Ionic Resurgence

by Howard Hachey

  Who did I just kill?? I know I did. I could feel the blood slowing in her veins. Her teeth cutting my skin...

  The killings all felt so real—right down to the sound and smells. Except now, they wiped clean. Defragmented. Recoded. Replaced.

  It must be Them. Fuckin alien hackers. Causing a short channel delay with whatever they’re hotwiring my brain with.

  Or maybe, a tiny human voice whispered from inside, They know your secret. Your plan. The jig is up. THEY KNOW.

  Wayne figured They might, and why not? They knew everything. But Wayne knew They had limitations here. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was They who depended on him. Well, Wayne wasn’t their bitch anymore. He knew who he was and always would be.

  Guided or alone, blessed or cursed, he was The Doll Man.

  But, these uncontrollable relapses posed a serious problem; the stars were no longer aligned.

  Nothing was certain.

  “Look,” Wayne said pulling Sharon back to his chest so she couldn’t see his face, “I love you, Sharon. You’re the only woman in my life who means anything to me. And, until Ashley grows up, you always will be.” Kissing her on a tear-swollen cheek, Wayne added, “I promise we’ll make up when I get back.”

  Sharon let herself hang in his arms, soaking in his smell. His false essence of security. She stepped back and admired how beautiful Wayne's eyes were, their steely bluish gray tint twinkled dreamily back at her in genuine remorse. But—for a split second—there was something else. Something peculiar that moved behind those colors with malice, like a hungry cheetah stalking through the tall grass of the Serengeti. She felt the antelope’s fear. Before she could focus, it was gone.

  Ashamed for seeing any wrong in those angel eyes, she lowered her gaze. “Okay, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. It just feels like sometimes you–”

  Wayne planted a warm kiss on Sharon's moving lips. “Sorry Hun, gotta go. I'll call you when I get the chance.” Before Sharon could say another word, Wayne was running down the stairs and out the front door.

  Crying, Sharon sat on the edge of the bed. She told herself that eventually, the tears would stop.

  They always did before.

  ***

  “Mother-fuck!” Wayne stifled as he stepped out onto the darkened front yard and saw nothing but the dull yellow paint of his Volks parked in the driveway. His neck whipped around in quick snaps, looking up and down the street as he raced over the stone walkway.

  No sign of Shit-stain anywhere.

  Uttering more short curses to no one, the nip of the night air captured his words in frozen puffs that fogged the rim of his glasses. Wearing a collared baby blue dress shirt, white Reebok's, and a pair of tan cargo pants (new knife and trusty .38 in the side pockets), Wayne was impervious to the cold. His other clothes—the ones he bought especially for tonight—were already packed in the trunk along with the rest of his new toys. At the first empty rest area along the way, he would change and commence with Phase II. But only when the time was right. And if the boy showed up.

  While he was shopping for supplies, Wayne had considered trying to find another switchblade like the one he lost back in '89, but thought better of it. Switchblades were good for stabbing, but not hacking. And, all in all, not worth the trouble. Compromising, he picked up a good hunting knife earlier that morning at a sporting goods store in Bangor: one with a six-inch serrated blade that promised to sharpen itself with each use.

  Paid in cash.

  Before tossing the dummy suitcase into the trunk, Wayne took a second to glance at his inventory. From the hacksaw and rope to several spare knives and extra bullets, all his usual tools were there.

  Everything, except one fifth of sour mash whiskey.

  A man could drink and drive back in his day, and if the driver wasn't belligerently wasted, he could ride home from a traffic stop with nothing more than a warning to get off the road and get some sleep. Getting caught drunk at the wheel now was like being convicted of pre-meditated murder. Each D.U.I. now comes with mandatory jail time and a suspended license, most minor charges depending on the situation. Car searched and impounded. Getting pulled over even once was unacceptable.

  Wayne had a real problem with the sauce back then. The null of drink worked best for changing the station upstairs. It brought him content. But, he didn’t miss all the bloody morning shits and head-splitting hangovers one bit either. There was also the fact that he might not be alone tonight. There would be the boy to worry about. He couldn't let alcohol bring his guard down.

  Closing the trunk, Wayne rounded the car and opened the driver's side door. Right before ducking in behind the wheel, he pulled the little red notebook from his back pocket. He takes one more look around, then tosses it onto the dash in front of the wheel.

  Just then, a solid shape among the bushes lurched sharply to his left.

  Wayne, pistol already raised, twirled around and aimed into the thick line of dense brush. Finger bent on the trigger, gradually adding pressure as his eyes adjusted to the shadows.

  “Where were you?” a voice to his right whispered.

  Already on edge, Wayne jumped, nearly shooting a round into the neighbor's yard across the street. Heart jiving, he looked back around to see Kieffer standing by the open car door.

  Wayne lowered the gun as he reversed his steps. “Don't you ever jump me like that again, kid, or I'll shoot your dick off.”

  “Get my dick off your mind. You're over ten minutes late,” Kieffer said without missing a beat. Wayne couldn't see the kid’s smug face at that moment, but he knew there was a pretentious smile there.

  Get your kicks in now, pickle-sniffer, Wayne brooded to himself as he approached Kieffer. Get ‘em in while you can.

  He noticed the boy had at least dressed accordingly. All black clothes, even down to his shoelaces and gloves. That was good. Black clothing absorbed the color of blood the best. Yours and theirs.

  “Get in,” Wayne said as he slid in behind the wheel. “No sense in standin' around shaking our dicks.”

  Wayne heard Kieffer chuckle. “It's always about dicks with you, man.”

  Acting like he didn't hear, Wayne shut his door and started up the engine.

  Kieffer, so lightheaded and malnourished from a day spent obsessively planning, felt at any moment he might faint and crack his head off the hood. Woozy, he circled the long way around the car. He’d only slept ten minutes since officially meeting The Doll Man. The following twenty hours fizzled by fast. The clock spun just ahead of his thoughts. All day Kieffer weighed his options and, at the last minute, formulated a plan. He would play along, and the first chance he got, use his cellphone to call the cops and turn Wayne in. Not by any means a good plan. But, what else could he do at this point? No proof, no evidence. No evidence, no arrest. Wayne would talk his way around the cops then go straight for Kieffer’s throat as soon as the boys in blue left. Without hard facts, Kieffer was at a stalemate. Somehow, he managed to set himself up at the top of the shit pile. Problem was, he couldn’t figure a way down. At least, not a clean way. All roads back to town from here were sinkholes into deeper shit.

  Watching the hours turn to minutes, the minutes to seconds, Kieffer scrapped the proverbial barrel for a plan. The pieces on the board looked fewer and fewer all the time. When pushed, the roundtable had presented far worse ideas. Killing Wayne had been one. Somehow, only possible in his imagination, Kieffer would overpower Wayne during a struggle, take his weapon, and use it against him. Classic case of self-defense in any judge or jury’s eyes. As if he’d actually be able to do such a thing. Kieffer might’ve been a kid, but he wasn’t a moron. He had just as good a chance of overpowering Wayne as he did climbing Mount Katahdin blindfolded. When weighing the options, calling for help always came out on top. Cellphones weren’t exactly new technology at this point, but new enough to kids his age that Wayne might let it slide. The last time The Doll Man was on the move, cellphones were the size of a
box of saltines and only affordable to business types, drug kingpins, and high-profiled celebrities. A lot had changed since then. Kieffer hoped that change would be his easy pass to safety.

  So, that was the plan. Wait for Wayne to act, hide and snitch. Not by any means heroic or brave, but logical. This wasn’t the time to start thinking in whimsical Hollywood movie fancy, not that Kieffer was capable. It would take the same deadpan approach to take Wayne down as it did to catch him. That meant there was the very real possibility that if Kieffer succeeded, he’d also fail. Ashley’s life would be ruined.

  Lost love or not, he had to do something.

  His hand resting on the cold door handle, Kieffer took his final breath of fresh air and pulled. Plan Exeter was officially in action.

  Climbing headfirst into the mouth of a sleeping hippo, the door swung open to eat him. Kieffer kept his nerve as best as he could, hyperaware that the spot he was going to be sitting in was where countless innocent kids—kids just like him—met their fate. Still in the process of climbing into his seat, Kieffer looked up at Wayne and noticed something odd.

  Black pen in hand, he was jotting something down in the little red book.

  Once seated, Kieffer leaned over to buckle the heavy seatbelt, catching a glimpse of the book spread open in Wayne's lap. “Ready?” Wayne asked as he snapped the pages shut and tossed it back onto the dash.

  Against his better judgment, Kieffer blurted out, “Wwhat were you writing?”

  Releasing the clutch, Wayne turned to him and smiled.

  “Oh, nothin'. Just testing my pen.”

  ***

  Forty silent minutes later while cruising down I-95 South, Wayne cleared his throat. “Stoppin soon. Need to take a piss or anything?”

  “No,” Kieffer said, refusing to turn his head. He forced his sight out the passenger side window instead.

  Wayne lit up another smoke, his seventh since starting the trip, and cracked his window.

  “So… what’d you tell your parents?”

  Still faced away, Kieffer said, “I didn’t tell my mom anything. She was at work when I snuck out.” Then, after a short pause, Kieffer added, “Dad’s dead.”

  Wayne didn’t believe him. He caught glimpses of the hunched figure in the passenger seat, its ratty face reflecting back in the window.

  Wayne fumed angrily to himself, The face of a faggot; a no-good pansy ass bitch who’d probably snitch on his own mother to get his ass out of trouble. You couldn’t trust that face as far as you could punt it.

  “Gum?” Wayne asked smoothly, producing a fresh pack from his front pocket.

  Kieffer looked away from the window to find the gum floating in his face, practically pushed against the side of his cheek.

  “Go ahead,” Wayne egged on, never taking his eyes off the road, “it’s the ones with the comics.”

  The same smile Michael Brown saw that summer night in ‘71 crawled back out from Hell for Kieffer Halpern. Attached to that smile was an arm, that arm a hand, that hand a pack of gum, that gum, Kieffer’s cheek. The connective spark fusing them together burned hotter with each second that the waxy wrapper touched his face.

  Not able to stand the charge any longer, Kieffer took a piece. Satisfied, Wayne retracted his hand. Unlike Michael, Kieffer chewed his gum with gusto. He knew if Wayne was going to kill him, it wouldn't be with a piece of gum. The Doll Man was much too artsy for that. Kieffer was protected. For now.

  Trying to act unnerved by the whole thing, he tried to read the comic under the passing lights, but could barely make it out. He saw one box that had Bazooka Joe standing on a boat. Pointy orange-sliced waves moved all around the boat’s edge. In the second frame, Joe was joined by a guy wearing a yellow rain slicker and black eyepatch, both had big harpoons in their hands pointed towards the sea.

  “Look out for the white whale!” Joe yelled to the seaman. In another frame, you see the man with the eyepatch pulling Joe back over the railing, yelling, “Argh! Don’t go starboard, matey! Thar whale knows no hook n’ line!”

  Already uninterested with the comic, Kieffer tossed it onto the floor.

  Then, the steady tempo of the car's blinker filled the cab. Still staring out at the road, Wayne said, “Rest stop coming up. I’m gonna stop and change.”

  Still looking out at the slowing trees, Kieffer said nothing.

  Wayne pulled into the rest area and parked near the back lot by the bathroom doors. The gun from his pocket now steadied in his hand.

  “Alright, first off, give me your phone.”

  Kieffer went to say he didn’t bring his phone, but Wayne cut him off. “I know you do, so hand it over.” Thus, ended the short run of Plan Exeter. Miserably defeated, Kieffer handed over his phone and slumped back in his seat. Like a sucker, he’d put all his chips on the old man’s ignorance of current technology, but had only proven his own. Wayne put the phone in his cargo pocket next to his knife.

  “Come with me,” Wayne said after he shut off the engine and opened his door.

  Wayne got out, but when he looked back, Kieffer hadn’t moved. He sat staring out the window as if they were still driving down the interstate.

  “Kid, let’s go.” Getting incredibly irritated with Kieffer’s attitude, Wayne tapped impatiently at the open door.

  Still looking out the window, he said, “Kieffer, my name is Kieffer.”

  Sighing, Wayne looked around the empty parking lot and ducked back into the car. “Alright, Kieffer, get off your ass and follow me. I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

  Still not moving, Kieffer blew a big pink bubble of gum in response. It grew steadily until—POP!—they both watched the bubble, flat and wrinkled, shrink down between his teeth. Not a word.

  On the verge of blasting Kieffer in the forehead, Wayne slammed his door shut and marched to the back of the car. There was the rattle of keys, the trunk opening then slamming shut.

  Footsteps coming around the side.

  With much force, Wayne flung the passenger side door open and grabbed Kieffer by the arm. Lifting him clear off his feet, Wayne spiked Kieffer—a human football—as hard as he could against the pavement. The boy skidded onto his back, where he cried out in pain and clutched at his side. Wayne knelt to prop a knee against the boy’s side. His other knee soon joined the party, pounding Kieffer’s soft liver and cracked ribs.

  “Get the idea that I owe you something out of your fuckin head! You’re nothing but a blip, a speck, a measly fuckin insect! You should feel blessed to be alive in my presence you… you worthless prol!” Wayne kicked Kieffer again, this time in the face as he was leaning forward on his hands to stand up. “Obey!”

  The sound of a steady drip joined the echo of Wayne’s voice rolling out past the snake of road just two hundred feet back. The last kick had broken Kieffer’s nose, now a steady faucet of dark liquid that stained his lips and chin. A black mirror formed on the pavement. Wayne stood back to let Kieffer get to his feet this time. Facing each other, Wayne was happy to see Kieffer streaked with blood, dying on his knees. The boy had finally learned to give respect where respect was due. Because if he didn’t, no one would be safe.

  No one.

  Wayne took the pistol from his side pocket. “Let’s go. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  The fight literally beaten out of him, Kieffer obeyed. He struggled to his feet, swaying a little as he found his center of gravity again. Taking one wobbly step forward, Kieffer raised his head to Wayne and smiled.

  The smile widened as he spat a giant clam ruby right into Wayne’s left eye.

  The reflex was instant. As soon as the glob of clotted mucus and blood hit his glasses, blotting out the whole left side of the world, Wayne’s trigger finger jumped. The shot tore through Kieffer’s face—blowing out the whole left side of his skull. His mouth yawned open in dead slackness before the rest of him went limp and hit the ground.

  Wayne stood and looked at the body for a couple minutes. This wasn’t how things were suppos
ed to–

  His eyes re-open. Wayne is behind the wheel. Alone. Both car doors ajar.

  Perked up in his seat, he franticly scratched up his right sleeve for his wristwatch. Its face was smashed; the arms spun backwards, recording lost time.

  Body surging with dread, Wayne scurried out the car and rushed over to where he stood before. Only, it wasn’t the same. Something was off. Assuming he must have blacked out while moving the kid's body, Wayne stared down at the spot where Kieffer's beaten corpse had been lying moments earlier.

  Then, he saw it.

  The mirror of blood—the one from Kieffer’s busted face, gone. Had Wayne been sitting behind the wheel like a comatose victim for so long that it dried? No. Judging by the thick blanket of night that still covered the sky it hadn’t been nearly that long. And even if it had dried there’d be a brown stain or at least a couple of teeth left behind. Wayne was thorough, but this didn’t make sense. He couldn’t remember how all this tied in with his broken watch. Something was missing.

  Really starting to panic, Wayne raced around to the trunk and popped it open.

  No body. But something caught his eye.

  His bag, the one he distinctly remembered grabbing before throwing Kieffer from the car, was in the trunk.

  Did I put it back before or after I killed him? Wayne couldn’t remember. Think, damnit! What were you doing before the…

  Running back to the cab, he plunged into the front seat and felt around on the dash with both hands.

  Nothing. The little red notebook was gone.

  “I know I brought it!” he hissed to himself, feeling along the floor and under the seats in case it fell under. Wayne tore through the entire car, but it was no use. The only thing he found was the crumpled wrapper of a Bazooka Joe comic and his gun. Still fully loaded. That meant Kieffer had been in his car tonight. That much he could prove. Kieffer had been with him all the way to the rest stop. And now the book and the kid were gone. That meant two things.