by Weston Ochse
If he woke.
Danny’s eyes began to burn. His throat tightened. He bit his lip to keep from sobbing. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. His mom stared at him with her mom-eyes and her mom-smile.
They turned as the elevator opened. Doug and his mother stepped off, followed closely by Greg. Doug’s mother stopped and stared wide-eyed, her eyes dodging left and right, never settling on anything. Small and dumpy, her blue and yellow flower-print dress hung off of her like a smock. Doug jammed his hands way down into his pockets and hurried to where Danny stood. He nodded to Danny’s mother, smiled grimly at Danny and faced the window of the ICU. Greg stood close to his mother his eyes following the nurses.
“Damn,” Doug whispered. “Looks like he tried to take on the whole football team.”
“Yeah,” said Danny.
“Both teams.”
“Yeah.
“And the cheerleaders.”
“Yeah.”
Doug fingered his own yellowing bruises with the fingers of his left hand.
“That wasn’t funny. I didn’t mean for that to be funny.”
“I know,” said Danny. He felt his mother squeeze his shoulder as she stepped away and headed down the hall to where Doug’s mother stood. Taller than the other woman, Danny’s mom had to lean down when Doug’s mom spoke. “He’s bad, ain’t he?”
“Yeah. He hasn’t woken up yet.”
“I just can’t believe it happened to one of us, you know?”
“The police want to speak with him, find out who did it,” said Danny, eyeing Greg.
“Shit. That don’t matter now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear?” asked Doug, a grin widening his face. “They caught the bastard who done this.”
“What?”
“Hell Yeah! Someone at the hospital recognized him. You won’t believe it when I tell you, but evidently the asshole felt bad about what he done and brought him to the hospital.”
“Says who?” asked Danny.
“Says everyone. I’ll tell you, lucky thing the bastard brought Bergen in. If he hadn’t, might be looking at the electric chair instead of just plain old jail.”
“No shit. Then how come the police are still looking for someone?”
Doug’s eyes narrowed and his mouth corkscrewed around the word police as he repeated it. “Them police couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a knife. I wouldn’t be trusting them if I were you. Where there’s police it means there’s also politics.”
“I suppose.”
“Danny! I swear I’m telling you the straight stuff. Just go down to the emergency room and ask anyone who it was that brought Bergen in. Just ask them.”
Danny glanced back towards where his mother was standing to see if she’d heard. She was staring back at him, but from the look on her face, he could tell she hadn’t. He stared at Greg, and was startled to see the larger boy staring back at him. For several long seconds they locked eyes then Greg smiled and looked away. It wasn’t the usual mean smile, this one was a little sad and seemed out of place on the boy’s face. Danny remembered their attack and had feared that Bergen’s beating had been in retribution. Weird.
“So who is it?”
Doug sneered enough for his fat lips to part revealing a slice of white teeth. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Come on. Give.”
“You know, you should have figured it out for yourself, seeing as you’re the smartest of us since Bergen was taken out.”
Danny felt his anger rise. “What the hell are you talking about? Do you mean Greg?”
“No. I thought it was maybe him too, but he was over at Grandma’s all afternoon. I called to make sure, she said he was in the driveway the whole time washing his car.”
Danny flashed a short, quick smile. “So who then?”
Doug licked his lips. “Who do you hate the most around here?” he asked.
“Hate? I don’t hate anybody.”
“Come on. We all hate someone. You gotta hate someone.”
“Stop this crap, Doug. Just tell me. Enough of this hate shit.”
“What about your sister? What about the person who took her?”
An almost overwhelming urge to punch Doug came and went in a flash of red. “No one took her.”
“The person who made her leave then. The person who did something to—”
“No one made her leave. What the hell are you talking about, Doug!”
As Danny stepped in with his fists clenched, Doug stepped back and held his hands up. “Okay. Okay. Take it easy man. I’m not trying to start something here. I’m just reminding you how deep this all goes.”
Danny relaxed, but only slightly. His friend had wound him up. “Fine. So tell me already.”
“It was the Maggot Man.”
“Maggot Man? He did it?” asked Danny remembering all the rumors surrounding the old black man and his sister’s disappearance.
“I told you I didn’t like that name,” said Danny’s mother, rejoining him. “Besides, Officer Peters just informed us that Mr. Phinxs was released.”
“What?” said Doug and Danny simultaneously.
“Evidently, Mr. Phinxs came upon Bergen in the road and brought him here.”
“But that’s bull,” said Doug.
“He doesn’t go out during the day,” said Danny.
His mother’s eyes narrowed, but she made no other indication that she’d heard their remarks. “Be that as it may, he’s been released. I’m going down to the third floor and get a cup of coffee. Your father’s on his way. If you see him first, tell him I want to speak with him.”
Danny nodded all the while his mother walked down the hall. The minute she disappeared into the elevator, he spun towards his friend. “Well?”
“I don’t care what your momma or the police say,” said Doug. “I know it was the Maggot Man that done this just as I know it was Greg that done this,” he said pointing towards his own face. “There ain’t no way I’m gonna let Bergen down and let the bastard get away with it. Unless you want the same thing to happen to you or me or any of the others. The Maggot Man has got to pay. No. I take that back. The Maggot Man is gonna pay.”
All Danny could do was nod, his eyes upon the figure in the ICU.
CHAPTER 8
Friday—June 15th
Ooltewah, Tennessee
The night knew.
The forest understood.
Even the animals and insects seemed to refrain from their ceaseless search for food. Midnight’s full moon cast harsh edges along the long lengths of trees. The shadows behind each one were deeper, as if each great oak and hickory was an entrance to an Appalachian void where dark things crept and crawled. Bushes were interspersed along dappled moonlight, each one large enough to hide a crouching man or nightmare. Five figures flit through the shadows, winding silently throughout the congestive vegetation. Wearing the luminescence of all things good, they padded silently through ground swells of ferns and rye. The figures halted as the trees gave way to open ground.
As one beast, they sank into the weeds.
* * *
They’d run hard and long, several times doubling back so as not to be observed. This was their first rest and each felt the burn in their muscles. Several readjusted their white pointy hoods so they could better see through the eye-slits that had been jaggedly cut by imperfect, angry hands.
They were far from home.
A gleaming gray line unwound in front of them, a road that disappeared on two forested horizons. One by one, they crossed, luminescence merging then separating as they resumed their night aspect. After about a hundred yards, they stopped again. Four of them waited, while the fifth crept a few yards forward.
“Stop your whining,” whispered Clyde, reaching under his sheet to scratch beneath his arm.
“But it’s heavy,” said Eddie, leaning back so the ground supported the bulk of his backpack beneath the white sheet he wore.
“I don’t want to carry it anymore. Clyde, will you—”
“Of course it’s heavy. We only got a little ways to go, then we’ll be there.”
“Both of you, shut the hell up,” hissed Doug.
“It’s not like anyone’s gonna hear us,” Tony chimed in, taking off his pointed hood. “Just look around. There isn’t anyone within miles.”
“Put your hood back on, idiot,” said Doug. “What if someone sees us?”
“As I said,” said Tony as if he were speaking to a child. “There isn’t anyone around to hear or see us, so why don’t you stop trying to be Mr. Mom and stop ordering us around.”
Doug launched himself to a standing position. He strode toward Tony, hands flexing, but Danny’s warning stopped him.
“Shhhh,” said Danny. “Keep it down. We’re close now and voices carry.” He ran several feet ahead and knelt.
Doug backed up slowly, his eyes on Tony. Before he sat, he leaned over and hissed, “See! I told you so.”
Tony shrugged and stared off into the night.
Two minutes later, Danny returned. Tilting his hood back, he wiped sweat from his eyes. His hair was plastered to his head. “Okay. Everyone knows what to do. We need to get there fast and quiet. No talking from here on in. I don’t know how light he sleeps, but the last thing we need is to get caught by the police.”
“I can cut the phone line,” said Doug.
“No way. You’d probably cut the power line. Turn you into a crispy critter,” said Tony.”
“Would not.”
“Would too.”
“He doesn’t have a phone line,” said Danny.
“Can someone else carry this? It’s too heavy,” said Eddie. As he leaned forward, the contents of his backpack sloshed.
“Jesus. Okay. Anyone?” asked Danny, waiting for an offer. Everyone but Eddie averted his eyes. “Listen. I have point, so I can’t carry it. One of you needs to do it. Eddie’s carried it far enough already. Doug, how about you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Come on, man. It’s only a little way.”
Doug sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll do it you little pansy. Give it here.”
Eddie ignored the comment, took off his sheet and shrugged out of his pack. It took both hands to pass it to Doug. Doug tossed it over his shoulder, not bothering to conceal it beneath his sheet. He shrugged once to adjust it, then glanced at Danny.
“Fine. Everyone happy now? Can we go?” asked Danny. He glared at each of the other boys. At twelve-years-old he commanded their attention as well as any Army Colonel could. His jaw was set. His gaze was steady. He waited until each of them nodded assent, then placed his hood back. “Good. Let’s go.”
Danny picked his way through the vegetation. Where before they’d been less concerned with noise, silence was now at a premium. Twice he had to backtrack. Once because of a deadfall that needed to be scaled, another time because of a thick stand of blackberry bushes that snatched at the sheet he wore.
Finally the house came into view. In the front yard, illuminated by the dull orange glow of a light shining through the window, a gnarled crabapple tree grew. An old pickup was in the driveway. Beneath the mailbox were two holly bushes.
Danny halted and held up his hand. He stared at the house for several moments. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It seemed as ramshackle as ever. Shingles were missing, some hanging. The tar paper beneath was torn in places, in others gone completely. The truck was parked where it usually was. There were no dogs. No cats. No security lights in the eaves or on poles. Just a lonely broken-down house with a light on in the living room.
That was it.
The difference was the light.
Hadn’t the windows been covered in plastic before?
He was almost certain they had been. Everyone knew the Maggot Man was afraid of sunlight. Something about him being burned—rumors that had been going around since before he could remember. Danny had never really been close enough to tell, nor did he want to. In fact, he didn’t even know a single person who’d seen the Maggot Man face-to-face. Only a few glimpses through the screen door, a looming shadow that wasn’t entirely human.
But that was it. The windows had been covered in plastic. They’d planned on the windows being covered so they could set things up unobserved. Now, with the windows uncovered and the Maggot Man possibly sitting in the lighted room doing God knows what, they needed to adjust their plan. At the very least, they needed to be extraordinarily careful.
One thing was for sure. Someone needed to go peek in the window and check to see if the Maggot Man was still awake. Danny turned and stared hard at his friends. Eight scared eyes avoided his gaze.
Shit. “Wait here,” he sighed. “Gonna go check.”
He removed his hood and sheet, revealing a sweat-sodden T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Half-running, half-crawling, he made his way to the corner of the house. On his right was a dark window in the center of a wall. To his left was the front wall, and five feet away was the near edge of the window where the light originated. On the other side of that was the front door.
Danny placed his ear against the wall. He felt the heat from the day lingering within the tar shingles, but heard nothing. Maybe the Maggot Man was asleep and had forgotten to turn off the light. If there was a television or radio on, the walls were so thin, Danny was certain he would’ve heard it.
Then again the Maggot Man could be waiting for them.
Danny cursed silently at that last thought. He didn’t need that kind of imagery. He was already scared, and the idea of getting shot in the head did nothing to allay the fears.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He tried to calm himself. He wanted to run, but he knew this had to be done. He pressed his ear hard onto the wood and listened closely. Although the light hinted at occupation, the place had that undeniable atmosphere of total emptiness where nothing had been moved for a long, long time.
Finally, with his body pressed flat against the house, he scooted to his left. Inch by inch, he crept to the edge of the window, careful not to make noise.
This was it.
If the Maggot Man was going to shoot him, it would be now. Gritting his teeth, Danny moved his head slowly until his left eye stared into the room.
Upon the couch sat the Maggot Man facing him. Instead of awake, however, the disfigured man was slumped down, asleep, a thin line of drool sliding from the corner of his mouth.
Danny sighed and felt the toxic air of tension rush out of him. Probably passed-out drunk, he thought.
Although his every inclination was to step away and return to the safety of his friends, a certain morbidness held him in place. He’d never been this close to the Maggot Man before. He’d never seen someone so disfigured. He had only one arm and no legs. The man’s skin was shiny in places, smooth with a slick plastic sheen. In other places it appeared to be as rough as sandpaper. Splotches of black mingled with orange and white. Some smaller spots had no color other than the redness of a raised and puckered scar. Two metallic-looking legs lay across the coffee table beside a long wicked hook-arm.
Danny inched back to the corner of the house. With grim determination, he turned and made his way back to where his friends waited. Whatever hesitation he’d felt before was gone. The Maggot Man was less than human; therefore their crime was less than criminal.
* * *
The alarm went off sending shockwaves of negative energy through the back of his head. Contrary to the lessons the Old Mung had drilled into him, Maxom turned—and upon turning, realized his mistake. He spread his wings, frantically attempting to catch air before he hit ground. He arched the long black feathers, reaching for even the smallest updraft.
WHAM.
Too late. What felt like a baseball bat to his back was actually the right wing of the crow giving way as feathers and hollow bone intersected a pine branch. He crashed toward the forest floor, the crow striking more and more limbs, totally out of cont
rol.
The pain blinded him.
The warning jolts from his human form tore at his concentration.
Finally, he struck the ground, the body wrapping itself up into a ball as it rolled amidst a bed of crushed ferns and dead leaves. He tried to bring the crow upright, but the body refused his commands. Strange. That had never happened before. He’d always been able to manipulate an animal, bring it to his will, share space and time. He tried again, his thoughts rebounding back as if he were shouting against a wall. He needed to get back to his body, but he had a responsibility to the bird.
Then he felt it. Cold seeped through bones and muscles. An almost overwhelming feeling of emptiness rode the slow motion wave of cold. The closer it came, the more panicked Maxom felt, until finally, he could take no more. He leaped, his astral self soaring up and into the sky. He’d felt that particular darkness once or twice before, and it’d always terrified him.
What would happen if he let it consume him? What would happen if he allowed death to overwhelm him while joined with an animal? Would he die as well? Would he be stuck in some limbo, unable to return to his body, unable to continue forward?
Those were questions he didn’t need answered. Maxom could live his entire life without knowing and die the happier for it.
Within seconds he was back in his own body, opening his eyes, feeling the aches of old joints, the itches of phantom limbs and the dryness of his mouth. He’d been snoring again. And drooling, it seemed, as he wiped away the small river of spittle from the side of his face.
So what was so damned important?
Then he saw the bright orange glow of fire shining through the window. Maxom searched wildly for his prosthetics. He saw them lying on the table. There was no time to put them on. Even now, torches could be arching towards his roof. He remembered last time that the poorly constructed cross had twisted and fell, catching the corner of his house. The memory of the burning cross hurtling towards him sent shivers along his spine.
