Ash and Bone

by Lisa von Biela

  Frank slowly raised his eyes and forced himself to look at Roger’s coffin, now resting in the ground. He hadn’t heard the priest’s ramblings. He didn’t care. There could be no comfort in them. Not unless they suddenly had the power to change the course of events. For Roger to have been somewhere else that day.

  The crowd began to disperse. Frank didn’t know anyone there except Roger’s widow and kids. Roger had a great many friends. No surprise there.

  Frank couldn’t take another minute of this scene. There were plenty of people to tend to Roger’s family. They didn’t need him. He glanced at his watch, and realized he needed to leave now if he was going to get home at a halfway decent hour. He turned and headed for his car.

  * * *

  Frank started his battered Escort and exited the cemetery as quickly as he dared without looking disrespectful. Once out on the road, he hightailed it as best he could in his piece of shit car.

  On an impulse, he decided to take the coast route north to get home, rather than I-5. The speed and efficiency of the interstate appealed to him, but his soul felt so empty he couldn’t stomach taking the superslab right now. Something about facing that featureless tarmac repelled him. Maybe if he took the coast, he could see some beauty in it, even though he’d just be passing through. He needed some sort of nourishment right now.

  About an hour into the drive, Frank decided he’d have been better off on I-5 after all. A heavy layer of clouds blocked the sun and lent a steel-gray tint to the ocean. Robbed of any soothing blue tones, the water looked foreboding, even toxic. Instead of lifting his spirits, the view only inspired thoughts of death and loss.

  Too late to reroute over to I-5 now. Frank sighed and pressed the accelerator down just a bit more. At least the crappy weather kept the beach traffic away. Maybe he could still make decent time and put this day out of its misery.

  With nothing to distract him, Frank couldn’t help but obsess about Roger as he drove. It was all so unfair and senseless. A guy like him, really a good guy with everything to live for, not one of those typical Hollywood assholes. He still couldn’t believe he was gone. That would take a lot of getting used to. He shook his head. He didn’t think he would ever, ever be able to come to terms with the how and the why of it.

  As if Roger’s death wasn’t depressing enough in and of itself, the funeral had gotten Frank to thinking about his own life—and just how inconsequential it had been. He had no major accomplishments he could point to with the slightest shred of pride. No family. Failed marriage. Shit job. What else? Nothing else. If the tables had been turned, and it had been him on the receiving end of that gunshot, who would have given a shit, aside from Roger?

  Not a damned soul.

  A pretty painful realization to have, especially at a time in his life when he should have been hitting his stride and accumulating achievements of some sort.

  And now he’d lost his best—and only—friend.

  The sun hung low now, and any hope of a beautiful sunset over the water had been destroyed by the thick clouds and now the fog rolling in. Frank realized he was only about two-thirds of the way home, tired, hungry, and disgusted with himself. He’d thought he could save money by driving and still make it home the same day as the funeral. Now he wasn’t so sure he was up to it, and cursed himself for not just taking I-5 and being done with it. That had probably made the difference. Another stupid decision.

  TWO DAYS AGO—NIGHTTIME

  Frank passed up the better-known, touristy coastal towns in his usual effort to stay somewhere on the cheap. Then he hit a stretch of nothingness—no apparent lodging to be had for any price. Just when he began to berate himself for yet another stupid decision, he spotted a grimy little town up ahead in his headlights.

  All he wanted was a place to stay—even if it was a dump—and a place to get some dinner. He could leave in the morning and get home in a couple more hours. Then he could try to put this whole trip behind him.

  A run-down residential area came up on his right as he entered the town. The houses, lit dimly or not at all, projected a brooding, unwelcoming presence. After several blocks, the residential zone gave way to some lit signage in what must pass for downtown. A dark little building with a neon sign proclaimed itself The Cannery. Looked like he could eat in this town, anyway.

  He glanced farther ahead and spotted another neon sign, this one for the Harbor Motel. Looked to be a little place with a few cars out front. It would have to do. He pulled into the lot and parked outside the office.

  Frank collected himself for a moment before getting out of the car. He’d been driving for what felt like days. He rubbed his eyes, smoothed his hair, then flexed his hands several times. His fingers felt lifeless after gripping the steering wheel for so long. No matter how much he wanted to make it home, he had to admit it was time to stop for the night.

  Once out of the car, he stretched his legs for a few moments to force some feeling back into them. His ass ached from sitting in that piece of shit driver’s seat. The springs had dug into him for the last however many miles. That car had never been terribly comfortable, and it hadn’t gotten any better with age. Combine that with a long drive, and he felt fortunate to not have sciatic pain shooting down his legs. Not yet, anyway.

  Frank checked the place out before approaching the office. The cars looked a little rough. Not like his was any prize, but he got the impression that the place catered to a nefarious clientele. Well, as long as they just minded their own business and let him be, he was all right with that.

  He dusted himself off and went into the office. No one manned the desk, so he rang the little bell on the counter. A loud barking started up from what he presumed to be the owner’s unit. Then he heard a woman shushing the dog.

  After a few moments, the woman came out to greet him. He suspected she might be younger than she looked. Her shirt failed to hide that she spilled out over her jeans a bit. Yet she looked strong and no-nonsense. Her face was weathered, like she’d spent time in harsh sunlight and not bothered with sunscreen and other such niceties. She wore her graying hair pulled back in a low ponytail. A large Boxer stayed close by her side and glared up at Frank.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yeah, I’d like a room for the night. One person. How much?”

  She gave him a quick once-over, then answered, “Forty, tax included.” Then she slid a form and a pen toward him. “Fill this out, too.”

  He handed her a credit card and began to fill out the form. “The Cannery over on the next block—is that a bar only, or can you get dinner there?”

  “They’re the only game in town. They’re a bar, and they do breakfast, lunch, dinner, whatever. Food’s pretty good. Best you’re going to get without driving a while longer, anyway.”

  “Good enough.” He traded her the form for his receipt and card.

  “Here’s your key. Last room on the end.”

  He pocketed the receipt and card and took the key. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He went out and moved his car to the spot in front of #8. Taking his overnight bag from the trunk, he congratulated himself on having that much forethought, despite planning to get home after the funeral. He locked up the car, opened the motel room door and stepped inside.

  He flicked on the light and scoped out the room. Not bad for forty bucks, especially these days. Basic, but in decent shape and clean enough. He tossed his bag on the bed for now. It seemed like hours—and probably was—since he’d last taken a bathroom break, so he took care of that. He pulled back the shower curtain to check out the tub. Looked all right, to his surprise. Cheap motel rooms usually featured tubs festooned with burn marks from unattended cigarettes.

  Frank decided that walking the block or so to The Cannery might clear his head and provide a little exercise. First, he made sure to lock his motel room door. The room may look okay, but he wasn’t so confident his fellow travelers were okay. He took a deep breath of the ocean air. It wasn
’t good. Smelled chemically and somewhat fishy, rather than fresh with a salty tang. He shrugged his shoulders. What did he want for forty bucks?

  It didn’t take long to arrive at The Cannery. He studied the exterior for a moment before going in. Its flagstone façade and darkly tinted front windows gave it an old-school look. The only light he could see was the glow of the neon beer signs. He opened the door and stepped back in time.

  The bar itself was made of rather ornately carved dark wood. Frank thought it would look much better if someone bothered to maintain it once in a while. It looked scarred and dusty, as if no one appreciated the work that had gone into its creation. A shame. A row of bar stools stood before it, the seats made of faded red Naugahyde. Most of them sported a rip or tear. Most of them also had a town denizen perched atop, nursing a drink.

  Various tables and booths, some occupied, took up the other side of the room. The place looked a little seedy, but it would probably do as long as he didn’t get some sort of food poisoning. In no mood to be social, and seeing the place wasn’t exactly packed, Frank chose a booth farther back and sat down.

  Plastic-coated menus stood in a little metal holder on the wall side of the booth. He took a dinner menu, grimacing at its greasy patina. He perused it briefly. Typical bar sort of menu. He wouldn’t have minded a nice steak, but figured this probably wasn’t the best place to get one of the quality he had in mind. He decided to opt for the fried shrimp instead. Given the location of this establishment, whatever he ordered was likely to have spent significant time in a freezer anyway.

  After what seemed like forever, a middle-aged woman with a bored expression shuffled over to him. He wondered where she had been hiding all this time, because he’d not seen her at all until now. “What’ll you have?”

  “The fried shrimp dinner, a cup of chowder, and a scotch. Neat.”

  “Sure.” She turned to go.

  Just as well. He wasn’t in the mood for chatting anyway.

  After several minutes, she returned bearing his chowder and drink, and a little basket of cracker packs. She set these all down in front of him without any sort of fanfare. “Dinner’ll be up soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  The chowder looked thick, anyway, not like that runny canned swill a lot of places served. He sprinkled some black pepper on it. Then he picked up his glass of scotch and gazed into it, admiring how it caught the light and sparkled a little despite the dull glass. He raised his drink, whispered, “To Roger,” then downed it in a single gulp.

  He caught the eye of the bartender and pointed at his empty glass. He didn’t have to drive. Might as well knock it back and wallow in the memory of his lost friend.

  * * *

  Frank stumbled slightly on the doormat in front of his motel room. After a couple of wobbly attempts, he managed to get his key into the lock and open the door.

  There was something to be said for being able to walk—nay, stagger—back to his room after a heavy fried dinner and a few belts of scotch. He switched on the light and stepped inside.

  The long, emotional day and the scotch convinced him to keep the bedtime rituals to a minimum. First he made quick work of brushing his teeth. Then he tossed his bag onto the floor beside the bed and stripped, dumping his clothes and underwear where they fell.

  With a groan, he flung himself into bed and switched off the light. For the first time since learning of Roger’s death, he allowed himself to relax, to unclench his muscles. The too-soft bed and pillow cradled him in surprising comfort. He lay in the dark, unfamiliar room, allowing the foreign surroundings to provide a kind of buffer from real life and the pain and horror of Roger’s death, at least for a while.

  * * *

  It began in absolute darkness, darkness so complete that it seemed like he was floating in a visual vacuum. His eyes strained to glimpse something, anything. Then he became aware of the heat, growing in intensity moment by moment. He could not tell where it came from, only that it was becoming nearly unbearable. With the heat came a reddish glow that chased away the darkness. The glow seemed to have no specific source; it came from all around. It grew brighter and took on a dangerous shade of orange.

  Then came the roar of uncontained flames. A terrible realization struck him. He was trapped somewhere, surrounded by flames. Just flames. No other source of light that he could see.

  Another sound seized his attention. Something beneath the roar, struggling to be heard. What was it? He strained to hear. He needed to know.

  Screaming? Who was screaming?

  Men! Men’s voices, screaming in abject terror. Where were they? He couldn’t see them. What was he supposed to do?

  He glanced around. Still nothing but flames, filling his vision from every angle. He didn’t know how to save himself, much less men he couldn’t see.

  Something moved at the corner of his eye. He turned toward it. A man approached, staggering. His shredded clothing revealed the charring beneath. Blood seeped and bubbled from between cracks in his flesh. Wild terror danced in his eyes.

  His mouth gaped open as if he were trying to speak.

  “What is it? What is happening?”

  The man’s mouth opened and shut as he fought to draw breathable air into his lungs. “Locked us in…he did it.”

  “Who?”

  The man fell forward onto the ground, the skin on his arms, legs, and back bursting, cracking, and seeping blood and serum. Lurid red light from the flames flickered and danced with the shadows.

  He leaned down to get a closer look, to see if there was anything to be done.

  The man raised his head ever so slightly as his strength and life trickled away. “Cromwell.” His head dropped to the ground. All motion ceased.

  He stood, puzzled. He could feel the intense heat. It frightened him and made him uncomfortable, yet it seemed powerless to harm him. He examined his clothes, the skin on his hands. No damage at all. How could that be?

  He began to walk in the direction from which the man had come. The flames gyrated mere feet away from him, but all he felt was the heat—no pain, no trouble breathing. He kept going, then reached a hand out and touched a flame. No pain, no burning. It emboldened him. He needed to figure out where he was, what was going on.

  He walked right through a flaming archway, into another room. The light from the flames revealed a ghastly sight.

  Men—thirty or forty of them—piled onto each other, more than likely dead or close to it. They were in front of what appeared to be a door.

  A door that would not open.

  He glanced around the room. Heavy equipment stood like metal dinosaurs amid the flames and shadows. He couldn’t tell what it was for, but it looked like some sort of plant or factory. Burning down, on its way to total destruction.

  He could not understand why he could walk around without harm. How did he get here, and shouldn’t he be getting out? But the door was blocked. He looked up. There were windows, but they were too high to reach, and they were barred, anyway.

  What kind of place was this?

  * * *

  Bathed in sweat and hyperventilating, Frank lurched to a sitting position in bed. His heart pounded so furiously in his chest, he feared he was having a heart attack.

  The darkness in the room felt palpable, like something trying to choke him or hold him captive. He quickly switched on the bedside light and the unfamiliar surroundings threw him into further panic until he remembered where he was and why.

  Frank remembered his dreams so rarely that he assumed he just didn’t dream. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a nightmare, let alone something so…real. So chilling. He couldn’t get it out of his head, and feared it would replay itself if he dared to shut his eyes.

  And the name in that dream seemed familiar. Cromwell. Why was that, he wondered.

  His mouth tasted like the bottom of the barrel that scotch had aged in. That and his pounding heart made him feel a little nauseated. He got up and went into the bathroom for
a glass of cold water.

  The water cleared away some of the nasty coating from inside his mouth, but his stomach still felt on the edge of mutiny. He leaned over and rested his hands on each side of the sink as he breathed deeply and tried to get his stomach to settle down by sheer force of will.

  After a few minutes, he started to feel somewhat better. He raised his head and gazed at himself in the mirror. His eyes were suitably bloodshot. His heart rate had finally returned to something approximating normality. He took a deep breath, almost recovered from the hideous nightmare.

  Then he remembered why Cromwell sounded familiar.

  It was the name of the town.

  EARLY THIS MORNING

  After falling back into a restless sleep for a while, Frank awoke to realize he’d left the nightstand lamp on all night. The light shot bolts of pain through his skull as he grudgingly opened his eyes to face the day, and was momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings.

  In a moment, it all came back to him—including the hideous nightmare that had jarred him awake in the night.

  He replayed it in his mind, every detail still as fresh as if he were dreaming it for the first time. The nightmare carried a strange heightened reality—remembering it was more than remembering a dream. It felt more like he was remembering something that had actually happened.

  Rubbing his arms, he looked around the room, half expecting to see something that didn’t belong there. Of course he was alone, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to shake, he didn’t feel like he was alone. He decided to check in with the motel’s owner after he showered up and made himself presentable.

  * * *

  Frank stood alone at the front desk for several minutes before ringing the little bell. He checked the office out while he prepared himself for what could only be an awkward conversation. The place was well maintained, but given the furnishings and general style of the building, it had been here a while. He worked out how he would start the conversation, then took a deep breath and tapped the desk bell.