John Dies at the End (9 page)

“Who?”

“Jim, your brother.”

“He just went down the street. He’ll be back any second now.”

“Dammit, I’m not gonna attack you. Didn’t he go to a party last night?”

Long pause. She said, “Maybe.”

Oh, shit, look at her. She’s scared senseless.

“Just outside of town, right? At the lake?”

She snapped, “You know where he is?”

“No. He never came home?”

She didn’t answer. She wiped at one of her eyes.

“The dog,” I said. “Molly, she was at the party. Did he take her there?”

“No. She ran off before that.”

So . . . the dog followed him to the party? It was there looking for Jim? Who knows.

She said, “I think Jim’s dead.”

This stopped me.

“
What?
Oh, no. No, no. I don’t think—”

She broke into tears, then choked out the words, “He won’t answer his phone. I think that black guy killed him.” She looked right at me and spat out, “Were you there?”

This was an accusation. She wasn’t asking if I was at the party. She was asking if I was at the scene of Jim’s death. This conversation was spinning out of control.

“No, no. Wait, the black guy? Is his name Robert? Got dreadlocks? How do you know him?”

She wiped her face with her shirt and said, “The police called.”

“About Jim?”

She nodded. “They asked if he was here but they wouldn’t say anything else. There was this dreadlocks guy, he came to the house a few times. He was on drugs. Jim works at the shelter for church and they do counseling and stuff for people like that. Sometimes people come here asking for Jim, asking for, like, rides or loans. The black guy would come here but Jim wouldn’t let him inside. Molly bit him. She ran out and bit his hand while he was talking to Jim.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. He was right where you are. He was yelling.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“He said a dog bit his hand. I think the guy was some kind of Devil worshipper.”

“Uh, that’s possible. Do you—”

“I’m closing the door now.”

“No! Wait! What about the—”

The door closed.

Defeated, I led Molly around to the back of the house where I found about ten feet of chain, ending in a broken link, where Molly had presumably snapped it the day before. So the dog had broken her chain, then walked seven miles to an empty field in a neighboring town where she somehow knew her master was attending a party? Come on.

I tied the chain around her collar and tried to make a knot with it. I climbed back into the car, saw that John hadn’t moved even one millimeter other than for the steady rise and fall of his ribs. Still alive. That was good because we had to be at Wally’s in a few minutes and I hadn’t been looking forward to opening the store all by myself.

IF I HAD
known what was about to happen at work I wouldn’t have gone, of course. I would also have taken off my pants. But I didn’t have the power of future sight—not at that point, anyway—and so I just sat sulking behind the wheel as we ramped into the parking lot to start the 7:00
A.M.
shift at Wally’s Videe-Oh!, where I had worked for two years, John about two months.

John was always bitching about “Wally” and how greedy “Wally” was and how he should have given me a raise by now. He didn’t realize that there was no person named “Wally” in the Wally’s organization. That was the name of the DVD-shaped mascot on the store’s sign. I never had the heart to tell him.

I parked and engaged in a discussion with John, transcribed as follows:

“John? We’re at Wally’s. You need to get up. John? John? John? You need to get up, John. John? I can see you breathing, so I know you ain’t dead. You know what that means? It means you gotta get up. John? Come on, we gotta go to work. John? Are you awake? John? John? Wake up, John. John?”

I finally climbed out of the car and walked around to his door. I reached for the handle, and froze.

His eyes were wide open, staring blankly through the glass. He was still breathing and blinking, but not really there.

Great. Now what?

If you’re thinking, “Call an ambulance,” I admit that’s what a smart person would have done. What I did was experiment for a few minutes, poking him and slapping him on the cheek and getting no response. Finally I found I could lure him through the door by taking his cigarettes and holding them out as bait. He walked like a sleepwalker, slow and shuffling, otherwise unresponsive.

Once inside I planted him in front of the computer behind the counter, reached around and brought up a spreadsheet to play on the screen in front of him. If anyone came in, he would appear to be sucked into his work on the PC. I looked at the scene, considered, then grabbed his right arm and propped up his chin with it. There, he looked deep in thought now.

I put away returns and boxed up Tuesday’s new releases so Tina wouldn’t have to. I pretty much managed to look normal for the few customers who accidentally missed the Blockbuster two blocks down the street. When I got some time to myself after lunch, I flipped through the yellow pages, picked up the phone stuck to the back wall and scooted up a chair.

Two rings, then, “St. Francis.”

“Yeah, uh,” I said awkwardly. “I need a priest.”

“Well, this is Father Shelnut. What can I do for you?”

“Um, hi. Do you have any experience with, like, demon . . . ism? Demonology, I guess. Like possession and hauntings and all that?”

“Wellllll . . . I can’t say that I’ve personally dealt with anything like that. People that come to me and say they’ve seen things or, say, they feel a kind of unexplained dread in their homes or hear voices, we usually refer them to a counselor or, you understand, a lot of times medication can—”

“No, no, no. I’m not crazy.” I glanced over at John, still catatonic. “Other people have—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. Look, why don’t you come talk to me. And even if you need to talk to a professional I got a brother-in-law who’s real good. Why don’t we do that? Why don’t you come in and have a talk with me?”

I thought for a moment, rubbed my temple with my free hand.

“What do you think it’s like, Father?”

“What what’s like?”

“Being crazy. Mentally ill.”

“Well, they never know they’re ill, do they? You can’t diagnose yourself with the same organ that has the disease, just like you can’t see your own eyeball. So, I suppose you just feel normal and the rest of the world seems to go crazy around you.”

I thought, then said, “Okay, but let’s just suppose I honestly, I mean, in reality ran into something from beyond the—
OW!
”

It was a pinch on my thigh, like a bee sting. I flung myself upright, toppling my chair, letting the handset bang off the wall. I shoved my hand into my pocket, tried to pull out the syringe I had lifted from John’s place.

I
couldn’t
pull it out.

The blasted thing was stuck to my leg. I pulled, felt skin and hair come loose. I hissed through clenched teeth, my eyes watered.

I yanked, tearing the syringe free and out of my pants, turning out the white pocket with it. I saw a dime-sized hole in the white fabric, stained red. I saw a drop of the black goo now hanging out of the end of the syringe. Now, I’ll try to explain this without cursing, but the black shit that came out from that motherfucker looked like it had grown fucking hair.

No, not hair.

Fucking
spines.
Like a cactus.

Did I mention that the stuff was moving? Twitching? Like it was trying to worm its way out of its container?

I ran into the employee bathroom, holding the syringe at arm’s length. I thought about tossing it down the toilet, had visions of the stuff multiplying in the city sewer, and then threw it in the sink instead. I ran out, got John’s lighter from his shirt pocket and came back and held the butane flame to the squirming blob. It burned, curling up and around like an earthworm. The end of the syringe browned and melted along with it, stinking like charred electrical wires.

The soy sauce, the black stuff from Planet X or whatever it was, burned in the flame until it became a tiny hard black crust in the sink. I shook it off the end of the misshapen syringe and washed it down the drain, ran five minutes’ worth of water after it. The syringe went in the trash.

I stumbled back out of the bathroom, shaking as if chilled. I picked up the phone, said, “Uh, are you still there? Hello?”

“Yes, son. Just calm down, okay? Nothing you’re seeing is real.”

There was a strange, venomous warmth spreading through my thigh.

“Look,” I said, “I appreciate your time but I’m really starting to think there’s nothing you can—”

“Son, I’m going to be honest with you. We both know you’re fucked.”

Pause from my end.

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Your mom writes on the wall with her own shit. Big changes are coming to Deadworld, my son. Waves of maggots over oceans of rot. You’ll see it, David. You’ll see it with your own eyes. That is a prophecy.”

I jerked the phone away from my ear, looked at it like it would bite me. I slowly hung it back on the cradle—

“David Wong?”

I spun around. A bald black guy in a suit stood at the cashier counter.

“Yes . . .”

“Detective Lawrence Appleton. Please come with me. Your friend, too.”

“No, I, uh, can’t leave the shop. John and I are the only ones—”

“We’ve already contacted the owner. He’s sending someone in to cover for you. You’ll lock the door on your way out. Please come with me, sir.”

CHAPTER 3

Grilling with Morgan Freeman

I WAS ALONE
in the “interview” room at the police station; the one-way mirror was to my left. In it I saw myself slumped in the chair, the disorganized black hair, the beard stubble that had crept onto my pale face like mildew on white porcelain.

Man, you need to lose some weight.

I had been in there for thirty minutes. Or two hours, or half a day. If you think time stops in the waiting room at the dentist, you ain’t never been alone in an interrogation room at a police station. This is what they do, they throw you in here to stew in the silence, all your guilt and doubts burning a hole in your gut so the truth can spill out onto the tile floor.

I should have gotten John to a hospital. Hell, I should have called an ambulance as soon as I got off the phone with him this morning. Instead I’ve fucked around for twelve hours and for all I know that black shit from the syringe was eating through his brain that whole time.

That ability to see the right choice, but not until several hours have passed since making the wrong one? That’s what makes a person a dumbass, folks.

Morgan Freeman stepped in and laid a manila folder before me. Thick paper. Photos. A white cop followed him. Something about their manner pissed me off; like they were swooping in on prey. I wasn’t the bad guy here. I wasn’t the one selling that black shit. But now I get to listen to these douchebags tell me everything I should have done instead of what I did? There was no fucking time for that.

“I want to thank you for coming down, Mr. Wong,” he said. “I bet it’s been quite a night for you. Been a long night for me, too, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay.”
You know what helps? A warm glass of go fuck yourself.
“Where’s John?”

“He’s fine. He’s talking to another officer just a few rooms from here.”

I actually couldn’t name the actor the black guy reminded me of, so I stuck with Morgan Freeman. Though now that I looked at him he bore almost no resemblance. This man was heavier, with round cheeks, a goatee and a shaved head. I couldn’t remember what he said his name was. His white partner had a crew cut with a mustache. Almost a G. Gordon Liddy, a cookie-cutter cop from central casting. I couldn’t help but think how much cooler he would look if he would just shave his head like his partner. Morgan should say something to him about that.

“John is talking?” I asked. “Really?”

“Don’t worry, man. Since you’re both gonna tell the unvarnished truth, you don’t gotta worry about your stories matching, do you? We’re all friendly here. I ain’t here to make you piss in a cup, or to lean on you about all that mess that happened your last year in school with that Hitchcock kid.”

“Hey, I had nothing to do with—”

“No, no. Don’t even bother. That’s what I’m sayin’, I’m not here to accuse you of nothin’ at all. Just tell me what you did last night.”

I had a knee-jerk impulse to lie, but realized at the last second that
I
hadn’t actually done anything illegal. Not as far as I knew. Sounding guilty anyway, I said, “Went to a party out by the lake. I came home just after midnight. I was asleep by two.”

“You sure about that? You sure you didn’t go over to the One Ball Inn down on Grand Avenue for a nightcap?”

“What’s a nightcap?”

“Your buddies were all there.”

Well, officer, I really only have the one friend . . .