The Dead Parade (7 page)

James forced another batch of coughs free and looked for Green-eyes. There was no sign of him.

The fire seemed bigger.

And—

The demon was coming. James couldn’t see it but he could feel it. Oh yes. The air had become as cold as winter.

It was time to get moving.

26

James limped down the street holding a hand against his forehead. As he glanced over his shoulder Tina hollered: “Hey asshole, whatcha doin’? Where ya goin’?”

She waddled after him. Her huge naked feet slapped the pavement and her nightgown flapped in the wind, but she couldn’t bridge the ever-increasing gap that James was creating so she spun her husk in a circle, yelling, “That’s the driver! Stop ‘em! Somebody stop ‘em!”

Tina had become judge, jury, and would soon be executioner if possible. James considered telling her to shut-up but it was too late, way too late. Several people were already upset, and soon they would gather in greater numbers––men, women, and children––pointing and shouting, alive with judgment and accusations.

With nothing to be gained by sticking around and arguing, James kept moving. He felt like a character from the twilight zone––the businessman singled out as a fresh meal, the housewife unlucky enough to win the lottery. It wasn’t a great feeling.

Tina raised her hand in testimony, and with her index finger angled outwards she pointed straight at James. “He’s responsible!” she yelled. “I know it! That’s the guy! That fuck-knuckler is responsible for everything! He’s no good! Somebody should stop him before he gets away!”

James stopped moving and looked back, but only for a second. He eyed Tina. He eyed the fire. He eyed the crowd. The unruly mob seemed to be growing. There were twelve of them now, a perfect dozen. Plus another twenty were on their way. They looked like protesters, angry and upset with the situation. And they were protesters, although most of them had not yet realized it.

A lanky black man was dialing a number on his cell phone and two teenagers were looking at the fire, then at Tina, then at James. They seemed ready to fight. A woman had her arms crossed. A fat man with lots of tattoos rubbed his giant knuckles into an open fist. A boy wearing a t-shirt that said: WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? THE JOKE’S IN YOUR PANTS, held a long, sharp stick. A dog barked and leapt from person to person. It was the same dog James had almost run down. In the area behind the crowd a fire engine parked in front of the house. Firemen were unraveling hoses and scrambling about like troops.

And Tina stood in the heart of it all, yelling and pointing and steering the mob with her poisonous tongue.

James was beaten. He limped on, but where was he going?

I’m running away from here, he thought. Away from Tecumseh Street, the fire, and the swarm of people that want to see a good man hang.

But am I really a good man?

Up ahead, two police cars raced towards the scene.

James crossed the boulevard in front of them and limped over a well-kept lawn. He moved up a driveway, zipping past a tall wooden gate, which separated the backyard from the driveway. He shut the gate loudly. With his hands on his knees he breathed deeply, stealing a moment. The August sun was baking him alive.

After James calmed himself he sized up the backyard. The yard was big and pleasant. A swimming pool sat between two rows of Easter Red Cedar trees, which were thirty-five feet high. Each row of thick evergreens was likely hiding a fence.

It would be tough to escape through those, James figured. Impossible even.

On the other side of the swimming pool long healthy grass was a day away from needing a cut. The grass was infiltrated with several gardens, flowerbeds, fountains, benches, and statues. The statues appeared to be Italian in design. At the very back of the property line, which was a considerable distance away, a mid-sized fence divided the posh yard from a schoolyard. James understood why the fence was exposed. It allowed a nice view and made things less claustrophobic.

With school being out for another few weeks the schoolyard was quiet. Only a few scattered people could be seen. Three twelve-year-old girls were grouped together: two blondes and a redhead. A rubber skipping rope dangled from the redhead’s hand; the blondes were bickering about make-up. Behind the trio, a small boy raced in circles on his bicycle. He sang tunelessly and couldn’t have been more than five. There was an old man with a grey hat, which was pushed to the very back of his egg-shaped head. He sat on a bench reading the paper. His glasses hung off his large, age-freckled nose almost magically.

And that was it.

Okay, James thought. The schoolyard it is.

27

A man with dark hair and a strong upper body opened a sliding door at the back of the house. He held a margarita in a fancy glass and wore nothing more than a red-and-white striped bathing suit, if you didn’t take into account the cherry patterned towel that was draped over his left shoulder. When he stepped onto the patio and noticed that he wasn’t alone, his eyes sprung open. A healthy blend of irritation and embarrassment washed his face clean.

“
May I help you?” the man said, pulling his baby finger away from his tumbler in a feminine manner.

“
I’m sorry.” James replied. “But this thing is chasing me.”

“
Pfft. Of course it is.” The unimpressed man rolled his eyes. It was clear that he didn’t believe a word James was saying.

Then suddenly––as if scripted––cold air flooded the yard. Margarita-man staggered and his eyes watered. His mouth popped open and his towel fell from his shoulder. He screamed––not in pain, but in shock. The cocktail slipped from his fingers and the glass fell. It shattered on the stone patio. Liquid sprayed, a slice of lime rolled, a straw went flying and ice-cubes bounced in the air.

The man—Stan was his name—stumbled against the side of the house and slid to the ground. His back scraped against the unforgiving brick, grinding a handful of skin free in a loosely curled ball. He toppled onto his side and reached for his legs. Then the skin around his knee wiggled and stretched. Blood sprayed into the air. As his meat was being ripped from his body and hurled across the deck, pain engulfed him.

The demon began crushing his throat.

Stan’s eyes bulged and his feet kicked. He said something but the words were hard to make out. It sounded like ‘save me,’ or perhaps ‘kill me.’

James covered his gasp with a hand. He didn’t want more bloodshed. He wanted everything to stop, but what could he do? What
would
he do? A man was dying here, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not after losing Joseph, and Penny, and Johnny, and the woman in the house, and her two children (or was it three?), and Sue, and the man he had run over with the car.

Oh God—

Did I run someone over?

Once he counted the probable death-toll terror seized him.

How much time had passed since Johnny pulled the trigger? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Jesus bum-fuck, thirty-five minutes ago James was ordering a pizza. How had things gotten so bad, so fast?

Everything was wrong today. Humanity, life, and the nature of things had all changed in the blink of an eye. What breed of world was this? Was anything possible? Was anything safe?

James staggered, much like Stan had. He had no beliefs now, none he would truly stand behind and defend enthusiastically.

Logic and reason had fallen.

28

“
Anne?”

“
Yes. It’s me.” Anne felt like a phony talking to Debra with a pleasant tone; she hated this girl. Her son deserved so much better, if only he could see it. But like most men, James was easily swayed by the charms of a smiling whore. And Anne didn’t want to fight with this whore. Not again. She didn’t want to spark up new problems or fuel the old ones. She didn’t have the energy. She didn’t have the need.

“
Do you know where James is?” she said flatly. “Is he with you?”

“
No.”

“
Have you talked with him today?”

“
No, why… is everything alright? Did something happen?”

Anne hesitated. A mother knows the difference between a rose and a thorn and Debra was no rose. She was probably lying. James was probably standing right beside her with his thumb up his ass, oblivious. “If he’s there put him on the phone, Deb. This is important.”

“
He’s not here. Why? What happened, Anne? Is James hurt?”

With a deep breath, Anne began speaking. “There was an accident,” she said, but then she stopped herself. She didn’t want to cough up any details. Debra had a way of turning information into weaponry. Her tongue was a sword. Her thoughts were a verdict. “You haven’t talked to James at all?”

“
No. I’m just waking up.”

“
Oh.”

“
Anne, are you telling me that James was in an accident? Is that what you’re saying? If it is, I’d like to know. I’d like to know if he’s okay.”

Anne tuned Debra’s words out. She watched Mathew’s shallow breathing. The boy looked more research exploration than child, being held by tubes, cords, bandages, and machines. He looked like something from
Modern Science Magazine
: the boy that should not be.

“
Oh, I don’t know Deb. I’m at the hospital now, and I’m busy. I don’t have time for details.”

“
The hospital!”

“
Yes.” Anne rubbed a hand across her face and discovered that she was crying. She said, “Tell James to call.”

“
But I haven’t seen him!”

“
I’m sure you will,” Anne said. She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, whispering, “You always do.”

29

The demon showed itself. It was a foot-and-a-half tall; it had dark ears and long strangely twisted teeth. Its huge black eyes took one-third of its skull. Its thin fingers had too many knuckles; they looked like broken sticks capable of moving swiftly. Turning its head, the demon’s eyes widened. Its mouth opened. Then it snapped its mouth shut and disappeared.

Stan—the man that wanted nothing more then a quick dip in the pool and an afternoon cocktail—screamed again. Something like a gulp was heard and Stan’s larynx––along with half his thyroid gland––was pulled across the patio. His eyes rolled back and locked into place. His arms and legs trembled. His hands opened for the last time.

As far as James could tell, the death toll had just reached nine. Or ten.

James ran past the pool, the Easter Red Cedar trees, the flowerbeds, and the fountains. He ran to the back of the yard where the fence stood tall. He threw himself upon it and the metal cage shook back and forth; it accidentally clipped his face. His fingers found openings in the fence and he pushed upwards. His shoes didn’t quite fit the holes but it didn’t seem to matter. His tongue skimmed across his teeth; he could almost taste the iron-copper flavor of Stan’s throat on his lips.

Or maybe it was the fence. His mouth was bleeding again.

James looked over his shoulder; there was nothing new to see. Nothing—but then Stan’s wife Emily appeared at the door. She had an oversized t-shirt from Disneyland covering the top half of her green bathing suit. She wore lime colored flip-flops beneath her well-manicured feet. She looked at her husband, the corpse. His blood had grown into a thick puddle. Her eyes expanded, her face turned pale and her shoulders slumped. A lock of hair fell across her pretty face. As she stepped through the doorway she saw James crawling over her fence.

James wanted to explain. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a sick, murderous fiend. It wasn’t his fault. He would never kill anyone—ever. Honest.

Emily started to cry.

James crawled to the top of the fence. Cold, hard, barbs ripped his clothes and skewered his skin. Little dots of blood began forming on his shirt. He didn’t care about the pain. He cared about escaping.

He tossed himself over the wire and landed hard. His knees gave and his legs crashed into his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs. His arms spun in circles and he landed flat on his ass. Then he was standing. And limping. He limped across the yard, past the trees, the sandbox, and the swings. He limped towards the school and noticed that the gymnasium doors were wide open. He wondered why, but didn’t really care. Maybe they were airing the place out. Maybe they were moving new lockers inside, or getting rid of the old ones.

But if that was the case, why was the parking lot loaded with cars?

Without much thought he ran inside the school and found himself standing in the middle of a woman’s basketball game.

A whistle blew. From the stands, three hundred and eleven pairs of confused eyes turned towards him. A strange, uncomfortable silence came. Then the people started yelling. The competitors began complaining. The referee blew the whistle twice more and approached James with quick steps and a sour frown. When he spoke, James didn’t hear the colorful words, only the angry roar of the audience.

James raised his hands in defense and opened his mouth. But again––what could he say? How could he possibly explain?

“
Whadaya think your doin’, huh?” A ballplayer said with a huff, looking down at James from six two.