The Dead Parade

by James Roy Daley

  The conversation went back and forth awhile, and when it was over his mother wept. “A good boy, that Donald. He sure is a good boy.”

  67

  James parked near a large birch tree, not thirty feet from the cottage door. He killed the engine and stepped outside. The summer air had a sweet, unsullied eminence. The grass had grown long and green. Best of all, the driveway was empty. It was a good sign.

  He walked to the porch and then tilted a large stone on its side. He reached his hand beneath it, retrieving a single key. Then he looked over his shoulder and opened the door. The cottage was empty.

  “Thank goodness,” James whispered.

  After a quick bathroom break, James cracked a beer (there was always plenty of beer) and called Debra.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” James said. “It’s me.”

  “Oh, hi. You still at the restaurant?”

  “Nope. I’m at the cottage now. Just got here. Are you still coming?”

  “Yeah. I just left.”

  “Cool. How long ‘til you show up?”

  “It’ll be two hours, maybe longer. It might rain tonight you know.”

  “Oh yeah, I know. That sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does. And I had to deal with the police… so, I’m running late.”

  “How was that?”

  “It was awful.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to talk and drive. I hate doing that. I’ll talk to you when I get there, alright? I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Sure babe. Whatever you say.”

  “’Kay. See you soon.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  “Debra?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you in two hours.”

  When James hung up the phone he thought about killing Debra with a chainsaw; he thought about it for a long time. Then he went outside and looked in the shed. There was no chainsaw; all he found was an axe. It would have to do.

  He decided to chop off her head.

  68

  Jennifer McCall’s face was swollen; she had bruises on both sides of her neck. When she opened her eyes, her sight was blurry and shadowed. The dirt and blood in her mouth was thick enough to create paste.

  As she ran her fingers along her belly, she began to cry. She rolled onto her side, taking the pain the best she could. Seeing her chest exposed, she feared the worst. But she didn’t remember being raped. Of course, that didn’t mean that it didn’t happen. Anything could have happened, anything at all.

  A car drove past.

  With a great deal of effort Jennifer pushed herself to her elbows. The grass beneath her was sticky with blood.

  My blood, she thought. This is my blood. I’m at the side of the road, bleeding and beaten. How did it come to this?

  She could see the forest, and the highway that was less than forty feet away.

  “Where am I?” She tried to mumble, but it came out all wrong, like her mouth was filled with cotton. She tried to stand but it was impossible.

  Memories came in a lump: she had been attacked. She had been––raped? Is that what happened?

  Another car zipped past.

  Jennifer rolled onto her stomach and the pain became worse. Five minutes later a wave of darkness came, taking Jennifer away.

  69

  The Bakisi followed the scent of the man into Debra’s complex. It entered silently, following the blood that perfumed the air. The building had so many confusing smells, more than the ambassador was accustomed to. But the pungent scent of the man that it hunted was strong and the Bakisi stayed on track. Through trial and error it found its way to the fifth floor.

  The man-scent was strong on the fifth; fresh blood had been spilled.

  It approached Debra’s home. The gateway was closed but it did not matter. The Bakisi was capable of entering through the smallest openings. The insignificant space beneath the door was more than sufficient.

  It entered the dwelling and ingested a new scent: the woman scent.

  The woman scent was strong here, inside this man-dwelling. It was stronger than all other scents. It was stronger than the man scent. But the man, it knew, had been here many times. The man spent days and nights; he had loved here––but the man had gone.

  The Bakisi re-entered the hallway. It detected a man with a loaded gun inside his holster. This armed warrior was protecting something familiar, something that was masked heavy with imitation aroma.

  It was a woman; she was filled with terror and dread.

  Now the Bakisi understood.

  The woman had been with the man today. And feared the man. And hated the man. And couldn’t stop thinking about the things he had done, and the things he was still doing, for she had a brush with death. And death, the Bakisi decided, would come to the woman. It would come to the woman and to all that had crossed paths with the man the Bakisi was hunting.

  70

  Officer Gentry felt his head bob. For a moment, he had fallen asleep. He repositioned his feet and pushed himself into a more stable position. Then he shook his head, rubbed his face and tried to sit straight.

  He checked his watch.

  Gentry had two more hours before his shift would end, two more hours before he would be free to go home––and fight with his wife.

  Sigh.

  He hated days like these. They were so boring. And today shouldn’t have been boring. Today, the town was fallen apart. There had been murders and fires and mass hysteria. Today was a big day, and he was bored to death.

  Suddenly the hallway became cold.

  Gentry saw a shadow creep across the floor. But that couldn’t be right. He was alone and tired. It was nothing––had to be nothing. There was nothing in the hallway. He was sure of it.

  But it was cold.

  The door rattled and the coldness dissipated.

  Maybe it’s me, Officer Gentry thought. Maybe I’ve lost my way.

  71

  The Bakisi entered the apartment. The frightened one sat alone on a couch; the hunted-man was not here. The hunted-man had never been here. But his scent was here. It was with her, with the frightened one––even though she had washed him away.

  There were two more––a man and a woman––hiding within organic scents: vegetable scents, plant scents. They were veiled in the smoldering essence of animal death. And the animal was inside a machine, a hot machine. The man and woman called this machine oven.

  The Bakisi did not recognize the word ‘oven’, but it recognized the scent of the slain beast. And thus, it felt anger.

  72

  James was tired. He finished his beer, sat on the couch and leaned his head against a decorative pillow. The pillow, like most throw pillows, wasn’t comfortable. It was old and hard and it had strange dirty lumps inside. But that was okay; James didn’t want to sleep, he wanted to be awake. And aware.

  After a few minutes slipped passed, James removed his pants; they were filthy. His legs had cuts, scrapes, bruises, and bites. He ran his fingers across the wounds, the physical proof to the day’s events. He considered Johnny’s words: a Bokor Incantation.

  Jesus, he thought. What a mess.

  James grabbed another beer. After swallowing half the bottle he wrote ‘Bokor Incantation’ on the back page of a newspaper so he’d remember.

  Maybe Debra would know the meaning.

  He sat his beer on the coffee table and held the axe close to his heart.

  He thought about chopping off some fingers and flushing them down the toilet. He thought about disconnecting the toilet and throwing it in the lake. He thought about drowning himself in the lake and putting an end to it all. He thought about ice cream. Then he placed his head on the rough edges of the pillow and felt his consciousness fade. As his eyes narrowed he remembered the warning––Try not to dream. Whatever you do, try not to dream…

  Johnny had said that b
efore pulling the trigger.

  Johnny…

  James began to weep. Not because he was in pain, or because he was afraid, but for Johnny, Mathew, and Tina. He killed Tina; he shot her dead. And killing Tina was no accident. It was an impulse. It was desire. Robert Frost would call it design––The pull of his finger was the spider of the appalling darkness, governed in a thing so small.

  He wept for twenty minutes, then fell in terrible slumber.

  73

  Mia Powell sat in a comfortable change of clothing, wedged into the corner of her designer couch. She drank coffee and watched television, thinking about James––or more specifically––about what James had done.

  James pulled the trigger accidentally, she thought. Maybe.

  She saw the flinch in his eyes and the surprised look on his face. It seemed possible that he didn’t mean to kill the man that looked like a cowboy. The cowboy was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and James was startled. Not that it made things better, it didn’t. A man was still dead. And so was Tina, from what the police had said.

  She wondered, why did he kill her? Did he mean to do it? Was it an execution? Did she attack him?

  The killing was by far the most violent thing she had ever witnessed. The man’s stomach exploded like a bomb had gone off. She was glad she didn’t see Tina die.

  Stories of tragedy: life flashing before your eyes; time falling into slow motion.

  It was different for Mia; everything happened so fast. The explosion of blood and guts, the unexpected pain, the terror, the boom of the shotgun, and the sudden face of death––it was all over before she knew what had happened.

  She sat her coffee down. Feeling a little cold, Mia pulled a blanket over her legs. Then the temperature fell drastically.

  “Hey Mom?” She said, raising her voice so her mother would hear. “Is it getting cold in here, or is it just me?”

  74

  Elmer waited for the sun to set and the moon to rise. Then he traveled from cottage to cottage until he found his car sitting beneath the birch tree.

  This was the place.

  Not wanting an unexpected phone call, Elmer turned off Jennifer’s cell and snuck between two buildings, which were sixteen feet apart. Walking across a slight slope, he headed towards a pair of windows and then peaked inside. He found two empty bedrooms. After checking a third window he found James in plain view. He was in the living room, asleep on the couch.

  Elmer smiled; he wondered if he should wait for Switch or make a move.

  Making a move now would be fun, he thought. But waiting for Switch would be safe.

  Although the decision had not yet been made, he put his hands on the window and pushed. The window didn’t budge. He pushed a second time.

  Then a twig snapped.

  An old man with a heavy German accent said, “Who goes there?” This was Franco; he lived next door.

  Elmer spun around, grabbed Franco by the throat and clutched his windpipe with sadistic intentions.

  Being unexpectedly attacked, Franco staggered back and fell.

  Elmer held tight and stayed with him. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, now lying on top. “You’ll ruin everything.”

  As Franco kicked his feet and waved his hands, Elmer squeezed his neck harder. He could feel grease on the man’s neck and hairs scattered around his fingers.

  What am I doing with this guy? he wondered. What do I want to do with this guy? Set him free? Knock him out? Say sorry?

  The instinctive voice inside his head answered: kill him. Do it now. Do it quickly. Kill the bastard and drink his blood.

  Elmer squeezed his fingers tight, making them hurt. Then he bit Franco’s face like an animal. The old man’s aged flesh tore easily; veins bulged and his eyes widened. Soft tissue became the ruins of waste. Elmer bit into him again and his teeth scraped across cheekbone.

  Franco squirmed. Blood ran down his face and pooled beneath. His heart was pounding and he couldn’t breathe. His neck was under great strain, due to the strange position he was laying. He knew it would soon break. This was the end. He could feel it in his soul.

  Then came a voice. “Franco?”

  It was the voice of his wife, but was she strong enough to save him?

  * * *

  Helga wore pink slippers and an old robe. Her gray hair was sitting in a bob high upon her head. She was eighty-four years old and spoke with a slight stutter. Some days the stutter was none-existent. Other days it was so bad that she hardly said a word. Tonight was a good night; her stuttering was running about 20% less than usual, which was fine by her. The doctors all agreed that her condition was caused by genetics, although she didn’t see how that was possible. As far as she knew, no one else in her family had every suffered from such an affliction. And she never stuttered as a child. It was only now, living in these twilight years. She often wondered if she had suffered a stroke and somehow missed it.

  “Franco,” She repeated. “Are you here? Are you au-alright?”

  Elmer shifted his weight and snapped Franco’s neck. Then he loosened his grip, letting the corpse settle. He could smell the last breath the old man released; it smelled nice, like mint. With the back of his hand he wiped a string of blood from his face, smudging it along his arm.

  He never intended on killing these people––these old people. But sometimes life is funny; sometimes things get handed to you on a blood-drenched silver platter, sometimes life offers a deliciously wonderful gift. Or two.

  Thank you, he thought.

  But like all atheists, he had nobody to thank.

  75

  James was on security tapes, identified, sought after and waiting conviction. So when the police arrived at Debra’s door, she allowed them to search her apartment. When they asked questions, she gave answers, telling them about the phone calls, the car accident and her limited knowledge concerning the murders. She didn’t really care one way or another, and figured it made no difference. The police were not wondering who did it––they were wondering how and why and where is the suspect hiding.

  Debra drove to the cottage thinking these things and more. An arrogant, loud-mouthed officer had told her to stay close to home, enjoying his authority and grinning like he owned the planet. Debra quickly agreed, and assured the man that she was not going anywhere––not that her word meant anything.

  As she drove the empty back-road highways, she kept her eyes on the rearview mirror. She assumed the cops were following her and that keeping an eye on the suspect’s girlfriend was standard police procedure. Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t, but either way, she was not being followed. There was nothing behind her but the road. But Debra––being a mildly creative person––constructed scenarios inside her mind: the sky was loaded with helicopters, a roadblock awaited; she was being monitored by satellite.

  Of course, none of these things were true. Debra was alone.

  She watched the road meticulously, with her stomach tied into a ball of nerves. Still, there was no police chase, no roadblocks, and no swat-team flying helicopters in the satellite-monitored sky. She was free to run, free to hide, free to tie a noose and hang––and for what––a boyfriend that was going to jail, a relationship that was about to end, a love that didn’t exist?

  She deserved better.

  Tears formed in her eyes. She felt the first of many sobs and a quiver inside her chest. Crying was inescapable. She had earned it, or to be more accurate, she had been given this grief without request. It was a gift from her problem-ridden asshole boyfriend, a gift she did not want.

  The pain was hers now. Tears came in thick beads. They dripped from her face and blurred her vision. Her chest was heaving; her throat began making those awful, horrid noises that can only come from anguish. The make-up she applied so carefully had become a smudged, nightmarish mess. And as she cried, she began to hate him. She hated what James had done and what he had reduced her to. It was his fault she was like this. Everything was his fault.

&
nbsp; How could they spend a life together now? It was impossible. The damage was done. The future they planned had fallen apart.

  “You’re such a jerk,” she whispered between sobs.

  Then the lights of her car hit something unusual.

  Crouched into a ball at the side of the road was an animal. No. Wait. Not an animal––a young woman. And she wasn’t crouched; she was sitting. Sitting at the side of the highway with bruised legs that were spread wide. One hand covered her naked chest. Her other hand was held up in a sad, struggling wave.

  Debra drove past the woman and her sequence of odious thought was lost.

  76

  After two high-pitched screams in a row, Officer Gentry leapt from his chair and pulled out his gun. He opened the door to Mia’s condo looking strangely comical, like a character from a 1970’s TV show that was exaggerating his movements for the camera. He saw Mia standing near the kitchen; her hands were shaking and trembling. Then came a third scream and Mia backed away from the room.

  “Oh God,” she said. “Look.”

  Gentry ran to the kitchen and saw Mia’s mother lying in a runners pose. Her neck was twice broken and her head was cocked against the wall. A rope of blood had drained from her mouth, leaving an almost blacken opaque-like lumpy puddle.

  Seeing this, Gentry’s stomach turned. He had never seen a dead body, at least, not in the line of duty.

  In the corner of the room Mia’s father William was fighting a losing battle. He had a shattered leg and several broken fingers. Unseen razors shredded his face. He tried to speak but his voice had taken on a rumbling, machine-like quality, reminiscent of a lawnmower coming to a gagging halt.