Pale Immortal (23 page)

Travis closed and pocketed the phone, then stood up. "It's getting dark. I gotta go. Need anything?"

"What do you think?"

"Sorry," Travis said. "I really am." He looked around, picked up a blanket, and tossed it over Graham. "Things'U be okay. You'll see."

"I might die," Graham said. "Did you ever think about
that?"

"It won't happen."

But Graham could see the idea made Travis uncomfortable. "I'm probably dying right now."

"You just need to rest, that's all."

"My foot got cut half off by some rusty piece of metal." He didn't know if it had been rusty or not, but it sounded good. "I need a tetanus shot. I probably need antibiotics; otherwise I'll get gangrene. Otherwise my foot will rot and I'll get blood poisoning and die."

He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to see what damage had been done, but he made himself unlace his boot. "Pull it off," he said, extending his leg.

Travis shook his head and took two steps back.

"Come on. Don't be a chickenshit."

Guys like Travis didn't like to be called chicken. Travis stepped forward and grabbed the boot with both hands.

"Easy," Graham said.

"What if your whole foot comes off in the boot?"

"Come on. Pull it."

He gave it a slow tug.

Sweat broke out on Graham's upper lip. A second later his entire body was drenched, and the pain had him squeezing his leg with both hands and clenching his teeth until they should have shattered.

"Oh, man," Travis said once the boot was free.

The sock that used to be white was burgundy.

"Pull off the sock."

Using a finger and thumb, Travis peeled off the sock and dropped it to the floor. "That's some nasty shit, dude. I think I see a bone." He leaned closer. "Two bones." He looked up at Graham, who was breathing fast and hard through his mouth, still gripping his leg. "That is awesome," Travis said. "I mean, I can't believe you're not screaming your fucking head off."

"Okay, so now don't you see why you need to let me go? You need to take me to a hospital. Just dump me at the door of the emergency room. I won't say anything to anybody. I swear."

Travis's gaze left the foot he was still holding, went to an area near the door, then returned. "I can't do that." He let go of Graham's foot and began to back up. "Do you know what kind of trouble I'd be in if I did something like that? Man." He shook his head. "That would suck. That would suck so much."

Graham lowered his foot to the filthy mattress and propped himself up on his elbows, trying to concentrate through the pain-induced stupor. "Think about what you're doing." But Graham knew it was a lost cause. Travis had made up his mind a long time ago.

Travis spun around, grabbed a small paper bag from the church pew, and slid it across the floor, where it bumped against the mattress. "I brought you some stuff. A little something I ripped off from my mom. I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'll be dead tomorrow," Graham said, staring into Travis's eyes, hoping to draw out some spark of compassion. All he saw was nervousness and fear.

"I didn't bring a flashlight. I gotta go."

Travis slipped through the doorway. Graham listened to the sound of his feet pounding over the ground. Then he gave in to the pain and collapsed against the mattress.

Later, as darkness crept in through the cracks and around the corners, Graham forced himself to open the bag Travis had left. The brown paper was soft from being handled so much. Inside Graham found a beer, a candy bar, and a prescription bottle.

No water?

No real food?

In the dim light he read the prescription. Vicodin. No secret what that was for.

He twisted off the cap, shook the single pill into his palm, and downed it with beer.

He'd planned to take only one swallow, but he was so damn hungry and thirsty. He emptied the bottle in less than a minute. Next came the candy bar, unwrapped and finished off in five bites. Chocolate and peanut butter. He'd never been crazy about candy, but it tasted amazing.

His stomach must have shrunk, because suddenly he felt stuffed. He'd managed to forget about his foot for a few minutes.

He bent his leg to look at it. Thank God it was almost dark. Otherwise it probably would have scared the hell out of him.

Dizziness washed over him, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

Fainting.

He let go of his foot, straightened his spine, then tumbled over backward against the mattress, losing consciousness.

Graham drifted in and out of sleep. There were times when he awoke and knew his head was screwed up. His thoughts were weird, and they floated off in directions that had nothing to do with his present situation.

Other times he would wake up with a terrible start, his leg raw fire, his heart pounding. He was going to die here like this. Rotting on some filthy mattress in the middle of nowhere.

He floated___

And dreamed that animals were eating him, chewing on his leg. He could hear them munching. In his sleep, in the throes of his nightmare, he let out a scream that woke him up. He sat upright, staring into the darkness.

He'd never felt so alone in his life. The loneliness of this new existence was driving him crazy. From the corner of his eye he saw a movement. He gasped and turned.

Blackness. How had he seen anything when it was pitch-black?

From outside came a wail. He squeezed his eyes shut even though it didn't change anything, and he begged for morning to come. The pain in his leg was worse now. The Vicodin must have worn off. He grabbed his leg and rocked back and forth.

What time was it?

He couldn't even guess. Maybe early. Maybe before midnight. Or late. Almost dawn. He tipped back his head and let out a cry of frustration and rage and pain. And then he began shouting, crying for help. Maybe somebody would hear him. Maybe somebody would come.

Suddenly he heard a bird. Then another. With his eyes wide-open, he began to make out the vague shapes of pews, the altar, windows.

Morning was coming.
Thank God.

And then he heard a new sound. Something closer than the wailing. Something right outside, scratching at the door.

His breath caught, and he focused in the direction of the sound.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

A
raccoon, he told himself. He exhaled, then inhaled raggedly.

Black had turned to gray.

More scratching, followed by a moan.

A human moan.

The door couldn't be closed or opened all the way. It was always ajar. In that opening a hand appeared. Low to the ground, very near the floor.

A hand.

Followed by an arm and long, tangled hair.

Jesus.

A woman in a torn dress came crawling across the floor toward him, dragging a pair of lifeless, bloody legs behind her.

The fabric of the dress seemed vaguely familiar.

No. No, it couldn't be.

He had to be dreaming. He had to be asleep.

The woman tilted her head and looked up. He could just make out a single eye peeking between two curtains of matted hair that was tangled with twigs and moss. She lifted a hand—a broken-nailed, bruised, and bloody hand—toward him. In one long exhale, she gasped:
"Graham."

How many times had he had this dream? This nightmare?

Only this was real.

His mother.

Alive, her flesh rotting and falling off her bones right before his eyes. He didn't know why she was here, and why she was a stinking, bloody horror. It didn't make sense, but nothing made sense.

He tried to scramble away, moving off the mattress, his back to the wall, the chain pulled tight.

She was coming for him.

Her clawed, bloody hand latched around Graham's injured ankle.

He screamed. Then fainted.

When he came to, she was hovering over him, her hair hanging on either side of her discolored face as she stared at him with glassy eyes.

"Gra-ham." She spoke his name on a broken exhale.

This can't be real. This can't be happening.

It was a twisted parody of everything he'd always feared. It was like somebody had crawled into his brain, discovered his biggest nightmare, and presented it to him.

She lifted her hand. With a ragged nail she touched his cheek, scratching him. "You gotta get outta this place."

What?

Those weren't the words he'd been expecting. He hadn't expected her to be on his side.

"What are you doing here?" He pulled his head back into the mattress as far as he could, trying to get away. "How did you get here?"

"Your friends ... tried to kill me. They attacked me." Her sentences were short and broken. "Put me in the trunk. Thought I was dead. I could hear you." She pulled in a breath. "Talking. In the backseat."

Graham struggled to put it together, to make sense of what she was telling him.

She'd been in the trunk.
While they were laughing and drinking vodka, she had been in the trunk. That was
so messed up.

"They dumped me. In a well. I finally got out. Couldn't walk. Didn't know what direction to go. I think... I kept going 'round in circles." She touched his face again. "Then I heard you scream."

She was the person he'd heard crying and sobbing and calling for help.

He put a hand on her shoulder. That felt weird, so he took it away. "You're right. We have to get out of here. Now."

She looked down at the chains wrapped about his body and around his good leg. She looked at the lock. "The key? Where is the key?"

"I... I don't know." Alba probably had it.

Graham had a sudden flashback of Travis's reaction when he'd begged him to let him loose. He'd looked in the direction of the door.

"Maybe the key is stashed over there somewhere. I saw somebody lookin' that way." He pointed. "On a ledge, or under a stone or something."

Remaining on the floor, she pushed herself upright with both arms, swiveled around, and began dragging herself toward the door. That's when it dawned on Graham that both of her legs were broken. Somehow she'd managed to pull herself out of the well using only the strength of her arms.

For so many years he'd been terrified of her, resentful of her. Now, as he watched her struggle, tears burned his eyes and he had to blink them away.

Between ragged breaths she tugged up the flat stones of the entryway one after the other, occasionally collapsing while she waited for the weakness to pass.

"No," she finally sobbed. "Nothing."

"What about the wood floor?"

She shifted her body, then felt around between the broken boards. She pulled up a loose slat. "I see something." She stretched herself out to reach inside the gap. "A key!"

Graham's heart soared. Maybe they would get out of here. Maybe they would make it.

She dragged herself back across the floor.

"Here." He reached for the key.

She put it in his palm, her hand trembling violently. Once he had the key, she collapsed.

He was shaking almost as much as she was, and for a moment he thought it was the wrong key, put there as a trick, as a twisted mental game. It slid into the lock, but he couldn't get it to turn.

No!
It had to be the key.

His heart was slamming in his chest. He pulled out the key and jammed it in again, turning it back and forth.

The lock fell open.

He let out a laugh of exhilaration.

He unhooked the lock, then unwrapped the chain, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy crash. He didn't know where they would go, but they would run. They would get away and hide, then figure out the next move.

"Go!" she gasped. "Hurry! Before somebody comes!"

He looked at her in question. "What about you?"

"Can't."

"You have to!"

"I've been a bad mother. I want... to make it up to you. Let me ... make it up to you. Here. Now."

"You can take me out for pizza."

She laughed. She actually laughed. He'd never had much luck getting that reaction out of her.

"I wasn't supposed to be... a mother. The idea ... of being a mother made me sick. I resented it. I took it out on you."

"You hated me."

She stared at him for a long time. "Yes."

It was no secret. He'd always known. It had been hard growing up with that kind of hatred. He waited for her to tell him that she loved him. That deep down she'd always loved him.

"Go," she said. "Get the hell out of here."

He grabbed his boot. His foot was swollen, and he had trouble getting the boot on. The pain almost made him pass out again.

"Don't think about how much if hurts," she said. "Focus ... on getting away."

He stood up, keeping most of his weight on his good foot. "You can't stay here." He couldn't leave her for Alba to find.

He grabbed the blanket and spread it on the floor next to her. He somehow managed to drag her onto the blanket. She was light, but it wasn't easy. Then he grabbed two corners of fabric and began limping backward, pulling her across the floor, stopping at the door.

"You have to help me get you outside." He shifted out of her way. "I'll hide you in the woods, then come back for you."

She gave him a familiar look that was full of exasperated annoyance and disgust. Then she rolled to her side and started to squeeze through the doorway.

Halfway through the opening, she froze.

"Go! Go!" Graham urged from inside.

"Turn around," Lydia said quietly in a way you might talk if you were afraid of stirring up a mean dog. "Turn around ... and run."

Graham looked through the gap.

Alba stood a few feet away, his arms crossed at his chest. Beside him were Travis and the blond kid, Craig.

Graham turned and ran.

Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he skirted a pew and dodged across gaping floorboards to pull himself onto a window sill. Feet braced in the opening, he jumped, crying out and folding when he hit the ground.

On his feet again, he scrambled through the ragged underbrush, limping heavily. Behind him, he heard a scream.