Coin-Operated Machines Part 14

Brock had trouble accepting the words he knew to be true. He imagined this was the way detective's felt when they had a murder victim that was senselessly slaughtered, and their initial thoughts being who would do such a thing, and why?

"Besides Chuck Durnham, is there anybody parading about town hara.s.sing and killing people?"

James thought on it. "The people who are alive out there are fighting to the death. If you succ.u.mb to the sleep, it's like a brain dead coma. No thoughts. No living. Just nothing." He guided Brock to the window by the arm and pointed to the body lumped against a blue mail box on the side of the road. The body was curled up like a dead mouse. "If you touched him, he'd be warm. He's alive in that sh.e.l.l, though barely. He's probably rotting. Who knows how long he can stay like that before he won't come back to life. But I have a feeling if we put money into him, he'd come to consciousness."

Brock said, "It's so unbelievable."

"You're right about that. I just think it's strange when this s.h.i.t started happening, it was about us needing money to live, and now, something is taking that money back. The question is what is taking the money."

Brock stared outside, counting the bodies strewn about the steps of walkways, hunched over bus stops, benches, open patches of gra.s.s, randomly laying about the street beached like fish carca.s.ses. Things didn't add up. "So something is changing. Whatever rules you were surviving by are now altered."

James picked up the scotch bottle and turned it in his hands. "More and more things are inaccessible without money."

"Well, we're not getting anywhere speculating and hypothesizing. I want answers from that Chuck guy. I'll make him talk. I don't care if he has an axe. I don't care what the f.u.c.k he has."

James gave him an incredulous look. "I'm with you, but your sister had a point somewhere in all her bulls.h.i.t. How are two old fogies like ourselves going to intimidate a man like that?"

Imagining Hannah in the clutches of the stranger, or as one of the lifeless bodies in the street, it deepened his determination. Angel had already pushed aside the barricade, so he simply walked up to the front entrance doors and waited for James to follow him. When he finally followed, Brock said, "So let's take a walk to his house and figure it out on the way there."

PHONE CONVERSATIONS.

w.i.l.l.y peered out of the windows of his uncle's house and saw n.o.body in the distance. What was he doing here? What was he waiting for? Even considering the horrible things he'd seen today, w.i.l.l.y was growing antsy. Something could be on its way to kill him, and he wouldn't know about it. Indecision kept w.i.l.l.y sitting in the living room chair beside the front window. The gra.s.s out front was chocked full of holes, and that steam kept billowing out. Regardless of why this was happening, it was here he stayed. Live now and die later, or die now and stay dead later, he easily chose the best option.

So long sitting with nothing to do, his eyes began to get heavy. Even the occasional clack of a gunshot far off or a scream that lasted only long enough to be identified as a scream failed to keep him alert. He was exhausted from a long day of running in terror from things.

w.i.l.l.y slipped into a short-lived sleep. When he did wake, he came to when he felt a weight in his hands and heard the crinkle of a plastic bag. What really woke him was the sound of coins rattling against coins. Once he computed there was a bag of money in his hands, he jerked with a start, dropping the loot onto the floor. Coins rolled across the wooden floor, banging into walls and the legs of furniture.

w.i.l.l.y spoke the house, the only culprit. "Who's there? Who the h.e.l.l is there?" He peered into rooms, turning over shadows, flipping on lights, attacking corners, and questioning unknown intruders. "Come on out! I know you're here. You can't hide from me. What's the meaning of this?"

He was in the bathroom gawking at an empty shower after he pulled aside the curtain when the phone rang. Every series of rings was like a beating. He felt his blood channel faster in his veins.

What now? What else f.u.c.ked up is going to happen to me?

The phone kept ringing. He let it go for ten times before he knew it wasn't going to stop until he picked it up.

w.i.l.l.y returned to the living room. He swiped the steel fireplace poker on his way to the phone for safety's sake. He stepped on coins as he got closer to the phone that hung on the kitchen wall. He saw his reflection in the face of the microwave. He looked distraught and nothing like himself. It was as if his skin had been shrink-wrapped to his bones and his eyes were as wide as they could be.

He tried to pick up the phone, but he couldn't pry the phone from the hook. Steel anchors held it in place. Steel covered the digits. On the square of steel over the digits was a thin slit in the middle.

The coins had woke him up. Something or someone had given him the coins for a reason. The phone had to be the reason. It was a d.a.m.n good guess, he thought.

He picked up a coin off the living room floor and shoved it through the hole.

The phone kept ringing. The hooks over the receiver released themselves, and he was able to pick up the phone. w.i.l.l.y said, "Um, h-h.e.l.lo?"

A familiar voice spoke. It sounded like the connection was poor and full of static. "Call someone/dial the number/put a coin in and talk away."

That ended the conversation. The talker hung up on him. The phone was s.n.a.t.c.hed back onto the hook so fast he didn't see it yanked back. It's as if the hooks sprang forward and took back the phone.

w.i.l.l.y stood there and watched the phone expecting it to ring again. It didn't. After a time, he walked away from the phone and stomped into the living room. He studied the quarters scattered about the floor. It could've been a hundred dollars in quarters, he thought.

'Put a coin in and talk away.'

It was an invitation. The man's voice wasn't threatening. It harbored excitement, the withholding of a bigger surprise. He wasn't getting anywhere standing in place like a fool, and he certainly wouldn't get anywhere running outside to certain death. He was wasting time. His wife probably wondered what the h.e.l.l had happened to him.

My wife!

w.i.l.l.y scooped up a handful of quarters and stuck one into the phone slot. The hooks released the phone, the steel plate came open like a door, and he had access to the digits. w.i.l.l.y dialed his home number. After three long rings, a female voice answered. Through a veil of fuzz, the woman's voice was muddled by the constant wind that rattled in long intervals in the background.

"Is that you, w.i.l.l.y?" The way she talked, it sounded like he'd disturbed her from a deep sleep. He expected his wife, not this crotchety sounding woman. He waited on the line and didn't answer.

"It is you, w.i.l.l.y?/you're scared, and I know why/don't be/this is all for you/everything's for you from now on, Chuckles/you were a good boy/he didn't see you grow into a man, but now he can, w.i.l.l.y/now he can/he wasn't done living, and he wasn't done spending time with you/he's got good ideas, and lots of them/that's one thing about the guy/he never ran out of good ideas."

That ended the call. w.i.l.l.y was knocked back two steps when the phone shot back onto the receiver. The steel plate slammed down over the digits. w.i.l.l.y leaned against the counter so he wouldn't fall back. He was breathing hard, almost panting.

"Get it together." w.i.l.l.y paused to catch his breath. "Who was that lady?"

She called him "Chuckles." His uncle called him that, but who else would know that? The answer soon came to him, though it didn't make any sense. It was Suzie, w.i.l.l.y's great grandmother. She had died when he was twelve. She lived on the same block as his aunt and uncle did.

"Why did I get Suzie when I dialed my wife?"

This would be a trial and error process.

w.i.l.l.y gained the courage to shove another quarter into the slot. This time he dialed the police. The line picked up this time. The words sounded like the person on the other line was talking in a speeding car that was driving through a tunnel.

"Yeah."

w.i.l.l.y scoffed at the reply. "That's all you've got to say? 'Yeah?' I've seen people burst into pieces and melt into nothing, and, and-'Yeah' is all you've f.u.c.king got!"

The man sounded like he was sucking on a cigar and really getting his mouth around it. "You know, I always thought the cops should be judge and jury/the cops know people/the judges in their courtroom aren't on the streets/they don't talk to people/the judges don't know how to tell truth from lies/they can't read into people/they know jack s.h.i.t about their community/so I figure the cops should decide guilt or innocence/hey, I've got another idea/how about put the electric chair in the local prisons/let the cops throw the f.u.c.kin' switch/drive-thru frying/do that so the other perps out there know who's the boss/crime doesn't pay/drive-thru frying, yeah/streamline the punishments/we take back our communities/we make honest people out of the sc.u.m of the earth."

w.i.l.l.y hung up. He'd been talking, asking the man questions, but the cop wouldn't stop going on about his "drive-thru" electric chair idea.

"Trial and error," w.i.l.l.y whispered to himself.

w.i.l.l.y dialed the police again after inserting another quarter.

"/I always thought handcuffs weren't enough/they should shock the perp every time they resist arrest/"

The same cop was going on and on about his ideas.

w.i.l.l.y left the phone on the hook a moment. He turned away from it and noticed the steel slot on the fridge. It covered the handle and the edge of the door so it couldn't open without being unlocked. He inserted a quarter, the hooks released, and he opened the fridge. It was stocked with enough food to feed a family of four. He decided to grab and a beer and before he could think of anything else, it slammed shut on its own.

"Just what is that the h.e.l.l about?"

w.i.l.l.y popped the tab and drank the beer anyway.

The cold beer helped dial down his thoughts.

"This is happening. Okay. This is real. So treat it like its real. Keep calling people."

w.i.l.l.y dialed the number of his best friend. The phone rang ten times before someone picked up. "I could've banged them all/I was young enough, and the girls were out there/enough p.u.s.s.y to fill a stadium/I had my whole life before me/I look back, and man, it makes me wonder what could've been/there's all kinds of sizes, shapes, and tastes-and believe me, they taste different/p.u.s.s.y, man, I could've had all kinds/but I had to get her pregnant/one mistake/one time/that's all it took."

w.i.l.l.y furrowed his brow and hung up the phone.

That clearly wasn't Steve Oaks, his best friend. It sounded like another friend of his from high school. A kid named Patrick. Patrick used the phrase "Enough p.u.s.s.y to fill a stadium" during gym cla.s.s when the boys were playing basketball and the girls were playing volleyball on the other side of the gymnasium.

Why did the phone direct him to Patrick instead of Steve?

w.i.l.l.y followed many paths of logic. Maybe he had misdialed. The phone was dialing random people, no matter what b.u.t.tons he pressed. No, maybe the phone wasn't dialing random people, because so far, they were all people he knew at one point and time. And another point, Patrick was dead. Suzie was dead. The cop, he wasn't sure who he was, or if he was deceased. One thing was for sure, not one time had the phone called someone directly.

Only one way to find out if what's true is true.

Does this phone only call dead people?

Let's find out.

w.i.l.l.y dialed Uncle Tim's phone number. The line didn't dial. It stayed on as if the other line had answered and didn't reply.

"Uncle Tim? You there? It's w.i.l.l.y. I don't know what's going on. I drive out here to hear a reading of the will-your will-and people are dying left and right. You've got to help me. I know you're dead, and this is crazy. Yeah, it's all crazy. I can't make sense of it, but here I am talking to you so G.o.d tell me something so I can survive this."

The line stirred. Then voices over voices carried on like they did outside before Jenna fell into pieces.

"This is your chance/you've been waiting for so long/tell him what he wants to know/the time to play is now/tell your nephew what's happening/tell him what he's in for/we're ready to start/your dreams and ideas will burn so bright."

Then the voices ceased. Each layer quieted itself one at a time. When it settled, there was silence on the other line. Then someone talked. w.i.l.l.y was absolutely certain it was his uncle who was speaking.

Uncle Tim said, "Take your money downstairs, my boy. Get ready, because this is going to be soooooo much fun."

ANGEL.

Angel had been on the track team in high school. This was at a private school in Beverly Hills. She won numerous trophies for the quarter-mile relay, but now that she was in her late forties, de-conditioned by drugs, alcohol, and unemployment, she was nearly vomiting after racing from the hotel after only traveling four blocks. Brock's presence incited too many conflicting emotions. The main conflict being that she hadn't changed one bit since the last time they were together in rehab. Brock had cleaned up and was about to marry his old friend, Hannah. His life looked pretty d.a.m.n good. She, on the other hand, had countless strings of failed, abusive relationships, and a mean cocaine addiction. Her life looked pretty much like s.h.i.t.

Angel forced herself to keep up a jogging stride moving down the road. She hoped to find a house, a bridge to hide under, or anything other place to stay out-of-sight. She kept pace up until she was alerted by the car that pulled up to her. It was a heavy-duty pick-up truck. She was about to scream for her life when she noticed it was Dean, her boyfriend, behind the wheel. He too had been delivered into this place of dangerous confusion. He gave her a kind smile while pulling up next to her. The man was like her, a washed up Hollywood producer whose drug fix became number one over everything else. They were both hopeless.

"Hop in," Dean invited. "We're getting out of here right now."

Angel accepted the offer and stepped up into the truck. Angel explained to him what happened to her since they were split up. Dean kept quiet. He drove on, staring out at all corners of the area to ensure their safety.

"Can you believe Brock's here?"

Dean shook his head. No, he couldn't believe it.

"What's wrong with you?" The vibe Dean cast was disconcerting. The life had been taken from him, it seemed. "Did something happen to you? Are you hurt?"

Angel couldn't remember much about the last time they were together beyond going unconscious when the man with the golden axe attacked them while they were looking for their c.o.ke hook-up. The hook-up was a guy named Seth who was supposed to provide them a fun day at the local hotel once they were done with business. "A spa day," or as they liked to call it, "a snow day." The meet-up never happened. Seth couldn't be found.

"Nothing happened to me," Dean insisted, making a left turn into the road that led into the woods. The branches cast moving shadows over both of their faces. "I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm scared like you, is all."

Angel kept quiet. She knew about Dean's mood swings. He could be reaching to hug her one moment then swinging his hand to hit her the next. "I'm glad you're okay, Dean. Thank G.o.d you're here. I don't know where I'd be without you."

When she stroked his leg, he stiffened up. He'd been jerked from deep thought. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Dean snapped at her, clutching the wheel white-knuckled. "How many times do I have to f.u.c.king tell you, I'm fine. I'm a-okay. So quit asking me. Shut up."

Angel scooted away from him towards the car door. She clutched the handle, wondering if she should bail herself out and start running. She had no reason to stay with him beyond an easy c.o.ke-connection, and she hadn't had the cravings since entering Blue Hills.

Sensing her change of heart, Dean apologized. "Listen, I'm a bit weird right now. It's been h.e.l.l. I'm sure it's been h.e.l.l for you too. I'm sorry I got angry. I only want to get out of here."

"Me too," Angel said, though meekly. She still harbored the dreadful feeling something was different about Dean that shouldn't be different. "Let's just get out of here."

Driving down the wooded road, they were quiet for a time until Dean spoke up again. "I've learned a few things about what's happening here."

"Like what?"

Dean cleared his throat. His eyes were buggy while surveying the woods. Sometimes he was straight-faced, then he jerked in shock seeing something in the distance she couldn't locate. "I've been following that man around. The one who attacked us. The one with the axe."

"I remember him."

"He does things to make us the way we are."

"What does he do?"

"He alters our bodies. The dead talk to him and tell him how to do it. He splits us open when we're not awake. He gets inside of us, Angel, and modifies us. He makes it so we need money to survive. But why do it in the first place? Who's benefiting from altering us like that? n.o.body," he cackled under his breath, "except for the dead. They're the ones doing this. I don't know why because it doesn't matter." Under his breath, "Only one thing matters."

Spinning the wheel, the truck suddenly shot to the side of the road. Dean slammed the brakes, and without a seatbelt, she struck her nose against the dashboard. Her head exploded with a nagging and burning sensation. Her eyes clouded up with purple blotches. She was dizzy and disorientated. Dean was garbling nonsense under his breath. He was talking to no one, giving himself instructions aloud, then seizing her by the throat, pushing her up against him, his face twitching with maniacal ambitions.

"You saw what that axe man did to those people. He ripped it right out of their backs and pulled it right out. I know what's inside the box. I know what's inside of you, Angel! I NEED IT!"

Angel came to once she caught the knife shine in his hand. What Dean had pulled out from underneath the seat. He raised it up, the blade aimed downwards to delve into her back. Defending herself, she managed to jiggle the door handle and took a freefall backwards. Scooping herself up with her hands after hitting the ground, her feet propelled her forward. She created as much distance from Dean as possible.

Escaping ten yards, she was halted by the cutting howl that erupted from within the truck. She turned around, intending to achieve a brief glimpse of her boyfriend. Seeing him, she was compelled to hurry back to the truck. Angel was horrified and astounded. A gulf of blood fired out of the driver's side window as if blasted from a high powered hose. What confused her was the sound of metal clanging, of coins clashing together, as they pinged against one other.

Ignoring the blood and its origin, Angel lunged for the money, stealing a b.l.o.o.d.y handful in each hand, before the coins gained a life of their own. Moving, shifting, traveling, they were drawn by an invisible force into the woods. Further on down the road, copper, nickel, and bronze specks were diminishing flecks of light and refractions. The money in her hands slipped between the cracks of her fingers, flying up, and then coming back down only to be dragged into the woods and sucked into the distance.

Angel remembered the quarter firing out of James's forearm back at the hotel room. She turned to the car, the side door leaking red from it's bottom crack. The windows had shattered. The coins had acted as bullets, and there was Dean's head turned inside out, a blob of pink pulp and skull shards. Both his eyes had been minced into strings of meat. She navigated the gory work of what used to be a man and noticed how his chest had also spat out the money from inside of him. His fingers, bent in tension, were split in half. His arms were diced and riddled with wounds. All of him was ruined.

Angel backtracked from the truck. She was shaking her head in denial, unable to breathe, choking on the images that would forever be a cruel stamp in her mind. Awkwardly putting her feet down, she stumbled and fell to the ground. She was weak now, literally unable to move. She tipped onto her side, laying down in the middle of the road, and the sleep she once experienced in the hotel took hold of her once again.

FOOT WORK.

Brock asked James, "Are you sure you know where this guy lives?"

They had walked for what seemed many miles. Every block showcased another lifeless body who couldn't come up with enough money to stay alive. Brock was growing leery of the surroundings, a residential area where he caught shifts of movement within houses. He knew others were alive watching them, sizing them up of worth. Everybody in this town was a criminal or a thief.

Murdered victims littered the roads as well. Stinking bodies. Victims with their throats slit, and others with a large hole in their backs the shape of a box. James would say aloud who they were and what they did for a living as simple condolences.

"That was Margaret Chauffer; she used to play the organ at the Methodist church. Tim Hanover was the deputy sheriff. Linda Evanson sold used cars alongside her husband Mike. That's little Wendy Milford. I only know her because she sold me Girl Scout cookies."