The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  He pulled on his Dockers and Polo button down and slipped on a pair of oxford penny loafers. Zach made a mental checklist of the arrangements that would have to be completed before his departure. Since he was self-employed, at least he wouldn’t need to ask for vacation time or a leave of absence.

  The screen door smacked against the frame as Zach walked toward the pale blue Camry that sat in his driveway. It was a sensible vehicle, and he was proud of its gas mileage and reliability, especially with over 102,000 miles on the odometer.

  He stopped in front of the driver’s side door and started to speed dial Mrs. Norton from down the street. She had always looked after his house when he was away and was usually more than happy to help.

  Just as Zach was about to hit the send button, an imperceptible force knocked him hard to the asphalt. His eye swelled immediately, and a streak of blood ran down the left side of his face. The surreal thick, gray mists began rolling in, which he recognized as a precursor to another vision.

  The scene was unfocused; it always started that way. Zach could make out the movement of a solitary shape as the kaleidoscope of dull colors drifted in waves. The sharpness seemed to adjust like the tuning knob on an old black and white TV, and it slowly became clearer and more defined. As the vision firmed, Zach could make out a woman sitting up on a bed talking softly, her face covered by her hands.

  He frantically tried to change the viewing angle, but his influence over the selection of scenes remained limited. He was shown the gut-wrenching sight of the victim, and then with slow deliberation, he was forced to drink in the abysmal sadness of her face and body. A widening perspective allowed him to see the entire room, and Zach scoured the contents for clues. He was not going to waste a single moment in the quest to find information that might prove critical.

  The woman in tonight’s suicide drama might have been attractive under different circumstances. Though her face was a mask of despair, there was a gentleness and kindness that seemed to sit just below the surface. If there was happiness in her life, it must have been long ago, for the tired eyes laid bare a lifetime of torment that apparently had mortally wounded her soul.

  But weren’t they all that way, really? In every face, the agony of life’s sorrow had triumphed over the subjugated experience of love and the will to live.

  As the mists continued to part, Zach could see the woman more clearly. Her arms had dropped down to either side, and they were streaked in blood that dripped slowly off her fingers, adding to an irregular reddish circle that stained the mattress. In one hand, she held a rusted metal object of some kind. He looked closer and saw it was a razor blade. She had apparently slashed her wrists.

  Hot flares of pain pulsed through Zach’s mind, and it felt like he was being stabbed with a hot fireplace poker. Fighting through the agony, he forced himself to move the visual perspective so that he might find some evidence of her identity. The night stand adjacent to the bed was cluttered with several empty glasses and a bottle of wine that was almost full. There had to be something else that would provide a clue. Head bobbing and muscles contorting, Zach strained further as the blood coursed through the carotid arteries of his head and neck. These visions could be controlled if he only had the will—the fortitude.

  The yellow paper was hidden behind the dark tint of a colored glass. As the angle changed, he saw that it was only loosely crumpled and turned up at the edges. Although blurred, he could clearly see the writing and the large header at the top of the page. It was a bill of sale of some kind that had originated from a place called, Thomas Property Management.

  Computer-generated print lines provided the sale price, taxes, security deposit and first month’s rent. It was a lease agreement, and as Zach worked his way down the body of the document, he knew intuitively the name on the “Lessee” line would be the ninth victim.

  He strained against the boundaries that the vision enforced. Zach was no longer a passive observer but an active participant who thirsted for more information. If he could just exert control over the vision, he might be able to trace its source. Could he finally help someone?

  The apparition seemed to fight back as his point of view lurched sharply, and the scene started to fade in washed out hues of gray. The growing scent of rot was the familiar signal that the episode was ending. Zach searched frantically for the name on the receipt as it grew increasingly indistinct. He knew he didn’t have much time.

  The woman unexpectedly lurched forward and sat straight up in the bed. Her eyes were wide and filled with terror. She opened her mouth and violently heaved as her body tried to expel the deadly pharmaceutical cocktail she had consumed. A thick, yellowish viscous material covered her mouth and spilled down the front of her pajama top in sticky, odiferous clumps.

  “No, no, God no…. I’m so sorry, so sorry,” she repeated softly to no one. “I don’t want it… can’t do it.” Looking at the razor, she slowly brought it over to the opposite wrist. Apparently her initial cuts had not been deep enough to pierce a vital vein. She pressed the blade into the skin and closed her eyes.

  “No!” The word exploded from Zach’s consciousness with capacious force and ripped through the layers that separated him from the woman’s reality. The effect had been so powerful that she dropped the razor and looked around the room suspiciously.

  “Who’s there?” she said. “Is it you? Have you come back to torment me?”

  Zach struggled to communicate. His reaction to watching her cut her own flesh had been primal. It was far more difficult to deliberately project his thoughts. Summoning all his focus, he tried to carve a channel through the mists of subconscious space.

  The pressure and force fighting against him was enormous, and Zach could only manage to slip through a few words before it collapsed. He tried his best to convey peace and tranquility, but he knew his effort was clumsy.

  Stop this, and wait for me.

  As if in a trance, the woman looked forward and replied, “Yes, I will… wait for you.”

  With enormous effort, Zach refocused on the lease agreement. The words were there, right at the top of the page, but the printing was smudged, and he could barely make it out. He strained against the limits of his consciousness as he tried to gain clarity. It looked like Maynard, Marion… no, the first name was Maybel. The last name was impossible to make out. It was Durning, Dorsey or something similar. In frustration, he abandoned the name and moved to the address line below, and there that he found the payoff. In block impact lettering was the name of the vendor: Alpine Village Apartments, 901 Brush Street, Apartment 2021, Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  He felt a wrenching jolt of electrical energy that surged through his body as the apparition instantaneously evaporated. This was not the usual fade to black scenario he experienced with the other eight visions. Instead, his brain began to misfire, neurons jumping synaptic pathways and slamming into each other violently. His body convulsed as the excessive current surged through his head and leaked out in every direction. To this point, Zach had never experienced this level of distress and pain.

  He felt intense shaking from side to side. Was this still part of the vision? Zach fought against the fog of confusion that enveloped him as he remained somewhere between reality and the other mysterious universe. He was vaguely aware that someone was standing over him and staring intently. The broad body straddled Zach’s torso, and soft hands picked his head off the hot pavement.

  “Jesus Christ. Zach, wake up. Wake up! What the hell happened to you? What’s going on here?” Zach was only vaguely aware of the movement as someone dragged him across the driveway and up onto a shaded porch. There was another jarring shake, and a voice seemed to come from a distance.

  “C’mon Zach, wake up. Should I call 911?”

  As the fog receded, he could make out the face of Jarad Anston. Zach swallowed dryly and shook his head. “No ambulance. Just get me into the house. I need—water.”

  ***

  The trucker chose a painstakingly lo
ng and slow route into Phoenix. He finally pulled the rig off the road at a remote turnoff on I-93 just outside Wickenburg, and it was there he demanded repayment for the ride. Sarah tried to maneuver herself out of the situation, but he was insistent, and his large hands pawed greedily over her body. She tried to resist, but he threatened to drop her at the side of the road on a deserted two-lane highway. It was late in the evening, and her chances of getting picked up by another vehicle were virtually nonexistent. Worse, her pursuers would not be far behind, and she couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Desolation.

  In the end, she allowed the trucker to have his way with her. They moved into the sleeper cab, and he pushed her onto the bed while turning on his CD player.

  “My place is pretty nice, huh?” A George Jones song began to play in the background as he dropped onto the bed and pressed his mouth onto hers. The trucker’s breath stunk of chewing tobacco, coffee and beer. He shoved his tongue deep into her mouth, and his sloppy, drooling kiss tasted like sewer sludge.

  “Names Burl,” he said while grunting and climbing on top of her. The trucker’s huge abdomen protruded over his waistline, and he struggled mightily to unbuckle his belt. When his member was finally free, he reached between her legs and awkwardly stabbed his fat fingers into her labia.

  He sneered at her. “You like it, doncha, bitch?”

  His entry was painful, and Sarah struggled under his enormous weight, but in the end, she finally submitted. His thrusts were weak, and sweat poured from his armpits and dripped down onto her breasts. It was a relief when he finally grunted and spilled his seed deep inside of her.

  Gathering her clothes, Sarah quickly re-entered the driver’s cab and moved as far away from the trucker as she could get. She pressed up against the passenger’s door and stared out the window into the pitch darkness. They traveled silently for the remainder of the trip.

  There was an enormous sense of relief when Sarah saw the huge, brightly lit sign of the Triple T truck stop just outside of Phoenix in Glendale. When the vehicle finally came to rest at the fueling depot, the trucker grinned widely and spat out a wad of tobacco while extending his hand, which held a $20 bill. “Whore like you ought to git somethin’ for all that work,” he said.

  Sarah wanted to vomit but instead she reached over and grabbed the money. Jumping from the cab, she sprinted across the gravel parking lot toward the nearby convenience store.

  Locating a public phone bank just outside the storefront, she lifted the handset off the receiver and recoiled a bit. The handle was encrusted with several layers of sticky filth from the many long-haul drivers who hadn’t had the time or inclination to wash their hands before using the device.

  Where she grew up, telephones were not allowed, except for the one in the Benefactor’s office, and anyone caught using it would know his fate. Tom Villate tried to use it once, and he was made into example for the whole town to see.

  He walked out to the center of town with a pistol pointed at his own head. Tears streamed down his face as he called at the top of his lungs for the people to come out and see him. The whole city was compelled to turn out and hear Tom’s apology, delivered in a mewing, whiny kind of voice. His face was contorted, and his mind battled fiercely against his own hand. Despite the obvious internal struggle, he could only pull the weapon a centimeter or two away from his head before it snapped back, as if his arm had a will of its own.

  There was a shrill crack, and Ol’ Tom’s head exploded like a Wilcox melon run over by a tractor. Sarah remembered because she had been there. All of the children were forced to attend because the Benefactor wanted to make sure they saw the consequence of disobedience.

  So she stood holding the cruddy phone handle without a clue as to how to use it. Sarah knew her relatives lived in Temecula in California, but that was as far as it went. She reached into the pocket of her ragged jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  The names of her aunt and uncle were almost illegible, but the phone number was still clear. She pushed the corresponding numbers on the keypad several times but to no avail. In each instance there was an operator message indicating that coins needed to be placed into the slot. Finally unraveling the mystery, she walked into the convenience store, bought a soda and a hot dog, and used the change to pay for the call.

  The phone rang several times, but there was no answer. Sighing in frustration, Sarah placed the handset back into the receiver. It seemed she would have to hitchhike all the way to Southern California.

  The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, but Phoenix was still scorching hot from the intense July heat. She leaned up against the side of the building and took a drink of cold soda. It was absolutely delicious. How long had it been since she was allowed to have a Coke? She could hardly remember. Maybe 10 years?

  “Ah, miss?”

  She turned around to face a tall, lanky African-American man in jeans, T-shirt and a hat that carried a NASCAR logo.

  “Yes?”

  “I was just talking to Burl. Er, I guess he gave you a ride from Desolation?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah, do you need another ride? He said you were looking to go to Temecula.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I’m heading to San Diego, and Temecula is right on my way.”

  Regrettably, there wasn’t much choice in the matter. There was only one place she knew to run; the place her mother had told her to go if she could ever escape from the hell of her existence. Sarah’s choices were limited, and at least this guy seemed fairly clean. His eyes were clear and didn’t have the look of a lustful psychotic.

  The eight-hour trip from Phoenix to Temecula had been relatively uneventful. The driver explained that he was hauling a load of air conditioners from Ft. Smith, Arkansas to San Diego, and he enjoyed the solitude of the open road. He seemed almost shy, and talked around the subject of sex, which was a stark contrast to the bluntness of the other trucker. To remove the tension and potential drama, she reached over and unzipped him early in the trip. His genitals were dirty, and they had a mild urine smell, but she had experienced much worse in her miserable life.

  To her surprise, he asked for nothing else the rest of the way. She suspected that he was probably married and feeling guilty. The trucker spent a good part of the trip apologizing for his actions.

  When they arrived in Temecula, the early morning weather was hot and muggy, typical of inland California this time of year. Sarah wiped the beads of sweat off her forehead, not sure if it was because of the weather or her apprehension and fear. The driver dropped her at the local truck stop on Black Deer Loop and gave her $50 before shrugging sheepishly and driving off.

  She walked into the building, found a pay phone station and dialed her aunt’s number again. The phone only rang once before someone answered. Sarah couldn’t find words for several seconds, and her throat grew dry.

  “Is this the Harvel residence?”

  “Yes, yes it is. Who’s calling?” The voice on the other end of the phone was high pitched and middle aged.

  “I’m looking for Gina Harvel. I’m Sarah Johansen, her niece.”

  “Wha… who is this? My sister and niece disappeared 14 years ago; they aren’t alive. What kind of—is this some sort of sick prank?”

  “Auntie Gina, it’s me, it’s Sarah. I’m alive, I swear it’s me. Remember you took me to the ocean when I was five, and Uncle Hank built a huge sand castle? I remember that day so clearly. The sun was bright in the sky and the water was crystal clear. I had a red bucket and yellow shovel to play in the sand and…”

  “My God, Sarah—could it really be you? I—it’s been so long. Fourteen years and no word from your mother. We gave up hope. For Lord’s sake, where have you been?”

  There was the sound of a receiver dropping, and Sarah could hear her aunt yell in a distant voice. “Hank! You need to come here. Where are you?” She picked up the handset again. “If it’s really you, I have so many questi
ons. Oh Lord, Sarah.”

  “I’ll tell you everything. Can you and Uncle Hank just come and get me? It’s been horrible, Auntie, and I can’t go back. “

  There was another contemplative pause. “Ok, we’ll come. But I’ll know if you aren’t my sister’s daughter… I’ll not be made a fool.”

  “Please, just hurry. For God’ sake, please hurry.”

  Chapter Six

  “All right, Zach, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just blacked out for a minute, don’t worry. Can you just get me some water?”

  Jarad went into the kitchen and filled a glass, which he carefully handed to his friend. “Yeah, right. You were thrashing around; it was frightening. C’mon Zach, there’s something wrong with you. I’m no doctor, but it looked like you were having convulsions. Do you have epilepsy or something?”

  “I told you, I’m fine. It was probably just the heat.” Zach grabbed a magazine and began to fan itself. “Man, it’s hot in here. Could you turn the A/C down.”

  Anston furrowed his brow ever so slightly. “Either you know what’s wrong with you, or you don’t care. In either case, I probably need to take you to the emergency room.”

  “No doctors. I told you, I’m fine.” Zach sat up, only now seeming to recognize the fortunate coincidence of Anston’s arrival. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “You look so pale. Promise me you’ll call your doctor tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure. I need a physical anyway. So, what made you stop by?” Zach wasn’t letting it go.

  “I’ve finished that amended tax return you asked me to help you with,” said Anston. “I’m always looking to use government resources to make a little money on the side.”