Appalachian Galapagos (21 page)

His voice dropped to a soft whisper. "I prayed every day for her to come back to me…and now she's here. There is no other way to see this except for an act of God."

Her blue-pink fingers wiggled back and forth, water dripping from the edge of her nails. Her eyes darted back to me, daring me to speak against her.

"People don't come back from the dead," I said. "Whatever the hell this thing is, it's not Melissa. Any fool can feel that she's dangerous."

"Fuck you," he hissed, wrapping his arms around her icy corpse, his hot tears falling onto glacial arms with a soft hiss. The little girl giggled, her throat undulating softly under her motionless mouth as if there were insects awakening from within her cold flesh.

Michael flinched when she giggled like that, his body tensing. I think some part of him knew that what he was embracing was just plain wrong, but he was desperate. Hell, if I had been in his place, I would have done the same damn thing.

By the next morning, Melissa had completely thawed out. She moved sluggishly, with a clumsy jerking of her limbs—like she didn't have the ability to walk on her own and someone above was pulling invisible strings in lurching motions. Michael watched her with the guilty gaze of a heroin addict—a man who knew the absolute wickedness of what he was doing, but was unable to stop.

The snow had never really let up, and continued to blanket the world around us. Its usual serene beauty no longer made me feel safe.

She had no memory of anything after she'd died; she remembered only up to the point where she had drowned. At one point, they sang a childhood lullaby; Melissa perched awkwardly on his lap, a line of pinkish drool falling from her slack mouth. Her voice sounded far off, as if she were talking from a long distance away and was using her body as a receptacle. It was one of the most frightening things I have ever witnessed, and to this day, when I see that moment in my mind, I'm gripped by a wave of revulsion unlike anything else I've ever experienced.

Because it was also the first time I noticed she was decomposing.

Melissa's skin was turning slightly gray—no longer the pale white color of the snow she seemed born of. Her eyes, at first filled with moisture, had grown hard and black, not unlike the eyes of a doll. They did not focus on anything, only stared into nowhere, and I was certain that if I touched them, they would feel like coal.

"Her skin is rotting," I said, no longer concerned with treading lightly.

Michael ignored me, picked her up, and took her into the bathroom. A few moments later, I followed and watched from the doorway. I could only shake my head and fight the urge to weep. Michael had a tube of ointment and was rubbing it over her festering wounds, desperately trying to stop what he knew was coming.

Melissa just stared at me, her dark mouth like a third eye. Tear tracks glistened down Michael's face as he mumbled, his hands frantically massaging the medicine into her sores.

"It hurts, Daddy," Melissa said, her voice soft and vulnerable—yet more distant than ever.

Michael closed his tear filled eyes. "I know, honey. I'm trying to make it better."

"I'm sorry, Michael," I whispered.

"I don't understand," he said. "Why is God taking her back? She's dying."

Though I tried to hold it back, I gasped—the air fleeing my body as if from a punch. He was rubbing the ointment onto her bare back, the strap of her dress hanging limply to the side. Her spine was sticking through the rotted flesh, yet his fingers rubbed lovingly over the knobs of bone.

"She was never alive," I said, part of me hoping to destroy the abomination before me.

"He's taking her back," he said distantly. His fingers stroked her protruding spine obsessively. "He gave her to me to strengthen my faith, but now He's punishing me for questioning Him."

"If God gave her to you, He's a cruel God."

Michael buried his head into his daughter's chest. "Leave us alone, please."

"I love you, Daddy," Melissa said as I walked away. Her voice was far away and creepy, like a tape player with a low battery.

By the next day, the skin on her cheek had rotted away completely, exposing her cheekbone to the stale cabin air. Maggots could be seen eating the flesh on a wound in her forearm. Melissa could no longer speak, only moan softly in a queer sing-song-like melody. Michael continued to frantically rub her with ointment.

I cried as I watched them, wanting so badly to do something—anything—to stop the pain my friend was feeling, but I was helpless. We both were. By this time I was too far gone to help, too numb. Melissa's face had begun to sink, the outline of her skull beginning to take shape under her decaying skin. It was as if her bones were coming through, her flesh melting away like ice.

Later that night, the wind pounding the walls of the cabin, Michael spoke to me for the last time. "I'm going with her, Richard. I can't bear to lose her again. You've been very good to me. I'll always love you for that."

We embraced. Sometimes I can still feel his warm arms around me, and to this day I wish I had stopped him.

Michael picked up Melissa, who dangled like a rag doll, arms and legs swinging lifelessly as they moved. He did not look back when he opened the door and walked into the brutal wind.

I watched him carry his little girl into the sea of white, his dark clothing stark against the swirling snow, until he disappeared, the whiteness devouring him languidly.

When they found his body several days later, Melissa was not with him. He was leaned against a tree, his arms circled around nothing in a dead embrace.

Not a day has passed that I don't think about what happened to us at the cabin. Part of me often wonders if we both didn't suffer from some bizarre hallucination—or if I had somehow bought into Michael's fantasy of bringing his girl back to life.

I often think of them.

Even outside of sleep, I can still hear Melissa's laughter with vivid clarity—see Michael weeping over her decomposing body. My dreams have become infected by my experience that winter. I haven't had a good sleep in at least a year.

I dread the upcoming winter.

It seems I am never truly warm—no matter how many sweaters I put on. Often, I wake up in the middle of the night shivering beside my wife, my teeth chattering together.

I have my own little girl now, and I can't help but think of the cabin when I look into her beautiful eyes. Knowing what happened to Melissa has tainted the elegance of my child. She seems so fragile now, her life so fleeting, and it's not hard to imagine myself in Michael's place.

I hope my friend and his daughter have found some peace—wherever they are.

I know I haven't.

In Grandfather Mountain, it's legal once a year. Most of them complained. Some of them even die. But we give them fair warning. We tell them to get out of town.

Christ, it was only one day out of the year. That gave them three hundred and sixty-four days of freedom. You'd think they would take our recommendation. But there's always a few who ignore the call for
The Winnowing
.

Like three years ago, when a bunch of them grouped together with the serious misconception that they had strength in numbers. The sounds of their screams could still be heard in the musty darkness of town's alleys.

This year, it looked as if the pickings would be sparse. They had learned their lessons well.

As always, we had kept indoors all night, blinds closed. It was unfair to watch them leave, but I remember hearing their hurried shouts and the loud rumbles of their engines as they evacuated the town for a safer haven. Most of them used this opportunity for their annual summer vacation. So we weren't really putting them out.

Although they were loud, their noise didn't bother me. I couldn't sleep anyway. I just lay awake planning and promising myself that this year, I wouldn't come in second. This year I'd finally become Mayor.

Somewhere between retreating engines and the harried commands of some of my neighbors, I fell asleep. I arose with the sunrise at six. It was one of those breezy, clear summer days that promised grand adventure.

I had been on the streets for an hour. I'd already checked three likely prospects, but their Winnowing cards had granted their safety. This kind of hunting was for the initiate, however. I was just killing time, hoping to score a few freebies, until my great plan went into effect.

The shouts came from my left.

One, two then three voices rose in a howl as they gave chase. They whooped and swung their spiked Louisville Sluggers in great arcs over their heads, as they closed on the retreating figure. Like children playing a game of hide and seek, they ran and hopped and swung their clubs above their heads.

Their target scuttled down the sidewalk like a beetle on speed—remembering how he was supposed to move, distant memories of running and primal genetic residuals of the prey. His elbows pumped high, begging for extra purchase, hoping to make up for the inherent weakness of his legs.

The hunters' laughter echoed against the empty storefronts as they easily surrounded their prey. He swung his fists wildly, slicing air. His insults, if solid, could have surely wounded the Winnowers, but alas, as Jim, the barber swung his club in a backhand swing driving the spike snugly into the left ear, it was all semantics. The others joined in, but they were too late. The score was all Jim's. I caught Jim's eye, and gave him a respectful nod. He smiled happily, thinking his score mattered and moved with the pack farther down the street.

I had no worries from Jim.

He was a mere initiate.

A man with no plan.

The Winnowing had begun fifteen years ago as an economic measure to relieve the city's coffers of the tremendous financial strain that their kind caused. At first, it was scoffed at. Even when it was passed, few believed its tenets. But when the new Mayor was elected the next year with twenty-four winnows recorded and not threat of prosecution, people suddenly took notice.

The hydraulic squeal of a bus made me turn and smile. It pulled to a stop in front of my store, Grandfather Mountain Travel and Tours.

My great plan had arrived.

The door
shooshed
open and a wiry young man skipped down the steps, stretching his arms, flexing his legs.

"Are you Mr. Lopez?" he asked, eyeing the bat I was trying to hide behind my leg.

I smiled wide. "Why don't you go over to the grill across the street and have yourself some breakfast. Tell Peg it's on me. Order whatever you want."

His eyes brightened. "Thanks, Mister."

I watched him stroll across the street and disappear into the dark confines of the grill. I took a deep breath and mounted the stairs, the hairs on my arms standing up in concert with goose bumps of anticipation.

I stood on the yellow line you weren't supposed to cross and eyed the eighty passengers I had arranged to come into town for my Super Discount Appalachian Weekend Getaway. One hundred and sixty eager eyes stared expectantly from eighty creased, lined faces. Their excitement belied their over-the-hill bodies.

I had promised them in my brochure that even with their seventy plus years of life, they had never experienced a weekend like this one. I hefted my bat, admiring the seven spikes piercing the strong ash, determined to fulfill my promise.

"Sam,
somethin
' is seriously fucked and I need you here…now," Lenny said, his breath shooting into the telephone in stabbing thrusts. His voice sounded odd—almost like it was coming out of two mouths at once.