn't locate. ”I've been following that man around. The one who attacked us. The one with the axe.”

”I remember him.”

”He does things to make us the way we are.”

”What does he do?”

”He alters our bodies. The dead talk to him and tell him how to do it. He splits us open when we're not awake. He gets inside of us, Angel, and modifies us. He makes it so we need money to survive. But why do it in the first place? Who's benefiting from altering us like that? n.o.body,” he cackled under his breath, ”except for the dead. They're the ones doing this. I don't know why because it doesn't matter.” Under his breath, ”Only one thing matters.”

Spinning the wheel, the truck suddenly shot to the side of the road. Dean slammed the brakes, and without a seatbelt, she struck her nose against the dashboard. Her head exploded with a nagging and burning sensation. Her eyes clouded up with purple blotches. She was dizzy and disorientated. Dean was garbling nonsense under his breath. He was talking to no one, giving himself instructions aloud, then seizing her by the throat, pus.h.i.+ng her up against him, his face twitching with maniacal ambitions.

”You saw what that axe man did to those people. He ripped it right out of their backs and pulled it right out. I know what's inside the box. I know what's inside of you, Angel! I NEED IT!”

Angel came to once she caught the knife s.h.i.+ne in his hand. What Dean had pulled out from underneath the seat. He raised it up, the blade aimed downwards to delve into her back. Defending herself, she managed to jiggle the door handle and took a freefall backwards. Scooping herself up with her hands after hitting the ground, her feet propelled her forward. She created as much distance from Dean as possible.

Escaping ten yards, she was halted by the cutting howl that erupted from within the truck. She turned around, intending to achieve a brief glimpse of her boyfriend. Seeing him, she was compelled to hurry back to the truck. Angel was horrified and astounded. A gulf of blood fired out of the driver's side window as if blasted from a high powered hose. What confused her was the sound of metal clanging, of coins clas.h.i.+ng together, as they pinged against one other.

Ignoring the blood and its origin, Angel lunged for the money, stealing a b.l.o.o.d.y handful in each hand, before the coins gained a life of their own. Moving, s.h.i.+fting, traveling, they were drawn by an invisible force into the woods. Further on down the road, copper, nickel, and bronze specks were diminis.h.i.+ng flecks of light and refractions. The money in her hands slipped between the cracks of her fingers, flying up, and then coming back down only to be dragged into the woods and sucked into the distance.

Angel remembered the quarter firing out of James's forearm back at the hotel room. She turned to the car, the side door leaking red from it's bottom crack. The windows had shattered. The coins had acted as bullets, and there was Dean's head turned inside out, a blob of pink pulp and skull shards. Both his eyes had been minced into strings of meat. She navigated the gory work of what used to be a man and noticed how his chest had also spat out the money from inside of him. His fingers, bent in tension, were split in half. His arms were diced and riddled with wounds. All of him was ruined.

Angel backtracked from the truck. She was shaking her head in denial, unable to breathe, choking on the images that would forever be a cruel stamp in her mind. Awkwardly putting her feet down, she stumbled and fell to the ground. She was weak now, literally unable to move. She tipped onto her side, laying down in the middle of the road, and the sleep she once experienced in the hotel took hold of her once again.

FOOT WORK.

Brock asked James, ”Are you sure you know where this guy lives?”

They had walked for what seemed many miles. Every block showcased another lifeless body who couldn't come up with enough money to stay alive. Brock was growing leery of the surroundings, a residential area where he caught s.h.i.+fts of movement within houses. He knew others were alive watching them, sizing them up of worth. Everybody in this town was a criminal or a thief.

Murdered victims littered the roads as well. Stinking bodies. Victims with their throats slit, and others with a large hole in their backs the shape of a box. James would say aloud who they were and what they did for a living as simple condolences.

”That was Margaret Chauffer; she used to play the organ at the Methodist church. Tim Hanover was the deputy sheriff. Linda Evanson sold used cars alongside her husband Mike. That's little Wendy Milford. I only know her because she sold me Girl Scout cookies.”

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