by A. R. Braun
***
Jerry hadn’t been able to get Reanimated out of his head and found himself back at the computer with an urgency.
The weirdo had replied.
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re sorry. Hey, you don’t list your address on here. Where do you live, motherfucker?”
Jerry wiped the beads of sweat dotting his brow away with his fingers, air conditioning or no air conditioning. Thank goodness the crazy freak didn’t have his address. Reanimated had experience in taking down victims, if what he’d said was true. Jerry wanted to block him, but didn’t wish to be seen as an e-wimp. He replied: “It’s none of your business where I live.”
Jerry turned him in to the FBI via an online form. It was either that or be an accessory. To do it, he had to print out Reanimated’s comments about being grateful for not getting caught for murder. He spent the evening watching the screen, waiting for Reanimated’s reply.
***
At five till midnight, Jerry figured that must have been the end of it since Reanimated hadn’t posted. He gave up and turned off the computer. He went to bed and fell asleep soon afterward.
***
Sunday.
Jerry woke up late, at 11:00 a.m. He’d been plagued with nightmares about being murdered by Reanimated, who often made himself look dead with green paint or zombie makeup in his profile pictures.
Jerry flinched when he found his computer had been turned on.
But by whom?
Reanimated had made him wait, but the chat window popped up with his enemy’s face. He’d streaked it with red, Native American war paint and feathers. The message read: “I had to do some digging, but I found your address on MyTrace. Your number is up, pal.”
Jerry stared at the screen. If he was going to come after him, it would be the last thing Reanimated would ever do, for Jerry owned a .357 Magnum.
He wondered what kind of weapons the psycho had. A professional arsenal, probably.
I’ll die trying, then.
Another post from Reanimated haunted him: “Ha-ha! The FBI just questioned me, and I know it was you who turned me in. You’re the only one taking my posts seriously. That’s cool, ‘cause the FBI puts people in prison for false accusations. You know how many horror authors write posts pretending to have killed someone just to pump up their evil image? I never murdered anybody. I was just kidding, you pansy.”
Now Jerry had to worry about a prison sentence. Unable to take any more, he blocked Reanimated, then got up and paced.
He stopped cold when he thought he heard someone picking the lock. The entry door creaked, and footfalls followed, then the door snicked shut. Did Reanimated have a smartphone he’d just used for Placebook chat? Scared to death, Jerry forced himself to get up and check the house. He grabbed his handgun, ready to blow away anyone who jumped out of the shadows. Queerly, he came up empty. Not able to relax per the insane events of late, he left the house. He had to get out of there.
***
Monday.
Jerry’s Placebook page bore this status update he’d posted the previous day: “A writer named Reanimated threatened to kill me, and I’ve been hearing signs of a break-in.”
He had four replies:
His mother wrote: “Call the police. You never know about some people. I saw on Mary Faith’s news show that murderers had Placebook and MyTrace profiles.”
Aunt Marie said: “I agree with your mom. Call the police, turn the guy in, and get witness protection. There are a lot of nuts out there.”
Mad Butcher, a horror author, wrote: “You fucking nark. I’m deleting you as a friend. You ain’t brutal.”
***
Tuesday.
Jerry hadn’t replied to his fellow author, to his aunt, or to his mother.
***
Wednesday.
A writer named Alicia Morgan wrote this request: “Hi, neighbor. Won’t you help me build a plantation in Farmersville?”
***
Thursday.
Reanimated still posted on Jerry’s wall, even though he was blocked, courtesy of how Placebook’s privacy wasn’t truly private.
“Hey, all, don’t you think Dead and Dead is the biggest social misfit ever?”
155 responses came, the most popular post his page ever had, from horror writers and fans that hated Jerry’s guts for tattling on Reanimated.
Lilly Carson, a born-again writer, poked him.
***
Friday.
Jerry’s mother replied again on the post about the killer being after him. It read: “Jerry, are you there? Please tell me you’re all right. You’ve got me mighty worried.”
Aunt Marie followed that up with: “Do you have his phone number, Bea?”
“I do. I’ll call him right now.”
Another post by Jerry’s mother: “He’s not answering his phone. I’m calling the police.”
***
Jerry finally posted two hours after his mother’s post.
“I apologize, all. I had to get out of the house for a while. That motel was too expensive to stay in forever, unfortunately. I’m hearing sounds of footsteps running through the house. Mom, Aunties, you know I love you, right?
***
An hour later.
“Those noises never stopped. You ever have the feeling that someone’s standing right behind you, and you’re afraid to turn around? I’m petrified. I hope I’ll be alligfhrhgighghitezzx”
The World Can’t Take It
Edward had to find him; it was either that or he’d lose his mind.
Because of the solitary lifestyle of being a writer, Edward deduced that his love for human interaction made the profession unbearable, so he’d quit. Besides, Edward hadn’t been very good at it. He couldn’t give up reading, though; he loved it too much. Television sucked, so what choice did one have? True talent not being an ever-flowing stream, great writing—the kind that you can’t put down and, holy shit and miracle, actually scared you—was hard to find, as most entertainment proved boring or mediocre at best.
But Van Gone. . . .
This author had personality. He’d written the best story Edward had ever read, then dropped off the face of the earth. Van penned a piece that had won the Author’s Digest contest . . . and then he’d called it quits. Why in the world, with such a gift, would Van even consider quitting? Knowing his favorite author had to have more stories, Edward craved them like the panacea after he’d been crawling through the desert for three days.
“Humanity’s Reverse Rapture” told the story of Satanists, atheists, and everyone except Christians being pulled into heaven. Instead of being sucked up into the clouds, the wicked were pulled down to hell, where an endless party ensued, the chosen rubbing shoulders with Jim Morrison, Bon Scott, and Jimi Hendrix, as well as the rest of the great musicians that had passed into the beyond. The Christians left on earth died of boredom, only to go to a coma heaven.
Edward couldn’t resist the irrational impulse. Finding the latest issue of Author’s Digest on his hutch, he searched for the editor’s e-mail.
***
After two painfully long days, Edward checked his inbox and received a response from Author’s Digest’s editor.
Dear Edward,
Van Gone’s whereabouts are sketchy at best, and as far as I know, there are no plans for a comeback. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all the information I have. Good luck with your endeavor.
All the best,
Jackie Worthington
Edward sat staring at the e-mail as crazy thoughts raced through his mind. Was he really going to act on this idea of finding the lost author?
It was time for some aggressive research.
***
Koby Wrenway, also a writer, lived for horror fiction. He forked over the e-mail of someone who knew Van Gone’s address for $500. Koby had never gotten over Van threatening him, and he wanted revenge. The co-editor of an online magazine called Shock World, Koby had also read “Humanity’s Reverse
Rapture” and had been hooked. He’d made the mistake of contacting Van through his Twitter account, only to get e-screamed at. When Koby had called Van a paranoid schizophrenic, the author in question said if he didn’t like it, he’d show him what a paranoid schizo’ was all about.
Edward emailed “VeryNasty” at Hotmail dot com, the referral he’d gotten from Koby.
Twenty-four excruciating hours later, the reply came.
Why are you looking for him? Trying to steal his ideas? I’d stay away if I were you, ‘cause people that don’t tend to get hurt.
Mark “The Iceman” Payola
Edward hit Koby up for another referral, and Mickey, or “SickSuck” at Yahoo dot com, refused at first because of the danger involved. But when pressed, he required the right to claim he’d written all of Edward’s old stories, a written renouncement of God, plus $700. He’d seemed surprised when Edward had given in.
Mickey sent him a final email with the address and this final thought:
You were warned.
***
This compulsion to find the author had become Edward’s new mission in life—that and getting Van Gone writing again. He couldn’t think of anything else.
Perhaps I’ll rename him “Van Back.”
His hero hid in Branson, of all places: Missouri, the Show-Me State.
Show me some more stories!
Edward could imagine Van Gone wearing loud-colored clothing and a big hat, scrunched in between fans of the Baldknobbers. Perhaps the elusive author stood in awe of the Titanic Museum or screamed his ass off on Thunderation at Silver Dollar City, which Edward’s parents liked to call “Steal Your Dollar City.” What an easy way out.
If I had Van’s talent, I’d push myself, working from early morning until late at night, plus seeing the world while on book tours.
It sure beat Edward’s job as a customer-service operator. Mercifully, they didn’t make him come in on the weekends. Therefore, on Friday afternoon, Edward drove down the interstate to Branson in his hatchback.
The road endeavored to put a stranglehold on his mind as he drove down New 54, the route he took from Southern Illinois, for Edward lived in East Saint Louis. He set the car on cruise control and rubbed his temples. If he saw one more soybean field. . . .
The roadside attractions in Missouri were the only things that kept him sane. The frozen custard had been the Holy Grail, and he finally got his panacea—a lemon shake-up—though no desert lurked in the Midwest.
Four hours and thirty minutes after he’d left East Saint Louis, the mountains came into view. Five minutes later, Edward stared at the structure on the Lake of the Ozarks, looking like a battleship from hell with its rack of boats, row of slides, and buoys on top.
Edward got out and walked over to the railing; stretching his legs brought a sigh of relief, and the roaring water and comforting breeze revitalized him, but only a little.
What could the greatest author of all time be doing in redneckville?
Edward’s smartphone noted that a “rip-roaring boat show extravaganza” awaited all tourists this evening, but he was going to drive to Branson, get a room, then find Van Gone tonight.
***
Thank goodness for GPS. Edward found that the address Mickey had given him led to a hotel called the Angel Inn. He sighed with relief as he pulled into the parking lot.
The white building with a gray roof did resemble a church, with a white column sticking out of it like a bell tower. He walked in, distracted by the chatter of the staff and a few rambunctious families sitting in the lobby. Edward made his way to the front desk. Dressed smartly in yellow and red, the clerk, a skinny man with a scruffy mustache, stood behind the counter.
Koby said something about Van Gone being thin.
Lucky for Edward, Koby’s friend also provided him with Van Gone’s real name, found in the upper left-hand corner of his manuscript. Mickey had scored that information from the editor at Author’s Digest for what he’d called a “hefty price.” Van Gone’s true handle was Vic Brodie.
It matched the first name of the man’s nametag.
Vic smiled. “Room for one, sir?”
The man he’d been seeking could be a mere countertop away from him. Edward drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to have courage. “I-I think I know who you are.”
Vic smirked. “Okay.”
“You’re Van Gone. I got your real name from Koby’s friend.”
At this Vic frowned and shook his head. “Another one! I’m afraid you got taken. I’m not a writer. It’s a scam Koby and his friends run, and Van pays them to do it, just to throw people off of his scent.”
“Then Van Gone lives around here?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing that’ll help you.”
A red-haired family walked up to the desk, the children giving Edward the stink eye.
“Sorry, I’ve got to get back to work.” Vic attended to them.
Great, my search for Van Gone is just beginning.
He had a lot of work to do. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy, but Edward only had the weekend to perform his search. The proverbial needle-in-the-haystack cliché proved true right about now. Edward stomped out to his car, drove to a gas station, and bought a pack of cigarettes. He’d quit smoking because of stabbing chest pains, but he no longer cared. After lighting up, his head swam as if he’d go insane, which was par for the course when he relapsed. When Edward calmed down, he got behind the wheel, but the engine wouldn’t turn over.
A dead battery. The perfect end to a perfect day.
Edward climbed out, slammed the door, and cussed like a truck driver; his words echoed up and down the street, drawing strange glances from the passersby. Edward walked over to the dumpster to throw away the lemon shake-up cup he’d been flinging his ashes into and caught a thin man with a pointy goatee, glasses, and a smiling face hurling huge garbage bags into the dumpster.
His squinty eyes met Edward’s. “You all right, man? You look like you just lost your best friend.” The man’s voice was deep and a bit slow, almost burnt-out, but with a hint of intelligence.
“I’ll live, I guess,” Edward answered.
“You sure?”
Edward wasn’t. “Can you give me a jump?”
“Oh, that’s no problem.” The man seemed to see through him. “Tough night?”
All Edward could do was nod.
“I get off work in five minutes. Wait here and I’ll get my cables.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Edward thought he’d smoke until he choked.
***
The stranger got his engine purring again, stuck the jumper cables in his trunk as Edward thanked him, then eyeballed his smoke. “Can I get one of those?”
Edward handed a cigarette over. They stood and puffed as he explained his plight.
“Name’s Carl, Carl Fredrick.”
He shook with him. “Edward Pontillo.”
“You know, as hard as life is, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Savior was really the devil.”
Edward’s obsession radar went off. “What did you just say?”
“I mean the rapture will probably happen in reverse.”
“Oh my God! You’re. . . .” Edward put his hand over his mouth, not believing his luck.
Carl furrowed his brow, frowned, and backed up a step. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“The devil is God, the rapture in reverse. You’re Van Gone, the author of ‘Humanity’s Reverse Rapture’!”
“Carl, not Van. Carl. You must be mistaken.”
Edward shook his head. “You’re the greatest writer ever to grace the page.” Had his voice trembled? Edward thought so. “I’d give my left nut to write as well as you.”
“Carl’s” hands went up. “Look, man, you’ve got the wrong guy.” For a few seconds, the malevolence, thick within the pages of “Humanity’s Reverse Rapture,” crossed over Van’s squinty eyes.
>
“Has anyone else found you?”
“You deaf? I told you, I’m Carl Fredrick.”
Edward had had enough of this game; he pulled his gun. “I know it’s you, so quit fucking around.”
Van sighed, looked down at the ground, then met his eyes. His face had gone pale. “You’ve just conjured your own doom.”
“Excuse me?”
He motioned toward the gas station. “We’re going to need brew. Wait here.”
“Don’t try to run for it. I know where your car is.”
The author chuckled and threw his curly black hair out of his eyes. “To answer your question about my other fans that you think want to find me . . .”
Van snickered.
“. . . they’re nice people, family men and women, without the time for this foolishness. But you. . . .”
His sardonic wit was not lost on Edward. “I’ll be right here, pal.”
Van walked toward the gas station. Abruptly, he stopped and turned around. A shadow of doom had fallen across his face. “You’ll be sorry you came here.”
***
A fog had swallowed the gas station, as well as many of the other businesses. Edward noted his surroundings in the eerie night where every voice belonged to a prowler instead of a parent, and every child’s squeal was a scream of torment. Van Gone materialized out of the cool night air as if spat out by the mist, sending a sickening chill down Edward’s spine. Van carried a case of beer. Edward was thankful he’d stuffed his handgun into his waistband in case the author really did turn out to be crazy. The writer set the case of brew on top of his car.
Van lunged, and Edward pulled his gun, stopping him in his tracks.
The genius flipped him the bird with both hands. “Read ‘em and weep.”
Edward’s chuckle trembled, revealing false bravado. “That’s what I’d expect from a skinny chickenshit like you, running from your writing responsibilities.”
Fists clenched, Van shook with rage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Then enlighten me.”
Van dropped his hands at his sides and nodded. “Get in the car.”
Edward walked to the passenger side of the old yellow Ford Tempo.
“Hop in, kidnapper.” Van grinned out of the side of his mouth. “That’ll look good on your writing resume, eh?”
