“What’s so crazy about self-preservation? That’s all this is; self-preservation. Now, I have to piss, so don’t move, or else I’ll put a bullet through your faggoty little head. Got me?”
Sprawled on the ground, Toby watched Dwayne stagger over to Frankie’s grave. Moments later he heard what sounded like water splashing against the headstone.
“Ah, that’s better,” Dwayne sighed.
Bastard, Toby thought.
But he saw another opportunity. It wasn’t much of an opportunity, but he knew he had to seize any that came along. He glanced back at Scotty, saw where his eyes were fixated—and they weren’t on Toby—so Toby started creeping along the ground. Like a wounded animal, he dragged his body, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Toby inched towards the bottle of Jim Beam.
When he reached the bottle, trying not to look at Deb’s body before him, he grabbed the bottle by its neck, and then started crawling back towards Dwayne.
Dwayne was still busy relieving himself when Toby got within two feet—the smell of Dwayne’s acrid urine was sickening.
But something alerted Dwayne. Toby wasn’t sure whether it was a twig breaking, Toby’s breathing, or just a general sense of someone close by. Dwayne looked over his shoulder and at the sight of Toby, spun around.
Fortunately, he had stopped peeing, or else Toby would have gotten sprayed, but Toby did catch a glimpse of the older teenager’s pecker and he chuckled. Dwayne’s face went from dark amusement at Toby’s pitiful attempt at a sneak attack, to enraged madman and he didn’t bother tucking in his pinkie-sized cock as he kicked Toby in the head.
Just before he passed out, Toby heard Dwayne tell Scotty, “Start getting that bitch undressed.”
And then he fell into darkness.
“Toby? Hey Toby, wake up.”
Through the swirl of pain and darkness, Toby thought the voice sounded like Frankie’s, albeit more nasally—but he knew that was impossible.
“Toby, wakey, wakey.”
A gentle slap on the cheek and Toby’s eyes fluttered open. “Frankie?” he groaned.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
Gazing up at the round, smiling face of Frankie, Toby blinked, figured he must be dreaming.
But the pain felt real; an intense, skull-splitting headache and a general feeling of sickness through his body. He tried to move, but the pain and exhaustion was too much. So he gave up, remaining on the ground and looking up at Frankie; Frankie, his best friend, dead almost three months, but looking just the same as he always did—except for his dark clothes. And the dark sunglasses.
And the bottle in his hand. And the cigarette dangling between his lips.
“Frankie?” Toby said again. “But it... it can’t be you.”
Frankie took a swill from the bottle of white Barbancourt rum; took a drag of his cigarette without taking it from his mouth or using his hands. “It is, and it isn’t.” He flicked the rim of the dusty old top hat, with a skull and crossbones painted in white on the front. Then he straightened and wiggled his dark coat and stretched out his dark pants. “Like my new threads? Pretty nifty, huh?”
Toby frowned, or at least that’s what he meant to do; whether or not he achieved it he couldn’t tell. “What’s... what’s going on? Where’s Gloria?”
Frankie bent down again and looking at Toby through the dark shades, said, “Toby, we have to be quick. The sinners must be punished.”
A cloud of cigarette smoke blew against Toby’s face. “I tried,” Toby murmured. “I tried, but I failed.”
Frankie made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Oh Toby, you silly boy. We both know you could never kill anyone. It’s not in your nature. You weren’t brought here to kill anyone yourself; you didn’t fail—things happen for a reason. I needed to communicate with you, in order to help you. In order to give you peace. After all, that’s what I was asked to do, that’s the deal I made with the zombi.”
“Mr. Joseph?”
Frankie smiled, and it was a dark, sly smile. He nodded, drank more rum. “Now that he’s kept his end of the bargain, I’m here to fulfill mine. The first part is done. I’ve shown you the truth. Of course, it was always in you, but you forgot, or blocked it out, whatever, it doesn’t matter now. The important thing is, you’ve remembered. And now, you must decide what to do about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do,” Frankie said, drawing heavily on the cigarette. “How do you want me to punish the sinners?”
Toby swallowed. So much pain, so damn tired. “Huh?”
“Dwayne, Sam, the other two—do you want them dead?”
Toby faltered. “I, ah...”
“Or I could turn them into zombis. Or I could give them a serious illness. Or I could turn them mad. It doesn’t matter to me; it’s all the same. But it’s up to you, Toby. It’s your choice.”
“My choice?”
Through the gray cloud of his mind, Toby heard shouts and laughter. The shouts belonged to a female, the laughter, males.
Gloria?
“Oh Jesus, help Gloria,” Toby breathed. “Please, Frankie, help Gloria.”
“I will. But what of the others? Hurry, time is running out.”
Toby dearly wanted Dwayne and the others to pay for what they had done—Toby thought he wanted them dead, but Frankie was right; he was no murderer. He could never kill and he couldn’t order for them to be killed, either. There had been too much death already.
“I don’t want them dead,” Toby said. “I just want them to pay for what they did. I want everyone to know what they did to you, Frankie. And I want everyone to know that Dwayne is crazy.”
Toby started weeping.
“Okay,” Frankie said, taking a long drink of rum. “It will be done.”
Frankie straightened, turned and started walking away.
Toby watched through the narrow slits of his eyes as Frankie, decked out in old back hat and black clothes, strolled over to Deb Mayfour’s body. She almost looked like she was sleeping, except for her blood-stained shirt and the red splashes on her face.
Finished with the rum, Frankie hurled the bottle into the night. Toby waited for the inevitable smash, but it didn’t come. Frankie then reached down and picked up Deb’s body.
Or at least, that’s what Toby thought he was doing; but as he gazed at the body slumped in Frankie’s arms, Toby saw it was translucent. Looking back down, he saw Deb’s body still lying on the ground.
Then, like someone letting go a dove, Frankie tossed the Deb-spirit into the air and the ghostly body sailed up into the sky.
When the ghostly form reached the tops of the trees, it flew back towards the ground, but before it crashed into the earth, it swooped sideways, to somewhere out of Toby’s narrow range of sight.
For a brief moment the night was still, dead, but then a shrill cry shattered the stillness like a rock through glass.
Then Toby saw a sight the likes of which he had never seen, and would likely never, ever forget.
He saw Dwayne running around, screaming, wailing like a banshee, tearing at his clothes like they were on fire. “Get off me!” he cried. “Get off me!”
Slithering over his body, like a silky, transparent human sheet, was the ghostly presence of Deb. It was whispering to him—and though Toby couldn’t hear what she was saying, he was sure they weren’t sweet nothings.
Frankie, looking satisfied, marched towards one of the gravesites. He stopped, turned around, looked at Toby, saluted, winked and then disappeared into the ground.
Toby opened his mouth to say No, come back Frankie, I miss you, but it was no use. He was too tired to speak.
He fought to keep his eyes open, but they closed and sleep overtook him.
“Toby? Toby, wake up.”
Not Frankie this time, but Gloria.
“Toby, we have to get out of here. Dwayne’s gone crazy.”
Toby opened his eyes. He sat up. He was still
in great pain, but he quickly forgot about that when he heard the shouting. Then a gunshot.
Toby looked up at Gloria. Her hair was messed, the makeup on her face was smudged, and her eyes were wide with fear. She gripped Toby by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
Toby glanced around the cemetery. There was no sign of Frankie, but there were two bodies lying nearby.
Two?
One was Deb; the other, Toby saw, was Scotty. The boy was lying on his back, gently groaning. “What happened?” Toby breathed.
“Like I said, Dwayne all of a sudden went nuts. Started ripping at his clothes, screaming for something to get off him, and then he freaked out even more, saying that they were all against him.”
“They?”
“Scotty, Sam, and Rusty. He shot Scotty. Just like that. And then he took off, I guess to go after the other two.”
Toby stared at Gloria. She had tears in her eyes. Her shirt was torn on one shoulder, exposing her tender skin. “Are you hurt? Did they...?”
“No,” Gloria said, looking to the ground. “No, Dwayne went nuts before they could do anything.”
Toby reached out and hugged her.
It was only a brief hug. Another gunshot shocked them apart.
“Oh God,” Gloria gasped.
“We should hide,” Toby said. “Who knows where Dwayne is. He could come back, looking for us.”
Gloria nodded, and together they headed towards the mausoleum.
There they waited, huddled behind its ancient stone, holding each other.
They didn’t move from their hiding spot until a policeman’s flashlight found them, fifteen minutes later.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bell rang and everyone was up and out the door before Mr. Mooney, the grade nine English teacher, could stutter out: “G-goodbye c-c-class.”
Toby was the last one out. At the door, he stopped, turned and looked at the small, slightly hunched gray-haired old man collecting his papers, stopping every so often to push his glasses up his face. “Have a good weekend Mr. Mooney,” Toby said.
Mr. Mooney looked up, squinted and said, “Ah, y-y-yes, have a g-g-good weekend...er...”
“Toby, sir. Toby Fairchild.”
“Of c-c-course. Sorry T-T-Toby.”
Toby nodded and left the classroom.
It was only the end of the first week of the new school year, so most of the teachers at Holt High hadn’t yet committed to memory many of the new kids’ names. Sure, they knew the naughtier kids, or the brainy ones that always seemed to have their hands in the air, but when it came to kids like Toby, the quiet ones, the ones who just blended in with the crowd, it would take the teachers longer to remember their names.
So far, high school was as overwhelming and intimidating as Toby had feared it would be. He felt lost, alone, like he was a tiny boat floating in a seemingly endless ocean. At least most of the teachers were nice enough, though none were as nice as Miss Wilson.
Toby missed her. He missed a lot of things about Holt Middle School. He missed the classrooms, the smells; he missed seeing the old familiar faces, he even missed Warrick’s juvenile antics.
And of course he missed Frankie.
Already the halls were as empty as an old ghost town. At his locker, Toby grabbed his bag, and then headed out the front door, his footsteps clacking against the hard floor.
He strolled down the large stone steps and started down the path.
Groups of kids were hanging around, some chatting to friends, others walking along casually, lost in thought, perhaps dreaming about that elusive guy or girl they had a major crush on. Toby still couldn’t get used to seeing so many older kids. He felt young, like a baby; yet, in many ways, he felt older than all of them, knew he had seen more and learned more about life these past few months than some people do in a lifetime—the kinds of lessons you couldn’t learn from a text book or a bored teacher.
As Toby meandered towards the bus stop, his thoughts drifted to Gloria.
Gloria and her family were having a hard time dealing with the loss of Deb. Toby could only imagine how Gloria must be coping with what happened that night—and also with what almost happened. He still wasn’t sure when Gloria would begin her high school year.
Toby had noticed a darkness in Gloria’s eyes now, and there were lines on her face, faint though they may be, that Toby knew hadn’t been there just a few weeks ago. They hadn’t spoken much since that night. Which was a shame, but in truth, Toby didn’t mind. He knew it could never be the same between them, not after what they had been through. Some experiences brought people closer together; others caused a rift that was beyond repair.
Toby never told Gloria the whole truth about what happened that night. He told her most of it—hearing the laughter, remembering the night of the attack, and then going down to the cemetery to confront Dwayne and his gang. As to the events later, Toby just had to shrug and pretend he agreed with the general consensus that Dwayne must’ve suddenly, inextricably, gone mad. Maybe it was killing his girlfriend that pushed him over the line—after all, he was now currently in the state hospital mumbling about Deb and ghosts, his body racked with fingernail scars.
His sudden madness was also used to explain why he had gone after his three best friends with the gun (Scotty had been shot in the shoulder, but was making a good recovery; Sam and Rusty had managed to escape Dwayne’s wrath, but they had been so frightened, they confessed everything to the police—including where to find Warrick’s body; about a mile out of town, buried in a small patch of woods off the dead-end Hurston Road, along with three baseball bats and a crowbar). All four were currently awaiting trial for the murders of Frankie and Warrick (as well as Deb, in Dwayne’s case).
The story Toby told the police was basically the truth—he only omitted the parts about watching Frankie send Deb’s spirit to make sure Dwayne and the others got what they deserved, and about getting the gun from Mr. Joseph (he told them he found the gun and box of cartridges a week ago wrapped up in cloth, while out walking in the woods near the cemetery. The police had been suspicious of his story, and rightly so, but it was the best explanation he could come up with, without implicating Mr. Joseph. Both his parents and the police were severely disappointed with Toby, but because he didn’t actually shoot the gun, he got off with a stern lecture from both parties).
Toby’s parents had been a big help this past week. His mom still fussed over him too much, but he didn’t put up much of a fight. For once, he didn’t mind her overprotective ways. His dad still looked too thin, but he was slowly getting better, healthier. Suzie had all but stopped her drinking. Her pain was far from over, but it was a start. Toby had to admire her for that.
Toby suspected that for both his parents and especially for Suzie, finally knowing who was responsible for the attack offered some closure, even if those responsible hadn’t turned out to be who they wanted it to be—not some stranger, but someone close to them, living in their own town.
That, Toby knew, hit them hard; it had hit the entire town hard. The Labor Day celebrations had been canceled due to the tragic events, and though Belford may be slowly getting back to normal after the murders, whether it would ever truly recover, only time would tell.
Toby was still recovering, too. Though his physical injuries were close to healed—aside from the newly broken nose—his emotional pain still had a long way to go. Helping him in this regard was Pastor Wakefield; he had been a strong support, listening to Toby’s pain, offering invaluable words of advice. But most of all, he had been a good friend. At least Toby could think about the good times he had shared with Frankie, Gloria, even Warrick, and no longer cry; well, not cry as much.
He still had nightmares, though the ones containing strangers in dark clothing, hat and sunglasses had stopped. He’d had a particularly strange dream just the other night, in which he was inside the high school, except the school had no windows or doors. He ran around, trying to find a way out, but couldn’t find one. All o
f a sudden the walls and ceiling started contracting. He screamed for someone to help him, to get him out, but nobody came. Slowly, the building grew smaller, the walls closed in on him, the ceiling got lower. The lights blew out, he was left in utter darkness, and he couldn’t do anything except wait in the pitch black, until he was crushed like a bug under a shoe. Toby couldn’t remember the outcome, whether he was crushed or not; all he could remember was waking up in a cold sweat, feeling like he couldn’t breathe.
He kept himself busy weekends working at Barb’s, stocking the shelves and pricing the stock. It was good, simple, honest work—and as a bonus, he got loads of free candy, so it was the perfect job for the time being. He was sure both Frankie and Mr. Joseph would agree.
Mr. Joseph.
Toby missed the old man—though it wasn’t a deep sense of loss like it was with Frankie. He missed Mr. Joseph’s company, but ultimately Toby couldn’t be sad about the old man leaving, for he knew the zombi savane’s pain was now at an end.
A few days ago, Toby had received a postcard. It was from Haiti, and was dated a week before the big end-of-summer-party up on Taylor’s Hill.
It read:
Dear Monsieur Fairchild.
Bonjour! I hope this postcard finds you well. I wanted to write to you to tell you that I’m safe and, as you probably already guessed by the card you’re holding, back in my homeland. Yes, I decided to return to Haiti and face my fears. I have met my great-grand-children and great-great-grand-children—My, do the girls look like Felicia and Rachel! They were surprised, but happy enough to see me, though some of the adults regarded me with trepidation and suspicion—which is perfectly understandable. Still, they opened their homes to me and for that, I am grateful. I am grateful to you, too, Toby. For if it wasn’t for you, I would never have had the courage to come back home. But, like you said, if you could accept me, then maybe others would, too. So I thank you, for giving an old man a second chance.
It was great to have known you. I will never forget you, and I sincerely hope you find your peace—though I have a feeling you will. And soon.
The Awakening Page 47
