Reincarnage

by Ryan Harding

  Floorboard creaks and moans drew his attention overhead. Every movement seemed to strain the house as if years of emptiness left it incapable to cope with the influx of humanity. For whatever reason, maybe termites, it didn’t seem to be as structurally solid when listening down here.

  “And there’s three hours of interstate to search,” Patrick said. Disobeying his own orders he peeled back the curtains to let more light into the room. One of the rods fell, bringing down the curtains of the left window. It set a billion dust particles free.

  Patrick opened the other curtain. The second window was a sliding glass door. On the deck outside Marcus saw a toppled charcoal grill beside a picnic table turned on its side. This would be the lower deck that ran along the rear of the house, the path not taken at the fork in the stairwell.

  “Dusty,” Patrick mumbled. “But we have light.”

  Across from the sliding door, a pub-style counter jutted from the wall. There were a couple of pictures Marcus couldn’t make out behind the bar. To the left of the bar was a pool cue rack and a long shuffle board. In the center of the wall adjacent to the stairwell, a doorway opened near the opposite corner and in the middle there was a mounted wooden ship wheel surrounded by various fishing rods. But the real showpieces of the room were on the opposite wall. Two large fishing hooks were port and starboard of several mounted fish, the largest a swordfish, all surrounding the large centerpiece: a harpoon gun with a two-pronged tip. The spear had a ring on the underside threaded with thin rope from a spool which hung from the wooden forestock. Cobwebs adorned everything—they were a part of the décor in every room.

  Patrick crossed the room to the couch below the harpoon gun, a tornado of motes swirling behind him. “Might want to flip that shirt inside out.”

  Ed looked at the front of his shirt and then peeled it over his head. “Not all of us were on vacation.”

  “Accessibility is only one of the criteria,” Patrick said. “Gin had a stalker, so guess where an investigation into her disappearance will focus?”

  Marcus couldn’t resist. “Adam?”

  “Hey.”

  “Just pullin’ your leg, man.”

  “He’s home schooled. He doesn’t get to interact with girls much.”

  “Home schooled?” Patrick laughed softly. He removed the couch cushions, probably checking for a trap rather than loose change.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ed stood in front of the wall-mounted pool cue rack, which held no actual cues. Only three balls remained.

  “That put you on the radar, too.”

  Dust from the disturbed couch and fallen curtains tickled Marcus’s nose and throat.

  “Because he won’t be missed in class?”

  “Something like that,” Patrick answered. Satisfied he wouldn’t get a nasty surprise, he returned the cushions and stepped onto the couch to reach the harpoon gun. Instead of grabbing it, he tilted his head and examined the wall around it. “The police will focus on Gin’s aggressive lothario.”

  “Isn’t Annette in real estate? She’ll have houses to show.”

  “Shit, I wouldn’t report her missing,” Marcus said. “But Eliza was jogging. How’s that fit? They just pull up and drag her into a van?”

  “Does seem less…professional,” Ed added.

  Patrick shrugged. “Eliza will get a lot of press but a police investigation won’t lead anywhere. How many women go for a jog and never return?”

  Marcus remembered a story about an owl attacking joggers in Highpoint, but the only thing that disappeared in those attacks was an iPod taken by that fucking bird. When Eliza didn’t turn up, people would think she was raped, murdered, and buried somewhere—or captive in some nutcase’s dungeon.

  “Brilliant move to take some of us while we were far from home. We probably aren’t officially missing yet and once we are the trail will be cold. Law enforcement from multiple jurisdictions will slow walk until something definitive turns up to prove we were taken from their turf.”

  “Where were you?” Ed asked.

  “Vacation in Mexico.” Patrick twisted small wires at each end of the weapon and lifted it from the rack.

  “Damn, these people got some reach.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Trader with Universal Exports.” Patrick aimed the harpoon gun at the couch but didn’t pull the trigger.

  Ed said, “Think I’ve heard of them.”

  The name meant nothing to Marcus. The extent of his stock market involvement was a 401(k) on auto-pilot with allocations currently in the “aggressive” category. Chances of dying before the big cash-out? Also aggressive.

  Patrick put the harpoon gun on the pool table and walked to the bar. Marcus wondered if he or Ed should be checking closets and other rooms, but they’d probably find a trap instead of anything useful.

  Patrick ducked out of sight behind the bar. “Yesss!”

  “What is it?”

  “Find a gun?” Marcus asked.

  Bottles clinked together and things fell over. Patrick slid an object across a shelf and Marcus felt something he thought he never would again: elation. Patrick had probably found a shotgun. It was big whatever it was.

  When Patrick put a white beer cooler on top of the counter Marcus’s smile slipped.

  “What’s in it?”

  With a grin, Patrick pulled out thin canisters with dark rims. “Koozies.” He immediately set about pulling the plastic rings off the tops. The koozies were emblazoned with different beer logos. Schlitz, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller, Duff, Viper. One by one he let the rings drop to the floor behind the counter. Ed and Marcus looked at each other to confirm this shouldn’t be a big deal.

  Suzanne, Gin and Adam clumped down the stairs. Adam carried a large metal gas can with liquid sloshing inside it.

  “Half-full,” Gin said. “It was in the garage. No boat.”

  Adam set the can on the floor. It was dented on top. Marcus found Suzanne’s eyes, wondering if she was as in the dark as he was. She shrugged. Gin and now Adam seemed to be on a different wavelength with Patrick, like there was a clique and some of the others hadn’t been asked to join—hadn’t even known of its existence. Marcus had been paying attention to everything but he didn’t remember Patrick requesting a garage search for gasoline.

  “Excellent. Marcus, could you and Suzanne empty these bottles into a sink, please?” He pulled some large whiskey bottles from behind the bar.

  “Why are we emptying bottles?” Suzanne asked. Marcus recognized the pissed look, like she was about to spit hot fire, before she whispered to him, “And why the fuck did you take off?”

  “A Styrofoam and gasoline mixture is poor man’s napalm. We’ll light that bastard up like he was born on the Fourth of July.” Patrick smiled wryly.

  “Sorry,” Marcus whispered.

  She pointedly ignored him. To Gin, she said, “Was there a car in the garage?”

  “Yeah, but I think all the tires were flat.”

  Always quick to dash hopes, Patrick said, “It won’t run anyway. That battery probably died before half of us were born.”

  The stale piss scent suddenly overwhelmed as if someone had stepped in it and stirred it up.

  “Found another bathroom,” Adam announced, pushing open the door by the corner.

  “Great, empty these in the sink. Please. Check for old soap. We can use it in the napalm.”

  Suzanne grabbed the bottles and handed one to Marcus before pushing him toward the bathroom.

  “Don’t you ever wander off like that again.”

  “We just went to the basement. We didn’t go next door.”

  “Shut up while you’re ahead.”

  Marcus had to strain to get the first cap to twist. He emptied the bottle into the sink, checking past Suzanne. The partially open door and Suzanne with hands on hips blocked everyone’s view. If he couldn’t piss in the toilet, he could go in the sink.

  “Stay there for a minute,” he whispered. He held a bot
tle between his goods and the doorway just in case Suzanne bailed and threw open the door in mid stream. He sighed with relief.

  It was short-lived. Suzanne shook her head. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t. Should have yelled upstairs and told you where we was headed.”

  “Don’t do it again. We stick together. ”

  After shaking off, Marcus washed it down with some vintage whiskey and pushed the door open the rest of the way with his foot. A nip from what remained in the first bottle was pretty good. Bourbon.

  Nothing left in the soap dish but the dried crust of an old bar of soap so he stepped out of the bathroom. Gin and Adam sat on the floor between the pool table and fallen curtains where they crushed Styrofoam and dropped it into a punch bowl. Large pieces were torn from the cooler and the koozies were gone. The bowl had plenty of crushed, torn Styrofoam.

  Patrick took the bottles from Marcus and set them atop the bar. He’d been tearing the extra shirt into strips. For whatever reason, Patrick decided the T-shirt was better for his Molotov cocktails than the curtains.

  “Did you see a funnel in the garage?” he asked.

  “We couldn’t see much of anything,” Gin said. “Those bushes blocked the window and most of the light. Should we go back and see if our eyes adjust?”

  “No, we’ll be careful when we pour.”

  Suzanne nodded toward the stairwell. Her angry look was gone, so Marcus felt it was safe to move in that direction.

  Patrick swirled the contents of the gasoline can. The metal cap squeaked when he unscrewed it.

  At the stairwell, Suzanne whispered, “This doesn’t feel right. We should be moving.”

  “Moving where? There’s nowhere to go if he’s right.”

  “I’ve seen those idiots who get evacuated on news and talk shows. People do get out of here. We can call from a Chicken Exit. Say our guide got killed in a trap, we’re sorry, now please hurry the hell up and get our asses out of here.”

  They heard thumping upstairs. It was someone coming down the stairs from the second floor.

  “How’s he going to light his napalm? Did he find matches?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “There’s a lot he doesn’t say.

  “Oh gawd, they left us.” The unmistakable whine belonged to Annette.

  “Down here!” Suzanne called in a harsh whisper. “Just wanna ring that bitch’s neck. Rubs me the wrong way twice.”

  “He’s coming for us.” Annette nearly stumbled down the stairwell.

  “You see him?” Marcus asked.

  “Slow down,” Eliza warned behind her.

  Annette hurried past Suzanne and Marcus as if she were the one who had to make the announcement to everyone. The town crier, with an emphasis on crying. The others were already well aware of the crisis and gathered at the stairwell.

  “He’s here, he’s here!” Annette pointed frantically. “What do we do?”

  “Where’s my wife?” Ed asked.

  “She’s watching him from the window,” Eliza said.

  “Okay, okay, just stay down here. I’ll have a look,” Patrick said. He called out to Gin and Adam, “Keep mixing.”

  Marcus wondered if splitting up was the best strategy, but decided it beat all of them stampeding up the stairs at once.

  He and Suzanne followed Ed up the stairwell with Patrick close behind them. “Stay back from the windows,” Patrick whispered. “No talking.”

  With only the swish of his pants to mark his sudden burst of movement from the stairwell, Marcus light-stepped toward the hallway. He didn’t want to go upstairs and risk the only route of escape being a second floor window. The first room on the right faced the street outside.

  Despite Patrick’s warning, Marcus raced to the nearest window and lightly parted the wisp-thin white curtains. Not knowing where the guy was seemed just as dangerous as trusting the ones upstairs to warn everyone in time to scoot out the back door.

  Marcus doubted Agent Orange could see him because he couldn’t see much of the street through this window.

  Suzanne put a hand on his back.

  “See him?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. Someone might just be jumping at shadows. He felt like Orange couldn’t really be there unless he confirmed it for himself.

  Then he saw him cross the street with what looked like a burlap bag over his head—a bag with eerie goggles sewed into it.

  Marcus wished for the sirens now for a sonic buffer. Each footfall in the house seemed thunderous, like the pounding hearts of everyone hidden inside. More creaking floorboards. He wanted to scream, WHO THE FUCK IS MOVING AROUND?

  Overgrowth obstructed Orange for a moment. Marcus saw a shape move behind the fluttering leaves. He was angled toward the house beside theirs, as though going door to door to inquire about beliefs in an afterlife—or at least speed people along to find out if they were right.

  This hide and wait plan suddenly seemed like the stupidest thing ever. He and Suzanne could jet, but would Orange spot them through a window of the other house? Until he was on the opposite side of the street, it would be insane to make a run for it.

  He needed the bathroom again.

  Minutes passed in the silence. No sign of him. Apparently he didn’t just jiggle doorknobs and move on. It’d be a lot more than a quick piss inspection when he dropped by here; probably like cops with a search warrant, but a greater chance of someone ending up dead.

  A little greater, anyway.

  Marcus shut his burning eyes for a moment to rest them. He half-expected that goggle-eyed mask to slip into the space between the window and the tree outside when he opened them again.

  He thought of Dewan and more specifically his python, Sir Jinx. Dewan liked to hit a blunt and blow the smoke in Sir Jinx’s face, usually ending up in a coughing fit as he broke out laughing.

  I’m gonna end up making him docile and shit, but I can’t help it. It’s too damn funny.

  Except showtime with the snake didn’t always mean high times.

  Check this shit, son. This is so dope.

  Then they’d watch a formerly lethargic Sir Jinx delight in wrapping up a mouse and squeezing the life out that bitch with excruciating relish. Suzanne eventually refused to go over to Dewan’s, and truthfully Marcus preferred to meet up with him far away from that creepy-ass snake, too.

  And now they were holed up in here, getting the life and hope slowly squeezed out of them.

  The unmistakable—and loud—breaking of a board cracked the silence. Suzanne jumped. Her grip on his shoulder tightened as she whispered, “Shit!”

  He’d turned around to track the noise, which didn’t repeat. When he faced the window again, he saw Agent Orange, though thankfully not inches away. He stood out on the street, unmoving.

  “I think he heard it,” Suzanne whispered.

  It was better when she couldn’t see him; Marcus didn’t want her freaked out, too.

  He finally unfroze and trudged toward the house across the street. The zigzag pattern would bring him this way afterward.

  “We can’t stay here,” Marcus said. “He’s coming here next.”

  “If we leave, he’ll see us.”

  “Not if we head out the back door.”

  “Through the woods? He’ll hear us.”

  He suddenly deviated from his path, turning down the street and away from the houses. Had he called it off? Marcus continued to watch, unbelieving. Why would he leave the last two houses unsearched?

  “He’s leaving?”

  Orange dropped out of sight. Marcus stared at the vanishing point, waiting for him to reappear like the retreat was a joke.

  Thought I’d let you live after all? Psych!

  Eventually he heard movement upstairs and ambient chatter.

  We’re saved! Let’s find some more loud shit to break at a crucial moment!

  He wanted to find the moron who’d snapped a board and snap their spine over his knee.
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br />   “Who the hell was moving around?” Suzanne asked. “Some of these idiots don’t even want to live, I’m telling you. The further from them we get the—”

  Someone screamed. A short, startling burst.

  “Seriously? Seriously?”

  Bad news for the group. They were in enough danger without Suzanne getting hotheaded.

  Marcus eased back from the window to stand. His body protested from the strain of staying crouched so long. Suzanne rushed into the hallway, frantically motioning for Marcus to follow her up the stairs. His knees popped.

  He saw Pamela first, but Patrick was close behind.

  “Who screamed?” Suzanne asked.

  Annette, who should have stayed downstairs like Patrick told her, said, “I saw a mouse.”

  “Oh? Did it have a machete? He does.”

  “We should move to the house he just checked before he comes back,” Patrick said. More thumps as he pushed past Marcus and Suzanne and down the stairs once more.

  “We should follow a road to the wall,” Eliza said, right behind. “There’s a military checkpoint. We should have done that in the first place and stayed ahead of him!”

  Ed pounded down the stairs with Pamela, his needle reliably entrenched in a groove of the broken record about finding one of those emergency phones across the lake.

  I’m starting to think this shit is sponsored by the makers of the Chicken Exit, Marcus thought. Pamela wasn’t warming up to the idea, though, and good thing—he’d feel marginally bad waving to them after he and Suzanne commandeered that canoe and paddled away while they watched dumbfounded from the dock.

  “If we stay here he’s going to find us,” Annette whimpered.

  The first thing you said that ain’t stupid as hell. Congratulations.

  Everyone trailed downstairs after Patrick in the unspoken game of Follow the Leader, but Suzanne grabbed him and held him fast. From where he stood he could see the front door and the back door. Orange could knock either one of them down any minute.

  He waited forever for the others to get down the stairs and well out of earshot, and still kept his voice to a whisper. “Okay, what?” While he wasn’t sure he wanted to go next door or try for the boat, he didn’t want to stand around with no input on what the group would do. They had napalm (maybe) and a harpoon gun, so why stick around? There were probably enough votes to override him if the group didn’t like whatever Patrick had planned, but would anyone really want to separate from the guy who’d engineered the discovery of their only two weapons? Maybe they could make Annette the tie-breaker, as in Marcus and Suzanne would do the opposite of whatever she chose.