by Joseph Rubas
Once every structure in town was soaked in gas, Tozzi went back over his handiwork with a lighter and a prayer book. By five in the afternoon, the entire town was engulfed.
When Tozzi dragged himself into the rectory, weary and reeking of gas, he was met by Father Daniel.He was sitting in a straight-back kitchen chair facing the door, like a stern father waiting for his daughter to get back from a date that should have ended hours ago. "Allen."
"Father," he replied tersely.
Father Daniel didn't reply, only looked at him. Finally, at length, he spoke. "Allen...thank you."
"Thank you?"
"Yes," Father Daniel replied, "you're still in deep shit, don't think you aren't, but...it feels good to see it all coming to an end,"
"It's not the end," Tozzi said darkly, "there are houses dotting the hillsides for miles."
"It is the end, Allen. The ones who survive will move on, spread out."
That wasn't very comforting.
"I won't have you excommunicated," Father Daniel said, standing, "but I'll make damn sure you never work in the church again. I'm glad this thing is over, but there's still a shitstorm coming."
As if to emphasize that, sirens rose in the distance.
"And I doubt the Vatican can get you out of trouble if you're charged."
"They won't have to," Tozzi said, "I'm leaving now."
"Good," Father Daniel said, "Godspeed."
"After I burn the church."
Those words seemed to hit Father Daniel like a sucker punch. He quickly recovered, though. "Alright. There's no one to save here anymore anyway. I'm sure God will understand."
"I hope so," Tozzi said.
After Father Daniel left, Tozzi took the last of the gas, and splashed it around the church, soaking the wooden floor and pews, even the altar. Here he’d baptized them, married them, buried them. It was right fire should finally cleanse all things. He knelt at the altar one last time, asked God’s forgiveness, then flicked the lighter into life and tossed it over his shoulder.
The Place
I don’t know how Mr. Laraza discovered The Place; I mean, it might as well be in Timbuktu, as secluded as it is, but somehow he did. He was a businessman before his mother died and he took over the family, and had dealings with some kind of logging corporation in Oreno. He owned a lot of land in New England, and even used to let guys in the family bury bodies there. Maybe he owned the little mountaintop, too.
He never used it much, only for real grudges, for guys who royally pissed him off. He wasn’t too big on killing, and tried his best to find other ways to punish people who screwed with him, but occasionally he got mad enough to order a hit. And, nine times out of ten, he was already so worked up he had the body buried at The Place.
Only a few guys in the family knew about The Place, and would rather get hot and heavy with their grandmothers than go up there. One old dog even had a heart attack when Mr. Laraza ordered him up…or so Little Jimmy Vario says.
Jimmy’s my father’s cousin, a broad man with a squat face, pug nose, beady black eyes and a Dick Tracey fashion sense. My father didn’t really like him, but I was mesmerized by him while growing up. He lived a few houses down from us, and always had new cars, nice clothes, women way out of his league, and fistfuls of cash. He used to hand out hundreds to neighborhood kids like it was candy.
He took me under his wing when I was around thirteen or fourteen, and introduced me to the Gezippi crew. They owned a few legit businesses like a bar and a pizzeria, and I started out with honest work, sweeping the floors, mopping up, running errands. Soon I was trusted enough by the capo to do other things like run messages, pick up protection money, things like that.
Dad hated it, but by the time I was sixteen he gave in and told me to live how I wanted. I moved in with Jimmy and started serious work with the family. After about five years I was reporting directly to Mr. Laraza, an arrangement that only Jimmy, Tony DeSimone, and a few others were afforded.
I, like most of the family, didn’t know about The Place...until September ’88.
See, in August, an associate in the Marsilavano crew, a half Italian/half Irish mongrel named Joey Hill, was arrested for drug manufacture and sale and copped a plea with the D.A. He’d get a reduced sentence if he helped their little organized crime investigation. The entire crew ended up going to jail, and even Mr. Laraza was arrested, but released for lack of evidence.
Joey got out on bail one weekend and came by The Suite, a lounge Jimmy and Tony D. jointly owned in those days, like nothing happened. I assume he figured the best way to show he was innocent was to brazen it out. I guess he didn’t know we had moles in the police department, or he’d have left town. The idiot wasn’t even six steps in when Tony D. whipped out his .44 Bulldog and put five in his chest.
I was there that day, having a drink at the end of the bar, and I was pretty shocked, but Tony told me to go call Mr. Laraza, and I ran off to the back office and dialed his personal number.
When I told him what had just happened, his voice grew tight. "The rat’s fucked?"
"Yes, sir," I replied.
He was quiet for a long time, most likely contemplating his extraordinary luck. "Tell Jimmy to keep the body in the freezer," he said, "and tomorrow, take it to The Place."
"What?" I asked.
"Just tell Jimmy," he said, and hung up.
I gave to message to Jimmy, and his little eyes lit up.
"I ain’t goin this time," Tony groused, "I got a date tomorrow."
"That’s okay," Jimmy said, clapping his large hand onto my shoulder. "I’ll take Tommy here."
"Where?" I asked.
"To The Place."
"What’s that?"
"You’ll see," Tony chuckled, and Jimmy grinned.
They cleaned up the mess they made while I finished my drink. Joey was a small guy, so Jimmy rolled him onto a sheet of plastic, wrapped him up, and dragged him off while Tony mopped up.
The next day was pretty busy, and I didn’t have much time to wonder about the place until it was almost time to go. Jimmy said that we would leave at seven, and by six-thirty we were having dinner at The Suite.
"So what the fuck’s up with this place?" I asked as Jimmy attacked a rack of lamb.
"Take it easy, will you?" he said around a mouthful. "You’ll see later."
By the time we were finished, it was almost seven, and curiosity had begun burning in my chest. We dragged the body from the freezer and zipped it up in a black N.Y.P.D. body bag Tony got in bulk from a crooked cop buddy of his. Dusk had deepened by the time we got away. We had to stop by the house to pick up a few things, a shovel among them, of course, and were leaving the city on the Throgg’s Neck Expressway twenty minutes later.
We talked on and off, not about anything important. I tried to ask him about The Place again, but he just looked at me, his face ghoulish in the green dash glow, and told me to wait and see.
It took us forever to reach Maine. The dark highway just kept unfurling like a carpet to hell. I’d never been out of the state (well, Jersey), and the ride seemed eternal.
"Where the hell are we going?" I asked after we crossed the border.
"The Place," Jimmy evaded.
I shook my head.
We followed the craggy coast for hours before we passed through the city of Bangor and took a back road through the woods. "We’re gettin' close," Jimmy said.
About twenty minutes later, we pulled off the highway and followed a little dirt road, eventually parking in a grassy clearing bathed in cold moonlight.
"Alright," Jimmy said, killing the engine. We got out and went around to the trunk. He popped it open and handed me the shovel.
"There’s a path," he said, "mostly up hill. We should be there in an hour or so."
He dragged the bag out and flopped it carelessly aside. He reached into the trunk, came back with a long-handled flashlight, and clicked it on, dust motes swirling in the bright beam.
"On the way up,
" he said, sweeping the trunk with the light, "if something talks to you, just ignore it."
For a moment I didn’t understand. "Huh?"
"On the path," he removed a red gas can and slammed the lid, "if you hear something talking to you, don’t pay it any mind."
"What the fuck would talk to me?"
Jimmy took the shovel and zipped that and the gas can up in the body bag "Nothin'. That’s just it. Ignore it. Loons. Sound carries and plays tricks on your mind. Now help me with this asshole."
Jimmy grabbed one end and I the other. Once we were situated, we began walking through the snarled weeds to the path.
"So, where the hell are going, anyway?"
"Cursed Indian burial ground or something," he said.
"What?" I asked. "Cursed burial ground?"
"Yeah. It’s the soil," Jimmy replied. "Makes the dead rise."
"What?"
"Yeah. Some evil spirit in the ground or somethin. Gets in bodies and…infests them, you know?"
"Jimmy...don't bullshit me."
We reached the forest. Shifting the bag, Jimmy pulled out the flashlight and clicked it back on. Ahead, a worn dirt trail curved up and out of sight between the towering pines.
"Honest," he finally said as we started up, "I seen it with my own eyes. You put someone in, they come back."
"Bullshit."
"Really. You bury ‘em in the ground, and they come back. They’re all stupid and droolin, but, you know, alive."
"Shut up."
"I swear to God," Jimmy solemnly returned.
"Yeah, whatever."
The trek through the forest from there was a misery. Occasionally, we’d come across a fallen tree and have to scramble over, Jimmy carrying Joey over his shoulder like a fireman would carry an unconscious woman from a burning row-house. In one spot a large section of the path had been washed away, and the fall was at least fifty feet down onto the carpeted forest floor. Jimmy tossed Joey across and inched along an outcropping of ledge left behind. I’m usually not afraid of heights, but I sure as hell was then. My heart crashing and my stomach rolling, I squeezed my eyes shut and shuffled over, my arms held out for balance like a high-wire artist.
But worse were the voices, babbling from the undergrowth like the River Styx over bleached skulls. I don’t know when they started, but all at once I realized that half-formed words were being whispered to me from the darkness.
"Jimmy?" my heart was throbbing, my breath hot and shallow.
"Just loons," he said reassuringly.
"No," I replied, "those aren’t…"
"Sure they are."
I opened my mouth, but before I could reply a chilling wail rose sharply behind us, hitching and shivering like demonic laughter.
My heart halted as both I and Jimmy froze.
"What the fuck was that?"
Jimmy, still holding a corner of the bag with one hand, slowly swiveled his head, his face bloodless and his eyes wide. "It’s a loon. Just a loon."
It came again, this time further, fainter.
"That’s not a fucking loon." I looked tremblingly over my shoulder; the path stood empty in the moonlight filtering through the treetops. I fumbled for my gun.
"Loon. It’s just a loon. Everything’s fine." Jimmy sounded more sober. "Now come on."
Heart sputtering, I fell in line, glancing often over my shoulder. When we emerged from the forest ten minutes later, a small chunk of dark weight melted from my chest.
"I hate you, Jimmy," I panted. "I hate you."
Jimmy laughed.
"I hate you. I hope you get whacked tomorrow."
"If I do, you just bring me up here, okay?"
We crossed a large rocky butte, canted like the deck of a sinking ocean liner, a few dead trees twisting from the thin soil like ghoulish hands. Through another strand of gray wood we found another path, this one gravel, and followed it up the steep hillside.
The summit was barren, save for piles of stones glowing in the light of the waning moon. Some were perfectly arranged in neat piles, but others lie strewn about like blasted rubble.
I looked over my shoulder. Far below, the tops of dark pines fell away to a distant river, gleaming silver. On the other bank, a white church spire rose in rural beauty. I was surprised how clear the view was.
"Okay," Jimmy said, startling me, and dropped Joey. I let go, rubbed my hands on my coat as though they were foul, and stepped back. Jimmy bent, unzipped the bag, and pulled the shovel and gas can out.
"You just hang out," he told me, "I’ll dig dummy’s grave."
"Okay," I said, pulling my gun from its shoulder rig. I looked warily around me.
Jimmy rolled up his sleeves and started digging. I stood over him, watching, smoking, and nervously sweeping the mount with the gun.
"Alright," he grunted about fifteen minutes later. He pulled Joey out of the bag and rolled him into the shallow pit with his foot. "You fill it in while I go get some rocks," he told me, and then left me alone.
Now totally calm, I finished my cigarette and then started hefting clods of dirt onto Joey. I looked over my shoulder when I heard Jimmy coming. "You want all the dirt in?"
"Yeah. Whaddya think?"
"I dunno. The shit's magic, ain't it?"
"Fuck you," Jimmy said, taking offense to the sarcasm in my voice. "Get outta the way." He took the shovel from me and did it himself. I stood aside and smoked another cigarette, watching him and thinking. I didn't think he was lying to me, let's just get that out up front, but...how the fuck was I supposed to believe that a dead guy was going to get out of the ground? I didn't, I couldn't. What was this, some kind of elaborate rite of passage or something? Hell, maybe those voices in the woods really belonged to guys in the family. Maybe they were trying to make me shit myself. They were doing a good job.
It wasn't right. The look of absolute terror on Jimmy's face when that thing started screaming...that was real. Jimmy's an awful actor, and an even worse liar. Tony told me a few times that if Jimmy ever got caught the cops wouldn't even have to use a polygraph to know he wasn't being honest.
If that wasn't it...then what the fuck?
Was he being serious? Was Joey really going to come back?
When Jimmy was done he piled the rocks in a crude pyramid on top the grave. "Done and done," he said, dusting his hands like they were two chalk erasers. He dragged a few pieces of wood from the night, arranged them much like the rocks, and then touched a bundle of dry grass off with his Zippo. The fire, though feeble, was much better than the ghastly glow of the moon.
"We might hafta wait a while," Jimmy said, easing down with a grunt, "it varies, but it usually takes twenty minutes or so."
"So…you're being serious? I mean...this is gonna happen?"
Jimmy sighed. "No, we're just standin guard so the animals don't get him. Of course it is. Why the fuck you think we drove 50,000 miles into the middle of nowhere?"
I grasped for a reply.
"You think I'm shitting you, but just wait until this faggot comes back. You'll see then."
We were quiet for a while. "What am I going to see? What the hell's the point in all this anyway?"
"The point," Jimmy said, lighting a cigarette, "is that this dickface gets to get whacked more than once. Just blastin him ain't good enough."
I guess that made sense. Sort of. "But…how do you kill what’s already dead?"
"Shut up with the questions, will you? You'll see."
For a long while we smoked in silence, gazing into the soul of the fire and lost in our own thoughts. More than half an hour must have passed before I heard the furtive rocky scraping at my left.
Even then I don't think I really believed that Joey was going to come back. I just couldn't make myself truly accept it. When I first heard it, I guess I thought Jimmy was trying to light his Zippo. I was looking up at the moon, so I didn't see him.
"Ah, there he is."
Inexplicably, my heart sank. I looked at Jimmy, who was gr
inning like lunatic. "What?"
He sang a parody of that oldie "My Boyfriend's Back."
I glanced over at the mound...
...just in time to see a few stones tumble down.
"The fuck?" I muttered, my throat suddenly tight and my heart starting to crash. If it were a movie, this would be the scene where loud music plays as the camera zooms in and out on my slack face real fast as all kinds of psychedelic shit swirls and flashes in the background.
Jimmy laughed.
Spider-like, a white hand stained with dirt burst from the depths of the cairn. I jumped to my feet with a breathless cry of terror.
Jimmy flicked his latest cigarette butt into the fire and got to his feet.
"Joey!" he cried, throwing open his arms as he strutted over to the cairn, from which stuck a wiggling forearm, "what’s goin on?"
At the graveside, he pulled back his left leg and lashed out at the hand. A soulless screech came from the mound, and I fell back a few steps, panting and nauseous with horror.
Jimmy bent, picked up a rock, and leered over the grave for a moment. Then he took a step back, and when he shifted his weight, I saw that Joey was sitting up, gazing dazedly off to his left. His head swiveled bonelessly, and he looked quizzically up at Jimmy.
"Welcome back," Jimmy said, and brought the rock down so hard on Joey’s head it split in half. The sickening crack of the dead man’s skull sent shockwaves of disgust through me, and I turned away and puked.
At last, I only dry wretched, my chest a mass of agony and my mouth acidic. I had fallen to my knees as the world grayed around me, and quickly got to my feet.
Jimmy was already sitting by the fire, the rock heap back in perfect order. I sank dazedly down across from him. Without a word, his produced a flask and handed it to me. I took a large sip. The alcohol was warm and tasted like cherries.
When I was done, I handed it back. Jimmy, face stony and bizarre in the flickering glow, shook his head. "You need it more than me."
I put it in my jacket pocket.
"I guess I shouldn’ta brought you here," he said solemnly.
"Look, I’m sorry, it’s just…"
