Part 15 (2/2)
James shook his head. ”h.e.l.l no.” He searched the trees, the road, everywhere, trying to produce a better solution. James saw the answer tipped over between a series of trees. ”It looks like neither of us will have to carry her after all.”
”I can't believe I'm doing this.”
”Believe it.” James marched ahead of Brock. ”Hurry it up. Why am I the one rus.h.i.+ng you this time?”
”Because,” Brock stared down at Angel's body piled into a grocery cart, her arms and legs jutting out the top like a lifeless mannequin, ”...because my sister's in a f.u.c.king shopping cart, that's why.”
Brock pushed her forward. He let the argument go. This was his sister. He'd seen her this way before, even worse. It was strange seeing a woman in her early fifties like this as an adult. She still didn't have her life together.
You didn't have your life together.
Before you became a panel talent judge, you were in her predicament. You could've been in a shopping cart with a pair of idiots pus.h.i.+ng you around.
I'll get you out of this, Angel. I'll get Hannah out of this too.
Somehow.
The sky was pitch black. The woods did nothing but darken the way. Their only guide was the crunch of loose asphalt under their feet. The sounds carried by the wind were constants. Single words were stretched on to be spoken for minutes, matched against hundreds of other words. They were sweet nothings, divulgences of random details, or statements spoken from scatter-brained madmen. The words swarmed together, leaving them listening and waiting for something that would happen or wouldn't happen.
”It's not going to stop, is it?” James called out over the throng of voices. ”We were right earlier when we said something's on the horizon. The words play on the air, but not for this long. They might not stop this time.”
”It's as if they know we're onto them. They're trying to scare us.”
James shouted with all his lung capacity, ”Well, it's working! I'm f.u.c.king scared!”
Brock kept peering down at Angel. He caught slivers of her pale skin in whatever moonlight filtered down to them. He kept pus.h.i.+ng her along, praying this would convince her he cared about her enough that he deserved a second chance to be her brother. But now it wasn't about Angel, or James, or Hannah, or himself. The man with the golden axe's home lingered nearby. James pointed the house out and kept his words hushed.
”I don't know if he's home.”
”No lights on.”
”Doesn't matter. I swear that man isn't a human being anymore. He comes out of nowhere to get you, and when he does, you wake up b.l.o.o.d.y.”
”He's not getting me,” Brock said. ”I'm not like the rest of you. I have an advantage.”
”We'll see,” James said, doubtfully. ”He's stronger than you, regardless of what has or hasn't been done to you.”
Approaching the house, Brock knew he couldn't wheel Angel along. He decided he was going to have to hide her somewhere. Brock chose to place her behind a row of hemlocks to disguise the cart. He prayed it was enough to keep her safe for now.
Without the cart, he hunkered low, staying behind James who decided to be the leader as they approached the house. They hid behind a rusted out Bronco without wheels. They looked on at the house. It was una.s.suming from the outside, a ranch style abode.
”So what do we do now?” Brock asked, eying the house thinking it would suddenly grow legs from its foundation and charge after them. ”It looks like nothing's going on in there. You sure this is the right house?”
”Positive.” James pointed at the mailbox at the end of the gravel driveway. ”You see that? It's marked Durnham.”
”Okay, fine, so what do we do about it? Stuff him in a knapsack and throw him in the river.”
”The h.e.l.l if I know,” James hissed. ”It doesn't look like he's even home.”
”Better for us.” Brock started forward, nearing the front door. ”Then he won't mind if we take a peek inside.”
Brock had a feeling Hannah was inside. The problem, what condition would she be in if he did find her in there?
Brock's innards clenched thinking of the a.s.sortment of things that could befall him. He cast aside fear of personal injury. James kept whispering, begging him to stay back, to wait a second, think this through, but he'd come this far and had seen too many dead bodies to hesitate any longer.
Brock was on the front porch, halted by the welcome mat slathered in congealed red footprints and hunks of flesh that looked like torn ribbons. ”Jesus Christ, what is going on in here?”
”Chuck has been busy,” James said, bitter and scared because he'd been dragged to the front steps when he wasn't ready to brave the open. ”Now would you get your head out of your a.s.s and be careful from now on?”
”So leave if you're scared. Go back to the talking woods, like you were when I found you.”
Suddenly the voices played around the house, circulating the perimeter like an ethereal alarm system. Brock curled his nose at the offensive odor that accompanied the voices, the fecund net. James smelled it too, audibly sniffing and turning his nose up. The yellow fog was shadow colored in the night, but visible and issuing from broken bits of earth, emanating between blades of gra.s.s, and obscuring the distance. They both had to cup their ears, the words rising to a deafening crescendo.
”Come inside/go ahead and die/death is near/you can't ignore the dead/the dead are here forever/for eternity/this will be humanity's end/the dead crave the thrill of your death/your agony/your horrible demise brings the d.a.m.ned great pleasure/our ambitions will not be forgotten.”
Brock threw back the storm door and entered the house, surprised and grateful the door was unlocked. The noises ceased the moment the door clapped shut behind them, James being responsible for letting the door slam so loud.
Brock eyed him angrily.
James smiled awkwardly. ”Sorry.”
The voices outside went silent.
Every step they took inside was matched by the give of wood underneath them. No longer smelling the death fog outside, they encountered new awfulness in the form of sour milk, blood, and spoiled meat. The smell harbored many warnings and stories. The evidence of ma.s.s murder was painted on the walls in hand-shaped smears. Pooled on the floorboards, much of the red gel had seeped through the cracks and loosened the woodwork. There were signs of wood rot, sections soft underneath their feet. Furniture had been overturned, chairs flung across the room, picture frames busted and face-down on the floor. Brock noted one picture of the man with the axe was smiling. He was a down-to-earth, regular Joe with a wife and daughter who looked to be six or seven years old. The gold frame was sticky with black grease. The oil from the earth. He too had been a victim of the dead.
Brock turned over the room and realized what little he really did understand about these circ.u.mstances. The evidence was clear this was something beyond reality. This was beyond the living. This was of the dead. He moved on, deciding what to do next on his own. Brock checked the bathroom, the bedroom, and the guest room, and each time, he discovered the walls and floor slathered in black oil that had dried out, staining and ruining everything.
That left one other place to look.
James had already beat him to the punch. The man was three steps down the stairway that led to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Following behind him, James was retracing red footprints, layered thick from numerous b.l.o.o.d.y trips. James stopped below on the edge of the steps, his body shrinking. His hands were rigid at his sides, then they went to his face. He blew out a breath, trying to prevent himself from retching. Working up the nerve to speak, James managed to say quickly before losing his gorge, ”You don't want to go down here.”
THE ARCADE.
w.i.l.l.y stepped out of the kitchen after hearing Uncle Tim speak to him on the phone. His deceased relative told him to go downstairs and have fun. What other choice did w.i.l.l.y have but to humor the ghost of his dead uncle? He couldn't leave. Leaving meant death. So why not go downstairs? Crossing the living room, w.i.l.l.y looked out the bay window at the night. He couldn't see anything or anybody. He felt so isolated and alone. w.i.l.l.y now stood in limbo between the kitchen and living room trying to decide his next move.
Should he go downstairs?
The quarters, dimes, and nickels were spread out on the living room floor. A dozen kids' piggy banks had been looted and smashed here.
”I'd have a heck of a good time with your toys if you were still around, Uncle,” he said to himself. ”And if this wasn't such a f.u.c.ked situation.”
The coins s.h.i.+fted on the ground. It was as if magnets were beneath the floor dragging them across the room. They clanged together, the mess of change scooting towards the hallway. w.i.l.l.y hesitated to follow the coins, but he was intrigued as much as he was scared. This house was trying to tell him something, and he better d.a.m.n well listen, he thought, or else he'd end up like Jenna or any of his relatives at the reading of the will.
Imagining himself come undone limb from limb compelled him onward. Nearing the bas.e.m.e.nt door, the change was stacked up in a huge pile in front of the bas.e.m.e.nt door.
”Gee, what are you trying to tell me, Uncle?”
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