This choice: Try to get them to help you • Go Back...Chapter #16Two Grave Diggers by: Seuzz   "Mccchhhhggkkhhhh," you moan, and feebly slap at your face.
"Give it time, fella," says the blonde kid, "and you'll look the part without having to hurry it along."
"Necromancy," the other one says. "Not much of a surprise. But it being this guy, and here-- It's an odd coincidence. Damned odd."
"Maybe Blackwell likes 'em fresh," says the blonde one.
"Mccchhhhggkkhhhh," you repeat, in a louder tone.
"Sorry, you'd find my brain a little too rich for your diet," says the blonde one.
"Nnnggkkhhhh," you grumble.
"Joe, you notice anything odd about our footloose corpse?"
Blondie looks you up and down. "He dressed casual for his own funeral?"
"Right. I think he might be trying to tell us something."
"Yeah. 'I killed myself in a car wreck and all I got for a burial shroud was this lousy t-shirt'."
"See if you can interpret."
"You're joking! There's rules against communicating with the dead."
"It's already talking. We won't talk back. We'll just listen."
"I wanna consult our lawyer first."
"Just do it. I'll take responsibility."
The blonde one makes a face and sticks out his tongue. He plucks at it, as though trying to pull a hair off it. Then--gagging the whole time--he bends down and shoves three fingers in your mouth.
The other one also bends low. "Okay, try again," he says to you. "What are you trying to say?"
You wish you could roll your eyes. You can't speak anyway; you're going to do better with a mouthful of that guy's fingers? "I said, I'm wearing a mask," the blonde kids says very slowly. His eyes widen.
"Don't pay any attention to what's going on up there," the other one tells you with a faint smile. "Just keep going."
Something seems to loosen in your throat. "I'm wearing a mask," the blonde one repeats as you will your own mouth to work. "Please take it off me."
"How do we do that?"
The blonde one says exactly how to remove the mask from you. When he's done, he pulls his fingers from your mouth, shudders elaborately, and spits to the side. But instead of taking the mask off you, they deposit you in the bed of their truck.
* * * * *
"We'll drop him in the dining room," the dark-haired one says as they help you up the walk to the front door of a small house.
"Can't we put him in the back yard?" says the blonde one.
"I sleep there. How about we put him in your bed?"
"Why is it that the creepier things get, the funnier your jokes become? Oh, right, you and graves." He fumbles at the lock with a key. "Foyer," he says. "In case we have to mop."
They drop you onto a tiled surface in a way that makes you glad you can't feel anything. At another word from the dark-haired one, the blonde one grasps your face, says the words, and pulls.
It's like nails being ripped out of your flesh, but it actually feels good. You don't even pass out; instead you tingle all over. You clap your hands together and smile at your stick-like forearms. "Thank God!"
"You might thank us too, a little," says the blonde one. "He looks better," he says to the other one, "but I still don't want him in my bed."
"What if he had tits?"
"Not even in that case. Okay, you, kid," he says to you. "You got a name, or is it back to Mccchhhhggkkhhhh and Nnnggkkhhhh?"
You're so glad to be back you don't even give it a second thought. "Will Prescott. Who are you guys?"
"I'm Frank. This is Joe," says the dark-haired one. "Have we met?"
"Oh yeah," says Joe. "Munsons, about ten days ago. You were at the next table with your ear flapping."
"Yeah," you say, feeling serene about the confession. "You guys had a mask. I almost asked you about it."
"You have a professional interest in those things?" Frank asks.
"No. But I have a friend who was making things like them."
His eyebrows go up. "Your friend do you up as a zombie?"
"No. That was my idea." Your feeling of well-being begins to evaporate as you think about what has been going on. "It's a long story."
* * * * *
They insist that you change clothes--into thin running shorts and a t-shirt more like a rag--but they let you curl on the sofa as you tell your story. They question you closely, and when you're done they are silent for a very long time. "So you don't know a guy named Aubrey Blackwell?" Frank asks.
"No," you say. "Who is he?"
"A professor at the university. Well, that's his public persona. He has darker interests. We were just on our way back from scoping out his house--"
"House of Frankenstein," Joe mutters.
"--when we almost ran over you."
"Well, I don't know any university professors," you sigh. You are feeling very relaxed, despite the intensity of the interrogation they put your through. "Like I said, it's been me and my friends playing with that--" You pause. "Oh, wait, Carson said something about a university professor."
"Carson," says Frank thoughtfully. "That was one of your friends who ..."
"Yeah," you say. Though you are relaxed, that doesn't mean you are happy. You feel a heavy twinge as you think about Carson and James. "That's why I put the mask on. It seemed like such a huge coincidence that all my friends were--" Now the twinge is so hard you can't finish.
"It's not a coincidence, I'm sure of that," says Frank grimly. "And it's not the Libra, at least not directly. Automobile accidents are a specialty of men like Blackwell."
You raise your head. "You mean he's--" Frank nods. "But how? Cutting brake lines?"
"Haven't you ever heard stories about people who get into a car, and some thing gets in with them, or behind them?"
You shiver. "I don't like reading stories like that."
"Well, you're in a story like that, Will. Until we take care of Blackwell, you shouldn't be getting inside any vehicles."
"Take care of--? What do you mean?"
"We should call your friend, Caleb, and get him out here," Frank says. "Or pick him up. What's his phone number?" You give it to him, and Joe disappears into another room. "I think you'd better stay here tonight. I don't even want to drive you any place until we know how Blackwell is doing it."
You give him your home number, and he disappears into the next room too. You nestle into the sofa and listen to their indistinct voices rising and falling. You can never quite catch their words, but they don't sound happy. And their expressions are serious when they return a few minutes later. "You're all set up to spend the night with us," Joe says. "But we can't raise your friend. Which is a little odd," he adds, "because your mom said he stopped by your house earlier this evening."
"He's always leaving his phone turned off," you say, but you feel a definite sense of unease settling over you.
"That's probably what it is," Joe says. "We'll go find him at your school tomorrow and bring him over."
"I'm not going to school tomorrow?" you ask in surprise.
Frank smiles. "Someone's trying to kill you. Sounds to me like a legitimate excuse to skip."
* * * * *
They help you into the bedroom, where you change into pajamas and slip into a bed. Frank turns the lights down low and sits in a chair next to you. He talks to you in a very quiet and soothing voice: you're not sure, but you have the impression he is describing a garden. It seems very green and rich and warm, and you can almost feel the sunlight and the soft grass. As you drift off, it is as though he has stopped speaking and begun to sing.
You sleep, long and deeply, and there are no dreams.
* * * * *
The sun is shining brightly when you wake, but you are refreshed and don't linger in the bed. The house, when you explore it, is empty, though there is a note on the table telling you to stay inside. You watch TV.
A little after lunch the front door opens and Frank and Joe come in. They look very grave, and neither speaks when they look at you. Joe quietly asks if you've eaten, and suggests you have some soup when you decline. "What's going on?" you ask.
"Well," says Frank with a sigh. "You can go home if you like. You'll probably be safe, though you should still avoid driving. We went by your house and looked over your truck. It was sabotaged, but we took care of it."
"How did this guy get to my truck?" you ask.
"We're not sure," says Frank, "though we have our suspicions. We'd rather not speculate, though. Do you want to go home?"
"You better give him the rest of the news," Joe says quietly. "Let him make an informed decision."
Your heart begins to beat very hard.
"There was another car wreck last night," Frank says. "Rather late. We found out about this morning, which is why we didn't bother going over to Westside to find Caleb."
He doesn't have to say more.
"You can go home," he says. "Or you can help us take care of the guy who's been killing your friends."   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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