The Dead Parade (8 page)

“
I’m sorry.” James replied.

“
Then get off the square!”

James began walking, thinking that the girl was perfect for Springer. She was sixteen, big, and likely dumb as a stump.

“
Okay,” he said. “I’m going.”

Fans began booing and people threw things—nothing big, just cups and stuff. It’s the thought that counts.

Before long he was across the gym. He passed through double doors and made his way down a hall. He could see another hall and decided to turn left. But then came the shrieks and the screams.

He stopped cold and turned around.

The gymnasium doors blasted open and people poured into the hallway. Before long the hallway was loaded with spectators and ballplayers alike. Some people pushed in one direction, some in another. A woman tripped and was quickly trampled. Another got shoved into a water fountain.

Smart people hustled outside; others didn’t. Some wanted to see what was happening. These were the gawkers, the rubber-neckers; the idiots that created traffic jams every time someone had a flat. These were the local halfwits that could host a mob mentality in the blink of an eye. These were the people that watched seven hours of television a night and had a mouthful to say about everything; it was only a matter of time before they demanded answers.

What then? James wondered. Will they blame me for the horrors inside the gym?

The answer, of course, was yes. They’d blame him for everything they could. And if the mob had its way, he’d go home in a body bag.

A pair of teenage eyes caught his.

James had been recognized.

30

A girl with short pigtails ran past. James followed her into a crowd of hostile men, frantic ladies, and crying children. He made his way outside and discovered car doors opening, engines starting, people driving.

James ran into the parking lot.

A young woman jumped into a car and slammed the door. She drove over a curb and onto the street. Other cars followed. A Chevy truck sped past a group of distraught people and became locked together with a Sunbird in a congested huddle near the exit. A small accident occurred at the nearest intersection. Angry drivers jumped from their cars and shouted obscenities; the street became instantly impassable.

A few feet from the intersection two men began shoving. One punched the other. The other punched back. They began fighting. Another joined the battle before two brawlers––cloaked in the shroud of peacekeeping––stepped in, making matters worse.

A street-war was quickly brewing.

Then came screaming––not shouting, but screaming––and people turned their heads. Mouths opened and eyes widened. A scattered few began crying. Some began praying.

A boy that was lying on his back battled something nobody could see. He was sixteen, maybe seventeen. His arms were swinging and his feet were kicking. He had blood on his face and terror washing across his features like water. One of his arms suddenly locked in place, high above his head. His face turned pale and for a moment things seemed surreal.

Then his arm snapped, loudly.

People gasped.

And suddenly the crowd was moving away from the boy like a frightened flock geese, with arms flapping and their heads held low. No one wanted to lend a hand; very few considered the notion an option.

James heard his cell phone ringing; he ignored it.

Then a man with a tattoo on his neck shook James with a strong hand. “You can come with me if you want,” he said.

James nodded. “Sounds good.”

The man sat down behind the wheel of a classic 1978, two-door Mustang. Without hesitation James tossed himself into the passengers seat and they were off.

The man cranked the wheel and his arms flexed. The muscles on his tattooed neck bulged and the car spun ninety degrees. The car bounced over a curb; he drove through a soccer field. Tires shredded the lawn.

“
My name is Nash,” the driver said. He looked like a wrestler.

“
I’m James.”

“
What happened back there, man?” Nash said. “What the fuck is going on? I saw that woman getting killed in the gym… you saw that, right? Oh man, that was so fucked up. I think her head twisted in a circle. Did you see that? How is that possible?”

James coughed and looked the man in the eye. Then he looked down. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Just keep driving. Don’t stop.”

They drove in silence for five seconds before Nash slammed on the brake. The lawn beneath the two back wheels tore apart.

“
What are you doing?” James asked.

“
You’re that guy!”

“
What guy?”

“
The guy that ran into the gym! You’re the one that made this happen!”

“
No I’m not!”

“
Yes you are! Look at you! You’re him! This is
YOUR
fault!”

“
No!”

“
YOU’RE HIM!”

“
No!”

“
Yes!”

“
Let me explain!”

“
Fuck that,” Nash shouted, pushing James with his large hand. “Get the hell out! Get out of my car, man! I don’t want you in here!”

“
You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“
Get out!”

“
Wait a minute,” James said. He could hear his phone ringing again.

“
No! Either you get out of my car or I’ll drag you out by the scruff of your neck.”

“
Just listen to—”

“
NOW!”

“
I’M NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS FUCKING CAR!”

Just as James screamed the window on the driver’s side exploded. Glass flew like tiny diamonds.

Nash shielded his face and said, “What the fuck?”

The car leapt a half-foot and stalled. Then the invisible demon grabbed Nash by the hair and pulled him through the broken window.

The shattered glass treated him poorly.

31

Anne called James one last time. There was no answer.

Calling him was pointless. He was probably sleeping or watching TV. Or maybe he turned his phone off because he needed time to think. Or maybe he was with the whore. She had no way of knowing and it didn’t really matter.

She looked at Mathew, lying quietly on the bed. Did he really mumble the words, ‘Run James?’

Yes, Anne decided. He did.

But did the words mean anything?

After a long while Anne decided no, of course not. The words didn’t mean a thing. The boy was dreaming. That’s all. He was probably having a terrible nightmare, the poor kid. Mumbling ‘Run James’ didn’t mean anything.

Anne whispered, “James is okay.”

And for the next while, she forced herself to believe it.

32

James ran across the schoolyard, leaving the man and his Mustang behind. The girls with the skipping rope watched him run. Heading straight for them, he wondered about the boy on the bicycle and the old man with the grey hat. Where had they gone? Were they at the school now? Is pandemonium a magnet for the flesh?

The redheaded shouted, “What’s happening?”

James dismissed the redhead, and her friends, and he ran past them. Then he realized that these girls would be the next people to die and he didn’t want to have
that
hanging over his head. He had enough hanging there already.

James stopped running and turned around.

The girls stood together, watching the tattooed man being dragged—kicking and screaming—through the car’s broken window. James wondered how the little creature managed to break the window and pull a grown man through it. But this question––like many others––would have to wait. Now wasn’t the time for philosophy; it was time for action.

James screamed at the girls, “Get out of here, now!”

The redhead’s mouth dropped open, and the taller of the two blondes began running towards the school. It seemed that running was exactly what she wanted to do. Her strides were long and powerful. She ran as fast as her little legs would manage, faster than James ever could. The other two girls hesitated for a moment before following.

“
Thank God,” James whispered, watching them move. And when he heard his cell phone ringing again, he decided to answer it.

33

“
Hello?”

“
Hey lover,” Debra said, faking a sexy voice. “It’s me.”

“
Shit babe,” James said. “I can’t talk now.”

Debra’s manner hardened abruptly. “Why? What’s the matter? Are you at the hospital? Are you hurt? You’re mother said you were in trouble. What’s going on?”

James began limping through the schoolyard. He couldn’t run; he wasn’t even sure how he did it before. Adrenaline, he guessed. But his legs felt like they had been through a meat grinder, which was getting hard to ignore.

Needing an escape route, he explored his options: he could jump the fence again and return to Tecumseh Street, but he didn’t want to be near the fire. He also didn’t want to go near the school. That could only bring more bloodshed. So what was left?

James looked around. The girls were gone now and the tattooed man had stopped fighting. The little monster is following me again, he thought. “Shit.”

“
What? What is it?”

“
Debra, listen. I love you lots but I can’t talk right now. I’ve got to get going.”

“
Where?”

“
I can’t explain. I’ve got to go.”

“
Come on, James… tell me what’s happening.”

He walked faster. His eyes shifted left and right. Blood ran down his face and leg. “I don’t have time for this, okay? Give me a break, will ya?”

“
Just tell me.”

James huffed. “I can’t.”

“
Why not?”

“
Fuckin’ hell. I love you, okay? I love you lots. But I can’t talk on this fucking phone right now!”

Debra was infuriated. “Sure. Whatever. Don’t tell me. See if I care, ‘cause I don’t. I don’t care. I don’t care about us at all. I don’t even know why I bother having a relationship with you. Frankly, it’s not worth it.”

James hated it when Debra got her bitch on. It made him frustrated and annoyed. He said, “I don’t know what to say, Debra. People are being killed here; you get it? I love you but I can’t talk right now so please stop being a pain in the fucking ass.”

James killed the connection and slid the phone into his pocket, grinding his teeth as he did it. On top of everything else he was bitter now. He was bitter and aggravated by his domestic dispute. Sometimes that chick made him crazy.

He limped past a row of freshly cut shrubbery and over a small bridge. He followed a shaded path that led onto a street: Baldwin Street.

As his shoes touched the sidewalk a police car race by him. He stopped walking; there was a decision to be made: If he walked straight he would move towards Johnny’s house. If he turned right he would be heading towards home. If he turned left he’d move towards Debra’s condo, the hospital, and the police station.

But did he want the police involved?

Getting help seemed right, but being held for questioning seemed wrong. And he’d have lots of explaining to do. What would happen then, he wondered––when the demon arrived at the police station?

“
I’ll die,” he whispered. “And so will a lot of other people.”

With a sigh, James turned right.

He decided to go home.

34

He managed to jog a half block on his wounded legs before spotting a bicycle that was leaning against someone’s front porch. It was a woman’s bike with a purple basket on the front, which looked completely idiotic in his book, but the bike was just his size. He approached it optimistically before his heart sank like a stone.

The bicycle’s frame was locked to a railing that was attached to the house.

Frustrated, James blew a breath of air and kicked the tire, knowing he couldn’t steal the bike. Then he noticed a second bicycle lying on someone’s lawn. With a great deal of haste James made his way towards it. Sure enough, the bike was unlocked. He grabbed the frame in his hands and lifted it to its wheels. The bicycle was a five speed. His threw his leg over the seat and dropped his foot on the pedal. With a push he was off, speeding down the road.

Theft was easy––nobody even noticed.

He hoped.

As James made his way home he could hear the sirens blaring. He wondered which disaster he was listening to. Perhaps it was a combination of both: the Tecumseh Street house-fire and the Dolan Street High School evacuation crisis. He found himself wondering how many police officers, ambulance drivers, and firemen had their hands full.

All of them, he supposed… every last one of them.

Martinsville was not a big town.

35

A swarm of police cars surrounded his house.