by Bryan Smith
Shane had used mayonnaise from his fridge as lube. His gaze lingered on the nearly empty jar many seconds longer than necessary. It was just a jar. An innocent inanimate object. As he stared almost numbly at it, there was no conscious contemplation of the act the substance it contained had been used to facilitate. Beneath the surface, however, something was happening, a primordial reaction that first manifested in the form of a burp. More gaseous disturbances brought a sour feeling to his stomach and made the muscles of his throat work in an ominous way that heralded an eruption far more severe than a mere burp.
His face was covered in sweat. He felt woozy.
“Oh, god …”
After another, louder burp, he abruptly raced into the bathroom, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, raised the toilet seat, and leaned forward as his mouth opened wide to unleash a stream of vomit. The ejected contents of his stomach hit the water in the bowl with enough force to spatter his face with droplets of vomit-tainted moisture, some of which went right into his open mouth. He had time enough to whimper miserably before his stomach heaved again with seemingly even more force, though significantly less actual bile was expelled this time. That was the worst of it, but the heaving continued for several more minutes before his stomach muscles at last began to relax.
After reaching up to grab the flush handle and push it down with an unsteady hand, he slammed the toilet seat down and got shakily to his feet. He lurched over to the wash basin, braced his hands against its edge, and raised his head to study his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He was red-faced and sweaty. His jaw was quivering and his face was spattered with tiny bits of partially digested food remnants.
Pete grimaced. “Gross.”
He turned on the water and grabbed a hand towel from a ring mounted on the wall by the door. After cleaning his face as thoroughly as possible, he still felt shaky, but a little better overall. He turned off the water and left the soiled hand towel on the edge of the basin as he staggered out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. His T-shirt was still soaked from having the giant soda cup tossed at him. He stripped it off and proceeded to remove the rest of his clothes, dropping them in the laundry basket at the foot of his bed. An impulse led him back into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and stepped beneath the nozzle after allowing the water a moment to heat up.
On one level, he knew that by doing this he was temporarily making himself even more vulnerable than he already was. It was impossible to stand vigilant against household intruders while naked in the shower. The possibility of either Shane or Mary entering his house again under these circumstances did cause a flicker of concern, but not enough to matter. Mary had promised him an hour before the next phase of the game commenced. Yes, promises didn’t mean much coming from someone like her, but he figured he would take his chances anyway. He was close to the point of not giving a shit anymore. Maybe one of them would come into his house again and maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t like he’d be able to stop them. Calling the alarm company to change his security code might have been an option earlier in the day, before things really got out of hand, but it wasn’t one anymore. There was no point. If he changed the code and one of those loons triggered the alarm, it would result in a visit by the cops, something not even the tiniest little part of him still wanted.
Meanwhile, he felt contaminated by the vile deeds he’d been forced to participate in throughout the day—as well as by the many other horrible things he’d seen—and was now consumed with a primal need to cleanse himself. He would be forced to again do more revolting, messy things before the end of the night. No doubt about it. Before that happened, though, he could at least feel like himself again for a while.
Once he’d scrubbed every inch of his body as thoroughly as he could manage, he stood beneath the hot water stream a minute longer, allowing himself the illusion that the water was purifying him. He cut the water when it began to turn lukewarm and got out, the old metal curtain rings softly squealing as they slid along the shower rod. He toweled off and returned to the bedroom, feeling much steadier on his feet as he began to dress himself, selecting a pair of dark-colored jeans and a plain black T-shirt, clothes that felt like the right choice in the event he was again forced to do anything shady outside.
After he was dressed, he wandered back out to the living room and again took in the scene of carnage and madness, this time without even the smallest quiver of nausea. He was past the primal shock of it, it seemed. Instead, he catalogued it all in an almost dispassionate way. It was mildly dismaying to learn how quickly a person could become inured to the most horrendous things, but even that seemed of little consequence at this point. That all these innocent people had lost their lives was unfortunate, but even that injustice didn’t matter to him much now. He just wanted to get through this somehow.
It became a mantra in his head.
I just want to get through this. I just want to get through this. I just want to get through this. Please let me come out of this okay. Please …
By his estimate, he still had roughly another half hour before Mary called him again. He decided it’d be smart to fill that time by at least beginning to take some kind of positive action, which did not include getting into the beer again. What was left of his twelve-pack was still on the coffee table. It appeared Shane had helped himself to a few in Pete’s absence. He didn’t care. Trying to get drunk had been a badly misguided idea from the start. Now that any trace of his buzz had faded, this felt painfully clear. The stress had driven him to it.
Pete went into the kitchen and grabbed two large black garbage bags from the pantry, as well as a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves from under the sink. He took the bags and the gloves out to the living room, dropped one bag on the coffee table, and shook the other one open. Ridding his house fully of the horrors on display was the ultimate goal. Might as well start now while he had some time to kill. After donning the gloves, he went to work.
Stan Richardson’s head and the plush gift box in which it rested were the first things to go in the bag. He couldn’t help feeling a faint echo of his previous queasiness, especially when he felt the heaviness of the severed head dragging down the bag as he moved about the room. The severed tongue and the mayonnaise jar also went in the bag, along with the handbags that had belonged to the dead strippers. Any impulse to sort through their belongings was gone. He was thinking of them as objects now and had no desire to re-humanize them. Remembering the penis sitting in a Tupperware container on his stove, he made a detour into the kitchen, where he resealed the container and dropped it in the bag. He returned to the living room and surveyed it again to see if he’d missed anything. Spying dead woman number two’s discarded panties, he knelt to retrieve them with the intention of also dropping them in the bag. He decided against it, figuring he might want to slide them back into place on the woman’s body.
After tying up the bag and leaving it on the kitchen floor for later disposal, Pete took a glass down from his cupboard, filled it with ice cubes and water, and carried it out to the living room. He settled into the recliner, heaved a tired sigh, and sipped water as he rested and awaited Mary’s call.
EIGHTEEN
Pete was dozing off when he dimly perceived his phone’s ringtone emanating from his hip pocket. The nearly empty glass of ice water was still loosely clasped in his fingers. He set the glass on the floor and dragged out his phone.
Mary’s name was on the screen. He hadn’t expected to see anything else, of course. Not many people intentionally put in a call to his number these days. Multiple robocalls came in daily, of course, but calls from real people were a rarity. It was a sad state of affairs, he supposed. Hardly anyone wanted anything to do with him. Any other night, contemplation of this reality might have sent him spiraling into depression, but tonight it wasn’t one of his bigger concerns. He accepted the call and put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Mary.”
“Hello, you squirmy little maggot-thing.” She lau
ghed, a sound echoed by someone sitting near her. The other person’s laughter had a distinctly masculine tinge to it. Shane, probably. Pete pictured the corpse-fucker seated in the passenger seat of the car he’d glimpsed in the Facetime calls earlier. A car he belatedly realized wasn’t the same car Mary had been driving the whole time he’d known her. The upholstery was a much darker gray. “Are you ready to start the last part of the game?”
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
A disappointed-sounding grunt came from the other end. “What, no snappy comeback? No profane insinuations regarding the state of my mental health?”
“Not in the mood. Sorry.”
Mary sighed. “Oh, that’s too bad. I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised by your outbursts earlier in the evening. I know I said all I wanted from you was obsequiousness, but the angry banter was kind of fun. Ah, well.” Another sigh. “I suppose there’s no point delaying things further, anyway. I do have a schedule of my own to keep, believe it or not, and there’s little room for additional fooling around. I’ll text you an address when I end this call. You will have one hour from the time you receive the text to transport the other package to that address.”
“By ‘other package’, I’m guessing you mean the other dead stripper.”
Mary laughed. “Dead stripper. How funny. You’re such a joker, Pete.” The phony humor faded from her voice with her next words. “You know very well what I mean. Deliver the package to the designated location within the time allowed or else. And you know exactly what that means, too.”
Pete grimaced. “Yeah. I know what it fucking means.”
“Good. I do have some additional requirements for transportation of the package. I’m afraid you’re not going to like them.” A faint sound of laughter from Mary’s male companion followed this declaration. Mary did not react, at least not in a way that came through on the phone. “Your inclination will be to transport the package in the trunk of your car. This will not be allowed. Instead, the package should ride next to you on the front passenger seat. Do nothing to obscure the nature of the package. If you violate these rules, you will pay a steep price. The loss of your freedom, for certain. It might even cost you your life.” She forced a laugh. “Figuratively speaking, of course. This is just a fun game. Isn’t it, Pete?”
There was a harder edge in her voice as she spoke those last few words. Pete felt dismay at the requirements she’d imposed for this supposed last stage of the game, but he had no interest in agitating her any further.
“That’s right. It’s just a game.”
A long sigh from the other end. “I’m glad we understand each other. Remember, follow the rules and all will be well. You may be tempted to skirt the rules by transporting the package in your trunk until you are nearly to your destination. That would be a mistake. You are still being monitored. Goodbye, Pete. I’m hanging up now. And good luck.”
The line went dead. The tone signaling the arrival of a new text sounded just as Pete was taking the phone away from his ear. As promised, there was an address in the message. It was not an address Pete recognized, but the zip code told him it was not inside the city limits. This was confirmed when he entered the address in Google search, which helpfully brought up directions and a map. It was a business address, for a storage facility in a little town one county over.
Pete began to feel anxious again as he started to think about the logistics of completing this supposed last part of the game. The address was farther away than he would have liked, but getting there within the prescribed time was not out of the question now that it was much later at night. And once he got out on the highway, he’d be able to make up some time by speeding … Not too much, though. Cops would be on the lookout for drunk drivers, same as every weekend, but he thought he’d probably be fine going ten to fifteen miles over the posted speed limit, especially if he could manage to stay within the yellow lines and not weave around like a drunkard. Being totally sober now, that shouldn’t be an issue.
More troublesome than the time issue was the necessity of transporting dead woman number two in the way he’d been instructed. The distance involved was significant, slightly over twenty miles. A long way to ride with a corpse sitting in the passenger seat of his car. The risk of being spotted and pulled over by police was high. The one thing working in his favor was that it was nighttime. People speeding by on the interstate wouldn’t be able to see her clearly, anyway. And if he positioned the body in just the right way, it might appear as if the dead woman was merely taking a nap.
Pete nodded as he thought about it, his shaky confidence growing slightly. It was a hugely risky proposition any way you looked at it, but it might just be doable. He looked at dead woman number two. “Okay, let’s do this thing.”
The corpse, of course, did not respond.
Pete frowned as he stared at her stiffly splayed legs. He pulled up Google on his phone again and did some quick research on rigor mortis. While he believed the corpse might be passable as a napping woman in the correct pose, her current state would not be conducive to conveying such an impression. He grimaced and shook his head as he skimmed through a lengthy article regarding post-mortem handling of corpses at morgues.
He put the phone away and went to work stretching the dead woman’s legs out to break the rigor mortis. This was not easy. Sweat formed on his brow again as he grunted and strained. Handling a corpse again was not pleasant, of course, but he’d already done that plenty today and thus intimately handling dead flesh was not the most upsetting aspect of what he was doing. He was a lot more bothered by how much time it was eating up. At last, however, he was able to render her stiffened limbs pliable enough for transport.
A peek outside revealed a street currently free of pedestrian and automotive traffic. It was getting late enough now that there should be significantly fewer cars moving through the area. Didn’t mean one wouldn’t come along at the wrong time, just that the risk was lower.
He grabbed his keys and went outside, dashing over to his car and slipping in behind the wheel within just a few seconds. More cognizant than ever of the need to make up time, he was moving as quickly as he could manage without tripping over his feet. He started the car and steered it across the lawn, pulling up alongside the porch with the passenger door facing the steps. On the verge of getting out, he thought of something and took a moment to pop the trunk. Then he got out and hurried around to the other side of the car, pulling the passenger side door open as far as it would go. Next he raced back up the steps, opened the screen door, and set it so it would stay open.
Back inside the house, he grabbed the dead woman under the arms and grunted as he dragged her over to the threshold. He paused there to take another look outside. The street was still empty. He resumed dragging the corpse across the porch and then down the steps, heaving her up once he reached the sidewalk in preparation of dumping her into the passenger seat. Before he could do that, however, headlights appeared in the street to his right, barely more than a block away and closing fast.
Shit!
Not knowing what else to do, Pete hugged the corpse tightly against him, encircling it in a way he hoped would look like a loving embrace. The dead woman’s recently manipulated arms flopped loosely at her sides. Pete put his chin in the crook of her neck and held on as the car came closer. The brown Toyota Camry slowed slightly as it neared his house. Pete couldn’t see the driver from this angle, but the Camry’s windows were down and he heard laughter emanating from inside it.
Someone in the car yelled, “Drunk bitch!”
More laughter. Sounded like teenagers.
Then the car’s tires squealed as the driver hit the gas and sped away.
Pete let out a relieved breath.
He eased the dead woman into the passenger seat somewhat more delicately than he’d originally intended, some instinct making him want to treat her with more respect than the kids in the Camry. After taking a couple extra minutes to arrange the corpse in the napping pose, he
eased the passenger door shut and rushed back into the house to grab the garbage bag and lock up the house. Before leaving again, he paused as he thought of one more item he wanted to take with him.
In a drawer in the kitchen—along with numerous other odds and ends—was a folding knife with a black handle. The blade was a big one, sharp and with some real heft to it. Taking it with him was probably a useless gesture. He might not see Mary again tonight. Or ever. She had a gun, though. He knew that. And taking along some kind of weapon wasn’t the worst idea ever, even if it was highly unlikely he’d have to use it.
Pete went back outside.
After closing and locking the front door, he hurried down the steps and dropped the garbage bag in the trunk. A few seconds later, he was behind the wheel of his car and driving away from his house.
NINETEEN
On his way out to the interstate, Pete encountered some maddeningly slow stop-and-start traffic, a problem that steadily worsened the closer he got to the nearest interstate junction. This was annoying, but not unexpected, given the proximity of his neighborhood to the downtown area. Traffic was lighter on his own street at this later hour, but this was still the weekend. Downtown would remain alive with drunken revelry for hours to come, which meant a high volume of cars cycling in and out of the city at all times.
Pete watched the light at the exit he needed to take cycle through the green-yellow-red pattern a dozen times as the traffic in front of him inched slowly forward. While he waited in helpless frustration, Pete repeatedly glanced at the dashboard clock, willing the maddeningly fast passage of minutes to slow down. As the light up ahead began its cycle yet again, he alternately tapped his gas and brake pedals, allowing the car to keep inching forward while his mind wandered. He ruminated some more on his solitary existence, in particular the way it had made this situation so much worse. He had no confidantes, no real close friends. No one who would have his back no matter what and would try to help. His eyes misted as it hit him that this might have been a big factor in why Mary had targeted him. He was just so perfectly vulnerable.
