Anthology - Dark Whispers Part 15

"He's not my brother!" Joe said loudly.

"I know that! It was a slip, that's all. He's in his room. Go up and bring him down." She fumbled with her purse, fingers awkward.

"You mean he's inBernie's room, nothis room. He's in mybrother's room." Sympathy for the mindless deader warred in him with the pain of loss, still fresh after four months. "Yougo get him!"

"Joea"" His father's voice cut in, sounding tired. The tone conveyed it all, much more than any lecture could have.Are we still fighting about this? I thought your mother would be well by now and we could get on with our lives.

His mother slammed her purse down in frustration. "d.a.m.n you!" Cathy hissed. "Why can't you be more likea""

"Like WHAT?"Joe screamed. His hands cut the air helplessly. "Like that poor, dead little kid pacing around upstairs? Like your replacement model?"

"Yes!"

"Cathy, stop it!" Alex shouted. "You're going too far!"

"At least he's quiet! And he never c-causes us any tr-troublea"" She began to cry in great, struggling gasps.

Joe watched numbly as his father enfolded her in his arms and murmured soothingly; she clung to him and hid her face against his shoulder. When they found Joe's, Alex's eyes were full of pain and regret as he watched Joe turn away and climb the stairs.

At the door to Bernie's room, Joe stopped and listened for a moment to the shuffling of the deader's feet across the carpetinga"a little boy's red, white and blue stars. With a sigh, he picked up the remote from the hall table, flipped the latch and opened the door.

Inside, the Bernie-deader walked in a seemingly endless elongated circle in front of the dresser. The window, with its open mini-blinds and bright sunshine, held no interest for it, nor did the science fiction posters on the walls or model s.p.a.ceships strung from the dropped ceiling panels.

It just walked.

Around and around.

Joe's throat constricted in pity. "You're gonna wear a hole in the carpeting, kid," he said hoa.r.s.ely. He fumbled with the keypad; seconds later the deader obligingly sat. Joe pulled the door shut and latched it, then retreated to his own room and sat on the bed.

In a few minutes the tears came, but he didn't know if they were for the Bernie-deader or for himself.

"HEY, JOEY. HOW are ya?"

Joe grimaced as he heard the voice; why couldn't that weasel leave him alone? The park was his refuge, the one place he could get away from his parents and the Bernie-deader, and he didn't need ha.s.sles from Hank Beckert to screw it up. The bench that a moment ago had been comfortable shook his teeth as Becker flounced down next to him. Joe ran a hand through his hair and got up.

"Hey man, don't leave." Beckert grabbed the sleeve of Joe's jacket. His eyes were calculating. "I thought you and I could have a talk and you could, you know, fill me in on all the details.

Joe yanked his arm out of Hank's grip and turned his back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. Like what goes on at your house? I always wondered how people, you know, dealt with deaders in everyday life. And you never answered my question about whether your mom gives that corpse his baths." Hank laughed nastily.

Joe knew Hank was testing him, seeing how far he could be pushed. Knowing didn't stop his face from flushing at Hank's implication and he whirled.

"You just shut the f.u.c.k up, Beckert!"

"What are you so embarra.s.sed about?" Hank shot back. He stood, then waggled his fingers mockingly and took a couple of mincing steps around Joe. "Are you hiding something? Maybeyou're the one who likes to give the baths, huh? How *bout ita"you like playing with dead meat?"

Joe couldn't stop himself. His fist balled up and connected with Beckert's jaw before he'd actually known what he was going to do, the knuckles feeling strong and sure as they drove into the other's flesh. Hank gave a yelp and grabbed the side of his face as he backstepped, then ducked as Joe leapt at him again; in spite of the wildness of Joe's swing, it missed him by only a fraction of an inch. Behind the two, a woman began shouting for them to stop; Hank ignored her and rushed the younger teenager,clutching him in a tackle that sent them slamming to the sidewalk in a lung-bruising roll.

Caught between a haze of anger and the sight of the leaf-laden trees tumbling disjointedly around him, Joe didn't think about the location of the park bench until the hard, paint-peeling wood connected with his temple.

His world exploded into blackness.

"MR.WEILAND? HI, we're from the Free Christian Church on Sixth Street. We wondered if we might speak with you for a few minutes?" The two women on the front step gave encouraging smiles beneath pastel-tinted straw hats.

"I'm sorry," Alex said and started to close the door. Purplish shadows rimmed his eyes. "We're not interested."

"Alex, who is it?" Cathy called from the kitchen.

"Mrs. Weiland?" One of the women stopped the door with a heeled shoe, ignoring Alex's look of irritation.

Cathy came out of the kitchen, licking frosting from a spoon. "Yes? I don't believe we know you," she said. "Alex, don't be rude. Invite them in." She stuck the spoon in her mouth and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n.

Alex hesitated, then stepped back. The women entered, the older one giving him a smug look as Cathy waved them into the living room.

"We're from the Free Christian Church," the younger of the two repeated. "I'm Sister Beth and this is Sister Jessica." We just came by to extend our regards." Her gaze swept Cathy appraisingly. "I hope we didn't disturb you ... you weren't making dinner?"

"Oh, no," Cathy said with a smile. "Actually, I was baking a birthday cake for Joea"he's my oldest."

Sister Jessica nodded primly. "We've heard at the Church how difficult it's been for you. Terrible enough to lose a son, but to have the other boy injured in that terrible incident in the park!" She clucked. "You must be overjoyed to have him home."

Sister Beth nodded in agreement, then picked up the conversation. "We understand that after the younger boy's death you and Mr. Weiland purchased a deader," she said smoothly. "While they seem to be accepted more readily in today's society, we at the Free Christian Church tend to be a bit more old fashioned. But," she added hastily at Alex's scowl, "we like to think we can keep our minds open."

"Well," Cathy said as she reached for a large keypad on the coffee table, "we don't think of them like that anymore." The four of them turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Alex felt a small stab of bittersweet triumph as the stuffy expression on the older woman's face abruptly crumbled.

"These are my two sons, Bernie and Joe," Cathy said proudly. "Our speech consultant believes they'll be able to talk in a couple of years."

IT HAD TAKEN the rest of the college money, but there were no sons to send to college now anyway. Alex stood in the bathroom wearily, watching as Joe followed the remote commands to wash up before bed. Joe had always worn his hair shorter than Bernie and it crushed Alex every time he saw the seam just below the hairline where the microprocessor was embedded in his son's skull. Almost as hard to live with was the small square of synthetic skin along Joe's right temple that replaced the bone and flesh punctured by the corner of the park bench.

When the washing was finished, they went into Joe's room and Alex stood at the window while Joe obediently changed into pajamas and slipped under the covers. That done, Alex tucked the blanket snugly around him, a habit from when Joe had been small, like Bernie. Although Cathy did it all the time, he could not bring himself to kiss the boy goodnight.

Alex checked the other's room and found everything as it should be, then headed downstairs, not thinking to fasten the latch on Bernie's rooma"that had always been Joe's job. Alex stopped and briefly looked in on Cathy. The night light glowed softly in their bedroom, making her hair gleam a gentle red; she was already asleep, lips turned up in a small, satisfied smile.

He sat down at the dining room table with a bottle of bourbon and a big gla.s.s. There were no tears in him anymore, only a great empty spot where all the life had been sucked out. If only he could give that life back to the son he'd bedded down a few minutes ago ... not to mention the tormented little stranger in his younger son's room.

Twenty minutes later Alex heard creaking along the upstairs landing. "Cathy?" he called softly. "You awake?" When there was no answer he forced himself to stand, legs already trembling from the booze. He labored up the steps, remembering the unlocked door of Bernie's room as he rubbed his grainy eyes, wondering why they'd never gotten around to having Bernie fixed.

Bernie wasn't in his room. Too drained to be alarmed, Alex could see the door to Joe's room was ajar; from its darkness came the sound of slow, measured footsteps. He reached round the door and flipped the light switch.

Joe was where he should be, lying under the covers and staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his only movement the microprocessor-ordered blink of his eyelids every ten seconds.

At the foot of Joe's bed, Bernie walked in his endless circle.

Iphigeniaby Gary A. Braunbeck Gary A. Braunbeck's work has appeared in over 70 magazines and anthologiesa"his work ranging from horror to mystery to cutting-edge science fiction. Among his appearances include; "Future Net," "Borderlands 4," and "Whitley Strieber's Aliens." Most recently, his first collection was published by CD Publications, "Things Left Behind." His short story "Safe," from "Robert Bloch's Psychos" made the 11th Annual "Year's Best Fantasy and Horror" edited by Ellen Datlow and Terry Windling.

"IT'S DYING WITHOUT death and accomplishing nothing To waver thus In the dark belly of cramped misfortune."

a"Aggripa d'Aubigne HE WAS CHECKING the seat numbers on the tickets when he heard Mrs. Williamson scream.

"Danny! Watch out!"

He looked down in time to see seven-month-old Julie crawl into his path, her body so low to the ground it would be easy to step on her fragile skull and crush it all over the sidewalk. He pulled back in mid-stride and fell back-first onto the pavement, cursing both the pain and the memory of his sistera"which found him as soon as the cement knocked the air from his lungs. After a moment he managed to push himself up on his elbows to see little Julie, sitting up now, look at him and giggle, a thin trickle of saliva dribbling off her chin. She looked so cute, so safe.

Safe. With someone to watch over her. Protect her. Trusting was easy when you were that young. Trusting was fun.

So little Julie was giggling.

As Mrs.Williamson ran up to her daughter Daniel wondered if, at the very instant of her death, Gayle Ann had giggled, too, thinking the whole thing somewhat funny, when you Got Right Down To It.

Then he remembered the sound of screams echoing off the stone walls.

And he began to shake.

"You should pay more attention to where you're walking, Daniel Banks. You could'vea"" Her words cut off when she caught sight of Daniel's pale and terrified face.

"Danny?" She reached out to touch his arm but he scooted away from her, crossing his arms in front of his face, his shaking worse than before.

"Oh, G.o.d ... I'm ... I'm sorry, Mrs.Williamson, really I am. I should've been ... been looking. I'm really s-s-s-s-sorry. Is she all right?" He winced at the sound of his stuttering; it was the first time he'd lapsed back into it sincea"

a"sincea"

a"since little Julie was giggling then things must be all right, because Mrs.Williamson had the baby in her arms now and was stroking the back of her head.

"Julie's fine. Christ, calm down, will you? No big deal, no harm done. I don't see why you're soa"" Once again she cut herself off. Daniel looked up and saw it register on her face; the memory of the police car, of sitting up with his mother while he and his father went to the morgue, of the funeral, the closed casket, all of it.

For a moment she went pale, also.

"Oh, Danny, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to yell like that, I just panicked." He rose unsteadily to his feet and gathered up the four concert tickets, very much aware of the neighbors who were staring at them from front porches or from behind windows. Daniel could feel their eyes drilling into his back, watching him, perhaps holding their breath, waiting.

Expectantly.

"It's okay, Mrs. W-W-W-Williamson. I'm just glad she's okay." The woman smiled at him, then took her daughter and began walking back toward her home. Daniel took a few deep breaths, hoping that the stuttering would stop once he calmed down, and continued in the direction of his house, all the while feeling his neck crawl with the stares of his neighbors.

Maybe they knew. Maybe they sensed it, somehow.

For just a moment there, even with the memory of Gayle Ann pulsing through him, for just a fraction of a moment before he jerked back and fell, a part of him had wanted to bear down on little Julie's skull with all his weight and grind her head into the pavement, just to know what it felt like, just to know how it must've felt to all those people, they had to feel something when it happened, didn't they, had to know that they were stomping out the life of another human being, and he'd wondered, ever since that night Daniel had found himself wondering what it must feel like to sense a person's head being mashed under your foot, and for just a fraction of a moment there he could've founda"

a"his chest started pounding and he slowed his pace. His arms were shaking with such force he could feel it in his teeth.

His temples were pounding.

He thought he might vomit. He whirled around to make sure little Julie and her mother were safely inside their home, where no expectant eyes could harm them. He took a few more deep breaths, managed to steady himself, then walked on home, all the time telling himself that he'd just been angered and frightened for that fraction of a moment, that he'd never consciously hurt anyone.

Never.

He hoped his father was asleep by now. Nothing would be dredged up then; about Gayle Ann's death, about that night at the arena, about his mother's suicide six months after Gayle's funeral, please G.o.d nothing. Daniel couldn't stand it when his father went off on one of his "You' re-All-I've-Got-Left" tangents, tangents that never ended well for either of them. He shook his head. Two years. Two years and still his father spent his weekends in front of the television set, drinking himself into a coma, hearing without listening, watching without seeing, talking to people who were no longer there; then, on Sunday night, he'd rouse himself enough to shower, dress for work, pack his lunch bucket, and leave at three a.m. to fill himself with factory foulness for the next eleven-and-a-half hours, come home, eat a little something, drink a lot of something, then collapse for five or six hours, just long enough to give his broken existence a breather before he got up and did it all over again. The thought made Daniel wince. Daniel Banks loved his father, even with all the man's faults, but there was nothing he could do for the pain the man was in, and it was killing both of them.

A suddenly empty house, a suddenly empty life, a suddenly empty batch of dreams; dreams nurtured for a family of four, revised for a family of three, abandoned for a family of two. The house was just a coffin waiting for the dirt.

Daniel reached up and rubbed his eyes, still aware of a few neighbors staring at him.

All because Gayle Ann had wanted to come along to the concert; because she was only six and still thought that everything Big Brother did was so G.o.dd.a.m.ned terrific; because My Big Brother Danny's The Bestest!

He paused by the front door, staring at the tickets in his hand.

A small insect was crawling across the porch. It paused by his foot, its feelers searching him out. Checking him out.

"How's it g-g-g-goin a""

He slammed his foot down on the thing.

And twisted.

He turned away to see some of the neighbors backing away from their windows, no longer staring. He felt their eyes drop away, satisfied.

He stepped through the front door and saw his father heading upstairs, a quart bottle of beer in his hand. He was dressed only in his underwear and his body, once looming and powerful, had given way to a sickening coat of flab over the last few years. His hair was tangled, making the heavy streaks of grey so much more predominate, and his eyes were so bloodshot Daniel could barely see the pupils.

"Hi'ya," whispered his father. "I's just ... goin' up to bed. Shift was a b.i.t.c.h."

"You look pretty b-bushed," said Daniel. He caught a moment of hesitation on his father's face, a moment where the man must have asked himself if he'd heard his son right; did the boy stutter again? No, he couldn't be, he hadn't done that for ages, and he only stuttered during the Crazy Time when all the doctors thought he might try to kill himself, and when the stuttering went away so did the Craziness, because his boy was fine now, and fine boys didn't go away forever because they knew they were all you had left in the whole...

"I, uh ... I am. Pretty tired." They stared at one another for a moment, Daniel watching his father's eyes fill with longing. These were the moments that tore Daniel up inside; they'd never had all that much to talk about before, and now that it was just the two of them an attempted conversation was nothing short of torturous. They both tried so d.a.m.n hard. And they shouldn't have had to.

"How'd that test go?"

"Which one?"

His father ran a shaking hand through his tangled hair. "I, uh ... you know, that one? That one you was so worried about."

"Greek Mythology?"

"Yeah."

"I did fine."

His father gave a smile. A very small one. "That's good."

Daniel could feel his stomach tightening.

His father blinked a few times, then gave a nod of his head. "That's ... that's good. I hate to see you ... you know, worry."