The Deadsong (8 page)

Sleep. Dad said not to worry. Stop being such a woman. Man up, will ya?

Duke lay there until he was sound asleep, lost in another world, a nightmarish world where his death played out in fragmented snapshots, running away in slow-motion, an army of red-eyed vipers on his heels.

But as he tossed and turned under a splash of cream-colored moonlight, the Pearson house remained quiet.

In the room below his, Ellis lay awake watching the blue digits of his alarm clock change each minute. He was so proud of himself.
Even I am not above the rules,
he had said, but he had broken them by discovering a loophole in the mix––a successor that didn’t bear his name or have his natural gift. So far it had been working. At least his pupil’s first reaping had gone according to plan, but by meddling in an established supernatural bond, he knew there could be trouble. He had to be careful.

His father, his father’s father, and so on, have all had to fulfill the same purpose, and now, his own son should be learning the ways passed down through his bloodline, but that rule had been broken. Well, bent a little. What made this possible was nothing short of a revelation, and best of all, Duke knew nothing of it.

Blood brothers. The notion was revelatory and presented a solution that would remedy his situation completely. Duke was about eight or nine years old when he had come into the house with blood gushing from a slit he’d made on his palm with a broken piece of mirror. Young Duke had unknowingly tainted Jared with this very special gift.

Blood brothers.
Why didn’t I think of that before?
Ellis felt like celebrating.
Call up the friends and neighbors, honey, I’m getting out of the family business.

He liked Jared. Loved him like a son. But Duke was his son. And no other option existed even in the realm of speculative fantasy. This was not only his ticket out, but Duke’s pardon––his saving grace. His son, his blood wrapped with flesh that favored his own more and more as each day passed, would be free. Free to have a life and pursue any vocation he damn well pleased. Duke wanted to play professional football, and glory to all that is holy if he did it, but the outcome was solely dependent on Jared’s ability to learn. And sing.

If Ellis passed the torch to another and became free of this nasty curse, his family name would no longer be stained with the blood of thousands. But he had broken the rules, and when you break the rules, the boss comes by to let you know it.

The boss was would be coming to town. Ellis knew he wouldn’t get walking papers––he’d receive due punishment.

12

Garret Eucher looked up at the marquee and walked to the ticket booth. “One for the four-thirty show.” A dainty hand with pink nails took his five bucks and slid him a ticket.

He didn’t come here often, but now that Dylan had gotten hired on, he could enjoy all the free movies he wanted. He strolled in and whiffed gloriously at the smell of fresh popcorn. He still had four dollars in his pocket and could afford a bucket––loaded down with that butter-flavored syrup, of course––along with a box of Milkduds or perhaps some chocolate-covered cookie bites. Instead, he selected a pretzel from the rotisserie and a small root beer from the fountain. Dylan was rocking on his heels by the double doors that led into Screen 1, which was the only screen in the place and Garrett couldn’t understand why it had to have a number.

“Hey there, Stark. Tear my ticket like a good little usher. Nice tie, by the way.”

“I know, right?” Dylan straightened it with dignity. He took Garrett’s ticket, tore away the stub from the perforation, and handed it to him.

“Make sure you hold onto that. I’d hate to kick you out for not having your stub.”

Garrett faked a jab at Dylan’s gut and slapped him on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work. If the sound’s out of  sync with the picture, you better fix it fast or I’ll write up a complain card.”

“Enjoy the movie, sir.” Dylan opened the door for him.

“Sir, huh? I can get use to this,” Garrett said and disappeared into the darkened theatre.

A man wearing a blue button-down shirt and slacks approached him with his ticket held out. Dylan took it.

“How are you doing today, sir?”

“Very well, thank you,” the man said, taking his stub. “You live around here?”

“Born and raised. You from out of town?”

“Is it that obvious?” The man looked himself over self-consciously.

“Everybody knows everybody around here. Pretty much, anyway.”

“Then maybe you could help me out. I’m here on business. You could say I’m checking into the snake problem.”

Dylan broke character and felt blood swelling in his cheeks. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping to get some background from some of the locals. I’ve  been trolling through the archives, but I have a feeling I’ll have better luck hearing things first hand.”

“Maybe you should try Avery’s. Lots of old-timers hanging around who’d love to tell you more stories than you’d care to hear.”

“I’ll do that,” The man said and offered his hand. “I’m Alan Blair.”

Dylan gripped it and pumped. “Dylan Starkweather.”

“Nice to meet you, Dylan. What about you? What can you tell me about what’s been going on here?”

“Well, sir, I’m––”

“Please, no ‘sir’. I can’t be more than five years older than you.”

“Alan, you probably know more than I do. Every year about half a dozen kids get bit and die. Just happens, I guess.”

“These things don’t just happen without any scientific reason, though,  Dylan.”

“I don’t know much about science, but Hemming has its own story.”

“And what might that be?”

“Ah, just a stupid tale about a guy with a bunch of snakes who kills kids because they’ve been bad or something like that. You know, just a story to scare us kids. Campfire stuff.”

“I see,” Alan said absently, furiously jotting notes onto his palm.

Dylan cleared his throat. “I don’t mind talking to you, but you’re gonna miss the movie.”

Dylan wanted to talk to this college guy some more. Maybe he could help him out somehow…

No, Dylan. You’re weak, remember. Just  a weak, shit-freckled fuck. Know your place
.

Alan clicked his pen and clipped it inside his breast pocket. “Good call. I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.”

Dylan nodded and held the door open.

“Enjoy the movie, sir. I mean Alan.”

Once Alan was inside and the door had silently returned to its rest, Dylan watched the clock above the entrance, impatiently waiting for his shift to end so he could tell Gina about the new guy in town.

13

They parked outside the Billy Burger just as it began to rain. Jared had picked Gina up earlier and had taken her to see “Nightcrawler” at the Hemming Theatre. It was a campy horror flick about a masked killer who terrorizes these kids shacked up in a haunted house. In the end, the maniac with an ax was none other than the protagonist’s father who had escaped from prison to butcher up his ex, his son, and anyone else who got in his way. One of kids had plunged an ice pick––conveniently in plain sight once the killer chased a screaming blonde through the kitchen––through the killer’s boot, but he didn’t scream, because in these kinds of movies, if the killer’s wearing a mask and he screams, you can tell who it is, or at least have an idea.

They had laughed more than anything. Dylan had gotten them in for free (
thanks, bro, you’re the best
) and they had even scored free concessions. Once the film was over, they decided to satiate their appetites with even more feel-good food, except with something sopped in grease instead of butter-flavored syrup.

“Hurry back,” she said.

Jared got out of the car and ran into the place. Gina watched him. He stood patiently in line, casually looking around as if searching for something but nothing at all.
I hope I’m wrong. Sweet Jesus with a lollipop, I hope I’m wrong.

She glanced in the rearview at Jared’s gym bag in the backseat. She had been eyeing it most of the time they’d been in the car, and she wanted to know what was in it. It had moved yesterday. She was sure of it.
Maybe there’s snakes in there…

Whatever it was, her curiosity got the best of her. She had to find out.

Now was her chance. Her hands found the seatbelt and unfastened it, letting it crawl away from her shoulder. The rain cranked into an all-out downpour, whooshing across the hardtop with deafening intensity. She turned in her seat and reached back until she felt the slick nylon of Jared’s gym bag. The storm afforded her more cover but she had to get this over with fast.
He’s paying for the burgers now, getting his change…

She gripped the zipper and pulled it around, then she stopped.
What if something’s in there? What if I
am
right? What will he do when he finds me looking at––

She jabbed a finger at the bag. It just sat there motionlessly, benignly. She took a deep breath and threw back the top flap.

Clothes. That’s all. Almost in disbelief, she rummaged through the contents: a T-shirt, gym shorts, and a pair of dusty cleats.
No snakes, Gina. The men with the white scrubs and butterfly nets will be coming for you if you don’t stop this nonsense.

Through the storm she heard the electronic bell chime as Jared walked out the front door with a paper sack.

Hurry! He’s coming, you idiot!

Quickly, she zipped up the bag and saw a piece of paper jutting out from the side pocket. She snatched it and stuffed it down in her bra without thinking.

The door opened. “What are you wrestling around in here for?” Jared asked, handing her the sack. He closed the door and they were enveloped in silence.

“I got hot and tried to turn on the AC but––”

“Well, that would be a little tricky,” he said. “This car didn’t come with air conditioning.”

“No big deal. I’m starving.” Gina unwrapped her cheeseburger and bit into it. She chewed as long as she could to avoid conversation. She wanted to get home to read the note.

“I was thinking we could park out near Goodman’s Branch and––”

“Not tonight, sorry.” She tried to look regrettably apologetic and for her sake, it was working.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I… Nevermind,” Jared said and shifted into Drive.

The lights were still on in the house when they arrived. Her mother would be on the couch watching the news, Dylan in his room listening to music and doing homework.

The note.

“Call you tomorrow?” Jared asked, his eyes tired but forgiving.

“Sure.” Gina put her hand on his and squeezed. It was warm and calloused, the hand of a hard worker––a good man. There was something about Jared Kemper that made her entertain the possibility of actually finding someone who was genuine, someone who liked her for all her endearing qualities and had no reservations.

She wanted to know this boy, but if he had secrets, she wanted to know them as well.

And so she ducked through the rain and jumped the porch steps. She turned and waved, watching his tail lights fade into the night as the Charger groaned away.

She pulled out the note. It was wet and the ink had begun to smear. But she could make out some of it:
LUBBOCK
and
MIDNIGHT
and…

A capital letter
P
signed at the bottom. It was underlined with a tail squiggle at the end, and she knew only one person who signed their initial like this. She had seen it countless times on her economics tests when she was a freshman.

Mr. Ellis Pearson.

Duke said Jared had come to class with a note and had been dismissed. Was this the same note? But it had
LUBBOCK
written at the top, as in Susan Lubbock, and now she was dead…

Her thoughts sped on shaky rails, sending her head on into further whimsical speculation that warranted further attention. She wanted answers, but had no intentions of playing Nancy Drew. She would need dirt on Pearson…

Who could  give her some?

She jammed the note into her pocket and went inside. Her mother was indeed watching the news, feet propped up, a glass of Merlot in her left hand.

“I’m surprised you didn’t decide to stay out all night,” Linda said.

“Where’s the phonebook, Mom?”

“Phonebook?” Linda put down her glass and walked into the kitchen. Gina listened as her mother began pulling  out drawers and pushing them back in.

“Here it is.” Linda handed it her.

Gina thanked her and went up the stairs. Her mother cleared her throat.

“Sorry, Mom. Good night,” Gina said.

“Good night.”

Gina closed the door and scanned through the thousands of names printed in tight block columns.

Who would know something… Who…

Her finger stopped at
WIGGINS, FLOYD.

Ah yes. The gossip king of Arlo County. Floyd’s practically ancient, overflowing with hearsay and dirty little secrets. He’d be in bed by now. Don’t wake him over this, Gina. Let it go.

She picked up the phone and dialed, crossing her nervous fingers in hopes that Floyd would meet her tomorrow at Avery’s for a little shit-shooting.

A strained voice said hello, but her mind had already broken off into another tangent, wondering who, if anyone, would die tonight.

CHAPTER
THREE
:
FLOYD
WIGGINS

1

She walked into Avery’s and looked around for Floyd Wiggins. The smell of stale cigarettes and cooking grease filled the place. She saw him in a booth along the back wall next to an old jukebox lit up with neon, stacks of 45's in its mouth crooning forgotten tunes of a bygone era. Floyd waved her over. She sat down across from him.

“Want something to drink?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m not thirsty,” she said and glanced behind her.

“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

His was ornery but gentle, and she liked him well enough for being an old fart. Gina had worked for Floyd last summer at the farmer’s market unloading trucks and running the cash register for five bucks an hour. He liked to talk turkey with just about everybody, and if there was anything to know in Hemming or Durden, Floyd had the scandal.