Mississippi DEAD (10 page)

Grabbing the half full steaming glass pot from the burner, Kay filled a deep blue mug that had acted more times as a cereal bowl than a coffee cup. Walking back through the kitchenette to her bedroom, Kay crossed over the off-white tile to the laminate oak flooring which covered the rest of the living room and bedroom.

Passing by her bed with its piled comforter, Kay moved into the bathroom. She flipped up the lid of the small white porcelain toilet, pulled her black panties down with one hand, squatted, and took care of business. While she sat there pulling on the cigarette and sipping the hot brew, Kay could hear the drawl of Channel Eighteen’s news anchor, Veronica Hamilton, welcome everyone back from the last few minutes of commercials.

Not having to see the news anchor to picture her, Kay thought Veronica’s voice didn’t match her dark skin and mound of perfectly quaffed hair. Clearly not the normal image of a news anchor one would think of. Though the southern twang that hung on every vowel gave Veronica the spark one needed to catch the attention of anyone flicking through the channels.

Ms. Hamilton welcomed the local weatherman, Johnathan Bowls, who took over the segment while standing before a digitized map of Wisconsin. With a seemingly genuine smile, John went on to give the day’s forecast of perpetual sunshine through Sunday, followed by a smattering of rain, common with the month of March.

While she listened, Kay gave Mr. Bowls a forty percent chance his forecast would be correct. March was too unpredictable, especially in Wisconsin, where the snow usually covered the land until April set in.  In an unusual change, the past winter had been smooth and not the freezing cold that was usually the temperature early in the year. The light snow up north had been enough to give skiers a few inches of powder to play in, while not causing the roads to be slippery with ice.

Wiping and then flushing the toilet. Kay struggled to pull her panties up with one hand. She stepped back into the bedroom to hear the weatherman move onto the national forecast. Setting the mug on the dresser, Kay opened the second drawer and pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans. She started to pull them on in a one legged hop.

Half listening now, Ms. Hamilton thanked Mr. Bowls on a warm week prediction. Kay stumbled slightly. Taking the cigarette out of her mouth, she balanced the coffin nail on the edge
of the dresser, leaving the hot coal dangling off the edge. Pulling the snug jeans up, she sucked in her gut slightly then did the copper button, and then pulled up the copper zipper.

Kay pulled out one of her neatly folded tee shirts from the third drawer. Turning toward the TV, she pulled on a green short-sleeved shirt adorned across the chest with the Warner Brother’s Martian Manhunter looking angry. Standing with crossed arms, Marvin the Martian had his ray gun drawn, ready to do battle with Daffy Duck in his twentieth-fourth and a half century Duck Dodgers costume.

“This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the unforgettable events that took place in the quiet city of Plainfield, Wisconsin. Our Jeremy White is there now with a report,” Ms. Hamilton said, wearing a cheerful smile as she read. But did not really comprehend what came across the teleprompter under the camera.

The scene on the TV switched from the perfectly quaffed woman to a young man with golden hair, standing straight as a board. Behind the reporter, Kay could see the dark clouds hanging in the sky were going to make Weatherman Bowls wrong with his forecast of sunshine.

Standing there in a golden yellow jacket, reminding Kay more of a realtor than a newsman, Jeremy White had the usual good looks that would catch ones attention if they were flicking through the channels looking for something to watch. And the strong build of a linebacker, who hadn’t been good enough to make a living out of college football and into the pros. Holding a microphone with Channel Eighteen number below the microphones round black foam cover, Jeremy caught his signal that he was live and smiled showing chemically whitened teeth.

“Thank you, Veronica. I’m here in Plainfield, Wisconsin. A quiet town that, for most, is no different from any of the other small Wisconsin farming communities. Though fifty years ago, a middle-aged man, friend to everyone in this small community, committed the heinous act of murder and mutilation.”

The camera operator pulls back from Jeremy to show him standing at an intersection of two gravel roads. Cold farmland lay on one side of the road. Its rich earth humped in neat rows ready to be fertilized and planted. While on the other side, a plot of land stood, thick, overgrown and neglected. Years of growth of stringy bushes and trees had made the land a mass of confusion.

“Fifty years ago, a farm house stood on this land. Quiet, unobtrusive to anyone who passed by. Now, it is just an empty field. Hunting ground for locals…”

Leaving Jeremy to tell his tale of woe, Kay left the bedroom for the kitchenette and the bottle of aspirin sitting in its place in a cupboard over the sink. Vowing to stop drinking, Kay opened the cupboard and pulled the half empty clear plastic bottle down. Popping the cover off, she tossed two white capsules out of the bottle. Setting the cover loosely on top of the bottle, she placed the container on the counter and tossed the capsules in her mouth, swallowed, then took a swig from her mug.

Closing her eyes, Kay tried to will the headache to go away. After few long moments she knew the pain wasn’t going anywhere soon. Taking another drink, she stepped over to the fridge. Opening the heavy door, she bent a little to look inside. Nothing looked appetizing in the glow of the white light set in one of the upper corners. A jar half-filled with pickle spears, a loaf of wheat
bread, cheese slices, and the crumpled foil wrapped burger from yesterday’s failed attempt at grilling.

Pulling open the tiny meat drawer, she fished out a chunk of Colby Jack cheese in a Ziploc bag and closed the door.

Her phone started to ring in the living room. Walking to the couch, Kay looked over the back. The phone rang again, but she didn’t see the phone anywhere. With her free hand Kay lifted a few throw pillows, one after the other, and finally found the phone underneath the third. The black rectangle rang sharply. Kay pressed the talk button and she put it to her ear. The phones cord tugged her back down towards the couch where she had to look for the cradle stuck deep between two cushions.

“Hello,” she said, balancing on one foot, and wishing she hadn’t listened to her mother about having a hard-wired landline. Remote phones worked just as well and their bases could stay on the wall while the receiver went wherever was needed.

“Hey, K, you up?” the familiar bubbly voice of Anita Harper said on the other end.

“Yeah I guess,” Kay replied stepping over to the counter and pulling a sharp knife out of the silverware drawer.

“Work late last night?”

“Yeah, and one too many shots,” Kay replied, wishing she had stopped at one.

“You’re still up for tonight, aren’t you?” Anita said, referring to the little trip they were to take to Janesville.

“I guess.”

“You guess? Don’t got no time for guessin’. We got some ghost to rile up,” Anita said, her voice clearly excited at the thought of what they may find.

“Did you remember to pick up batteries?” Anita asked.

Breaking a chunk off of the small brick of cheese, Kay chewed loudly into the receiver, and lied, “Yep.”

“Well then I’ll be by at four to pick you up.”

“I’ll be ready,” Kay replied.

“Oh yeah don’t forget to get the batteries,” Anita said, hanging up.

Kay looked at the receiver. Anita knew her to well. Smiling, Kay hung up the phone and set the base on the counter with the empty Ziploc bag. Biting off a chuck of the Colby Jack she walked back to the bathroom and a hot shower.

Available U.S.

http://www.amazon.com/Welcome-to-Plainfield-ebook/dp/B00DPW9ISA/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1378419085&sr=8-1&keywords=welcome+to+plainfield

Available U.K.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Welcome-to-Plainfield-ebook/dp/B00DPW9ISA/ref=sr_1_3_bnp_1_kin?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1378419023&sr=1-3

Coming February 2014

Chicago Undead

CHAPTER ONE

Feeling hung over, even though I haven’t had a drink in over a week, I stumble off of the couch, which has acted as my bed for the last sixty hours. The sheet tangles with my feet. I kick it under the coffee table, and drag myself across apartment to the kitchenette that shares the same open space with my living room.

Grabbing the coffee pot, I look down to see a thick swirl of black dredge that remained from Friday morning’s breakfast. Disgusted, I pour the stale coffee into the sink, and rinse the pot. With my elbow, I turn off the tap and look through the coffee-stained glass.  I figure that it has a semblance of being clean.

I slip the pot back on the burner, check the water level in the reservoir,
then pull out the filter cup. The brown filter is filled with a hard block of dark grounds that remind me of a hockey puck. Tossing the solidified mess into the small trash bin underneath the sink, I rummage with my free hand through the cupboard left of the fridge. I find my can of Folgers and set it on the counter. Knowing that the package of filters always sat next to the can, I reach for it, only to end up grasping an empty cellophane package.

Exasperated, I pick up the can of coffee and toss it back into the cupboard. Before the little container can roll out, I slam the door shut. A sharp pain slices through my head, reminding me that I’m still not well.

I grab my best friend for the weekend, a bottle of aspirin, off of the counter where I had left it the night before on one of my many excursions from the safety of the couch to the toilet. Popping the top I down two of the white pills. Dry swallowing, I think about taking a few more, though the way my stomach feels, I don't think it's such a good idea.

The last sixty hours of life-draining flu virus that had hit me as soon as I had returned from delivering Mr. White’s corpse to the North Western Baptist Ministries in Guttenberg, Iowa, had been the longest of my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stay awake, and couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the nausea churning in my stomach.

The longer I stand at the counter, the more my legs feel like leaden logs that do not want to cooperate. I can get up steadily now, even though my knees are weak, unlike Saturday when I had to almost crawl to get to the bathroom. Thank god my apartment isn't too large, or I would have never made it in time for the numerous gut wrenching bouts with the toilet.

Walking to the master bedroom behind the kitchenette, I grab a wrinkled pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the laundry basket sitting on the bed. The soft comfort of my mattress calls to me to settle in for a few more hours. But I had lain on the couch for far too long, and know that I need to move about and get something to eat.

Popping on my sandals, I walk back to the living room and grab my wallet, keys and cell phone from the coffee table. Feeling warm light on my back from the wall of windows that looks out over a balcony to the Navy Pier and Lake Michigan, I head out the door.

Eleven stories up, I walk the clean hallway, decorated with photos of the Chicago skyline on the walls. On my floor, four other apartments exist in this wing of the X shaped twelve-story building. Each floor of the X has access to its own elevator, giving semblance of privacy. All of the apartments are occupied by a myriad of people who can afford such luxury.

I myself am not one of those people. I can barely afford to put gas in my car. But my grandfather, Timothy Briggs, had invested heavily in construction along Lake Shore Drive in the booming days of Chicago’s growth. And with that, he acquired ownership in numerous buildings, including the one I live in now.

At first, my apartment was to be a place for anyone in the family visiting the city to stay overnight. But after my grandfather passed away his assets had been sliced up between the children and grandchildren. I ended up with three thousand feet of prime real-estate, and a small stipend doled out every month. Not a whole lot, but enough to keep food in the pantry and gas in my car.

On top of that, I work with my dad at a job I don't necessarily want, but it pays the remainder of my bills. I help my dad at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home, with four convenient locations in the Chicago land area, serving all of your dearly departed's needs.

My parents raised me with ethics, and the mantra that I have to earn my keep. So after graduating high school, I went to the Lincoln School of Mortuary Sciences and got my bachelor’s degree.

So here I am, twenty-three, just off a gut wrenching bout of the flu, and a hankering for coffee. I know that I should eat, but the thought of food makes my stomach churn. Maybe I could hold down some chicken soup if the café on the first floor has any today. They rotate their selection of soups daily, and I'm not in the mood for split pea.

Hitting the down button on the elevator key pad, I wait a minute for the car to arrive. The doors open with a ding that can be heard down the entire length of the hall. Stepping in, I hit the first floor button. As the steel doors touch, the lights dim for a moment. I get a momentary fear of being trapped, and that the elevator will plummet the eleven stories, down. Leaving me a pile of goo crushed in a steel box of steel.