Passing Strange (23 page)

Tak fell in a sprawl, his neck hideously twisted.

“Oh, man.”

This was from Tayshawn, who’d stood in mute shock with Popeye, both boys obviously stunned by the savage attack. Tak lay in the snow staring at Adam, who looked both shocked and guilty. Tak knew Adam hadn’t held back when he’d struck him.

Tak got to his knees and heard the dull grind of bones as he flexed his neck and shoulder muscles, twisting his head back into place. He couldn’t get the alignment quite right until he placed his hands over his icy ears and gave his head a sharp jerk, eliciting a sickening crack. Adam, still sitting in the snow, watched with fascination.

“Tak,” he said. “Tak, I’m…sorry.”

“It’s over…Tak,” Tayshawn said, standing between the two boys. “It’s…over.”

Tak swiveled his neck this way and that, testing to see if his skull was settled properly. He looked past Tayshaw and favored Adam with his best smile.

“Sorry?” he said. “For me, or Karen?”

Adam looked up at Tayshawn and Popeye, who seemed as stunned as he’d been at the short but brutal fight.

“For you. Karen wasn’t…my fault.”

Tak rose to his feet, then strode over to Adam and reached down. He knew Adam thought that his motion was a peace gesture of some sort, but he ignored Adam’s outstretched hand and reached lower.

He gripped the handle of the switchblade he’d stuck between Adam’s lower ribs. Tak tugged, hard, and the object popped free.

“Don’t be,” he said, holding it up for Adam to see. A tear of viscous black fluid ran from the tip, and the moment the tear struck the hilt, Tak retracted the blade.

Adam stared at him. “You…
stabbed
me? You actually…
stabbed
me?”

“You did…nothing,” Tak said, aiming a bony finger at him. “Stay…away.”

“Tak…”

“She’s still alive, Adam. No…thanks…to you.” Tak started backing away into the woods. Adam made no move to stop him. Popeye kicked snow onto Adam as he shuffled past, but Tayshawn’s look was almost apologetic.

“Tak…” Adam said.

“Stay away…from us, Layman. Stay with your…beating heart…friends. You aren’t…one of us.”

“She was my…friend, too, Tak,” Adam called after him.

Tak kept walking, his companions falling in line as they put distance between them and the dead boy who sat at the edge of the forest, pressing his hand to his side.

“I
T’S SO GOOD TO HAVE YOU
home, Pete,” Mrs. Martinsburg said. “Would you like another glass of lemonade?”

Pete looked at his mom and smiled as he stowed the sarcastic comment that rose to his lips far back into his mind, mentally thanking Reverend Mathers as he did so. He was still feeling bruised and agitated at the memory of her pale newsprint eyes looking up at him, and part of it, he knew, was that he’d been too quick to let go of so many of Mathers’s essential teachings, and so soon after leaving his company. He’d worked hard to master his emotions—he
had
mastered them.

At least until the whole business with the girl. The
zombie Karen
.

He was so confused, his thoughts a jumbled mess. The Reverend—although Pete vowed he would never confess the full story to him—would probably tell him that the incident was a necessary slip, a step in his overall development. Either way, Pete was anxious to regain his self-control. He took his restraint with his mother, the easiest and most frequent of his emotional-outburst targets—as a positive sign. In addition to being proof that he could force some control on himself, instead of a fight and tears, which would be typical of an exchange with her, he now had someone that was willing to rush off to get him refills.

“I’d love some, Mom,” he said. “Thank you.”

She almost blushed as she handed him the glass, so good was he at feigning a grateful, warm look.

His cell phone rang. Pete picked it up and looked at the screen, scarcely believing it when he saw that it was the Reverend himself calling, as though he could sense Pete’s negative thinking from the other side of the continent.

Pete tried not to stutter as he picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Peter,” the Reverend said. “How are you, my boy?”

Peter gave an involuntary shudder. The Reverend sounded quite pleased.

“I’m very well, sir.”

“Are you enjoying your break?”

“I am, sir. I’m anxious to be getting back to One Life, though.”

The Reverend chuckled, a dry throaty sound that Pete would have thought sinister from anyone else. “Don’t you think your ministry in your home town is more important?”

Pete smiled. “Well, I suppose it is important, sir, but…”

“Imprisoning the demon. Brilliant. And the press that followed, the idea that the demons could pass among us undetected. But you know that, we’ve spoken often of your success. And I have spoken to my congregation of it as well.”

Pete knew that happiness was an emotion that needed to be quelled as much as anger or fear, but listening to the Reverend’s praise, and recalling the look on her face as the police hauled her away, it was too much to contain. He found he was holding his breath, waiting for the Reverend to say more.

“Undetected, that is, by all but the righteous! By you, Peter! By exposing the demon, the trickster, you have swayed public opinion. Those who’d begun traveling the slippery path, those who’d begun to feel a flickering flame of sympathy in their breasts for these things, these zombies, these demons that cloak themselves in the flesh of our young ones—why, you have transformed that flame of sympathy to one of suspicion! You have exposed the liars for what they are!”

Although he was still basking in the warmth of the Reverend’s words, Pete wondered why the man was suddenly so effulgent with his praise. Soon, he had his answer.

“And,” the Reverend said, his voice rising to pulpit pitch, “you have shown the world that demons can despair!”

“Sir?”

“Now it is back in hell, burning, burning and seething, it’s attempts to lure more souls foiled for the time being.”

“Sir? I’m not following you.”

“The demon,” the Reverend repeated. “It returned to hell.”

There was a pause as Pete waited for the Reverend to continue.

“You don’t know?” the Reverend said. “The demon destroyed itself rather than to continue as an example of the lying nature of its insidious kind.”

“I knew,” Pete said. “I knew she was dead. Destroyed, I mean.” He hadn’t considered her suffering in the fires of hell, however. That had not occurred to him. He felt his lemonade-rich stomach churn. But why? Hell was the first and last stop for all zombiekind, that much was clear. Not to mention suicides; self-murderers got their own special place in the fiery furnace. These facts had been internalized weeks ago, so why did they disturb his digestion now? What did he think was going to happen when he outed her, if not eventual damnation?
Redemption?

The Reverend laughed, mistaking Pete’s silence as humility. “The demon is not getting as much press as its cohort in Washington, but if you watch CNN long enough you will see a brief clip about its return to the fiery furnace.”

Returned to hell, Pete thought, again having difficulty holding his emotions in check. He’d promised her that day in the woods that he would destroy her last.

But he’d also told her that they would be closer than ever, bonded by blood. The sound he made wasn’t laughter.

“Stay with your mother and her husband for a few more days,” the Reverend said. “We need to see if the demon’s destruction brings more of the vermin out of their holes.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, at once sorrowful that he wasn’t going back to where the Reverend could help make the world understandable again, but also glad he wasn’t going, for fear that the Reverend would be unable to do so. She was like sand rubbing between the folds of his brain and his skull.

“I’m sure you learned much from your encounter,” the Reverend said. Pete was about to respond, but the Reverend wasn’t finished. His next words seemed to freeze Pete’s blood in his veins.

“But I’m more interested in what they learned from you.”

So Pete told him. All of it. And when he was done, expecting the wrath of hellfire to descend upon him, there was only silence, until the Reverend spoke at last.

“I see,” he said. And then he told Pete what needed to be done. The Reverend spoke very clearly and calmly. The destruction that Pete had been awaiting did not arrive; instead, a very specific set of instructions, surprising instructions, came. Instructions that the Reverend said needed to be followed to the letter. Some of what the Reverend said seemed almost ludicrous to Pete; it seemed to undo all his work in Oakvale. Still, Pete listened without comment until he got his final command.

“Go see Davidson,” the Reverend said.

“I will,” Pete replied, swallowing.

And then the Reverend said the words that almost brought tears to his eyes.

“Good work, Peter,” he said. “This too shall pass.”

And then he said good-bye.

Pete hung up the phone, and a moment later his mother scurried into the room with his lemonade. She upped the ante with a trio of cookies on a china plate.

“I didn’t want to disturb you while you were on the phone,” she said. “Was that the Reverend?”

“Yes,” Pete said, keeping his voice flat. He found it wasn’t hard to do.

“Such a nice man,” she said. “What did he have to say?”

“He said that the zombie I helped put in jail destroyed herself.” He took a sip of his lemonade.

His mother nodded. “I heard it on the radio. They didn’t go into much detail, just said that she’d done it.”

“What are they doing with the body? Did they say?”

“They mentioned something about transporting the body to the foundation,” she said.

She’d put ice cubes in his drink, something she did no matter how many times Pete yelled at her not to, but he stowed this chip of anger away, too. It was utterly amazing that she had no idea whatsoever that he’d been
dating
this zombie, this dead girl. She was completely unaware. Her smile was nervous, frightened, almost, and he realized that he’d been staring at her.

“Ken called,” she said, her voice quavering. “He’s coming home early so he can have dinner with us. I hope you don’t mind.”

Pete steadied himself with a gulp of lemonade. Ken was his mother’s husband, the Wimp. He tried not to shudder as one of the cubes of ice clicked into his front teeth.

“Of course not,” he said, “I’ve wanted to talk to Ken.”

His mother stiffened, reading ominous portent into her son’s words.

“This is great lemonade,” Pete said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He bit into a cookie and chewed until his mother carefully backed out of the living room.

“W
ALK, WALK, WALK,” POPEYE
said. “Trudge, trudge, trudge. Then sit, sit…sit. Sometimes being a zombie totally…sucks.”

Tak looked at him. He was sprawled out on the sofa, one leg on the floor, his bony arms flung out behind him. His leather jacket was open, revealing the muscles of his abdomen where he’d pared away the skin. He looked like a daddy longlegs that had been struck by a thrown slipper. Or like a dead man.

Many, many times Tak had wanted to ask him about the flesh removal. Tak had a similar patch on his torso, one that had gone all the way to his ribcage, but that was the result of the motorcycle wreck that killed him, not self-ornamentation.

Tayshawn snorted from across the room. He was flipping through some CDs they’d left behind before making their pilgrimage to the lake, but he knew better than to ask Tak if he could play one.

“What did you…expect?” Tayshawn said. “A big party?”

Popeye sat up, practically bouncing off the couch. “Why…not? We’re…back, man. Why not…make…the most of…it?”

He managed to knock his sunglasses off with his wild hand-waving, and once again Tak got the full effect of his bulbous eyes. Watching him flail, Tak realized, as he often did, that he was crazy. Manic.

But then, they were all crazy.

“Yeah,” Tayshawn said, tossing the CDs to the floor with disgust, or maybe disappointment. “The most.”

Crazy. Manic Popeye. Mal, staring off into space, looking for God. Tommy with his messiah complex. The beating hearts, all crazy.

Tak wasn’t excluding himself from the observation; he knew he was as crazy as the rest of them. Maybe crazier, because he knew that there was nothing else after this…
existence
, and yet he kept going. Kept trudging, as Popeye said.

“Don’t be…depressed, Tayshawn,” Popeye said, rising from the couch to retrieve his glasses. Tak wondered if he was putting on his sunglasses for Tayshawn’s benefit; the other boy made no secret about how he felt about Popeye’s “work,” especially his eyes. “Let’s…make something.”

“Like…what?”

“I don’t…know. Something. Let’s…glue the…CDs…to the…ceiling. Something.”

Crazy. Tak watched them argue for a moment, then turned away. He walked toward the stairs.
Trudged
toward the stairs.

The creaking of the stairs sounded like the screaming of lost souls. In the days before they went underwater, he’d heard a newlydead telling a story about a zombie he’d known who claimed he’d heard screaming and saw bodies writhing when he died, and flames, but the flames were cold. Beneath the water Tak had tried to imagine cold flames, tried to imagine a coldness more intense than the Oxoboxo during the winter—a coldness he couldn’t even feel—to no avail. He had no faith in a heaven, so why would he believe in hell? He had faith in nothing. Nothing at all.

There was a photograph of her on the Wall of the Dead. She was wearing her short skirt and white blouse, and standing at the edge of the Oxoboxo woods on a sunny day. He went to it, placed his fingers upon it. It was too dark in the room for him to make out the details, but they were painted upon his memory. Autumnal light framed her against the backdrop of trees. She was amused, her chin upraised, her head tilted slightly to the left. He could almost feel the sunlight.

She was still alive. She had to be. There was nothing else.

“Tak?”

He turned. He hadn’t even heard Tayshawn coming up the stairs.

“Yes?”

“Can we…talk…for a minute?”

“We’re…talking.”

Tayshaw’s disgust finally came through in his expression. “What the hell…was that?”

“What?”

“With…Adam. You…stabbed…him, for God’s…sake.”

Not for God’s sake, Tak thought.

“It got…out of…hand.”

“Out of…hand? We went there…to get…his
help
, and you…”

“Tayshawn,” Tak said, “I don’t think…you know…how…angry…I am.”

Tayshawn must have caught the note of warning in his voice, because he paused a moment before continuing with his questions.

“Angry? About…Karen?”

“Karen,” Tak said. “And George. And you, and me, and…Popeye. I’m so…angry, Tayshawn. I’m so full…of…hate.”

Tayshawn leaned against the wall, an awkward movement that ruffled the photographs. He folded his arms across his chest.

“Funny,” he said, after a long pause. “You don’t…look…full of hate.”

A sly smile came to Tayshawn’s face in slow increments. Tak watched the progression and couldn’t help but be amused. Not that he showed his amusement.

“Funny.”

“Yeah, I…try. We’re all angry, man. But Adam’s…one ofus. Evenwhenhe was.. . alive.. . hewas . ..one of…us.”

“One of…us,” Tak said. “You’re right…of course. I have…apologies…to make.” He didn’t really believe it, but he didn’t want to argue, either. Tayshawn moved away from the wall and straightened some of the photos he’d ruffled. “Why…are…we here, Tak?”

“Honestly? I’m not…sure.”

“If we are…going to…travel…back…to the lake…we should do it…now…right? While it’s…still…morning?”

He saw the wisdom in what Tayshawn said. They shouldn’t still be here in the daylight—there was too great a chance the building was being watched—but traveling during the day was just as dangerous.

“Not…yet,” he said.

Tayshawn didn’t argue.

“Popeye is…looking for…some paint,” he said. “He’s going…to start…a mural.”

Tak didn’t reply. He realized that he was still touching Karen’s photograph, and brought his hand back to his side.

“She…stayed…with her family, didn’t…she?”

Tak couldn’t see his expression in the gloom. He wondered how Tayshawn knew that he’d been touching her photo.

“She…did.”

“I always…wondered…about…that,” he said. “When I was in…that class…Karen and Tommy…and Evan…lived with their…families. And they…seemed so much more…active…than the rest…of us.”

Tak nodded.

“It seemed to make…sense. They all had…families…so they…‘came back’ more…. My mom…believed all that…demon nonsense…the news…was preaching. She’s real…religious…my mom. She tried for…a few…days, but…she made me…leave. I never…heard…her crying…like when…I came back.”

Tak heard him sigh.

“Was that…what it was…like…for you, Tak? With…your…parents?”

“No,” he said. “My parents…would not…have…turned me away.”

“They…they wouldn’t?”

“No.”

“What the hell…are you doing…here, then?”

Tak turned toward him.

“I…was ashamed. I was not a dutiful…or obedient…son,” he said. “My death was…my own fault. My parents did not…deserve to live…with the consequences.”

“You…you never went home?”

“No.”

“Do they know you are…a zombie…at least?”

“I don’t. .. know. I’m sure they…know. .. about the.. . motorcycle.”

“Tak,” Tayshawn said, “you should…tell them. Call them, or…something.”

Tak shook his head. His hair had thawed some, but it still made crackling noises.

“I don’t…think so. Better I…exist…only…as a memory.”

“That’s messed…up, Tak.”

“Maybe.” And maybe it wasn’t, he thought. He had already put his parents through the pain of his death because of his poor decisions. He had no intention of torturing them further with his monstrous walking corpse of a body.

Tayshawn was silent for some moments before returning to the stairs. He might have muttered something about them all being crazy, or it might just have been Tak’s own thoughts reflected back to him.

Tak remained standing in the darkness, trying to imagine that he was the sunlight on Karen’s skin.