Good & Dead #1 (18 page)

Michael frowned at the nervousness in her eyes.  “You can do it, you know.”

“Well, you sound very confident,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“I am,” he said, looking at his sneakers. “I think you are the strongest person I know.”

“Stop.”  She shoved him gently.

“Hey,” he protested. “Ouch.”

She blushed as she put on her scarf.  “Thank you, Michael.”

Their awkward smiles were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“That was fast!” Charlotte whispered.

Michael hung his head.  “I am so, so, sorry for whatever happens,” he whispered.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

They were immediately assaulted by her flowery perfume and dazzled by her giant pearls and bold houndstooth scarf.

She opened her mouth to greet Michael, but stopped when she spotted Charlotte.  Michael could see which wheels were turning.  There was nothing he could do to slow their momentum.  Actual tears welled up in her heavily made-up eyes.  She walked right past Michael and enveloped Charlotte in a suffocating hug.

“Hello, Mom,” Michael said from behind her. “This is my friend Charlotte.”

“Friend?” she said, easing her grip on Charlotte. 

“Yes, Mom.” He offered her a hug as a consolation prize. “Friend.”

She pouted a bit but recovered quickly and offered Charlotte a handshake.  “Nice to meet, you.  I’m Mrs. Wallace.”

Charlotte shook her hand confidently.  “It’s nice to meet you.”

Michel saw Randy behind his mother’s back, returning from the garbage run.  He froze when he saw the three of them and backed slowly out of view.

“Where is Randy?” Mrs. Wallace looked around curiously.

“Um…” Michael began.

“Are the two of you just always together?” Charlotte asked, buying him time.

“Gracious, you have no idea,” Mrs. Wallace said, a hand pressed to her busy floral bosom. “Since grade school, dear.  Randy spent half his blessed childhood in Michael’s room.  We got Michael a bunk bed even though he never would have shared a room with his brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother, Michael.” Charlotte picked her purse up off the table and slid it onto her shoulder.

“Oh, so you two don’t know each other very well,” she said as though she was making many mental calculations. “We need to fix that, dears.”  She took a deep breath and smiled a shockingly large smile.  “I’m starving.  Where do you want to go?”  She wove an arm around Charlotte’s and started for the door.  “My treat.”

Charlotte was unable to fight off Mrs. Wallace’s advances.  Within minutes, they found themselves in a cab and, despite his mother’s insistence that they go to Michael’s favorite restaurant, they arrived at a swanky sit-down place that neither Charlotte nor Michael had ever seen.  Sam’s Original Pizza was, apparently, not good enough.

They spent most of the unrecognizable meal listening to Michael’s mother fill them in on the goings-on in the life of Michael’s younger brother, who had already graduated from med school, at the top of his class.  This lead to a comprehensive list of all his accolades upon graduation and a sudden turn to Michael’s life at school.  She didn’t like the ‘play nonsense’ and felt his time would be better spent on a second major.  Charlotte stayed still and silent, avoiding eye contact with Michael until the check arrived, when she glanced quickly up at him, barely holding in her laughter.

At least she thinks it’s funny
.

Charlotte made a brave and nearly successful attempt to escape after lunch, but after Michael’s mother fished for Charlotte’s midterms schedule and discovered her work for the semester was done, it was clear that they would be spending the entire afternoon together.  Three tourist attractions later, it was time for the play, which, of course, Mrs. Wallace had already purchased a ticket to.

It was the worst night they’d had at the theater, thanks in no small part to his mother, who sat in the front row and announced at random moments that the reaper was her son.  Michael apologized to Charlotte at least fifty times backstage before she finally made him stop.

“Michael.” She grabbed both his wrists. “It is O. K.”  She smiled.  “You just found out my mother is a prostitute and you still like me.  I can handle your aging Southern belle.”

His cheeks flushed at the feel of her soft skin on his.  He nodded stupidly.

“Though I almost lost it when she asked that transvestite where she got her bag.”

“Randy will be so mad he missed that.” Michael grinned.

“He deserved to miss it!  Did you see how he crept down the ladder?”

“Yes, I saw.  Worst best friend ever.  He knew what she’d think when she saw you there!”

“Well, he doesn’t like us together, remember?  I guess he thought your mom would take care of that possibility for him.”  Her cheeks flushed pink when she realized what she’d said.

Michael blinked and was suddenly very aware of how close they were standing.  He couldn’t look away from her blue eyes.  She released his wrists and took a step back.

Michael cleared his throat.  “I better go get her.  I’m sorry again, especially about the play.”

She shrugged. “You can’t win ‘em all.”  She smiled up at him very briefly before they awkwardly dispersed.  Michael looked back and caught a glimpse of her skirt disappear into the women’s locker room.  He walked to retrieve his mother with a gloriously stupid smile plastered on his face.

The high he was on from being with Charlotte was ruined when he remembered he had to sneak back in to the dressing room and take the costume with him.  It was stuffed into his bag, which now lay by his front door. Michael glanced at it from where he lay on the cold hardwood floor.  His mother had assumed ownership of his bed, citing “hotel diseases” as her complaint against other accommodations. 

He couldn’t risk getting too hungry.  But he couldn’t go out until his mother fell asleep.  Every time he began to rise she would snort and roll over.  It was almost three when he finally felt safe to go.

He crept cross the room and retrieved the bag and scythe, careful to avoid the creakiest boards on his way.

Bag in one hand and scythe in the other, he faced the window. He scanned the rooftops and the shadows for any sign of the nymphs.  He didn’t think he’d ever get the sound of their jaws shattering bone or their claws tearing muscle out of his mind.  He glanced back at his mother’s snoring form and closed his eyes.  He could feel the hunger stir inside him.  She wouldn’t be safe if he stayed in.  He had to go. 

He slid out onto the fire escape and took the steps as quickly and as quietly as he could. 

Michael jumped at a noise in the shadows of the alley behind him.  He spun around, half convinced he’d turn to see horrible fangs closing in.  But it was just that stupid cat again.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  He peered into the darkness for a long moment, listening, until he was sure he wasn’t being watched. 

He jogged to the more well-lit main street and yawned.  He would've loved to get into a cab, but he needed to be smarter than he had been on previous occasions.  He cringed at the stories the cabbies could tell if someone asked the right questions.  Walking was the safest way.  It was a good night for it anyway.  The sky was inky black and cloudless.  There was just the slightest breeze.  His sneakers were worn so thin he could feel the cold from the pavement on the soles of his feet.  After the heat of his apartment, the cool and the silence were welcome.

He wished he was just out for a stroll.  But his body and his chest ached: hollow and insistent.  He reached the end of his block and closed his eyes.

Right, left, left, seven blocks, right, left.

He took a right. 

Michael worked hard to pretend he didn't hear the voice whispering to him as pedestrians passed close by.  His heart beat wildly when he passed an alley with a lone, female occupant. 
It would be easy
, the voice called to him.  His senses reached out to her without his consent.  He breathed in her vanilla lotion, heard the steady beating of her heart.  She was small, and she hadn't noticed him looking. 

Michael forced his eyes and his feet forward.

He was startled by how tempted he had been.  He was glad he hadn’t put it off another night.  Each oncoming pedestrian, though completely unconcerned with Michael, was sized up by the unwelcome presence in Michael's head.  He pressed on, his head tucked down as if he was walking against a fierce wind.  He batted at the voice as he would a bothersome fly.  He knew he must look crazy.  He caught the eye of a teenager and felt his body lurch toward her small frame.  She screamed, and her boyfriend pulled her close to him.

"What the hell, man!  Back off!"

Michael stumbled sideways and took off running.  He had already waited too long.

He pushed his panic down and tried to focus on his feet and the direction they were going.  Streetlamps and traffic lights whizzed past.  He took corners so fast he felt his body lean into the turns.  He still caught whiffs of perfume, blasts of body odor.  He still heard their chatter, couldn't stop imagining the warm liquid pulsing through their bodies. 

Just run
, he told himself.  He repeated the directions over and over in his mind, counting corners as the streets swept past, ignoring the startled cries of dozens of slower pedestrians. 
Just get there
. 

And he did.  Before he knew it, the traffic lights and corners and dark stretches had led him to his goal.  He came to a stop at the corner of the back fence.  He wasn't even out of breath.

Okay, that is pretty cool
.

A flashlight beam shot across the grass, and Michael pressed himself against a light pole.  He waited there several moments before peaking.  There was barely any yard beyond the chain link, just a stretch of dead grass with an empty fountain in the middle.  The building towered above him with rows of dark windows peppered with one or two lights but otherwise dark.  No one was in sight.

He heard a group of teenagers approaching from the other end of the street; he couldn't afford to stay put.  Michael tossed his bag over the fence and followed nimbly, barely a rattle accompanying him on the way down.  He crossed the lawn and pressed himself against the brick wall.  His heart raced, but he forced himself to peek inside the nearest window.  He caught a glimpse of a patient in a bed, a book held in wrinkled hands.   

He crept to the window to his other side.  The lamp beside the bed was off.  The shaft of light that poured in through the window fell on an immobile lump under hospital blankets.

Michael tapped gently on the window.  The blanket lump didn’t move.  He forced his fingernails under the window and pulled.  It didn’t budge.  Laughter assaulted him from behind; he spun to see the shadows of the teenagers approaching the corner.  In a moment, they’d see him. 

Michael eyed the old-fashioned metal lock on the other side of the glass.  It was rusted through.  Michael pulled up hard.  The lock broke and clattered on the tiled floor.  Michael froze, but still there was no movement from the bed.  The window squeaked as though it hadn’t been opened in years. 

Michael hoisted himself and his bag into the little window in a matter of seconds.  He ducked under the window and watched as the teenagers passed by, totally unconcerned with the sleepy building.  The patient in the bed was sound asleep: gray nose hair fluttering in and out with cartoonish snores.  Michael reached out and carefully pulled in the scythe.  He unzipped the bag and got dressed as quietly as possible, his eyes glued to the man dreaming in the corner.  But he kept dreaming, even as Michael became the reaper three feet from his bed.  He thought briefly of waking him, but he feared the shock would give him a heart attack whether he was ready or not.

But the hollow feeling pursued him now, an inescapable companion, urging him onward.  He crept to the door and peeked out.  There was an unoccupied nurse’s desk at the far end of a long hallway and a light on in the room next door.  He scanned the ceiling for cameras, but found none.  He double-checked the mesh face-piece and pulled on his gloves.  He slid out into the hall and slipped into the room next door, as fast as any soul-sucking nightmare of the underworld.

A soft beeping filled the space.  The mauve and brown curtain was drawn.  Michael stilled his breathing and reached for it.  The metal shower curtain rings slid noisily across the rod.

"Who is it?" A tiny woman lay in the bed.

Michael drew himself to his full height and swept to the side of her bed, watching for her reaction.

"Who is it?" she asked again, looking right at him.

She sighed heavily, drumming her fingers against the hard cover of a book she held in her lap. 

"Yes," she said in a small but severe voice, "I'm reading after hours again.  What are you going to do?  Give me a detention?"

Michael glanced at the book.  It was in braille.

"I need help with this G.D. gown, anyway," she said, throwing off her covers and reaching both of her ghostly hands toward Michael.

Reflexively, he caught her weight on his arms.  She stood, and turned around, revealing her scrawny back and giant elastic-banded underpants.

"What are you waiting for?  Tie the stupid thing!"

Michael shook himself and blinked.  "Right," he murmured, finding the thin strings at the collar of the paper-thin garment and securing them with shaking hands. 

"I don't understand why I can't wear my own clothes.  It's not like you're about to rush me off to surgery!"

Michael fumbled with the gown, trying to find the second set of strings without touching any of her folds or wrinkles.  "It's, um, against our policy."  Michael's long sleeve got caught up in the ties and he had to quickly free his sleeve from her gown.

"Is it against your policy to let an old woman die with even a shred of her dignity?" she snapped.  "I'm not an idiot.  I know better than these quacks how much time I've got, and it isn't anywhere near as long as they told my children."

"What makes you say that?" Michael asked, finally securing the last of the ties.

"I was a cardiologist for thirty-five years.”  Her voice was sharp, intelligent.  “I've gone blind, but I'm not deaf.  That's not a murmur anymore.  It's a cacophony."  She adjusted her gown and prepared to get back into bed.

Michael glanced at the heart monitor.  Now that he listened, it was beeping at a strange pace; a sort of tremulous gallop.

Michael helped her keep off her IV lines and got her blankets situated.  She stared forward with an unseeing scowl. 

Michael couldn't help but pity her.  How terrible it must be to have everything stripped from you; trade your title for a room number and your home for a hospital bed.  She wasn't even allowed to keep her own clothes.  There was a little dresser just past the beeping equipment.  Michael pulled the drawer open with the toe of his sneaker.  Inside he spotted a scratchy-looking seafoam green suit-dress.  He glanced at the old woman.  Her body was so thin and frail.  She sat up stiffly, gripping her only avenue of rebellion: the well-worn book that lay in her lap.  Maybe he should just try the next room.

"Why are you still here?" she barked, glaring at nothing.  There was the smallest tremble to her bottom lip.  So small, he wasn't sure he'd have seen it with his mortal senses. 

"Are you…
ready
?" He asked.

She turned her unfocused eyes toward him.  "Ready for what?  To die?" she asked, surprised.  "You're a rather nosy young man, aren't you?"

"My apologies, ma'am," Michael said, moving for the door.  His head swam impatiently. The voice objected to the delay.

"My husband has been dead nearly ten years.  My eyesight has been gone almost that long.  My children are grown and moved away.  They didn't even come see me when they moved me to this God-forsaken place.  My friends are all either dead or sicker than I."

Michael stopped in the doorway and turned back.

"Yes," she said, placing her hands together in her tiny lap, "Yes, I am ready to die.  Wouldn’t you be?"

It took very little time to get her changed into her street clothes.  Michael was, given the state of hunger he found himself in, incredibly patient.  There were far too many ugly fabric buttons, but he managed to stay calm until she was settled back in her bed, this time looking like a stern librarian.  She had even pulled her hair into a tight gray-white bun.  Her glower was softer.  Michael even caught the faintest smile play across her face.  She was really quite pretty still.

“Thank you,” she said, her chest rising and falling in a deep, relaxing breath.

Enough already
, the voice said.  It would not wait another moment.  Michael held onto himself just long enough to close his eyes before his new side took control.

Her body flailed in shock when he descended on her, but she went limp with the first long draught.  Michael lost himself to the rush of warm liquid.  The same comforting renewal that washed over him the first time came again, more soothing than a hot bath and more gratifying than the breaking of any fast.  He inhaled deeply.  The warm, sterile air made his head spin.  He came back to himself as the last ounce of fluid left her body.  His eyes fluttered open, and he was assaulted by the strong smell of her medicated lotion.  He dropped her instantly, and she fell back onto her pillows, as white as the papery sheets that surrounded her. 

Her head flopped over onto her shoulder and her hands lay palm-up by her sides.  She could have been sleeping, if it had not been for the two round holes in her neck.  The monster inside Michael cried out in victory, even as the reality of his guilt ripped at his insides.  His eyes filled with tears.  He had to bite his own fist to keep from crying out. 

There was a click behind him, and a quick burst of static.

Michael spun to see the sweaty face of a short rent-a-cop, and the barrel of his gun.