Shivers 7 (13 page)

As he started toward the front door, he heard a gunshot echo through the woods, followed closely by a scream of pain. He then heard someone thrashing through the brush, yelling, “Help! Help me!” in a desperate, terrified voice.

Jared wanted to ignore the pleas for help, wanted nothing more than to go inside his house, lock the door, and never come out again. But he turned in the direction of the trees, and walked away from his car, his driveway, and his beloved home, toward a figure in a mud-stained blue suit emerging from the woods. As they drew near one another, Jared could see the man was drenched with sweat, one side of his face bleeding from dozens of tiny wounds, his paunchy stomach bleeding from a single large one. One Jared fell into the arms of the other, looked up into his own eyes, and in a hoarse voice whispered, “Run…”

Jared released his other self, and the wounded doppelg
ä
nger slumped to the ground, dead or close to it. Jared looked up and wasn’t surprised to see the three undead hunters come striding out of the woods, grinning their too-wide grins, weapons held at the ready. Nascar stopped, lifted his rifle, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet slammed into Jared’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. The wound blazed with fiery pain, and he pressed his hand to it, finding the navy blue cloth of his suit already moist with blood. He turned and started running toward his backyard as Nascar fired another round. This one missed, though, and Jared kept on going. He didn’t look back to see if the hunters followed. Of course they did.

He nearly laughed with joyous relief as he entered his backyard and saw the old oak tree with the tire swing, the green turtle sandbox with the lid slightly askew, the inflatable wading pool filled with water. But then he realized: his family was home, and he had come bringing Death in his wake. He started to turn, intending to run back across the field at an angle, hopefully make it into the woods once more before the hunters could finish him off. He didn’t care about his own survival now. All he cared about was luring the three grinning killers away from his family. But before he could take a step, he saw that the water in the pool was tinted a faint red.

Despite the afternoon heat, Jared shivered with cold as he walked over to the edge of the pool and saw what was left of Peter’s body floating there. He heard the back screen door open and shut, and he looked up to see Michelle walking toward him, carrying Heather’s head by the hair. She brought the head up to her mouth and took a bite out of it, as if she were eating an apple. She chewed as she continued toward him, swallowing as she stopped.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You don’t look so—”

A rusty axe blade hissed through the air and buried itself deep within Michelle’s skull. She dropped Heather’s head as blood jetted out of her own, and the hunter in the Reds cap yanked the axe free and struck her again. Michelle’s body jerked and spasmed as the damaged brain inside her split skull misfired one last time, and then her body fell to the ground.

Jared looked at the man in the Reds cap. He stared at Michelle’s corpse, axe handle held tight, blood dripping from its blade and pattering onto the grass. He was breathing hard, and lines of sweat ran down his face…a face that was no longer that of a dead man. Jared turned to look at John Deere and Nascar and saw that they too appeared to be perfectly normal,
living
men.

Then he looked down at his own grayish-green hands.

“End of the line, motherfucker,” Nascar said, and pointed his rifle barrel at Jared’s forehead. “Game’s over.”

Jared looked up just in time to witness the muzzle flash with his dry, dead eyes.

* * *

“You ever wonder what goes through their heads?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know how they say that when it’s your time, your life flashes before your eyes? I just wonder what goes through their heads at the end. I mean, sometimes they just look so surprised, you know?”

“I’ll tell ya what goes through their heads—a fucking bullet, that’s what.”

The three men laughed as they walked away from the Tudor house and returned to the hunt. But despite their laughter, the men were hardly enjoying themselves. What they did was hard, bloody work, and it wore on a man after a while. But they couldn’t afford to rest, for there were a lot more deaders out there that needed to be put down, a hell of lot. The only thing that made it possible for them—and all the others like them—to keep going day after day was the knowledge that what they were killing wasn’t human. Oh, sure, they’d been human
once
, but not anymore.

Not anymore.

Echoes

Don D’Ammassa

I had expected the cell to be squalid, but I hadn’t anticipated just how unpleasant the conditions of my incarceration would be. Under ordinary circumstances I would be outraged at the indignity, but given the alternative, I can only view this as a mildly painful inoculation to ward off what might have been a much more serious malady.

The first time I experienced the echo, it was so transient that I imagine most people would have dismissed the phenomenon as just a trick of the light or a blurring of the vision. Fortunately, unlike most people, I’m acutely aware of conditions in my immediate surroundings at all times. I’ve never understood how someone could believe that there is a distinct line of demarcation between their body and their physical location. After all, the body is just the immediate, portable environment that contains the essential us. If I cut my hair or bleed or even if I were to lose a limb, that wouldn’t diminish who I am. We don’t have absolute control over our own bodies, any more than we do over the rest of our environment. I wouldn’t be able to grow back that missing limb, and if someone should choose to stab me or if the police locked me up, they’d be demonstrating that at least in some respects they have as much control over my body as I do myself.

But I’m straying from my point here. The incident occurred just a I passed my first anniversary at Eblis Manufacturing, where I sat in a cubicle for eight hours a day and processed inventory transactions, filled in spreadsheets, prepared materials requisitions, and pretty much spent all my time pushing paper, or more properly, pushing pixels around the screen since most of my work was at a computer terminal. There were two other people in the same office, Dorothy Gingrich, who looked old enough to have learned the fundamentals of her job in ancient Rome, and Hector Racina, a quiet, lumpish young man who spoke very labored English. Both of them kept to themselves, which suited me just fine, and I don’t think we’d exchanged more than a dozen words a week in the entire year that I’d been there.

Nor was Mr. Horty, my nominal superior, any more voluble. Once I had assured him that I understood the essentials of my job, he seemed content to let me fill in the gaps on my own, and from that point forward treated me—and my co-workers—as though we were simply pieces of office equipment with no personalities or opinions. His attitude suited me perfectly, as it apparently did Dorothy and Hector.

But one day I received an email telling me that my annual review was to be held at 2:00 PM the following Monday and that I should report to Mr. Horty’s office at that time. It was annoying, certainly, since I knew perfectly well that I was performing above the level which was expected of me. I had the lowest error rate in the department and the highest productivity level, and several of my suggestions to the software support staff had been implemented. I’d even received a commendation (by email) from Mr. Horty for my observations about the redundancies in the scrap reporting system.

The meeting started well. Horty waved me to a chair without looking up from the file folder spread open on his desk, presumably my personnel records. I was hoping for nothing more than a brisk “well done” or perhaps a “thank you for your efforts” or, if Horty was feeling particularly expansive, “you’re an important asset in this department”. But Horty was apparently in a rare mood of conviviality.

He called me Mr. Vardoger instead of Vincent, and the first thing he asked was how I liked working at Eblis.

“I’ve found it rewarding and professionally satisfying.”

Then he wanted to know if I had any complaints.

“None whatsoever.” Actually, the air conditioner was too loud and it blew directly down into my cubicle, Hector had a distracting habit of tapping his pencil against the side of his coffee cup, the lighting was not optimal, and the rest rooms could have been better maintained, but I wanted to help Horty along and get this interview done as quickly as possible.

“Do you have any suggestions to make about how we could improve things around here?”

“I’ve sent along a few ideas.”

His eyes glanced up from the folder and met mine for the first time. “Yes, I see that noted here. How about your co-workers? Any conflicts there?”

“No, sir.”

His eyes drifted away, contemplating something on the wall behind me, or perhaps in another place altogether. “Where do you see yourself two years from now, Mr. Vardoger?”

I was momentarily confused by his question, but realized he meant this on a metaphorical rather than physical level. “I have no plans to look for another job, Mr. Horty. As I said, I’m quite happy here at Eblis.”

“Yes, but in what capacity?” He sounded mildly, unaccountably annoyed. “You’re a young man, hard working and bright. You surely don’t want to sit at a desk processing transfer slips and receiving logs for the rest of your life.”

Well, actually, that seemed perfectly agreeable to me, but I could tell that Horty was looking for a different answer. “I’d be willing to serve in whatever capacity I’m suited for.”

His eyes flashed and I had the strangest feeling that he was seeing me for the very first time. “So you don’t want my job eventually?”

The prospect made me distinctly uncomfortable. It is difficult enough to be responsible for the actions of one’s own body without having to worry about those of others as well. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a supervisory position, sir.”

He resumed his contemplation of my file and our eyes never met again during the course of the interview, which seemed to go on interminably. Every suggestion that I’d offered was mentioned and faintly praised, and Horty made a check mark in the file after each. I thought we were just about finished when he shifted position in his chair and moved on to what he termed “opportunities for improvement” in my performance.

It was all that I could do to sit in my seat while he made totally inappropriate or trivial suggestions. I should take the training course for our new order entry software, even though I would never have any reason to use it. I had made six transaction errors during the past quarter, out of over fifteen thousand entries, much better than Hector or Dorothy had ever managed to achieve. I needed to make a stronger effort to interact with my co-workers in order to develop team spirit and improve morale. There were a few other things, so inconsequential that I would be embarrassed to even note them here.

At last it was over. Horty said “thank you for your time” without looking up. I hesitated, then stood up, tempted to say something rash about how unfair and arrogant it was to turn what should have been a rewarding experience into an exercise in humiliation but thought better of it. As I stood, out of the corner of my eye and for just a second, I thought that I saw myself still sitting in the chair, leaning forward with a hint of aggressiveness, but as I half turned back, that secondary figure stood and turned and melted into me and my vision was completely normal.

I finished the day in a quiet rage, well below my usual productivity level, and I just barely caught myself before I made a significant transaction error.

* * *

The second time it happened, I was tempted to dismiss the phenomenon as the product of an overactive imagination. Fortunately, unlike most people, my imagination is firmly under control and I never allow it to interfere with my perceptions of the world. I am not a hypochondriac; if I seek medical help it is always because of an actual illness. Although I have a deep love of books, I do not read fiction; I have never understood why one would want to immerse oneself in another person’s artificial reality. I rarely dream and do not confuse the lingering after effects with the waking world. I do not believe in ghosts, flying saucers, an omniscient god, conspiracy theories, the assertions of politicians, or any other fantasies. My beliefs and perceptions are thoroughly grounded in reality.

I was certain that what I saw was neither a mirage nor a delusion. Besides, I wasn’t the only one who witnessed the event.

It was on a Saturday and I was running a few errands in downtown Managansett. I hadn’t slept well the night before and was drowsy, so I decided to stop and have a cup of coffee. It was moderately crowded and I had to wait in line while four other people were served, but eventually I faced a young lady with her hair tied back who asked me “What can I get for you?” except she slurred it all into one word.

“A tall French roast, black.” And then I watched as she filled a cup from an urn clearly marked “Decaf.”

“That’ll be two dollars,” she said, another single word.

“I beg your pardon. I asked for regular. That’s decaf.”

She looked at me as though I’d grown a set of horns. “You don’t want it?”

“I want a tall French roast, black. Not decaf.” My voice, I assure you, was perfectly even and inoffensive.

“Why didn’t you say so then?” But she set it aside and took a fresh cup as she turned away. And filled it with decaf again.

I’m not bellicose by nature. If anything, I’m too self-effacing. Most mornings I would have meekly accepted what she offered and quietly decided never to do business there again. But I was tired, grouchy, and the memory of my humiliation at the hands of Mr. Horty had still not completely faded.

“Young lady, I asked for a regular coffee, not a decaf. If you can’t serve your customers properly, I suggest you find someone who can.” And I turned on my heel and stalked away, while the three people standing in line behind me turned their faces away, pretending not to have seen or heard what had just happened. I trust they had better luck with their own purchases.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Leaving my car in the coffee shop’s parking lot, I walked across the street to the post office and purchased some stamps. When I emerged, I could see a small crowd gathered in front of the coffee shop, and as I crossed back to retrieve my car, I could hear someone shouting angrily. I had just reached the sidewalk when I noticed the young woman who’d so badly served me coming in my direction, waving her arms, her expression furious.

“You son of a bitch!” was the first thing I could actually distinguish, each word distinct this time. As she approached, I also noticed something altered in her appearance. The hair on one side of her head was plastered down against her skull and there was a dark smear over the same shoulder and the front of her uniform. I couldn’t understand this or why she would have reacted so strongly to my earlier comment, or waited so long to display her rage, and I stood frozen, trying to interpret the situation so that I could understand it.

Had it not been for one of the other customers, an older man with a completely bald head wearing a sweat suit, I really believe she might have physically assaulted me. She was only two steps away when he caught her by the arm. “Miss, it wasn’t him. I saw the guy run the other way, up toward Cannell Street.”

She allowed herself to be stopped, but glared at me with undiminished fury. “I saw him! This is the guy!”

“No, it’s not,” said the man quietly. “They’re dressed the same way and they look alike, but it wasn’t him.”

For a few seconds, my fate hung in the balance, and even when she turned and stalked back toward the coffee shop, her body language said she didn’t believe what she’d been told.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

The bald man shrugged. “Some guy who looked just like you threw a cup of coffee in her face, then ran off.” He looked at me closely. “You don’t have a twin brother, do you? He sure looked a lot like you.”

* * *

The incident troubled and excited me.

I own my own home, a little cottage on Vernon Street just a half mile from downtown Managansett. It was a pretty little place, in reasonably good repair, in an attractive neighborhood. On one side was an undeveloped triangular lot, too small and awkwardly shaped to build on, and that afforded me a welcome degree of privacy. On the other side, unfortunately, was the proverbial neighbor from hell.

Ted Kramer was a teamster currently in the second year of idleness following a road accident that left him, theoretically, disabled. He had a tall stockade fence around his backyard, but I knew for a fact that he’d recently built himself a patio, laying the concrete and doing the brickwork himself, and I wondered how long it would take the insurance company to catch up to him. There were two large apple trees on the side of his property that bordered my yard, and some of the branches extended well past the fence. It was a nuisance cleaning up the dropped, rotting apples before I could cut the grass, but even worse were the hordes of insects that were drawn to the fruit. I had broached the subject of trimming the branches back shortly after moving in, and Kramer had responded with an obscenity-laden warning not to touch his trees. Although I had the law on my side, I had decided not to make things even more unpleasant by carrying through with my plan.

My consideration had not been reciprocated. The Kramers had frequent parties which were invariably loud and raucous, went on until all hours, and left a mess of debris that blew down the street and into my privet hedge. Sometimes his guests parked in front of my house, and on two occasions they’d blocked my car in the driveway. Kramer also had a pair of dogs which he frequently let loose and they left pungent evidence of their visits on my lawn and woke me up howling in the night. Agnes Kramer was no better than her husband, an overweight slattern whose hair seemed to be perpetually in curlers and who went out for the mail wearing a tattered bathrobe. She played the radio loudly (country and western) while sitting on the new patio in the evenings when they didn’t have guests—and sometimes when they did. I hadn’t spoken to either of them since the first month of our acquaintance and sincerely hoped not to do so ever again. Actually, I hoped that lightning would strike their house, or that the earth would open up and swallow it into a sinkhole, or that they’d drive off in their pickup truck one morning and just never come back.

It was late in the week following the coffee shop incident. I’d just come home from work to find the street in front of my house covered with damp, wet leaves and pine needles. The Kramers had raked their yard into the street, then run the sprinklers, which eventually washed much of the waste material down into the shallow depression in front of my property. Fuming, I got out of my car, started for the house, and promptly stepped into a particularly unpleasant dog mess. As I was scraping it off my shoe, I heard my neighbor’s screen door slam and a moment later Merle Haggard’s voice carried over the fence.