For his next attempt at distraction, he’d tried self-mutilation. He’d systematically sat down and destroyed his left pinky toe. Had banged it against the floor until it was shattered, then continued damaging it until he could actually tear it off. It hadn’t been very difficult. His sensitivity to pain was significantly less than on Earth. The pain was more annoying than agonizing. And this act was also as useless. The next morning, he had been miraculously restored. Keith figured even if he found a way to ‘kill’ himself it would also be temporary. No escape.
The only good thing about this place was he had plenty of time to think, especially about himself. He remembered hearing stories that portrayed ghosts as being overpoweringly envious of the living. He could strongly identify with that. If he was given the opportunity to be on Earth, haunting someplace, he knew he would be. It’d be tough to refrain from abusing the living, incredibly tough, knowing what he did now. Kevin’s regret was acute. All the opportunities he’d missed haunted him. Every night he’d stayed in because he was slightly tired, all the hours wasted watching moronic TV shows, all the bullies he’d avoided, all the women he’d been afraid to ask out. Or, shit… there was much worse. All the general moralizing he’d done, every hedonistic pleasure he’d left undone, because it was ‘wrong’ or ‘sinful’—and for what? It had made no difference. It was funny, blackly funny, but he couldn’t laugh at it; it was too fresh and real. Although it could have been worse. He could have been a priest, or a complacently poor person. Wasting his life for a later eternal reward that—surprise!—hadn’t been granted.
Yeah, life had been more precious than he’d dreamed. There’d been crappy times, true, but more good times to balance it out. Even pathetic, miserable lives sounded better than this. And altruism was bunk, he’d decided. Let anyone see what waited for them after death, and then see if they ever sacrificed their health or life for someone else. Not likely. Even for their own kid. Sure, you loved them, they were cute, but so what, when you’d all be in Sheol eventually, mute, mindless drones for eternity?
Thoughts like these disturbed him. Keith was still capable of feeling guilt, feeling that he was being too pessimistic, too selfish. Then, existing even an hour or two in Sheol crushed these optimistic, selfless thoughts. Shit, this place would turn Norman Vincent Peale to despair. Was he dead? Keith didn’t know. Oh well, it was only a matter of time. ‘Course old Norm most likely wouldn’t be depressed for long. He’d be without memory just like all the others, soon enough.
That was the root of Keith’s problem; memory. Obviously, his was unusually good for this place. No one he’d met (and the number of people he’d met here was well into five digits so far) had retained memories as well as he had for so long. Randy Wilson, the old lady, and even Father Swan had all lost even the ability to speak days ago. As far as he could tell, his mind was pretty intact; his memory seemed about as sharp as when alive. Mind you, it hadn’t been particularly great then, but now, comparatively, it was astounding. Was this a blessing or a curse? Sometimes he thought joining the herd might be a relief, other times not. One of his few satisfactions left was feeling special, feeling superior to the loathsome zombies. But knowledge undeniably caused him so much pain at the same time.
Not that, ultimately, his opinion mattered. He could yearn for stupid numbness, but he wouldn’t necessarily get it. Or he might dread it and forget everything all the same. No choice. No power, no control whatsoever. Why he alone had this memory was also puzzling. The answer to this was similarly unknown to him, frustratingly so.
This thought was on the periphery of his mind now as he strode about. It was his new calling of the moment. Keith was curious about the borders of Sheol, if any. He planned to walk and walk, and see if there were rivers or walls, or a fiery moat to keep people in. Or, if this was a planet, see how long it took to circumnavigate it. It was something to do. It was a casual stroll. He stopped often to observe people. Another hobby of his was seeing if he could recognize famous dead people. This was problematic too, though. Anyone who died before the advent of photography might stay anonymous since they looked different from paintings. Also, the people themselves usually didn’t recall their identities, of course. Still, it passed the time. Keith told himself he’d seen Einstein, Lindbergh, Teddy Roosevelt, and a recently deceased supermodel whose name he (and she) didn’t remember. Whether they really were these people was beside the point.
As he bedded down that night, probably twenty miles from his previous home, Keith hatched another possible scheme. Maybe he could convince some vegetables to lay atop one another in a large stack, like in Yertle the Turtle. Maybe he could enjoy a better view, or amuse himself by high diving off them into a large pile of worms. Might be—gasp!—diverting, even fun. Worth a shot. He drifted off in a slightly more pleasant mood.
Around him, Sheol continued.
The Cold Dark Forever
By C.W. Blackwell
Central California, August 1924
* * *
The two men staggered up the coyote trail, one tall and steady, the other leaning into the first with sweat at his temples and an oily stain at the belly of his shirt. Where they stepped, the trail darkened with blood, flies dancing over the mottled dirt. When they reached the top of the ridge they rested and waited for the cover of darkness.
“It’s cold, Billy,” said Calum. He lay against the trunk of a fallen oak with his arms folded. Trembling.
Billy sat with a leather knapsack in his lap, the hasps undone, and the main pocket flapped open. In his hands lay a pearl necklace with a large opal pendant. He tilted his head to the sky. “Gotta give it another hour before we build a fire,” said Billy. “They’ll know it’s us if they see the smoke.”
“I feel cold is all,” Calum said. Blood lacquered the oak stump beside him. “Feels like the more I bleed the colder I get.”
Billy let the necklace slip into the knapsack. It made a small chime as it settled atop the rest of the jewelry in the bag. “You’ll be fine, brother,” said Billy. He said it as though he really believed it. “It went straight through. Remember when you popped me with Pa’s twenty-two? Bullet went in and out. I was up in the truck shovelin’ oat hay the very next week. Just a skeeter bite on either side.”
Calum had a faraway look. “I was thinkin’ maybe I’d die out here,” he said. “Maybe I bled too much.”
“Horseshit,” said Billy. “All you need is rest.” He cupped his ear and turned to the canyon. “You hear that sound, little brother?”
Calum lifted his head but didn’t say whether he heard it or not.
“They’re runnin’ bloodhounds out in the redwoods,” said Billy. “The sheriff, maybe. But I guess it could be Grady’s men. It was wise of us to coast down the river a ways.”
“They won’t find us up here, will they?”
“No sir. They’ll quit when it gets dark.”
They lay on their backs and listened to the distant howls haunting the valley. Stars now freckled the eastern sky and Orion’s bow drifted from behind the bald peak of Loma Prieta.
“Hey Billy,” said Calum. “You remember when Uncle Vic died and Ma and Pa had themselves a quarrel?”
Billy took a long time to answer. The bloodhounds had quieted and the sounds of frogs and night insects had taken over. “Yeah I remember. They was drunk is all.”
“Not that drunk. I remember what they was quarrelin’ about.”
“Ma was mad ’cause Pa drank all the hooch at the funeral.”
“That weren’t it.”
“I know you gonna tell me, so just get it outta your craw, little brother.”
“It was about Uncle Vic. Ma said he was in a better place and Pa said it weren’t so. Said there ain’t such a thing as a better place after you die and all that’s left is the box they put you in.”
Billy watched Calum in the dark. He looked small and slight. Like a shadow someone tore off and left behind. A slack-shouldered figure with eyes full of starlight. “You ain’t
gonna die. Not now.”
“Maybe not. Just that I’m hearin’ Pa’s words in my head. He had a name for it, you know.”
“A name for what?”
“For after you die. He called it the cold dark forever.”
“Well, that ain’t what Ma called it and that ain’t what Reverend Peters called it, neither. Pa was a mean old man with funny ideas. Especially when that corn liquor got a hold of him.”
“Just that the more I think on it, the colder I get.”
“Well, stop thinkin’ on it.” There was contempt in Billy’s voice. He stood in the darkness and raked his hair with his fingers in exasperation. Billy thought he could hear Calum crying. “Guess it’s safe to build us a fire. Wouldn’t that do you some good, little brother?”
“That’s all I been hopin’ for.”
Billy woke at first light and stirred the contents of the knapsack. A telluric scent of dust and metal filled the air. He rose and tapped Calum with the toe of his boot.
“Let’s get on, little brother,” he said.
Calum didn’t respond.
Billy watched him for a moment, ravens croaking in the redwood boughs. He knelt and patted his cheek.
Calum blinked and gasped.
“Hell, Calum,” said Billy. He spat in the dirt. “I was just plannin’ your funeral. Can’t you get up?”
Calum lay there, blinking. Thin, white ash tumbled from the firepit and he watched it drift through the campsite. “I was havin’ a nightmare, Billy.” His face pressed to the back of his hand and it made his speech sloppy. “We gotta turn back. Ain’t nothin’ good ahead of us.”
“Back where? We got enough fancy gold and silver chains to make the pope jealous. You know something I don’t?”
“It was about Pa. The nightmare. He was dancin’ by a big roarin’ fire with one of them necklaces we stole swingin’ around his belly. Jar of whiskey in his hand. We were someplace I never been before. Someplace deep in the woods.”
“Well, that don’t sound wrong except for Pa bein’ alive.”
“You were there too, Billy. But there were bites all over your body and you were bleedin’ like a stuck pig. All torn up. Like a bear got to you. Then you took to laughin’ and waggin’ your finger at the moon. When I looked up, the moon was carved into one of them devil stars we saw in Uncle Vic’s book. You know what I’m talkin’ about? He called it a pentygram.”
“Damn if that ain’t some kinda nightmare.”
“You were in a world of hurt, brother.”
They sat for a moment, their thoughts wandering. The mist was thinning in the trees. Paper wasps with their long and draping bodies floated between the branches. Billy hoisted the knapsack over his shoulder and was about to speak when Calum put a finger to his lips.
Billy froze.
They heard a scream farther down the ridge.
Dogs barking and whining.
A shriek of utter agony.
“Are them screams the way we’re headed?”
“I reckon so,” said Billy.
“Well then,” whispered Calum. He pushed himself halfway up, one foot on the ground and the other bent as if in prayer. He turned his head and winked. “Ain’t I a mighty fine prognosticator?”
It was mid-morning before Calum could walk the trail. He complained that his legs felt numb, and his eyes fluttered as if on the very edge of consciousness. Tiny fingerlets of blood dangled from the hem of his shirt.
“We got to get you cleaned up,” said Billy. “Get you some fresh clothes.”
“Maybe there’s a good store in Monterey. Like them department stores back in Memphis.”
“They’d fix you up good, little brother.”
“Barter me a fancy hat with all them jewels.”
“That’d be just fine.”
“Wish they could see us all dressed up. You know, back home. Think we’ll ever see home again?”
“Shit. We been run out of damn near every state in the union. Ain’t no such thing as home.”
Calum stopped and squinted into the distance.
“You see that?”
It took Billy a moment to see it. The trail dipped around a thicket of coyote brush and, where it picked back up, he saw a figure lying in the dirt. They walked slowly, Billy with his arm hooked under Calum’s shoulder.
“Is he sleepin’ or is he dead?” said Calum.
Billy looked for movement. After a moment, he said: “If he was the fella doin’ all the screamin’, then I’d wager he’s dead.” From inside the leather bag he slid a lead pipe about the length of his forearm.
Calum swayed in his boots, watching him.
Billy inched forward, pipe held aloft like some slow-motion assailant. When he cleared the coyote brush he recoiled and coughed into his hand. Flies spun through the air. He dropped the lead pipe into the dirt, and he doubled over and retched.
“What is it, Billy?” Calum shuffled closer.
Billy caught his breath and looked again.
Sprawled over the trail lay a torn and twisted figure. The hair on the body signaled it was male, although the face was indiscernible. The flesh had been chewed completely from the skull. Only the blue eyes remained. The torso was exposed, and from the stomach a pink mass of viscera unspooled like stanchion rope onto the trail.
Insects everywhere.
“Just like my dream,” said Calum. “Only it was you that was all chewed up.”
Billy took a step closer and peered over the body, rocking to his tiptoes. “Is that an ear of corn in his mouth?” he said.
“Looks like it,” said Calum. He came up beside the body and looked it over. “Stalk, roots and all. Looks like someone damn near kicked it down his throat.”
Billy knelt in the dirt and reached for the corpse.
“Don’t touch it, Billy.”
“Why not?”
“Looks like somebody put the curse on it.”
“I keep tellin’ you there ain’t such a thing.” Billy searched around the body. When he stood again, he was holding a silver revolver. He opened the cylinder and inspected the chambers. “It’s full of brass. Old boy never squeezed one off. Not a single shot.”
“Think he was lookin’ for us?”
“Maybe. Maybe he forgot to feed them bloodhounds.”
“Wouldn’t that be somethin’,” said Calum. “Turned on him like a pack of wolves. His own doggies. Bet he tried to reason with ’em and that’s why he didn’t shoot.”
Billy went for the cornstalk, as if to yank it from the corpse’s mouth but, before he could reach it, Calum made a pitiful whimper.
“What now?” Billy said.
Calum pointed down the hill.
Sitting on the trail sat a lone bloodhound, its snout filthy with blood and gore. The knobs of its eyes jerked back and forth. Another hound appeared from behind and trotted into the tanoak scrub and lay with its paws outstretched, ears pert and watching the two men. The animals passed their tongues over their bloody mouths, a reddish drool falling over the trail.
Billy thumbed the revolver and leveled it in the air.
The dogs watched him warily. Sad eyes with a weeping crust at the eye corners. “Get!” Billy yelled. “Go on, if you ain’t stupid enough to get shot.”
The animals took an interest in Billy’s threats. They wagged their tails and perked their ears, as if some backyard game was to commence. Billy stomped and kicked up a cloud of dust, but the dogs only watched him with a sort of joyous amusement.
“I think they like you, brother,” said Calum.
“They won’t like me when I shoot their peckers off.”
“You couldn’t hit an elephant pecker if it was pokin’ you in the eye.”
“Like hell I couldn’t.”
The dogs suddenly stood and pointed their snouts toward the deep forest, tails still and jaws slightly parted. They cocked their heads, listening. A girl’s voice beckoned from somewhere beyond the trees, her tiny call carrying through the labyrinth of redwoods.
The voice grew louder, calling the dogs by name.
“Andromalius, Andrealphus.”
Billy could just make her out in the shadows, a small figure with black hair and a gray cotton dress.
The animals trotted off the trail and disappeared.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Billy. “Who do you suppose that was?”
Calum didn’t answer.
Billy turned and found him on his hands and knees, breathing hard. He donned the knapsack and ran to him, pulling him up so his head lay in the crook of his elbow.
“What happened, brother?” Billy said. “Talk to me.”
Calum heaved and shuddered. Eyes swimming. A trickle of pink saliva traversed his cheek.
Billy lifted him into the air as one might cradle a child. He looked up the trail and back down again. “Dammit all,” he said. His voice had taken a desperate tone. Panic brewing. “You ain’t gonna make it much further, are you?” He stepped off the trail into the tree shadows, calling to the girl, searching for the sound of her voice.
The path was crowded with young tanoaks and blackberry brambles. The immense crowns of redwood trees loomed overhead. He called to the girl, stopping every few minutes to search for signs of her passing. He stumbled into a tiny stream, looking to the far bank to see where the path picked up again. Calum went into a spasm, head jerking and eyes fluttering. Hair damp with sweat. A rocky sand bar stretched down the middle of the stream, and here Billy laid his brother down.
“Ain’t gonna let you die,” said Billy. He cupped his hands into the water and washed the blood from Calum’s face. “There’s a house close by and I’m gonna find it. Get you some help.”
Calum blinked his eyes, pupils contracting slightly.
“Where are we?” he said.
“In the woods. Headed to Monterey.”
“Them dogs is g-gone?”
“Yes, sir. Ran off to their master.”
Calum swallowed hard. “They ain’t dogs, theys d-devils.”
The Other Side Page 16
