The Graveyard Shift

by Brandon Meyers

  “You,” Voss seethes. “You were supposed to be dead.”

  I want to ask him where Enric is. Where the Jarl is. What he’s done to my town. But they’re answers I already know. Answers I don’t want to hear. So without a word I swing my axe like a golf club, guiding the blade toward Voss’s hateful, bewildered grimace, and cleave into his chin so hard it tips him over in his chair and sends him crashing onto his back.

  I pull my arms back to swing again, but they won’t move. The Rohkai already have their hands locked around mine, and I’m being dragged away. I’m screaming for them to kill me, but they won’t. They just drag me away in silence, and the last thing I notice as I’m pulled down toward Fairhaven’s dungeon is that a Rohkai with a jewel-encrusted bone helm has already taken the head seat at the table. Voss is dead, and another has already filled his seat.

  It’s then that I realize another will always fill his seat.

  *

  I’m sitting at home, in the dark, staring down at a bowl of cereal that went soggy hours ago. The only thing I can think, as I sit in silent misery, is that this isn’t fair. My imagination is no longer my own. The Rohkai have infected it like a poison, and no matter how much I try to come back out into the real world and step back in again, I’m always in a locked dungeon cell. Always in tattered clothes, always in squalor, always without my axe. There is only a small, uncomfortable bed made of straw, a bucket, and a wall of bars so strong I can’t so much as bend them no matter how hard I pull. I’ve spent weeks trying to figure a way out, and yet I can’t.

  And so here I sit, alone with my darkest of thoughts, circling back to that hospital room, to the coffee break that I shouldn’t have taken, to my wife dying alone. I think about how we should have grown older together. How she should have died holding my hand. I think about how much I drink these days, now that I’ve become Officer Brody’s new drinking buddy. I think about how much I hate myself.

  The night passes slowly, and I don’t find any comfort in sleep. If anything, I dread waking up, knowing my day will merely be spent meandering from one prison to the next.

  *

  It’s Friday, and Will has asked if I’ll housesit for the weekend. I say I will because I know it’s what he wants. I don’t know what I want. I’ve visited the dungeon countless times now, and each time no matter how hard I look, no matter how hard I try, I can’t find a way out. I know that in games and puzzles they always give you a way out, but I just can’t find one. Maybe there is no solution to this puzzle.

  And so on Saturday afternoon, when I should have been embarking on an exciting adventure in the lush, vibrant land of Enderiel, I’m drinking a warm beer in the garage apartment, feet up on the couch, willing the day to pass faster. I’ve already tried poking around the dungeon, found nothing of use, and left in frustration.

  Perhaps this is a blessing, because I hear commotion from outside. It sounds like the children, who should be long gone on their ‘trip,’ and I’m surprised to find that it is them, running out in the backyard. Ruth has a sword, Sam has a staff, and Tom does not have anything, but they’re all chasing a tiny, skeletal creature with sharp features and lime green skin. My eyes must be deceiving me, or maybe I’m already drunk, but I watch as Ruth pounces on this goblin, drives her sword into its little chest, and yells in victory.

  “Ha!” she squeals. “He almost got away!”

  “You let him get through the door!” Sam scolds. “This is your fault!”

  Tom swallows loudly. “Dad is gonna kill us. What do we do with this thing?”

  “Drag it back inside,” Sam commands. “Hurry!”

  Only now do they realize I’m standing here, resting my axe across the back of my neck as I eye the little green creature that lays dead in the grass. The children are all frozen. It seems now is the only time in their lives that they don’t have anything to say.

  I’m about to speak, when a voice calls out, “What the hell is this?”

  Officer Brody has just barged into the backyard, as have Will and Claire, and we all stand around the dead goblin like one big dysfunctional family, frozen in horror except for Officer Brody. Only as I look up do I notice he’s waving his gun.

  “I knew you were into some sick stuff,” Brody spits, “but this… this is evil. This is the occult. Jesus, this is really the occult.” He points his pistol at Ruth. “Drop the sword.”

  The tiny shortsword falls out of her hand, now lost in the unmowed grass.

  “Where did this demon come from?” Brody waves the gun at Will, who winces sharply. “Answer me! Where?”

  “The house,” Tom cries, even as Sam kicks at him. “It’s the house! It’s a gateway! Please don’t shoot my dad! He didn’t do anything! We were stopping the goblins! They’re trying to get through to our world!”

  Officer Brody storms off toward the house, and though Will goes to put up his hands in protest, he’s shoved aside by a man much larger than himself and goes tumbling to the porch. His wife is crying. His children are crying. Will’s babbling about the door. The door. The door. I don’t think he’s ever thought this would happen.

  The screen door flies open, and Brody stomps inside. Will is scrambling after him, but the damage has been done. I can hear the screaming, the slamming of doors, the rants of a man who doesn’t understand what he’s experiencing as he glances into doorways that his eyes were never meant to see. I can barely hear it over the children’s crying, but I can hear it. It’s the sound of misunderstanding, and it’s confirmed when Officer Brody comes stumbling out the back door again.

  He’s just come from within one of those mysterious doors, and I don’t know what he’s seen in there. I don’t want to know what he’s seen in there, but his face says it all. He’s ripped the sunglasses from his nose, and his eyes tell the story of a man who’s come face to face with the devil. Or maybe he’s just seen a dragon for the first time.

  “Get inside,” I say. No one can hear me over the sound of the children crying, or the screams of an enraged police officer ordering Will and Claire onto the ground, so I say it louder this time. “Get inside. Lock yourself in and don’t come out. Not until it’s clear.”

  “What are you doing?” Brody asks me. His hair, once combed back neatly, is laying disheveled across his forehead. This time the gun is pointed at me.

  “Get inside,” I repeat. “Now. He won’t shoot you.”

  The children bolt toward the door, which Claire is holding open for them urgently. Brody turns the gun toward them, and I take that as my opportunity to strike. I launch my axe towards Brody’s hand, and the head of the axe connects with the butt of his gun. The gun flies out of his hand and bounces onto the back porch.

  “Don’t move,” I tell Brody, with my axe held before me in both hands.

  “What are you doing?” he demands. Behind him, the door slams shut, and Claire and her children are hurrying toward their gateway. Toward their own personal safe haven.

  “I’m keeping them safe,” I say.

  I know Officer Brody’s intentions. He means to hurt this family because he doesn’t understand them. He means to make them suffer. He means to make them feel like I do. But they don’t need to feel like I do. Unlike me, they have so much more to live for.

  The world will probably never understand what I’m about to do. You see, the only difference between an axe murderer and an adventurer is a quest, and my quest probably only seems clear to me. My quest is to save these children, and as long as a man like Officer Brody walks the earth, they won’t be safe.

  “Oh, you’re gonna go away for such a long time for this,” Brody spits. “I thought we were pals! Why the hell would you do something so stupid?”

  “Because,” I tell him, as the axe begins to fall, “sometimes you just have to move on.”

  *

  After cleaning up the goblin’s body, I’ve barricaded myself inside of the garage apartment. The refrigerator that once held warm beer has been pushed against the door, along with the co
uch. I don’t know how long it will take the police department to get in here, but even an extra minute could buy me another few hours in Fairhaven. As I said before, I don’t know how time works there. But right now, that isn’t relevant.

  I’ve made my decision. This world holds nothing for me, and even if I spend the remaining moments of my life fighting in a dungeon, at least I’ll have tried. I have hope that I’ll escape, and I’ll find my wife, and I’ll finally thwart the Rohkai. I have hope that Mary and I will grow old together, and we’ll die clasping each other’s hands in a home we’ve spent our lives building together, but I don’t know for sure. I don’t know if I can escape the dungeon. I don’t know if I’ll be ripped out of this apartment by the police department before I even get a chance.

  All I know is that I will try, and I will fight until my last breath.

  Epilogue, Part I:

  Police report:

  Officers were dispatched to suspect’s apartment for interrogation. Apartment was empty and in squalor. Officers then went to suspect’s employer’s house and after a thorough search of the backyard found suspect barricaded in the living space above the garage. Suspect was found dead.

  Officer Brody was found with a single, fatal axe wound, and forensics found unidentified animal’s blood in the grass nearby. Suspect likely killed animals for pleasure and was caught by Officer Brody in the act. Officer Brody is assumed to have attempted an arrest when suspect fought back and murdered Brody.

  The homeowners were on vacation and unaware of anything that happened during their time out of town.

  Case is considered closed.

  Epilogue, Part II:

  Coroner’s report:

  Deceased was found barricaded inside of employer’s garage, lying on his back on the floor. Autopsy finds that deceased died of natural causes. Most peculiar is the body’s appearance, as records show deceased to be thirty-one years of age, but body has white hair, wrinkles, and spots indicating advanced age. I have never seen anything like this.

  Also peculiar is that deceased appears to be grinning and holding something. Though apartment was found to be empty, the deceased died with his hand at his side, held upright, locked in very a loose fist. It is as if he died smiling, clasping something firmly in his hand.

  Interlude: Fare Thee Well

  It was the day of the digging.

  Dell stooped low, lifted free a spade full of moist earth, and heaved it atop the pile. The exposed dirt was dark with the wet of recent rains and it filled the air with the pungency of decay. Dell planted the blade of the shovel, took a leaden breath, and hefted it again with a grunt.

  He had been digging for almost thirty minutes, but still the hole was not deep. Not deep enough, he knew. His body was covered in sweat, and the light breeze which made the overhead leaves dance brought gooseflesh to his exposed arms. Summer was ending, and therefore so was its comfortable warmth.

  Dell paused, stood fully upright so that his whole torso protruded from the hole.

  The entire town had turned out for the event. Such a thing was customary. There were nearly two-hundred of them: men, women, and the young ones. All were in attendance. And all of them Dell knew well. He could see the Leighmans, dressed all in black, standing nearest to him at the crowd’s perimeter. Their family had brought animals to be butchered by Dell’s for more than three generations. And beside them, Dell saw the widow Laura, also dressed in shades of midnight shadow. Her lacy veil did not conceal the tears she wiped away every few seconds. There were others. All of them, really. And every face began to blur into the next, melting into a sea of sorrow as hot tears streamed down Dell’s own red cheeks.

  Dell dragged a shirtsleeve across his face and gulped hard. The air was silent, save for his own heavy breathing and the sound of the rustling leaves. He did not want to, but could not keep himself from looking at the thing. It demanded his attention, a fishhook tugging at his heart. He stared down at the long pine box. It was the first time he had done so since picking up the shovel. A black dread filled his chest and for a moment Dell thought he would be sick. And he would have been, but he had not eaten in days. The guilt bore a hole in him, one far vaster and more deadly than the one he’d made in the ground.

  Even through the layer of carefully nailed wood, Dell could see her lovely face staring back up at him. He imagined her smile, remembered how her kisses always tasted of sweet nectar after they had returned from a day picking grapes for wine. He saw her hair, that curtain of rich chocolate, and recalled the way it framed her high, lovely cheekbones. She was perfection, his one and only. She was his life.

  Dell collapsed then. Half of him leaned against the edge of the partially finished grave. The other half lay splayed across the top of his wife’s simple coffin.

  “I’m so sorry, Ana,” he wheezed between sobs. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t have seen it coming.”

  After a moment, a hand nudged Dell’s shoulder. He raised his head to see Father Medson looking down at him. Without saying a word, the holy man made a solemn gesture toward the hole.

  Dell sniffled and nodded slowly. He rubbed the pinewood casket once more, softly, and returned to his work.

  He dug. He strained and lifted until his hands were raw. White blisters had appeared, even on his toughened butcher’s palms, and had torn open to expose burning pink skin beneath.

  Another hour passed.

  Finally, Dell knew it was done. When he stood upright, only the very top of his head poked out the top of the plot. He gave the pain in his battered hands no consideration, because he knew what happened next. He knew that he would have to say farewell, that he and Ana would be parted forever, each doomed to their own paths.

  The town Sheriff, Paul Twine, appeared at the foot of the grave. His bulky frame blocked out the sun and washed Dell in shade.

  “Come on up, son,” Twine said. “Let’s get done what needs to get done so this woman can rest in peace.”

  Dell’s throat had choked up tight, so he simply nodded at the sheriff and began to climb. When he emerged, the townsfolk were closer. They were within ten feet of him. He could see the Andersens, Chip and Nina, watching him with pained eyes. Their son Pete, probably almost ten now, dropped his eyes to his muddy shoes when Dell looked at him.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Dell managed. His eyes were running freely now and he made no attempt to stanch their flow.

  “Come now, son,” the preacher said quietly, “you know it is custom.”

  Dell turned and half-stumbled into a kneel at the side of the casket.

  He ran a hand across its surface, pretending in his mind that he could stroke his lover’s face again. Bloody smears stained the wooden lid. He wanted so badly to feel her soft hands upon his cheeks and hear her tell him that she loved him, and only him, forever and always. But he knew that she could not do that. She hadn’t.

  “Please forgive me, Ana,” he said. “I miss you so bad.”

  And then the sheriff cleared his throat. “Alright, Dell. It’s time.”

  Dell began to shake uncontrollably, quivering as he regarded Twine. “B-but, I’m not done yet. I haven’t said goodbye. Can’t a man at least say goodbye?”

  The sheriff hoisted Dell to his feet. He could hardly stay upright, but somehow managed to stand there beside the gaping earthen mouth. His nerves were the only thing keeping him in place.

  “You already said goodbye, Dell.” Twine drew his pistol and let it rest at his side. “You got your last request. The talking’s all done, now. Nobody here wants to hear it. Least of all, that poor dead girl.”

  “I love you,” Dell said, stammering at his wife. “I always did.”

  Sheriff Twine took aim, thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. The crowd stood silent. And when the sound of thunder exploded through the trees, birds scattered.

  Dell toppled, lifeless, into the empty pit.

  After a long moment, two young men with shovels began filling in the hole again. And the gathered mass
of townsfolk dispersed, carrying Ana’s coffin with them.

  These Walls

  It killed me when the Everton family left. They were my everything.

  Jonathan and Gloria will forever be remembered smiling and dancing, the perfect coupling of gentleman and lady. Little Theodore will remain in my thoughts for the rest of my days, as well, with his crooked smile and warm heart. And of course there was sweet baby June, who used to stow fruit in her bed sheets for a midnight snack. She grew up too quickly, blossomed into a stunning beauty, and became the first lawyer of the Everton clan.

  I watched them all grow, the adults and their children. They lived and loved, cried and laughed within my walls. And I helped them gladly whenever I could. They were my family and I had hoped against hope that legacy would keep future generations of Evertons here.

  But, after nearly four decades of living with them, of births and birthday parties, of weddings and funerals, I was alone. The Everton family was gone forever. Last year, Gloria was eaten alive by pancreatic cancer, and within six months of her passing Jonathan followed suit. The doctors ruled his death as the result of a heart condition, and while they weren’t quite right, I knew they weren’t quite wrong either.

  June and Theodore, no longer children and long since moved out with lives and children of their own, returned home for the funeral services. And when they did, they each brought their new families. For a brief time I was overjoyed at the prospect of once again hearing the pitter-patter of small Everton feet in the halls of Eastlake Manor, but I soon found out that none of them would be staying.

  I prayed over June and Theodore, offered familiar reminders to them of games we had played together in their childhood. I tried to show them all the good yet left in this modest Victorian mansion. But they could not bear to face the constant memory of their parents’ lives that came with remaining in the home. And with that I could not disagree, knowing precisely how they felt. I didn’t argue, for I couldn’t convince them to stay. They didn’t even take the family wall portrait in the den, nor the furniture. Those were sold, along with the estate, to the bank.