Hitchers

by Will McIntosh

  “Hello?” I answered, my stomach clenching in anticipation. When your phone rings in the middle of the night it’s almost always bad news.

  “Finn?” It was a corpse-voice, sputtering my name like he’d just had a shot of Novocain at the dentist.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Dave. It’s Dave.”

  I turned on the light. “Where are you?” It was so good to hear his voice, awful as it was.

  “I’m homeless. What happened? I’m old.”

  The pain and confusion in his voice was unbearable. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you.” I slid one of my shoes on my bare foot.

  “Where’s Karen? I tried calling...”

  If my mind had been clearer, if I wasn’t so exhausted, I probably would have deflected the question. Instead I said, “She’s gone. I’m sorry, Dave. She’s gone.”

  “She’s dead?” I thought he was coughing—there was a deep, phlegmy rolling—then I realized he was crying.

  “She may have come back, though. Like you. Don’t give up hope.” I pulled my coat off the hook, shrugged it on. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming.”

  He was downtown in Pitman Park, in a phone booth, using change he’d begged. He was cold, and all alone. As I drove I tried to explain what was happening to him, to us, to Atlanta.

  Before I even got to Route 85 I was on the phone with the homeless man, who shouted at me, sounding just as confused. Somehow he was convinced this was all my fault.

  He promised to wait by the phone, but by the time I got there the receiver was dangling from its cord, swaying in the wind, and the man was nowhere in sight.

  Dave would be back, though. Next time he’d have a little longer, maybe enough that I could reach him. It was no surprise; Dave would not have gone gently into Deadland. We were on the right track. I felt even more certain now. If I found Annie in her apartment in Deadland I’d be absolutely certain. I’m not sure where we went from there, but it was a start.

  On the way home I made a call I’d been putting off, one I promised Lorena I’d make.

  “Hola,” Lorena’s sister answered.

  “Fatima, it’s Finn.”

  “Finn, hello!” she said, switching easily to English. “It’s good to hear your voice. Are you all right? Are you out of Atlanta?”

  “No, I’m still here.” Fatima and I hadn’t spoken since the funeral, though we’d exchanged a few emails.

  “Why? You have to run while you can. The dead...” She trailed off breathlessly, the dread pungent in her tone.

  “It wouldn’t help me to run. Unfortunately one of the dead is in me. My grandfather.”

  She gasped, horrified. “Oh no. Oh, Finn.”

  “But that’s not why I called, Fatima.” How could I say this? I struggled to find words. “It’s about Lorena.”

  Fatima went silent.

  “Are you still there? Fatima?”

  It was a long moment before she answered. “Yes.” There was so much dread in that one word; she must have suspected what I was going to say.

  “She’s back, Fatima. Lorena has come back.”

  Without seeing her face I had no idea how she made the sound she made. It was an ululating wail that tore my eardrum. “No. Don’t say that. I don’t hear you.”

  “She wants to speak to you—”

  “Oh, God. Help me, God.” She hung up.

  I closed my phone, dropped it on the passenger seat. I hadn’t been sure how Fatima would react, but I’d guessed it might go like that. The world was terrified. The dead were rising. It was Revelations, The Exorcist, the nightmares of our collective unconscious reaching out of the dark and grabbing our collective ankle. Fatima didn’t want to talk to her dead sister, because to her the emphasis went on dead, not sister.

  CHAPTER 29

  It would have made more sense for us to go over to Annie’s ahead of time and wait for Grandpa to show up so I could look for Annie, but Annie’s power was surely disconnected, and we decided we’d rather drag Grandpa over than wait in Annie’s cold apartment with no TV for who knew how long.

  When Grandpa did finally show, he went straight for Mick’s liquor cabinet.

  “Hello, Grandpa.” Mick was leaning against the counter, holding the bottle of Jack Daniel’s Grandpa was looking for.

  Grandpa turned, eyed the bottle, his hand still clutching the cabinet door. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You can forget it.”

  That was the problem with the dead witnessing everything that went on. You couldn’t surprise them.

  “Oh, come on, Grandpa,” Mick said. He sauntered over, offered him the bottle. “What’s the worst that could happen? We send your sorry arse back to hell. We’re all heading there sooner or later, eh?”

  Grandpa accepted the bottle, unscrewed the cap, lifted it in a mock toast. “Mickey boy, you can go there any time you want. Me, I’m staying put. Get Toy Shop straightened out, keep it going for another fifty years. By then no one will even remember who Snoopy was, and we’ll all be watching ‘A Toy Shop Christmas’ on TV.” He took a long swig, made a satisfied “Ahhhh,” then set the bottle down and turned toward the stove, patting my pockets. “In fact...” He pulled out the pad with the notes I’d been taking, turned on a burner and held it over the flame.

  Mick took a step toward the stove, saw it was already too late and stopped. “Lousy pyro,” Mick muttered as flames licked the edges of my note pad. Grandpa dropped it into the sink. He retrieved the whiskey bottle and took another pull.

  Mick turned to Summer. She’d been watching Being John Malkovich as a break from long sessions online and poring through books, making cracks about how polite and not-dead the intruders inside Malkovich were. “He’s not cooperating. A little help?”

  Summer got off the couch, pulled a length of thin rope out of her back pocket. “Why am I not surprised?” Mick’s arms came around from behind, pinning Grandpa’s arms to his sides. Grandpa shouted, tried to jerk free. They toppled, with Mick landing on top of Grandpa.

  Summer grappled to get hold of Grandpa’s wrists. “Hold him,” she said, fumbling with the rope. She straddled Grandpa’s legs as Grandpa twisted and bucked, cursing them as he tried to break free. I’m not a particularly large or strong person; I never would have guessed my body could put up such a fight. Still, there were two of them, and Summer was surprisingly scrappy for someone her size.

  They dragged Grandpa out to the Maserati. I decided to put off turning toward Deadland until we were actually in Annie’s apartment. I wanted to spend as little time there as possible. It astonished me that Krishnapuma had gone to Deadland dozens of times. Hundreds. He and I clearly had little in common.

  Summer told me that Krishnapuma had been tagged at age twelve to be the spiritual leader of some esoteric spiritual society in the early 1900s. An orphan, he was adopted by the founders and groomed to assume the role. When he turned twenty-one and was of age to lead, they held a huge convention. Two thousand members gathered to hear the words of their spiritual prodigy.

  He told them to disband.

  He said he had nothing to offer them, that they should go home and sit in silence in order to experience the numinous. They were wasting time with conferences and doctrine and hierarchy. He turned his back on fame, on the regard and approval of his followers.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough regard and approval. I was basking in the success of Toy Shop; I spent every free moment Googling my name to see how my latest strip was being received. It was mesmerizing, to be noticed, especially after spending so much time drifting, unable to catch a break. I’d tried so hard for so long to become a successful cartoonist, and now I was one. There was a bitter edge to it, though, because I was standing on Grandpa’s reluctant shoulders.

  My phone rang. Summer retrieved it from Grandpa’s pocket. It was Dave. Summer gave him Mick’s address, told him to meet us there in a few hours. She asked for the name of the guy Dave was inhabiting, just in case, but there was no ID in his
pockets. All Dave knew was that people on the streets called him Salamander. Dave asked Summer something before disconnecting.

  “Dave, I’m sorry. We haven’t heard from her yet,” was Summer’s answer. Then, “Yes, Finn checked with her family. I’m so sorry I don’t have better news. Don’t give up hope.”

  If Karen hadn’t surfaced by now, I doubted she would, unless she was in a situation similar to Dave’s and had no access to a phone. It didn’t make sense that she hadn’t come back. How was she different from Dave that she would be content to stay in Deadland?

  Maybe I was thinking too absolutely. In the world of the living so much relied on chance—a missed train, a coin flip, a freak storm. Maybe it was the same in Deadland. Maybe a million souls pushed to get through the rift that opened between the worlds, and some of them simply hadn’t made it through before it sealed up. Maybe Karen had still been alive when the rift opened, and died the next day. Hell, maybe people with certain blood types couldn’t come back. There were a million maybes. I started to doubt the point of this whole operation; did it prove anything if Annie was or wasn’t there? Still, what could we do but try to understand what was happening? There was nothing to be learned sitting on the couch.

  They whisked Grandpa into the lobby, then dragged him up two flights of stairs, with Mick panting and cursing his tobacco-clogged lungs with each step.

  If the population of Atlanta hadn’t been devastated by the anthrax attacks, Annie’s apartment probably would have been rented, and this operation would be much more complicated. As it was, Annie’s door was sitting open, and we were in business.

  The furniture, and many of Annie’s possessions, were still in place, including the huge abstract paintings she’d done herself, and her Pez collection.

  I couldn’t put it off any longer. I took a mental breath, sought that relaxed, dreamy, disembodied state, and willed myself to rotate.

  It was easier this time. So easy it unnerved me. Was it easier because each time Grandpa took over I was one step closer to taking up permanent residence in Deadland?

  I’d expected her to be there, but it was still a shock. She was lying curled on the couch, her lips pressed to her knee, her brown eyes distant, pupils huge. Wisps of her frizzy hair waved in the perpetual breeze.

  I choked up at the sight of her, alone in this place. I also felt sure now. The knife that had cut a passage from this world into ours was the longings, the desires, the dreams and ambitions of the dead.

  “Annie.” It was the first time I’d tried speaking in Deadland. It came out a raspy whisper, like dead leaves stirring in a fall breeze.

  Annie lifted her head. She didn’t seem surprised to hear my voice. “I was wondering.” Her features were softer, maybe because the wind had sanded them down.

  “Wondering what?”

  She closed her eyes. “If you died.”

  “No,” I said. “Just visiting.”

  This didn’t confuse her the way I thought it would, or maybe it just didn’t register. There were so many things I wanted to ask, but I only had a few minutes. We had another stop to make, and couldn’t be sure how long Grandpa would be in the driver’s seat.

  “A lot of the dead have come back,” I said. “Did you decide not to? Did you have a choice?”

  “Hm?” Annie asked. She sounded as if she’d dozed off and my voice had waked her. This was going to be difficult. She wasn’t as far gone as the man I’d seen sitting at the bar, but she was on her way.

  “Did you decide not to come back to the world of the living?”

  “I’m dead. It’s not so bad.”

  I decided to try another tack. “How do you feel?”

  I didn’t think she was going to answer, then her eyes seemed to focus for the first time. “The hum is gone.”

  “The hum?”

  “Gone.”

  Grandpa started to move, or, more likely, to be carried toward the door. Time was already up. “What’s the hum?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “But what is it?” It seemed important to understand what it was, if only because Annie was focused on it. She opened her mouth to answer and I stretched toward her. I didn’t want to miss what she said. I leaned, leaned...

  My head popped. All of the air went out of me. I felt myself fall like a dropped penny, hit the floor, circling and circling until I settled and was still.

  I’d never been so still. There was no sound except the whistle of the wind. And suddenly I could see my feet, my hands, the tip of my nose, as if I had a physical presence in this world.

  I’d fallen out of my body. There was no other explanation.

  “Gone,” Annie whispered.

  Now I remembered what the hum was. Annie once told me that she never felt completely at ease. There was always a hum, a sense that all was not well, a guilt driven by her own sense of inadequacy.

  My own hum was not gone. I felt very heavy, like a block of iron, but a very unhappy block of iron.

  “Annie, I fell out. I need to go back to the world of the living. How do I get back?”

  Slowly, Annie lifted her head. “I can see you. Hi.”

  “How do I get back? What do I do?”

  “You blow away.”

  “I don’t want to blow away.” I tried to stand, but I felt way too heavy, and I couldn’t get a sense of my legs. I tried turning. It was like trying to turn while encased in concrete.

  I tried wobbling from side to side, and found that I could rotate ever so slowly, as if the air was mud. Eventually I managed to face the door.

  It was closed. They were gone. They had no idea they’d left me behind.

  “Annie?”

  “Mm?”

  “Please. How do I get back into my body?”

  “You’re dead. No bodies. It’s fine.”

  I was dead. I would blow away now. I would never see Summer, or Mick, or Mom again. I’d never speak to Lorena again. Grandpa had won.

  A Hello Kitty Pez dispenser stared down at me from Annie’s book shelf, its plastic smile taunting, the color bleached away by the curtain that separated the living and the dead. Or maybe my eyes had been scrubbed of the ability to see colors. What need do the dead have of bright colors when their purpose is to let go of the physical world and blow away?

  I was about three feet from the door. If I could reach it, maybe I could open it and get into the hall and down the stairs.

  I wobbled again, and as I rotated I leaned. After a few minutes of this I could see that I was inching across the carpet toward the door.

  As strenuous as moving was, I didn’t feel fatigued, but it was hard to stay focused. I kept forgetting what I was trying to do, kept drifting off. To combat it, I pictured my friends. Mick. Summer. I tried to picture Lorena, but it didn’t work as well. Deadland was a part of her.

  After what seemed like hours I reached the door and tried the knob. My fingers stopped at the polished metal, but I couldn’t feel it, let alone turn it. Staring at that knob I thought of something Summer had told me. Krishnapuma had written that he sensed the things in the world of the dead were not really things, only reflections of things, or echoes of things that only existed because of the collective memory of the dead. He speculated that places where no people had died—remote stretches of ocean or desert—didn’t exist in this world. I could believe that.

  The door swung open.

  Startled, I cried out, raising my hands in supplication to whomever was passing through in the world of the living. I saw no one, but knew it had to be my friends.

  I felt a pull, like the head of a vacuum cleaner passing close by. I leaned into it, reaching, felt the suction. I was lifted off the carpet, but I couldn’t gain enough traction and I dropped back down with a plop. Frantic, I splayed my fingers and stretched until it felt like I was a foot taller.

  My last chance; I knew they wouldn’t come back again.

  I caught a cone of suction, felt myself twist and spin as I was drawn up. And then... pop.
/>   The heaviness was gone, the sense of floating returned. I was back in my body. Struggling to stay calm I rotated back toward the front of my head until color and life flooded back into my field of vision.

  “No, no, lassies first.” Grandpa was saying as he extended a hand, waving Summer toward the bathroom. “But try not to steal anything while you’re in there.”

  “Shut up, you prick,” Mick interjected.

  Summer glared at Grandpa. “If you were in your own body I’d break your neck.” From the first syllable I knew it was Lorena.

  “My own body is rotting in a grave,” Grandpa said. “So is yours.” He cupped his hands to his chest, forming imaginary breasts. “You won’t have these to help you this time around.” He spit on the carpet at her feet. “I knew it was your idea to steal my strip. You can’t trust a spic.”

  Mick swung an arm around Grandpa’s neck and put him in a headlock. He pulled us down the hallway. “Take your piss before I gag you.” Grandpa struggled to break free, but Mick twisted his neck. My view spun crazily. “If you weren’t wearing Finn’s pants I’d leave you to piss in them.” He shoved Grandpa into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Grandpa struggled to unzip my jeans with his quavering hands, then relieved himself with a grunt and an urgent stream.

  They’d come back because Grandpa had to pee. I was alive because of Jack Daniel’s.

  Grandpa glanced at my watch. “It’s only a matter of time, laddie. More me and less you every day. Only a matter of time.” The croak in his voice was getting even less pronounced, and he now fell at the midpoint between a beast from hell and someone with a bad cold. He broke into a mutter of Irish music, a snappy “Dum de diddle dum dum” as he zipped my fly. “Need to put on some real pants,” he muttered as he opened the door.

  Mick was waiting at the door with the rope.

  Grandpa eyed it. “You think you can get that on me when I’m ready for you, eh?”

  Mick lunged for Grandpa’s wrist. As if in slow motion I watched Grandpa lift my clenched fist and punch Mick in the eye. Mick slammed into the wall, dropped to his hands and knees.