Eventually I force myself to take action. Doing my best to ignore the pain rifling through my body, I nestle myself between the deer’s body and the bed, opposite the comforter. Shoving both hands under the deer’s bulk, I scream and heave with all my might. Damn. It’s fucking heavy, but the deer slides forward just enough so I can gather a bit of leverage against the bed frame.
One…two…three… and I scream even louder, on par with the pain in my body. The deer slides a few more inches, and this time when it kicks its legs and honks it actually thrusts itself away from me, right on top of the comforter. Halle-fucking-luiah. Maybe there is a god after all.
Pulling up the edge of the comforter, I’m able to jimmy and shift the deer’s bulk until it settles firmly onto the center. Flies leap about it and settle back down, not so ready or willing to surrender their goldmine. Gasping in pain, and feeling now the stitches beginning to unravel in my gut (should’ve given myself the same double treatment I’d given the deer), I take a quick peek down at the animal’s abdomen and see that my work is so far holding up, the slight rise and fall confirming to me that the deer is still hanging on.
For deer life, the little man in my head adds.
Real fucking funny.
Gasping, I stagger from the bedroom and out into the hallway. I stop by Jessica’s room, grip the door frame, and look inside. It is no different than when I saw it yesterday. Mother Goose on her nightstand…and on the table beneath the window, her dolls. And like yesterday they continue to contemplate me with their terrible glassy eyes, their plastic smiles, their poised hands and larvae-like fingers that appear to twitch in the gloom.
Are their fingers moving? Are their eyes seeing? Are their smiles forced, disguising the pain they feel without Jessica here to take care of them?
I continue to stare at them, and then I count them. There are twenty, some bigger than others, but none smaller than a human newborn.
They scare me, clustered together in a motionless collective, bearing as much life as my (crumbling) mind chooses to impart upon them. There’s one in the middle of the group—and for the life of me I do not remember which one—with a head that once came unscrewed, and I know that if I begin tugging at them, one will come off in my hand. I can remember Page leaping about in here one night when my mind had been preoccupied with the appearance of the Isolates, and when I rushed in here I’d found the plastic baby on the floor, its decapitated head peering up at me, one eyelid open, the other halfway shut. With a tiny audible click, that closed eyelid had opened, and for the slightest moment I saw both its glassy eyes moving toward me…or so my brain had insisted as such. I’d closed my eyes tightly, and upon opening them found the doll exactly as I’d first sighted it, only one eye open, staring at the ceiling.
Now, as I stare at the dolls, I wonder if I should move them, or cover them, so that I won't have to face them every time I come in here. But in doing so, it would be like taking away a piece of my daughter Jessica, accepting her absence and throwing this round in my fight against the Isolates.
I rub my eyes, then stare back at them…and my crumbling mind sees the eyes of the largest doll perched in the middle blinking, click-click-click, its head turning slowly, the plastic of its neck snapping, a tiny arm raising up and tugging upon the hair of the doll next to it, tugging…tugging…tugging…until its head tilts over and falls free, tumbling onto the floor, rolling…rolling…rolling until it comes to rest a foot before me, its round eyes glaring up at me, pink lips smiling, a tiny rivulet of blood trickling from one plastic nostril…
“No…” I say aloud, turning away, listening deeply to the bitter silence of the house and hearing only the labored breaths of the deer as it struggles to stay alive. When I open my eyes, I struggle against my inner voice and peer back into the room. The head of the doll is not on the floor anymore. It’s back on the neck of the doll that sits beside the largest doll of the cluster, arms raised slightly as if coveting a hug from me. I turn away…but instead of leaving I chance another look at them.
The dolls remain...except for the one with the loose head.
Its nose is trickling blood.
I could play this game with my…crumbling…mind all night. Instead I turn away for good and continue with my mission to do what Phillip once did to me.
Chapter Seventeen
Taking the steps painfully one at a time, I go back downstairs and peek out through the gap in the bay window in the living room. The front yard is gray and desolate, its minor details sucked away by the tandem cover of nightfall and drifts of snow. The sky appears heavy and about to burst, but as of now no additional flakes fall. The footprints the girl named Shea had made are still there, leading away into the reckless oblivion that makes up the rest of Ashborough, New Hampshire.
I pull my blurred gaze away from the window and stagger to the kitchen. Once there I hunker down and open the cabinet below the sink, damn it hurts, the pain shooting up from my scar into my head now, and I fear, despite the shot of tetanus I gave myself, that infection might be setting in. Plus the Tylenol I’d chewed and puked seems to be no match against it. I need something stronger. I should be taking an antibiotic. From beneath the sink I ferret out a roll of duct tape, then a pair of scissors from the drawer right above it, and place them both on the countertop. I slowly climb to my feet and lumber back into my office, trying to sidestep the streaks of blood and dirt on the hardwood floor (again I wonder how in God’s name Lou Scully had left it there from my dream, and it occurs to me now that, as ludicrous as it seems, Lou might’ve actually been here) and grab two Percocet from my desk drawer. I shove them in my mouth and suck on them until I’m able to retrieve a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and wash them down.
Ohhhhh….yessssss…
The whiskey burns on the way down, but feels comforting nonetheless as I stand there and allow the warmth to encompass my body. Taking the bottle with me, I go back into the kitchen, grab the tape and scissors that I’d left on the counter, and head back upstairs. The entire journey feels like a trek through the mountains, and by the time I get into my bedroom, I’m winded and nauseous.
I take another guzzle from the bottle, then place it on the nightstand and contemplate the job awaiting me. The alcohol feels like an iron poker in my stomach, but already the pain in my wound is subsiding. I hope and pray that the cocktail will do its job on my…crumbling…mind as well.
First I check the deer to make sure it is still alive. Its gut rises up and down, but I give it a little nudge with my boot anyway, just to be sure. My (crumbling) mind has been playing games with me for months now—nothing can be trusted. Not even the little man in my head, who hasn’t been much help here at all. The deer raises a hoof an inch and clocks the floor, but that’s about it. Not even that horrible honking sound. Its energy is fading fast, along with its life. I have to move.
Grabbing the ends of the comforter, I quickly swathe the animal as best I can, then gather all four legs and pull them together. Peeling a strip of tape away, I tear it with my teeth and wrap it around the animal’s ankles, then loop the entire roll around five or six times. Once the deer’s legs are secured, I use the rest of the roll, taping the comforter tightly around its body, making sure to adhere some of the animal’s hide along the way so the cover will hold.
Looks like a big present. Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Good job Michael. I’m impressed. Now for the hard part. You’ve got to get it out of here. You’ve got to get it downstairs, and outside, and then all the way to Phillip’s house…oh, wait, it’s not Phillip’s house anymore. You killed him.
Ignoring the little man in my head—something I’m getting used to, whether he likes it or not—I latch on to one end of the comforter and pull.
I can hear something tear, and for a moment assume it to be the animal’s stitches until I feel my own warm wet blood trickling down the front of my body…down my lower abdomen and into the waistband of my scrubs, down into my crotch and farther on
, down my thighs.
But the pain has subsided, along with my anxiety, now that the painkillers have sprinkled their magic onto the nerve endings in my brain. With a grunt I’m able to turn the animal onto its back, restrained legs angled up into the crook of my elbow as I drag it through the bathroom and into the hallway. A few more feet and I’m at the top of the stairs. I let the animal go and lean it against the wall as if it were a heavy piece of furniture.
The little man in my head was right. No way will I be able to shoulder the weight of this thing down the steps. I consider a few other options, like tying a rope to it and trying to leverage it down. But that won't work. As soon as its dead weight begins to fall over the top step, it’s going to pull the rope out of my hands, or pull me down with it.
Considering the brief amount of time and strength I have, there seems to be only one option.
For a moment I consider gathering a bunch of pillows and blankets to cushion its fall, but at this point I’m too darn stoned and tired to make it happen. So I step aside, grab the animal by the legs, and pray it makes it out alive.
The animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice.
The stairs are threatening in their steep slope, appearing now in my blurred gaze to be waxing and waning: a moving target challenging my desire to hit the mark. Using my right foot, I wedge it beneath the animal’s bulk and push. At the same moment, the deer, seemingly aware of its predicament, bucks and jerks beneath its shroud, the sound of the tearing duct tape impersonating that of my splitting stitches.
A few seconds tick by and I feel my entire life falling away from me, the deer a ticket to my salvation, tossed by yours truly into the fire. Its bulk slides halfway down the steps, remaining on its back until an exposed hoof gets caught up in the banister. There’s a horrible cracking sound, a firecracker pop that echoes about the still air of the house. My mind struggles to discern as to whether this sound was the banister splintering under the weight of the deer, or the deer’s leg bone shattering under the rigid stability of the banister. In the next moment, as the deer tumbles end over end down the remaining steps, I see that two of the carved columns beneath the banister are broken…as is one of the deer’s legs, evident by the stark white of exposed bone peeking out through the bloody flesh.
With a jarring thump, the deer hits the floor in the living room and plunges into the front door, half a shattered leg left behind on the floor like a twig washed up on the shore.
A moment passes where I just stand there, panting furiously, the warm, wet trickle of blood from my wound now joined with the stinging flow of piss down my leg. I collapse back against the wall, pulling my gaze away from the now partially bundled deer, half its torso exposed, more blood and other wet discharges polluting the downstairs of my house now.
Home sweet fucking home.
I slide down on my haunches, barely able to breathe. My throat feels like a straw through which I am barely able to suck in a breath, each wheeze making a scary screaming sound, drawing my gorge. I reel into the bathroom and vomit into the sink with such force that the paltry contents of my stomach (brown, stinging bile and scotch and the undigested swirls of Percocet) spatter the faucet. Without warning, blackness fills my vision and my legs crumple. I feel myself going down, and then there’s a sharp agony as my head strikes the edge of the marble counter top.
I’m out before I even hit the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
When I regain consciousness, I find myself curled on the bathroom floor. Gripping the edge of the counter, I pull myself up and sit on the edge of the tub, palms pressed into the hollows of my eyes. I allow a few minutes to pass, and in this time I wonder how long I’ve been passed out, trying hard to swallow the bitter acid balling up in my throat. I soon divert my thoughts to the deer and wonder if it’s still at the bottom of the steps. It occurs to me that if a single baby Isolate had been able to drag it up the stairs, then it could easily drag it back out. Its brothers had done it once before with the deer from the shed; no reason why they couldn’t do it again. And assuming they’re keeping to their methodology, then I have to presume they’re keeping tabs on me right this very minute—watching, listening—wanting to see if I’m able to carry on with their demand of me. Should the deer be dead, then for certain they’ll take it away and I’ll have to start this sick game all over from scratch. Déjà fucking vu.
Slowly I stand from the tub and turn to gaze at the monster in the mirror, its face hollow and gaunt, the concentration camp look giving way to the next stage of physical deterioration, a rarely glimpsed blur between life and death. The cuts, the dirt, the bruises, the dried blood, the dark circles, my face is a bizarre bazaar of physical adversities. Thankfully the painkillers are still working their magic, inhibiting my ability to see every horrid detail through the veil of haze before my eyes.
I turn on the sink faucet and allow the cool water to run over my trembling hands. There’s a cup on the counter, once used to rinse my mouth of toothpaste—shit, when was the last time I brushed my teeth?—and I fill it up, all the way to the brim. Oddly, I feel compelled to splash away the remaining smears of my vomit in the sink before I proceed to drink five full cupfuls of water.
Suppressing the urge to throw up again, I take a long deep breath, then lurch out into the hallway, where I grip the handrail at the top of the steps. Although darkness has taken over the (crumbling) Cayle household, I can still see the dark sprawling form of the deer against the door, its head now poking out of the comforter, dark glassy eyes shimmering against the moonlight seeping in through the small window at the top of the door.
This city boy can only guess that if the animal’s eyes are shining in the dark, then they must still be able to see—that the animal must still be alive.
I can’t even fathom a guess as to how much time has passed since I pushed it down the steps, but one might consider the animal being alive after all it’s been through as a miracle. A gift from God, as far as I’m concerned. It’s been a good thirty-six hours since I emerged from the basement and found the deer in my bedroom. It had been near death then. And here it is now, still alive, its very soul at my disposal.
I make the journey down the steps and look at the animal. Sure enough, its torn stomach is still rising and falling, the stitches halfway loose, a tender strip of gummy blood the only thing holding its organs back. One of its legs is broken in half, the severed end lying a few feet away like a piece of driftwood on the beach. Its eyes stare blankly into the air, blood red and rimmed with pus, a nest of flies buzzing loudly about its head.
The sight doesn’t even faze me. I’ve seen a lot, and believe me, this is nothing.
With a groan, I turn away and move toward the kitchen, arms held out before me in case I lose balance and need to break my fall. A small pang of hunger rises in my stomach and once in the kitchen I indulge it with a handful of stale crackers and some water from the sink. So much has happened since I decided not to kill myself, and for a moment wonder if I just should’ve given in to the incessant prod of cowardice begging me to stick the needle in my arm. Then I see my daughter’s face pass across my…crumbling…mind’s eye, and recall her scream from the woods. This gives me the sense to press on.
Moving down the hallway, past the laundry room (which still smells of detergent, the only sliver of normalcy in this madhouse of horrors) and into the office waiting room. The side door ushers me into the night.
My pants are still wet from my piss, the cold reminding me of this painful little detail, my body shivering all over. The sky is broken and dark, thick clouds cutting into the full moon’s cold blue light, only to traipse away once again, bringing everything back into view. I rush across the snowy back yard, past the shed, past Christine’s birdbath and the garden of mysterious herbs she’d grown—another misguided facet of the Grand Scheme, courtesy of Old Lady Zellis—and into the detached garage, which is still half full of Neil Farris’s things left behind.
There’s a collection of it
ems below the loft that I’d stored here and never got a chance to go through. One of these things was the new sled I bought for Jessica at the toy store on Main Street that’d never found its way out into the snow. Sighting it brings tears into my eyes. My little girl had been so excited to go sledding (something we’d never gotten the chance to do while living in Manhattan), and I’d surprised her on her first day of school with a sleek red ‘Flyer’ the toy store owner had left over from the prior season. He’d given it to me for half price, and at the time I truly believed him to be yet another local welcoming the new doctor into town. Thinking back now, his fleeting gaze and sweating forehead was a minute but definitive indicator that everyone here was living under a blanket of constant threat. What did I know at the time?
Grabbing the sled by the rope, I drag it back through the snow, around to the front of the house, where I set it just below the front step. As quickly as my wounded body will let me, I climb the front steps…then pause on the porch and peer into the woods at the side of the house.
Something shambles in the woods, stomping through the snowy brush, cracking old branches. I search for golden eyes but see only the crooked shadows of the trees against the white earth.
Still, I know: they’re out there, watching me.
Making certain that I continue with their demand.
Nodding once, as if acknowledging their presence, I shuffle to the front door…and slam into it, realizing quite stupidly that it is still locked, and that the heavy deer is still perched against it.
Chapter Nineteen
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