Dead in Bed by Bailey Simms, The Complete First Book

by Adrian Birch

  He’d said he stashed the gun in my car because he didn’t have time to go to the motel.

  “How did you know I was at the motel?” I asked as he skidded onto the long driveway leading to Morgan’s house.

  “What?”

  “You said you didn’t have time to go to the motel before leaving the gun in my car,” I yelled over the sound of the gravel hitting the wheel wells.

  “Ashley, I didn’t know where you were. I said I couldn’t find you.”

  “You said something about a motel!”

  He was racing toward Morgan’s house, and we were almost there, but he took his eyes off the road just long enough to give me a hard look.

  “Listen to me,” he said decisively. “I don’t care what I may have said. I don’t know anything about any motel.”

  * * *

  We skidded right up to Morgan’s gate. We both leapt out of the car and raced up the front steps. The house lights were on. I didn’t loosen my grip on the gun for a second.

  Morgan was still screaming. But her cries were more ragged now, more tired and defeated.

  As we passed through the living room, I made sure the gun’s safety was off. I knew that I would have to shoot whoever was making my best friend wail with such an awful, suffering sound. I couldn’t even let myself wonder what exactly was happening to her. I just knew I was prepared to kill whoever was causing her to make that sound.

  She was in the bedroom. We could hear her crying out from behind the door, but it was locked.

  Ian slammed his shoulder into the door, and the wood splintered but stayed shut. He backed up and slammed into it again, even harder this time, and the handle broke out of the frame.

  The door whipped open.

  Only twenty-four hours earlier, I’d helped Ian carry a dead body whose penis had been gruesomely mutilated. But what I saw in Morgan’s room was more horrifying than that. It was horrifying on so many levels that at first my brain kind of shut down and I didn’t understand what I was seeing.

  Morgan was on her back atop her tiny writing desk, bent backward in what looked like an excruciatingly painful position.

  She was completely naked. And she was bleeding. Her nose was covered in blood and her eyebrow was split. Patches of smeared blood ran from her face down over her breasts, all the way to her pubic hair.

  And standing over her was Mr. Hershel.

  I could barely comprehend that this was the same man who my mom always called the “gentle cowboy”; who had been my closest neighbor throughout my childhood; who had once taught me how to ride his old graying mare.

  He too was completely naked. Or, almost completely naked. As he spun around to see who had just crashed through the door, I saw he was wearing just an old, leather holster. The belt was fastened around his otherwise bare hips. Inside the holster pouch, which dangled down against his thigh, was no six-shooter but a very modern-looking handgun.

  Morgan’s blood soaked his tanned, weathered face and his bare white chest. And his penis was erect. It was standing upright so that its pointy head hovered just in front of his belt buckle.

  I gagged, but didn’t drop the gun.

  Morgan was still crying out in agony, which I hoped was a good sign because she hadn’t been beaten unconscious. But there was absolutely no question that Mr. Hershel had been raping her.

  He planted a leathery hand between her breasts, holding her down, and Morgan screamed again. Mr. Hershel was fast, but his movements were feverishly stilted. It was almost as though someone were controlling him with strings. He kept fiercely twitching his head to one side and stamping his heel as though his entire body were itching.

  But with his free hand, he drew his gun and pointed it right my face.

  Ian dove at him.

  Before Ian’s shoulder reached Mr. Hershel’s chest, Mr. Hershel fired his gun.

  For a moment I was sure he’d shot Ian in the head, but he must have missed, because as he toppled backward under the weight of Ian’s body, Ian immediately tried to wrestle the gun from his blood-soaked hand.

  Mr. Hershel didn’t utter a word. He just kept breathing at the pace of a dog’s panting, without stopping. His whole body was heaving with every breath.

  Before Ian was able to pry the gun from his fingers, Mr. Hershel pulled away and brought the butt of his gun down hard right behind Ian’s ear.

  Ian tumbled backward, dazed, and fell at my feet.

  I knew this was it: this was the moment I had to pull the trigger. I was already aiming right between Mr. Hershel’s eyes.

  But I couldn’t do it. Whatever strength I’d summoned to help Ian carry the mutilated body from the locker room without vomiting was all the strength I possessed. This was different. This was too much.

  Mr. Hershel grabbed onto Morgan’s ankle and pulled her off the table. She made a muted, coughing cry as she hit the floor, landing awkwardly on her shoulder. Mr. Hershel held tightly to her foot, twisting her leg up and away from her body like he was dragging a club.

  And, still, I couldn’t pull the trigger.

  I was so ashamed. As certain as I’d been a moment earlier that I was going to kill whoever I found hurting Morgan, now I was just as certain that I couldn’t bring myself to end the life of the man I’d grown up next door to, no matter what he was doing.

  I let out a sob.

  I heard the heavy blast of Mr. Hershel’s gun.

  I was sure, in the next moment, I was dead. Everything was black. I was lying on the floor.

  But I hadn’t been shot. Mr. Hershel hadn’t even fired his gun. This fact dawned on me slowly as I opened my eyes.

  Ian had grabbed the gun from my hand, knocking me over in the process, and shot Mr. Hershel.

  A massive wound had opened up on his shoulder. But—as if nothing had happened to him at all—Mr. Hershel lunged at Ian, toppling him over. Now he held Ian down, pinning him on his back. Mr. Hershel raised his gun once more, this time with a new urgency and rage.

  He brought the barrel level with Ian’s eyes, but at the same instant Ian stabbed his own gun up under Mr. Hershel’s chin and fired.

  There was an abrupt, compacted explosion. A piece of Mr. Hershel’s skull leapt up into the air and landed wetly on Morgan’s bed.

  Mr. Hershel slumped. Ian pushed the now-limp body away, and it fell in a semi-sitting position against the desk.

  Ian slid to Morgan’s side.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay now. Everything’s all over.”

  Morgan stared blankly around the room, never quite meeting Ian’s eyes and looking utterly confused. She seemed in too much pain to cry or to even try to speak.

  Ian pulled the comforter from her bed, shaking off the piece of Mr. Hershel’s skull in the process, and wrapped it around her bloodied body. One of her eyes was almost swollen shut, and she was starting to shiver. He picked her up and carried her toward my car while I followed close behind.

  He turned to me as he eased Morgan out the front door, careful not to let her head bump the doorframe.

  “Can you get her some clothes?” he asked me. I stared at him dumbly—it was hard to comprehend such a practical request right now. “We’ll take her back to your parents’ house, but she’ll need some clothes.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. I can”

  I hurried back through the house and stepped once again into Morgan’s room.

  Mr. Hershel’s body lay partly propped up with its back against the writing desk. I tried not to look at it, but I couldn’t help it.

  I especially couldn’t help but notice Mr. Hershel's penis.

  It was still strangely erect. It hadn’t subsided at all—not throughout the entire fight with Ian, and not even after he’d been shot in the head.

  And his testicles, I noticed only now, were swollen and blackened.

  Just like the corpse in the locker room.

  His head was pitched forward over one shoulder. I tried not to look at the gapi
ng wound. I didn’t think I could handle actually seeing the brain matter.

  But it wasn’t exactly brain matter that I glimpsed inside his shattered skull. Just as I was about to force myself to look away, I saw…movement. There was something happening—some kind of slow churning—inside Mr. Hershel's head.

  I took half a step closer.

  Inside the skull cavity was a mass of larvae.

  Hundreds, thousands,maybe more, were spinning and twisting around in a thick bunch. Each larva was pale white, almost translucent, and about the width of a fingernail. A few had started to spill out of the gunshot wound, plinking down onto the blood-soaked carpet and writhing there.

  “Ian!” I yelled. I tried to take a breath, but I couldn’t breathe. “Ian!”

  I realized I wasn’t calling out at all, but whispering. I couldn’t speak. Another pair of larvae fell from Mr. Hershel’s head and landed softly on the carpet.

  I turned away from the body. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. I just had to get Morgan’s clothes, and then I could leave.

  I jerked open all of her drawers. I grabbed a few pairs of underwear, socks, and the first tops I could find. All she needed was something to cover up with; it didn’t matter what. As soon as I found a couple pairs of jeans, I wrapped everything up in an oversize T-shirt.

  Morgan’s phone was on the dresser, so I grabbed that, too, and left the room as quickly as possible.

  Just as I stepped out onto the porch, the phone rang in my hand.

  ASHLEY flashed on the screen. Someone was calling Morgan from my phone.

  I answer immediately. “Who is this?” I snapped in an irrational mixture of overflowing confusion and fear.

  “Whoa!” said a male voice. “Everything okay? Is this Morgan?”

  “Who is this?” I repeated. “This is Ashley. You have my phone.”

  “It’s Bryce! Ashley, it’s Bryce. I ended up grabbing your phone after last night. I’m so sorry. It’s the same model as mine. I wanted to get it back to you.”

  I’d been approaching my car but stopped short at the front gate.

  Even after everything I’d just witnessed, what I saw now was even more surprising.

  I had no idea what to think. I dropped the phone.

  In my car’s front seat, dimly lit by the overhead light, Ian was holding Morgan tightly in the comforter.

  But she had placed both of her hands, gently, on either side of his face.

  And she was kissing him.

  January 10th, 2014

  4:24 p.m.

  Author’s Update

  I can’t believe I actually finished writing Part 2 before the weekend! I stayed up all night writing, so I’m way ahead of schedule now.

  And a few of you actually messaged my Twitter account this week! I REALLY want to thank everyone so much who’s written to me with all the encouragement. It means a lot to me.

  I actually have to say how I was able to post Part 2, because it was kind of crazy this time.

  So, my dad—he’s, like, really strict—found out that I’d stayed up all night finishing Part 2. Or, he sort of found out.

  His rule is “lights out” at 10:30 p.m. I’d turned my bedroom light off by then, but I ended up staying up much later than I’d planned writing in bed on my laptop. I really wanted to finish the draft.

  My dad always gets up for work at 4:30 a.m., and I didn’t even realize how late it was. He must have heard me typing or something, because he knew right away that I’d been up on my computer all night. He doesn’t let me have a lock on my door, so he can just open it. When he looked in, I didn’t have time to close my laptop or pull my covers over my head. You know, I’m really lucky that I always keep my Facebook page up, because at least I had time to open my web browser as fast as I could before he looked at my screen and saw what I was really working on.

  My dad doesn’t really know what Facebook is or how it works. I kind of lied and suggested I’d been on Facebook all night. He got all pissed, and he gave me this lecture about how important it is for me to get sleep, and how all my friends and me are addicted to the internet.

  So, for my “punishment,” he turned off our internet connection. I know it’s stupid, and it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s what he did, because I “need to know that there are consequences” if I “choose to stay up all night on Facebook.” Blaaghh.

  But, luckily, Kyle totally saved me (“Kyle” isn’t really his name, just like “Bailey Simms” isn’t my real name, but I kind of have to keep all of this private so I don’t get caught). He’s this really sweet guy in the class ahead of mine. He’s not exactly my boyfriend, just this really nice, really good guy I sort of grew up with. Ever since I’ve had to stay home from school for my treatments, he’s been like my best friend, even if we mostly just talk on the phone and text.

  Anyway, his parents just got him an iPad, and it has this hotspot thing where you can use it as a Wi-Fi router. I told him my dad turned off our internet, but I didn’t tell him what I needed it for (I haven’t told a single person that I’ve started this blog). I only told him that I had a bunch of Facebook messages to respond to, which I did, but really I mostly wanted to post the next part of my novel.

  He’s so sweet, he didn’t even ask any questions. He just drove up to my house and parked his car across the street. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see me. He just called me from his car and told me he would sit there with his iPad hotspot turned on as long as I needed to use the Wi-Fi, and then he gave me the password. I never expected he would do anything like that.

  So, anyway, I just wanted to say thank you, “Kyle.” You’re really the best. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you. It’s the best part of my day when you call me. I know you won’t read this because I haven’t told you about this novel or my blog yet. But without you, I wouldn’t have been able to publish this installment at all. So this one’s for you.

  …Okay, I better hurry up and post this so he doesn’t have to sit out there forever waiting for my slow ass to finish using his hotspot. As always, thanks for reading! I’m @BaileySimms. Tweet me! I’m actually kinda nice!

  xxBailey

  January 20th, 2014

  2:11 a.m.

  Part 3

  Going Down Six Feet Under

  I held my hand up in front of my face. I moved my fingers.

  I couldn’t see anything at all. Nothing. I couldn’t detect the slightest hint of movement. The darkness surrounding me was perfectly complete.

  I tried to keep my breathing under control. The faster I breathed, the more oxygen I’d use up, and the less time I would have to live.

  That’s what I’d heard about being buried alive, anyway. I didn’t see why it wouldn’t be true.

  Not that it really mattered whether I’d have just a few minutes to live or an hour. One way or another, this was it. I tried hard to accept that I was going to die soon, that my life was going to end, that I was already beginning to suffocate. But it just didn’t seem like it could be real, no matter how hard it was getting to breathe.

  I reached out and touched the rough wood only a few inches in front of my face. I could feel its raw, grainy texture. The scent of freshly cut pine was overwhelming.

  This was real.

  When I was a kid I used to think that being buried alive would be the most horrifying way to die. Worse than drowning, worse than getting killed in a car accident, worse even than being burned to death. The pain of burning would be unimaginably excruciating, I knew, but the horror wouldn’t quite compare to suffocating inside a narrow, hot box beneath six feet of heavy dirt.

  I even used to promise myself that I’d never get close to a coffin as long as I lived. Inviting even the remote possibility of ending up trapped inside seemed like a stupid risk to take.

  And yet somehow, here I was.

  I felt around for my cellphone and clicked it on. The screen’s dim light glared.

  The battery was now almost completely dead.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d tried checking my phone for a signal. Nothing had changed—there was no service this far underground and there wasn’t ever going to be.

  I clicked off the screen.

  Once again, I was lost in darkness.

  * * *

  It all started two days earlier, when Morgan fell into a coma.

  I don’t know if it was because her mind just shut down from the trauma of being attacked by Mr. Hershel, or if it was for some other reason that I didn’t fully understand. But right after I saw her curled up in Ian’s lap in my car—his arms holding her tightly and their lips pressed together—Morgan convulsed briefly and then collapsed.

  Ian tried to wake her.

  “Morgan?” He shook her, and when she didn’t wake he lightly slapped her face. “Morgan? Sweetheart, you need to stay with me! Morgan!”

  But she wouldn’t wake up.

  I threw the spare clothes I’d grabbed into the back and squeezed in beside Morgan, who was now lying slumped and unmoving in the passenger seat.

  Ian raced us back to my parents’ house. All the way there I did my best to keep talking to Morgan and calling her name into her ear, like Ian told me to do, but it was no use. Every time I gave her another series of brisk slaps, her head only rolled back down against her shoulder.

  In the middle of all this, Ian tried to explain what I’d just seen going on between them.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I don’t understand. I was trying to comfort her and suddenly her hands were all over me. And then she was kissing me. After everything she just went through…” He shook his head emphatically. “I don’t know why she would do something like that.”

  Everything about Ian’s tone should have told me he was telling the truth—that Morgan had just pressed her body against his and started kissing him out of the blue—but how could I be totally sure? The Ian I knew was an extremely honest person, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of lying to me. I wasn’t naïve. After Morgan told me at the fair that she was cheating on Jason with someone she couldn’t name, and after I’d found Ian’s hoodie and gun in my car where Morgan had slept, and after I’d just watched the way she’d been kissing him… Well, I couldn’t shake the idea that Morgan and Ian had been secretly sleeping together before all of this even started.