Transcription (2 page)

James shook his head. “No, but thanks.”

“Okay,” Bo said. He swung his leg over the railing and began to lower himself down. Just before his face passed below the edge, he said, “Hot!” one more time. Bo waggled his eyebrows. The balcony creaked as Bo climbed down out of sight.

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As the sun moved lower behind the building, the sky began to deepen to a rich blue. James took another couple of pulls from the gin bottle and twisted the cap back on tight after each one. He watched the dragon flies emerge and swoop around under the trees to pick off the mosquitoes rising from the grass.

James got ready to go back inside for his night’s work. Just the thought of it made his hand ache. He unconsciously massaged his hand again. When he flexed his right hand, all the joints popped on their own. James stood up and dug in his front pocket for the key to the sliding door.

After unlocking it, he glanced over his shoulder before he slipped past the curtain and closed it quickly behind himself. The room was cool and dry. It smelled of stale paper and ammonia. His stomach began to ache immediately. James burped up stomach acid and booze.
 

The room was illuminated only by a desk lamp. Most of the room was dedicated to tall stacks of cardboard boxes. Each box was exactly the same size. The only distinguishing characteristic was a handwritten number on the side of each. Most of the boxes in the living room had two-digit numbers.
 

The ones near the desk were the single digits. One and Two were already open. Three was on deck.

He looked down at the gin bottle, still wrapped in its crinkled paper bag. He leaned over the counter to the kitchen sink and uncapped the bottle. He turned it over and poured the remainder of the bottle down the drain.

James sighed.

He wasn’t going to let the alcohol cloud his judgement this time. As long as he didn’t keep any in the house, it couldn’t tempt him into another binge. James put the empty bottle on the counter and crumpled the paper bag before dropping it into the trash. He walked over to the low desk and slipped into the leather chair. It creaked and puffed up ancient dust as he sat down.

James flexed his hand again.
 

From a cardboard box next to the wall, he pulled a fresh yellow pad. He pulled his fingers, one at a time, until each cracked. He rolled his neck.

James whispered to himself as he thumbed through the paper-clipped documents in box Three.
 

“September 9. Let’s find something easy. Let’s find something I can stretch out.”

He pulled a thin set of papers from the stack and set it down on the desk. The type was faded and irregular—a product of a long-retired machine. James recognized the type immediately. His father had used many typewriters throughout his writing career. The one that had produced this was a grayish-blue Touchmaster 5. When he closed his eyes, James could almost hear the little ding it had made as his father clacked away.
 

The papers were worn and yellowed. When he removed the paper clip, the corner of the top sheet was soft like cloth. It wouldn’t last much longer. James made a mental note to reinforce the corner with some archival repair tape before he put the document away. He set his father’s document on the left and his pad on the right. He took a pen from the cup. It still felt strange between the clumsy fingers of his right hand.
 

With everything in place, he checked the calendar and then the clock. He had another eight minutes before official sunset. While he waited, he massaged his fingers one more time.

Back in Tennessee, his left hand had nearly given out. With a tremendous amount of effort and pain, he had managed to limp through the night, but the incident had put a scare into him. The very next night, he had started practicing with his right hand. It was tough to keep up his pace at first. He would concentrate too hard on forming legible writing, and he would slow down.
 

He was much better now, but his stamina was still lousy. He could sail past midnight, but by two in the morning, his hand was a mess of twitching cramps. Still, he wouldn’t switch back to his left. That hand had almost betrayed him. He would only use it again if he faced a dire emergency.

Three more minutes.

He picked up his bottle of eye drops and shook it. Empty.

“Damn it,” James whispered. He jumped up from his desk and ran around the corner towards the kitchen. He pulled the bottles from the lower cabinet and arrayed them next to his sink. From an upper cabinet, he pulled a large plastic bottle with black lines on the side.
 

“I got so wrapped up in drinking again,” he whispered to himself. As he whispered, he poured. He filled the bottle to the first line with distilled water. “Don’t even have time to do this right.”

He measured out a teaspoon of sea salt and added it. He shook that with his left hand while he used his right to open the bottle of colloidal silver solution. He filled his plastic bottle to the next line. Next he measured and added glycerine. He shook the whole thing as he ran back to his desk.

Sitting down, he looked at the clock. He had seventy seconds remaining.
 

James uncapped the little bottle and began to transfer his solution. His pour was smooth until the first alarm sounded. He sloshed some of his solution on the floor.
 

“Has to be good enough,” he said. He put the big bottle off to the side and snapped the dropper-cap back on the little bottle. He positioned it near his left hand and picked up the pen.

His second alarm sounded.
 

James began transcribing.

CHAPTER 3: SEPTEMBER 9

Story — September 9

T
HE
HOUSE
SAT
FIFTY
feet back from the road. Only one window was lit up. At the end of the drive, the door to the mailbox hung open. The barb wire fence on the left side was adorned with chicken feathers. Weeds grew up along the rough cut fence posts.

The man walked up the grassy margin of the gravel drive, so his feet wouldn’t scrape on the stones. He left dark footprints on the dewy grass. One rooster, anxious for the coming dawn, crowed twice as the man made his way.

The man paused and regarded the front porch from the flat stone that sat at the bottom of the stairs. The porch had a swing and two rockers. A cloth doll was the only thing making use of the swinging bench this morning. It lay across the seat with one tiny doll arm hanging over the edge, as if it had fainted.

The man turned and began to walk through the grass, towards the side of the house.

A low picket fence lined with rabbit wire surrounded the garden. He stepped over that. His boots made deep prints in the soft soil as he walked down the row of squash plants. One shoe crushed a cucumber that had strayed out from its vine.

He stepped over the fence at the back of the garden and veered around the bulkhead doors. He paused. The bulkhead had a hasp, but wasn’t locked. In the darkness, the man’s eyes went to the rust-covered hinges. He continued walking.

He stopped at the back porch. It was about half the size of the front porch, and had no chairs or swings. Next to the door, sat an upside-down peach crate. Next to that, the man counted six sets of boots. The two largest sets were about the same size. The rest were considerably smaller. The man considered the possibilities. He sat on the edge of the porch and slid over enough so he could reach the two largest pairs. He flipped them over and stared at the treads. The sky was beginning to brighten, but he had to move his face very close to get any detail. With one hard fingernail, he scraped some dried mud away from the arch. He returned the boots to their proper locations, and stared at the door.

Inside, wooden stairs creaked as someone descended from the second floor quickly. Fast on their heels, another person—this one heavier based on the depth of the creaks—came at a slower pace. The man moved with the speed of a snake and disappeared around the corner of the building. He pressed his back against the house and tilted his head until he could see the porch around the corner.

The screen door banged open, stretching its spring to the limits, and then slapped back into place. A young man took the second set of boots to the edge of the porch and flopped down on his butt. He dragged the boots on and laced them up quickly. He tucked his pants inside the boots and sprang to his feet again. He crossed the dooryard towards the barn. Halfway there, the young man began to whistle.

The man waited at corner.

The spring croaked again as the older man slipped through. He looked old enough to be the boy’s grandfather. He plucked the cap from his head and smoothed his hair back. The older man lowered himself to the peach crate and reached for his boots. His eyes landed on the man at the corner.
 

The old farmer saw the man for what he was—a snake coiled under a rock, twitching its rattle, and ready to strike. The older man forgot his boots and rose to his feet again. His eyes flicked to his son, who had just reached the barn and taken his whistling through the dark door.

Snake-man regarded the old farmer and waited for him to make the next move.
 

The rooster crowed.

The farmer made his move. He tugged the screen door open and slipped back into the kitchen. None of his creaky movements had betrayed the speed he possessed. Adrenaline had erased his stiffness, and restored the old farmer’s youth for a second.
 

Snake-man covered the distance to the door in two long strides. He caught the screen door on its second bounce and squeezed through it to find himself in the country kitchen. It still radiated the family’s heat from supper the night before. It smelled of fresh-baked biscuits and preserves.

The old farmer cocked his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. The barrel pointed directly at the Snake-man.

“Whatever you’re looking for, we don’t have it,” the old farmer said. His voice shook, but his hands were steady. His finger had already squeezed about half the weight of the trigger.

Snake-man didn’t reply. He simply advanced. With a cold flash of blue, he pulled a long hunting knife from the sheath at his hip.

The old farmer pulled the trigger and the gun emitted a loud, dry, CLICK. The old farmer had just enough time to glance at the rifle’s bolt before Snake-man reached him. He didn’t use the blade. The old farmer thrust his rifle with both hands towards Snake-man’s knife. The old farmer successfully pushed the blade away, but that wasn’t Snake-man’s intent.
 

Instead, Snake-man pushed off with one leg, and raised the other, driving his knee squarely into the old farmer’s crotch.

The air left the old farmer’s lungs with an enormous, “Oooff!” The rifle fell from his hands. It clattered on the wooden floor. Snake-man danced around to the other side of the old farmer and looped his elbow around the old farmer’s neck. The farmer struggled and gagged a little, but the light left his eyes quickly as blood was cut off to his brain. As the farmer’s body went limp, Snake-man eased his grip and let the farmer slip into the deep breathing of the unconscious.
 

Snake-man lifted the old farmer by his armpits. He raised the old farmer with silent strength and slid him onto the rectangular table. He slid the farmer’s legs around to the end and stretched him out on his back. The farmer’s breath rattled and his eyelids began to flutter.
 

Snake-man smiled and moved around to the farmer’s head. He laid his forearm across the farmer’s neck and pressed. The farmer fought for consciousness and raised his arms. His fight was short-lived. With the blood flow to his brain interrupted for the second time, the farmer slipped away again. Snake-man leaned in to feel the tickle of the farmer’s breath against his ear. The man was barely clinging to life.

Snake-man moved quickly. He collected the kitchen towels and sliced them into strips with his knife. He tied these together and lashed the farmer to the table by his ankles and wrists. He opened the farmer’s mouth and stuffed the rest of the towels in. The old farmer gagged and began to wake up again.
 

The old farmer’s eyes darted around. He kept his head still for a second, taking in the scene before he fought to get free. When he realized his predicament, the old farmer thrashed on the table like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Snake-man calmed him down again by showing him the knife and then laying the cold blade against the old farmer’s throat.

Both men froze as they heard a noise from upstairs.

The floor above squeaked with footsteps. After a pause, the steps headed the other direction.

Snake-man leaned in close to the farmer. He inhaled the old man’s scent and frowned in his face. The farmer’s eyes widened as he felt Snake-man’s blade slip under one strap of his overalls. With a flick, the fabric was cut.

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James swept over to the next line and anchored his wrist again. He kept the pace of his writing slow and even as he tilted back his head and used his left hand to squirt his homemade eye drops into each eye. The solution burned a little—he would have to throw out the batch and start again in the morning.

At least it worked. He didn’t need to blink too often as he worked. Blinking was torture. Every time his eyelids closed, the details of the scene lit up with terrifying clarity. As long as he focused on the words—the ones he wrote and the original, typewritten source—the images were just washed out ghosts. They were thoughts instead of experiences.

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The wife came down the stairs with the help of the banister. She turned and stooped to pick up a stick that one of the boys must have kicked under the telephone table. She tucked it into the pocket of her housedress as she pushed back up to her full height of five-foot nothing. She paused until the world stabilized and the black spots stopped swimming in front of her eyes.