The Awakening

by McBean, Brett

  Toby nodded, trying to muster some enthusiasm. How cruel life was, Toby mused. Here he was, finally spending time with the girl of his dreams, and he had too much on his mind to fully enjoy it.

  “So, is your mom a good cook?”

  “She’s okay. But it’s not my mom’s cooking you have to worry about—it’s my dad’s lame jokes.”

  Gloria smiled.

  “You want a drink?”

  Gloria nodded, and together they headed into the kitchen.

  “So, what have you two crazy kids got planned for tonight?” Toby’s dad said through a mouthful of chicken.

  “David,” his mom said. “That’s disgusting.”

  “What? It was an innocent question.”

  Toby shook his head.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. We have a guest.”

  His dad looked over at Gloria. “You don’t mind. Do ya, hon?”

  “No,” Gloria said.

  “You see. She doesn’t care.”

  His mom sighed.

  They were sitting around the dining room table, which was unusual. Usually the Fairchilds ate in front of the TV, or in separate rooms. They only ever ate dinner at the dinner table on special occasions, like birthdays or Christmas. Or when they had a guest, which wasn’t very often. Toby didn’t consider Gloria to be a guest. She was a friend. They never used to sit around the table when Frankie came over for dinner.

  “We’re probably just going to watch a DVD,” Toby said, answering his dad’s question.

  Swallowing the chicken, his dad said, “Which one?”

  Toby sighed. “I dunno. Maybe There’s Something About Mary.”

  “Sounds like a porno,” his dad said.

  Gloria chuckled.

  “Dad,” Toby said, giving him a ‘don’t embarrass me’ look.

  “What? It just sounds like a movie I watched once in college.”

  “David,” his mom said, trying hard not to let her own embarrassment show, but there was no hiding her red cheeks.

  “Oh wait, that was There’s Something Up Mary. Sorry, my mistake.”

  “You’re not funny, Dad,” Toby said, glancing at Gloria, who was smiling.

  “Ease up, champ. You always used to laugh at my jokes.”

  “That must’ve been your other son. You know, the one who lives up in the attic.”

  “You’ve got someone living up in your attic?” Gloria said, grinning at Toby.

  “Yeah, his name’s Atticus.”

  “Is he named after the character or his place of residence?”

  “Pretty and funny,” his dad said. “You should hold onto this one, Toby.”

  Toby kicked at his dad’s leg under the table.

  “Hey!” His dad retaliated. The table shook and his parents’ glasses of wine and Toby and Gloria’s glasses of Coke almost toppled over.

  “That’s enough you two,” his mom said. “Sometimes it’s like having two kids in the house,” she said to Gloria.

  “Don’t you mean three,” Toby said.

  Gloria laughed.

  “Yeah, you forgot about Atticus,” his dad said. “Atticus Atticus, holed up in the attic, named from a book, or perhaps a deformed addict.”

  “Isn’t he talented?” his mom said, rolling her eyes.

  “Wait, there’s more—Nothing to eat, except bugs and spiders, but he doesn’t mind, he takes what he finders.”

  “And you think I’m bad at English,” Toby muttered.

  “But if you think he’s a monster, if you think he’s a freak, well he ain’t nothing compared to our neighbor down the street.”

  “David, that wasn’t funny.”

  His dad apparently thought so. He was grinning. “What? It was just a joke.”

  Toby glared at his father. “Well it wasn’t very funny. Have you forgotten what he did for me?”

  “Of course not,” his dad said, smile dropping from his face like a boulder through water.

  “Well, then why did you say it?” Toby said.

  His dad looked down at his plate of half-eaten chicken and salad. He looked old, the lines on his face deep, the hairs on his head turning gray seemingly by the day. “I don’t know. You’re right. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry, Toby.”

  “That’s the kind of thing the kids at school would say. I mean, if it wasn’t for him...”

  “Toby,” his mom said. “That’s enough.”

  “What? He’s the one who said it, not me.”

  “And your father apologized. So let’s drop it.”

  “You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering what would’ve happened if Mr. Joseph hadn’t found you?” His dad’s eyes were dark, intense, but sad, even a little teary.

  Toby shrugged. They were two peas, more alike than his dad probably realized.

  “Can we please just drop it?” his mom said. “I don’t think we’re being very polite to Gloria.”

  Toby looked at Gloria. She looked uncomfortable and Toby felt bad for her. “Sorry,” he said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, Gloria. I can be an insensitive jerk sometimes. I don’t think before I speak.”

  Yeah, tell me about it, Toby thought.

  The rest of the meal was eaten with an air of unease.

  Toby didn’t feel much like watching a movie, particularly a comedy, and especially not one that used to be a favorite of his and Frankie’s.

  But Toby agreed to please Gloria—it was one of her favorites too—and so, with a large bowl of hot buttered popcorn and two cans of Coke sitting on the table in front of them, they watched.

  They talked sporadically throughout the first part of the movie, mostly about how much they loved this scene or that scene, but Toby’s heart wasn’t in it; he laughed at the appropriate places, but it was only for show. His mind drifted between Mr. Joseph and thoughts of the last time he had seen the movie; about a year ago, with Frankie.

  About two thirds of the way through the movie, tears blurring the images on the screen, he stopped laughing altogether and when Gloria noticed, she said, softly, “Your dad was just kidding around. You know that. I don’t think he meant to hurt you.”

  Toby wiped the tears away. “It’s not that. It’s... nothing, it’s silly.”

  “You can tell me,” Gloria said.

  And so he had. At least, he told her about the last time he had watched the movie.

  Afterwards, feeling better for getting his feelings off his chest, they watched the rest of the movie, though Toby was still too preoccupied to enjoy it.

  A few times he came close to telling Gloria about Mr. Joseph. He desperately wanted some of the burden taken off him, wanted someone else to feel as confused and scared and angry as he was. But every time he opened his mouth to tell her, the words never made it past his throat.

  After the movie finished, Toby’s parents came in and said it was getting late and maybe it was time for Gloria to be getting home. He and Gloria reluctantly agreed and so Toby’s dad drove Gloria home.

  Later, lying on his bed, arms resting behind his head, there was a knock at Toby’s door.

  “Hey champ,” his dad said, pushing open the door.

  “Hi,” Toby said, keeping his gaze locked onto the ceiling.

  “Can I have a quick word?”

  Before Toby could answer either yes or no, his dad had entered his room and was sitting on the end of Toby’s bed.

  With a sigh, Toby unclasped his hands and looked at his dad. “Gloria get home okay?”

  His dad smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Sure. Your old man’s not that bad of a driver.” He sighed heavily. “So whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing,” Toby answered, not making it easy for his dad, even though, deep down, Toby felt sorry for him.

  His dad tried to smile warmly at his son, but it just ended up as a tight line. His tired eyes looked like an old man’s. “Listen, pal, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It was a stupid thing to say. I know that. But y
ou know your old man by now—always saying the wrong things. Most of the time I don’t mean it, don’t know why I say the things I do. But that’s no excuse. It was just a silly song I made up on the spot, it didn’t mean anything, just a little...”

  “Dad, you’re rambling,” Toby said.

  He nodded, offered a tired smile. “Yeah, I tend to do that, don’t I? Anyway, I just wanted to tell you again that I’m sorry.”

  Toby yawned. It was a fake yawn. “Well that was pretty pathetic, Dad. But I accept. Only ‘cos I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”

  “Fair enough.” His dad hopped off the bed, started for the door. He stopped, turned around. “So we still cool?”

  Toby nodded. “Sure. Although I’m doubtful of you. Goodnight.”

  “Night Toby.” His dad started closing the door.

  “Dad?”

  He peered back in. “Yeah champ?”

  Toby gazed over at his father, a man who had aged ten years in the last month, a man, who, for all his faults, meant well and did truly love his family. Toby opened his mouth, drew in breath, and then exhaled. “Nothing. Goodnight.”

  His dad nodded. “Night.” And then the door closed and Toby was again left alone with his thoughts.

  He was in a room. It was white. So white it should’ve been blinding. Yet Toby found he didn’t need to shut his eyes against the glare. He looked around. Couldn’t see any doors, but there was a large window high above, like a viewing platform from which people can watch operations being performed. There was a solitary table, and lying on the table was something covered in a white sheet.

  He started walking towards the table. As he neared, he noticed something sitting on top of the sheet. It stood out noticeably against the white. It was a gun.

  At the table, Toby picked up the revolver. It was heavy. Suddenly the lump under the sheet stirred. Toby gasped and stepped back as the thing on the table started to rise. The sheet dropped away, revealing the monstrous form of Mr. Joseph—or what remained of him. Flaps of flesh hung from his cheeks and forehead. His lips were glistening strips of raw meat. He had no eyes. The sockets oozed black liquid, thick yellow worms slithered from the holes.

  Mr. Joseph set his feet on the floor and stood up. He was naked. Globs of intestines slithered out of a hole in his gut, falling to the ground like thick, slimy snakes. Toby gazed into the old man’s stomach and saw a chicken’s head.

  “Get away!” Toby screamed as the monster ambled closer.

  Black blood sputtered from its mouth as it gargled, “I am not a monster, Monsieur Fairchild.”

  Toby stepped back until he hit a wall. He had nowhere to run to.

  “Kill me,” the Mr. Joseph thing pleaded. “Put me out of my misery.”

  “No, I won’t kill you,” Toby cried and he tried throwing the gun down, but it was stuck to his hand.

  “Please, put me out of this hell I’m in,” Mr. Joseph groaned. “You’re the only one who can do it. But you have to remember.”

  “Remember? Remember what?”

  A light clicked on in the window above and Toby saw his mom, his dad, Gloria and Frankie. They were all sitting by the window, wearing sunglasses.

  “Hey!” he screamed. “Help!”

  They didn’t hear him; or maybe they did, but simply didn’t care. Instead they were talking, laughing.

  Laughing?!

  Except for a person standing behind them—a dark person Toby couldn’t see properly, a person also wearing dark sunglasses, as well as a black hat. This person seemed to be staring down at Toby, watching the events unfold.

  You will remember... a strange voice intoned in his head.

  “Frankie! Gloria! Mom, Dad! Hey! Help me!”

  They continued to ignore him.

  Mr. Joseph drew closer. Toby closed his eyes and waited.

  “Here, chicken,” Mr. Joseph sung. “Here, little chicken.”

  Toby wondered what it would feel like to have his head bitten off.

  He decided he didn’t want to wait to find out. So he raised his arm, stuck the barrel of the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  Toby woke with a start, sweating, panting heavily. He sat up, reached around to the back of his head. It was intact—of course it was. Only a dream. With a sigh he glanced at his clock. Two-fifteen in the morning.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  He’d had enough trouble getting to sleep; was sure it was never going to happen as he lay in the darkness, thinking about Mr. Joseph, what he was, what that meant, and if he should tell someone. He didn’t remember drifting into sleep. One moment he was wide awake, the next he was shocked out of his slumber.

  Remember...

  Remember what? Christ, what a fucked-up dream.

  Toby reached over, switched on the bedside lamp and sat up in bed. He flung the sheet off and brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them. If this lack of sleep continued, come fall, he would look like he should be starting college, not high school. He had to do something, one way or another, about Mr. Joseph, or else he was either going to go nuts or die from lack of sleep.

  Can you die from lack of sleep?

  Toby closed his eyes.

  Have to make a decision. Your sanity’s on the line here.

  He knew he only had two options—tell someone about Mr. Joseph, consequences be damned, or keep quiet. And if he decided to keep it to himself, then what? Pretend like nothing had happened and go back to the way things were before the attack, never speaking to the old man, seeing him only occasionally, mostly through a glass window? Or would he dare approach him, ask him about how he came to be a zombi; how such a thing was possible? Because, though he was frightened by everything Mr. Joseph stood for—death, shuffling monsters, strange, distant lands—Toby was also curious.

  Opening his eyes, he hopped out of bed and sauntered over to the window. He pulled back the curtains. It was a cloudy, moonless night. The world was intensely dark, except for the solitary light in Mr. Joseph’s house.

  Toby swallowed. It was only last night he had stood at this very spot, fearing that Mr. Joseph had finally pulled the trigger. Unaware of the secret the old man had been carrying around with him for God knows how long.

  Is that why he did it? Toby wondered. Was he tired of being a zombi? Was the fear and pain too much?

  Toby stood at the window a while, watching the old man’s house, thinking.

  His reverie was broken when he noticed someone, it looked like a shadow, walking along the sidewalk. The person would’ve been too dark to recognize, except for the white band around his head.

  Toby watched Mr. Joseph shuffle up the street and when he reached his house, he turned and walked up the porch steps and entered his house.

  When the door closed, Toby released the curtains, letting them fall back into place.

  Nice night for a stroll, he thought.

  He turned to his desk. He opened the bottom drawer, lifted up the pile of comic books and took out the letter. He read portions of the letter again.

  What I am now isn’t who I always was. I was a normal human being, once.

  My door is always open to you, Toby. If you ever want to come back, I will explain in greater detail about how I came to be the way I am. Maybe then, you will see that I’m not so scary after all.

  Toby stared at the letter for a long time, thinking about how little he knew about Haiti and zombis. Placing the letter back in the drawer, he crept downstairs and into the study, where he switched on the computer and connected to the internet. He surfed for an hour, reading up about vodou, the gods that the Haitian people worshipped (spirits known as loa), and of course, zombis.

  According to various websites, a zombi was traditionally a person who had been killed by an evil vodou priest—a bocor—and brought back from the dead for the sole purpose of working as a slave. They weren’t the brain-munching, flesh-eating monsters portrayed in the movies, but rather sad, pathetic, soulless humans, trapped in their undead state for et
ernity, unless their brain ceased to function.

  The websites disagreed on various points concerning zombis, but the one thing they all agreed on was that zombis were only a legend; that although most people in Haiti believed in the existence of the living dead, there had been no confirmed cases of zombiism. Only a lot of rumors and suspicion.

  So in other words, Toby thought, zombis don’t officially exist.

  I wonder what Mr. Joseph would say about that...

  He also read about the poverty in Haiti, the crime, the constant fighting and changes of government. He read, briefly, about the history of Haiti, and of the black rebellion. He learnt that while most of the Haitian people practiced the vodou religion, the official religion of Haiti was Catholicism—a carryover from the slave era.

  Reading about Haiti’s religion made Toby think about Pastor Wakefield. If there was one person who might be able to help Toby, one person he could talk to—if not specifically about Mr. Joseph, then at least about Toby’s fears and predicament—it was the Reverend Henry Wakefield.

  He was no Frankie, but he was a good substitute.

  And so, bleary-eyed, Toby snuck back upstairs and hopped into bed. He fell asleep almost straightaway and didn’t wake until late morning.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The following day, Toby headed off to Pastor Wakefield’s house. Though it was another bright, sunny afternoon, he knew what would take ten minutes on foot would only take a few minutes by bike. But Toby hadn’t so much as looked at his Schwinn since the attack. It was currently collecting dust in the shed and probably making a good home for a family of spiders.

  His dad had brought the bike home from the police station a week after the attack, once it had been dusted for prints and checked for hair and fibers. His dad had placed the bike away in the shed and there it had remained, untouched, unseen for close to a month. He hadn’t ridden it because he wasn’t physically up to the task, but even if he had been, he doubted he would’ve gotten the bike out of the shed. It was another reminder of that night; but even worse than the scars or the hazy memories, the bike existed before the attack, when things were good. Toby wasn’t sure if he could ever go back to his bike again. As much as he missed riding it, the pain associated with it was just too great. So Toby left the bike where it was and started walking to the Reverend’s house.