A Boy and His Corpse (9 page)

             
It bothered her that Agents Heinzelman and Covington were the ones assigned to her son. The two of them indulged in some of Alan’s “training” back when they still lived underground.

             
Better they watch him than me,
she concluded, cringing as soon as she thought it.
Does that make me a terrible mother?

              She made a right and sniffed at the dangling pine-scented air freshener that hung from her mirror. The scent was almost gone.

             
I really hope Alan remembered to wear deodorant today.

              It was so hard talking to him these days. Ever since they left underground two years ago, their relationship had been tenuous at best.

I mean, it wasn’t that great before, but…

Her eyes caught sight of a large billboard staked out in front of the local supermarket. A truck-tire sized pot-pie by
Stouffer’s
with baseball sized peas and carrots occupied the advertisement.

Maybe Alan would like a chicken pot pie tonight.

Out of habit, she turned on the radio and caught scant details about worldly events.

“It has been five days since the bombing in Tel Aviv, and President Rosewater still hasn’t issued a statement on what he plans to do about—”

Lorraine switched stations and put on easy listening where she caught Enya. She smiled stupidly and sang along. It was much easier to listen to than current events.

But as much as she tried to avoid it, listening to the news was part of her daily routine. Even if it hurt to hear the news, it was hard not knowing what was going on around the world, even if it was only bits and pieces.

If there was a war going on anywhere on the globe, chances were high that her ex-husband and possibly her son were involved. She didn’t want any part of that anymore. She had spent too many sleepless nights when Herbert went off on secret missions without telling her and not knowing when, or even if, he would return.

Somewhere around that time, she stopped loving him. It’s hard to love somebody who loves their job much more than they’ll ever love you.

Enya continued to sing soulfully.

              Lorraine’s mind drifted again, but this time, to her boyfriend, Chance. She wasn’t really sure if “love” was in her heart for him, but “lust” certainly was. And at this current juncture in her life as she edged near 50, that would be enough.

Too bad Alan hated his guts.

              Lorraine pressed the breaks and brought the car to a stop at another stop sign. Across the way was McDonald’s.

             
Screw it, we’re having Big Mac’s tonight. I don’t feel like cooking.

              When there was room to go, she sped up and went with the flow of traffic, cutting off a Mitsubishi and leaving her agents behind. They would catch up with her. They always did.

              Enya was becoming a nuisance so she turned off the radio completely.

In a way, she felt like a bad mother for leaving Alan all alone with Herbert, but it was the only way. She checked the rearview mirror. The familiar black sedan had returned to its normal place just two cars back.

             
If I didn’t leave him with Herbert, he would never let me hear the end of it.

              She sped up and avoided looking across the next intersection at Mandolin Arsenal. Below the sprawling army base were the tunnels and dark, damp rooms she had lived in for over a decade. The past was the past and she had no desire to relive those memories.

              Lorraine passed Costco and the mall, and caught the light at Blackwell Street, which was only a couple of blocks away from her ex-husband’s house. A few lights further, she was on his street. In the parking lot in front of the corner gas station were four or five black cars parked side by side.

I wonder what that’s all about?

              Houses along the street were spaced evenly apart, each patch of lawn separated by a swath of concrete driveway. It was a lot more populated than her home up in Jefferson, but Dover was very…ethnic. And even though Lorraine was Columbian, she never truly identified with her Latino roots or other minorities, for that matter. It was a wonder she didn’t date or marry a white guy.

              As she drove up the road, she saw two dark men leaning against a giant SUV. Merengue music blared from the speakers. Lorraine wrinkled her nose. She could practically smell the rice and beans on their breath. At another house, she saw a family of eight laughing and sitting on their front deck. She shook her head.

             
Too many people.

             
She finally edged up to Herbert’s driveway, but as soon as she parked, something felt off.

Lorraine unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car. A wave of warm air surrounded her, chasing away the chilly January air. She stopped just short of the front walk. The front door was slightly ajar. She turned and scanned the street for her agents, but they were parked half a block down as to not appear suspicious. It was the one time she wished they were nearby, and they weren’t. Across the street was a Floral delivery truck. It must be Agents Covington and Heinzelman.

             
They normally don’t park this close.

             
Memories of corpses marching in synch flooded her brain. She moved to the door and pushed it open. She walked inside and—

              “Herbert, I—Oh, my God!” she said, covering her mouth.

              “Lorraine,” Herbert said, looking up at her.

              Herbert stood in the center of the room, dragging Agent Covington toward a tarp spread out on the floor. Beside him, the pudgy kid Alan hung out with had his beefy arms wrapped around the dead body of Agent Heinzelman. There was a hole the size of Alaska in the center of the dead man’s chest.

              But worst of all was that damned corpse, Mort, bloodied and slack-jawed, who stood staring at Alan’s unconscious body on the floor.

Mort

              Mort stared down at Alan and saw into his dreams. When Alan dreamt, Mort remembered.

***

Alan had second thoughts now that they were actually outside his house.

              “Soooo, are we going in or are we just gonna stand outside freezing our butts off?” James asked.

              “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Alan said, blocking the doorknob with his body. “The key’s just stuck. It does that sometimes.”

              But the truth was, it never did that. Alan was just stalling.

             
Come on, man. Stop being such a puss.
He thought.
You need to tell somebody
. A
nd why not James? You can trust him.

              Are you sure about that?
A second, even louder thought asked him.

              It didn’t matter if he could, because he unlocked the door anyway. It was now or never.

              “Come in,” Alan said. “Take off your shoes.”

              It had been a crazy past few weeks, and his first month at Dover High had been brutal. The boys made fun of his fatness, and the girls made fun of his ugliness, all within earshot. This ridicule from his peers was entirely new to him, as he hadn’t associated with teens his own age before, not on a daily basis anyway. After the first week, he wanted to move back underground.

              But that all changed when he met James Krompholz who stopped him in the hall when he saw they wore the same T-shirt.

              “No way!” James had said, pointing.

              “Yooo, Mephisto!” Alan said, pointing back.

Mephisto was Alan’s favorite wrestler in the IWF. Growing up, he used to watch Mephisto, with his red and black mask, bare chest, and wirey muscles and wished he could
be
him. Mephisto had the kind of physique and charisma he always wanted. Plus, he was just plain badass. The fact that somebody else knew Mephisto impressed Alan, as he was kind of an old-school wrestler who wasn’t getting much screen-time these days.

              Wrestling was the spark that started their friendship, and video games, movies, and TV were the adhesive strips that made it stick.

              “Wow,” James said, referring to Alan’s living room when he stepped inside. “Nice digs.”

He went over to the couch and sat down, spreading his arms across the back. “Now
this
is living.”

              “I don’t know about
that
,” Alan said, “but it’s definitely better than that lumpy ass thing you call a couch in
your
house.” In the back of his mind, a part of him worried about the agents down the street. Would they barge in at a moment’s notice to see what was going on? Alan cleared his throat.

              James looked up at Alan, “Yeah, whatever, dude. What did you want to show me?”

              The look in his eyes threw Alan off. He looked a bit too eager, too willing to see what this big secret was.

              “Did you want something to drink?” Alan asked.

              “Depends. Do you have Orangina?”

              “What the hell is that?” Alan asked.

              “Never mind. What about Dr. Pepper?”

              Alan cringed.

              “What?” James asked. “Why the face?”

              “You actually like that crap?”

              “Yeah. So what? Who are you to judge?”

              Alan imitated barfing by sticking a finger down his throat.

              “Yeah, whatever, dude,” James said. “Quit stalling. What did you want to show me?”

Alan opened his mouth, and closed it again. He opened it again and closed it. James squinted.

“You trying to catch flies or something?”

              Alan swallowed. Even though he thought about this moment countless times, the words just wouldn’t come out—
I can move corpses with my mind
. It sounded much better in his head.

              “Spit it out, man,” James said. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

              “Piss you off?” Alan asked, perplexed. “What am I doing that’s pissing you off?”

              “You’re keeping secrets from me,” James said. “That’s messed up. I showed you my dad’s gun.”

              Alan remembered seeing the Colt 45 in the brown pine box stored underneath James’ father’s bed. Even though Alan’s own father was in the military, he’d never seen him carry a gun Then again, he didn’t have to. Not when he could use a corpse to do his bidding.

              But this was different. A gun is a very real thing made out of steel. Moving a corpse with your mind was something else entirely. This was a bad idea. He mentally scrambled to find something in the house he could lie about, but in his cerebral quest, he accidently “turned on” Mort. This sometimes happened when he was really nervous. One moment, there was a spider in the bathroom, and the next, Mort was right outside the door, ready to crush it with his bare foot. Alan didn’t know why Mort moved better when he wasn’t thinking of moving him at all, but he just did, and the same thing happened now. There were footsteps coming up the basement stairs.

James turned his head to the sound.

              “Is somebody else here?” James asked.

              Alan tried to stop Mort from coming up, but the more he tried, the harder it was.

              The basement door opened, and out he came, tattered clothes and all.

              James hopped off the couch and backed into the wall. His already light skin went even lighter and he almost blended in with the wall.

              “Wha-what the hell is
that
?” He asked.

              But the more Alan tried to send him back down, the closer he got to James, until finally, he was right in his face. James looked up and down at the corpse. His hands shook and his teeth chattered.

              “I’m sorry you had to meet him like this, James, but this is Mort. My pet corpse,” Alan said.

              With one final tug to pull him away, Mort did the exact opposite and hugged James. James fainted in the corpses’ arms.