Collateral Casualties
No dream lasted forever and few people ever saw the bottom rushing towards them.
Big Pez was a merry captive of
the rhythms of his simple existence. Born Marlon Wainwright to
Brody (who drank himself into an early grave) and Marjorie (who
bore her bruises in silence) Wainwright, he knew he was destined
for better things. Still weary from the night before, Big Pez wore
the same shirt under the same soiled Army jacket for the last three
days. The "N" from his high top Nikes had peeled off his right
shoe, so he scraped the left one off to match. He was the height of
haute couture for the business of obliterating oneself. His ashy
lips and sunken eye sockets gave evidence to the inescapable horror
that he may need to ease up in his drug use. Beckley wasn't a town
renowned for plentiful opportunity, however, an enterprising dope
fiend could pursue his hunt for the perfect blast with minimum
encumbrance.
J-Clev sat next to him, sucking
on a glass pipe. Born Jesse Cleveland to Sherry Cleveland and one
of a series of one-night stands she had to make rent. A red and
black flannel shirt drooped over his oversized jeans that rode low
on his hips. Long hair trailed from the back of his camo ball cap
which had been pulled low to shadow his heavy-lidded eyes with
their wide pupils. His unkempt beard, the hairs of which turned at
peculiar angles long untouched by any form of a comb, couldn't
disguise his gaunt face and sallow complexion. Sores, shaped like
the bloody lips of an infant, opened along his neck.
The headlights of a turning car
illuminated the truck bed briefly, the sudden light causing them to
wince with its interruption. The remaining shard of the broken
window handle jabbed Big Pez in his side when he shifted. He jolted
upwards, stirring the landfill of papers (mostly bills and
collection notices), sausage McMuffin wrappers, and coffee cups
filled with ground cigarette butts. The truck's blue vinyl
interior, cracked and brittle, scraped his clothes. Big Pez closed
his eyes and once again tilted at windmills, chasing the same,
elusive high from his first blast. Tonight was different. Tonight
he simply wanted a jump start so that he could go about his
business. The plan was to break into Beckley Junior High School and
steal lab supplies for their own lab. They had dreams of big time
gangsta life down in Balmer, though part of them knew full well
that they were going to pawn anything they could get their hands on
to chase their next high. A couple of city goats trying to pretend
that they weren't more than a couple of meth heads.
Nudging J-Clev, Big Pez slowly
opened his door and stretched slowly, his gangly form unfurling
from the Chevy pick-up (originally blue, but now almost red with
the rust which ate away at it like a pernicious lung cancer). Two
students out for a campus stroll before their midnight classes.
Definitely not two dropouts shipwrecked in life, their hopes dashed
against the reefs of ignorance and hopelessness.
The school developed a terrible
aspect at night, its architectural design reminiscent more of a
penal institution than a learning one. The steps alone were a
series of foreboding shadows leading to the recessed darkness of
the entryway. Big Pez searched the retreating lot for any unwanted
eyes, then squeezed between the chained doors.
With eyes downcast, Big Pez
walked past the office, part of him afraid the principal would
charge out to have him wait in her office. School was something he
endured as long as he could, with only the cold glare of his
mother's disapproval awaiting him at home.
"What about the guards?" J-Clev
asked, sucking in his imagined gut as he slid through the mild gap
between the chained doors. "Alarms?"
"Ain't no security to speak of.
You see how old this place is? Ain't no one pouring money into this
joint for on-site security. Or fancy alarms. Way they see it, not
much here worth stealing no ways. I guess they depend on the scary
stories to keep folks away." "What scary stories?"
"Beckley Junior High used to be a
hospital during the Civil War," Big Pez said.
"Thought that was
Beckley-Stratton Junior High?"
"Over on Grey Flats? Naw, it was
built a few years back and there was never a hospital there. The
building that had the hospital had long been demolished, but it was
all right here."
"What's so scary about that?"
J-Clev stroked the scraggily wisps of his mustache, a gesture he
always did when calculating the risks of a potential
score.
"The way I hear it, there was a
young woman named Hannah who worked as a nurse treating the wounded
soldiers." At some point in the story, as best Big Pez could
remember, some slaves got locked up in a room, but that part always
con fused him so he picked up the story at the part he remembered
best. "Hannah was killed and her moans and footsteps could be heard
up and down the halls."
The hallways stretched before
them, spider web strands in wait. A few lights remained on,
creating pools of shadow down each corridor. The artificial
confidence provided by his meth had Big Pez sufficiently decisive,
striding the hall with the giddy excitement of a kid embracing
being locked in a toy store. His thoughts grew abrupt and
fragmented. His hands balled into tight fists, hoping his instincts
would navigate the labyrinthine halls to the science wing. Or a
computer lab. Or the media room.
The few fluorescent lights
remaining on hummed then sputtered to lifelessness and the shadows
slithered from their lairs. With each step, the darkness pulsed
with a life of its own. The surrounding blackness created an
envelope seal of obscurity. Big Pez moved as if in a separate world
from J-Clev, his hands a blur in the abyssal night. Time stretched
to disorienting flatness, each heartbeat a measured thud in his
throat lasting a minute.
"Did you hear that?" J-Clev
stopped short, the wizened teeth of his fingers clamped onto Big
Pez's arm. Drawing near, J-Clev wore the expression of irrational
terror, his eyes widened, fueled by the unpredictable passions of
his high.
"Nah, I didn't hear nothing." Big
Pez extricated himself from the grip. "You know this shit'll make
some folks paranoid."
The corridors branched in every
direction, every sound coming at them from all sides with a gallows
echo chamber. Staccato clicks, with the gasp of someone choking on
coins, reverberated. Voices rushed with the ethereal hush of
approaching whispers through a cornfield. The shadows shifted
again, the corridors multiplying, a web of choices taking them
further and further from where they wanted to be.
Big Pez took off running, without
warning to J-Clev (who dutifully followed suit). With no
destination in mind, he followed his instincts down the nearest
hallway. The ceiling lit up under the occasional eruption of light
coming from the failed emergency lighting. Above him, pipes –
corroded veins originally for gas lighting – jutted from the
ceiling. He thought he spied a door. Big Pez shuddered as he neared
it.
The strong, dank smell of moist
rot emanated from the door. Opening the door, he brushed through
cobwebs and cemetery shadows. The dark smelled of spoiled potatoes,
wood rot, and termite shit. The looming shadows coalesced into an
image, an ancient movie projector focusing to life under the dreary
pallor of light and the pall of mortality. Lanterns hung around the
room revealing a procession of beds, crowded with moans. With
forlorn and defeated faces, men hobbled about on crutches. The
stench of gangrene clung to the air, smothering men buried beneath
thick woolen blankets as if posed for their caskets. Emaciated and
spiritless, locked in a fevered sleep, staring up at ceiling
longingly with the steady gaze from bloodshot eyes, a death mask
fixed on their faces.
A woman, shapely as the black
dress draped around her would reveal, got up from rolling bandages.
Her white apron betrayed the severity of its scarlet stains as she
drew closer. Strands of her hair frayed from the bun she had it
tied into. The wounds of another patient needed tending as maggots
crawled in his sloughing flesh. She scooped wine mixed with water
and sugar, from a bucket.
"Hannah!" A surgeon had his
sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his bare arms and linen aprons
smeared with blood. As he called for her, men lifted a wounded man
onto the table, his shrieks of pain adding to the nightmare din.
The surgeon quickly examined his wounds, knives clutched between
his teeth. He snatched a knife, wiped it twice on bloody apron, and
began cutting. Big Pez covered his ears to smother the sounds of
the grating of the murderous knife.
Hannah fixed a pillow beneath the
man's head and stroked his sweat-soaked hair. She gently daubed
water on his face and neck. The surgeon tossed the freed limb to
the corner. Pools of blood radiated from the pile of discarded
amputated arms and legs.
"Next!" the surgeon yelled.
Hysterical tears trailed down his face. His gaze locked on Big Pez
and J-Clev.
Hannah grasped J-Clev's arm, her
fingers digging into it like shards of broken glass.
Big Pez staggered out the door,
almost stumbling as he turned to run. The door closed behind him,
not quite muffling J-Clev's fading screams. He ran blindly until he
found himself by the front office again. Hoping to hear J-Clev
following him, he cocked his ears to the silence. The sure tapping
of footfalls emanated from the trailing darkness.
"J?" he called out, little above
a stage whisper.
A chorus of whispers rose in
response. The cries of the damned. "Doctor?" "Help."
"God!"
Big Pez's heart pounded, his
hands trembling as he fumbled at the chained doors. He shook,
almost too violently to squeeze back through door, but the icy
brush of fingers scraping at him panicked him through.
That night, huddled in a fetal
ball of fear and drugs, he dreamt of shadows and blood.