Fade to Black - Proof (8 page)

“Jack!” Pam
laughed. “My lord, man of mine, are you never satisfied?”

“I am ALWAYS
satisfied,” he answered, kissing her neck and then turning to put Claire in her
high chair. “Each and every time. That’s what keeps me coming back.” He winked
at her and she blushed. Jack poured himself a cup of coffee, aware in a
detached way that he added nothing to it, and then sat at the table beside
Claire.

“What’s with
the big breakfast, honey?” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think I really
have time. I’m running a little late already.”

Pam slid a
bowl of cereal with milk and a baby spoon in front of him.

“Not anymore, baby,”
she said, turning back to her stove and carefully flipping the sizzling slice
of bacon. “Stuart Anderson called and asked how you were feeling. I said fine,
but he said to tell you to take one more day, that they already had a sub.”

Jack felt his
face flush red with embarrassment and guilt. He waited for the inevitable
question, but it didn’t come. He turned to look at Pam, fully anticipating an
expectant stare, but instead she was happily whipping eggs and milk together in
a bowl. When she turned to him, she looked content.

“You want
cheese in your eggs?”

“Sure,” he
answered. He was about to say something, anything about what happened at
school, and then another thought occurred to him. “I didn’t hear the phone ring,”
he said instead.

“Huh?” Pam
turned to him, her face confused, then smoothed out with realization. “Oh, the
call. Yeah, I was on the phone with Bev when he called, and I clicked over.”
She sprinkled grated cheese over the cooking eggs.

Jack sat
quietly for a moment, feeding spoonfuls of cereal into his daughter’s mouth
with little thought.

“Those
nightmares really had me spooked at school,” he started. He had to say
something, right? Pam said nothing, but still seemed all right, folding his omelet
over on itself. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Anyway, Chad and Stuart
both noticed, and I guess I told them I was sick. I didn’t know what else to
say.” He looked up at Pam now, milk dripping from the little spoon onto the
table. Claire strained to reach the bite but failed. Pam slid the omelet onto a
plate, cut it in half and slid one half onto a second plate. Then she added
strips of bacon and toast to both. She slid one in front of him and sat down
beside him in front of the other.

“Bev was going
to watch Claire at her house for a while, so I could go shopping.” She poured
some juice into an empty glass in front of Jack. “Since you’re home today, do
you want to watch Claire, or go to the store with me?” Apparently his wife was
unconcerned by his in-school breakdown. Or maybe Anderson had not told her much.
Either way, Jack felt relieved.

Jack decided
to go shopping with Pam. Rarely did they get much time just the two of them
these days, and Jack thought it might be fun to hang out together like old
times—maybe grab lunch out somewhere nice. Pam was delighted by that idea, and
started planning their morning outing while he fed Claire and nibbled at his
breakfast, still distracted by the lack of reaction his wife had to the news he
had left school “sick” yesterday. In the end he decided he was married to the
greatest woman in the universe (a fact he’d long suspected) and let it go from
his mind, instead getting excited by the thought of an adult day together.

They spent the
early morning playing with their daughter, sitting together in a circle on the
living room floor and going through a picture book learning the names of
animals. Claire fussed a little at being dropped off at Pam’s friend’s house,
but the novelty of the attention from Beverly’s two older girls distracted her
enough to keep her from crying. Then they headed to the mall, where Pam told
Jack they were going to find him some new slacks and shirts.

Jack was not
generally a shopping kind of guy, but he had to admit he had a great time. They
cruised around the mall and Jack chatted comfortably with his wife about
everything and nothing. The morning flew by. He particularly enjoyed sitting in
the comfortable armchair outside the dressing room at Hecht’s, watching his
beautiful wife playfully model outfit after outfit, while he looked her up and
down. He delivered the deciding thumbs up or thumbs down to each look, like a Roman
emperor deciding the fate of each gladiator. Those outfits condemned to death
were piled up on a counter, while Jack got the job of collecting the growing
pile of survivors in his lap. He loved the way she flirted with him while she
strutted and spun in front of him in each new look.

They ended up
at Bennigan’s for lunch, where Jack ordered a beer and Pam a glass of wine. She
expressed a fleeting moment of concern, asking Jack if he was allowed to drink
on his medication. Jack assured her Dr. Barton had not said anything about any
restrictions.

“I guess we’ll
find out, huh?” he laughed, taking a big slug of cool beer from his frosted
Pilsner mug. He didn’t have a seizure and his head didn’t explode, so he
guessed he was all right. Together they looked over the menu, planning their
meals together so they could share them, like they almost always did.

“Surf and
turf,” Jack announced. And so Pam ordered the skewered shrimp and he the
blackened New York strip. They also split a salad and soup and both managed to
consume another drink as they ate from each other’s plates. They talked and
laughed like they had when they were dating and the time flew by. When the
waitress came to clear their plates, Jack felt warm and relaxed, mostly from
the company of his one true love (as he liked to remind her, even now) and
partly from the two 16‐ounce beers. Jack began to feel a surge of hope that his
cynicism towards Dr. Barton’s “magic bullet” had been unfounded. He sure as
shit felt great right now, and he had slept through the night hadn’t he? Jack
saw that Pam stared at him, trying to read his look.

“Don’t worry, baby,”
Jack said before she could ask. “I was honestly just thinking how great I
feel.” He squeezed Pam’s hand, and she responded by putting her hand warmly on
his knee.

“You do seem
more your old self, Jack.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Yeah, well, I
am
having a lunch date with my one true love,” he answered.

“And playing
hooky,” Pam laughed.

“Yeah,” Jack
agreed. “That helps too. I guess ol’ quack Barton knows something after all.” He
paused for a moment and then looked her deeply in the eyes again. “Thank you
for making me go, Pam.”

Pam looked
down. “Hey, I was just trying to get a good night’s sleep.”

The waitress came
back, looking a little uncomfortable at interrupting. “Anything else?”

“Nothing for
me,” Jack answered, “but the lady would like a piece of raspberry cheesecake
with two forks, and two coffees with Bailey’s.”

Pam shook her
head in mock embarrassment and wrapped her arms around his.

“You are a bad
man.”

Jack kissed
her full on the mouth, a long and passionate kiss that made Pam look around,
her embarrassment more real now.

“Jack!”

“You love me
because I’m a bad man,” he said playfully.

They talked
about going to a matinee at the mall, but instead headed home. Claire would be
in midnap by now and they agreed to spend an hour or two at the house, just
hanging out. They wound up lying together, arms wrapped around each other on
the couch, one of Pam’s favorite HGTV decorating shows on the television. After
only a few minutes of watching total strangers make big changes to their homes
on a shoestring budget, Jack’s breathing deepened and he relaxed to the feel of
Pam’s fingers running lightly through his hair. He felt perfectly content.

Chapter

9

Jack had no idea how long he slept,
but he awoke still tired and achy from being in one position too long. He was
alone on the couch, a blanket across him, and his head at an awkward angle on a
thin pillow against the armrest. He stretched his arms and rubbed his stiff
neck, then sat up. The light from the kitchen had taken on a reddish hue, and
Jack realized it must be close to dusk, his nap having lasted most of the
afternoon.

“Pam?” Jack
called out. He heard no movement from the kitchen and the TV was off. Jack rose
and headed slowly to the kitchen. His mouth was dry and he became suddenly
aware that he needed to pee. “Baby, are you here?”

No answer. She
must have headed out to Beverly’s to pick up Claire. Jack veered off course
from the kitchen, the pressure in his bladder outweighing his thirst, and
headed for the bathroom a few steps down the hall. He stepped into the dark
room and unzipped his fly without turning on the light, his full bladder now
calling to him with true urgency. Jack shifted uncomfortably back and forth as
he fumbled with his boxers, and then aimed in the general direction of the can,
hoping the lid was up. He was immediately gratified by the sound of urine
hitting water, and smiled as his urgency dissipated, happy he wouldn’t be
cleaning piss off the floor and toilet lid.  Relieved, Jack repacked his pants
and zipped his fly, then turned to the sink to wash his hands.

His sight adjusted
somewhat to the dim light from the hall. As he turned on the faucet, Jack found
his eyes drawn to a peculiar dark pattern in the sink, shadows in the dim light
playing tricks on his slowly acclimating vision. He rinsed his hands
unconsciously, his mind fascinated by the changing dark pattern, swirling now
in the water running off his hands. Suddenly Jack felt growing anxiety rise
inside him to compete with his curiosity. Something wasn’t right. His eyes
remained locked on the changing patterns in the sink, his right hand groping
behind him for the switch on the wall.

The light
clicked on and Jack froze in terror. Swirling in the sink was dark blood,
lightening in color as it mixed with the swirling water. The water was pink,
backing up slowly in the sink, seeking an exit around the chunks of bone and
grey tissue that collected around the drain. A scream stuck in his throat and
came out instead as a high‐pitched grunt. Jack became aware, in a detached way,
that dark blood was spattered on the walls and mirror as well. He stumbled
backwards and heard a nauseating crunch beneath his shoe. He looked down and
lifted his foot slowly. Beneath it was a cracked and grimy tooth in a puddle of
blood. He saw bloody footprints from his own feet in front of the toilet. Then
his eyes were drawn to the toilet itself, his urine pink, mixed with blood; the
seat spattered with drying blood and his own still wet piss.

As Jack backed
slowly out of the horror show that was his bathroom, he became aware that his
right hand was warm and sticky. The wall beside the light switch was thick with
dark blood, and the switch plate had a dark handprint pressed in the gory
liquid. As he looked at his hand coated with black blood, he stumbled over his
own feet and fell backwards out of the bathroom, landing sharply on his ass in
the hallway. The impact unlocked the scream trapped in his throat and he heard
his own horrified voice echo throughout the house. Jack’s feet kicked backwards,
slipping in the trails of blood which extended out into the hall, and propelled
him with a crunch into the wall behind him. Jack scrambled up the wall, his
hands leaving more bloody prints on the clean plaster behind him. His shoulder
sent a picture from the wall, Jack and Pam smiling behind the blue-eyed infant
in front of them, crashing to the floor. The glass broke and exploded out of
the frame. He remained in a crouch, his back pinned against the wall, unable to
tear his eyes from the bloodied bathroom. Then he spun on one foot. He stumbled
as he slipped again on the bloody floor, then caught himself and ran from the
hallway to the kitchen, his right hand waving wildly in front of him.

His knees
slammed painfully into the cabinets beneath the kitchen sink as he stuck his
bloody hand beneath the faucet. His clean hand spun the handle madly until
clear warm water spit out. He held his hand beneath the running water and watched
the blood wash away, then swirl pink down the clean kitchen sink. He became
aware of his own voice in his ears, a childlike chant escaping from his
tightened throat.

“Nuh…nuh…nuh…”
Jack closed his mouth to silence the sound. Then he felt his throat tighten,
the vomit and bile trapped low down in his chest. The room started to spin, and
he felt incredibly hot. Suddenly another thought gripped him.

Pam!

He spun
around, frantically searching the room for evidence of his wife, terrified he
would see her mangled body slumped against a wall.

“Pam!” he
screamed, his throat still tight and burning. He felt the bile escape his chest
and arrive in the back of his throat. He bent over in a spasm of coughing,
hands on his knees. His stomach contracted painfully, and he vomited onto the
clean linoleum floor. Chunks of blackened steak and skewered shrimp tumbled
away from the liquid and slipped beneath the cabinets.

Large spatters
of blood marched a trail across the kitchen floor and out the screen door,
which he only now saw was open, and into the backyard. Jack stood up slowly,
unaware that he still whimpered softly, puppy‐like, and walked in a haze
towards the open door. His eyes remained glued to the sticky droplets of drying
blood, afraid to look up beyond the next spatter. The trail led down the brick
steps and across the concrete patio. As he followed it slowly, tiptoeing
carefully so as not to step on any of the large puddles of half‐dried blood, he
noticed something in the middle of one sticky pool. He poked it gently with the
toe of one shoe. A bloody tooth stuck to his shoe, causing him to shake his
foot back and forth until the tooth flipped free. It pinged against the gas
grill and then flipped into a bush along the side of the patio. Jack kept his
head down and wiped his toe along the patio, trying to smear the blood from his
shoe, his efforts painting a reddish-purple pattern of modern art on the
concrete.

“Hey, Sar’n,”
a raspy voice said.

Jack froze,
his leg bent, his foot in midsmear. His head stayed down, but his eyes darted
back and forth in panic. Then he raised his head and turned towards the sound
of the voice.

Just past the
edge of the patio, Simmons sat Indian‐style in the grass (
criss-cross apple
sauce
, Pam would say to Claire). His dirty green T-shirt was spattered with
fresh blood, which trickled down his chin and dripped off into his lap. He was
bent over, his attention on an open khaki bandana in his lap. He poked at
something on it with one finger. Jack walked over, arms hanging limply by his
sides. When he got within a few feet, he stopped, and Simmons stopped his
prodding at whatever was in his lap. Jack saw that the bandana was bloody and
that Simmons’ fingertips glistened with blood as well.

At first
Simmons didn’t look up, but a grin spread across his face, revealing bloody
teeth. He turned his head to face Jack, revealing his missing eye and the side
of his face missing flesh and bone. The ragged teeth Jack remembered from the
hallway at school were gone. The missing cheek and lips left a gory hole which
revealed only ragged gums.

“Jush gettin’
my shish together, Sar’n,” Simmons said. The horrible, gaping hole flapped
ragged flesh as he spoke. He held up his bloody bandana, which Jack now saw
contained a half‐dozen ragged bloody teeth. “Droppin’ like fly’sh,” he laughed.
Then he was wracked with a rattling cough, fresh blood spraying out onto his
desert cammie pants and boots. Jack stood motionless, unable to speak or move.

“Sit down,”
Simmons said, gesturing with a dirty hand, his fingertips coated in blood like
he had taken a gory pedicure soak (“You know you’re soaking in it,” Madge said
from the old TV commercial). With his missing face his words came out “shit
down.”

Jack felt bile
rise again in his throat, but instead of barfing he belched a wet acidic burp.
He felt himself pale and he began to sway gently, overcome with dizziness. He felt
sure he would pass out. Finally he spoke, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Nightmare…”
he said. That felt right. Jack closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to
wake up. He opened his eyes, but Simmons still sat there, grinning too widely.
He opened the side of his mouth that could close and laughed a choking, raspy
laugh, which spilled more dark blood onto his chin. He reached his fingertips
into his mouth, pulled out another ragged tooth, and considered it critically
for a moment. The left side of his mouth frowned, the right side grinned a ghoulish,
jack-o-lantern grin of bloody gums.

“Shun of a bitsh,
eh Sar’n?”

Jack closed
his eyes again, his fists balled up at his sides.

Wake up, goddamnit!
Wake up!

*   *   *

Jack sat up,
his eyes wide open and his hands still tight fists. He was in his bed, the room
dark and his body soaked in a cool sweat. His eyes darted madly around, but he
saw nothing, unable to penetrate the darkness which engulfed him. He was aware
of the sleeping figure beside him—heard Pam’s deep rhythmic breathing. Jack had
no memory of coming to bed, or any other part of the evening. He remembered
falling asleep on the couch, the horrible nightmare about Simmons, and now he
was awake in bed in the middle of the night. It was dark and he was in bed with
his wife.

What the fuck!

Jack felt
tears spill down over his cheeks. The image of the bloody bathroom, the horror
of Simmons in the yard, and his panicked confusion of waking up here in bed with
no intervening memory—all combined to rob him of any remaining hope that his
mind was under his own control. He cried out loud and his hand trembled as he
searched out the light switch on the wall. But he found nothing. The reading
lamp somehow escaped his grasp. He fumbled instead on the end table, found the
lamp, and flipped the switch.

Jack sucked
his breath in, making a high‐pitched hissing whistle. He was lying on top of
the covers, his naked chest and belly covered in sweat, mixed with dirt and
drying blood. He wore dirty, desert cammie pants, bloused at the ankle over
filthy tan combat boots. The covers beneath him were covered in sand and dust,
which swirled around him in a light breeze. Jack held his breath in, frozen in
terror. Then he reached beside him for his wife, but his hand froze in midair,
above the shoulder of the sleeping figure.

The covers
were pulled up nearly over the head of the body in bed with him, but he knew
immediately that something was wrong. The sheet on the back of the motionless
figure was soaked in blood, the circle growing as he watched. The breathing of
his wife changed to a harsh, wet snore, and the body beneath the covers shook
badly. Jack slowly reached out a trembling hand for the stained and dirty
sheet. He saw his own hand was filthy with black grime beneath the broken
fingernails. He wanted to stop his reach, but couldn’t. The events unfolded
outside of his control, and he watched in disbelief as his dirty hand grasped
the corner of the sheet. He watched the shaking hand pull the cover slowly back
to reveal what he already knew was there.

The back of
the head was gone and a gaping hole stared back at him, rimmed with jagged
white bone and ragged scalp. Inside the hole, reddish-grey brain matter gaped
back at him. Blood spurted in little arcs from a small pumping blood vessel in
the center of the gory crevice and onto the back of his hand, dripping in
puddles onto the sheets.

Kindrich.

As he watched,
his hand frozen in midair, clutching the sheet, the sand and dirt began to
swirl around him, faster and faster like a growing cyclone. It became thicker, spinning
a dirty tornado around his head which blinded and choked him. Jack looked up at
the ceiling and saw, without much surprise, that it was gone. The bedroom walls
remained in place, but opened into a purple sky above. The twisting sand grew
thicker now and the dust obscured the sky, until he could see nothing except a
wall of spinning sand, twisting around him faster and faster. The sand filled
his mouth and lungs, suffocating him. He felt a burning grow in the center of
his neck and then felt the bed get softer beneath him. He tried to scream, but
there was no air. The bed disappeared beneath him entirely, and he collapsed
slowly into the center of the swirling dirt. It sucked him downward and his
hands clawed out, looking for something solid. But the downward pull became more
violent, sucking him into the vortex of madly spinning sand. He felt his body
begin to twist and spin in the cyclone of sand as he was pulled down farther
and farther, like unseen hands pulled him into a spinning grave from below. His
body whipped around in circles faster and faster, until finally the earth
stopped twisting and swallowed him up. It closed in on top of him and he was
buried beneath the now still sand.

And then it
was still. And quiet.

And dark.

Like a grave.