The Dead Parade

by James Roy Daley

  James smiled, finished his thought and whispered, “You’re going to die you stupid fucking whore.”

  But Debra, who had just released a small, sharp yelp, didn’t hear a word of it.

  97

  They shuffled down the hall together; James opened a bedroom door. He clicked the light on and stepped inside. Rain fell through the gaping hole where the window had once been. There was broken glass everywhere.

  “What’s the––?” Debra allowed. The room was loaded with furniture from the living room. And it wasn’t just the furniture. It seemed like everything from the entire place was stuffed in there. “What the hell is all of this? Why would you do this to my cottage?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll explain later.”

  “Explain now! What the hell are you doing?”

  James stroked the gun. Now, he thought. Do it now. Shoot her in the face. Shoot her in the face and then rape her. Pull the bones from her body and set her hair on fire. Chop off her head. Do it! Do it now! Chop off her fucking head!

  “I’m phoning the cops,” Debra said. She had enough. “I’m not playing this game any longer; you’ve lost your frigging mind.”

  She rushed into the common room aiming for the phone.

  James spun around; he lifted his arms and said, “Don’t Debra! Please! Let me deal with something first!”

  Debra couldn’t believe it: The phone was gone––almost everything was gone. Only a couch, a table and a chair remained. She wondered what to do, and then she remembered that her cell phone was in her purse, which was in her car. But did she want to step outside? No. She didn’t. Not a chance.

  “James, give me your phone,” she said. “I’m calling the police.”

  “No! No police, not yet.”

  “Give me your phone you psycho!”

  “No!”

  Before Debra had a chance to escalate the confrontation, another bedroom window smashed. The sound of rain became louder.

  “Oh shit,” James said. “It happened again!”

  He scooted down the hallway and opened another door. Firewood was lying on the floor in a pool of broken glass. Without hesitation, James moved across the hallway and opened the third bedroom door.

  This time he watched it happen: Firewood smashed through the window. Hundreds of tiny shards blasted apart and three large hunks of glass fell from the sill. Large pieces of glass exploded on the floor, becoming small, dangerous projectiles that bounced in every direction. The firewood landed on a carpet and rolled across the floor spinning.

  With the shotgun raised, James walked to the window. He fired a shot into the darkness. The sound was enormous.

  “Debra! My phone…” James reconsidered his words. Did he really want the police here?

  “Where is it?” Debra shouted.

  Firewood smashed through the kitchen window. Seconds later the bathroom window suffered the same fate.

  Debra ran across the common room with tears forming in her eyes. “Come on, she said. “We’re under attack! Give me your phone!”

  Look on the table, James secretly thought while saying, “No Debra! No phones!”

  Then the gunshots blasted. It was hard to say how many shots were fired, it sounded like a dozen or more. And as the patio doors shattered and glass went flying into the near empty living room, James thought he was hit. But he wasn’t. Not yet.

  But soon he would be.

  98

  Debra dropped on her hands and knees and then she rolled onto her belly. Tears streamed down her face. Her hands shook and her lips trembled. She could feel the air blowing through the cottage now, and the rain seemed louder than ever. She was confused and afraid; she wished she stayed home. Everything was happening too fast.

  Holding the shotgun high, James stepped past Debra. He walked towards the door, the danger, and whatever else lay waiting. A growing puddle of rain was on the floor now, and James realized that every room would be wet. Not that it mattered. After all, a wet floor wasn’t a concern. Living to tell the tale on the other hand…

  “Where are you going?” Debra mumbled, trembling on the floor. A mountain of thunder shook the world around them. “James?”

  “Get down and stay down!”

  He imagined that he was the masked executioner and that she was a witch. He imagined a crowd of thousands watching and cheering as he raised the blade above his head.

  Where’s the axe? he wondered.

  And there it was, lying on the floor near his feet. He set the shotgun down and lifted the axe up.

  Now, he thought. Chop off her head now.

  He knew it would be easy. Debra was lying face down with her hands over her ears. She was perfectly still. This was the moment he had been waiting for.

  James raised the axe above his head.

  Another two shots were fired. Both bullets came through the doorway, catching James in the shoulder. He spun in a circle and stumbled back. Pain tore through his body; blood squirted through the air. The axe slipped from his grasp, narrowly missing Debra’s head.

  And Debra screamed.

  James, still standing, felt strange and distant. He wondered where he had been hit. Then another ripple of pain came, and his thoughts were lost inside a swirl of agony.

  Another shot was fired. And another.

  More glass fell.

  Then came silence. Not total silence. No––not with the storm ripping the neighborhood a new asshole, but for James it seemed like silence. Or death.

  Yes, he thought. Perhaps death had come.

  He fell then. He fell against the wall and slid down it. And that’s where he stayed––leaning against the wall with his legs folded together, the axe lying across his lap and his head resting against the pinewood wall. Blood bubbled from the double hole in his shoulder, staining his dress shirt red. His eyelids fluttered. Then his eyes closed and his thoughts began drifting, fading…

  Debra scrambled towards James on all fours. She ripped open his shirt and rammed a finger into his wound.

  James’s eyes popped wide open and his jaw dropped.

  “Man oh man,” Debra said, trying to whisper. “I need your phone you fucking, cracked-out idiot. I need your phone and I need it right now. Where the hell is it?”

  She twisted her finger in a circle, scooping meat from his shoulder.

  James felt the pain, heard the words, and sensed that something was rooting around inside his flesh, but he didn’t understand. He was adrift within the pain and the confusion. The infection was getting worse now. The beast seemed to be taking control.

  “Who would do this? He whispered, tasting blood in his mouth. “The police?”

  “I don’t think so asshole, but… oh God… I need the phone. Where is it? I need to call 911. This is an emergency James. This is an emergency!”

  She rammed her finger in further.

  James coughed and moaned. Soot flavored blood filled his mouth. He didn’t know if he was bleeding internally or if he had bitten his tongue. Perhaps it was both.

  “Come on, come on!”

  Debra heard footsteps. She felt the aura of an unfamiliar presence and looked up. She was hoping to see a uniform.

  Elmer and Switch looked down at her; they were soaking wet. Switch held a baseball bat in the tight swirls of his hand. His eyes seemed to be filled with unstable, stressed-out shame. Elmer had two of Franco’s guns tucked between his leather belt and his jeans. He had a sinful grin on his psychotic face; he looked like a gunslinger.

  “What do you want?” Debra said. She pulled her finger free of James and pushed herself away from the two men.

  “You’ll see,” Elmer said. He yanked the bat from Switch’s grip and raised it high. Grinding his teeth together, he took a swing.

  And before the wood hit home, James began laughing.

  99

  First came nothing, then a terrible, lonely darkness.

  Footsteps.

  Wind.

  Cold.

  A long empty ro
ad…

  No… not empty.

  Not empty.

  Thunder.

  Rain.

  Lightning. And with the lightning came a brilliant sliver of light. And inside that brilliant sliver of light, that sliver of simple clarity, an image appeared. An image of people, dead people, a marching band that struggled to march, a band without music, without rhythm or happiness, moving together, walking in silence. They were the walking dead.

  It slipped away.

  Nothing.

  Darkness.

  People.

  Dead––with feet dragging.

  Tattered remains.

  Clothing torn.

  Broken bones. Crushed limbs. Missing teeth. Burning flesh.

  Blood.

  Fading.

  Fading away to nothing, to red, to dust.

  “I’m going to save you,” a voice said. It was the boy. It was Mathew. He was sitting on a park bench with a balloon in his hand––a red balloon that seemed to be dripping blood.

  “How can you save me?” A voice asked. The voice belonged to the person James had once been, before the infection. He sound normal and nice; he sounded sane.

  The boy took a deep breath, as if discouraged. “All I can do is try. I can’t promise you, James. It may not be within my power. But I’m on the other side. I’m with them. I will try.”

  Mathew released the balloon. It floated into the air, still dripping blood.

  Drip; drip; drip.

  James opened his blurry eyes and heard Debra crying––and begging. She sounded like she was in danger. He wanted to help her. He wanted to save her. He wanted to chop off her head and eat her body. But he was hurt. Blood was running along his face, falling to his legs.

  I’m sitting in a chair, he thought. I’m tied up. Tied to the chair. But I’ve got to help Debra, because Debra’s hurt. They’re hurting her. Someone is hurting her, making her cry, making her scream. I need to chop off her head.

  I owe her that much.

  Where have the gunshots gone?

  Where are the guns?

  James closed his eyes. He wanted them to stop hurting her. He needed them to stop, but… they didn’t. They kept going; they kept doing whatever it was that they were doing. She was crying, begging, screaming.

  She was suffering.

  Suffering. Suffering.

  He was drifting away. Drifting.

  Drifting into the nothing, into the darkness, into the black.

  Into the abyss––

  Blackened.

  Red.

  Blood.

  Dead bodies.

  Tombstones.

  Pain and suffering.

  Vengeance. Retribution.

  Walking, living scarecrows.

  Rain. Thunder continuing.

  Lightning. Two times. And with the lightning James saw Johnny among the scattered few.

  Johnny.

  Johnny walking.

  Walking to the cottage––walking with the dead. Leading them to him.

  Johnny, with a self-inflicted bullet hole in his head and blood dripping endlessly––he was bringing the dead through the darkness, the rain, the thunder and the lightning. Johnny was bringing the dead.

  The dead were coming.

  The dead would be here soon.

  And a single red balloon floated above them.

  Drip; drip; drip.

  A single red balloon.

  The dead were coming.

  100

  The Bakisi circled the town until it picked up another scent. This time, it found the scent inside the hospital. It traveled floor to floor, searching. It moved past the elevators and along the patterned floor. It moved past a row of vending machines and an open concept waiting room. Finally it found Mathew’s room.

  It entered.

  Mathew was in the same position he had been in all day. Anne was beside him in the chair, asleep.

  The Bakisi didn’t wait; it didn’t hesitate. It killed Anne quickly, cutting a five-inch incision in her throat. Anne fell to the floor with her rosary wrapped around her fingers. Blood pooled around her head. A string of spittle hung between her lips, which opened and closed until the end. She never said a word. She never even opened her eyes.

  As the Bakisi turned away, Mathew sat up. He reached out with his mouth wide. He took hold of the Bakisi and squeezed it inside his tiny bruised hands.

  Then everything changed.

  * * *

  Mathew was sitting beside an old man on a park bench. The sun was shining and the air was warm and still. The old man looked to be a hundred and fifty years old or more, and older still if you saw into his eyes. His eyes were black pools of what seemed to be infinity. He was dressed plainly, in a long thin coat without color. He wore dark shoes and dark pants.

  Mathew said, “Why are you doing this?”

  The old man turned towards the boy. His teeth were long and sharp, like the teeth of an animal, like stained pitchforks. He said, “It is nature’s way.”

  Mathew pondered this. This was not the nature that he knew of. He wondered if he was being told a fib.

  “Surely,” he said, “there is nothing natural about you, whatever you are.”

  “But there is.” The old man replied, flaunting a terrible smile. “It is natures way, and I’m a part of nature. I am as natural as the air we breathe, the sky above, the water in the ocean and the serpents within it. In days gone by, I was considered a God. And as a God, an old God, I can tell you quite surely that there can be nothing good without something bad, happiness without sadness, heaven without hell. I would think that you understood these basic principles. This is not the deliberation of genius.”

  “Then you are from hell, yes?”

  “There is no hell.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The old man stood up and walked across the yard. Mathew followed. Soon they came to an ice-cream stand and the old man said, “Would you like an ice cream?”

  “Yes please.” Mathew replied. He was handed the cone and he licked it immediately. “This is delicious.”

  “Of course it is. It is a taste that you enjoy, more than all others.”

  Strange, Mathew thought. He had never tasted it before.

  They walked a little further. The park was near empty. And it was a beautiful day; the type of day that Mathew lived for.

  Something occurred to him: He created this world, this environment that surrounded them. This was his heaven, his sanctuary. Nothing bad could happen to him here.

  He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he did.

  Testing this theory, Mathew wished for a green balloon. A balloon appeared; the string was comfortably wrapped around his free hand. But it wasn’t green, his favorite color. It was red. He tried his luck again. This time, he wished for a baseball hat. One appeared on his head, New Jersey Devils. It fit perfectly.

  “Third time’s a charm,” he said, and he wished that the Bakisi would be gone forever, erased from reality, non-existent.

  “I’m afraid your petty tricks won’t work on me, little one,” the old man said.

  “And why not?”

  The old man grinned. “I have some terrible news for you. This is not your world; it is mine. I allowed you to think that you had captured me. But it was I that captured you. I brought you here, and I had you believe that you were the dominant one. You and I are connected now, here in this world of darkness. And in your own world, you are at the mercy of those around you. You will never wake––and I will not harm you. Not now. Not ever. We are connected. We are as one. You will see what I see. You will go where I go. You will know the things that I choose to teach you. And I will reap the rewards. I know what you know. And now, little one, I know where your uncle is hiding. You have shown me the way. We shall travel there together. It’s time to get going.”

  The old man began laughing, with his long teeth clicking concurrently.

  The world, that was a shining paradise for the child, began changing
. The sky turned black, the ground turned to flame, the ice cream cone became a handful of scattering insects with mouths hungry and snapping.

  Mathew screamed. The string that was attached to the red balloon tightened around his hand like a snake. He screamed again. And again.

  He screamed for a very long time.

  He screamed forever.

  101

  James opened his eyes; the room was spinning. He tried to lift a hand and couldn’t do it. He was tied to a chair.

  Fading in and out of consciousness, the room blurred. Sounds that seemed muffled and strange seeped into his brain. An overtone of ringing and buzzing was heard. He looked through the broken patio door and noticed the rain. It seemed softer, less severe. The storm was dying; soon it would be over. Without looking around, James drew the conclusion that the room was empty. And perhaps the cottage was empty––accept, he could hear voices and laugher coming from one of the bedrooms. He could also hear Debra crying. As it turned out, the room wasn’t empty. Debra was beside him, tied to another chair.

  “Debra.” James whispered.

  Debra’s lips were ripped apart on one side. She had scrapes on her knuckles, and one finger was missing. It had been crudely bandaged with a cloth. The cloth was bright red. Her eyes were puffy and she had large bruises down both sides of her face and neck.

  James swallowed. It tasted like acid. His eyes watered; his heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t right. No matter what she had done, this was definitely not right.

  “Are you okay?”

  No response.

  After a long silence, James realized that Debra’s clothing had become dirty and wet. She looked like she had been dragged outside.

  Debra mumbled, “You’re awake.” Her tattered lips quivered.

  “What’s happening?”

  Debra’s head rolled to one side; a line of blood pooled on her chin. Struggling to speak, she said, “The guy you kidnapped is here, but be quiet. Don’t let them know you’re awake. If they find out, they’ll come. I don’t want them to come out here. Not again.”