Nether

by Jason Beymer

  Nether

  by

  Jason Beymer

  NETHER

  Copyright © 2011, 2014 by Jason Beymer

  Published by Tomes and TV

  San Mateo, CA

  http://www.tomesandtv.com

  Edited by Adrien-Luc Sanders

  Copy Edits by Jennifer Wingard

  Cover Art and Book Design by Damonza

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  Second Edition

  ISBN-10: 0990799018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9907990-1-6

  To Poe, my opinionated miniature dachshund. Thank God you can’t speak. Oh, the stories you could tell …

  Table of Contents

  Part One: The Big Botch

  Chapter 1: Death at the Burger Clog

  Chapter 2: Walkies

  Chapter 3: The Last Job

  Chapter 4: The Asian and the Ex

  Chapter 5: The Mobank Dilemma

  Chapter 6: The Drop

  Chapter 7: Bag o’ Death

  Chapter 8: Disposal

  Chapter 9: Senator Kamilla McPhee

  Chapter 10: Freudian Nightmares

  Part Two: Matriarchal Nightmares

  Chapter 11: Donner

  Chapter 12: Broken Bubbles

  Chapter 13: Crouching Dachshund, Hidden Cellphone

  Chapter 14: What About the Bag?

  Chapter 15: Speed

  Chapter 16: Going Up

  Chapter 17: The Empty One-Gallon Jug

  Chapter 18: The Prayer Breakfast

  Chapter 19: The Question

  Part Three: Political Exorcisms

  Chapter 20: The Great Debate

  Chapter 21: A Very Wet Beacon

  Chapter 22: Divine Satiation

  Chapter 23: Drifting

  Chapter 24: In the Mood

  Chapter 25: Welcome to the Nether

  Chapter 26: Second Helpings

  Chapter 27: That’s My Soul Up There

  Chapter 28: Doggy Heaven

  Chapter 29: The Entirety of the Nether

  Epilogue: One Week Later

  Acknowledgements

  About Jason Beymer

  Part One

  The Big Botch

  “Souls are non-transferable.”

  — The Golden Rule of Thou Shalt Not,

  as decreed by the Bureau of Trinitorial Protection,

  and punishable by Eternal Aimless Drift through the Dreaded Hereafter and Beyond.

  Chapter 1

  Death at the Burger Clog

  A cow French-kissing a pig.

  Burklin stared at the Burger Clog logo on the door. His stomach rumbled, begging for a bacon cheeseburger, but work came first. He entered through the moonlit alley and propped the door with a rubber stopper. “Hello?” he said.

  No answer.

  Burklin crept past the empty break room and the fry cooker. “Anyone alive in here?” He slipped into a pair of latex gloves.

  In the dining area, metal tables and chairs sat empty beneath flickering lights. Blinds covered the windows, which meant the demon had closed up before leaving. So where was the victim?

  Burklin spotted a trail of red drops on the floor. Ketchup? Not likely. He followed them until they rounded the corner and became a spatter. And there it was.

  A paper hat covered the left side of the manager’s face. Blood leaked from the jagged stab wounds on his chest and stomach, soaking his apron. A mop handle, splintered near the middle, lay just beyond the reach of his outstretched fingers.

  Burklin squatted next to the corpse, removed the paper hat, and set it aside. The boy looked half Burklin’s age, eighteen or nineteen at most.

  “Sorry the little bastard killed you,” he said. But it didn’t matter how sorry he was. When the demon took a life, Burklin made the body disappear, no matter the victim’s age.

  He gripped the portly corpse by its underarms and dragged it along the tile, through the kitchen, and into the alley. Burklin pointed his keys at a black car parked short of the door. With a staccato tweet, the trunk lid popped. He pulled the corpse the rest of the way by its apron. Burklin lifted the body and dropped it into the trunk.

  Almost done, he thought, closing the lid.

  Burklin returned to the Burger Clog. He searched the walls of the family-owned restaurant for glass eyes, though he expected none. His employer would have mentioned cameras. The owners had probably tried to save money by skimping on the security system. Morons.

  A bloody trail led from the puddle to the door. “What a mess.” Burklin grabbed a bucket near the employee wash station and filled it with water.

  Glass shattered in the alley. He shut off the tap and held his breath, listening. Another thump, this time closer.

  He backed away from the sink. Don’t panic, he told himself. But if the demon had returned, things were about to get ugly.

  Burklin rushed into the dining area and grabbed the mop handle. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but the splintered wood might cause a scratch. He turned off the overhead lights.

  A shadow fell across the tiled floor, cast against the alley’s moonlit glow, and a cold breeze blew in with it. He tightened his grip on the mop as the intruder entered the Burger Clog, hunched on all fours.

  Not the demon. Just his goddamned dog.

  “Pearl,” Burklin said, “I told you to stand guard outside.”

  “No way. This is the Burger Clog. Burger Clog. Grease and fat and secret sauces.”

  Burklin turned the lights back on. “Why were you making so much noise?”

  “Dumpster diving. Most of that food tastes rotten, though. You know how discerning my palate—” The eight-pound dachshund stopped. Her shiny wet eyes glistened, and she jabbed her nose toward a downed garbage can. A soupy mixture of half-eaten cheeseburgers, fries, and nuggets had spilled from inside. “Is that … ?”

  “Yes,” Burklin said, rolling his eyes.

  “Oh, hells yeah.” Pearl galloped forward and lost her footing. She slipped in the blood, skidded across the tile, and collided with the overstuffed can.

  “Don’t eat too much,” Burklin said. “You’ve got ten minutes, then we’re heading out.”

  Pearl burrowed a tunnel into the garbage.

  Burklin carried the bucket to the messiest spot and poured soapy water over the floor. He went to work scrubbing.

  After a while, Pearl’s voice came from the food tunnel. “Uh-oh.” The dog emerged on shaky legs.

  “That didn’t take long,” Burklin said.

  Pearl groaned and lowered her head near the remains of a spilled milkshake.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Burklin asked.

  She closed her eyes. “Can’t talk. Stomach settling.”

  The dog became a foot-long statuette. Her back arched and hackles rose along her spine.

  Burklin shook his head. “You never listen to me.”

  “Don’t lecture. I need to make room.”

  Pearl opened her jaws wide, as if to cough up a hairball. A lump of pickle escaped her throat.

  Burklin gagged. Not now, he thought.

  Pearl sniffled, then attacked a cheeseburger. “See? All better.”

  Burklin reviewed his employer’s instructions again, repeating them aloud. “Get the body. Drive it to the Dumpster. Lock it tight.”

  Pearl s
poke around the corners of a bun. “You always worry. Garrick wouldn’t have given you this job if he thought you’d screw it up. He’s—excuse me.” She coughed up a misshapen nugget. “He’s thorough. His visions are never wrong.”

  “Maybe he missed something with this one.”

  “Don’t even think about screwing up this job.”

  Burklin dunked the mop into the bucket and sloshed the dingy red water. “If I can find a way out of our situation, don’t you want to take it? You’re not exactly doing back flips over our condition.”

  “I’m a dachshund. I have calcification in my vertebrae. I’m prone to ruptured discs and painful aches because sadistic Germans tampered with my DNA hundreds of years ago. Have you ever seen me do a back flip?”

  Burklin checked his watch again. “Garrick wants me to drop the body in the Dumpster, but what if I drop it someplace else? Maybe I can leave it in front of—”

  “The boss’s office?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t you intend to do that with the dead schoolteacher last week?”

  “Well, not—”

  “Like you intended to do with the postman, the cheerleader, the pizza guy, the—”

  “No. I mean it this time.”

  “The go-go dancer, the prostitute, the glandularly impaired waitress?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Pearl chewed an apple fritter. “Drop it. Trust the old man.”

  Burklin emptied the bucket, and worked the plan through in his head. He would drive to Garrick’s office and dump the body. He’d pin the murder on his employer. Brilliant.

  “Stupid,” Pearl said, reading his thoughts. “Okay, maybe I did eat too much.”

  She rolled on her back and stuck out her tongue, her stomach the size of an over-inflated football.

  Burklin’s stomach cramped, too, and he dropped the mop. He tasted a mixture of cheeseburgers and apple fritters, though he hadn’t eaten anything all day save a peanut butter sandwich. Ever since his employer, Garrick, transferred his soul into the wiener dog, Burklin’s life had become rich with peculiarities. He and Pearl shared an inextricable link: not the usual bond of man and man’s best friend, but that of a symbiotic nightmare.

  He let out a satisfying burp, finished mopping and scooped up the dog. “Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  The black luxury car purred to life. With the body secured in the trunk, Burklin drove slowly through the alley, heading for the street. He checked his watch. Still two minutes ahead of schedule.

  The dachshund sat inside her traveling crate on the passenger seat. Towels, stuffed animals, and squeaky toys populated the plastic enclosure. She pawed at the terrycloth and bunched it into a makeshift pillow. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. Pearl’s voice sounded like a Kim Carnes song played through an underwater speaker. “I’m privy to tonight’s screw up du jour.”

  Burklin flipped on the headlights as they emerged from the alley.

  “Stick with Garrick’s plan,” Pearl said. “Drop the body in the Dumpster.”

  Burklin turned onto a side street. He beat his fist against his chest.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Pearl asked.

  “Heartburn.”

  “You’re driving the wrong way. The Dumpster is farther north.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll drive to Garrick’s office and leave the corpse there. When the police find the kid’s body on his doorstep, they’ll think Garrick murdered him.”

  “Then what? You haven’t thought this through.”

  “I just—” He grabbed at his chest.

  “That might get him thrown in prison, but how does it help us? Your soul will still be trapped inside me.”

  “I need antacids.”

  “Take some after the job.”

  “I need something to settle my stomach, Pearl. All that junk food you ate is coming up.”

  “You’re stopping the car for that? With a corpse in the trunk?”

  “Yes. Otherwise, I’m going to puke.”

  “If you’re going through the effort, buy the pink stuff again. That’s my favorite.”

  “How do you know I use the pink stuff?”

  “That garbage basket in your bathroom. You threw away like half a bottle without the safety cap. I guess it expired, but it still kicked ass.” Pearl tilted her head. “Except I couldn’t fooey-fooey for a week.”

  Burklin slowed and turned into a convenience store parking lot. Stopping the car, he scanned the area in the rearview mirror. A taxicab idled across the street, but other than that, his was the only car in the vicinity.

  He looked through the store window. “I don’t see anyone inside except the cashier. Sit tight. I’ll run inside and buy the pink stuff. Then we’ll go dump the body on Garrick’s doorstep.”

  Burklin stepped out of the car.

  “Blood?” Pearl said.

  “What?”

  “You’re covered in the Burger Clog manager’s blood. You can either tell the cashier you got your period, or you can take off the blood-soaked sweatsuit.”

  * * * *

  Burklin sprinted past the cash register. “Antacid?”

  The heavyset cashier grinned. “Late night, buddy? You forget your pants?”

  Burklin looked down at his v-neck t-shirt and boxers. He raised his index finger, started to explain, then shook his head. “Chalky pink stuff. Where?”

  “Aisle three.”

  Burklin grabbed a bottle of pink antacid and returned to the cashier. He threw it on the counter. “How much do I owe?”

  “Four fifty-three.”

  Burklin rummaged through his wallet. He thought of Pearl’s words and stopped. What would happen after he dumped the corpse on Garrick’s doorstep? Sure, he would piss Garrick off; he might even get the old man thrown in prison. But how would that help him get his soul back? Burklin dropped the bills on the counter. He hated admitting Pearl was right. The idea seemed cruel.

  A horn blared in the parking lot. He turned, and a pair of high beams blinded him.

  “Buddy,” the cashier said. “Isn’t that your car?”

  Burklin grabbed his wallet and pushed through the door, chimes ringing overhead. His beloved Black Beauty sped away in reverse. The carjacker punched the brake, shifted into first gear, and drove out of the parking lot. The taillights disappeared into the night.

  Burklin looked down at Pearl’s crate, perched on the curb.

  “What the hell?” he yelled. “Someone stole my car. Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I’m in a locked box,” she said. “These bars negate my judo expertise.”

  “Did you get a good look at the guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Pearl licked her lips. “It was Garrick. He told me to give you a message. ‘The next time you feel like fucking up a job, take the bus.’“

  Chapter 2

  Walkies

  The Blue Bay Apartments stood in a wealthy part of town, overlooking the marina. Neighboring homeowners lamented the eyesore and the Blue Bay’s occupants, who “didn’t speak good English.” But since many of Blue Bay’s renters also mowed lawns, cleaned houses, and nannied, no one complained too loudly. Eyesore or not, the wealthy didn’t want to lose their baby’s wet nurse to the INS.

  Burklin slept in apartment 212 on the second floor. He dreamed that he twisted Black Beauty’s gas cap off and held his erect penis inches away from the tank’s lip, ready to plunge inside and make sweet, sweet love. Then the engine roared to life. The driver honked the horn and punched the accelerator. Burklin, flaccid penis in hand, watched the car depart then glanced down at Pearl’s crate.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” the dog said from inside. “I don’t want any part of this disgusting metaphor.”

  The alarm blared. Noise rattled inside his head like a steel bee-bee. He woke disoriented, a foul taste in his mouth. Pitch dark. Wait. He always set his alarm for 1:00 PM. Unless an unscheduled eclipse had occ
urred, the afternoon sunlight should have flooded in by now.

  Five seconds later the darkness moved. It felt warm, furry, and smelled like spoiled milk.

  “Damn it, Pearl.” Burklin spat.

  The dog lay on her back, asleep. She’d planted her hindquarters against his forehead.

  Burklin poked her. “Wake up.”

  “Sleeping,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

  “Get your butt out of my face.”

  Pearl’s accordion body expanded and contracted as she stretched. She jumped off the mattress and wagged her tail.

  Burklin groped the nightstand for something to remove the sour taste, found an ancient cough drop, and popped it in his mouth. The lozenge tasted like a cube of dirt, but better than dog ass.

  “Feeding time,” Pearl said.

  “How about good morning? Or good afternoon, I guess. Would that kill you?”

  “Not exactly Mr. Sunshine today, are we?”

  Burklin dressed in sweatpants, a moth-eaten t-shirt, and flip-flops. With the size of the studio apartment, his trek to the kitchen required little more than four steps. “I swear,” he said, pouring some dog food into a bowl, “I should schedule an appointment with the vet this week. Maybe she can prescribe something for your smell. You’re stinking up the whole apartment.”

  Pearl sniffed the air. “It’s not so bad.”

  Burklin set the bowl of food down, and Pearl inhaled it. With his eyes half-open, Burklin brewed a pot of decaf coffee.

  The incident at the Burger Clog had rattled him. Garrick had taken away his car, his Black Beauty, as punishment for disobeying. Humiliation was a late-night jaunt through the suburbs in boxers.

  Burklin noticed a blinking red light on the answering machine. “Did someone call while I slept?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Pearl said. “Unless that blinking light means the answering machine is still hungry … like a certain AKC Certified miniature dachshund, for example.”