Brian Keene (20 page)

"Mr. Thurmond," Jason whispered, but Jim didn't turn or acknowledge him. Jason crept behind him. In Jim's hands was a wallet-sized photograph of a little boy.

"Jim," Jason whispered again, and this time he heard him. Bleary-eyed, Jim turned to face him.

"Hey Jason," he murmured wearily. "Couldn't sleep?"

"I had to pee. What about you?"

"Can't sleep."

"Is that Danny?"

"Yep, that's him," Jim sighed, turning back to the picture before putting it back into his wallet. "How's your Pop?"

"He's sleeping. I guess that's good."

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"It certainly can't hurt," Jim agreed. Jason was hopping back and forth from foot to foot now. "Go ahead and pee. I'll watch your Pop while you're gone."

169 "Thanks."

Rising to his feet, Jim tiptoed into the bedroom.

Delmas' worsening condition shocked him. He hadn't expected the injured man to be up and dancing a jig, but the deterioration was happening much quicker than he had thought it would.

His skin had taken a ghostly pallor and dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes. Despite their efforts, Jim could smell the infection rotting Delmas from the inside out. The stench reminded Jim of hot dogs in a microwave, and he gagged. Delmas' leg was swollen and the flesh glistened in the candlelight. Purplish-black splotches dotted his thigh and calf, and the veins bulged through the skin.

From the bathroom, Jim heard the sound of the toilet flushing and with a last, pitiful look at Delmas, he turned to leave.

"Kill me."

He wheeled around. Clendenan was awake and staring at him.

"Kill me," he wheezed again. "Don't let me-" Jim went to his side, trying to calm him down.

"That'll be enough of that talk. You don't want to scare your son." Kill me!" Delmas insisted. With a sudden burst of strength, he grabbed Jim's shirt, clenching it tightly.

"Hey," Jim protested, "what are you doing?"

"Listen to me, Thurmond! I don't want to be like one of those things out there! I don't want Jason to see me like that. You've got to put me in the ground yourself."

"Don't be silly," Jim soothed. "You're going to be okay, Delmas. We're going to find you a doctor-"

"Bullshit! Ain't no doctors around here! We both know I ain't gonna make it, Jim. I can smell myself rotting. I'm burning up with fever." He broke off into a violent fit of coughing. Jim tried to lean him forward but Delmas waved him away and brought it under control. Jim noticed in dreadful

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fascination that rusty colored fluid was leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"Kill me."

"I can't, Delmas. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Then I will."

They both turned. Jason stood in the doorway, and Jim could tell by the expression on his face that the boy had heard the exchange. Martin stood blinking behind him, one hand on his shoulder. There were sleep seeds in the old man's eyes.

"You can't be serious," Jim said. "You're just a boy."

"Yes sir, and he's my Pop. I reckon I should be the one." Delmas stared at his son gravely.

"You know what you're saying, boy? Are you sure about this?" Jason nodded, struggling to contain the torrent of emotions that threatened to break loose. He was afraid if he started crying now, he'd never stop.

"For Christ's sake, Delmas, give it a few days," Jim urged. "Maybe we can stop the infection!"

The big man silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"I'm dying," he said simply, "and if we give it a few days, what happens if I pass on in my sleep? Then I'm a danger to all of you. No, it's better this way. This way we're sure."

Scowling, Jim moved away from the bed and knocked his head against the wall in frustration.

"Jason," Delmas rasped, and held his hand outstretched. The boy floated to his side. A tear ran down his cheek as he took his Pop's hand in his own.

"You've got a job to do, Jason," he wheezed. "You understand why I had to do what I did with your mother. Now I need you to do it for me. It won't hurt me, I promise. It happens so quick-" A sob caught in his throat.

"I can do it, Pop. I'm not afraid."

"I don't want you to look at me when you're done,"
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171 Delmas commanded him. "After you pull the trigger, just close your eyes and walk away. I don't want you to be haunted by it. Just leave the room. I'm sure Pastor Martin and Mr. Thurmond here will bury me." Martin nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor. Jim struck the wall with his fist.

"Go and get the twelve gauge."

As Jason left the room, he called them over to his side.

"You still heading on to find your boy?"

"Yes."

"Take Jason with you?"

"Sure," Jim vowed, meeting Delmas' pleading eyes. "We'd be honored. I promise you, from one father to another, that I'll watch over your son and not let any harm come to him."

"Thank you." He coughed again, spraying the sheets with blood and grimacing in pain as his leg rolled off the stack of pillows.

"I've got it," Jason said quietly, and shuffled toward the bed.

"Delmas," Martin queried, "I must ask you-do you know Jesus as your personal savior? Have you accepted him into your heart?"

"Yes, about twenty years ago when we went to a revival and the preacher gave an invitation. I haven't always done right, but I've tried to live the way he'd want me to."

Martin nodded.

They formed a circle; Delmas lying in the bed, Jason on one side, and Martin and Jim on the other.

"Let us pray," Martin requested, and placed his hands on top of Delmas and Jason's heads. He began to pray, and his voice was soft, yet strong and firm at the same time. There was no hint of old age or weariness or doubt in it. "Heavenly Father, we ask that you watch over Delmas and Jason, and that you be with them in this hour of need; that you give them strength and comfort and the

172 will to do what must be done. We ask that you guide Jason's hand, and that he not be troubled, and that you accept this man, your humble servant, who knows your power and glory, into the place you have prepared for him by your side, that he may bask in the wonder of Heaven. We ask Lord, that you comfort both father and son with the knowledge that they will see each other again, because of your gift, that they
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shall not perish, but have eternal life.

"Lord, we know that these bodies you have blessed us with and this flesh that you have breathed life into are just that-bodies. We know that our soul is eternal and we ask that you welcome Delmas Clendenon's soul now. We ask these things in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, as we pray: Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be They name..."

"Thy kingdom come...Thy will be done..." the others repeated the Lord's Prayer along with him.

"...and deliver us from evil..."

And please let my son be alive, Jim thought.

"Amen," Martin finished.

"Amen," Jim echoed softly. He raised his head and all of them were crying.

"Goodbye, Mr. Clendenan." Martin shook his hand. "May the peace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ be with you."

"Thank you Reverend."

Jim was next.

"I promise," he whispered firmly, "I'll watch over him like he was my own." Biting his lip in pain and sorrow and preparation, Delmas nodded. He squeezed Jim's hand tightly, then sobbed "Thank you." They filed out of the room and Jim shut the door behind them, leaving father and son alone to confront the inevitable task at hand. 173 "Should we let him go through with this?" Jim asked. "Is this right?"

"I don't know if it's right," Martin admitted, "but it's something that both have decided and we must respect that. The boy is old enough to know what it is he is doing, and the ramifications that come with it. In a strange way, there is almost a familial dignity in this."

"I didn't have you picked for a supporter of assisted suicide, Martin."

"And you would be right, but this is a new world we live in, and the rules have changed. Jason is but a young man. Let him learn those rules now, while he is a young man, that he may do what is necessary when we cannot."

"Necessary," Jim mused, "that's pretty harsh."
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"Is it? I suppose it might be at that. But isn't it harsh that that man is suffering, dying a slow death? Isn't it harsh that the corpses of our friends and neighbors are being corrupted by some evil force after their souls have fled? Isn't it harsh that your son is in danger, and you are beset with perils on your way to rescue him? Wake up, Jim! It's a harsh world! This is the path the Lord has put before us. It is not one I would choose to willingly walk, but God has given me no choice and I will follow. You must let Jason and Delmas do the same." They lapsed into silence. Martin knelt before the couch and began to pray again.

Jim began to pace the floor again.

They waited.

"I want you to know that I'm proud of you son," Delmas wheezed, "and that I love you."

The tears were streaming down Jason's face now, and sniffing, he wiped his eyes.

"I love you too, Pop."

174 "Put the barrel right here," Delmas indicated, tapping the space on his forehead right between his eyes. "And then just let go and don't think about it."

With trembling hands, Jason started to lift the shotgun. Then his shoulder sagged and it pointed to the floor.

"Pop," he sobbed in protest, "I can't do it!"

"Yes, you can," Delmas said softly. "You're a good son, Jason. The best a man could ever ask for. I know that you can do this. You have to, just like I had to with your Mamma. It's not easy, but it's got to be done. Promise that you won't let me come back! Don't let me turn into one of those things."

Unable to speak, Jason nodded.

With fading strength, Delmas squeezed his hand. His face was wet with tears.

"Don't ever forget me," he croaked, "and if you have a boy of your own some day, I hope you'll teach him all the things I taught you." He glanced around the room one last time and then looked out the window at the barn.

"The sun will be up soon, and I'm tired. My leg hurts something awful. It will be good to see your Mamma again."

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He reached down along the side of the bed and lifted the barrel of the shotgun to his head, placing it firmly between his eyes. It was cool against his feverish skin, and he found comfort in this.

"I love you Jason."

Jason pulled the gun away and leaned forward, kissing the indentation the barrel had made.

"I love you too, Pop."

He put the shotgun back in place and wrapped his finger around the trigger. His tears were gone now.

Delmas closed his eyes.

175 The roar of the gunshot ripped through the house, silencing the songs of the whippoorwill and the crickets. Martin jumped, then continued to pray, more fervently now. Jim stopped pacing and walked toward the door.

"No," Martin stopped him. "Let's give him a moment." Jim nodded and then a second blast tore through the night. They ran for the room and Jim knew what they would find before the door was even opened.

Martin gasped. "Oh my Lord! Jim, don't go in there!" The room stank of cordite and wisps of smoke still floated in the air. Delmas' body lay slumped in the bed, the top of his head running down the wallpaper behind him. Jason was sprawled on the floor, fingers still clutching the shotgun tightly. A pool of blood spread out behind him. Jim crossed the room and knelt by the body, removing the weapon from Jason's lifeless grasp.

"No no no no no!" He repeated the word over and over, like a mantra. Then he turned it into one long and mournful wail. Martin was reminded of fiction, when writers expressed that sound with Noooooooooooo. He'd never heard a human utter it before now.

"Jim, maybe we should-"

Jim turned his face to the ceiling and screamed.

"Dannyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Outside, the whippoorwill began to sing again.

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176

"Slow down!" Frankie shouted. Her arm dangled out the car window. "You wrap us around the guardrail and we're going to have a hard time finding an ambulance!"

"If this were Texas," Eddie drawled, "we'd have wide open spaces to drive through." He revved the car and the speedometer crept past ninety as he snaked around the twisted wrecks littering the highway,

"If this were Texas," Frankie replied, "then I'd already be in hell."

"You don't like Texas?"

"Never been there and I don't plan to go now. Isn't it all cowboys and cattle?"

"Awww, shit no, honey. We've got cities that'd make Baltimore seem tiny by comparison. We've got nightlife like you wouldn't believe! Best country music outside of Nashville. Well, at least before all this."

"Country music? Gag."

"What's wrong with country music?"

"It's nothing but redneck noise." She turned back to the road and shouted "Watch out!"

A tanker truck lay on its side in the middle of the highway, blocking all three lanes. Cursing, Eddie swerved into the breakdown lane and the Nissan bumped and lurched over the grass-covered embankment. The wheels spun, threatening to drop them down into a culvert. Then they found traction and Eddie struggled to weave around the truck and back onto the highway.

177 "That was close," he muttered. He tipped his cowboy hat backward, wiping his brow with a meaty palm. "Sorry about that."

"That's alright," Frankie said sweetly. "NOW SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!"

"Punch buggy red!" John of Many Colors shouted from the backseat as they passed a wrecked Volkswagen. He playfully tagged Frankie's shoulder.

"I don't know why we had to bring that fuckstick along," Eddie sulked.

"Anybody with a lick of sense can tell he ain't right in the head."

"We brought him along because he's alive," Frankie explained again, her patience with the burly Texan wearing thin. "And if he's alive, he deserves a chance to stay that way. The only way we're going to make it is if we start banding together."

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"Well, just don't you go forgetting your promise," Eddie warned her. "I help the two of you get out of the city, and I get to sleep with you tonight."