Occult Assassin: Ice God

by William Massa

A week has passed since that terrible day. I don’t even remember dialing 911. Everything is hazy, like a bad dream. But I do recall the fireman’s theory after they stretchered Josh’s disfigured body to a waiting ambulance. As the rear doors slammed shut, erasing my dying brother from view, he said, ”We found pot in the bedroom and empty beer bottles all over the house. Your brother may have passed out, dropped the roach and then the bedspread caught fire. By the time he knew what was happening, it was too late.”

  No offense, but I call bullshit. I’m not buying it, not for a second. The bed’s iron frame was a warped mess. Steel melts at 2800 degrees. So how could a small fire generate such heat without spreading? And why didn't any of the goddamn fire alarms go off? I know what I saw isn’t possible. The cops are stumped too and it sure seems like they don’t care enough to probe further.

  At least no one’s suggested suicide. It would break my mother’s heart.

  Josh lived for a few more hours after arriving at the hospital. According to the doctors in the burn ward, Josh sustained third-degree burns over his whole body and about ninety percent of his skin was compromised. One glance at him had convinced me he wouldn’t live through the night. I didn’t need to be a physical therapy student to make my diagnosis.

  The wake took place a few days later. The less I think about, it the better. We had Josh cremated, which is darkly ironic considering how he died. All that remains of my brother is an urn filled with ashes that sits in our poor mother’s New Jersey apartment.

  I’ve been checking on her every day, making sure she’s okay. She lost my father to a heart attack five years ago, but this feels even worse. No parent should ever bury one of their children – thank God she is a strong woman, a fighter.

  I keep telling myself that I’m a fighter too, but losing Josh has shaken me to the core. I still can’t believe he’s gone. For someone studying to become a health practitioner I should be more comfortable with the idea of mortality, but it’s always been an abstract concept. Death is something that happens to other people.

  Not anymore. The grim reaper has clawed its way into my life, too.

  I push the dark thoughts aside as I enter the classroom. Each table is surrounded by a group of four students. Everyone is wearing scrubs and disposable gloves. Covered by plastic shrouds, rows of human bodies lie on their stainless steel operating tables. The anticipation is palpable.

  Welcome to Surgery 203: ANATOMY. The class where we all get to dissect our first cadavers. Considering where my mind is, the timing couldn’t be better.

  I spot Lynn and manage a weak smile. We’ve barely seen each other since Josh’s terrible accident. After snatching up my scrubs and some gloves, I join my girl. We kiss — just a peck. I barely say a word and she eyes me with concern. “Talk to me, babe, what’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

  I just shake my head and she nods, like she understands. She squeezes my hand and it’s a reminder that a gesture speaks louder than words sometimes.

  Our anatomy teacher, Dr. Wallace, is a surly fellow in his mid-forties with a receding head of graying hair. He addresses the room. “Our first lesson will deal with how to open the dermal layers and penetrate the muscles underneath.”

  He steps up to one of the bodies and pulls back the plastic shroud. His scalpel brushes against the dead man's neck. “You’ll make the initial incision, cutting from the jugular at the dip where the collarbone meets. Then down the sternum and along the lowest of the ribs...”

  I can’t do this, I think. Not today. Maybe not ever.

  Lynn studies me while Wallace drones on. She knows that I’m not really present. She leans into me and whispers into my ear, “Do you think he gets turned on by the sound of his own voice?”

  Despite my somber mood, I shoot her a mock admonishing glance. “Behave now. If he hears you, you can kiss that “A” goodbye.”

  “He better not mess with me. I'm a bitch with a scalpel.”

  My smile breaks through the dark thoughts weighing down on me. Lynn knows how to pull me out of myself. She’s been great through all this.

  On stage, Dr. Wallace is studying the class. A hushed, reverent silence hangs in the air and even I am affected. We’re all about to take a giant step forward on the path to becoming medical practitioners.

  I peer down at the surgical tools arrayed beside the body. The idea of sinking a blade into the flesh of another human — even a dead one — seems surreal to me now.

  “Alright, any further questions?”

  The classroom remains as silent as a chapel.

  “Good. Then let's begin.”

  Lynn nods at me. I know I can do this and fight back the urge to leave. Can’t chicken out on my first day... I give myself an internal push and pull the shroud back, revealing the corpse of a young man. Mercifully, his features are hidden by a white silk stocking designed to preserve the anonymity of the cadaver. I guess it makes it easier to pretend that the body we’re desecrating isn’t quite human.

  I’m both surprised and bothered by the youth of this dead man. He was still in his twenties when he died. We expect the elderly to die, but young people are supposed to live forever, aren’t we? The universe is sending me another reminder that this isn’t the case. I want to scream that I get it. Yes, we can check out at any moment, now back the fuck off and let me return to my comforting delusions.

  Lynn must sense my hesitation as she steps closer, scalpel in hand. “You think you're up for this?” she asks with growing concern.

  I try to make a joke of the whole affair, though my emotions are churning. “Ladies... I mean, bitches, first,“ I say.

  Lynn seems reassured by my attempt at humor. She leans over the corpse like the badass she is and makes the first incision. The skin splits, revealing the fatty tissue. I want to avert my gaze, but can’t. Just as when I found Josh, I’m hypnotized by the gruesome reminder that we’re all flesh and bone. No matter who you are, everyone ends up the same way — meat on a slab.

  Dr. Wallace appears behind us and surveys Lynn’s progress with a critical eye. He’s one of the few instructors who truly relishes his job. Despite Lynn’s teasing comments, we know Wallace is a born, consummate teacher. His passion for the subject is infectious.

  I meet his gaze. Dr. Wallace is picking up on my hesitation. He’s aware that this next step can be challenging for people. Slicing up a fellow human being doesn’t come naturally.

  I ask the question that’s been foremost on my mind ever since Lynn pulled back the dead man’s shroud.

  “How did he die...?”

  “Brain aneurysm,” Dr. Wallace explains in a neutral tone. “Quite unusual for someone his age.”

  More unusual than spontaneous combustion?

  I can’t stop looking at the body.

  I can’t stop thinking of Josh.

  ***

  We make love that night. It’s been weeks — our studies have pretty much destroyed our sex life — so our passion is fierce and filled with need. We’re not just two people having sex or even lovers making up for lost time. We’re celebrating being alive.

  Breaking our normal pattern, we climax at the same time. This seems to happen in movies but not so much in the real world. Tonight is one of those rare occasions where life imitates art. I lay still for an erotic beat before rolling off Lynn’s lean yet shapely body. I try to catch my breath and Lynn flashes me a big smile.

  “We keep this up, I'll start smoking again.”

  We share a grin. Our love feels as deep and real as our physical passion. Once again I wonder how I got so lucky to run into a gal like Lynn.

  “Wow, we haven't gone at it like that since our trip to Hawaii.”

  The vacation was before the start of the semester. Before the books took over our lives.

  “I bet everyone in our class is getting some tonight,“ Lynn says.

  “But no one is getting better.”

  Lynn grins and snuggles up to me. For a moment we just lie there, enjoying each ot
her’s warmth.

  “You know, we're lucky...” Lynn begins, then pauses, choked up with emotion. She was raised by a single mother. The poor woman never dated again after her divorce. Lynn knows firsthand that life doesn’t owe you a lasting love.

  She tries to downplay the deep feeling behind her words and continues, “I was thinking. Medical school is kicking our butts, we're both struggling to make ends meet...”

  I sense where this is headed.

  “And we spend practically every night together, anyway...”

  I complete the thought, but my voice shows no enthusiasm or excitement. “You want to move in together?”

  “It would do wonders for our party budget.”

  “It's a pretty big step, don't you think?”

  I feel like I’m listening to a stranger who just happens to sound like me. I love Lynn. So why am I not more excited about what she’s suggesting?

  A flicker of disappointment crosses Lynn's face and it breaks my heart. I just flunked a crucial test. It’s not the response she expected, but she’s a big girl and tries to play it off.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I brought it up — total chick move. You just lost your brother and here I am trying to complicate your life…”

  I cut her off with a kiss. Any further discussion of moving in together is swept aside by our renewed passion.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MILKY SUNLIGHT SEEPS into Lynn’s bedroom as I get dressed. My plan is simple — head to my brother’s place and snoop around. I want answers. Even though a week has passed, I can’t stop thinking that Josh was trying to tell me something before he died.

  Lynn is barely awake and I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Gotta run,” I say. She’s back asleep by the time I’m out the door. It’s cold outside but in a good, refreshing way that wakes me up and clears my head. I grab a cup of steaming Dunkin Donuts’ coffee and catch the subway to Forest Hills. My thoughts turn to the night before. What’s going on with me? Why is the idea of living with the woman I love freaking me out? I tell myself that seeing my brother dying in front of me might have something to do with my reluctance. Facing mortality makes me wonder what I really want from life.

  I’m twenty-four. Several of my friends have moved in with their significant others. Hell, a few have even gotten engaged or tied the knot. My hesitation when it comes to taking that next step isn’t a recent phenomenon. I know Lynn’s contemplated it before, but each time I avoided the issue. I’m not scared of relationships — heck, I’ve been in one for the last two years — but I do think I’m scared of a permanent relationship.

  The final relationship.

  Until death do us part, and all that jazz. I’m young and a part of me feels like I’m not quite ready to settle down. So if that’s the case, what am I doing wasting Lynn’s time? She’s ready and she needs me to be ready. I don’t want to break up with Lynn but I’m scared to move forward. Making that permanent commitment feels like a door slamming shut on a world full of possibilities. It’s stupid and immature, but whoever said the male brain was wired in any other way?

  A half hour later I reach Josh’s apartment building. A harsh wind whips the snow-laden trees. The building now projects a sinister energy. Somehow the whole edifice has been tainted by what happened within.

  Once again I let myself into my brother’s unit and survey my surroundings. As expected, the place is in disarray after the fire department and cops combed through the place. Furniture was shoved aside, chairs overturned.

  I move deeper into the living room. So far, so good. But this is the easy part. The hard part is stepping back into the bedroom where my brother died. There’s no getting around it.

  There, a scene of surreal devastation awaits. I take in the melted clump of steel that was once Josh's bed. Everything happened so fast when I was here last. My memories are dominated by flames, billowing smoke and the devastating realization that my brother was at the center of the inferno.

  This time I’m able to take a step back and observe my environment more carefully. A MacBook and reams of papers rest on Josh’s desk, untouched by the conflagration that day.

  I take note of a framed photograph of Josh and myself taken during a family camping trip in upstate New York. Our arms are slung around each other and we’re grinning ear to ear. Memories of better times.

  Next I home in on a pin-up calendar mounted above the desk. “THE GIRLS OF HOOTERS.” As I eye the pin-up girls in their bright orange short-shorts, something peculiar jumps out at me. The faces of the two Hooters girls on the page have been burned away. It’s almost as if someone stabbed out a cigar on the picture, erasing the models’ features.

  Strange.

  Curiosity piqued, I snatch the calendar from the wall and begin to flip through it. On every page I’m confronted with the same bizarre phenomenon. Every model’s face has been obliterated.

  I place the calendar back on the desk. One girl could be a coincidence, maybe a stray spark from the fire, but that doesn’t explain what I’m looking at. It lends weight to a dark suspicion that has taken root since my brother’s ruined vocal chords whispered Akasha’s name to me. Perhaps this wasn’t an accident. What if someone targeted my brother?

  If the fire department had found gasoline or some other incendiary device at the scene, this theory might hold water. But according to their investigators, there was nothing suspicious about the scene. They were treating it like a cut-and-dried case. A tragic accident.

  It doesn’t seem cut-and-dried to me.

  I’m about to leave the bedroom when I hear footsteps behind me. I freeze, realizing I’m not alone any longer. The new arrival speaks and I realize it’s Peter, Josh’s roommate.

  I turn toward Peter. He looks like a negative image of his former, chipper self. Unshaven, hair unkempt. I catch a whiff of B.O. He’s still grieving and dealing with what happened in his own way. Josh and Peter went to high school together and were always pretty tight.

  I lost a brother the other day.

  Peter lost his best friend.

  “I'm so sorry about Josh,” he says.

  I nod. Sometimes condolences can become an empty, if welcome formality, but clearly Peter’s words came straight from the heart.

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “I wish I knew. I don't even think the fire department knows.”

  Peter wraps his arms around himself and shuffles his feet. He shakes his head, as unable as I am to make sense of the horror that devastated his home. “I don’t get it. I mean, how many people lose two of their closest friends in fires on the same weekend.”

  The question lands like a punch and takes my breath away. “What are you talking about?”

  At first Peter holds my gaze blankly, almost as if he didn’t hear me. Then he waves me over and indicates that I should follow him.

  ***

  We sit in front of Peter’s open laptop and soon I’m watching a two-day-old newscast online. Blurry, low-res footage of a New York University resident building flashes onscreen. Half-dressed, shell-shocked kids shiver in the freezing night, surrounded by firefighters and cops.

  A photograph of a young man replaces the footage. I know this guy! He’s friends with Peter and my brother, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name right now. I think we met once at a NYU party, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

  The voice of a news anchor jogs my memory. “Tragedy struck NYU this morning when twenty-two-year-old grad student Steve Chebatoris was killed in a fire that broke out in his dorm room. Firefighters were able to contain the blaze before it spread to the rest of the building. Police are still investigating.”

  A part of me tries to convince myself that it must be a coincidence, but another part remains doubtful. I ask Peter the question that has haunted me for the last two days. “Any idea who Akasha is?”

  With trembling hands, he logs into Facebook.

  What is he doing?

  A moment later, I’m staring at Akash
a’s Facebook profile. Judging from her photos, she’s stunning and can’t be older than nineteen. Striking, yet aloof, like some runway model posing for a gothic perfume ad. Her expression is forlorn and wistful with only a hint of a smile. Her cover page is a winter shot of a forest, the bare branches weighed down by fresh snow.

  “Did Josh meet Akasha on Facebook?” I ask.

  “No, but the dating app Blaze interfaces with the site.”

  I shoot Peter a questioning look.

  “Josh was hooked on Internet dating. It was Steve who turned him on to the dating app Blaze.”

  I’ve never done any Internet dating, so I have no idea if this app is better than regular dating sites or just another nail in the coffin for Western civilization as we know it.

  Peter shows me the app on his phone and explains the basics. “Blaze uses pictures from your Facebook page. It’s a back-to-basics approach to dating. You don’t need some elaborate profile to get started. It pretty much comes down to animal attraction. If you find someone who strikes your fancy, you tap the heart icon. If she doesn’t do anything for you, you press the “X” and move on to the next potential prospect.”

  I study the app and conclude that it’s a digital meat market. Peter continues to lay out the basics of the app.

  “If the chick of your dreams likes you back, a messenger opens up on your phone and you’re off to the races.”

  How did the saying go? A picture is worth a thousand words. When it came to the mating game, that was certainly true. I swipe through photo after photo and begin to understand the addictive allure of the app. This is pure animal attraction filtered through the 640 by 960 at 326 ppi resolution of your smartphone.

  I locate Akasha’s profile and it features the same pic from Facebook. She is located within a 5-mile radius, the app informs me. In the “ABOUT ME” box it reads, “Creative, fun, a mystery – 51 % SAINT, 49 % SINNER.”

  Cute.

  My smile vanishes as I take in the next line.

  “LOVE BURNS YOU WHEN IT’s HOT.”