Dead Souls (33 page)

The scissors went through about a third of the way—Ed's deadweight did all the rest. The belt tore in half and he thumped down into the seat of the wheelchair. Mary dropped the scissors and secured her grip on the handles, shifting her weight against it so it wouldn't tip forward. Her heart drummed madly in her chest as she steadied the chair…and in this moment of startled response, her insecure, mentally ailing self broke through, striking her with a lightning bolt of perception, rampant with fear and uncertainty. She acknowledged the scene before her, instantly terrified, and she nearly fainted, but her newfound awareness, responsive to this flux, immediately returned to center stage, dousing her insecurities and fears before they could convince her mind and body to break down.

She remained motionless for a moment, facing jabs of confusion as her mindset settled. Taking a few deep breaths, she peered blearily around the room—despite the disarray, it appeared to her as normal, given the lofty task at hand.

In the kitchen, the clock struck ten. The sound of the tolling bell in combination with the restitution of her newfound awareness, set her back into action. She hooked her arms firmly beneath Ed's blood-sticky armpits and shifted him up with a previously unknown, yet eagerly accepted strength.

She rolled him out of the room, having to wedge and squeeze the chair through the threshold because the rubber wheels shoved too much against the protruding jambs. Once in the kitchen, she searched the linen closet and pulled out a set of queen-sized sheets. Like a spider securing a captured fly, she swathed Ed's body, tucking the edges of the sheets firmly between his body and the wheelchair, touching only the belt which she draped over his shoulder. She made certain that he was fully covered, from neck to feet, then grabbed a pea-cap from the top shelf of the closet and fitted it on his head (which she had to keep readjusting on his neck because it kept tilting over). She dug out a pair of sunglasses from the junk drawer in the kitchen and covered Ed's hollow-milky eyes.

It was a sad sight, but one that wouldn't raise the eyebrows of any passersby—Manhattan's pedestrians came to witness much odder events on a daily basis. As long as there was no blood to be seen—and there wasn't any just yet—Mary would be able to transfer him into the van and get away.

Of course there was the driver to worry about, but Mary's newfound awareness had already formulated a plan to deal with that.

On the counter, next to the microwave, sat the butcher-block set of stainless steel knives. She stepped over to it, and with a quick jerk, removed the largest one in the upper left-hand corner of the block. It made a
sleek!
sound,
and somewhere in her consciousness she saw a shadow of a man's bloody hand performing the very same deed in preparation to commit the very same offense she intended to carry out…a driven offense that seemed so right, so acceptable in her duty to save Johnny's life, and save Ed's dying soul.

The intercom buzzed. She answered it: "Yes?"

"Your ride," a man's voice came from the tiny speaker.

"Come in," she answered blankly, pressing the release button to let him in.

And waited…waited just to the right of the threshold, the knife poised in her sweating hand, listening for his footsteps that emerged from the elevator two minutes later.

Six steps. Then, a knock.

"Come in," she answered, holding the knife up like a spear, its polished point aimed squarely at the opening door.

The driver entered the apartment, and with a thin, trilling cry, Mary plunged the knife into his waist.

"
Ahg
!"
the driver yelled, staggering into the kitchen, hands groping for the exposed handle, face contorting as if he were trying to squeeze out the mother of all
turds
. Mary slammed the door shut behind him and watched with odd fascination as the knife bounced in syncopation with the blood pouring from his wound. The driver slammed into the refrigerator, groping at the knife as if he were ferreting out a nagging itch. His knees buckled, and with a yell, he collapsed to the floor.

Mary broke forward and snatched the knife out of his waist. He made an attempt to stand, staring dumbfounded at the little old lady who'd decided for some mindless reason to murder him.

Without thought or hesitation, Mary lunged forward and drove the knife into his left eye…

…and again, somewhere in her consciousness, she saw the shadow of the man's bloody hand again, performing this very same horrific offense…this single-minded act that was so right, so acceptable in her duty to save Johnny's and Ed's lives...

Their dying souls…

"
Ahg
!"
the driver shouted again, collapsing face-up onto the kitchen floor. His eye gushed blood and vitreous fluid, body twitching with tremors as if charged with electricity. Mary leaned down and yanked the knife out…and drove it into him again, this time into his heart. She twisted it, watching for a moment the blood sputtering from his wounds, his body stiffening up, his lungs wheezing their final gasp of air.

And then, all was quiet and still. She ferreted out the man's keys from his jacket pocket (careful not to get too much blood on her hands; she didn't want to raise any eyebrows), then backed away, deliberately, almost peacefully, hearing only the sound of her gasping breaths as they leaped from her lungs. She turned, leaned down, and with a smile kissed Ed on his cold stinking cheek. "That was for you, dear…and for Johnny."

Then, as if nothing at all happened, she placed her bag on Ed's lap and wheeled him out into the hallway, stopping only once to feel out the soft, ephemeral comfort of the feather in her pocket.

September 8
^th
, 2005

10:04 PM

G
uided only by the moonlight, Johnny sought refuge in the night's unfamiliar embrace. His legs moved and his arms pumped. A giddiness roiled in his head, that of exhaustion, fatigue, and pain.

At some point he questioned whether he still existed on earth as he'd always known it, if he were still breathing its air and consuming its lively resources. Then he wondered if he existed in some other plane of reality now, where fires burned and the dead walked the earth, seeking retribution upon those cast here by some higher authority.

There is no God, Mary. There is no God…

The dark road he traveled was endless, bounded on both sides by fields of wheat and rustling weeds. Beyond, an unending symphony of crickets filled the air, drowning out the likelihood of hearing footsteps on the road left behind.

After endless minutes, a sound encroached on his faltering consciousness: a car engine. A wash of bright light opened out on the road, pinning him like a prison escapee.

Johnny didn't try to stop. He continued running at a slow, staggering pace, his eyes searching the road ahead, its emptiness illuminated by the approaching car lights. As if compelled by some unseen force, he lurched to the roadside and waited for the car to pass. In his pocket, the plastic bags holding the feather and Ed's note seemed to shift slightly.

Yes, and dead people are coming back to life. And if I turn around, there might not be a car behind me after all. I am losing my mind...

But there was a car. It drew up beside him, soil and pebbles crunching grittily beneath its tires. On the verge of hyperventilation, Johnny halted and leaned with his hands on his knees.

The car stopped, engine idling. Johnny could hear the passenger window go down, and when he looked to the side, he saw the bulk of a red sedan.

A voice emerged: "Hey…you all right?"

In Johnny's mind:
It depends…are you dead or alive?
Feeling as though he were drifting in and out of reality, he peered into the car, listening to the crickets and the gentle rumble of the car's engine.
If Andrew Judson leaps out of this car at me, I'll drop dead, right here in the goddamned road. And then who knows? Maybe I'll come back to life too.
But it wasn't Andrew Judson. Or the psycho. In the picture of moonlight and broken shadows before him, a man—one very much alive with no guts or blood on his clothes—leaned across the seat. He was old, pushing sixty, with a gray moustache and a Red Sox cap on his head. The skin of his face was a white patch beneath the brim.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, visibly scrutinizing Johnny's soiled clothes.

Johnny shook his head. "No." His voice was a pained whisper, and in this moment of sudden lucidity, it all came back to him again, like a ghastly flicker of bright light: the dead men seeking him, calling after him:
Brother…

I feel like I've gone crazy
, he thought.
Oh God, do I ever. And no matter what I do, what choices I make for the remainder of my life, I will never be able to release the terrible images I've seen. They will go on and on in my mind, frame by frame, hurting me forever and ever…

"Are you hurt?" the man asked, brow furrowed. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"I…I don't know…"

More than likely, the man was well aware that Johnny was a stranger in these parts, and despite Johnny's victimized condition, was probably assuming him guilty of some major wrongdoing.

"What's your name, son?" the man asked. Johnny saw him lean over and open the glove compartment. He figured the man might be retrieving a weapon of some sort—something to protect him should the strange boy in the road get unruly.

"You got a name?" the man asked again, bringing his gaze back up.

Johnny nodded and opened his mouth to speak…but what leaped off his tongue didn't coincide with the intentions of his mind. No, what emerged from his trembling lips was the name that had sourced all the terror inflicted upon him and his family since Judson's letter arrived in the mail two days earlier.

"Conroy…"

The man froze. His eyes, studying Johnny intently now, narrowed with immediate uncertainty. A defining moment of silence passed between them, forcing Johnny to realize that this encounter may very well extend far beyond their simple exchange of words.

"Conroy…" the man replied, sighing nervously.

Johnny nodded gravely, uncertain as to what compelled him to utter that name.
Perhaps it's the evil that's been following me around since this all started. It made Ed kill himself, made Judson and the psycho come back from the dead. Who's to say it won't make me say things I don't mean?

And then the man muttered, "Bryan Conroy," as if his knowledge of Johnny's presence had blossomed long before driving down this dark road. He leaned across the seat and opened the door. The dome light came on, igniting the man's elderly features. "Get in."

Johnny hesitated, at once uncertain if he should get in the car or flee into the tall growths off the side of the road; it didn't take long for him to realize that, despite his injured mind, there'd be no murdered people back from the dead inside the car, and only heaven knew what waited for him deep in the darkness of
Wellfield's
farms. Grabbing the window frame, he slid into the car and pulled the door shut…then brought his gaze around and faced the man.

Indeed, the man
had
retrieved a weapon from the glove compartment: a large hunting knife. It lay across his lap, sheathed in leather. But he didn't seem all that concerned with using it. Instead, he regarded Johnny for a moment and plucked a cell phone from his waist.

"Give me a minute, okay?"

Johnny nodded. His scar itched and throbbed, as if warning him of some future horror.

The man dialed the phone and placed it to his ear. With his free hand he shifted the car into drive and started down the road. In a true northeastern inflection, he spoke: "Henry? Phil. Evening. Don't mean to be
botherin
'
ya
at this late hour, but…well, I have a young man here in my car. Found him wandering around about on Brunswick Road, 'bout a half mile from the old Conroy place. Yep, that's right. Looks like he's been through the war, too. And Henry…he's telling me his name is Conroy. Yep.
Bryan
Conroy. Uh, I'd say about eighteen, nineteen tops. So, I figured I'd call you first before bringing him down to Sheriff Steven's—"

The man nodded, then added, "Okay then, we'll be there in five minutes."

He clipped the phone back onto his belt, shifting his girth as he did so. "I'm gonna bring you over to see someone."

"Who?" Johnny asked. A wave of lightheadedness struck him from out of nowhere; his breaths quickened, and he had to clutch his chest.
Anxiety attack, inherited form Mary…no, wait, Mary is not my mother. Some other woman named…named Conroy is my mother. Oh God!

"Someone who's going to help you."

"Help me…"

"Someone who's been expecting you."

His heart started pounding furiously. Huge
goosebumps
formed on his arms. Now his lightheadedness grew into a stupor. Numbness gripped his body: an equal combination of shock and lethargy racing in. His head bobbed forward as if tethered with strings, and a fibrous grayness seeped into his sights. He drifted toward it...

And in his swoon saw himself back in the barn, at the bottom of the broken steps, staring into the darkness and seeing five makeshift crucifixes jutting crookedly from the hard ground. Nailed upon them were the bodies of a man, a woman, a young girl, a boy, and…something else on the smallest one, not a human...and they were all alive, staring at him with their bulging eyes and bloody faces, calling for him to join in their quest…he tried to pull away but all of a sudden a gray shadow limb oozed out of the darkness and latched onto his arm…