Johnny Gruesome (2 page)

Shivering, he turned in a half circle and surveyed the deep end of the pool. Coach Bell had designated the last ten minutes of class free time, and a cluster of students lined up at the diving board, their hair dripping and bodies glistening. A girl in a salmon-colored bikini and a rubber swimming cap stood at the board’s edge, pinching her nose. As she jackknifed off the board, Eric glimpsed Coach Bell outside his glass-enclosed corner office, chatting with Miss Calloway, the girls’ phys-ed teacher.

With the swimming instructor preoccupied, Eric saw his opportunity. His chest swelled with determination. While some of his classmates swam laps on the opposite side of the pool, others played water polo in the deep end and splashed each other while treading water. As usual, nobody noticed him. His feet no longer touched bottom, and as he pulled himself around the aluminum ladder, he glanced up at the wooden bleachers.

Johnny Grissom sat alone in the top row, clad in his usual ensemble: faded blue jeans, a black concert T-shirt, and dingo boots. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders, glazed eyes radiating boredom. Eric hadn’t seen the boy in the water all semester. Johnny’s eyes settled on him, and he turned rigid. Eric had never suffered Johnny’s legendary wrath because he’d always been smart enough to avoid him. Now he felt as if he had a large target on his chest, a feeling that increased when Johnny’s thin lips formed a smirk. Looking away, Eric focused on the deep end. Reflections of the overhead lights danced on the surface as water polo players propelled themselves forward with rubber flippers.

Pressing the flats of his feet against the side of the pool, Eric imagined himself as Spider-Man, poised to leap from the top of a Manhattan skyscraper. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself forward, facedown. He sliced the water, cupping his hands and kicking his feet, chlorine burning his eyes. He turned his head, gulping air, and stroked the surface.

I’m doing it!

He couldn’t believe he had been so frightened by the prospect of swimming. What was the big deal? He never wanted to see a kickboard again. He paced himself, worried that his body would wear itself out before he reached his destination. As he turned his head to take a breath of oxygen, he saw the diving board ahead instead of the ladder. Somehow he had veered off to his right, away from the pool’s edge.

He tried to right his course, but water shot into his mouth and down his throat. Coughing, he realized he had stopped moving and his legs swung beneath him. His head dipped beneath the surface, his outstretched fingers grasping at air. Water pressed against him on all sides, distorting the sounds above. Gazing at the rectangular light fixtures in the ceiling with panicked eyes, he kicked with all of his strength. His head broke the surface, the murky sounds of oblivious laughter clearing as water rushed from his ears.

Reaching out in vain, trying to call for Coach Bell, he sank beneath the surface again, his heart hammering in his chest. He kicked his legs as if pedaling a bicycle and rose at a slower rate. This time, only his face broke the surface. Gasping, he flailed his arms, then sank again, lacking the strength to resurface.

Mom!

He descended into the cold blue world, his movements strained. A dozen legs kicked above him, too far away to reach. The flippers moved in slow motion as his heart sped up. His ears threatened to pop and his body convulsed.
Drowning
…

The water before him exploded in a concussion of oxygen, white bubbles blowing out in all directions and rising to the surface. A dark shape within the eye of the explosion turned and swam toward him. Excited shouts from above penetrated the depths. One hand snatched his hair and another spun him around, an arm choking him from behind. He clutched the forearm beneath his jaw with both hands and felt himself being dragged toward the light. As he broke the surface again, his wet hair plastered his left eye. Coughing up water, he gasped as the sudden intake of air seared his lungs.

His rescuer tugged him to the deep end ladder, where Coach Bell reached under his arms and shouted something unintelligible. Eric hugged the ladder, his weakened arms feeling elastic. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of his savior. The boy was treading water beside him, fully dressed, his black T-shirt bloated with trapped air.

Johnny.

The zombie’s head exploded in a shower of skull fragments and tumorous brain matter. The headless corpse toppled to the sidewalk, where its legs continued to kick. A horde of hungry dead things lumbered up the street to take its place, empty office buildings standing like silent tombs. A woman screamed, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.

“Shoot!”

Eric squeezed the trigger, inflicting serious damage on a mailbox and a streetlight behind the advancing horde.

“Shoot in the middle of them,” Johnny said. “You’re bound to hit something!”

Leveling the gun, Eric fired at the center of the undead army and held the trigger down. Two of the creatures collapsed before the gun stopped firing. “I’m out of ammo!”

One of the foul-looking creatures stepped before them. Its hair had fallen out and one eyeball dangled from a gaping socket, home to squirming maggots. It opened its mouth wide and bit down with rotting teeth. Bright red blood filled the screen, and an anguished scream issued from the surround-sound speakers.

“You’re dead,” Johnny said. “Move over.”

Eric slid to the far side of the sofa, and Johnny sat in its center, opposite the TV. Gripping his plastic gun in both hands, he fired a continuous burst. Heads exploded, hearts ruptured, and intestines gushed across the sidewalk. The score in the upper left-hand corner of the screen climbed until none of the creatures remained standing.

“Wow,” Eric said.

Johnny blew imaginary smoke from the end of the gun’s barrel. “No one’s turning me into a Happy Meal.”

A shadow fell over them. Helen Grissom entered the living room with a serving tray in her outstretched arms. Dressed in casual slacks and a sweater, she set the tray on the coffee table and placed a mug of steaming hot chocolate before each boy.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Eric?”

Eyeing the Oreos on the tray, Eric shook his head. “I don’t think my mom will let me.”

Helen’s warm smile failed to mask the exhaustion in her eyes. Even with makeup, her skin looked pale. “I bet she will if I call her.”

Eric’s face brightened. “Okay.”

Winking at him, she returned to the kitchen.

“Your mom’s cool.”

Johnny grinned. “I know.”

The game reset itself and corpses clawed their way out of graves.

Spring

Eric stood in the shadow of the silent house, toeing the cracked sidewalk, his back to Main Street. Cars passing over the wet asphalt sounded like hissing snakes. Clutching a fruit basket, he stared at the shaded windows. A barren apple tree and a tall hedge separated the yellow and brown house from the brick dwelling on its left, and a cherry orchard and grape vineyard sloped outward on its right.

Eric crossed the cement walkway and mounted the wooden porch steps. At the paneled door, he noticed the black metal mailbox bulging with unopened envelopes and magazines. He knocked on the door and waited. A moment later he heard footsteps, moving closer. The door opened, and a lumpy shape emerged from the shadowy interior. Charlie Grissom squinted at him through bloodshot eyes.

“Hi, Eric.” Charlie’s hair needed combing, and stubble speckled his thick chin.

Swallowing, Eric raised the fruit basket. “My mom got this for you and Johnny, Mr. Grissom.”

Grasping the basket, Charlie managed a painful smile. “That was nice of her,” he said in a monotone. “Tell her I said thanks.” He looked over his shoulder at the shadowy stairway. “Come on in.”

Eric entered the foyer. The TV in the dark living room cast a blue glow over the furniture. Charlie closed the door, cutting off the sunlight, and Eric’s nostrils flared at the scent of something sweet and sickening. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he spotted floral arrangements stacked along the hallway leading to the kitchen. The stems had wilted, and the petals showed signs of decay.

“I’m glad you came,” Charlie said. “Johnny needs someone to talk to.” Leaving Eric at the foot of the stairs, he retreated into the living room and collapsed into his leather easy chair. The glare of the TV glinted off a tall bottle with a black and white label.

Eric faced the steep stairway. Reaching for the banister, he climbed the wooden stairs. At the top, he gazed at the religious paraphernalia covering the walls: a plastic Christ nailed to a cross, a velvet portrait of Jesus weeping, and rosary beads. He looked through the open door of Charlie and Helen’s bedroom. The room looked untouched—
preserved
—and reminded him of the antique bedroom sets in the village museum. He knocked on Johnny’s door.

No answer.

He knocked again. “Johnny? It’s me, Eric.”

The door creaked open, and Johnny stood silhouetted in the sunlit bedroom. Eric heard a sniffle, followed by a wet breath. He slid the backpack off his shoulders. “I brought your homework.”

Johnny turned away. “Screw that.” He flopped facedown on his bed, his back to Eric. Reflections from car windshields glided across the high ceiling.

Eric entered the room. Posters of Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, and Michael Myers slashed at the wallpaper. Monster models stood frozen on the shelf over the bed: the Creature from the Black Lagoon, King Kong, and one of the Mole People. He laid the textbooks on top of Johnny’s narrow dresser. “I’ll just leave them here.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I missed the funeral. My folks wouldn’t let me go.”

Into his pillow, Johnny said, “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.”

Eric approached the bed, and a floorboard creaked beneath the worn carpet. “I wanted to be there.”

Johnny’s back contracted, and he rubbed his face against his right forearm, the bedsprings squeaking.

Eric didn’t know what to do. In the months he’d spent hanging out with Johnny, he’d never seen him cry.

“Why did she have to die?”

Eric turned to the door, wondering if he should call Charlie. “I don’t know.”

Sitting up, Johnny faced him, ignoring the tears that streamed down his reddened cheeks. “She loved God. Why didn’t He love her?”

Eric offered a helpless shrug.

“Everything’s different now.” Sniffling, Johnny wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Why do good people have to die?”

Eric had no answer.

E
merging from the brick Tudor house, Eric pulled the front door shut behind him. Icicles hung from the sloped roof like daggers. He shuffled through two inches of powdery snow to the black car waiting in the driveway, cold air filling his lungs and stark white filling his vision and causing his brain to pulse. The two-door Cutlass Supreme idled, gas fumes spewing from its exhaust as an electric guitar screeched through its speakers with digital clarity. The car looked like it had journeyed to hell and back, with varying shades of black and gray with different textures overlapping each other like scorch marks. A giant skull leered from a concentrated inferno airbrushed on the hood.