Dead Horizon (12 page)

“Yeah, we got it,” Pete said. He sniffed the air. “It stinks in here.”

Mabel admonished him with a look that reminded him of how his grandma used to look when she caught him stealing her fresh-baked cookies.

Bubba shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous and in a hurry to leave. “Where is he?” he asked, his eyes darting around the room.

“Don’t be frettin’ none,” Mabel said. “You just mind the business you came to do. My Floyd’s harmless most of the time.”

“Yeah, it’s the rest of the time I’m worried about,” Bubba said.

“Let’s get on with it,” Pete said. “The stiff’s in the truck. Where do you want us to put it?”

“In the storm cellar will do,” Mabel answered. “Take it the back way. There’s a metal table. Put the body there, then come collect your money.”

She waited until the hoodlums had gone outside before she took the money from a wall safe hidden behind an old family photograph. Banks were simply out of the question. Legal thievery, that’s all banking institutions amounted to. Mabel would watch her own money, thank you.

She counted one thousand dollars—the agreed upon amount—and stuffed the money into one of her nightgown pockets, then she went off to find Floyd before he found the two hoodlums.

* * *

“I’m stickin’ with breakin’ and entering after tonight,” Bubba said. “This ain’t no way to earn a livin.’”

They were in the storm cellar, and even with the overhead bulb, the room was dark and full of shadows where things slithered and crawled. The corpse was on the metal table now. They were just about to leave when Pete took an interest in the array of tools hanging on the wall.

“This old lady’s whacked,” he said, examining scalpels, bone saws, and several long knives. “These are morgue tools. I worked in a morgue. I know all about this stuff.” He took one of the saws from the hook. “This here is for cutting through bone. It’ll go right through a skull.”

“Aw, come on, man, put it down,” Bubba said.

“What, you scared?”

“I ain’t scared, it’s just freaky, that’s all. Stop playin’ a—”

Something shuffled behind them. They turned quickly, both nearly at the same time, and saw Floyd standing in the cellar doorway, his head tilted slightly to one side, a gaping wound in his neck. Half his forehead was missing. His ribcage was exposed and alive with maggots.

Bubba fainted.

Floyd shuffled forward, one leg twisted at an odd angle and dragging along behind him. Pete backed away. Floyd tripped over Bubba and decided to start eating him. Pete was slow to react. He didn’t want to let the thing eat Bubba, but he wasn’t going to make a move thinking it through.

He snatched a hammer from the wall and lunged at Floyd, swinging the hammer in a wide, powerful arc. His aim was off and he caught Floyd’s ear, sending it bouncing across the cold concrete floor.

Cursing his lousy aim, he drew back again, this time getting the hammer in a two-fisted grip and making sure his aim was dead on . . .

 . . . and then he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head.

His world went dark. . . .

* * *

“This will do nicely,” Mabel said. “Fresher skin lasts longer, you know.”

Floyd was on the metal table. Mabel leaned over him, working a needle and thread as she sewed his ear back on. Her arthritis was acting up, but she ignored the pain and kept at it.

A little pain was a small price to pay for her Floyd. She loved the man—had loved him since they were spring chickens. She couldn’t picture life without him. She’d do what it took to keep him with her, even if it meant patching him up once or twice a week.

She’d have to find new hoodlums to keep her supplied with materials now. She couldn’t be digging up graves on her own, that was a fact of life.

Speaking of hoodlums, one of them was coming around. He groaned. Mabel turned his way. She’d strapped him to a gurney, one strap across his neck, one across his fat belly, and another over his legs. He wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

“What the hell . . . ?” Pete tried to sit up. “Get me offa this thing.”

“I swing a pretty mean baseball bat for an old woman,” Mabel said, rather proud of herself. “I surely am sorry it turned out this way, but I couldn’t have you hurting Floyd.”

Her eyes moved past Pete, over to the other gurney. Pete followed the old woman’s eyes to see what had drawn her attention. He wasn’t sure if he screamed or if he only wanted to scream. What he
did
know was that he should’ve taken Bubba’s advice about forgetting this whole grave-digging business, but it was too late for a career change now.

Bubba’s face had been peeled off his skull, there were big pieces of flesh cut away from his arms and legs, and a large portion of his stomach had been sliced away to expose raw, bloody tissue.

“Don’t fret,” Mabel said to Pete. “I won’t be needing you for some time. I’ll see that you’re comfortable until then.”

She turned back to Floyd. “Come on, you old coot,” she said. “Best be gettin’ to your chores, and when you’re finished, I’ll make you some of that sun tea you favor so.”

Floyd swung his legs over the edge of the table and stood up. He was a bit wobbly, but he looked better all patched up with fresh skin. Bubba’s face had been sewn over what was left of Floyd’s decayed features, creating a mangled, mismatched caricature of a human being.

“I’ll look in on you from time to time,” Mabel promised him.

She took her husband’s hand and led him from the cellar, closing the door behind her, leaving Pete to scream in the cold, damp darkness while he contemplated his future. . . .

Unholy Matrimony

“Goddamn, there’s hardly a mark on this one,” Elroy said. “She’s one good-lookin’ bitch.” He was standing in a freshly dug grave, staring down into the open coffin. A big grin spread across his pock-marked face as he admired the blonde female corpse inside. “Beats any girlfriend I ever had,” he added, scratching the back of his head.

“She’s pro’bly a whole lot livelier too,” Cracker said.

Cracker’s real name was Jimmy, but most everybody called him Cracker because of the annoying habit he had of cracking his knuckles.

“Fuck you,” Elroy said. “When’s the last time you had a date with anybody ’cept your hand?”

Cracker was squatting at the rim of the open grave, licking his dry lips as he stared down at the dead beauty. “Wanna fuck ’er?” he asked, reaching down to squeeze the bulge in his pants. “Hell, ain’t nobody gonna know the difference. ’Specially her.”

Elroy couldn’t have agreed more. There she was, looking pretty damn fine for a dead girl, and he was feeling a little frisky. He chewed his lower lip, giving it some thought, then said, “I get first shot.”

“Suit yourself,” Cracker said. “She ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I don’t mind sloppy seconds.”

Elroy unzipped his pants and climbed into the coffin. It wasn’t long before he was grunting and thrusting his way to heaven. Cracker watched, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, eyes squinted against a rising curl of smoke. When it was his turn, he cracked his knuckles and climbed on top of the corpse. He spent even less time with her than Elroy. When they were finished, they went back to completing the job they’d been hired to do.

“Sick fucks, you ask me,” Elroy said, raising the dead girl into a sitting position.

“It’s money,” Cracker said. “A man’s got money, he thinks he can do any damn thing he pleases. Turns a man ’centric, havin’ all that money.”

“Yeah, well, whatever you call it—get her legs, will ya—sick is what it is.”

They hoisted the corpse out of the grave.

“Five hundred bucks a corpse, I’ll dig ’em ’til I’m one myself,” Cracker said. “I don’t care what they do with ’em.”

“I’m with ya, bro,” Elroy said. “Grab her feet, let’s get her to the truck.”

They lifted the corpse and headed for the beat-up blue truck parked a few hundred yards away. The tailgate was down. They loaded the corpse into the truck with two they’d dug up earlier.

Cracker reached for the tarp.

Elroy stopped him. “Almost missed this little goodie,” he said, slipping a wedding ring from the dead girl’s finger. “Can’t have her spendin’ eternity with another man while she’s wearin’ this.” He pocketed the ring. “A man wants to get married, he oughta do it ’fore he’s dead. “Me, I ain’t gettin’ married, dead or alive.”

“Yeah, like I said, they get ’centric when they got all that money. Makes a man do odd things.”

“Guess so,” Elroy said, shrugging. “Whelp, that about does it for the night, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I reckon it does. I could use a beer.”

They pulled the tarp over the truck bed and climbed into the cab. Elroy fired up the engine and threw the truck into gear.

“How’s it work?” Cracker asked. “What happens to the stiffs after we drop ’em off?”

“How many times I have to explain this to you? They got orders to fill. Rich old fuckers that don’t wanna spend eternity alone. Somebody does the ceremony while both corpses are laid up together in the coffin.”

“Must be a big coffin,” Cracker said.

“Maybe they pile one on top of the other,” Elroy chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind spendin’ eternity with that last one ridin’ my pony.”

“If I go before you, Elroy, I want you to make sure ya stick one down in my grave. A nice one, just like that little blonde back there. That’s my last will and testament, you hear? Promise you’ll get me one of those blondes.”

“Yeah, I’ll do it for ya,” Elroy said, and after a thoughtful pause, “Guess that makes you sick as the rich folks, though.”

“’Centric,” Cracker said, cracking his knuckles. “One thing, though,” he added. “Would ya mind not fuckin’ the one you dig up for me? I mean, she’s gonna have to be with me a long time and all. I’d kinda like to have her unspoiled.”

“Don’t you wor—”

A high-pitched wail cut Elroy off. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Aw, shit, where’d he come from?”

Cracker turned his head to look out the smudged back window. “This ain’t good,” he said. He turned back around, cracking his knuckles and looking pale enough to pass out.

Elroy pulled to the shoulder of the road. “Just try to act real calm and natural,” he said. “We don’t wanna give him no reason to poke around. And stop with the knuckles, will ya?”

The cop pulled up behind them and hit the truck with a spotlight. Elroy and Cracker squinted against the glare. A moment passed before they heard the shuffle of gravel as the cop approached the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“Evenin,’ officer,” Elroy said.

The cop didn’t respond. He peered into the cab of the truck, shining a flashlight around, his free hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

“We do somethin’ wrong?” Elroy asked.

“Little late to be out this far,” the patrolman said.

“Christ, there ain’t no law—” Cracker began, only to be cut short by a jab to his ribs by Elroy.

The cop glanced at the back of the truck. He looked into the cab again, paying special attention to Cracker. Cracker tried to meet the cop’s stare, but he crumbled under the scrutiny and faced forward, cracking his knuckles again.

“We was just takin’ us a drive, officer,” Elroy said. “A little bored is all.”

The cop walked to the back of the truck and shined his light on the tarp. “What’s back here?” he asked, poking it with his flashlight.

Elroy leaned out the window. He managed to keep his voice steady, but his heart was pounding in his chest so hard he was sure the cop could hear it. “Ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of trash I need to dump,” he said.

The cop glanced at Elroy, looked at the tarp again, then said, “Never know what kind of crazies might be roamin’ around out here.” He turned sideways and spit on the ground, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You get along now. Have yourself a good night.”

Elroy was visibly relieved. “Thank you, officer,” he said.

He cranked up the truck and pulled away slowly. The cop got into his car and pulled out behind them. Elroy checked his mirror every so often, silently praying the cop wouldn’t change his mind and decide to poke around after all. He sighed with relief when the patrol car turned off the road after a quarter mile.

“That was too goddamn close,” Cracker said.

“You almost blew it with that big mouth of yours.”

“Well, it ain’t right, roustin’ normal folks and all.”

“Stop your whinin.’ We’re almost home free.”

The mortuary was just up the road. They exchanged the corpses for good ol’ tax-free cash. So simple even an idiot could do it. They collected their money from a guy who looked like Lurch’s second cousin, and by the time they got back to the truck, the corpses had been removed.

Half an hour after the exchange, Elroy and Cracker were sitting in a cozy backwoods shack, guzzling cheap beer and broiling steaks. Elroy did the cooking. He never let Cracker mess with the food. Cracker picked his nose and scratched his ass, not to mention all the whacking off. Elroy wanted no part of that sort of thing where his food was concerned.

“Ain’t this the life,” Cracker said.

He twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of brew.

“You almost blew it all tonight, gettin’ wise with that cop like you did.”

“Yeah, well, no harm done.”

“I’m still jittery about the whole thing. I don’t think he believed us.”

“He let us go, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but—”

A loud knock on the door startled them. Cracker, who’d been lounging on a ratty couch, sat straight up, spilling beer in his lap.

“See what I mean,” Elroy whispered harshly. “The sumbitch followed us.”

“If he wanted us, he woulda got us while we was pulled over.”

“Who the hell else could it be?”

The knock came again, more insistent than before.

“Goddammit, we gotta answer it. Whoever it is knows we’re in here, don’t ya think?”

“You answer it,” Elroy said. “Let me do the talkin,’ though. I don’t trust you not to fuck it up.”

Cracker took a deep breath, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was sweating like a whore in church. He put on his best green-tooth grin and opened the door. The smile disappeared instantly when he saw what was waiting on the other side.