The Dead Man: Face of Evil (6 page)

Afterwards, as they lay entwined in the sheets, Rachel rested her head on Matt's chest and listened to the miraculous, comforting sound of his heartbeat as he stroked her hair.

"There were a hundred forest rangers and skiers out on the slopes after the avalanche, probing the ice with poles, looking for you," she said, knowing that she was already breaking the implied promise that she'd made to him in the car at Costco. “We couldn't find you. I didn't want to leave, even after it was clear you couldn't possibly have survived. After a few days, the forest rangers gave up, closed off the area, and said we'd just have to wait until spring, and the snowmelt, to recover your body."

"Here I am," he said.

Yes, he was. She lifted her head off his chest and rolled onto her side, so she could look at him while she spoke, to remind herself that it was true.

"I was blamed by a lot of people for what happened to you, for skiing on a dangerously steep, backcountry run and for not carrying avalanche transceivers. But their blame didn't compare to how much I blamed myself."

"Forget about it. None of that matters now," he said. “I'm alive and I don't blame you for a thing."

She kissed him and looked into his eyes. “There was a memorial service for you. It was beautiful. I cried all the way through it. So did a lot of people. They are going to want to see you again."

"I know," he said, already dreading those awkward reunions, and all the inevitable questions, but knowing that he'd have to get them out of the way soon if he wanted to go back to his life the way it was. “But one on one, as they come along. I don't want to make a big thing out of it."

"It
is
a big thing, whether you want to acknowledge it or not," she said. “You came back from the dead. Don't you feel any different now?"

"Of course," he said, giving one of her nipples a pinch. “Don't you?"

"What I mean is, what does it feel like to be resurrected?"

He didn't have any memory of dying. One moment, he saw the mountain of snow bearing down on him and the next he was looking into Dr. Travis' stunned face. He had no idea what it actually felt like to die and be reborn.

But then he realized that wasn't entirely true.

"I know what it feels like," he said, "but not because I was buried in an avalanche."

She sat up and looked at him. “I don't understand."

"I've been dead ever since Janey died. Today, with you, is the first time I've really felt alive since that moment." He slipped the wedding ring off of his finger and set it on the nightstand. “You brought me back, Rachel. Nothing else did."

Rachel kissed him and suddenly wanted to do everything they'd just done all over again.

"That's very nice, but you didn't answer my question." She reached between his legs and was surprised, and pleased, to discover that he was already hard, but no more surprised, and pleased, than he was to reach for her and discover that she was already wet. “How does it feel?"

"It feels like—" He searched for the right word, but then she climbed on top of him, took him deep inside of her, and began to slowly grind against him, making it difficult for him to concentrate.

So he didn't. He let go. He let the right word find itself.

"It feels like love," he said.

"I may never let you leave this bed," she said.

"I may never want to," he said.

When Rachel awoke the next morning, Matt was gone.

She felt a jolt of panic, fearing that it had all been a cruelly vivid dream, but then she saw the wedding ring on the nightstand and heard the snap of splintering wood, followed a moment later by the same familiar sound.

She sighed with relief, but her heart was still racing from the shot of adrenaline.

Rachel got up, went to the window, and looked outside.

Matt stood shirtless in her backyard, chopping wood, which was amazing, considering that she'd had no logs to chop.

Which meant he must've jumped out of bed in the wee hours of the morning and cut down a tree.

Unbelievable.

Then again, wasn't that true of everything about him now?

Rachel laughed with joy. She had never been so happy, or so at peace, in her entire life, and she hoped that Matt felt the same way.

When he came back in, they showered together, made love again under the water, and had a huge steak-and-eggs breakfast to slake their ravenous appetites.

After that, she took Matt up to his cabin. She knew things had changed while he'd been "away," but she figured it would be better if he discovered that for himself.

Matt wasn't happy about what he saw.

The property was overrun with weeds, there was trash everywhere, and his truck was up on blocks, the hood wide open, the engine picked clean.

It was no mystery who was responsible for the scavenging of Matt's truck or the deplorable condition of the place.

Andy's truck was parked out front.

Rachel read the expression on Matt's face. “You have no one to blame but yourself. You willed the place to him."

"I wouldn't have if I'd known I'd be coming back."

She laughed—she couldn't help herself. But Matt wasn't as amused.

For him, it felt like only four or five days had passed since he'd left his cabin to go skiing. So it was a shocker to see the rapid decline, especially since the property had never been just a patch of land or place to live for him.

It was the cabin that he'd built by hand for Janey, and that made it a monument to the short time they'd shared together. He'd treated it with reverence, and it hurt him to see it taken for granted.

But he hadn't been gone for just a few days.

He'd been dead.

For months.

And life went on without him.

Matt got out, walked up to the cabin, and knocked on the door. Rachel joined him on the porch, and they waited. After a few moments of silence, Matt pounded on the door loudly and insistently enough to have awakened him if he was still dead.

This time, they heard some grunts, the sound of bottles rolling around on the floor, and some shuffling footsteps, and then Andy opened the door.

Andy was barefoot, wearing only a bathrobe and a pair of stained jockey shorts. His hair was a mess and he was unshaven, which could be forgiven, considering there was a gaping, wet, gangrenous sore in his left cheek about the size of a fifty-cent piece.

Matt took a step back. “Oh my God."

"I think that's my line, buddy." Andy grinned, his teeth yellow, his gums inflamed. “You're the dead guy."

"Jesus, Andy, what happened?" Matt asked.

"I lost my job, my best friend died, I got evicted from my apartment, and my truck crapped out," Andy said. “How about you? How have you been?"

As Andy spoke, pus dripped from his wound onto his bathrobe. His breath smelled like he'd been sucking on a shit-flavored Tic Tac.

"I'm talking about your face." Matt pointed to Andy's cheek.

Andy, baffled, touched his cheek and probed the moist, infected wound with his finger. It sounded like he was stirring pudding.

"Sorry I didn't shave for you. I would've cleaned myself up and put on a tuxedo if I knew you were coming back from the dead today."

Matt turned to Rachel. “Don't you see it?"

"See what?" Rachel said. “He's the same ugly son of a bitch he's always been."

"Thanks," Andy said, then regarded his friend with concern. “What's wrong?"

You mean besides that there's big fucking hole in your face that nobody else sees?

But Matt didn't want to admit it to himself, much less let anyone else know that he was ever so slightly delusional.

"I'm just wondering how a guy can crawl out of his grave after being dead for three months and still look better than you do in the morning."

Matt laughed and forced himself to give his friend a hug to show it was all a joke. But he was careful to hold his breath and stay on the side of Andy's face without the sore.

"It's so great to see you," Andy said, clapping him on the back. “Without you, I had nobody."

"That's why I came back," Matt said.

Rachel frowned. She didn't like the idea that Matt might pick up where he left off, babysitting Andy again.

"Now that you're here, I suppose you want everything back," Andy said. “Would you like me to move out?"

"No," Matt said. “It's your place now. It was part of my old life. I'm starting a new one."

Matt took Rachel's hand and gave it a squeeze. Andy noticed.

"I see," Andy said, picking at his sore and flicking dead skin away.

That's not really happening,
Matt told himself.
He's just scratching his cheek. There's no wound there.

"I don't want anything except my family photos, Janey's things, and my grandfather's ax."

Andy looked down at his feet, as if he'd just discovered something fascinating about his overgrown toenails. “The ax is in the shed, but the rest is gone."

The words were like a physical blow. A flush rose to Matt's cheeks. “No…"

"You were dead, Matt. That stuff meant nothing to me. What was I supposed to do with it, build a shrine?"

Rachel squeezed Matt's hand. “He's right, Matt."

He knew that, but it didn't diminish the pain or the betrayal.

Hell, the least Andy could have shown was a little regret, even if it was insincere.

It was Matt's life that Andy had thrown away.

No, it was the souvenirs from it.

That life ended three months ago. He was on his second life now. It was time to acquire new souvenirs.

But he'd take what was left.

"I'll go get the ax," Matt said and headed off to the shed.

Andy and Rachel watched him go. Then they faced each other, no longer bothering to hide their mutual hatred.

"You killed him and he still wants to fuck you," Andy said. “That's the real miracle."

She stepped up close to him, just to prove that he didn't intimidate her. “He's starting a new life, one that doesn't involving carrying your sorry ass anymore. Your failures are your own now. He won't save you."

Matt emerged from the shed, holding the ax in one hand and a toolbox in the other. “You mind if I borrow some of my carpentry tools?"

"You can have 'em," Andy said. “I'm not going to use them."

"Then how are you making a living?"

"I've got a line on a new job that's a lot easier on the back," Andy said. “Besides, you shouldn't be worrying about where my next dollar is coming from. Worry about where you're gonna find the thirty-seven hundred dollars you owe me."

"For what?" Matt asked.

"Your tombstone," Andy said with a grin. “You ought to go out to the cemetery and see it sometime. It's real nice."

Matt spent the next week at Rachel's house, sanding and restaining her cabinets, replacing the dry-rotted wood around her windows, and repairing her fence while she was at work at the sawmill.

He found that working with the wood, which Rachel brought home from the mill, centered him and eased him back into the flow of day-to-day life again.

The fantastic sex, home-cooked meals, and loving, tender company of a good woman didn't hurt, either.

Maybe it was because of all those things, the comfort and the security, that he didn't have any more waking nightmares or delusions.

He also hadn't bumped into Andy again.

The truth was, Matt was thankful that his oldest friend hadn't showed up. He was afraid of what he might see.

What the hell was that on his face?

What did it mean?

But Matt wasn't in hiding. He and Rachel went out for dinner a few times and went shopping in town. So he'd already run into people he knew and even more he didn't know.

He didn't see any more putrid sores or any imaginary doctors from hell.

But did hear again and again about how unbelievable and impossible and miraculous his return was.

Those encounters made him uncomfortable and, as glad as he was to see his friends and as appreciative as he was of their happiness for him, he was also eager to get away from them.

He didn't like the attention. He wanted to go back to being just another face in the crowd.

His intention was to move in with Rachel and make a living as an independent carpenter. But he was quickly coming to the conclusion that the only way he'd be able to have a normal, anonymous life again was if they moved somewhere else, where nobody knew him.

He was planning on talking about it with Rachel when she got home from work at the sawmill. But before he could get around to it, she practically tackled him to the floor and fucked him with such animal ferocity that he thought she might morph into a werewolf when she came.

The enthusiastically carnal encounter left them both ravenous, so she insisted that they go out for something to eat. Considering how nice she'd been to screw him nearly senseless the second she walked through the door, and considering the sacrifice he was about to ask of her, he told her they could eat anyplace she wanted.

He was hoping for the Charles, the hotel restaurant with the best steaks in town, or maybe La Rêve, the French restaurant on the river.

She picked Happy Burger.

A regional fast-food franchise just outside of town, off of Highway 99.

He was disappointed, but if that was what she craved, he was happy to oblige.

Besides, it was her money that they were spending. He was penniless. He'd willed Andy what little he had in his bank account, and his buddy had already drunk his way through it.

Happy Burger had been around since the 1950s and was one of the chief employers of teenagers and high school dropouts in Deerpark.

All the workers wore uniforms made up of white pants, patriotically red-white-and-blue-striped shirts, and caps that looked like smiling hamburgers on a plate.

The employees were required, at all times and under all circumstances, to have smiles on their faces as big and happy as the one on the Happy Burger on their heads.

That was one reason why teens who worked at Happy Burger never got laid. The other was that they were usually as greasy as the fries they served.

But the place made fantastic burgers, thick and juicy, with a big slab of melted American cheese on top.

Matt and Rachel could smell the burgers grilling from half a block away, even with the car windows rolled up. By the time they parked and walked in, their stomachs were growling so loudly that they sounded like slavering wolves.

A blond-haired teenage girl with breasts as perky and happy as her smile was waiting to take their order at the register. Her name tag read "Bubbles." Her given name was actually Lorinda Dudikoff, but when she was a toddler, she used to delight in farting in the bathtub, a pastime that both she and her parents found utterly hilarious. The Dudikoffs had more footage of those fart bubbles, and from more angles, than James Cameron had of the sinking of the
Titanic
. They started calling their daughter Bubbles from that moment on, and it stuck.

The truth was, she still liked to fart in the bathtub.

And to masturbate while she did it.

And to have her boyfriend watch.

And to have him masturbate, too.

But you'd never know any of that looking at her and are probably sorry that you know it now.

"Good evening," Bubbles said. “Welcome to Happy Burger. What can I get for you?"

"A big, fat, double hamburger. Greasy fries. And an extra-large chocolate shake," Rachel said, then turned to Matt, who was still scrutinizing the menu, even though he'd known it by heart since he was a child. “Have the same thing."

"That meal will kill you," he said.

"But you know you want it," she said. “Go ahead, Matt—live a little."

"Fine, make it a double," Matt said as his attention was drawn to the man standing behind Bubbles, stuffing burgers into to-go containers. The man's back was to them, but Matt recognized him. “Andy?"

His friend turned around.

Andy had the face of a decomposing corpse, yellowed teeth and bulging, bloodshot eyeballs poking through a rotting mass of dripping, maggot-infested flesh topped with a Happy Burger hat.

The smell of decay was overwhelming. It reminded Matt of the carcasses the neighborhood dog would leave under his house when he was growing up. But this wretched odor was worse than any stench that had ever seeped up from the floorboards.

"Don't be sad, don't be blue, Happy Burger has treats for you!"
Andy sang, the incessant beeping of the French fryer alarm as his musical backdrop.

Matt grabbed Rachel by the arm and took a big step back from the counter.

Andy cocked his head quizzically. “What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a captain of industry before?"

Matt couldn't take his eyes off of Andy's rotting face. He knew it wasn't real, that it was just a delusion, but it was so vivid, so horrifying.

But if you don't want to be institutionalized for the rest of your second life, you'll pretend it's not there.

So Matt forced a smile that would have made Happy Burger proud and stepped back up to the counter.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. “Your new look just takes some getting used to—that's all."

But does it have to smell so bad, too?

"It was either take the job or starve to death," Andy said. “You've been dead. Did I make the right choice?"

Fat horseflies buzzed around Andy's face, laying more of their eggs in the putrid, bubbling flesh that dripped off of his exposed skull.

Andy's neck was swollen taut, and Matt could see things squirming under the skin, waiting to break through.

Time seemed to slow down, and the beeping of the French fryer got louder and harsher, making it difficult for Matt to think.

Matt glanced at Bubbles, standing there with that dumb smile on her angelic face. If she saw the horror, she wasn't showing it.

And neither was Rachel.

She wasn't repulsed at all. If anything, she seemed absolutely delighted by what she saw.

It wasn't real.

He had to keep telling himself that, even as he breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench and fought to avert his gaze from Andy's melting face.

"This is only temporary," Matt said. “You won't be here long."

"Sure—today, employee of the week," Andy said. “Tomorrow, chairman of the board."

A kid, his face covered with acne, came out from the back of the kitchen, his big Happy Burger smile showing off the shiny braces on his teeth. His name was Chip, short for Chipper, because of his upbeat and positive attitude. He was born to be a Happy Burger manager, and eventually its CFO, and he knew it. This job was just a stepping-stone. One day there would be a plaque outside this restaurant in his honor.

That was true, there would be, but not for the reasons he thought.

"Hey, Andy, the French fries are ready," Chip said. “Can't you hear the alarm?"

"In a minute, kid," Andy said. “I'm talking to a couple of my friends."

"The fries have already been in the oil ten seconds too long."

Andy whirled around and looked at the kid. The rapid motion splattered bits of Andy's face on Chip's shirt. Matt fought the urge to gag.

"I'll be two more seconds," Andy said and then looked back at his two friends.

Matt could see a little tear opening up in Andy's swollen neck, a maggot working its way out.

"It's okay, Andy, we were just leaving," Matt said, trying not to look as one maggot, and then another, crawled out of Andy's throat, which was opening like a zipper.

"No, it isn't okay," Andy said. “You came to eat. You're going to eat. On me."

Andy crammed hamburgers, fries, apple turnovers, anything within his reach, into a couple of Happy Burger bags.

"We are losing the golden brown texture," Chip whined, tapping his foot in frustration.

"Back off—you're pissing off our customers." Andy glowered at Chip and then handed the bags to Matt.

That's when Andy's throat burst open, maggots spilling out everywhere, down his shirt and onto the stainless steel counter.

"Come back and visit us soon," Andy said, his larynx exposed, clotted with yellowed pus and globs of blood.

Matt muttered his thanks and hurried out the door, barely making it into the parking lot before he started vomiting.