by Sawyer Black
“What’s the trick?”
Randall sighed, looking up with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “He can’t tell you that.”
“There is no trick.” Boothe kept his eyes on Henry. “The arrangement is simple. Something for you, and something for me. What I want is none of your business, because it has nothing to do with you.”
“I’m assuming you’re playing a trick no matter what you say, but I’m already dead so what can it matter? Either way, I get back to my family first, right?”
“Randall’s making you paranoid.” Boothe smiled. “There is no trick, and you will get exactly what you’re asking for. A return trip to see your family. I suggest we go. Time is different down there and we’ve already lost twelve hours.”
“Twelve hours! I thought you said seven? You mean … are they okay?”
“It’s a long story, and seconds are minutes. Why have me tell you when you can see for yourself? Just say, I’m ready and you can go back.”
“Turn away,” Randall warned. “Don’t follow him. You’ve given him too much permission already.”
Henry ignored Randall, despite the man’s apparent intentions. He turned to Boothe and said, “I’m ready.”
Boothe smiled like a cat with a mouthful of yellow feathers, but Henry didn’t care. He was going home.
CHAPTER 4
Henry opened his eyes to an impossible darkness.
The world was darker than black, as if his eyes had been ripped from their sockets.
He was freezing. And like his sight, Henry’s body felt broad and indistinct. His orbit blurred. He blinked, but batting his eyelids did nothing. He focused on the pins and needles in his hands and imagined it spreading like fire through his frame. A variation on a meditation technique he’d finally tried at Sam’s insistence. He only lasted four days, but the visualization of fire had worked to calm him and now often led him into sleep. And if Samantha ever asked if he still meditated, he could say yes without feeling like he was lying.
Life returned to his fingers, and Henry’s hands moved over his nude midsection.
What the fuck?
Why am I naked?
Where the fuck am I?
His mind was stacked high with horrifying pictures of himself naked and passed out, spread through the internet. He imagined Perez Hilton drawing a sarcastic comment with a pink arrow aimed at his smallish dick.
Then he remembered the men in his house. The blood on the floor. The screams and pain.
Samantha! Amélie!
He was back, or at least he thought he was. He had to get up and look around. Blind, he could only guess his location. The surface below him was cold and hard. Henry wondered if he was still in his home, where finding his wife and daughter would be as simple as standing and turning on a light.
Maybe I’m still at the bottom of the stairs.
A dull sound rang above his head, like someone throwing back the deadbolt on the front door.
I fell down in the foyer, and Sam’s opening the door for the paramedics.
Then the shadow was split by bright light as Henry’s body slid out of the dark.
What the Hell?
Henry gasped in surprise. Boothe leaned over him, still in his dapper black suit.
Oh God, I’m still dreaming.
Henry reached down to cover his crotch. Boothe, paying no particular attention to his nudity, smiled down at Henry as he absorbed his surroundings — a white room, with silver doors lining two walls.
“Is this a ... hospital?”
Boothe smiled. “Yes.”
“Why does it look like a morgue?”
“Is this the part where you realize that death has found you, like I said all along, and this wasn’t some bad trip as you were fool to believe? Because, Dear Henry, we don’t have time for that if you wish to get out of here.”
Boothe pointed toward a door. “Would you prefer to run out on your own, or would you like me to blink us out?”
“Blink us out?”
“Yes, astral transportation. I blink, we teleport away.”
“Teleport like in Star Trek, or like Nightcrawler in X-Men?”
Boothe looked at him, annoyed. “What?”
“How are we going to teleport? Is—”
Boothe grabbed Henry’s hand, and they were gone.
In a flash of brightness and tingling, Henry stood, legs wobbly, stark naked in painful daylight, in the middle of a filthy alley between two tall apartment buildings. Holding his hands over his heaving gut, he swallowed bile and squinted toward the street.
He spun, looking for Boothe, but the demon was gone.
You motherfucker!
Though he didn’t recognize the location, Henry figured he was in downtown Burg. Thankfully, the alley was small, with no road traffic and nobody presently on the street. Hundreds of windows glimmered above. Surely someone would look out at any minute and see a naked pasty fat guy, mistake him for a pervert, and call the cops.
He ran to the first dumpster in sight and threw open the lid, hoping to find something to wear, even if it was filthy. Like characters often did in movies with glaring plot holes and conveniently placed clothes, weapons, and whatever else the hero might need.
But Henry found nothing but trash. Wet magazines and newspapers. An ungodly amount of half-eaten food with a universe of insects feasting on the decay. The reek clung to his skin as he moved to the next one. After the third dumpster, he ran from the alley and straight onto what had to be the busiest street in the fucking world.
At first, Henry only heard the laughter. Then came the screams. He turned to the people pointing, some of them looking downright horrified. Cars passed in blurs, eyes wide behind windows, hands on horns.
What? It’s not that small!
Henry ran, certain he was still dreaming, knowing he’d open his eyes if he could only keep running. He ducked down another alley, relieved to find another dumpster overflowing with cardboard boxes. He hoped to stumble across some clean garbage, maybe from people who had to move overnight, forced to toss a pair of perfectly serviceable size 42 pants and an XXL shirt.
He raced toward the dumpster. A siren blurted behind him.
Oh shit.
A commanding voice crackled through the speaker. “Stop right there! Put your hands up!”
Henry ignored the command and ran instead. A second cop car appeared in front of him, blocking his escape.
Shit, these fuckers are fast! Someone must’ve told ʼem a naked guy was passing out donuts.
The tabloids had been reasonably kind to his career, but Henry couldn’t afford being caught running around naked, and likely high on who knew what. He ran straight for the cruiser, covering his face in the crook of his elbow, hoping his flabby arm would keep him disguised.
Following a new instinct telling him it was cool to launch himself at a squad car, he leapt on the hood, then back to the ground. He raced through the alley’s asshole and onto a connecting street, faster than he’d ever run and with more grace than should have been possible. A disorienting fog settled across his mind. Pins and needles rising back up to stab his fingers and sting his toes.
He ran without thought, down four city streets and through six alleys, past God knew how many people. They were pointing. Laughing and screaming. Snapping photos with their goddamned smartphones. Until Henry no longer heard sirens, though it was impossible to believe he’d outrun a couple of cop cars.
Still, it was easier than believing he was back from the dead.
Henry slowed to a walk, winded and hunched over. He ducked into another alley, hoping for a rest. Bad luck laughed in his face. He wasn’t alone.
Three bald guys looking like they were headed to a neo-Nazi convention filed from the exit of a seemingly closed business. Passing boxes like buckets in a fire brigade, the first one loaded them into the back door of a waiting van. They weren’t wearing all black like the men who had broken into Henry’s home. They had jeans and regular shirts but were clearly up
to no good.
The tallest, a heavyset guy in a Jets jersey, saw him first. “Whoa, holy shit. What the fuck, bro?”
Henry stepped back, near certain he had interrupted a crime in progress. His body bristled, noting his extreme disadvantage. Unarmed and naked against three men who likely lived at the perpetual edge of violence.
“You lost, freak?” said a second man in a black hoodie. He looked mixed race, Hispanic and Black, maybe Filipino, so maybe they weren’t on their way to a Klan meeting.
Black Hoodie laughed, inviting laughter from the others. Jets Jersey reached into his pocket, and Henry couldn’t tell if he grabbed a phone or camera. He snapped a picture, and all three of them were laughing by the time he finished the shot.
Ah, perfect!
Henry was embarrassed, but for a second he was also thankful for his fame. The snapping pics meant they recognized him. They might be fans, or at least cool enough to help him out.
“Hey guys, yeah, I’m lost. I got into some bad shit, I don’t even know.” He ignored the likely crime and continued, playing dumb. “Can you help me out? Maybe sell me your hoodie? Something, so I’m not naked, and can get home? I don’t have any money on me, but I can send you something. Anything, if you can help me out.”
Jets Jersey burst into laughter. “What are you, dude? Some sorta elephant man?”
Henry knew he wasn’t pretty, but that seemed harsh. He decided to ignore them, try walking by. He managed nearly three feet, when the men took turns looking startled. Then they each drew a gun, one at a time.
“Yo,” Henry said, raising his palms to complete the picture of a nonthreatening pasty white guy. “I’m just leaving and I didn’t see nothin’ — okay?”
“The fuck you are, freak!” Jets Jersey said. “You gonna get in the van.”
“What?” Henry said, confused.
Why do they wanna kidnap me?
They’re gonna kill me just because I saw them doing some shit?
“Get in!” Black Hoodie shook his pistol at Henry.
Henry flared.
At least that’s the only word he could think of for a feeling he’d never had before. Every part of him expanded away from a compression of rage. A beastly anger he hadn’t even been aware of. Fire crackled beneath his skin, and without thought, he opened his mouth and screamed. No, not a scream. This was a lion’s roar.
Jets Jersey’s eyes went wide and he pulled the trigger.
The bullet sailed by, traveling through the air like rippling water and crashing into the brick wall behind him with a kachunk.
What the Hell?
Henry reached out, grabbed Jets Jersey’s hand, and twisted the gun so it caught the thug’s finger in the guard. It snapped like a Twix. Jets Jersey screamed, and Henry twisted the pistol back up into his neck, then squeezed the man’s jagged digit against the trigger.
The front of his face exploded, and Jets Jersey dropped to the ground.
The other two men stared at Henry, wild-eyed and frozen. Henry wiped the blood from his eyes and smiled. An energy rose into him. A warming rush of power that filled him with grim satisfaction.
There was no more laughter, and Henry couldn’t have heard it even if there was. All he could hear were the hundred million bees in his head, all commanding him to attack.
Jittering with adrenaline, Henry smashed his heels into the asphalt and launched himself from the wall.
He grabbed the last man in line with a hand bunched around a fistful of his red t-shirt. His momentum slammed them both into the van. Red Tee’s sternum split from the impact, and blood spurted from his mouth.
Henry let go, and the man slid to the asphalt, leaving a bloody smear in the center of the huge metal crater. He turned to face the final thug.
Black Hoodie aimed his shaking gun at Henry's face. “Wh … what are you?”
Henry was confused by the question, but smiled again, enjoying the energy coursing through. His body perked for the pleasure of the third man.
Black Hoodie fired his gun empty, missing every shot.
“Wow! You are a shitty shot,” Henry said, laughing and shaking his head.
The thug threw the gun, and Henry smacked it away.
Black Hoodie ran. Henry growled as he gave chase, leaping over him and landing on the other side, spinning to face him. Black Hoodie’s eyes were wide enough to pop from his skull.
Henry looked him up and down. The man was the same height as Henry, but skinnier. With clothes at least three sizes too big for his wiry frame, Henry was looking at a perfect fit. He smiled. “Gimme your clothes.”
“What?”
Henry roared, and the man jumped back, his hands fluttering up to pull the hoodie over his head. He stripped to his pinstriped blue boxers.
Henry had no idea what was happening. Why was he was feeling so powerful? How could he move so fast? Killing two men in the blink of an eye while jumping his fat ass over a kid half his age? It couldn’t be real, but it had felt amazing, dream or not.
Once the punk dropped his clothes, Henry growled and sent the fucker running.
The thug fled, and Henry dressed with a smile.
Much better.
Now, to get home.
He pulled the hoodie over his head, and walked toward the van to see if they’d left the keys inside. He managed two steps before getting smacked on the back of the skull. Sharp déjà vu on his way to the ground.
Not again.
CHAPTER 5
Henry woke up on what appeared to be an Eminem video set, or a meth house party gone wrong.
Naked again.
He sat up and blinked through the empty bottles of Jack a few feet away on a filthy coffee table, and more empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans than he could count. A sea of pork rinds, chips, and two kinds of Oreos. Because shit sometimes wrote itself, the glass tabletop was also littered with an empty carton of American Spirits, a pack of Lee Press-Ons, and a can of Beanee Weenee casserole.
The garbage bag at the end of the stained couch sharpened into focus a second before the bodies on the floor behind it.
Henry spent a half minute blinking before he could believe what he saw. Thirty seconds for his mind and logic to concur. There were four corpses, three guys and a gal, all deader than Henry had been. Covered in blood, arms mangled, and bodies so crooked they looked like they’d been playing Twister with a serial killer.
What did I do?
Henry staggered to his feet, swaying as pain lanced through his temples.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
Henry went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and squinted against the harsh light above the mirror.
He closed his eyes and splashed cool water on his overheated face, pressing his palms hard against his cheeks and lightly rubbing life and feeling back into them.
What did I do? How did I get here?
His headache dropped to a dull throb, a low pounding that rose and fell with his nausea. He reached back and felt a large lump on the back of his head. It was tender, but it probably should have hurt a lot more than it did.
Henry turned off the water and stared into his reflection, expecting to see his usual dark goatee covering his chubby pasty face. Ready to hate himself for a few minutes, like usual.
Instead, he screamed.
Henry was a monster. Twisted, gnarled, grotesque. His face was all wrong. His goatee was gone, as was his dark, thinning hair. Henry was worse than bald. He ran his hands over his smooth head, which seemed to have been stretched out to make room for a bigger brain or a tumor under his skull. His eyes were larger. Dark black instead of blue, with no white at all. His nose was swollen, pointed like a witch’s.
“Jesus!” he cried as he ran his fingers over his face. The skin was soft, like his head, but hot to the touch.
And when he spoke the name of Jesus, he winced as his tongue moved inside his mouth.
The teeth!
Henry’s teeth were now long and sharp.
Like a werewolf.<
br />
He shuddered and stepped back, and as he observed his body, he saw that the changes hadn’t just happened to his face. His entire body was hairless, and darker, a light brownish-red. Sun-burned and muscular.
No. No. This isn’t me! This isn’t my body!
Henry screamed at the ceiling. Wordless and helpless.
When did this happen? I was a man when I woke up in the morgue! I was normal. What the fuck is happening?
Henry screamed again, louder, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
He heard the laughter behind him, seeing Boothe’s reflection in the mirror as the demon drew nearer.
“You’re thorough, I’ll give you that, Henry. But you make a big mess. I’d watch that if I were you.”
Henry jerked away, spinning to confront him. “What the Hell did you do to me?”
“I did nothing to you. You’ve done this to yourself.” He gestured toward Henry’s reflection, rather than at the man himself. “I brought you back home. Exactly as asked.”
“What the Hell are you talking about? How did I do this to myself?”
“How many times have you looked in the mirror and hated yourself, Henry? How many times have you broadcast that hatred for all the world to hear?” Boothe laughed, as if the reflection was humorous rather than horrible. “This is how you see yourself, and how you are now. Your old body is gone. You don’t get it back in the condition it was taken, you get it back in the shape your brain spent a lifetime beating it into. That’s not my fault.”
Boothe slapped a gentle hand on Henry’s back as if he owed congratulations. “As for all this?” He gestured out of the bathroom and toward the four corpses on the floor of White Trash Castle. “That’s all you, too. I accept no responsibility for your rage. You must learn to control your emotions, because the same thing will happen again if you don’t. Jekyll and Hyde? That’s you now, Henry. Or the Phantom of the Opera if you’re more of a romantic, which I suppose you’re probably not. Lose your temper, and terrible things will follow. Embrace that part of yourself. Learn to channel it, and you’ll do what you came back here to do.”
