by JG Faherty
The first thing he realized was that his ghost form remained tied to his body somehow. The farther from his grave he traveled, the weaker he got. Riding to the clubhouse – Diablo was as much a part of him now as his own thoughts – tired him out. Any more than a mile farther and he grew so exhausted he had to stop. The same thing happened no matter which direction he took, leaving him trapped in a circle roughly twelve miles in diameter, which encompassed all of Hell Creek plus a little bit more. Better than being stuck hovering over his own grave, but having no real freedom added more fuel to the inferno smoldering inside him.
That same passionate rage seemed to be the basis of all his powers. By channeling it, forcing it into a focused thought or action, he could affect the physical world. Trickle some energy out and he could make streetlights flicker or car alarms go off. Gather up all the hate and fury festering inside him and let it loose in one huge eruption, a mental projectile vomiting of pure hatred, and the effects were far greater. A row of motorcycles knocked over in front of Hickey Tavern. A dozen shattered windows at the elementary school.
The only problem was, channeling all that energy into one blast left him totally drained, so weak that sometimes he couldn’t even conjure Diablo to life. On those occasions it took hours for his strength to return.
In between his experiments, Eddie inevitably ended up returning to his house to see his mother or Carson. Although it gave him a slightly creepy feeling to spy on them, he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He’d peer through a window or sit across the room while his family went on living without him. Watching them was an oddly wonderful and terrible experience. Wonderful because even though he couldn’t interact with them, he took some joy from knowing they weren’t gone forever, that he’d at least get to see how their lives turned out.
Terrible because he remained invisible to them, helpless to provide comfort or aid or support when they needed it. And from what he’d seen, they did need it. His mother looked sicker than ever, as if his death had drained the last of her will and strength and she was just marking the days until she joined her son in the afterlife. Carson put on a brave front for her, and in public, but it hadn’t escaped Eddie that his little brother had cried himself to sleep every night since the funeral.
Even now, while the two of them sat in her room finishing a late dinner, a desolate silence filled the air, a sense of gloom reached Eddie from the other side of the window. Watching them, the words to a song came to him, a song by Charred Walls of the Damned that he used to listen to whenever he felt depressed, usually about bills or his mother’s declining health.
Struggling in a world so cruel
Trying hard not to fail
Sometimes making it through the day
Is like walking on nails
Walking on nails. That’s exactly what it was like. Nails that pierced all the way to his heart. Only now, instead of wishing he could rid himself of the anguish, he embraced it, because the horrible sadness of their lives re-stoked the hatred inside him, re-charged his batteries and filled him back up with rage toward his murderers. He welcomed it, let his wrath expand within him until he felt he couldn’t contain it, and then he forced himself to slowly rise up until he was well above the house.
Usually, at that point he’d conjure Diablo and race toward town, just like when he’d been alive, shaking the heavens with his thunder. There he’d practice using his destructive energies, pointing his finger at clouds and firing energy bolts like the super-villain he imagined himself to be at those times.
Tonight, however, he had something else in mind.
* * *
Wednesday night had always been the unofficial start of the weekend for the Hell Riders. They’d gather at Hickey Tavern for a dinner of chicken wings, beer, and tequila shots. Around ten o’clock they’d either stumble out and bring some girls back to the clubhouse or they’d be rousted out by Chief Jones or some other cop and then stumble back to the clubhouse.
Eddie doubted anything had changed since he’d died. After all, it wasn’t like the gang had lost one of their own. Sure enough, when he arrived at the Hickey there were seven gleaming Harleys parked out front. He didn’t even have to look at the bikes to know who they belonged to; only full club members and their girlfriends were allowed to attend the Wednesday night pre-party. Pledges, wannabes, and assorted sluts would be at the clubhouse, getting things ready for the main event. With him dead and Ned in prison, that left only seven full members.
Passing easily through the wide front window, Eddie went inside, experiencing a moment of nostalgia as he took in the familiar booths, dark walls, and assorted neon signs of the bar. He hadn’t been back since ratting on Ned Bowman and getting kicked out of the gang, preferring to keep a safe distance from any Hell Rider hangout after that.
The Hell Riders had their usual corner table, the top crowded with baskets of wings and fries, pitchers of cheap beer, and empty shot glasses. When Eddie arrived, Hank was just finishing a joke or story that had the others laughing so hard they were spraying beer and food all over.
His intention had been to come up behind one of them and see if he could give somebody a good shock, place a hand on them and funnel a little bit of his energy right into their flesh. Hell, if he was lucky, he’d give one of the bastards a heart attack.
Instead, something far stranger happened.
The closest rider was Jethro Cole, a scrawny kid who’d dropped out of high school after two failed attempts to pass tenth grade. He had buckteeth and more freckles than brain cells, and Eddie’d often thought the Bowman brothers only kept him around to be their gofer boy.
Eddie reached out to touch Jethro’s shoulder, but rather than stopping, his hand kept going – right into Jethro’s body.
There was a burst of white, followed by a moment of pure blackness, and then without warning he found himself staring directly into Hank Bowman’s face.
And he was alive.
I can feel! The sensations were so overwhelming he thought he might faint. His heart pounded strong and hard inside his chest. Air moved in and out of his lungs. A wave of coolness from the air-conditioning washed over the skin on his arms, raising goosebumps and tickling each individual hair. The sweet-bitter tang of beer and the spicy, greasy kick of chicken wing sauce filled his nose and made his mouth water.
“What’s wrong with you?” Hank’s voice boomed like a cannon in Eddie’s ears, deafening him.
He looked around to see who Hank was talking to and noticed all the other Hell Riders were staring at him.
No, not me. They’re looking at Jethro. Holy fuck, I’m inside him!
As soon as he thought it, he knew it was true. Somehow he’d taken over Jethro Cole’s body, was now in control of it. Whatever he told it to do, it responded, just like his own body.
Which opened up all sorts of possibilities.
“Dude, what’s your fuckin’ problem?”
Eddie realized Jethro’s body was still in the same position as when he’d entered it, beer half-raised, a wing in his other hand.
Goddamn, this is going to be fun.
Eddie looked straight at Hank.
“You’re my problem, dickhead.” Then he threw the wing across the table. It hit Hank dead center in the forehead and bounced to the side, leaving a greasy, red inkblot of hot sauce right above Hank’s nose.
Hank’s mouth dropped open but no words came out. Before anyone could say anything, Eddie leaned over and poured his beer in Hank’s lap. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, with everyone at the table frozen in their seats.
Then all hell broke loose.
Duck Miller and Gary Rock dragged Eddie/Jethro out of his chair and tossed him onto the floor. Eddie laughed out loud at the pain. It was a distant sensation, as if Jethro’s brain had taken the brunt of it, and the remaining dull ache was so much better than feeling nothing at all that he rev
eled in it, embraced it. He continued laughing as Duck and Gary lifted him back up and held him while Hank waded in, hammering Jethro’s stomach and face with both fists. That hurt a lot worse but Eddie forced himself to keep laughing. He saw a couple of teeth fly past and spatters of blood covered Hank’s hands and shirt.
A grayish cloud descended over Eddie’s vision and he couldn’t tell if Jethro was losing consciousness or if the supernatural connection had started to weaken. Eddie didn’t know what would happen to him if Jethro passed out – or died – while he inhabited the biker’s body, but he didn’t want to find out.
Better make this fast.
It took a lot of effort to raise Jethro’s head and smile at Hank. It was even harder to form words with half his teeth gone and both lips split and swollen.
“Hey, fuck nuts. Watch out. Eddie’s coming for ya.” Eddie raised his hand and gave a middle-finger salute.
“Yeah? Here’s a fuck you for ya.” Hank pulled back his fist for another blow, and for the first time, Eddie felt a twinge of fear.
He had no idea how to get out of Jethro’s body.
Then he pictured himself riding away on Diablo, and just like that! he was moving, the imaginary bike’s engine straining as if climbing a steep hill, tires spinning and smoking. There was a snap like a giant rubber band breaking and then he rose up, up, and away, heading toward the ceiling while Hank’s fist connected loudly with Jethro’s already broken nose.
Below him, people jumped up and looked around at the sound of thunder booming. Windows rattled and glasses shook. A waitress screamed.
Eddie, incorporeal again and weaker than a sick puppy, found enough strength to fight the encroaching darkness and let out a bellow of laughter. Although no one in the bar heard it, lights flickered and the TVs went dark.
With a silent sigh, he let the blanket of gray fall over him and take him away.
* * *
Hank Bowman stared at the unconscious form of Jethro Cole and shivered as a cold sensation spread from his belly, numbing him until he felt like he stood in the eye of a hurricane, immune to the chaos around him. People cried out as thunder crashed outside. Someone shouted to call the police. Duck and Gary dragged Jethro toward the men’s room, and Mouse tugged at his sleeve, saying something about getting the hell out of there.
Hank stood apart from all of it, let it flow around and past him.
What the hell had Jethro said? Those last words, right before Hank’s fist flattened his nose and knocked out two more teeth. They’d been low, almost lost beneath the sounds of people shouting and running away, and twisted nearly beyond recognition by the damage done to Jethro’s mouth.
“Hay fu nuth. Washout.”
That part Hank translated easily. Hey, fuck nuts. Watch out. He had no idea why Jethro would say something like that, practically write himself a death sentence, but the words at least made sense.
But the last part? It’d come out sounding like a drunk with a mouth full of oatmeal.
“Ethys cum.”
Someone grabbed his arm and Hank swung around, fist cocked and ready. It was Mouse again.
“C’mon, man, we gotta move. Cops are coming.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Hank followed the others outside. Halfway to his bike a thought came to him so suddenly he almost tripped over his own feet.
“Cops are coming.”
“Ethys cum.”
Cum. Coming? Something coming?
“Ethys.” Hank placed his tongue between his lips and said the word out loud.
Said it again, this time using teeth Jethro hadn’t had.
“Ettys.”
Eddie’s? Eddie’s coming?
“Hey, fuck nuts. Watch out. Eddie’s coming.” Were those the words Jethro had struggled to get out?
It didn’t make any sense, but it sounded right. Now that he’d said it once, he couldn’t imagine it being anything else.
Eddie’s coming.
Despite the ninety-degree temperature and the hot sauce sitting in his stomach, the cold wind inside Hank grew stronger.
Chapter Eleven
Eddie regained consciousness as the morning sun crept over the tops of the pine trees at Eternal Rest Cemetery. The first thing he saw was a temporary grave marker with his name on it.
Oh, man. I feel like shit.
He didn’t remember returning to his grave. Everything after leaving Jethro’s body was a complete blank. Like the time he’d drunk a whole bottle of tequila. His head had that tequila hangover feeling, too. Like being trapped inside a steel drum while someone pounded on the outside with metal sticks.
Head? What head? You’re a fuckin’ ghost. You shouldn’t even be able to feel pain.
But he did feel it. Pain. Exhaustion. And that wasn’t all.
Sadness. Hatred. Rage. Regret. As if all the bad shit in life came with me when I died.
But it’s not all bad, is it? he asked himself, remembering what he’d done the night before. In fact, some things were pretty damn cool.
I can motherfuckin’ possess people! How awesome is that?
Now that he knew how to do it, his plans for the Hell Riders needed to change.
Things are gonna get a lot more personal.
With a groan, he rose to an upright position and conjured Diablo. He’d thought he’d have trouble, but even though his non-existent skull ached like hell, he felt stronger than he had since…well, since he’d returned from the dead.
The whole possession thing wasn’t just fun. It felt good. Real good. Better than coke or whiskey, despite the hangover. Like booze and energy drinks mixed together, but stronger.
Fuckin’ A. I think I like it!
With a thundering roar that startled birds from their roosts and sent small animals scurrying for their burrows, Eddie and Diablo exploded up into the new day.
* * *
“Did you hear about the fight last night?”
Carson Ryder looked up to find Kellie Jones standing by his lunch table. As usual, he’d been eating alone. Thanks to bad luck in scheduling, the few friends he had didn’t share a lunch period with him.
For a moment, Carson struggled to find his voice. The stunned looks on the faces of the kids at the nearby tables told him everyone felt the same shock as him that Kellie had stopped to talk to him. Over at the popular table, where Kellie normally sat, several of the guys looked ready to fall off their seats.
Carson couldn’t help smiling as he turned his attention to Kellie. How cool is this?
“You mean down at the Hickey? It’s all over the school. Probably all over town. I heard Hank Bowman nearly killed Jethro Cole.”
Kellie set her tray down. “Scoot over. I’m hungry.”
Carson’s heart jumped and he slid to one side, making room for her. She hadn’t just stopped to say hello. She was actually going to eat lunch with him!
“It’s true,” Kellie continued while she unwrapped her sandwich – mixed veggies on whole wheat. “Jethro’s in the hospital.”
Dumbfounded that she was sharing a table with him, he nearly knocked his iced tea bottle over when he reached for it.
Jeez, whatever you do, don’t spill on her, you idiot!
He took a deep breath before trying again. This time, his hand didn’t shake.
“Is your dad gonna arrest Hank?” Carson wished the cops would arrest the whole damn gang and lock them up forever.
Kellie shook her head. “He brought him in, but they couldn’t charge him with anything except disturbing the peace. Mr. Hickey said that as long as Hank pays for the mess, he won’t press charges. My dad says he’s probably too afraid of Hank, plus he needs the business. And Jethro’s not pressing charges, either. He’s practically on life support, but he insists it was just a misunderstanding. And since no one else got hurt there isn’t much my dad can do. Hank will p
robably have to pay a fine, but that’s about it.”
“That sucks.”
“I know. Somehow those guys always manage to weasel out of everything.”
“It should be like on TV. One of your dad’s men plants some dope on them, they all get busted, and they spend the next twenty years in jail.”
With a roll of her eyes, Kellie said, “Please. Don’t let my father hear you say that. The only person more by the book than him is Moselby.”
Remembering how many strings Chief Jones had pulled to keep Eddie out of jail, and not knowing if Kellie knew about it, Carson decided to change the subject. “So, what’s your dad think about all the vandalism around town?”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it? He’s going nuts. He thinks it’s Hank and the others, ’cause people have been hearing motorcycles in the same areas where the windows got broken. But there’s no witnesses and no proof.”
Her remark about motorcycles triggered something in the back of Carson’s brain. “You know, I’ve been hearing motorcycle sounds at night lately. Except—” He stopped, suddenly too embarrassed to finish.
“Except what?”
“You’re gonna think it’s crazy.” She would, too. Even he couldn’t believe it.
Kellie stopped nibbling a cookie and looked right at him, her large brown eyes filled with sincerity. “I won’t. And even if I do, I promise not to laugh.”
What the hell. “I said I’ve been hearing motorcycles at night, but that’s not exactly true. I only hear one. And it sounds just like Eddie’s.”
“Diablo?”
He nodded, and Kellie nodded back. “You told me you’d heard it before. Maybe you’re hearing a different bike, but it sounds kinda the same, so you—”
“Imagine it’s Eddie’s. I know, I thought of that. But there’s something else. Something…stranger.”
“So far it’s not so strange.”
“Sometimes when I hear the sound of his engine, it’s over the house. Like, way over. Up in the sky.”
