by Dan Mooney
Realizing there would be no stopping Phase One of the plan to drive Rebecca from the house, Denis decided to rethink his strategy. He was confused and a little stunned by the brutal side Plasterer was showing, and the willing complicity of the others, but protecting Rebecca now became his priority. Plasterer had been right. Feelings and emotions were not his strong suit. Rational thought was where Denis Murphy stood out from the crowd. Logic would win this fight. He moved up the stairs and into his bedroom to find Deano bound and, somewhat pointlessly, since the creature had no way to talk, gagged. He was struggling with his bonds, squirming from side to side, wriggling to free himself. Denis crouched down to undo the belts and ties that had been used to restrain Deano. When free, he expected the small creature to leap away, but instead, Deano sat up, resting on his elbows as he regarded Denis quietly.
“Hardly a point in freeing you. You can’t tell me anything, can you?” Denis asked him.
Deano nodded.
An idea, a thought was occurring to Denis. It seemed to him that he’d never truly considered his housemates. They were just part of his life, like coffee and hospital visits, something that intruded on his conscious hours. Something he had simply adapted to as par for the course. In a life that had been broken down into segments according to the time they took, there was little room for analysis. Denis realized that he knew almost nothing about them, nothing about their past. Nothing about where they had come from, and that was what tickled his brain. There was something wrong about that. Where had they come from?
Deano was nodding at him fervently now.
Almost there. Reach for it.
“What?” Denis asked him. “Show me, show me what you’re nodding at.”
Deano froze in place.
Dammit, go back... Don’t let it get away from you.
Lights seemed to dance in front of Denis, and there was a pain in his head. It took a moment to realize that he had banged his head against the wall, or more specifically, Plasterer had shoved his head into it. The shock canceled out the pain.
“Looking for a little ally?” he asked. “He’s utterly useless, you know. He refuses to accept anything. These last few weeks he’s been unbearable, and I blame you.”
Plasterer aimed a kick at Deano, his ridiculous clown shoes taking the fur ball right in the ribs.
“Leave him alone,” Denis shouted at him, one hand still rubbing at his forehead where he had connected with the wall.
“Make me,” Plasterer said, sneering, drawing back for another kick. Deano tried to squirm out of the way, but couldn’t avoid the shoe.
“Fuck off, Plasterer. You fucking bully. You fucking monster.”
“Only because you made me this way,” Plasterer told him.
The thought in his head nudged again.
Don’t let it slip away.
“What are you expecting here?” Plasterer asked. “Do you expect him to know? He knows nothing, just the calm moments and the struggle, that’s all he’s ever known. You don’t understand it because you’re a moron. Have you ever even paid attention to us? When I warned you this was coming, did you take me seriously? Did you think I was joking? I wasn’t. You made a mess of everything by being you, so now I’m what’s needed, as always, to fix your mess.”
“But I always fix the messes,” Denis told him. His head was throbbing.
“No, you don’t. You clean. You’re the housecleaner. I make the messes to give you something to do. To occupy you. I know what you’re feeling before you do, and I can anticipate. For this, I am necessary. We don’t need a cleaner anymore. You’re only necessary because your name is on the deed for the house. Outside of that, you’re nothing. Your old universe has no place in here.”
Denis looked about the room for something he could use, a way out, a weapon, anything. He spotted a heavy, ring-bound book sitting up against the side of his open closet. It had been a gift from his friends for his birthday, a scrapbook. An idea hit him then, harder than the wall had. It caused considerably less of a headache. Keeping his body between Deano and Plasterer, he edged from the room, the fur ball limping behind him. He had to be careful here. Too quick, and Plasterer would know he was up to something. Too slow, and he’d give the clown another chance at kicking Deano. He made his way down the stairs at a half trot.
“The Imperial March” floated up toward him as he made his way down. The Professor was still humming to himself in the kitchen. Denis moved to the cabinet in the utility room and took his arts-and-crafts supplies, stowed so neatly. His shirt had come loose slightly as he had helped Deano. His hands involuntarily moved to tuck it in again, but he stopped himself, and instead tugged the shirt out. It was a small act of defiance, and one he felt wouldn’t go a long way, but it was all he had at the moment. He took two cans of red paint from under the sink and brought them to the kitchen, placing them carefully in sight of the Professor. Penny O’Neill laughed spitefully at the sight of him as he walked through the kitchen with the satchel under his arm. He went to the living room and began cutting cards himself. Chopping slowly and methodically until his idea began taking shape.
In the kitchen, the Professor had stopped humming, and through the doorway, Denis could see him staring at the paint cans.
He reached out for the scissors again, but it wasn’t where he’d left them. There was a sharp pain as the blade scored his hand. Plasterer was holding the scissors, his red glove shone brightly, and a small trail of blood was now trickling down one of the blades. Denis clutched at the hand.
“You’ve got some kind of plan, moron?” Plasterer asked him, waving the scissors in front of himself.
“How is it you’re not sticking to yours?” Denis shot back, wiping the blood from his hand.
“All in good time,” came the reply. “What is it you’re up to?” Plasterer asked, his irritation tinged with curiosity.
Denis looked at him and frowned. It was an attempt at a dirty look. When he lived in the other universe, he had been involved in a fracas or two. Usually caused by Eddie. Back then he had been a master at throwing aggressive expressions, but now the simple act of frowning made him look more confused than threatening. Plasterer was not nearly so uncomfortable. He loomed, his broad frame casting a grim shadow that seemed to warn of violence. He wasn’t always like that, but now Denis couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been. It was as if the new Plasterer had entirely replaced the old, and now he could only remember the intimidating version. He tried not to act frightened.
“You’re nervous,” Plasterer told him, relishing the words.
Back away from him while he has the scissors. No sudden moves. Carefully now.
The Professor saved the day, entirely by accident, striding as he did into the room, with one of the cans of red paint open.
“For all the people you’ve taken from this world with your reckless disregard for human life and your utter thoughtlessness. For all the crimes you’ve committed.” The zombie shambled across the room and threw the contents of the paint on the wall. Denis tried to look horrified, but inside he exulted. Professor Scorpion had taken the bait. Penny O’Neill had followed behind, clapping her hands at the mess. It was all the distraction Denis needed, and he bolted from the room, carrying the tools for his personal art project with him. He locked the door to the sound of angry howls. He knew that it wouldn’t last; they’d howl themselves out eventually.
He set about fixing it. They had cut nearly one hundred photos, removing the heads. Denis had been obsessed with the idea of printing photos and making a feature wall out of the memories of his four years of college. That had been before he killed Jules and Eddie. Before he had killed Rick by default. He still didn’t know why he had kept the large box of photos, but he had. He quickly began cutting other heads from the photos, and began to apply them to the card. With luck, he would be able to turn their wanton destruction into something positive. He
was going to make a collage for Rebecca. He allowed himself a quiet smirk as he set about his work.
There was a bang on the window outside. Plasterer stood knocking, slowly. Behind him, the Professor stood, fuming. Penny O’Neill’s tail could be seen lashing. He had forgotten about the windows. Of course they’d climb out the window. He snatched up the contents of the photo box, as well as all his other bits and pieces and bolted from the room, up to his bedroom. The sound of feet thumping up the stairs behind him rang in his ears. Plasterer was chasing him. He made it to his room and locked the door. Deano looked at him, his head cocked to the side. Denis sat himself on the floor and crossed his legs. Plasterer began hammering on the door. Denis sat calmly and set about his work, ignoring him. The hammering continued.
“You can’t stay in there forever,” a voice snarled. It sounded like it was coming from inside the room, but Denis knew they were safely outside. He went back to work.
It was hours later that he finished. He had turned the terrible work his housemates had done into something that might pass as a romantic gesture, but it would be in vain if he couldn’t figure out a way to keep Rebecca from coming home to their new order. The banging on the door, he realized, had stopped. He didn’t know when it had stopped. He stashed the collage in the closet and then carefully picked his way across the mess he’d made on his floor.
He unlocked the door and poked his head out. Deano followed, urging him onward. He crept down the stairs in silence. They were in the living room; he could hear them. The second can of red paint was gone from the kitchen floor, but the room was otherwise untouched. He stopped to think for a minute before heading for the utility room again. For the first time that he could remember, his obsessive-compulsive behavior was serving him well. He threw almost nothing out, and so he had a large collection of various things that one accrues over six years of living in the same house. He removed the painting materials, including the plastic covering sheet, and made his way back to the living room. He could cover this one up too, a domestic paint job that he made a mess of, nothing more. Not an uprising of militant and angry housemates that Rebecca didn’t even know she lived with.
There was a surge of pain in his hip as he connected with the table. Plasterer was sitting at its head. He had given the table a shove with the sole of his foot and driven it into Denis’s hip.
“Clever move, Denny. I didn’t expect it,” the clown said.
“Stay away from my things,” Denis told him angrily.
“They’re my things too,” Plasterer replied. “Ownership is a fluid concept at the moment. Going to try to repaint the damage the Professor did? He won’t like that. He’s enjoying himself in there, you know. When he runs out of paint, it might turn into a dirty protest. Now isn’t that a thought?”
Denis walked into the living room with Plasterer’s mocking laugh chasing him. Penny O’Neill was spotted in red paint. The Professor was covered in it too. It made him look as though he was bleeding heavily, adding to his already terrifying appearance. Denis had always been afraid of zombies. He wondered how he had ever put up with the man.
“You cannot prevail in your attempts to paint over this,” the Professor told him loftily.
“No intention, old chum,” Denis replied glibly. He set the painting supplies about the room in a haphazard manner. It made quite a mess. He made several journeys to the utility room to find more and more stock for his plan.
“Right,” Plasterer told him, examining his new glove nonchalantly as Denis passed through the kitchen. “You’re making it look like you did it. She’ll think it was you and not the zombie. It seems you’re only a moron when it comes to her. You can’t win, you know.”
A key turned in the door. She was home. This was the moment that Denis had dreaded, but curiously, they all moved to conceal themselves. The Professor ducked behind the curtains. Penny O’Neill behind an armchair. Deano, who had been following him around the house, vanished up the stairs. For a moment, a dangerously long moment, Plasterer stood his ground, then with a snarl he ducked behind a couch.
“I’m home...” she called out.
“Hey,” Denis called back.
“How you feeling today?” she asked, hanging her coat on a hook inside the door. There was a note in her voice. She was worried about him. It did not make him feel good.
“I’m okay. Was feeling creative, so I made you something. I tried to repaint the living room too, but I just ended up making a mess. I’ll take care of it later.”
She laughed, right until she stepped into the kitchen.
“Denis,” she gasped. “What happened to you? You’re bleeding from your hand... Your neck, it’s black and blue... What happened?”
“I’m clumsy,” he lied. “Just haven’t done any decorating in a while, must be rusty or something. There was a bit of an incident in the living room, I got it all over the place. Disaster. I hurt myself too.”
He tried to smile as he told her. To mask the lie. He was not great at lying. There was very little need to in his life; he typically just avoided the need to lie by running away from things that frightened him. There was no running away from her though. He wouldn’t run from her again.
“Jesus, Denis.” She was shocked now. “You’re a mess. I mean...look at you. How did it happen?”
He smiled at her again. There was no way to explain.
“I told you, I fell over when I was trying to paint the living room.”
“Denis, don’t lie to me, for God’s sake, what is wrong with you? You look like you’ve been fighting. What happened here?”
“Wait here,” he told her, dashing up the stairs to fetch the collage. She was waiting in the kitchen when he came back, a look of confusion and anger mixed with something he recognized all too well. Pity.
She took the gift from him suspiciously. She inspected it closely. She was not pleased.
“Er... It’s lovely,” she lied. “Look, you haven’t answered my question. This is a little frightening, Denny, and you’re not helping the situation.”
“You hate it,” he replied.
“Denis, it’s nice that you made something for me, but it’s mostly cutouts of my head. You spent the day cutting out my head and painting the living room, all the while you look like you’ve been boxing. Is that a lump on your head?”
Denis nodded. There was no way he could tell her why he had made it, who had actually cut the heads out. What would she say to him? He’d sound like an insane person. He decided not to. Instead he said nothing. The Deano strategy seemed like the way to handle the situation.
“Sit down,” she told him, her face hardening. “Denis, I want you to tell me what happened to you.”
He did as he was told, taking his seat where the Professor had sat to destroy the photos.
“I think I know what’s happening here,” she announced after a long silence.
“You do?” Denis replied, confused. It seemed unlikely to him. A tall, aggressive clown with a red right hand trying to seize control of everything Denis owned seemed like a stretch.
“I think so. Are you trying to get rid of me? I don’t know if you’re doing it deliberately or subconsciously, but this card and the state of you? You’re a mess. I know you well enough to know that you could have cleaned yourself up at any time today—in fact, you’d make a point of it. You want me to see you like this. You think it’ll frighten me away.”
“No,” he told her. “I don’t want to frighten you away.”
“Good,” she told him, her voice hard. “Denny, you know this isn’t normal, right? Cutting heads from photos?” She was talking now as if talking to a fool. It was patronizing and annoying. He wanted to clarify what had happened, but something stayed his tongue. He let the irritation drain out of him.
“I know...” he replied glumly.
She took that as a sign that he had admitted defeat, and sh
ook her head slowly at him. He smiled back, though he must have looked confused, since he didn’t know what he was smiling at, or why she was shaking her head.
“Denis, I don’t want to give up. You’ve had a lot on your plate and you’re trying to deal with it, which I get, but don’t forget we’re trying to deal with it too. Eddie was my friend, as well. Don’t forget that. If there’s something that you need to say to me, now’s the time.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Plasterer standing up from behind the couch. There was no way she could see him from the angle she was sitting.
Now was the time. Now was his chance. He could come clean, tell her about the clown in their house. He felt his throat tighten.
For fuck sake, do it.
“I know. I guess it’s just everything that’s happened,” he told her, trying not to look straight at the clown. “I’m not dealing with it well. And I’m trying not to be such a weirdo, you know, with all my weirdo behavior. I’m just not good at it. It’s not like I’ve spent the last few years being romantic. I’ll be okay. I think I just need to get out of the house or something.”
“Don’t call yourself a weirdo,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re just different. And there’s nothing wrong with it.”
Plasterer was edging closer to the door. It was hard to tell underneath all the makeup, but he seemed to be grinning.
“I’ll do better though, that’s what I’m saying,” he told Rebecca, trying to sound earnest and not panicked.
She could see through him. She could always see through him when he wasn’t telling her the truth.
“What’s going on?” she asked him suspiciously.
“Nothing. Just... I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Something that’s been bothering me.” Plasterer froze where he was, his eyes widening. He looked worried for some reason.
“Okay,” she replied slowly.
“It’s just that you’ve been so good to me, since you came back. Patient with me. And understanding. I just want you to know that I appreciate it.”
