Keepers

by Gary A Braunbeck

  Since the spring of 1957, those five acres of county-owned land had been the focus of several official investigations (conducted by everyone from the State Department of Health to Federal Haz-Mat teams), and for good reason: twice a year, for a period lasting about three weeks, every bird that flew over the area dropped from the sky, dead before it hit the ground. The soil had been tested countless times for contaminants, as had the air, the small creek that ran through the plat, and even the other forms of wildlife that inhabited the woods surrounding it. Nothing was infected, and only birds were dying. In every case, their hearts exploded. No tests, no dissections, no theories were able to explain why this happened. There weren’t even good legends from ancient Hopewell Indian mythology to shed any light on the cause. It was simply what it was: a huge and eerie question mark.

  Carson nudged me with his elbow and showed me the next page: there we were, on the other side of the rise, on foot, walking toward the body of a dead hawk whose right eye took up a full half of the panel, while Carson and I were little more than minute, hazy ghosts in the background.

  “Carson, I need you to be honest with me, all right? It’s really important that you understand that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is this some kind of a joke? I know from your supervisors that you have drawing talent. Are you drawing those pages in when I’m not looking?”

  “Oh, no! No. I ain’t very good at drawing. Sure can’t draw like this.”

  “Swear?”

  “Swear.”

  I looked at the comic book in his hand and nodded my head. “Well, then; let’s go see what Long-Lost has in mind for us.”

  We climbed up the rise, Carson taking care not to step on the bodies of the pigeons.

  The sight below made my breath catch in my throat.

  Scattered across the field were hundreds of dead birds; purple grackles and blackbirds, flickers, brown thrashers, loggerhead shrikes, bohemian waxwings, multi-colored kestrels, kingfishers, starlings, bluegrays, and a magnificent marsh hawk. I had no idea how any of these birds had died; there were no broken necks, no gunshot wounds, no animal bites. Only their eyes held a clue.

  Every set was a deep, disturbing red.

  There were not only the bodies of birds, but bones, as well. Neither Carson nor myself could walk more than a few paces without hearing the tiny crunch and snap of birds’ bones under our shoes. Carson looked once again at his comic, then unzipped a pocket of his knapsack, moved its contents to the pockets of his coat, and began gathering up as many bones as he could stuff in there.

  “Carson, you can’t be—”

  “I gotta,” he replied, thrusting the comic into my hand.

  In the new set of panels (Jesus H. Christ, how was he doing this so quickly?), Carson was moving through the field, gathering up bones. In the final panel on the page an old barn suddenly entered the picture, albeit far in the background.

  I looked up, and there it was; deserted, neglected, falling only slightly to decay.

  “Carson, stop, we’re going home.” I was now seriously creeped out. Unless the fantasy before me is up on a movie or television screen I really have no use for it, nor it for me.

  “I can’t!” Carson yelled back at me. “Long-Lost says I gotta.”

  “Long-Lost is not driving the car, and Long-Lost sure as hell isn’t the one taking care of you, so Long-Lost can go fuck himself!” Even I was shocked to hear that word come out of my mouth, which should have given me some indication of how panicked I was becoming, but at that moment I was too caught up in wanting to get the hell away from there so I could start denying any of this had happened to care about my language.

  Carson whirled around and pleaded. “Please, UncGil? I just gotta do this.”

  “I said no.”

  Now he glared at me. For a few moments we stood there like two half-assed cowboys in some showdown from a Sergio Leone Western epic, then I stormed across to Carson and grabbed his arm, which was stupid, because my nephew, though not very tall, is nonetheless a beefy and very compact man, one whose physical strength is easy to overlook.

  He jerked away and I made to grab him again, but this time he was ready and met my movements with a swinging elbow that caught me in the center of the chest, knocking the wind and about three years of life out of me. I dropped to my knees and began to fall forward, stopping myself with my hands. I stayed that way for several moments, my vision blurry and lungs screaming for air. I looked down at the soil under my hands. I remember thinking how very much like clay the soil felt. I wondered if I could possibly dig up several handfuls and fashion them into clay crutches, because there was no way in hell I was going to able to get up under my own power.

  Carson helped me up. He was crying. He hugged me tight, saying, “I’m sorry, UncGil, I’m sorry, I love you, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!”

  “It’s … it’s okay … okay, Carson. Come on, let’s … whew! … let’s get back to the car so I can sit down, all right?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  Ten years and several rest stops later we were finally back in the car. I leaned against the seat and waited for my chest to stop hurting. I’m still waiting, but eventually I was able to rally, turn the car around, and drive out. We had to wait to turn off Arboretum Road because the traffic was starting to get heavy. On my third attempt we were almost broadsided by the #48 express bus that ran between Cedar Hill, Buckeye Lake, and Columbus, but managed to get back on the road in one piece.

  Carson looked behind us.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “What bus was that?”

  “The number forty-eight express. Why?”

  He shrugged—a bit too nonchalantly, but that didn’t really register at the time. “I dunno.”

  Back home that night there was no comic book reading. Carson demanded that I sit on the couch and watch TV and relax, he’d take care of me. I kept telling him that I was feeling much better, everything was okay—just make sure he never hit me again—but he wouldn’t hear of it. He was going to take care of me, even make dinner.

  Dinner turned out to be grilled cheese sandwiches, underdone on one side, overdone on the other, but seeing how proud he was of his accomplishment, I ate two and told him they were the best grilled cheeses I’d ever had. The truth was, they were. His company did a lot to enhance their taste.

  The rest of our week together was more subdued than usual. Except for a trip to a comic book store to see if they had the new Spider-Man (I knew damn well he was looking for a new Modoc, but didn’t say anything), nothing happened to remind me of the events at the truck stop and Audubon’s Graveyard. I am very good at denial.

  I took Carson back to the group home the following Monday. He gave me a long, hard hug on the front steps before going back inside. I stood staring at the door after it closed behind him. The empty space where he’d stood a few moments before seemed to hum with his absence.

  The next few weeks kept me very busy preparing for the opening of the Columbus store. Cheryl, the other employees, and I spent many long hours cataloging the inventory, moving displays, changing the locations of various areas (“I really think the prints should be over here …,” “Maybe the movies should be closer to the middle of the store than right up front …,” “Is there any way to have the CDs closer to the posters … ?”), and generally making ourselves crazy.

  The store opened. It was a big hit. I drove Cheryl home from the store one afternoon. We saw an old man chase his hat across the highway. Two black dogs watched everything. I came home to find a dying dog on my lawn. A woman whom I thought to be dead for the past twenty years sent me a package full of memories. And Carson disappeared from the group home.

  A day in the life.

  (Leaving a few things out there, aren’t you, pal?)

  Shut. Up.

  EIGHT

  By the time I arrived at the group home, NPR was reporting that seventeen w
hales had beached themselves along the Maine coastline, and the local newsbreak reported that a group of hikers had seen what was described as a “dragon” near a wooded area at Buckeye Lake.

  Okay, it wasn’t an elephant at the Twenty-first Street exit, but it was still funny. I’d have to make sure to tell Carson. After I finished being angry. And scared.

  Suddenly so scared.

  Cindy, one of the certified habilitation specialists who stayed at the group home, was waiting for me.

  The neighborhood was amazingly quiet; no birds sang, no dogs barked, no cats yowled.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” Cindy said as I joined her on the porch. “He complained about having a headache right after lunch and asked to be excused from afternoon workshop duties today. I sent him up to his room so he could lie down. I went up to give him your message after you called and—well, come on in, you can see for yourself.”

  We went up to Carson’s room. Cindy showed me how he’d tied his bedsheets together and used them to shimmy down from his window onto the roof of the back porch. From there it was simple to grab one of the thick branches of the tree beside the house and climb down to the ground. I shook my head at the sight. Carson might have Down’s syndrome but it didn’t exclude him from possessing the same adventurous—sometimes even devious—imagination of a typical nine-year-old boy.

  “I found this on his pillow.” Cindy offered me a folded slip of paper. I opened the note and read it, then became dizzy.

  Carson’s spelling needed work, but the meaning was clear enough:

  Longlost sayz the keeperz are comeing n he kneedz to talk to yoo.

  Leaning on the windowsill and blinking the dizziness away, I saw a hand-sized cluster of what looked like small sticks lying near the roof gutter. If Cindy noticed them she gave no indication. But I knew damned well what they meant.

  “I might have an idea where to find him.”

  Cindy rubbed her eyes, her shoulders slumping in relief. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

  “Have you called anyone else?”

  She shook her head. “Only the sheriff. It’s standard procedure when one of the residents wanders off—not that it happens all that much but—”

  I raised a hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to defend yourself to me, okay? I’m not upset and I won’t lodge any complaints with the AARC board.” My guess was she needed to hear that. The Association for the Advancement of Retarded Citizens sponsored this group home, which at any given time was staffed by two specialists and three trained volunteers, all of whom were expected to keep precise tabs on twelve residents. I couldn’t blame them. No one can be expected to keep track of twelve developmentally disabled human beings—ranging in age from thirteen to sixty—every second of every minute of every day.

  I turned back and examined Carson’s room, which he shared with two other male residents.

  “He took his comic books.”

  Cindy looked over at the bookshelf that hung over the head of Carson’s bed. “I didn’t notice that before.” This said in the same tone of voice usually reserved for phrases such as “So what?”

  “No reason you should have.” I glanced out the window once again at the cluster of sticks and saw the head of a black mastiff duck down from behind a hedge across the street.

  I gave my own head a little shake.

  No. No way.

  I forced a smile onto my face and turned toward Cindy, then squeezed her shoulder in what must have seemed like a condescending gesture and said, “I’ll call you in about an hour or so and let you know if I found him.”

  “If you think you know where he is, then we should let the sheriff—”

  “No. If he’s where I think he is, the sheriff’d never find him. Give me ninety minutes. There’s no use bothering the sheriff if it turns out I’m wrong.”

  Driving away, I hoped that Cindy wouldn’t notice the little cluster on the roof. The significance of the comic books was known only to Carson and myself, no problem there, but the bones on the roof might set some Gothic bells ringing.

  I knew where he was. What I didn’t know was why.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the black mastiffs following me.

  Whenever I slowed, they slowed.

  One of them darted across the road into the path of an oncoming car that slammed on its brakes and laid on its horn.

  Jesus.

  I wasn’t imagining them.

  I looked in the rearview mirror again and saw one of the mastiffs running toward me, its teeth bared, foamy spit jetting from its mouth. At the last moment it spun around, claws scraping the asphalt with such power they sliced grooves into the surface, and then it took off at an even faster run toward the car that had nearly hit it a moment ago, legs pumping, muscles rippling, foam spraying, howling and snarling as it pushed forward on its hind legs and leaped into the air, landing on the hood of the car and hurtling its mass through the windshield.

  I threw open my door and jumped out. In the distance, the driver was thrashing and screaming as the mastiff closed its jaws on his face. A slash of blood cut across the inside of the car, then another, then another, but still the man fought against his attacker.

  The second mastiff ran to the car, repeatedly slamming its head against the driver’s-side door, fracturing the steel. Then it rose up on its hind legs and began clawing at the window and handle.

  Jesus Christ, it’s trying to open the door.

  It was a crazy thought, I knew it was a crazy thought, but it was enough to force me into action: I pushed my arm into my car and pulled the trunk release, then ran back and grabbed the crowbar beneath the spare tire, spun around, and ran toward the dogs.

  The second mastiff was smashing its head against the side window now, having all but demolished the lower portion of the door, its claws tearing at the handle. And as I came closer I saw—I saw—the dog manipulate the digits of its paw to press down the release and wrench open the door.

  Dogs cannot cannot CANNOT do that. They can’t.

  The first mastiff released its grip on the driver’s face and the man fell to the side, his bloodied arm flopping toward the ground where the second mastiff sank his teeth into the wrist and began heaving backward, pulling the driver from inside.

  Gripping the crowbar in both hands, I pulled back my arms and pitched forward with all my weight, swinging down and connecting with the center of the second mastiff’s skull. There was a hard crack! when the business end of the crowbar hit home, sending an iron wave up my arm and into my shoulder. The dog released its grip on the driver’s arm and staggered backward but didn’t fall.

  It shook its head, blinked its eyes, then gave me a look that might have said, Don’t you know that hurts? before lunging toward my crotch.

  I spun to the side just before the dog connected and was able to ram the other end of the crowbar into its breastplate before it tore into my hip with its claws and gripped my forearm in its teeth—

  —but it did not break the skin. Its jaws had a powerhouse grip on my arm, but the thing wasn’t biting into me, wasn’t sinking those teeth through flesh and tendon all the way to the bone and ripping my arm from its socket; instead, it began to shake its head back and forth, drenching me in spit, jerking my arm this way and that, ripping through my jacket and shirt with its claws, tearing at my skin underneath, all the while whipping its head from side to side until I could no longer keep my grip on the crowbar and it went flying out of my hand to hit the pavement with a loud, ringing thud! and skittered over against the curb.

  Once the crowbar was out of my hands and reach, the second mastiff stopped shaking its head but did not release its vise-grip on my arm. It pushed forward, forcing me to stumble back, then shifted its weight until I had no choice but to go to my knees or keel over.

  The first mastiff was working on the driver. The man was dead. His face was now a pulpy, bloody mass of glistening meat and bone. His legs spasmed as his bowels evacuated. His finge
rs trembled, then were still.

  The second mastiff released its grip on my arm and backed away a few inches, staring at me. Our faces were now on the same level. That’s what it had wanted all along.

  I looked at it.

  Its eyes were the same deep shade of red as those of the dead birds in Audubon’s Graveyard.

  Its lips kept pulling back in a half-snarl, a deep, rumbling growl crawling around the back of its throat, ready to explode if I so much as moved.

  I could feel the blood tricking down the side of my legs where its claws had torn through my clothes. The old wound on my left shoulder throbbed from the kickback force of the first crowbar strike. My heart slammed against my chest. I gulped for air, shuddering.

  The mastiff moved to the side, huffing its harsh, hot breath against the side of my neck, still halfsnarling, dribbling thick rivulets of slobber-spit onto my arm.

  That’s when I knew what was happening.

  It wanted me to watch.

  I remained as still as I possibly could, trying to ignore the pain, the fear, and the sickness welling up from my stomach.

  The first mastiff waited until it was sure it had a captive audience, and then, slowly, with a deliberation you’d never attribute to an animal, began to disassemble the driver.

  Not tear him apart: disassemble.

  Using its teeth and claws, it worked on the man’s right arm until the shoulder was loosened and the scapula could be easily separated from the clavicle. Once the arm was removed, the mastiff carefully picked it up and carried it to the side of the road, licking the blood from the flesh until it was clean, then came back and began to remove the left arm.

  Good God, I thought, where are the police? Someone must have heard all the noise, someone must have seen this and called the police. Where are they?

  I saw the strobe-flash of the visibar lights approaching from the distance.

  Why weren’t they using their sirens?