by Alan Spencer
He decided to check out the abandoned farmhouse. Mark kicked down a rotten plank of wood that held up a section of barbed wire. Stamping it to the ground, he crossing over and walked through overgrown grass. Out of energy to race through the open field to the other side, he walked the distance through hip-high weeds and growths mixed with dandelions, cattails, and hybrid weeds.
Crossing the fields so long spanning, it took him twenty minutes to reach the other side, Mark walked beyond the farmhouse and advanced into more open field. He knew he'd eventually come upon Elizabeth's old house. The residential area of Meadow Woods.
He should be at that house by now, he thought, after treading the distance to get there. Where it was supposed to be, Elizabeth's house wasn't there. The location was overrun by grass and weed shoots. As if the damn house had never existed. Next to it was the Bloomingford house, and beside that, the Gwinn household, and so on. Confused, Mark treaded deeper into the residential area of Meadow Woods. Strange how random houses were missing. No obvious reason. The neighborhood was full of empty spots.
Mark was alone standing there, hearing nothing except the breeze through the trees.
Why did Cassie and Peyton bring him here?
"Is that you, Mark Tripdick? Boy, what are you doing all the way out here alone?"
Mark turned around at the older woman's voice. He didn't mean to glare so rudely at her. Looking harder, seeing that frock of curly white hair, slightly blued in the sun's reflection, and the way she kept blinking her eyes—she had a nervous tick—instantly put a name to her face.
Mrs. Parks.
Mark's first grade teacher.
There was something different about her now. Better. She had to be in her seventies, considering she was already old when he was her student at Meadow Woods Elementary. The woman who taught him how to add and subtract and to color within the lines had the skin of a forty year old. Her white hair was silky smooth, shimmering with health. She was tighter around the midsection, as if someone had cinched her fat away and left a flat washboard stomach behind. Her liver spots and blemishes and receding hairline were all a thing of the past.
Mark finally spoke as she stood there with her hands together in front of her as if holding an invisible basketball, her teacher pose.
"To be honest, I don't know why I'm here."
"You're here for a reason, Mark. We wanted you here with us. Your days will only be happy here."
Again with the circular talk. What the hell is up with these people?
Mark pointed at the missing houses. "Where is the Lasker house? You remember Elizabeth Lasker? And Susan Lasker, her mother? There's like two dozen other houses missing. Were they bulldozed?"
Mrs. Parks cupped her ears to block out his queries. "There are no houses missing. No Laskers ever lived here. Now I must be going."
She almost tripped over herself. His old teacher darted back into her house. She slammed the door shut behind her.
Mark threw up his hands in resignation. "Wow. Just, wow. Is everybody here mental?"
"You're mentioning things that bring back unpleasant memories."
The voice came from the one-story green and red house beside Mrs. Parks' house. It was Adam Hildebrandt. He was the local sheriff, off-duty by appearance, standing there in his plain t-shirt and pants. He was enjoying a bottle of beer and was about to enter his garage to work on his souped up Pontiac Firebird. The man's hobby.
"Some people don't like to be reminded of what once was. We've gone to great lengths to forget the past. Don't take it personal, Mark."
The sheriff had a second beer in his hands. The sheriff walked over to him and offered him the beer. Mark had no problem accepting the friendly token. Mark could use a drink.
"It's death we choose not to discuss," the sheriff said. "You being here in your condition brings back enough memories for a lot of these folks. It's like re-living a nightmare. One that hits too close to home."
Mark sipped the ice cold beer and relished its flavor. The hops didn't keep his mind off the situation. "I have a feeling I could ask you all the questions on my mind about what you just said, and you couldn't tell me a single thing."
Sheriff Hildebrandt enjoyed another swig. "It's not that I couldn't tell you, it's that you wouldn't understand. Not until you've committed yourself, will you reap the benefits."
Mark rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, I'll play on your terms. This is your game, and I'm only playing it without being told the rules. Peyton and Cassie have acted the same way towards me. They brought me here for a reason. Why should I care either way? My life's going down the shithole no matter what, and it's about to be flushed one final time. Might as well go out on a wild note." He didn't mean to sound so snide, but he was impatient. "That's a metaphor for my death, by the way."
"I understand your feelings, believe me, I do. We want you to relax, Mark. Enjoy your time here. Get in touch with old friends. Live a little. We've got a week before we have to make a final decision about you. Be on your best behavior, but when I say that, I mean be yourself. Kick back, okay? Seriously. Nobody's here to do you any harm."
Mark, hearing this, decided to let go. Let these people give him an earful of garbage. He's here, he wasn't going anywhere, and if he did go somewhere, he'd be on the road again alone, and he'd had enough of that. Dying was a big enough burden, why do it alone?
Mark chugged the beer and shook the empty in his hand. "I'd start by drinking more of these babies. We didn't have Lark's Beer in Ohio. I always loved this local brand the best."
"I can drive you in my firebird into town where there's plenty more of that to drink. I finally fixed the stubborn girl. I was going to wax it in the driveway. But that can wait."
"I'm short on cash," Mark admitted. "I don't think I even have my wallet. I lost it after the wreck, or I left it at the hospital. I just now realized it."
"Money is no object here. You won't need your wallet ever again." Sheriff Hildebrandt gave him that trademark smile, a cop happy to do his service for his fellow citizens. His teeth didn't have a gap in them anymore. And his hair was a lustrous brown, combed into a left part. No gray, even though the man was in his sixties. There was a lively glow to him too. "Money hasn't been an issue for over a year now. It never will be again."
What was Mark going to say to that?
"Sure thing, Sheriff."
"Let me change into some decent clothes, and I'll meet you out here." Before he re-entered his house, the sheriff added, "It's really good to see you, Mark."
Mark waited in the driveway, looking on at the houses and scrutinizing the missing residences between the ones that were still there, until the sheriff came back outside ready to drive him into town.
The Pontiac Firebird coasted the back roads at a stealthy eighty-nine miles an hour. The sheriff was a roadster, jolting through the winding turns, the sheriff commanding the vehicle like a pro. He spun the wheel with complete abandon to their safety. The odometer kept rising. They were about to reach ninety-five miles an hour. The park with two baseball diamonds and a soccer field came and went in two seconds. Mirror Lake, the wide-spanning natural wonder full of carp, blue gill, and rainbow trout was left in their wake in ten seconds. They belted across the wooden bridge to get to the other side of town. Then through the ten miles of back roads, the Firebird shot through what was left of their trip in a fraction of the time.
The sheriff chuckled, seeing Mark about to piss himself. "This thing's an ass-kicker ain't she? YEE-HAAAAAAAAAH!"
The sheriff slowed down seeing Mark's expression. "There's no danger here, Mark. I can drive as fast as I want. Nothing bad can happen."
Meadow Woods appeared out of nowhere as if it were nature's best kept secret. The wooden steeple came first, what was hand-built by members of the community over fifty years ago. Then Meadow Woods Elementary School, and across from that, separated by an open field, was the junior high and high school buildings. The community center and dog park were side-by-side, the dog park a plac
e where joggers ran around a gravel mile-long circle. Farther off was the Meadow Woods Mall. A fun courtyard was in the middle of the mall where local vendors sold crafts. The Howard Milton Library came next, then city hall, the police station, and the post office. Farther off, cast off from the heart of the community, was a salvage junkyard, then the used car lot, and further up north, the only liquor store in town. Farther still was an animal clinic and a four movie theatre called "The Galaxy 4".
What caught Mark's eye was the red barn establishment designed as a bar and grill he'd never seen before called "Flynn's BBQ Meats". In the parking lot, a grill the size of a truck bed kicked out smoke harboring the scents of hamburgers, hotdogs, bratwursts, ribs, and chicken. The man at the helm was Chuck Flynn who they called "Brick" because he was built like a brick shit house. Chuck's face was as chubby as a baby's, though the black wiry beard that extended to his chest and his black hair put in a ponytail demurred that childish appearance. Throngs of people were in the parking lot eating the food at picnic tables covered in checkered tablecloths.
"Chucky is a master of the grill," the sheriff boasted, parking in the street jam-packed with cars. "I shit you not, this is the best meat you'll ever taste. It'll make you slap your wife in the face, it's that good. Come on, try some."
"Like I said, I'm short on cash."
"It doesn't cost money." The sheriff pointed at the plastic Igloo coolers spread out in the parking lot. There were at least thirty. "Those are each full of beer. Free beer. Money is no object here, Mark. Believe me. It's the sheriff telling you this. Of all people to trust, you should trust me. I'm the law."
Mark looked on at the crowd of people. He noticed Mrs. Park eating voraciously from a mincemeat pie, literally using two forks to cram more into her mouth. Mark took in other faces, friends from decades ago. They each had that certain glow about them. A liveliness that seemed unreal. These people were beaming. Everything about them seemed computer animated. Jilted to the point they didn't hit the eye as natural.
The need to get away from these people, to have a moment to himself, suddenly overtook his impulses. Something wasn't right, and Mark didn't want to be a part of the wrong. Mark took off away from the crowd of feasting people. The sheriff called out to him, but the man didn't make chase. Mark ignored him and kept on running.
Mark was out of breath after a quarter of a mile. Winded to the point of near collapse. He rested at a park table, pressing his head against the wood surface. His abdomen was hurting again. The cancer pain. He was crying now. The situation was happening whether he wanted to except it or not.
Just walk away.
You know the way out of town.
Just walk right out of here.
The road near his position would steer him right out of Meadow Woods. It would be so easy to leave.
He thought back to Mrs. Parks. She should've been in her nineties. She should've been a decrepit woman, not a healthy person three decades younger than her actual years. Everything happening in Meadow Woods went against logic.
He couldn't stay here.
Things were too weird.
Mark walked the long road out of town.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mark cleared several miles on foot and hadn't encountered a soul. On the road up ahead, a turn led to a stretch of area he recognized, though it was different now. The iron gates of Peace Gate Cemetery were missing. He could walk right in. Stranger still, what he saw next made him think he was mistaken. The problem, the cemetery wasn't there anymore. The grass was yellowed where the headstones used to be. The headstones were gone. If he dug into the earth, would he happen upon coffins? Or were they too absent? If so, where the hell were the bodies? Mark walked the dead grass, trying to understand it. Now he had plenty of reason to get the hell out of Meadow Woods even faster.
This place was wrong.
Another hour of walking alone, Mark was near the county line. This is where Meadow Woods ended. Ten steps, and he'd be out of there. Where to next, he had no clue. Find the nearest hotel, make some phone calls, wire himself some cash, obtain a vehicle, and continue his journey of self-reflection and do his best to forget about his cancer until he absolutely couldn't anymore. Ignore his body's plight. Meet new people, have good times, and when he died, he died, just like his father. Mark considered it a ridiculous thing for a grown man to do, just up and leave his life behind to walk the country. Now being in the man's shoes, Mark didn't consider his old man so crazy. He was brilliant. But his old man didn't try to fight his way through a situation like this, what was happening in Meadow Woods.
Three steps from crossing the county line, Mark was thrown from the outer edge of the road. Lifted by a blast of soundless air. Mark cried out in shock before he landed hard on his legs and elbows. Still moving against his will, he was dragged into the woods, forced behind a tree, and a hand was pressed up against his mouth.
The whisper was sharp. "You shouldn't leave, Mark. Thank God I caught you in time. Now I want you to look. See what almost happened to you."
Peyton's words.
Mark's headache was bad earlier. Now it flared into a new mutation. He blinked out the double vision from his eyes and managed to scout the road for what his old friend was talking about. What had almost happened to him?
Peyton, "He's coming. Do you see him just up ahead?"
Mark nodded. He did see him. The man walking down the road.
"That's Richie Olsen. He came here like you did, Mark. A pair of friends brought him here today to Meadow Woods. Richie caught you running away, and he followed you, because he was scared too. So he's leaving. But watch. Don't blink." With a growl, "Watch him."
Richie was as tall and lanky as he was in high school. He played center on the basketball team. Richie was popular with the girls. If gossip would have it, he had slept with over six girls before his senior year. He was the guy who lived the joke about fingering a girl on the cheerleading squad and school rings falling out of her pussy. That confident, athletic, charming and handsome man was distraught as if horrible things were chasing him, even though the road was empty, save for Peyton and Mark hiding in the woods.
"Watch closely as he crosses the county line."
Petyon's arms were clenched over Mark in a reverse bear hug.
Mark wasn't going anywhere.
It happened in three seconds. The pop of a cannon. The ball of thick blue smoke was near blinding. The yip of shock cut short, "Yaa—!" Then Richie was gone. Mark couldn't make sense of it. He kept trying. Couldn't.
"Promise me you won't run. I have something I want you to see. But you can't go over there and look. It's too dangerous." Peyton was speaking in a normal tone without the meanness. He handed Mark a pair of bird watching binoculars. "Look at the gutter beside the spot Richie vanished. You'll see what you need to see. Look through the smoke."
Mark didn't run, knowing he would be tackled instantly, or worse. After witnessing Richie turn into a ball of smoke and vanish, Mark was afraid to move an inch in any direction. Staring through the binoculars, he viewed the patch by the road, the shoulder, right where that blue smoke was issuing in heavy lines. Looking into the dip of the road, Mark caught a set of red gnarly human bones. Blood was sizzling off exposed muscle tissue. Richie's skin was gone, as if it had evaporated.
That wasn't all. Richie was a body among many sets of bones. Maybe hundreds of dead people were strewn on top of each other in that gutter. Each were partially blackened. Burned up. Wilting in the sun. Drained of juices and life. Raisin carcasses.
"Just—just what in hell is this?"
Mark faced Peyton down. "If you don't give me some straight answers, I'm going to beat the living shit out of you. This is seriously scaring me. Tell me why I shouldn't be scared. Why are you forcing me to stay here?"
Peyton delivered a left hook to his jaw. Knocked off balance, Mark clumsily hit the ground. Without much energy left in him, so weak from the long walk, and his sickness, Mark let Peyton carry him like a wounded
solider over his shoulder back to the man's truck parked in the woods half a block from their position. Laying him out in the back seat, all Peyton said was, "In due time, you'll understand. Once you've committed."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mark was sitting on a lawn chair eating from a plate of two barbeque brisket sandwiches, compliments of master griller Chuck Flynn. The slogan on the banner over the entire scene outside the Chuck's big shed restaurant read: "The Midwest Region's #1 BBQ'ER!" It was good meat. Not only good, it was damn good. Eating each sandwich, Mark temporarily forgot about Peyton punching him in the face and dragging him back into town. The festivities at the restaurant were winding down. Most of the people in town were somewhere else. Chuck was cleaning out his grill, while other people were wiping down the tables and sweeping the ground of trash. Mark kept eating. Each bite was more exquisite than the next. He asked for a bratwurst and two hotdogs to wash down the sandwiches, and it wasn't until Peyton stood between him and Chuck's leftover station that he quit eating. It was that good.
"You're going to burst," Peyton laughed. "When I first had Chuck's meats, I almost ruptured my stomach. Swear to God something was going to tear inside me."
Without food or a distraction from his aching face, Mark's anger returned. "If you want me to be your friend, you better give me some straight answers about everything, and fast. Especially after kicking my ass back there."
Mark re-imagined Richie's bones sizzling and smoking in the gutter. Richie's bone mouth was half-open, unhinged in a forever scream.
That could've been him.
Almost was him.
Peyton, "I'll take you on a drive and tell you what I can. Sorry I did what I did. I did it so you wouldn't cross the county line. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry, man. I was under pressure to save you."
