Forever, in Pieces

by Fawver, Kurt

  Throughout the night, Derrick heard gunshots and sirens, shouting and honking. He did not sleep soundly.

  Two days passed. Derrick, glued to the TV, ordered only one meal from room service. News stations were beginning to talk about the “impossible reanimation of the dead,” things called “revenants,” and some sort of parasitic microbe that made its home in the energy producing part of cells—a “mitochondrial necrocyte,” pathologists termed it.

  During the day, he saw two patrols of camouflaged men with automatic rifles and flame throwers stroll past the hotel. One of them gunned down a man limping across the street. The other immolated the body and heaved it, still smoldering, into a black bag, which they dragged onto the sidewalk.

  Derrick spent most of the nighttime hours in the unstaffed hotel bar, stealing shots of bourbon and scotch and mournfully singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  Three days passed. A horde of revenants—at least fifteen or twenty in total—broke into the hotel lobby, killed the four security guards who had been standing watch by the front doors, and devoured most of the remaining hotel staff. Derrick learned of the attack from a trembling, stuttering maid he found crouched in the elevator. He offered her some of the liquor that he’d taken from the bar, but she refused any drinks and locked herself in the room across the hall from Derrick’s.

  Perhaps foolishly or perhaps bravely, Derrick ventured downstairs to aid other survivors. However, he discovered only carnage. The revenants had long since shuffled away, but the remains of their meal were scattered on the tile floor.

  An eyeball, torn loose from its owner’s socket, stared up from beside Derrick’s foot as he stepped out of the elevator and beheld the lobby-cum-abattoir. Piles of rent flesh, shredded organs, and glistening aspic lay in heaps beside what might once have been human bodies. Derrick backed into the elevator and punched the number “8” repeatedly until the brushed silver doors slid shut.

  Once he was securely locked in his room again, he ran to the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet for a half-hour.

  During the night he woke several times, sweating and near panic, with visions of bleeding, pulsating, keening landscapes still careening around the inside of his skull. He was haunted by the lubricious hills of gristle and creaking forests of bone his subconscious had created; both were significantly different settings from his usual nightmares, which tended to involve ejections from World Series Game Sevens and millions of jeering faces.

  On the fourth day after his arrival in St. Petersburg, the last of the live television newscasts flipped over to an emergency standby message. Derrick decided to repack his bag and move. No one from the team was going to call him. Baseball was an idle dream that could only be conjured by people who were sleeping soundly—an impossibility now that the world had begun to be shaken from its overlong slumber. The hotel, with its front windows shattered and gaping, was simply no longer safe, either. Revenants could easily storm the building again if they needed snacks. The entire place was a fifteen-story lunchbox waiting to be put to use.

  On top of everything else, Derrick was starving. He hadn’t eaten anything substantial in two days and, as long as he was sequestered within the hotel, the prospect of finding more than vending machines filled with bags of chips or chocolate bars seemed unlikely.

  He had to find new a refuge, a secure, defendable location with ample food sources. His initial thoughts straddled the fence between “grocery store” and “school,” but he had no idea where either might be located and it probably wasn’t the most intelligent course of action to wander aimlessly in a city teeming with ravenous walking dead and no-nonsense military units operating under martial law. He cursed himself for forgetting his laptop back in Montgomery.

  As blind, hurried packing would have it, Derrick was without the luxury of the internet and its readily supplied maps. He needed to go somewhere that he knew he could reach on foot without getting lost or needing complicated directions—a landmark, maybe, or something he could see from the window of his room. He stared over the low-rising cityscape. The solution was obvious: he had to run to the stadium. Tropicana Field would be his sanctuary, his house of salvation if not his glory. It had few main entrances, hundreds of yards of solid fences, a built-in storehouse of food, and, perhaps most importantly, it was a place of consecration, a place Derrick would be willing to let his corpse rot if he was attacked and killed.

  He stowed his clothes and some bathroom accoutrements in his overnight bag and strode to the door. Ten blocks. That’s what the portly man on the plane had said. The hotel was ten blocks from the stadium. If Derrick ran fast enough and steady enough, he could survive another week, another month, maybe even a year or more. With time, civilization would surely recover. The game would begin again. And Derrick would be known as the guy who loved his team so much, his sport so dearly, that he weathered the near-apocalyptic storm on the very field upon which he played. He’d be more than “Bolt.” He’d be goddamned “Mr. Baseball.” He could secure his legend before he even became one. Derrick grinned. Revenants, zombies, whatever. He was beyond it all.

  Every entrance is still securely chained and padlocked, every door barricaded and sealed. Once a day, before the game, Derrick monitors the perimeter, a thirty-two ounce Louisville Slugger resting on his shoulder for protection. He’s starting to consider leaving the bat inside, since he hasn’t even seen a revenant shambling through the parking lot in over three weeks, let alone trying to break into the stadium.

  Standing at the main gate, he gazes at the parallel lines of the palm trees that line the walkway to the entrance. A mild autumn wind ruffles their fronds. There is no other movement outside the fence. For a brief, flickering moment, Derrick wonders if he might be the last human being on earth.

  What a tremendous honor, he thinks. What an amazing accomplishment. If only someone knew. If only someone could see.

  He shrugs and retreats to the inside of the stadium. Once there, he warms a hamburger at one of the food kiosks, eats quickly, then makes his way to the Rays locker room, glancing at his watch. It’s 5:02. First pitch is at 7:05 tonight. That means the fans will be arriving soon to watch batting practice. He’d better get out on the field. He wouldn’t want to disappoint.

  Forty minutes later, after showering and changing into a new uniform—this one has the name “PRICE” stitched across the back—Derrick steps to the plate to take a few practice swings. The pitcher, a squat, barrel-chested, square-shouldered flamethrower, hurls a fastball toward Derrick. He connects with the pitch, but poorly. The ball blasts forward without any elevation. It’s headed directly for the pitcher, who does nothing to defend himself. A metallic clang rips through the soft air as the ball hits his torso. The sparse audience gasps. A trainer flies to the mound. Derrick is unimpressed. He’s dented this pitcher before. That little guy will be fine. In fact, he winds up and hurls another heater directly over home plate. Derrick clobbers this one. It takes flight, disappearing into the white ceiling of this dead heaven. The fans clap. The fans cheer.

  Derrick stares at the scoreboard, all zeros, always all zeros. He knows that someday the power will stop flowing and the scoreboard won’t even be lit. Someday he’ll be forced to retire. But until that day, he’s determined to put on a show for the world. The fans need something to believe in.

  Tonight will be another great game.

  [back to Table of Contents]

  Lessons

  Standing over the pale, wispy body, I shake my head. I try to glower and flare my nostrils, but I’m impressed with the precision of the strike. Perhaps even proud. Eric stares at me.

  “Did I do wrong?” he asks.

  I nudge the body with my foot.

  “What have I told you about that word?” I hiss.

  Eric sighs.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” he says, bored with the answer.

  “That’s right,” I say. “So would you like to ask something else?”

  Eric stares at me a
gain. His eyes are blue. So blue. Bluer than any sky I’ve ever gazed into and bluer than any sea I’ve ever crossed. They’re the blue of poets and innocence, the blue of mythical heroes and magic. With those eyes, he could force God himself to lay down his arms. But not me.

  “Should I not have done it?” he asks, slowly, unsure of his own question.

  I nod.

  “Better,” I say.

  I circumnavigate the body. It will be an easy disposal. She’s no more than fifteen. Mostly bone.

  “Why did you do it?” I ask.

  Eric shrugs and yawns.

  “I wanted to know what was inside her eye,” he says. “What it felt like.”

  Again, I nod. I can’t lie. I’m tempted to stick my finger inside the wound, too.

  “Well, that’s fine,” I say. “Daddy has those same questions sometimes. But there’s a better time and a better place for this. Now, because you couldn’t wait for that time and place, we have a lot of work to do. Are you prepared for that?”

  Eric frowns and looks away.

  “Well, you’d better be,” I say. “We have a long night ahead.”

  He kicks the floor and mutters something about it all being “unfair.”

  “Come here,” I growl. “And lift the legs as best you can. We’ll begin by breaking it all down.”

  “Come on,” Eric whines. “Can’t I just go to bed?”

  “No,” I say. “Now grab a cleaver from the kitchen and help.”

  I shake my head as he stomps through the house.

  Someday I will teach my son how to talk to a girl and how to laugh convincingly, though he feels nothing; someday I will teach my son how to open doors like a gentleman and lock them tightly behind him, so that not even a scream can escape; someday I will teach my son how to tie a gag and sharpen a blade and savor fear in the air.

  But tonight I will teach my son only one thing: that burying an icepick in the babysitter’s eye is not something he should do unless daddy tells him to.

  [back to Table of Contents]

  Forever, in Pieces

  February 14th, 1986

  Ben cautiously approached the paper bag taped to the side of Monica’s desk. Covered in smiley faces and pink blobs that may have been intended as hearts but ended up more closely resembling inverted, misshapen teardrops, the bag hung there, waiting, ready, anticipating more love. It was stuffed full of white, pink, purple, and red envelopes almost to the point of overflow. Something in Ben’s stomach turned toward his throat and growled.

  He glanced at the desks on either side of Monica’s, examining their bags and attempting to feign confusion or indecision. He didn’t want to seem too excited about this. Plus, he needed a measure of privacy to do it right. Although she was on the opposite side of the room, ensconced in her own secret deliveries, Ben was still afraid that Monica would spy him dropping the card into her makeshift mailbox. For some reason he couldn’t articulate or understand, he needed her to not see his hand slip into the bag. It was better she read the card first. The words were more important than his action.

  In one casual motion, Ben dropped his Valentine into the top of the bag and continued walking between desks. He was elated. Even though his palms were sweaty and the thing in his stomach continued to claw softly, the deed was done. Monica would finally know what he couldn’t say aloud.

  “Okay everyone,” Mrs. Flowers yelled above the din of thirty-four scuttling, laughing first-graders. “Finish up and go back to your desks.”

  Slowly, the room returned to order as everyone took their seats. Ben found his desk, fell into his chair, and realized his palms were freezing.

  Mrs. Flowers strode to the front of the room to make another announcement.

  “We can take recess now and you can all open your cards during that time. Due to the cold weather, though, we’ll be having recess in the gym. You may bring your mailboxes, but remember to pick up all your trash. Now let’s go. Single file and calm.”

  As one, the class ripped their bags from the sides of their desks and ran through the doorway, a galloping herd of anticipation.

  Mrs. Flowers sighed and followed.

  During recess, Ben sat by himself in a corner of the immense gymnasium. He didn’t really have friends, probably because he didn’t really talk to anyone; he was never sure what to say and he was always scared that he’d say something stupid that would make everyone hate him. So he talked to himself and played by himself and opened his Valentine’s Day mailbox by himself. A typical day, really.

  Ben’s bag—which he’d decorated with black clouds and yellow lightning bolts—was practically empty. He held it upside-down and four cards spilled out. He tore open the first one, a pink one, in hope that it was from Monica. But no. It was from Jillian. She gave valentines to everyone and didn’t even bother to sign them. Her card to Ben featured Strawberry Shortcake boldly proclaiming “You’re nice.”

  Big deal. He threw the card to one side.

  The next two he opened were from, respectively, Mrs. Flowers, who scribbled that he was “a wonderful student” on a heart cut from construction paper, and Lucas, who had written the words “Cool dood” on the inside of a G.I. Joe card with a hologram of Snake-Eyes on the front. Lucas was an idiot. All he did was yammer on about how awesome professional wrestling was.

  Ben sighed and held up the last card he’d received. It was encased in a gleaming metallic silver envelope that bulged in the middle. Some people stuffed candy hearts or hard candies into their valentines, so he assumed a sweet treat was hidden inside. He carefully slit the top of the envelope with the tip of his fingernail and pulled out the card, an unadorned coal-black rectangle.

  He flipped it over.

  The back side was the same pitch black surface, only with a few words written on it in what looked like white colored pencil. It read: Ben. We will be together. Wait for me. Forever.

  Ben shrugged, having no idea what the note meant, and shook the envelope over his hand until something dropped out.

  And something did drop out: a slender, delicate, pasty white finger. Ben stared at it in disbelief. A finger. He rolled it around in his palm, feeling the softness of its skin against his own. It was well manicured; its nail, painted dark blue and filed to a neat, well-rounded point, protruded several centimeters above the finger’s end.

  Turning it over, he examined the base, which, while uneven—as if severed hurriedly, perhaps—was almost perfectly smooth. In later years, after he’d researched the possibilities, Ben would attribute this smoothness to a process of surgically precise cauterization. In the moment, though, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, save the fact that the finger existed and it had been placed in his bag.

  He couldn’t stop smiling. This was the best Valentine’s Day ever. Someone liked him enough to send him something like this, something personal and extraordinary.

  He bent the finger, squeezed it, held it in his hand and refused to let go. He didn’t understand what it meant or why someone had sent it to him, of all people, but he loved it.

  When Mrs. Flowers called recess to an end, he gently placed the card and the finger back in the envelope, folded the entire package in half, and stuck it in his pocket.

  Returning to his classroom, Ben saw a crumpled ball lying on the faux-wood top of his desk. He walked to his chair and sat down. Giggles drifted up from somewhere a few aisles away. Something inside Ben, something deeper than his heart or his stomach or all the gooey, bloody parts he couldn’t name, collapsed into a spiraling chasm.

  He didn’t have to pick up the crumpled ball to know what it was. He didn’t have to flatten it out and uncrease its edges to know that it was a valentine, that Garfield was on its front, and that a thought bubble containing the words “Let’s cuddle” floated above the rotund feline’s head. He also didn’t have to open it to know that, on the blank interior, he had written the following: “Monica I think I love you. Maybe if you want I could hold your hand in resess. Im not sure if you like me bu
t I hope you do. O.K. Ben.”

  He wanted to cry. He wanted to run from the room and never face any of these people again, least of all Monica.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he rubbed the finger resting cozily in his pocket and tried to imagine Forever.

  February 14th, 1989

  The snow was falling heavily by mid-morning and the school was abuzz with the expectation that an early dismissal was forthcoming. The Valentine’s Day festivities had been crammed into the first two hours of class so that everyone could eat one of Ms. Dunning’s homemade brownies and exchange cards before any cancellation went into effect. Homework was even set aside in favor of “quiet socialization time” and computer games.

  Normally, Ben would have tried to hop on an Apple IIe to blaze a path across the Oregon Trail, but not today. Despite the snow and the gleeful electricity rebounding off the walls, he had entrenched himself at his desk in the far back corner of the room, alone but for an illustrated edition of The Phantom of the Opera. While his peers devoured chocolate hearts and one another’s easy acceptance, Ben alternately read and stared out the window, his mind drifting between the swirling flakes, searching for a reason why his secret love hadn’t sent him a greeting today.

  After the finger, in two subsequent years, had come a half-dozen teeth and a soft, pale ear, both stuffed inside similar silver envelopes and accompanied by cards whose stygian surfaces were broken only by delicate white letters that told Ben “I am yours. You are mine. Forever.” and “I hear your heart. It beats in me. Forever.” He’d hidden both of those valentines with the first, never to be touched or even glimpsed by anyone other than himself. The relationship he had with his mystery valentine was sacrosanct. His parents might call it grotesque and inappropriate if they knew; his peers might call it weird and freakish. But to Ben the entire affair was pure miracle, each slash of chalky colored pencil a comet carrying hope that there existed, if only in a disjointed and not entirely corporeal way, someone who might understand him and celebrate his existence without precondition.