Immortality has a price.
You only have to die…
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The Unsettled
by Michael Schwaba
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 by Michael Schwaba
Smashwords License Statement
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The Unsettled
Part I - Indian Summer
1
When the fall season moved in, Earl, the only barber in Waketon, Illinois, warned his customers to beware of an exceptionally warm Indian summer because it was sure to be followed by a blistery cold winter. One of his customers scoffed, “In other words, the same thing that happens every year.”
Earl had not been put off. “I got Cherokee blood running through two of my fingers,” he was fond of saying, “and it’s telling me that a storm’s coming. Indian summer will be late…”
Nobody gave much credence to Earl’s Cherokee blood, or his theories on the weather, but he had been right about this, and from then on, there were some in Waketon who felt uneasy whenever Indian summer approached, and not just because of Earl’s storm prediction. No one was gloomy about warm days and cool nights, or lingering smells of dried leaves and hazy smoke. But in the fall of that year of Earl’s forecast, when the twenty-first century was still several years off and no one was thinking much about it, it seemed certain, at least along the river, that there would be no Indian summer at all. The days of September instead had brought icy winds and stabbing rain across the plains and hills, bleeding away the final heat and dust of summer. The storms gusted for days, and everything natural that was not prepared for an early winter seemed fixed in time, frozen like a memory of some awful trauma. Woodland creatures were silent and hidden. People lit their furnaces, stocked up their woodpiles, put away their more genial thoughts along with their summer clothes and remained inside.
After the cold month blustered into October, warmer air finally swept across the big river and blew into western Illinois. By then a murky silence had settled in the minds of some of Earl’s customers, as if he was to blame for the storm.
He had, after all, predicted it.
2
As the warmer days of Indian Summer settled in and the wet ground dried, sunny days were dazzlingly bright. Evenings were free of mosquitoes and gnats. Nights were cool and clear, quiet and still…
A boy was waking up.
When he opened his eyes he was startled. He was lying on his back, staring into pitch dark. In a moment of panic he thought maybe he was inside a box.
A coffin…
Buried alive…
Instinctively he thrust his arms outward, but there was no box. He was outside somewhere, lying on the ground. He felt leaves and pine needles, and now as his eyes became more accustomed to the dark he looked above and saw the branches of trees and beyond them a sky full of stars. He was relieved, but now he was confused.
He sat up. He heard the sound of some forest creature skittering away through the brush. He felt his chest, then his arms and legs.
I have no clothes…
He looked around. He was surrounded by trees.
I’m not dreaming…
Even so, he felt he was in a dream. He was in a forest somewhere, but did not know where, how he’d gotten here, how long he had been here. Nothing came to mind. He was in no apparent pain. He was hidden. He felt no threatening presence of others around.
But I have no clothes…
He stood up. The dark shapes of the trees were more visible now. He looked up at the sky again and felt some comfort from the twinkling stars.
It’s cold…
He felt the coolness on his skin, but the chill did not seem too bothersome. He could see traces of his breath in the crisp night air.
My name…
He shook his head as if this would help him recall, but it did not. The only thing that came to mind was…
I’m twelve…
He moved around to stay warm. It occurred to him that not only did he not know where he was, he was not sure in which direction to go to get anywhere. He knew he would have to leave, to keep moving to avoid freezing. Anyway, if he remained here how would he learn where he was or what had happened?
Or who I am…
Then he heard a sound in the distance, the sound of an engine. It was increasing. He listened to the sound, heard it reach its loudest pitch and then decrease, still far away. He recognized the sound.
A truck…
It came from his left.
That way…
He began walking in that direction. There was some reluctance in his steps because the ground was hurting his feet. Also, it seemed important that he remain hidden, and not just because he didn’t have any clothes.
Be careful…
This voice belonged to someone else. He stopped for a moment to think about who had said this. Someone he knew. Someone whose advice was important. Critical to his survival.
Why? How do I know this?
He walked on, hearing another engine pass by, a car this time. He was getting closer to a road, but how far away was it? Another car passed by and he saw lights through the trees. He stopped, hesitant to go any further, staring ahead into the darkness, listening for another car. There was none. He advanced, deciding to walk to the edge of the woods before venturing any further.
Another car passed before he reached the edge. He stopped, close enough now to see somebody’s dark shadow inside as it sped by, and to watch the red taillights disappear around a bend in the road further ahead. He looked in the other direction at the road disappearing into blackness. He waited for a couple of minutes, glancing in one direction, and then the other. Across the road were more trees.
He walked out of the woods and observed that it was a two-lane highway. He moved to the middle of the lane closest to him and felt the asphalt under his feet. It was not as cold as he thought it might be; he thought he could detect some slight warmth. That meant - what did that mean? He stared down at the asphalt.
It had been warm today, during the daylight…
Once again he looked up at the sky as if the stars might tell him what to do. They were beautiful and silent. He looked toward the bend in the road and became aware of increasing brightness. A car was coming, and fast.
Hide…
He ran back into the woods and crouched down. He saw the car speed by. There were lights on top of it. A police car.
Avoid the police…
When it had passed he stepped to the edge of the road and again looked in both directions. He watched the taillights of the police car receding and became aware of a faint glow over the horizon, just above the tree line. The glow came from lights. That meant there was a town.
That way…
Now he could find out where he was.
*
After he had walked a few miles, hiding himself in the brush three times to avoid cars, he approached a small rectangular sign fastened to a post.
Kingstown.
The glow from the lights of the town was brighter now. Kingstown was perhaps a mile further. He saw that the woods had cleared on his right and that a railroad bed lay about thirty yards away, parallel to the road. The rails led into town, and he decided it would be safer to follow the tracks from here on. At this time of night, which seemed late to him, it might look suspicious enough for a lone boy walking through town if he was dressed, but completely naked? Even if he had clothes, he felt he ought to remain hidden, as the voice had advised. He looked once more up and down the highway, then quickly crossed the road and a narrow field, wincing with the pain to his feet, until he came to the tracks. He stood on the railroad ties and observed the shiny rails heading toward the town. He looked in the opposite direction and saw that the tracks curved away from the road and the forest and disappeared across a field.
He heard another car approaching, and he fell to the ties, flat on his stomach, until the car had passed. He stood up again, looked down the track leading into Kingstown, and walked carefully along the ties to avoid stepping on the jagged fill of rocks, but then stopped suddenly. He looked up to the sky, which was now filled with stars thanks to the clearing, and he experienced a revelation that left him momentarily breathless.
“Malcolm,” he said aloud, almost surprised by the sound of his voice. “My name is Malcolm...”
*
All was quiet as he walked along, and he decided that the hour must be late. Apart from hearing an occasional car passing through town, some distance away by now, he had seen no one, and on these tracks did not expect to. A large rectangular shadow loomed ahead, getting larger as he drew nearer. He was now approaching what appeared to be a long train. The endless freight cars stood coldly patient on a branch track, as still and quiet as the unlit station that lay ahead about a quarter of a mile. Even so, he considered, there might still be someone around, a guard or a watchman. Or the police. He stopped and stared down the long line of silent freight cars, and at the train station lying in shadow except for a couple of dim lights on the platform.
A deafening clang sounded from the cars suddenly being pulled. Malcolm was startled and fell to the ties again as he had before. He breathed heavily for a few moments, afraid that he had been seen. He suddenly realized that he was not alone, that somewhere up ahead in the darkness were two or three diesel engines with at least one person inside the lead, getting ready to pull these cars. There was another clatter of noise as the stretched cars released their tension, and all was quiet again. Malcolm stood, staring down the line of cars. A distant light appeared. He saw the outline of someone coming, faint at first, but getting clearer, and he was walking quickly. Malcolm walked around to the other side of the last car and moved away from the railroad bed. He saw some trees about twenty yards away. He ran for them and reached the safety of the trunk of a large oak just as a brakeman walked around the last freight car. He held a lantern in his hand and was checking the warning light on the last car.
Malcolm watched him carefully, relieved that he had not been seen, and then noticed a flicker of light to his right, beyond the row of trees that separated the tracks from a small patch of land. It was a small fire. He looked toward the brakeman who was now walking back toward the engine on this side of the cars, occasionally stopping to look inside a car or check a coupler.
Malcolm moved toward the fire and saw two men sitting around it. As soon as he was close enough to see that they were shabbily dressed he smelled food being cooked, and he was suddenly hungry. The fire looked warm, inviting.
For the moment he stayed where he was, out of sight of the brakeman, and out of sight of the two men, unsure of what to do. Then he spotted something light colored on the ground, several feet away. It looked like a rag. He crept over and picked it up. It was a towel, smeared with oil and grime and probably other things he couldn’t imagine at the moment. But it was large enough to girt his waist. He wrapped it around and winced; it felt cold and greasy, but at least now he felt a little less vulnerable.
He stared at the fire again, wondering if he should take a chance and approach. What would he tell them? What would he tell anyone?
Avoid the police…
Be careful…
As he reasoned with this implanted caution it was obvious he could not avoid everyone. Sooner or later he needed clothes, and the risk of getting them was greater in the daylight. When he found clothes then he could figure out what to do next. He took a deep chilly breath and shivered, and then advanced cautiously toward the fire.
The two men sitting by the fire were talking quietly. One drank a cup of whiskey; the other ate a plate of beans. They were well out of sight of the main rail yard, although they were still on railroad property. The brakeman and engineer knew they were there. They were familiar with the two drifters and let them stay. The drifters always built a small fire and made sure it was well out before they left and hopped the freight. Most of the time the trainmen ignored them.
They didn’t notice Malcolm until he came out from the shadows and stood a few feet away. They stopped talking and turned their heads toward him in numb surprise. For a moment they were speechless. Standing suddenly in front of them was a gangly young pup with long blond hair hanging past his ears, wearing nothing but a dirty rag around his waist, not even shoes. His face and body were smudged with dirt and creosote oil. He looked more miserable than a cat in the rain.
“What in the hell…” the one with the whiskey said.
“Where’d you come from?” the other said.
Malcolm shrugged nervously, not knowing what to tell them. “I’m cold,” he said after a moment, “Can I warm up for a minute?”
The two men didn’t answer at first, just continued to stare at him. Then the one with the whiskey laughed. He nudged his friend. “Now here’s somethin’ you don’t see everyday.” They both laughed. The man with the beans made room and moved a sawed-off log over to him. “Sure, sit down on that stump, boy.”
Malcolm sat, looking uneasily at both of them, then shivered when he felt the small heat of the fire. He moved his feet closer. “Thanks.”
The one with the whiskey gulped down the last swallow in his cup, still staring at him. “Now what in the hell is a good looking kid like you doin’ with…” He gestured, not knowing how to finish, and the two men laughed again. The other man leaned forward. “What happened to you, boy? You get rolled?”
Rolled…
Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. I got – I got rolled.” He shivered. “Some friends of mine stole my clothes as a joke.”
The two men laughed again. “That’s a good one,” whiskey man said.
“You from around here?” bean man asked.
“No – I mean, yeah – I mean I’m from, uh…” Malcolm tried to think. Now even his brain was feeling cold.
“You from Waketon?” whiskey man asked.
Waketon…
The name resounded in his head; he didn’t know why. But it sounded right. From the way he said it, it sounded close.
“Yeah, I’m from Waketon.”
Bean man nodded with a grin on his face. “Well you got a few miles to go yet afore you get home, boy. You got a car?”
Malcolm shook his head and looked around. “Can you tell me which way it is from here?”
Whiskey man whistled. “No car either?”
Bean man motioned with his thumb. “Waketon’s about twenty miles straight up that track there. But I’m a little surprised you don’t know that if you’re from around here like you say you are.”
“Well, I haven’t been here long,” Malcolm said. If he wasn’t in such an embarrassing position, he almost could have smiled at the irony of his words.
“Pickin’ on the new kid, I guess,” whiskey man said. “Some things never change.”
Bean man laughed and motioned again. “That there freight’s goin’ right through Waketon.” Malcolm looked at the freight cars. “Leavin’ in about ten minutes, according to my watch.”
“Can you…” Malcolm shivered again, “Can you tell me what time it is?” He decided he’d better not ask them what day it was, or what year.
“Well, I can tell you it’s round about three-fifteen in the morning ‘cause that’s when this train leaves the station, and that’s when we’re leaving too.”
“You’re getting on?”
“We’re getting on.”
Whiskey man poured some whiskey and handed Malcolm his cup. “You look cold, boy. Why don’t you drink some of this? It’ll warm that body of yours.” Malcolm took the cup, looked inside, sniffed it. Whiskey man laughed. “Go on, boy, take a gulp. In fact down it all. You won’t feel no more cold after that.”
Bean man said, “You hungry, boy?” Malcolm nodded. Bean man gave him the last of the beans. “Here, eat this down. Beans and whiskey’ll fix you up in no time.”
“Thanks,” Malcolm said with a shiver. He took a tentative sip of the whiskey and shook his head after it went down. The men laughed. Malcolm said, “Do you – either of you – have any clothes I could borrow?”
The men laughed again. “You wanna borrow ‘em?” bean man said, “You gonna give ‘em back?”
Malcolm managed a quick embarrassed smile. “I mean – do you have any clothes I could have?”
“Well that’s different. Sure boy, I got some clothes you could have. I got my rucksack over there behind that pile of timbers. We’re about the same height, although I think I got quite a few pounds on you.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem. Finish your beans and whiskey.”
“Yeah,” whiskey man said, “Why don’t you go look through your wardrobe, Carl, and find this good-looking young buck something proper to wear while he finishes his dinner?”
“Sure thing,” Carl said, getting up. He went over to the timber pile a few feet away and disappeared behind it. “Now let me see here…”
“What’s your name, kid?” whiskey man asked.
“Malcolm.”
“Malcolm? Well, ain’t that a nice name? You’re a good-looking kid, Malcolm.”
Malcolm finished the beans, not answering. When he was finished he put the plate down. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” whiskey man said, “I’m Harvey, and that’s Carl behind the wood stack.”
Malcolm nodded. Harvey stuck out his hand, and Malcolm stared at it for a moment and then took it. Harvey squeezed it tight at first, then loosened his grip but did not let go. His thumb ran lightly over his skin before letting go and for a moment he looked into Malcolm’s eyes and winked. “Go on and finish that whiskey,” he said, “It’ll warm you up. Hey Carl, you found anything yet? This young buck’s freezing his balls off.”
“I’m workin’ on it,” Carl said.
Malcolm finished the whiskey and widened his eyes at the sensation he was feeling in his head. He couldn’t recall if he’d ever drunk whiskey before. Harvey laughed and poured him some more. Malcolm shook his head. “Go on,” Harvey said, “One more for the road. Then we’ll get you dressed and give you a ride to Waketon. How’s that sound?”
Malcolm nodded. “Sounds fine.” He drank the whiskey and breathed out a warm sigh. He felt the burn in his stomach. It did feel kind of good; and he wasn’t as cold as he was a few minutes ago.
“I got something for you, boy!” Carl said, “Come on back here and try it on…”
Malcolm stood up, weaving a little. He suddenly wished he hadn’t drunk the whiskey. “Easy does it,” Harvey said, helping him by the arm, “Over here, by the timbers. Watch out for busted glass.” He gently eased Malcolm behind the timber pile and followed him.
Malcolm saw Carl with a grin on his face, then looked down, expecting to see his suitcase, or his pack, or Carl holding a shirt and pants, or something. But there was nothing there, just a bunch of stacked timbers and dirt and rocks…and Carl standing there, grinning. For a moment Malcolm froze. Nothing clicked at first except the sudden sight of Carl’s dick hanging out. It didn’t register to Malcolm that he was in any kind of trouble. It was just Carl standing there like he was getting ready to piss. Except for that awful grin. For a moment Malcolm was hypnotized by the sight, and then something in his stomach turned sour. Suddenly Harvey grabbed him and spun him around and in a matter of seconds got Malcolm bent over in a headlock. “Hurry up,” Harvey said, “Train’s leaving soon and I want my turn.”
Carl giggled. “Let’s get it on before we get on.” He grabbed Malcolm’s towel and ripped it off, stared for a moment at his cheeks, then ran his hand over them. “This is gonna be sweet,” he said. Malcolm started struggling and kicking, and Carl was having a hard time getting himself lined up. He punched Malcolm hard in the ribs, and Malcolm grunted and stopped fighting. “That’s better,” Carl said, “No sense fighting. Otherwise we’ll all miss the train.” Harvey laughed. “Good one, Carl.”
Malcolm forgot about the cold. Harvey’s tight grip was choking him. His head felt squeezed, as if it might burst. His body was like a coiled spring. He realized there was nothing he could do, and so he braced himself for the inevitable. In his awkward position he was staring down at the ground, at Harvey’s worn shoes. Carl’s hands were rough and awkward.
Suddenly Malcolm saw a pair of black boots appear next to Harvey’s legs. Tight-fitting knee-high boots over black jeans. He was so startled by the sight that for a moment he forgot what was happening. He heard Harvey grunt painfully and felt his grip loosen. Malcolm looked up and saw a woman – he thought it was a woman – holding Harvey by his hair. She yanked his head back roughly and jabbed him in the throat with her other hand. Harvey’s eyes bulged and he started choking. He fell backward with his hands on his throat, trying to breathe.
Carl stared, so shocked by the woman’s appearance that it didn’t occur to him to zip up his fly. She was tall and obviously strong. She had a jean jacket on, short dark messy hair…
And her eyes…
When Carl saw her eyes he was convinced the devil had suddenly showed up to claim some new residents. Her eyes were black, so dark he couldn’t see any whites at all. Her teeth formed into a cruel grin. He was so transfixed by the ghastly sight that he failed to notice the switchblade she now brandished in her hand. In a blur the blade came up and slashed the tip of his nose off. He cried out, watching the small hunk fly off into the shadows, and felt blood pouring down his face. In the same deft motion, the woman quickly wiped the blade off on his jacket and folded the knife back. Carl held onto his bloody nose and stumbled backward. Then he screamed and ran wildly into the field.
Malcolm stood still, staring at her, unable to move, except for the uncontrollable shiver running through his body. The woman pocketed her knife and looked down at Harvey, who was lying on the ground, still breathing, but just barely. His eyes stared up at her in horror. “He’ll live, maybe,” she said. Then she turned and looked at Malcolm’s face. She reached up and turned his chin gently right and left, examining his features. “Yeah...I remember you.”
He stared back at her, completely baffled, trying to place her face. Something about it seemed familiar, but the makeup…
She looked him up and down and grinned. “You’re cute,” she said.
A sharp metallic clang cut through the rail yard as the freight cars stretched again. There was a sudden movement as the cars shook briefly with a bang that reverberated down the line. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “Get his clothes.” Malcolm continued staring at her as if he was dreaming. “Hurry up!” she said, “The train’s about to leave!” She leaned over and yanked Harvey’s shoes off, then grabbed his shirt and started pulling it over his head. “Take his pants!” she ordered. Harvey looked up at her helplessly, still struggling to breathe. He did not resist. She looked at Malcolm’s still form. “Move!”
Malcolm suddenly jerked into movement. He unbuckled Harvey’s pants and pulled them off. Harvey kicked at him until the woman grabbed his throat again and smiled down at him. “You wanna live to see the sunrise?” she asked. Harvey stopped struggling and simply stared at her with a dumbfounded expression. Malcolm yanked the pants off and had to turn the legs out before putting them on. They were loose. He hurried with the belt and had to fold it several times to tighten it.
She tossed him the shirt and he put it on frantically, at first mixing up the neck with the arms. “Put the shoes on and follow me!” she ordered, running toward the freight, which was now starting to pull away. Malcolm wondered about the man’s socks, then decided to leave them. He struggled awkwardly to put the shoes on while standing, then looked at Harvey for a moment. Harvey stared back fearfully, as if Malcolm might just decide to get one blow in before leaving.
Malcolm thought about it. As he stared down at Harvey, he felt anger rising, and he was torn between kicking the man senseless or taking one of the large rocks on the ground and pummeling Harvey’s face with it. But he didn’t. He saw the train was picking up speed. The woman had opened one of the boxcar doors and was waving to him as she jogged along. Malcolm ran after the train. The woman ran an easy pace matching the train’s speed and grabbed the opening and swung herself up with the ease of a monkey. Malcolm was startled at the speed and smoothness of her movement. He hurried to catch up, but his pants were starting to slip. He hoisted them up with one hand and held his other hand out to catch the car. The woman stood in the doorway watching to see if he would be able to pull himself up and saw that he would not make it. For a brief moment she looked at him tentatively, as if deciding whether or not to leave him. In another few seconds the train would overtake his speed. She braced herself in the doorway with one hand and with the other reached down to him. Malcolm reached out, not quite making the distance. He started panting, and he felt panicky, that he wasn’t going to catch up. She leaned out further. “You run like a fucking girl!” she shouted. Malcolm stared at her while he sprinted, suddenly incensed. He felt blood rushing to his head, and his body responded as he poured it on, more than he thought he had. He closed the distance enough to grab her hand and jumped, swinging one leg up the same way he used to do the high jump in gym class. Even after he jumped he felt it was useless, that he would miss the car and fall under the wheels. But as soon as he left the ground she lifted him up as if he was a box of rolled up newspaper and plopped him down on the rough wood floor of the boxcar. Malcolm sat there for a moment with his legs dangling over the side, watching the dark ground rush by, getting his breath back. He felt his chest and legs; he now had clothes. He looked at the woman, who was sitting against the doorframe, one of her legs dangling like his. Her face was now mostly hidden in the shadow of the car, but he could see she was watching him with a lack of interest. “Thank you,” he said. She gave him a smirk and shrugged, then looked out at the dark morning passing by. He stared at her, suddenly curious about something he couldn’t quite put together, seeing her profile in the dim light, seeing strands of blond hair waving, just able to make out the line of her nose, the shape of her sharp chin. And then with a gasp it suddenly occurred to him.
The woman’s hair was blond, and it was long.
She turned to look at him again, and now he saw her eyes, not clearly, but enough to see that there was no black shadow on either of them. “Your face is different…”
There was a noise from one end of the car, the sound of someone coughing and spitting. They both looked and a moment later a tall husky man walked out of the shadows, swaying with the movement of the train. He was longhaired and bearded and wore a leather jacket. He looked like a biker who had lost his chopper somewhere. “Hey! Looks like I got company!” He had a pint of whiskey in his hand and took a drink, then put the pint in his back pocket. He swayed up to the doorframe and squatted between the two of them. He looked at Malcolm, checking out his clothes with an odd expression. “Hard times, eh kid?” Malcolm stared at him uneasily. The man turned to the woman and looked her up and down, smiling. “Well, you’re a better sight than he is. You his mother, honey, or his girlfriend?” He reached out and moved a strand of windblown hair from her face. He grinned at her. She grinned back and reached out to stroke him in a similar fashion, then grabbed a hunk of his hair and yanked him forward. The man yelled and somersaulted out the door. Malcolm leaned out to see if he was still alive, but the man was soon lost in the shadows. He looked at the woman fearfully. She looked back at him unconcerned, as if the incident had never happened. She let out a disgruntled sigh and looked out the door again. “I really fucked this one up,” she said.
Malcolm squinted at her, not knowing what she meant. She looked at him again, up and down, as if she had x-ray vision. “You okay?” she asked. Malcolm shrugged at first, then nodded. She nodded back, then brought both legs inside the car and leaned against the frame, still staring at him neutrally, as if she considered throwing him out too.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
Malcolm thought for a moment. “Tired…” He squinted, looking for a lost word.
“Confused?” she offered. He nodded. “Like I just woke up from a long sleep.”
She smirked at him. “Same here, only without the confusion.” She looked out the door again and let out a sigh, and it occurred to Malcolm, now that he could see her face without the black eyes that she did look a little tired. “Awakening is always a little groggy,” she said, “no matter how many times you’ve done it.”
There was a loud clatter rolling back to their car as the wheels crossed over a switch. They both pitched slightly and then the ride was relatively smooth again.
“Fucking trains - I don’t normally travel this way,” she said.
“Why do you look so different now?” he asked. “Back there, your hair was black. It was short. Your eyes – they were black.”
She huffed a quick laugh. “My war paint. Got the idea from an old friend of mine, some sorry-ass bitch I hope I never see again.” Malcolm stared dumbly at her. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t understand.”
She nodded, a look of indifference in her eyes. ”Okay. Let’s start at the beginning. Do you remember who you are?”
As he looked at her thin face and her blond hair lightly blowing in the wind she looked more familiar to him. “My name is Malcolm,” he said. She nodded. “Okay. That’s a start. Do you remember what happened, Malcolm?”
Malcolm suddenly felt himself shivering again, but he didn’t feel cold. “I…” he began, but then shook his head. “I don’t remember anything.”
She shifted her position to get more comfortable. “That’s normal. It will all come back in time, all the good and bad.”
Malcolm looked at her silently while she stared outside, waiting for her to continue. “There was an accident,” she said, “about ten years ago, in Chicago. You and your dad were out driving in your dad’s T-Bird convertible. I was hitchhiking and you guys picked me up. Remember?”
Malcolm stared at her. His lips parted slightly. Something, a memory, was creeping in. Yes, he did remember now. They had stopped. He moved over to let her into the back seat. She looked almost exactly the way she looked right now.
“We were driving along,” she said, “and your dad started showing off. He kept giving me love eyes in the mirror.” She leaned forward and gave him a sly look. “He wanted to do to me what those guys were trying to do to you back there. I can guarantee you that.”
Malcolm felt anger rising. He wanted to protest but couldn’t find the words at the moment. “He wasn’t watching the road because he was too busy looking at me,” she said, “He plowed into a truck while doing eighty. I remember seeing the speedometer just before it happened. The truck going the other way was probably doing about fifty-five, so that’s like hitting a brick wall at one hundred and thirty-five miles an hour. Get the picture?”
Malcolm felt transfixed, frozen by her face and the emerging memory. “Oh man, it was glorious!” she said, almost laughing. “I wish I could’ve been standing there watching it. Anyway, your dad went through the windshield with part of a broken steering wheel stuck in his chest. You were wearing a seat belt and you got messed up pretty bad. Your head was a bloody pulp. As for me, I saw this one coming a few miles back so I belted up too, just to be on the safe side. I guess your dad didn’t believe in belts.”
Malcolm shook his head. A tear trickled down one eye. “He never wore a seat belt,” he said softly.
“Yeah, well, at that speed it probably wouldn’t have done him much good anyway. I slammed into his front seat and busted my forehead open. Seemed like we spun around forever before the car stopped. I was surprised that we didn’t flip over, but then it was an early model T-Bird as I recall. Anyway, when we stopped, I saw that your dad was gone, except for one of his legs. Your seat was bent back. I leaned over you to see how you were doing. You were still alive. I couldn’t believe it. Anyway, while I was bending over you, blood from the gash in my forehead fell into some of your open wounds.”
Malcolm felt frozen to the floor. Blood…
“My blood mixed with yours, Malcolm. You became like me. I didn’t plan on it. It just happened.”
Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to comprehend, trying to remember. “I couldn’t hang around, waiting for paramedics. They would have put me in a hospital. I couldn’t risk a blood transfusion, so I left.”
For the third time this dark morning, Malcolm experienced a profound revelation. “You disappeared,” he said. “After the accident, I woke up. I saw you. You were there. And then you faded. Then you were gone. I thought maybe I was already dead.”
“You weren’t. But you died soon after, probably on your way to the hospital.”
Malcolm suddenly felt very tired. He hung his head in his hands, wanting to cry, not knowing why, not understanding why the tears didn’t come. He looked up again. “Am I dead now?”
She grinned at him. “No. You’re alive. As alive as me. As alive as that jerk used to be that I threw out.”
“How?”
She winced, realizing she was sitting on her knife. She pulled it out of her back pocket and played with the handle, rolling it in her hand. “You’ll come to understand a lot of this on your own. Right now you’re pretty confused because you’re a first-timer. It’s normal. Trust me.”
He nodded, accepting this. “Now what?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what. My blood is mixed with yours. That means you’re going to be following me around everywhere, and I can’t have that. I mean, you’re cute and all, but you’re not my type. Anyway, I thought I’d better find you first.”
The meaning of this was lost on Malcolm, so much that he felt almost dizzy from lack of understanding. “How did you find me?”
She sighed as if there were some regret in doing so. “I went looking for you. I didn’t know where you’d awaken since you’re a first-timer. Takes practice to be able to pick your spot. But first-timers aren’t too hard to find when they awaken. Like a baby crying in a church. Anyway, I didn’t want to waste time; I wanted to get it over with. I knew you’d keep looking for me like a bee looks for its queen. I got things to do and right now you’re just in the way. And kid…”
She flicked open the knife and tossed it down. It stuck in the wooden floor midway between them. “It’s pretty obvious you don’t belong here. Better for us both if you just end the cycle as soon as possible.”
Malcolm stared dumbly at her. “End the cycle?”
She grinned and slashed her finger across her throat.
Malcolm stared at the knife in horror. “You want me to kill myself?”
She shrugged. “It’s up to you. I have no designs on you. Like I said, you’re not my type. I hereby release you from any and all servitude. You can go your own way.”
He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of this. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She leaned toward him. “Be careful – Avoid the Police. Remember that?”
He looked at her. “Yeah. Your voice. I heard it.”
“After the accident I whispered some instructions in your ear before I left. I fucked up and got you into this. I figured I owed you that much.”
She saw he still wasn’t getting it. “Look, Malcolm, you’ve crossed over, and now you’ve come back. You’re still human, but you’re not human. You’re one of us now.”
“One of what?”
“You’re one of the immortals, baby.”
He stared mutely at her, and his expression looked so pathetic that she laughed.
“You mean I can’t die?”
She grinned; she was obviously enjoying this for all its worth. “No. You’ll die again, just like anyone else. But you’ll come back, and you’ll keep on coming back. Does that scare you?”
Malcolm thought about this and shrugged. “Does anything scare you?” she said. He looked down. “I guess so.”
“Do you know what scares you the most?” she asked, gazing calmly at him. He shook his head, not wanting to answer. She grinned. “Have a look.”
Malcolm squinted at her, not knowing what she meant. She only stared at him with her fixed gaze, and he turned away, looking into the dark of the boxcar. The darkness seemed to mesmerize him as he rocked back and forth with the movement of the train, and gradually he saw a whitish shape emerge from the darkness, and then another, and another. The shapes seemed familiar; they looked like doctors, wearing bloody masks. In fact they were all covered with blood…
She sat there watching him. His expression was frozen with fear as he stared away to the end of the car. She knew what he was seeing, and when he finally screamed and hid his eyes, she relaxed and the vision was gone. He sobbed briefly, and then wiped his eyes, ashamed.
“Did you do that?” he said, a tone of anger in his voice.
She shrugged in mock humility. “A cheap trick, Malcolm. Still, it comes in handy sometimes. You live long enough and you start learning some things that most mortals don’t know. It’s not hard to get people to see what scares them. The problem is, they won’t love you for it.”
“How did you do that?”
She grinned, and he stared at her, not in confusion, but now with a kind of awe. While he struggled to understand, he realized that for the moment comprehension was beyond him, and yet something in the sound of her words told him that what she said was true. “Will I understand that more if I keep coming back?” he finally asked.
She nodded. “Oh yeah…”
“How long will I keep coming back?”
She stared into his eyes. “Until you end the cycle.”
“How do I do that?”
She stared at him through different eyes this time, not amused and not serious. They were more reflective; something she was pondering. She folded her arms and stared at him a while longer, and he thought maybe she meant to not talk anymore. But then she said, “We never talk openly about that. Never.” She continued to stare at him and seeing his pathetic figure sitting there summoned in her a drop of pity. She sighed with some impatience. “It’s complicated, Malcolm, but it is possible.” She looked out at the darkness for a moment and then back at him. “Let’s just leave it there for now, until you get your bearings. You’re not ready to know the rest of it yet.” She looked again out at the passing landscape. Malcolm did the same. He was confused and saddened as droplets of memories seeped in slowly. He was afraid of this woman; she seemed to not want him around. In spite of that, at the moment he was glad that she was here. “Are we going to Waketon?” he asked.
She continued staring outside, not glancing at him. “Yes, we’re going to Waketon.”
*
3
About ten miles downriver from Waketon, there was a bend in the river that branched off and ventured inland for a couple of miles, called Pauley’s Creek, but only during the dry heat of summer did it look like a creek. Heavy rains made its flow temperamental. There was a one-lane bridge about midway down the length of the creek, at the narrowest and deepest point. It had been built a long time ago, made from yellow pine, so long ago that it had not been constructed with large vehicles in mind. The county had condemned it for use, but had never decided on tearing it down. A dirt road led to the bridge, but hardly anyone ever used it except hunters and fishermen, and then only occasionally for foot traffic and never for vehicles. There was little point, for the road dead-ended at the bridge. At one time, the road continued on the other side, and remnants of wagon ruts could be seen in the ground, but they were eventually lost in the heavy brush, and it had long been forsaken as useful for anything but hiking.
A white truck bounced its way slowly down the slope of the dirt road toward the creek, stopping at the bridge. A tall, thin and muscular red-haired man got out and removed a piece of timber serving as a warning barrier to the bridge, then got back in his truck and eased the truck onto the old wooden planks. There were creaks and squeaks of protest as he pulled up to the middle of the bridge, about thirty-five feet from the shore. He stopped and turned off the motor and waited for the slight swaying motion of the bridge to cease. He looked down at the creek; the water was low today. Old Moe might not be around. He looked upriver and downriver, checking for anomalies in the water. “We’ll see,” he said. He heard a squawk on his CB radio and turned it off. He got out of the truck and took a fishing pole lying alongside his construction tools, sat on the bed, and cast his line into the water. He lit a cigarette, opened a beer, and hummed a tune.
In time, another truck, worn blue, more beat up, came down the road and parked at the end of the bridge. A burly man with a beard got out and waved. “Casey!”
The thin man returned the wave. “Hey Boz. Bring your pole today?”
Boz stepped on the bridge cautiously, as if it were made of matchsticks. “Nah. Not today. Any luck?”
The other man shook his head and spat in the water. “Old Moe doesn’t like this shallow water.”
Boz walked down the bridge, the planks echoing loudly with each step. “Just tried getting’ ya on the CB.” He went around to the front of the truck and leaned on the hood. “Won’t work here,” the thin man said, “No reception. Magnetic anomaly or something.” He reached into a brown bag and tossed a can of beer to his friend. “Thanks, ” Boz said. He peered over the edge at the water, which was about six feet below the bridge. “What is he, about a four pounder?”
“Six. Easy. Biggest river bass I ever saw.”
“What kind of bait are you using?”
“Nightcrawlers.”
“I’d use something else here. He won't eat it. Water’s too fast.”
“Nah. Bass’ll eat anything. Besides, the current wiggles the worm around, makes it more attractive.”
“Whatever,” Boz said. He took a large drink, emptying half the can, then belched. “Got any sippin’ stuff with you today?”
Patrick grinned. “In the glove box. Help yourself.”
Boz reached in and took out a flask, opened it and took a sip. He smacked his lips. “Yessir!” He replaced the flask and leaned against the truck, observing the bridge. “Patrick, what the hell do you park out here for?”
Patrick grinned and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s sort of a game I play.”
Boz laughed and shook his head. “One of these days you’ll be towing this sucker from the water with your ass all wet.”
“Maybe.”
“How long you gonna be here?”
“Oh, an hour maybe, until the sun starts to go down. You headin’ over to The Mill?”
“Yeah. Why don’t you meet me there?”
“Not tonight. Maybe Friday. Tonight I better get home and have dinner, which will probably be frozen chops and scalloped potatoes, and then keep the wife company.”
“Frozen chops? Don’t she cook ‘em first?”
“Of course she cooks them! Jesus!” Patrick laughed. “But they’re frozen, not fresh.”
“Oh, sure. That’s what I meant…”
“Anyway, these days she gets a little lonely sometimes, you know?”
Boz nodded. “Sure. Sure, I understand. Well, you do what you gotta do, right?”
“Right.”
Boz downed the rest of his beer, then crumpled the can with one hand and belched again. “Okay buddy. Later. Give your best to my wife.”
Patrick grinned. “Later, Boz.”
*
4
The warm late afternoon sun, sharp and bright, cast long shadows of foliage into the den where Colleen Casey sat on a couch with a half-knit scarf lying on her lap like a stillborn animal. She stared across the room through two patio doors into the back yard, observing the imperceptible retreat of the remaining daylight. As she often did at this time of day, she felt some disquiet with the impending arrival of night and chilly air. Her mind turned to pondering the eventual arrival of colder autumn days, and the advent of the first winter storm. In times past she normally welcomed Indian summer as much as anyone, and frequently strolled in the nearby woods, delighting in the sharp pleasing scents of forest air, of wet mossy growth and dried leaves, even old decaying logs. She relished the sounds of crunching pine needles and snapping twigs as she stepped, and the twitter and chatter of birds and other creatures moving unseen in the brush. Walking with her young daughter Jessica was a wellspring of joy for her, to be able to share this natural bounty of nature and instill in her daughter a grand love of outdoors that she had known ever since she was a small farm girl, just as young and vulnerable.
Her hands lay still on her lap, as frozen as her tranquil gaze fixed on an unfocused point somewhere in the yard beyond the ivy hanging from the trellis. She had been sitting immobile for an indeterminate time, mildly aware of squirrels foraging, and birds, robins mostly, flitting back and forth preparing nests for the winter, and watching her own indecipherable thoughts scurry by like some of the local children who often used her backyard as a shortcut from school to their homes, as a few were doing right now. She was aware but usually paid little attention to them, but this time she saw Jessica running along with them, her long red hair flowing. She was laughing with the others, and turned to look at her…
It wasn’t her though. It was another’s daughter. She took in a deeper breath unexpectedly and let out a soft sigh as if announcing the end of the long trance she had been in and with a light sweep of her hand gently caressed the pink scarf she had knit to perfection years ago. It lay partially unraveled, with a long strand of wool winding around a ball next to her leg. She unraveled several more rows, and then wound the strands of wool meticulously around the ball, re-forming as perfect a sphere of yarn as she could manage.
As the sun began to set she heard Patrick’s truck pull into the driveway. She stopped suddenly, regarded the unfinished wool project she had started with some reluctance and pushed it into a corner of the couch. She bounced up and went into the kitchen, flicked on the overhead light, turned the oven on and pulled out some frozen pork chops from the freezer, and quickly spread other food items on the counter to avoid the impression that she’d just started dinner.
She heard Patrick singing to himself as he stepped out of the truck. She had no idea what the song was; it could have been several rock and roll songs blended into one; it could have been his own. Whatever the tune was, the lyrics, mostly mumbled and indecipherable, were something about Indian summer. He had been a songwriter once, back in his music days, long ago, when he was a singer in a band, before the harsher realities of life as a starving artist moved in with him like an unwanted tenant, forcing him into construction work.
She heard his heavy boots on the back stairs and after the door opened heard him kicking them off in the mudroom. He entered the kitchen as if he was walking into a restaurant, looking around to make sure his favorite table and waitress were still available. Satisfied, his eyes twinkled and he grinned. Even so, she thought, he looked tired. Every day he looked tired. Carpentry was hard work.
“Hi honey!” he greeted with mustered enthusiasm.
“Hi!” she returned, trying to match his tone, knowing it was falling short. They embraced tightly, parted a little too quickly. She smelled beer on his breath. Patrick observed the condiments on the counter. “Pork chops,” he observed aloud, “frozen chops at that.” Was I right or was I right?
“They won’t take long.”
Patrick picked up a box. “And scalloped potatoes. Okay…”
“You stopped at the Mill?” she said, leaving off the word again.
Patrick reached in the fridge and opened a bottle of beer. “No, I was fishing out at Pauley’s Bridge. Boz stopped by and we had a beer and talked for a bit.” He took several gulps, emptying half the bottle before his thirst was quenched. “Oh man, what a day.”
“Hard?”
“They’re all hard. Placed some heavy beams today. We’re up high now too. You’re either going up the ladder or down the ladder, up or down. Of course, when you go up you’ve got to carry something up with you, and when you go down, you’ve got to bring something down, you know what I mean?” His tired tone ended with a laugh. “Well, that’s life, like ‘ol blue eyes says.”
“That’s life,” she agreed. She had kept her attention on seasoning the chops, but glanced at him as she said this, then smiled amiably at his twinkle. Patrick was a good man, she thought, and a good-looking man. She liked admiring his face. Not only was he physically attractive, but she’d come to rely on his composure; nothing ever seemed to bother him as much as it did her. There were things that could tear her down from the inside, things that didn’t budge Patrick. He was a rock, solid and practical. If there’s a problem, you deal with it. You size it up and then fix it. It was a good way to be, she thought, especially if you are a carpenter. She wished she could be more like that, instead of dwelling on things far longer than she ought.
“Hey, Colly, let’s go out for dinner,” Patrick said. Colly smiled weakly. “But I’ve already started dinner…” She let the sentence trail off.
Patrick knew she had started dinner moments before his arrival. Many nights this week dinner had been late, or else hastily thrown together. He lit a cigarette. “C’mon. We could go to DiLeo’s. Have some nice Italian with a bottle of Chianti or Chardonnay, like the old days - ”
“No,” Her tone was abrupt. “I don’t want this to go to waste.”
“It’ll keep.”
“No!” She took the pan of chops and slid them into the oven, almost slamming the door as if that was the end of the matter. Then she softened. “Really. I just don’t feel like going out. Okay?”
There was an awkward moment, as if they were actors who hadn’t gotten a scene quite right and were waiting for direction. Patrick shrugged compliantly. “No problem, honey. Guess I’ll go take a shower.”
He passed by the couch and stared down at the knitting. He frowned and picked it up, holding the scarf in one hand and the ball of wool in the other. “Ah, you’re knitting another scarf.”
“No,” she said, studying intently the instructions on the scalloped potato box, which wasn’t really necessary.
“But this looks like Jessica’s scarf.”
“It is.”
He stared uncomprehending for a moment. “Why are you…”
She answered before he could finish. “I’m putting the wool to better use. I’ll make a longer one that I can use.” She ripped open the box top and dumped two plastic bags on the counter, not wanting to look at him.
Patrick felt annoyed for some reason he could not immediately fathom. He stared down at the scarf, fondling it slightly with his hand and let it drop back on the couch. The ball of yarn bounced off and fell to the floor, unraveling across the room.
“Dammit, Patrick!” she cried. “Now look what you’ve done!”
“Sorry, honey,” he said, surprised by her tone. He went to pick up the yarn and she rushed over, cutting him off. “Leave it,” she said quietly, but firmly, “I’ll get it. Your hands are dirty. Why don’t you go take your shower.”