Whispers in the Night (22 page)

Then Swanson was grabbed from behind and hauled to his feet. Hadley was pulled forward even more, her foot gripped in Swanson's fist, until her back leg straightened out and she slid out from beneath the table.

Deke had Swanson in a choke hold. The salesman fought with a maniac's intensity, biting Deke's forearm, dragging long red runnels into the skin of Deke's neck and face with his fingernails. Deke grabbed Swanson by the scruff of the neck, reared back, and slammed his face into the table—

—until Swanson stopped fighting.

Over near the jukebox, Ruby Ling sat up and giggled.

Hadley stood.

Deke turned and glared at the other zombies. They stopped and regarded him with the air of conscientious objectors. In a flash, Hadley understood: Somehow, Deke had become one of the quick ones.

Hadley edged forward, her fingers reaching for the screwdriver sticking out of Deke's ear. Deke backed away.

“Nnooo,” he moaned. “Helllpssss meee.”

Hadley nodded, gratitude filling her eyes.

Clovis climbed down off the ceiling fan.

“Songbird,” she said. “I hear more of 'em comin'!”

“Moooorrree,” Deke hissed. “Lotsss—more.”

“We have to go, Deke,” Hadley said.

Deke nodded slowly. Then he opened his mouth. Hadley tensed, ready to bolt.

“Siinnng.”

Over by the front door, Emmet got to his feet, the back of his head leaking, and turned toward Clovis. Deke lifted a hand. Emmet whined, and stood still.

“Sinng,” Deke said.

Hadley nodded. At first her voice was barely audible over the moaning of the walking corpses. But slowly, the song gathered strength. Hadley sensed that hers was the last song these dead would ever hear, and the knowledge lent her a kind of strength she'd never consciously possessed.

More and more strokers were stumbling into the truck stop. Hadley lifted her voice and sent the song out over the heads of her audience until it echoed up and down Route 45.

When she was done, Deke nodded. “Sonnng-birrrrd.”

There were nearly fifty dead people milling behind him.

“
Hadley,
” Clovis said.

Deke faced the strokers who blocked the front window. The corpses shuffled and parted. Hadley and Clovis walked quickly through a gantlet of the whining dead.

Hadley climbed up into the cab of Clovis's eighteen-wheeler. Behind her, Deke stood in the window shaking his head like a man trying to dislodge a trapped mosquito. The yellow screwdriver bounced against his shoulder.

In the northern distance, black towers of smoke rose into the afternoon sky: Chicago was burning.

“Three million dreams,” Hadley whispered.

“What?” Clovis said.

“Nothing,” Hadley replied. “Better head south.”

Clovis nodded. “Long as you keep singin'.”

They thundered out onto the highway.

As they passed, the dead paused. But a terrible hunger tugged most of them toward the burning in the north, and they walked on.

But some of them cocked their heads to mark the passing of a newborn star.

Maurice Broaddus

D
aniel nearly vomited the first time he rolled the old lady from her sloshy pool of excrement. His arm buckled, almost dropping her, but Jake supported her with his free arm. With a few tugs on the incontinence pad, Jake pulled the stained one free while rolling a fresh pad under her. Daniel became all too aware of the odor that assaulted his nostrils. Feces still covered her matted, gray pubic hair. He tried to be gentle when he wiped her clean, but she still groaned at his efforts.

“Can you hand me a new gown?” Jake asked.

“This has seen better days,” Daniel said with a gallows chuckle, holding the soiled gown as if it threatened to rear up and bite him. His friends often wondered what made him choose to work in a retirement home, the Devil's playground. He grew up in a close-knit Bible-believing church that bordered on religious fundamentalism. So when the demons revealed themselves in order to openly live among mankind, he recognized it as a change in Satan's tactics and rejoiced.

The end days were upon them.

In the meantime, he had to be about the Lord's work. Daniel always had a heart for the elderly; recalling his lessons that whoever mistreats the least of these, widows and orphans, mistreats Him. However, the Regional Healthcare Center, home of the damned, was a repository of the best forgotten. Daniel had three nights of orientation for being a certified nurse's aide, which meant that he had to be paired with someone. Tonight, he toured with Jake. Jake was “high yella,” Daniel's mother would've said. He had a large forehead, exaggerated by his receding hairline, quite visible despite his shaved head. And he had a slim, though muscular, build.

“Thank God you a dude,” Jake said.

“I'm pretty grateful.” Daniel didn't want to jump to any conclusions. All of those Hollywood types and rappers thanked God. God didn't seem to really matter to them; like
God bless you
, it was something to say.

“Nah, I mean it. The rest of the staff is women.”

“Kind of what I expected, you know, being a nurse's aide and all. Is that so bad?”

“You ever listen to a roomful of women cackle? Plus, I'm still with my baby's mama, so it's not like I'm looking.”

They peeked in the next room. A rather obese man breathed with a wheezing snore. A teddy bear rested next to him.

“That's Mr. Reams. If he's asleep, let him sleep,” Jake said.

“But shouldn't we check to see if he's wet?” Daniel asked.

“How long have you been an aide?”

“Tonight is my first night of clinicals. After ten days, I can take my CNA test.”

“Yeah, you sound like you just got out of those state board classes.” Jake sighed. “He got a catheter due to his . . . condition. No legs and shit. So if Mr. Reams is asleep, let him sleep. Same with his roommate, Mr. Black. Let them sleep, or they stay up all night bugging the shit out of you.”

Daniel followed him back to the lounge area and plopped down next to Jake, not noticing the man on the other side.

Jake leaned forward to say, “Hey, Mr. Black.”

“Hurm,” a razor-sharp, yet gravel-filled sound replied. “You gotta cigarette?”

“It's too early for cigarettes, Mr. Black.”

“Baby, you gotta cigarette?” Mr. Black said to Sh'ron, another CNA, who sat across from them, wrapped in a blanket.

“Baby, you gotta cigarette?” Jake mimicked, silencing him. Daniel felt a pair of eyes on his back. Mr. Black. He kept studying him when he thought Daniel wasn't looking. Whenever Daniel turned back to him, Mr. Black looked away. Not that Daniel stared at him too long; there was an ugliness to his yellowed, bloodshot eyes and wrinkled, flabby jowls, like a fat man who had lost his fat and was left with extra skin.

“No one told me we had such a good-looking man up in here.” Sh'ron's voice had an annoying nasal rasp; a beautiful picture spoiled by talking. Her deer-brown eyes studied him like he was the last rib at a barbecue. A mole accented her left cheek in an intriguing way; bright red lipstick anointed her full sensual lips.

“Thanks,” Daniel said.

“You in church?”

“Yeah.”

“I could tell. I bet you in pretty deep, huh? Guess you off-limits.”

He smiled, both embarrassed and flattered. Mr. Black shifted noisily.

“C'mon, man, let's go get a Coke or something. Anyone else need anything?” Jake stood. Muffled half grunts and shrugged shoulders were their only response. In the silence that accompanied the slow elevator ride, Daniel noticed the tattoo on Jake's forearm: a heart, with wings on either side of it, with a pair of horns on top and a tail extending from its tip. Twin pitchforks crossed in the background. Three letters inscribed the heart:
B G D
.

“Black Gangsta Disciples,” Jake said.

“Huh?” Daniel felt stupid, as if caught peeping in his sister's window.

“Yeah. Black Gangsta Disciples. I used to run wild in the streets. You know how we do, deal a little. But I'm through now, walking a different path.”

The elevator spat them out at the lobby entrance. A statue of Mary greeted them. Her fingertips were broken and cracked, another neglected mother. Bits of wire peeked through her worn hands. Her hollow and dead eyes held Daniel's gaze for a moment. He could see how a fallen Mary might amuse the guests. A nurse cleared her throat, looming over them with a toxic glare of instant dislike, like a cat tossed amid a pack of hyenas.

“I see that no one's told you the rules.” She pointed to the silver cross dangling from Daniel's neck. “Those may agitate the residents.”

“That kind of goes against my First Amendment rights.”

Jake rolled his eyes.

“That's why we usually don't take your kind,” the nurse said.

“What kind is that?” Daniel asked.

“You have the stench of a Jesus freak about you.”

“Don't mind her, she's all right,” Jake said once they were out of earshot. “She's a little uptight, but a good nurse.”

Daniel didn't pay her any mind. She was the least of his concerns. Here, surrounded by the sick and the possessed, he would be tested. It was one thing to have faith in the unseen spiritual; it was quite another thing to know, to confront the reality of belief. The opposite of faith was certainty.

“How do you like it so far?” Jake warmed up a burrito.

“It's different. A lot of people to remember.”

“Don't worry about it. This place works short every shift. Never enough people because they don't wanna pay shit. State would shut this place down in a second if they knew how this place was run.” The microwave's ding interrupted his thought. “Gotta have a balanced meal.”

“This is all the balanced meal I can keep down.” Daniel raised his Coke can.

 

 

“Daddy, Daddy! No, Daddy, please, don't make me,” Ms. Mayfield, a wisp of a woman, cried out. Coarse black hairs sprouted from her chin. She reminded Daniel of his mother, in a way, what his mother might become. His mother, too, had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. At some point she'd stop being that little girl who trusted Jesus. She'd have lost her mind, no longer there in any real way, simply a body.

Ripe for
them
.

Daniel lived with the constant fear. The possibility that he would grow old and forget who he was and what he believed. He knew the Devil was real. Daniel always thought it curious that Jesus was always casting out demons, and yet these days doctors were quick to diagnose people as mentally ill. Then demons appeared in their midst, telling them what their doctors were too smart to see. Only the sadness of the situation kept Daniel from making any “I told you so” pronouncements.

Ms. Mayfield winced in pain, then touched her forehead. A calmness overtook her face. She reached for him with one of her wrinkled, skeletal hands, startling him with both her suddenness and her strength. She pulled him close. Images of her withered desires sent him reeling back. However, she chanted something in what sounded like a mix of Latin, a north European dialect, and gibberish. Yet her tones were cautious, almost concerned. Her eyes virtually shone with clarity. As quickly as it started, her “lucid” outburst ended and she fell back, exhausted.

The odor was utterly appalling, so he removed her sweat-and-urine-soaked gown. Her age-laden breasts fell flat against her chest. He found himself unable to look away, at once revolted and drawn to the sight of her full, wrinkled nakedness. Daniel mulled over her wardrobe selection, settling on a pink, flowery housedress suitable for milling about with the other residents. She curled into the fetal position, almost pleading to be let back into some unseen womb, murmuring to herself. On her nightstand was a photo album. Curiosity got the better of him and he flipped it open. Pictures of crows from magazines had been placed like scrapbook photos.

“We're all crows. My children and I. All crows,” she said with a burst.

He pushed her wheelchair to join the elderly gathering in the television cul-de-sac, like the set of a geriatric sequel to a zombie movie.

“You come in tomorrow?” Jake asked.

“They have me scheduled to work Monday through Friday this week and next week. They want my clinicals to be over with quick so they can transfer me to Southside.”

“Yeah, but you coming back?”

 

 

A nostalgic wave of melancholy washed over him, unbidden, with memories of Aaron. The two of them grew up in the church together, best friends since they graduated into the church youth group. Daniel's friendship with Aaron revolved around the two of them being bad influences on each other. Aaron, ever the pastor's kid, enjoyed slumming with Daniel, mostly because hanging with him annoyed his parents. For his part, Daniel enjoyed the cool status reflected onto him by Aaron's presence. Aaron was the envy of all the kids: the pastor's son, tall and athletic, blond curly locks, handsome with a clever wit about him. Daniel's parents insisted that he go to church even if they didn't. He had been unnoticed by the other kids and knew only the distracted attentions of his Sunday school teachers. Somehow it came up that his father drank and smoked, two of the bigger sins in their little corner of church, and Daniel noted the sudden interest stirred in others about him. On occasion, he raided his father's cache of alcohol, and he and Aaron whiled away long evenings talking about girls and life. That was about as wild as they ever got, but in their circles it was wild enough.

Life had a way of falling into place for Aaron. He married his high school sweetheart right after graduation and had a beautiful son. Then one day, they were about to go to “Friends and Family” day at the church. They were in a hurry as they usually were (it wouldn't look good for the pastor's son not to be there early). He was going to pull the minivan around front to meet her. She'd left the baby unattended for only a minute, not realizing it lay in Aaron's blind spot.

He never saw the baby carrier.

The accident shattered them. Oh, the couple said all the right things about God's will, about all things working for good. They were allowed to grieve, but even Daniel felt the pressure for them to put it behind them, to move on, to never question or doubt. It was as if everyone was afraid that real grief—real faith-shattering tragedy—might expose the house of dogmatic cards that they called faith for what it was: a series of failed homilies that they depended on to guide them, rules without love or anything real to offer.

Watching everyone walk around with plastic, “everything's for God's glory” smiles left Aaron stumbling after his faith. He confessed to Daniel (begging him for faith, it seemed, looking to him to restore the shattered remnants of belief), asking what he'd do when he woke up screaming in the night from the silence of his unanswered prayers.

That was the night before Aaron shot himself.

“Lord, I believe. Help me with my unbelief,” Daniel whispered. A call button from one of the empty rooms was jammed—and with maintenance not due in until morning, the signaling bleat snapped him from his revelry. The incessant drone stabbed Daniel through the front of his skull, fraying his nerves. He filled out ADLs, Activities of Daily Living, which on the third shift meant logging what time he turned each resident. The splatter of dribbling water drew his attention. At first, he wondered who'd left the sink running, until he noted how close the sink sounded and that the water smelled like piss. Mr. Reams, with his subdued wheeze, slept through his bladder release. Daniel hadn't realized how young Mr. Reams was, at least compared to the others. Daniel found out Mr. Reams had lost his legs in Vietnam. He came home from the war and got into a fight with someone who shot him point-blank with a shotgun. The wound left his side horribly scarred and him barely able to see; he had to force his eyelids apart to detect any image. Still asleep, he cuddled his bear tighter.

“Him and that damn bear,” Sh'ron said.

“You ever hear him when you put him to bed?” Jake said to Daniel, who shook his head. “ ‘Cover the bear. It's the type of woman I like. Don't want shit, don't ask for shit.' ”

Daniel grew a little uncomfortable with the conversation since he feared where it might lead. Spying Mr. Black creeping out of Ms. Mayfield's room provided the perfect reason to excuse himself from the conversation. Mr. Black liked to pretend he was a CNA, except that he deposited an article of clothing at each stop. He was down to a T-shirt and his boxers.