Father of the Deceased

by Egon Grimes

  “Get ready and I’ll bring it as close as I can, then you’ve gotta shoot.”

  Lou climbed back over the seats into the cargo space, the carpet crusty with Wolf Man’s blood. “Ready!”

  Maurice swerved gently into the middle of the highway, attempting to offer Lou an easier view of rubber. Like a Whack-a-Mole, Lou popped from hiding. He squeezed out six shots in succession, four glanced the asphalt and ricocheted away harmlessly, while the other two found fender but did little damage. “Dammit,” he said under his breath, more disappointed than angry. He heard a few cracks sound from outside and flattened his body to the floor. With a silent ten-count, he rose and shot four more times. It was dark, and it got darker, as he hit one of the lights, but didn’t slow the car. He dropped again. Two sets of cracks filled the air, both sets of police had gunmen. “Come on, Lou,” he said to himself and popper upright amid the cracking, and saw the brilliant flashes, but ignored them. A deep breath sucked in the cool rushing air and as he exhaled slowly, his index finger sent a bullet.

  The cruiser jerked wildly and spun, sparks flying from the wheel scratching the warning indents on the shoulder. A louder din screamed into the night and Lou flopped over the seat, he didn’t stand a chance against a shotgun and neither did the Jeep.

  “We’re in trouble, Moe. Big trouble.”

  Another crack sounded and the rear end swung around, sending the Jeep into a full three-hundred-sixty-degree flip and beyond. As if sucked free, Lou shot out the door, jarred loose under the weight of his body. Soundlessly, he flew, gun in hand. Maurice, who happened to observe that one rule, although ignoring so many others, wore his belt and watched his partner leave the wreckage.

  The Jeep rolled four full revolutions prior to stopping, momentarily, before plunging into the cool lake next to the highway. Maurice struggled against the belt, but it wouldn’t let go.

  The air burned in his chest and he wanted to gulp at the water, but knew better. From the back seat, little bubbles of life flowed from Neil’s lips, until he deteriorated into a mess, homogenized with the lake water, indistinguishably in the dark. Little chunks touched Maurice’s searching hands as he flailed wildly at his belt and the water around him inside the dark cold tomb.

  52

  Working furiously at the canvas strap and the metal clip, finally, the belt let go and he wrenched at the door handle—fully crushed, obliterated by the crash. Trapped in the pitch-black water, his eyes searched, and bulged under the pressure. A limpness set in over his thoughts and his overexerted muscles stiffened, refusing to cooperate without oxygen.

  Maurice inhaled. The water filled his lungs and his eyes closed.

  Letting go came with so much ease, Maurice forgot about panic. A reality opened before his closed eyes, he felt his body falling, but saw the world rising in hot white light. A familiar woman took hold of his hand, guiding him closer to the light.

  “Who are you?” he asked, agog.

  Alice. So clean and fresh, nothing like the scared girl he’d met or the walking corpse he encountered in the dirty bathroom. She smiled.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  Her smile grew and he smiled back. The smile continued well beyond the confines of natural skin and the give of muscle. The smile shifted, the upturned edges rounding into an oval, wrapping around the back of her head. The beauty was gone.

  “No, no,” he whispered. “Alice, please.”

  She watched him as he watched her and the stretching lips, the oval branching out on opposite sides once connecting the corners of her mouth at the base of her skull. In a flash, the skin moved in a giant wave, a roll down her chin, unveiling not muscle and blood, but pine needles, and maple leaves and hard stone. The vision confused and terrified.

  Alice stood, the skin above her mouth intact, but below nothing remained of her body, just twigs standing like a living stickman. Her tongue wriggled and flapped under her upper lip, wet and long.

  She muttered a gargling, slapping sound against her palate.

  “What, what is it? Please, tell me how to stop this,” he begged.

  More and more, she flipped and flopped her tongue, but couldn’t conquer the new method of speech. “Ross…” Alice began, the babble from her tongue sounding more like Wauss. “Rosalind.” Pronounced it Wausswen.

  “Rosalind!”

  “Woahda. Waua.”

  “Rhoda,” Maurice whispered. “Rhoda, Rosalind, and Ruby, my three Rs.”

  A raucous din approached from the light, Alice turned her fragile head—what was left of it—and it went rolling, the twigs that buttressed her snapped and fell into a heap. Maurice knelt and took the skull into his hands. Alice again attempted words, but one of the twigs from her neck pierced the center of her tongue, posting it midair. It waved unnaturally and Maurice tugged at the little stick, it slid but only an inch, mud falling in a viscous syrup from the hole. The wild sounds drew closer.

  “Moe!”

  The sound approached relentlessly.

  “Maurice! Maurice!” the cloud of sound echoed.

  “Where is Rhoda?” Maurice said to the skull, his voice quiet and low.

  The light lent view to only shapes and shadows created thereafter. His hand slipped and dragged the twig through Alice’s tongue. In pain, she slammed the remaining teeth down hard on his arm. The head dropped from his fingers and splashed in a muddy mess.

  “Maurice!” the light shouted, much closer.

  A hand reached out and punched hard into his chest, felling Maurice in an awkward tumble. He rolled onto his back. The power seemed unmatched, and Maurice stood and ran, ran back toward the darkness. The bright light gained with every step, engulfing him. Another punch, but from the darkness side sent him reeling in reverse, toward the light.

  “No, please, no,” he muttered from the ground.

  In a quick fluid jump, he stood on his feet, swinging his hands at shapes in the light and glints in the dark. Leaves, sticks, mud and moss seemed to float on air from his violent strikes. Fists came down on his chest from both sides, pushing the air from his lungs, he gasped. The strange world of light and dark spun wildly around him, his stomach churned and cool liquid rushed up his throat.

  Turning to his side, he let the vomit fall. He rolled then and tried to rise. On his hands and knees, he gazed in amazement at the mess he’d propelled from within his gut. Tens, if not hundreds, of miniature animals and children, ran and played, a creation of his illness. A hand came up from beneath, seemingly from nowhere, but everywhere, slamming him hard. He spewed more, his eyes watered and he wiped them clear to see the next step to his little world. It was a mountain and a trail, empty and dark.

  “Maurice, dammit!” Like a PA system announcement.

  The strikes against his chest and stomach came faster and faster, details of his little burst from his lips, adding shadow and soul to the land.

  Whack, whack, whack, he felt every hit. A ball stuck in his throat, larger than the others, slimy and horrible it oozed up his throat, catching, dragging. It tasted of old blood and rotten fruit, sweet and awful. It trickled and pushed, finally clearing his teeth and lips. A single, blob dripped, falling halfway up the dark mountain, black.

  Hands continued their pounding, Maurice rolled in the real world to give into the demands. “Let in the light, stop the pain,” he whispered.

  —

  Watching the Jeep flip and roll into the lake sent Lou’s battered body into shakes. He hobbled toward the scene, his lungs aching from the hard fall. The chasing cruiser followed the Jeep into the water like a kamikaze pilot. It seemed hours until he finally reached the water, he emptied his pockets on the moist shore, took as deep a breath as his lungs allowed and dove into the murky water.

  The Jeep’s headlamps faltered and died, but Lou had a focal point. Running his fingers over the crinkled metal, Lou found the passenger’s side door, wrenching it open with an unheard creak.

  Maurice floated a lifeless mass.

  It was harder
than Lou imagined, his muscles ached and his lungs demanded nourishment, but he pulled Maurice by the arm, clearing the wreckage. The sky above, although dark, appeared bright and luminescent by comparison. Fingers digging into his partner’s forearm, he rushed upward like a three-legged frog, fighting against gravity.

  Lou began to panic and had to abandon his grip to fight for topside. The clamp around Maurice’s arm continued, but Lou didn’t notice for many seconds. The rushing clouds pushed aside and the water in front of the men reflected a man in need, everything, every memory, every moment, rushed Lou’s mind.

  Maurice wasn’t breathing.

  “Moe! Maurice! Maurice!”

  He planted his fist into Maurice’s chest, causing his body to jerk.

  “Maurice!” He punched into the man’s chest. Whack, whack, whack, little bones cracked beneath the fists, but it was a small price to pay for life. “Maurice, dammit!”

  Vomit leaking from the corner of Maurice’s mouth.

  He punched again, and again, slamming one fist after the other, Maurice shot out a stream of brown, bloodied water.

  A battered and beaten police cruiser pulled off the road and drove toward the small lakeside. Lou felt around his ankle holster for his secondary weapon, it was there and he was ready.

  An officer jumped out. “Hey, you all right?”

  This cop had been chasing them and suddenly…what in the hell is going on?

  “Uh, call an ambulance,” Lou said, still fingering his pistol.

  “Is he alive?”

  “Radio in! Dumbass!”

  It shook the officer and he complied, running back to the radio in his car.

  “Moe, Moe, are you still with me?” Lou cradled Maurice’s head in his lap. “Can you hear me?”

  “Is that a cop?” Maurice asked, his voice harsh and raspy.

  “It’s one of the ones that chased us. Seems he’s had a change of heart. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hey, Lou?”

  “Moe?”

  “My chest hurts. Do you know anything about that?” Maurice started to laugh, but coughed in pain.

  “Just keep it quiet, no jokes now. An ambulance is on its way.”

  “Rhoda…” Maurice trailed painfully, taking long heavy blinks. That reoccurring and horrible realization continued pecking at his comfort. Please Rhoda, Rosalind, Alice, The mental acknowledgement of Alice stirred a vivid revisiting of his underwater dream, the world he’d spawned, her body becoming that of an autumn afternoon and the bright light blasting him from places unknown. Is there a sign somewhere? Was I shown the way? Somewhere off in the distance was the yelping of an ambulance approaching.

  —

  Lou looked like shit under the bright waiting room lights of the hospital in Timmins.

  Timmins hospital wasn’t anywhere he’d heard of and neither were the last five towns they’d passed. He slouched and closed his eyes, listening to the others in the room.

  Earlier in the evening, Tamin Gouchie, took a nasty tumble from a swing set, snapping a bone in her arm into two pieces. Damin Gouchie and his grandfather, Joe Toothill, sat waiting—not worried just waiting. Lou listened to them talk and opened an eye at their accent.

  Young Damin ran around the room in a wild, dizzy, excitement—being in town, in place with toys and unfamiliar people. Joe rose partway and fell back into his seat next to Lou.

  Joe smiled his way, showing a mouth with more gaps than tooth surface over his gums. Lou nodded and then reached out to the table and picked up the North-East Community Guide, but it was too late to cease the oncoming chatter.

  “Nothin’ bad I hope?” Joe said in a slow drawn speech.

  Lou sat back. “Not too bad, a few broken ribs and good soaking.”

  “Good,” Joe started into it, “my Tamin busted’er arm. You ‘Merican?”

  “Yes, sir. You Indian?”

  Joe grinned. “What give you dat idea?” He laughed then. “Whatcha doin’ up’ere?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “I been’ere my whole life. My granddaddy lived in’a woods, like the old times, the Churchys never got’m. Maybe you’eard of’m, Sittin’ Bull.”

  “Your grandfather was Sitting Bull?”

  Joe eyed Lou’s reaction and laughed again. “Nah, but he did live’n a teepee in’a woods.”

  Lou felt an ease about the old man. “Nice.”

  “Old Joe’s full’a jokes.”

  “Joe, I’m Lou.”

  “Nice to meet ya. You gotta famous granddaddy?”

  A man and woman walked into the ER, the man holding his stomach, the woman helping his step. They dropped hard into seats, two down from Joe.

  “Not that I’m aware of, he fought in the World Wars, but didn’t come back a superhero, just a regular hero.”

  “Dat’s nice. My granddaddy din’t do nothin’ for anyone but’is family. Fine by me, he was a good’un, boy he gave’r to me sometimes.” Joe grinned, gazing with vacant nostalgia across the waiting room. “I needed it dough. A real shit.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Damin said.

  Joe shook his head. “Damin, ‘nough with the swears,” he turned back to Lou, “Kids’r the greatest, ‘specially when dey someone else’s.”

  The brought a fresh round of much needed laughter from Lou, for a moment he forgot about why he was in Canada, forgot about losing his car to a wrecking yard, and forgot about Denise.

  —

  “Mr. Genner, my name is Ketch,” the doctor said looking down at clipboard.

  “Can I get out of here yet?”

  “Not just yet, I’m going to give you a few Vicodin, use them sparingly.”

  “Right.” Maurice took the bottle and an accompanying note, and shoved them into his pocket.

  “That scratch looks infected, when did you get it?”

  He looked down to his forearm. A scab with soft white goop congealing ran six inches between wrist and elbow. Maurice was oblivious. The scratch was news to him, he assumed he must have taken the scratch during the crash. “I don’t remem…” he started and it hit him, Alice scratched him, bit him in fact. In the light and dark place.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No, ma’am.” He prodded at it.

  A knock came at the examination room door. “What is it?” Dr. Ketch asked over her shoulder.

  “I just got a call can you come out here?”

  The door closed behind the doctor, but Maurice decided he’d had enough of the sterility. A little sink sat in the corner of the room and before leaving, he scrubbed away the ugly slim crusting over his scratch, the skin beneath was bright red, but sufficiently clotted to prevent bleeding.

  “Letters. Nakiim oban,” he read upside down and backwards.

  The door opened as Maurice finished admiring the handy work on his arm. “Mr. Genner, I just got a call. The police say you were in an accident and they have some questions for you.” Dr. Ketch tilted her head, as if she had the authority to dole out punishment.

  “Oh, are they here?”

  “They’re on their way.”

  “That’s fine, I’m going to go tell my friend that we’ll be just a few more minutes and then I come back to, where? Here, or your office, or where?”

  “The ER waiting room should be fine,” she said.

  With an uncaring, slow-stepping gait, Maurice strolled into the waiting room and spotted Lou talking with a rough, elderly man. “Hey Lou,” he whispered.

  Lou turned to him. “We ready?”

  “Cops are on the wa—” Maurice began a warning, but the old man interrupted him.

  “Miikana Nabo, the trail?” Joe asked, his smile gone. “You’re missin’ a letter.”

  “What?” Maurice was all eyes.

  “Missing a letter on your arm, but I only knows de trail.”

  “Where is it?” Maurice tried to swallow down his rising heart.

  “You don’t wanna go dere. My granddaddy told me stories, get’cha self killed, bad plac
e. Evil dere.”

  Sounds like what we’re looking for then, doesn’t it? Maurice thought and looked toward Lou, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  Lou said, “We’re meeting friends. I guess we’d best get there and tell our friends not to go the hike.”

  “Best,” Joe picked the guide up from Lou’s lap and flipped it over, “damn. Dun’t near go high ‘nough.” He picked up a pen and found a picture of winter landscape to begin mapping/ “Kay, start where dat one leaves off, go north ‘nodder twenty-K.” Joe drew the rest of the map silently.

  It wound around a little, but followed one road and then turned to the east. Joe remembered every corner and every road name, jotting them down as he recalled.

  “Be careful. My granddaddy was a park ranger.”

  Lou squinted.

  “Dat’s why he slept in a teepee.” Joe grinned.

  “Joe, you’re an odd duck.”

  Joe’s eyes focussed. “Dead Man’s Trail.” He pointed at the letters on Maurice’s arm. “Not just Indian legend.”

  —

  The sky outside the hospital was bright and clear. A pregnant woman slid out of a cab. Maurice and Lou trotted across the lot and hopped in.

  “In a hurry?” the scruffy cab driver asked, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You guys mind if I light this?”

  “If you get us to a car rental place and out of this lot this second, I don’t care if you smoke an entire pack,” Maurice said.

  A cruiser pulled into the lot and Lou said, “Move it, would you?”

  The driver quickly lowered his cigarette. “Shitter, piggers’ll give me a ticket if they catch me smoking,” he said and put the car into drive and left the lot, putting his cigarette back to his lip once on the street. “Avis, National, Enterprise, got a preference?”

  “Closest,” Lou said.

  “I’ve been thinking, if you don’t want to do this, I mean it’s pretty dangerous and if you don’t want to risk it, you can wait this one out.” Maurice absently touched at the wound on his arm.

  “Yeah, right. So we going to the trail?”

  53

  In the rental. “Lou, can you try Rhoda’s cell?” Maurice asked. “Maybe that nut will answer and give us demands or something.”