by Vin Carver
A burning chill ran into Warren’s neck, and the lump in his throat disintegrated. The urn shook. He flexed his arms, held the urn still, and exhaled. The earth shook. The lid fell off, tumbled onto the lawn, and came to rest against the house. Blue swirls of electricity flitted around the rim of the urn. Electricity popped and arced over the opening. A mist hovered above the electricity, and a low hum undulated in Warren’s ears.
His mom said, “We had to let him—”
POP
Warren peered deeper into the urn, and the earth began to spin.
“Your fault…my fault—”
POP
“…the doctors did all they—”
The centrifugal force of the world pulled on Warren. His head lolled to one side, and he forced it back over the urn.
POP
“…it wasn’t your…cancer—”
POP
“…if only I had it to do over, I would—”
More strands of electricity joined the swirl and moved clockwise around the rim. Mesmerized by the tiny storm, Warren brought the urn within an inch of his face. Warm banana bread mist seeped into his nose. He closed his eyes and licked his lips.
POP
His dad said, “What the hell, Warren?…doing out there—”
POP—POP, BANG
“…get out of house…should have spanked when little…”
The urn hissed, and the mist vanished. A yeasty odor overwhelmed the banana bread.
“…remove him…derr`mo…Karen.”
Warren opened his eyes. The electrical swirl had disappeared. His hands were cold, and his face was hot. He reached for the lid, but it was already on the urn.
“You hit mom for last time. You bad. You a bad dad. You not my dad, you a bad dad.”
Thwump.
A voice with a thick Russian accent said, “Ahh. Help me. Remove him from me.”
A woman said, “I hope he kills you, you son-of-a—”
A thin-metal twang echoed throughout the house.
“Owww.”
“It’s your fault she’s dead. It’s your fault my darling Dasha is gone.”
Warren rubbed his eyes. Green strands of grass blended together and formed a singular lawn. The cracks in the faded fence weren’t vivid because they were gone. The entire fence was gone. His mom’s tubby four-door and his dad’s disfigured wagon were also gone. Instead, a large, white truck sat at the end of the driveway. Warren put his palm against his house. This house was his house, yet his parents, their voices, their cars, the fence—
“You a bad dad. You a stupid, bad dad, and I big enough to hit you. Why you let her get run over?”
Thwump.
“Maybe next time you go get beef stick, you think, No. I stay with Dasha.”
A smoky haze passed through Warren’s mind and made him dizzy. He put his hands down and grabbed onto the grass. He held on tight. The aroma of banana bread coated his every thought, and the odor of yeast stung his nostrils. He let go of the grass and rubbed his nose. Stars appeared in the sky, and a bluebird flew beneath a street light. The tip of Statler Ridge faded to black, and the sun set. He pulled the front pocket of his hoodie up to his face, and charred ants crawled into his nose. Disgusted, he dropped his hoodie and lifted his head above the window sill. Inside, a man with thick, gray hair and a pair of suspenders with flags lay on the floor. Straddling the man, Darren Sredo threw a punch—thwump—and turned his steely eyes toward Warren.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
You A Bad Warthog
Warren sat with his back against his house, shaking.
Darren Sredo said, “Warren? That you? You wait minute.”
Thwump.
“You stay here bad dad. I be back.” Footsteps clomped across the floor.
The urn rolled off Warren’s lap, and he caught it. He put it in his backpack and zipped the outer pocket shut. His hip throbbed as he pushed himself up off the ground. Across the street, jagged rocks jutted out of the ground between lodgepole pines on Statler Ridge—not a great place to hide. Lake Forest beckoned, and Warren turned to run.
Sredo stepped onto the porch. His brilliant blond hair had patches of orange—a home dye job gone wrong. Sredo put his hand up. “Don’t go, Warren.”
Tears ran down each side of his reddened face. His chest heaved, and his stubby arms dangled at his sides. Blood dripped from the knuckles on his right hand, and he grinned at Warren. If Sredo had been born with a tail, it would’ve been wagging.
He said, “You here tutor me history? You can’t right now. My dad a bad dad tonight. My sister dead. My dad in trouble.”
“Your sister? You don’t have a—”
Warren ran everything he knew about Darren Sredo through his head and came up with no sister. Had Sredo lost his mind? Had he snapped and become a psychopath, going from house to house beating up old men? This wasn’t even his house. A drop of blood landed on the porch, and Warren forced himself to ignore it and return the grin. Any second, Sredo could flip and say, You bad. You a bad Warthog.
Warren’s muscles tensed. “I mean—I’m sorry about your sister. I can come back another time.”
“It okay Warren, not you fault.” Sredo’s grin faded. “Why you wearing hoodie?”
Why aren’t you calling me Warthog?
Warren put his hand up to his head. “I put it on because it’s cold out tonight.”
“Yeah.” Sredo turned toward the front window and glowered. “It cold inside tonight too.” He turned back to Warren. “You come tomorrow and tell me about…” He gaped. His eyes rolled up to the sky, and Warren waited for words to come out of his mouth.
Finally, Sredo said, “You come tomorrow and tutor me about Neapolitan, okay?”
“Sure, yeah. Neapolitan…”
“Okay. My bad dad won’t be here tomorrow. He’s going away after I done with him.” Sredo balled his hands into fists and turned toward the house. “He let Dasha get dead.” His eyes narrowed and the skin of his brow folded onto his cheek. “Oh bad dad…I coming back.”
Warren put his arms through the straps of his backpack and walked to the end of the driveway. He gazed at the strange Renner-now-Sredo household. Sredo’s dad sat up, and his upper body appeared through the living room window. “Karen, get my revolver. I shoot him.”
A thin woman with long, gray hair stepped in front of the window. “Alexi, you couldn’t shoot a fly off your nose if it was stuck in snot.”
“Come here blyat. I’ll show you how good a shot!”
Sredo entered the room, and the woman marched into the kitchen. “No, you not shoot gun at mom. You a bad dad. You not shoot, I hit—”
Thwump.
Warren stepped backwards onto a bare spot of ground in the yard. His foot hit a mound of dirt, and he stepped to the side. A groove in the dirt ran from the mound to the truck and down the driveway to the house. He shook his head, turned around, and walked away.
Just as he had done that morning, Warren gazed at Stibnite from the top of the hill. More porch lights than usual dotted the houses of his neighborhood, and he could see as far as the trailer park on Raven Street. Acorn, Beechnut, Chestnut, and Dogwood rows were all there, sprawling north and east to create a crossword puzzle of spotlessness. A strange sensation came over him like he had accidentally walked into the women’s bathroom.
What am I going to do? Sredo is living in my house…where did everyone go?
Warren turned his back on the sensation and walked into Lake Forest. The evening shadows dimmed his surroundings and gave him comfort. He found Rotted Wood Trail and followed it to the big rock. He tipped the rock over to get his money, but someone had taken it and left a plastic bag of papers. He dumped the bag out on the ground, picked up the thickest wad of paper, and unfolded it. In the twilight, he squinted and read.
DEAR WARREN, YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU, BUT I CAN’T BREAK TANNER’S HEART. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. I—
Warren flipped to the last page. Between two wavy hearts,
and after several X’s and O’s, the letter ended with LOVE, SARAH.
Sarah? Sarah Halifax? Love? This is a prank.
Sredo had found Warren’s money, taken it, and left a bag of forged letters…except Sredo could barely talk, let alone write. Warren flipped to the first page and stood up. His head spun, and his body swayed. Bright pins of light pierced the black edges of his vision. He braced himself against a tree. Sarah Halifax had written she loved him, and he hadn’t eaten in hours.
After his vision had cleared, he gathered the letters, shoved them into the plastic bag, and put the bag in his backpack.
Tanner has got to see this.
Warren emerged from the forest and walked to the old shack. Pine trees atop the mountains obscured the day’s final light. He slumped against the silver wall of the shack and gave into his aching legs. His backpack slid off his shoulder, and he slumped to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Strong, Square Jaw
A car rumbled down Melody Lane toward the old shack, but Warren’s eyelids refused to open. He was caught in a dream, and he couldn’t move. He wandered the halls of an abandoned hospital in search of his mom, but she wasn’t there. In a flash, the hospital disappeared, and Warren gazed out over a gigantic, red chasm. His feet slipped off the edge, and he fell. Dry air rushed up around him and he landed on wet grass. A frigid breeze blew over his face and across the back of his neck. He felt chill. He squeezed his backpack and straightened out his legs. Dew ran down his cheek, and he opened his eyes.
Oh my God. Where am I?
He sat up and gazed at the shack. Another car came rumbling down Melody Lane, and he pulled his hoodie over his head. He turned to walk away, slipped, and fell. His hands sunk into the grass and his face got slimed. The car skidded to a stop behind him, and the driver’s side window went zzhhzt.
“Hey buddy, what are you doing out here?”
Warren wiped his face.
What am I doing out here?
The driver said, “Did you tell mom and dad you left?”
Warren got up, turned around, and froze. A colony of black ants surfaced inside Warren’s mind and bombarded him with answers to the driver’s question. The ants rushed to escape his mouth, but slammed into each other, blocking the way out.
The driver glanced back and forth between the road and Warren as if his SUV wouldn’t move until he got an answer to his question. “Warren, are you in there? What’s going on?”
An ant moved out of the way. “I don’t know.”
A gust of wind pushed the ashy odor of Warren’s hoodie into his face. Acid coated his stomach. His vision blurred, and he rubbed his eyes until things became clearer. The silver SUV sparkled in the sunlight. The tires had full tread, and he could see himself in the paint’s reflection. With a strong, square jaw bordering a sharp, straight nose, the teenager behind the wheel was every bit as impressive as the car. “Come on, buddy. Don’t just sit there, get in. Let’s go to school.”
Warren squinted. The teenager was the stranger from the Tenoco, except he was not as thin, or as pale.
“How—” Warren’s throat tightened. He strained to push his words past the ants. “How do you know who I am?”
The teenager furrowed his brow. He scanned Warren up and down—a scientist classifying a new species of weird. “Take your hood off. You look like a serial killer.”
Warren pushed his hood back, and the wind roiled across the road. His hair beat against his forehead. The teenager leaned out the window. “Sorry. My mistake. I thought you were my brother.”
Chills ran over the backs of Warren’s arms.
The teenager glanced at the dashboard. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll still give you a ride if you want.”
Warren opened his mouth to speak, but the colony of black brain ants jammed inside his mouth and couldn’t get out. Every ant was a question, an answer, or an exclamation. Some of the ants tasted like burnt wood, others like yeast. A few tasted like banana bread.
The teenager put the SUV in drive, let it lurch forward, and hit the brakes. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “Time’s up, buddy. It’s now or never.”
Warren said, “But…but you’re dead. You’re my—I’m your—”
The teenager shook his head and hit the gas. The SUV tore down the road leaving Warren in a cloud of dust.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Humming Bee-Buzz
It couldn’t be. Cameron wasn’t alive and driving around Tamarack in a silver SUV. Sarah wasn’t madly in love with him, and Sredo wasn’t living in his house. It couldn’t be, but it was.
Warren waited for the dust from the SUV to clear before taking a deep breath. He raised his arms over his head and pulled his back muscles as straight as he could. The mountain air had never refreshed him this way. The sky had never been this blue. Lichen on the old shack glistened as though someone had enchanted it with a spell. He leaned to the left with his hand on his hip, then to his right. Stretching felt good, but it did nothing for his scabby heels. He took another deep breath and walked around the bend to Tanner’s house.
The massive, two-story log home towered above Warren. It was a mighty pyramid built to guard the body of a beloved pharaoh. He stepped onto the deck and stared at the hot tub. Somehow, Tanner’s parents had installed a new tub, overnight. Last year’s model must not have been good enough. Twice the size of the old one, this hot tub spanned from the front rail to the wall of the house. The wood surrounding the hot tub—an exact match to the house—sported a silver medallion with the word ATLANTIC beneath a crashing wave.
Unbelievable.
Of course, the cutesy family bear hooks wouldn’t have matched the new hot tub. A row of teal towels hung from a new set of ocean themed hooks. A big daddy octopus held a trident in one tentacle and a towel in another. A mermaid wearing a jewel-encrusted crown held the second towel with her finned tail. Two baby sea turtles held towels with their shells. Tanner’s towel hook was missing. Maybe the Pollack’s didn’t always get everything they wanted.
A brisk wind brushed past Warren, hit the front of the house, and lifted the towel off the mermaid’s tail. The towel fell to the deck and crumpled into a wad. Warren bent to pick it up, and the mermaid’s name plate caught his eye.
CASSIE.
The hair on the backs of his arms stood on end. He pulled the towel off the octopus.
SETH.
Chills sprang from his spine and ran around his rib cage. He tore down both baby turtle towels in a single motion.
CAMERON. WARREN.
Seth, Cassie, Cameron, Warren…Seth, Cassie, Cameron, Warren…Seth, Cassie, Cameron—
Footsteps followed by groggy, morning voices came from inside the house. Warren turned around and made himself thin against the wall. He moved his feet in small, deliberate steps—a suicidal man edging along a ledge. He stopped and peered in the window.
A large, leather couch and matching recliners rested on a rug thick enough to sleep on. The furniture formed a half circle around a gigantic TV and, off to the right, stood a massive fireplace. To the left, stairs ran up to a second floor. Photos hung above the stairs, but before Warren could see who was in them, a pair of shoes appeared at the top. Warren rolled away from the window.
“Cass? Are you in the kitchen?” Clear, sharp, and confident, the man’s voice compelled Warren to take another peek, but he didn’t risk it. The shoes tip-tapped on the stairs.
A woman said, “Over here hon. How’d you sleep?”
“I slept great.” Warren heard the smile on the man’s face—warm and inviting. “I slept like an angel. No, I slept better than an angel. I slept like an angel, sleeping on a cloud, dreaming of an angel running carefree through a field of white flowers with her arms outstretched to the world, and, the best part is, that angel was you, and I was the other angel.”
The woman laughed. The man laughed. Warren had a sudden urge to run inside and hug them, but he didn’t know them. They weren
’t fighting.
She said, “Ha ha. I’m no angel. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
Another set of footsteps came down the stairs, and Warren heard a younger man’s voice.
“Where’s Cam? Did he leave for school already? I wanted a ride.”
A strange, tingling sensation settled into the middle of Warren’s throat. His voice box became a bee in a blanket.
“It’s Thursday, he's working out with the guys before school,” she said.
“If I had a car, I could take myself.”
The man said, “You don’t even have a license yet.”
“When I do get a license, will I get me my own car, or will I have to share Cam’s SUV?”
She said, “We’ll see hon. The way things are going, I don’t know why we couldn’t get you your own SUV. Your dad just got another promotion yesterday.” Her voice sounded so pleasant. “No wonder he’s seeing angels in his dreams.”
Her tone reached through the wall and blanketed Warren’s heart. He wanted to pull the rest of her around him like a comforter. He wanted to laugh with this family and dream of angels. He wanted a truck, but he hated trucks. He wanted a ride to school, but he didn’t want a ride to school. He swore he would never go back to school. He wanted to see Sarah at school. The tingling sensation in his throat turned into an ache.
“Good, because I don’t want Cam’s SUV, I want to get—”
The humming bee-buzz in Warren’s throat said, “Good, because I don’t want Cam’s SUV, I want to get—”
“A truck with flames painted on the front.”
Warren clutched his throat with his right hand. He tried to stop the vibrations, but the buzz grew louder. “A truck with flames painted on the front.”
Warren’s longing for the woman’s embrace vanished. Instead, he longed for a truck. Not just any truck, but a truck with flames on it. Before he argued with his thoughts, his mind changed. He wanted breakfast, but not just any breakfast—bacon, eggs, and an English muffin. He wanted it so bad, he could smell it.
