Death and Taxes

by Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  “Oh, there is,” Martin said nonchalantly.

  “Which would be what, exactly?”

  “A half-decomposed body was eating your boss,” he answered. Martin put down his pocketknife, reached down and pulled a smaller, curved blade from his toolbox and then continued both his woodwork and the conversation. “It’s a pity. I’ll grant you that. Ma would’ve liked him, I think. Regardless, stranger things have happened around here than what you saw.”

  Clarice blinked. The rapid raising and lowering of eyelids did little to purge her disbelief. “Like what?”

  “Like a small fleet of ships on the top of a mountainside,” Martin said, scratching his head. “Never did understand that one. Like a tiny marina.”

  “I told you,” Nick said, butting in. He crossed his arms, and a smugness settled across his face. Despite Clarice’s disapproving look, Nick topped off his point. “Now what do you have to say?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “And don’t think this gives you an ace in the hole for some other argument, either.”

  “Oh, come on,” Nick said. “You’re still not going to admit you’re wrong.”

  Clarice pressed her lips together. She knew he was teasing and never meant ill will, but for the life of her, she couldn’t admit she was wrong on this one. “No.”

  “Course if you had listened to me in the beginning, we wouldn’t be here at all. We’d be home.” Nick said with a shrug.

  Clarice felt her face flush as her body temp rose. “Are you trying to start something?”

  “Christ,” Nick said with his hands up. “Don’t be so touchy. I’m only trying to lighten things up.”

  Clarice held the stern look. “That was a crappy way to lighten the mood.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have my What to do After a Zombie Attack handbook readily available.”

  “Would it kill you not to badger me at least?” she asked with a groan of frustration.

  “Now don’t go getting all rude and mean to one another,” Martin cut in as he waggled his finger at the two. “It’s just the stress getting at your nerves. Y’all are taking this better than most who come back.”

  “Others?” Clarice reiterated. The idea that people knew of this place was inconceivable. “How many others have you sent off to die?”

  Martin’s expression remained calm. “I tried to warn you, but y’all would have none of it. I know when to keep my mouth shut, and it’s not like any of you believe me when I do pipe up.”

  The young woman conceded the point and slumped against the wall. “You know,” she said, thinking out loud, “you’d think all those ghost hunters would have a field day up here. That would put the nail in the coffin on the supernatural, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, they come every now and again,” Martin replied, looking out over his property. “One of them hears about my big old graveyard and then brings his friends. All they want to do is show off their fancy toys and cameras, get spooked by the dog lapping some water and watch my house, as if it’s going to get up on four legs and run off.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” he asked, genuinely confused. “It hasn’t run off yet. Then they get bored and end up like all the rest of you city folk. They decide to head up the trail despite my warnings and never come back. Well, not alive at least.”

  “But they would believe you.“

  “Only if I told them there were ghosts up there,” he said. “I ain’t spreading no tales about no ghosts. That’s just stuff to scare the kids.”

  The logistics of their predicament popped into Clarice’s mind, and she felt the color drain from her face. “Mr. Conner has the keys.”

  “You mean for the car?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, for the car,” she answered with a sigh. “It’s his car, and he was the last to drive.”

  “I might be able to hotwire it,” he offered. “I had a friend who could, and it didn’t look too hard. I bet we could look it up online.”

  “Or we could call a locksmith,” Clarice said.

  “And tell them what when they want to see we own the car?” he replied.

  Clarice leaned back and thumped her head into the wall absentmindedly. “Damn it to hell.”

  “Well I reckon that’s not much of a problem for the two of you anyway,” Martin said.

  “Why is that?” Clarice asked.

  The old man motioned toward the path. “Looks like your boss is coming down now.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “And then some,” Nick added.

  Martin took to his feet, twelve gauge in hand. “You two wait here,” he said. “I’ve got to make sure he’s right in the head, if you get my meaning.”

  Chapter Six

  Clarice watched as Martin intercepted Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, who was finishing his descent down the mountainside. The two had a brief conversation out of earshot, but when it was over, Martin returned to the porch and Ryan headed straight for his Pathfinder.

  Clarice leaped from the porch, intent on getting answers. But from the moment she reached his side, he ignored all of her questions and simply plucked a black duffel bag from the back of his SUV. It was only after Ryan brought the hatchback down in a decisive manner and began marching back to the house that Clarice, having had enough, blocked his path.

  “Yes, Ms. Clarice?” he asked. His face was calm, collected, and determined. Moreover, it was decidedly not the face of someone that had been made a snack of a short time ago.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded, hands on hips and a challenge in her eyes. Employment status at this point had been tossed to the wind, and she was reasonably sure if his answer wasn’t along the lines of getting the hell out of Dodge, she was going to punch him square in the nose.

  Ryan’s face twisted, and she posed the question a second time. “That’s a fine question,” he finally replied. “Strange that I didn’t think of it first, though. But I suppose that’s what I keep you around for, isn’t it?” His gaze drifted down to his keys, sparkling in the remaining daylight.

  A moment passed, and a putrid smell wafted from his skin.

  “Snap out of it!” Clarice yelled, drawing him away from the cluster of keys. Once Ryan’s eyes reverted to her, she continued her interrogation, a fist balling at her right side.

  “I’m going back inside to shower,” Ryan answered while he adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “And after that, I’m going to eat and work out all that needs to be done. I want things in motion first thing in the morning.”

  “We’re not leaving?” Clarice’s fist tightened even further while a second one joined the fun.

  “No,” he replied. He then amended, “Why would we be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, being sure that her sarcasm dripped from every syllable. “Maybe because a dead corpse took a bite out of your shoulder?”

  “Well,” Ryan said after taking a few moments to answer. “What other kinds of corpses are there?” He paused again as if he needed to think about his own question before continuing. “You see, Clarice, a corpse can be one of many kinds. The most obvious is the fresh kind, but there is also the dried kind, the preserved kind, the withered kind, the kind missing a few pieces and so on. If we also decided to categorize various corpses by their location, such as buried, not buried, in catacombs, on the lawn, in the freezer, or if they were taxpayers, the number of variations grows even more. But all are definitively dead—that’s undeniable.”

  Clarice stared at him, trying to make sense of his monologue. When he started to move around her, her brain rebooted and picked the conversation back up where the crash had occurred. “There’s not one good reason for us to stay here,” she said with force.

  “Partially true,” he admitted. “There’s not one—there are at least three.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, I want my stamps,” he said. “And we must find Mr. Whittam to get the proper stamps I want.”

  “Second?”

  It was now Ryan’s
turn to be confused. He looked at her inquisitively. “Second what?”

  “What’s the second reason?”

  “For?”

  Confusion, via osmosis, seeped into her mind. “Why we are staying, I think?”

  “Oh yes, the two reasons why we can’t leave,” he said, smiling. “First, we have to collect taxes. And second, Martin doesn’t want to let me leave yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. But he’s a nice enough fellow for a hillbilly, and he’s providing free room and board. Might as well take him up on it, no?”

  “Look, I just want to go home at this point,” she said. “Coming here was a big mistake, and thankfully, we can still walk away from this mistake. Look at yourself! You’re in tatters!” She stammered a moment, trying to pull it all together. Finally, she got one last question out. “I mean, didn’t you ask why?”

  “Ask why, what?” Ryan asked. “I have this nagging suspicion that this is the second time you are muddling the conversation, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what your motive is.”

  “Why he won’t let you leave!”

  Ryan didn’t answer; instead, he turned his head at the glimpse of color. There was a bag on his shoulder, bright, red, and partially unzipped. Protruding slightly from this was a large sandwich bag containing a few toiletry items, all of which did not go well on top of or inside sandwiches. Despite their ban for use in a sandwich, they all fit snugly inside the sandwich bag.

  “Don’t you think we should find out why you can’t leave?” Clarice asked.

  “No. What I think I need is a shower, Ms. Clarice,” Ryan answered. “I seem to have injured my shoulder as well, and I need to change clothes, too, what with the blood and all.”

  “You can do all of that in a hotel,” she stated. “This place isn’t safe!”

  “I’m not discussing this any further.”

  And with that, Clarice drove her fist directly into her boss’s cheek. It was a good, solid hit and similar ones had dropped at least two boys in high school that couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. But much to her surprise and dismay, Ryan remained upright and unfazed.

  “Oh…god…I’m so sorry,” Clarice said, mortified at what she’d done. That was it. She was going to be fired, probably thrown in jail, too. Nick would leave her, and her family would disown her as the former daughter who couldn’t even hold down a basic government job.

  “Don’t do that again, Ms. Clarice,” he said. “And while I’m making requests, I’d appreciate it if you had a cup of coffee ready for me once I’m done. Lots of cream, lots of sugar.” With that, he stepped around her and headed inside the house, leaving her to cry in frustration.

  * * *

  Ryan passed by Nick and Martin, both of whom were now sitting in the living room and gave each a short nod. He ignored their stares, bumped into a wall or two, and entered the bathroom. After tossing his bag in the corner, he turned on the shower, undressed, and took the soap from the sink. He worked a thick lather across his chest and spread it across the rest of his body. Though he had taken countless showers throughout his life, this was the first he could recall taking with numb fingers and toes. In fact, the more he thought about it, this was the only shower he could recall, period.

  Ryan pushed the anomaly to the side when he noted that the water smelled of sulfur. The odor surfaced memories long passed, and he thought of his first property seizure, a dilapidated, condemned shack with a plumbing nightmare that sat on a half-acre. His assistant at the time did a marvelous job in expediting the process, unlike the one he had now. But hopefully, Ms. Clarice could be trained. If not, she still looked absolutely delicious.

  Ten minutes later, he stepped out, refreshed, hungry, and wearing a new set of clothes.

  * * *

  “Feel better?” Clarice asked once Ryan had descended the stairs and not trying to sound awkward about the encounter. The punch on the cheek she had given him earlier was beginning to bruise nicely, making her worry yet again he’d be pressing assault charges on her in no time.

  Ryan sat down in a white recliner and pressed his fingers on the armrests. “I do, quite a bit. Thank you.”

  “And your shoulder?” she asked. Maybe if she directed his attention to those corpses trying to kill them, he’d forget she socked him, and she’d stay gainfully employed.

  “Still hurts, but the shower seems to have helped,” Ryan answered, looking over at it. “It’s funny how a little bit of soap and water can revitalize the body and mind.”

  “Good,” she said, tossing a three-year-old magazine back on the table. “I imagine you’ll want to head home then, right?”

  “I can’t be letting that happen yet,” Martin interjected. His voice took a stern, unyielding tone to it. “Mr. Ryan isn’t free to go for another few days.”

  “You can’t stop us.” Her posture matched the challenge in her voice.

  Martin shook his head. “I probably could if I wanted to. But I’m not stopping you from leaving, only your boss.” He pointed to the open wounds on Ryan’s forearms. “He might be turning into one of them, and I can’t be letting one of them roam around outside. First, he’ll get sick. Then he’ll die. And then he’ll get back up in the damnedest mood. Only the good Lord knows what trouble that will start if he was roaming the city when that happens.”

  “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  “Serious as a heart attack,” Martin replied. “Ma wouldn’t have it any other way even if I did want to let you go. If he gets sick, I’m going to have to put him down. But don’t worry, I’ve trained our pooches to smell out a corpse right quick. They’ll know he’s turning at least an hour before it happens. Plenty of time to pop him in the head.”

  “That’s murder!”

  Martin shrugged. “Ain’t murder when he’s already dead.”

  “We’ve got to get him some help,” Clarice said, opting for another line. Though part of her wanted to stick to the original argument, trading blows if needed, she wasn’t sure if Martin had any qualms about shooting her as well. Peaceful negotiations were in order. “If he’s going to get sick, we can get him treated at a hospital, and no one has to die. Surely they can quarantine him or something.”

  “How do they even treat that?” Nick asked.

  “Hell if I know!” she exclaimed. “But we can try. You can’t stop us from trying.”

  “I’ll do what I have to,” Martin said solemnly. “And it’s not like I’d want to hurt any of you fine folk, but I got to make sure Mr. Conner here is okay before I leave him be.”

  Ryan leaned back, and it now seemed that he had decided to end the entire conversation. “It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re not leaving until our business is concluded.”

  “And you’re okay with the dying part?” Clarice mocked. “Have you been paying attention to anything that’s been going on or said?”

  “I don’t have any plans on dying either,” he added. “In fact, I’ve decided not to.”

  “Oh, really?” Clarice asked. “Just like that?”

  Ryan crossed his legs at the knees and folded his hands on top. “Just like that.”

  “I don’t think it works that way,” she replied.

  “Why?” he asked. “People decide not to do things all the time. I’m deciding not to die. I can show you it’s true, too.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Clarice said, rolling her eyes.

  “It’s simple really,” he said. “I haven’t died yet, have I?”

  “No,” Clarice replied slowly. She wondered how contagious the stupidity in this room was. “So?”

  “So my decision was obviously the right one,” Ryan said.

  Clarice buried her head in her hands. “I’m tired,” she said after looking up. Her mind was exhausted, her body was starting to ache, and she suspected that such a hard, long mountain run the day after an eight-mile jog was taking its toll. Hopefully, with a good night’s rest for everyone, she could talk some sense i
nto him tomorrow. Worst case, she’d call a cab and tell Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, to stuff the job up his ass. Yes, she’d be out of a job, but maybe she could scramble and find work at the vet’s. Clarice turned toward Martin, “Do you have a spare room?”

  “I do,” he replied. “Two spares. Always kept ready in case we get some living company. Up the stairs, second door on the left can be yours if you like. Or take the other. It makes no difference to me.”

  “Fine idea,” Ryan said to her as she went to leave the room. “We should all be rested, and we’ll get to work first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Seven

  It took some time for Jack to regain his wit, and by then his meal had long since run off. The sun had sulked its way to another hemisphere, marking the beginning of yet another night. The moon, still embarrassed by the furry fiasco it had created the previous night in both London and Paris, hid behind the clouds, hoping no one would notice. Without any sort of light, Jack’s pen lost all of its playful shininess and returned to its natural pen state. It was a state that Henry Bollivor would have disapproved of as “merely adequate.”

  Jack continued to hold the pen despite the numerous attempts by other things to gain his attention. He wasn’t sure why this was, but at this point in time, he wasn’t sure of much, other than two things—his pen existed, and it was in his hand. With a great deal of effort, Jack clubbed the two thoughts into one. His pen was in his hand.

  The night wore on and with half of his computing power miraculously freed, Jack worked on a number of questions about his pen that came, went and returned again with new friends. The largest and toughest of these questions was, “Mrrrggph?” which was closely related to the living’s question of, “How the hell did it get here?”

  The answer to that question remained elusive.

  By midnight Jack was lying down, rhythmically thumping his head against one of three rusted anchors at the marina. Eventually, he decided that if he couldn’t figure something out by morning, he’d have to venture outside of Colmera Springs and track down someone who could.