Frozen fear, p.24
Frozen Fear, page 24
Josh admired Casey because Casey had a girlfriend. Well, maybe not an official girlfriend. The rumors were pretty strong though. He had been on a date before. Casey Dawson had been the first in their circle of friends to take that kind of leap. Josh felt Casey could help him figure out Morgan if he was still alive.
Since Gary’s Olde Ice Cream Shoppe had been closed for two weeks, he had been unable to see Morgan. He wasn’t sure what her last name was or which high school she’d be starting at and it made him uncomfortable he’d kissed someone he knew almost nothing about. Josh felt a pang of guilt about what he had left her to deal with. Guys usually left flowers, candy, and cute little cards for girls they liked: he had left a dilapidated ice cream truck full of rotting human carcasses. Luckily, she didn’t know that.
Two weeks went by, and he thought she was gone from his life forever. Then he saw her at the mall while shopping with his mom. Morgan had gotten a new job at Frankie’s Corndogs, wearing an orange knit shirt and a little yellow name tag. Josh approached her, nodded, and said “Hi, Morgan” in the coolest way possible. She had merely replied “How ya doing, little man? How’s your summer?” Then she asked him if he wanted to order something like he was an any customer. He said no. She had looked busy at the time, just smiled at him blandly, and went into the back room to do something.
‘How ya doing, little man?’ Is that what you say to someone whose mouth you had shoved your tongue into?’ There was hardly a sparkle in her eyes at all, all flirty flame extinguished. Maybe he’d imagined that spark and it had just been mere boredom. He became worried, thinking she hadn’t liked the way he kissed. Maybe she had figured out how old he actually was and was embarrassed. Maybe she was mad at him because he had betrayed her trust and lied to her. He wouldn’t have blamed her. But it felt off to him.
Casey Dawson could have helped him. He was trustworthy and wouldn’t make fun of him or give him bad advice. Older girls made even less sense, he thought.
The day drifted towards evening, with Josh, Gerald, Michael, and Carter swapping game controllers during a three-hour Super Smash Brothers marathon, colorful shredded wrapping paper all around them. When Gerald asked his mom if they could spend the night, his mom agreed effusively and immediately gathered up extra pillows and blankets. She told them that she had an air mattress, but it leaked. Would they mind sleeping on the floor? Could Michael? Could Carter? Michael said yes, but Carter informed her that his mother wouldn’t let him spend the night.
Gerald’s mom made homemade pizza while they put together a racetrack for Gerald’s new Slot cars. Josh felt like old times were returning for sure. But Gerald, Michael, and Carter weren’t nearly as energetic as they previously had been. The guys seemed to enjoy their pizza slices although they couldn’t eat the whole thing. Mrs. Dawson cut them into small pieces with a knife. She helped Michael with his fork.
Everything seemed at least ninety percent back to normal. Josh knew all they needed was a few weeks. Then they’d be outside running and playing like healthy normal kids.
Gerald’s mom arranged thick blankets on the floor with lots of pillows and surprised them with Glo-sticks to play with.
Josh hadn’t thought about Mister Yum Yum at all during this time. Sitting with them in the dark, whisking their Glo-Sticks in the air like swords, Josh asked, “So, are you guys okay? Ever think about what happened that day?”
“No,” Gerald said confidently. “I don’t remember anything. I remember it had been really scary. I felt like I was in that place they talk about in the bible...”
“Hell,” said Michael.
Gerald chastised him for saying a bad word. Michael said it wasn’t a bad word. Gerald said, “Yes, it is.
“It was like I was hanging over that place—” said Gerald.
“Hell,” said Michael with a snicker. “Say it: Hell!”
Michael was getting too giggly. They all told him to calm down, chill out.
“And everyone was laughing at me.”
They fell mute. There was a lot of pain in Gerald’s voice.
“Me, too,” said Michael, breaking the awkward silence. “I felt like I was being tortured except there wasn’t any real pain. Everything was dark. I could feel things all around me but couldn’t see them.”
“Me, too,” said Gerald. “That’s exactly what it was like.”
‘Believe it or not, I was very close to having been there myself.’ Josh wanted to add but didn’t think he could explain it well enough. He’d not been through exactly what they had; his hell was different.
“But you guys are fine now?” Josh asked.
“Yes,” said Gerald.
“Yes,” said Michael. “But not all the kids are.”
“Some are still really sick,” said Gerald, “because their bodies didn’t recover from being comatose for so long. That’s what my dad said.”
“My parents told me that, too,” said Michael. “I had to say prayers for them at church.”
Whatever it meant, he was getting scared, making him feel that the comfy quilt of security that he had been wrapping around himself lately could get yanked away at any second. Mister Yum Yum was still out there somewhere. When Georgie had appeared to him in the spider eggs sacs and told him about the knife, Josh specifically remembered Georgie said Josh could “stop” him but didn’t say “kill” him. There was a very big difference between the two. Mister Yum Yum was already dead so he couldn’t really “kill” him anyway, that was silly. There was a chance he could still be out there. Josh was the defender and had to hold the monster back. It was a heavy responsibility to carry.
The three of them clammed up. They went back to swirling their Glo-Sticks in the darkness. Josh knew as well as the other two, that if they kept talking, they all would go to sleep with bad dreams.
***
The next morning, they hopped in front of the TV and got in as much Super Smash Brothers as possible. Gerald’s mom had to literally shut the TV off to break their rapt attention. Michael’s mom eventually showed up and escorted him out the door with cheerful goodbyes. Josh’s mother showed up soon after.
Driving home, his mother suggested that he go over to Jeffy’s house and check on him.
“Just pop in and say hi,” she said. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Just pop in and see him,” she said as she pulled into the driveway. “Then all you cool kids can go back to ignoring the poor child.”
He was a little reluctant to talk to Jeffy. It was the Saturday morning when they pedaled to Pine Lake when his nightmare started and his life changed. He had gotten so comfy and secure as his normal life was finally returning, especially coming home from Gerald’s birthday party, he didn’t want Jeffy to jinx it, but he was glad to see a familiar face on his street again.
When Josh entered the Holmes living room, he found Jeffy surprisingly healthy-looking. Compared to sickly Gerald and Michael, that was. He was sitting up on the sofa, a wadded blanket, with toys all around him. His appetite was back in full force: his hand submerged in a box of Lucky Charms.
Classic Jeffy. The sight reminded him of the pre-Mister Yum Yum days.
“Glad you’re better, Jeffy,” he said.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m watching a cartoon show.”
A second later, Josh realized he was standing in the way of the TV. Josh felt awkward. Jeffy didn’t notice or ask him to move. No social skills. Same old Jeffy. Josh said he’d see him later, but Jeffy called him back.
“Josh?”
“What?”
Jeffy flapped his hand at him, motioning for him to come closer. Josh leaned over the couch. Directly into his ear, Jeffy said, “I think he is still out there.”
“Who?”
“You know. Just let me know if you see him, okay?”
“Sure.” Josh just stared at him.
“Ummmm,” said Jeffy. “Cartoons—” falling silent suddenly.
It took him a few seconds to realize that Jeffy wanted him to move out of the way and let him watch TV. Josh went home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was textbook “too easy” for them to get that dilapidated ice cream truck from the impound. It was surreal how quickly they had got in and out of the lot, it was a perfect heist. It was good timing on their part, and they got it before it was slated to get crushed. Clay tried not to think about the dead bodies that had been found in it. Five dead kids. The truck was cleaned after the evidence was collected, as far as they could tell. It reeked of bleach. It was a sanitized chunk of junk.
He didn’t know what kind of hocus-pocus the talking toilet used on the impound lot, but it worked. To be extra careful, Kip silenced his pistol and shot out two cameras he saw.
It wasn’t easy to load it since the thing’s wheels and axles were rusted as fuck. Luckily, they “borrowed” a flatbed wrecker and a one-ton winch to pull the motherfucker up which still required them to push from the back with all their strength. When they were on the road, Clay remarked that it had been much easier than he had expected.
“Don’t count your chickens, bro,” answered Kip. “There might have been some extra cameras hiding around.”
Clay remarked that hopefully “their friend” had helped them out with that part. They both wondered about the extent of his powers. Maybe this guy could help them break into a bank and take out money the same ease they took the corroded truck.
“A big bag of money is a hell of a lot smaller than this hunk of rusted shit we’re hauling,” remarked Kip.
So far, they had collected about fifteen thousand dollars, dug up from Melvin Tolliver’s yard in various types of boxes and Café Du Monde coffee cans. Apparently when he was alive, the talking toilet had enjoyed frou-frou housewife coffee. It was a shitload of work digging the money caches up, taking several days of mosquitoes out in full force. Next, the spook told Clay about a safe located in Eddie Janick’s house that held about fifty thousand dollars in cash and some gold bars. They both wondered why the spook didn’t offer any bigger scores. Clay kept quiet about the thirty thousand grand he was told would be just his.
“He’s kind of limited in what he can do”, said Clay as they drove to Mr. Eddie's empty lake house. “He’s mostly limited to the knowledge he had when he was alive. That’s what he told me last night. I mean, we got some money so far, right? We ain’t rich, but the money so far will be mighty useful.
“Was it worth killing her though?”
Clay rolled down the passenger side window and lit a cigarette. Whenever he thought of her, he needed a smoke.
“Don’t you ever ever fuckin’ talk about that, Kip.” He cocked his index finger and thumb at Kip’s head like a gun.
“Sorry, bro. Just tossing you some perspective.”
“What we’re doing ain’t a federal crime either,” explained Clay. “It’s all in cash and- “
“Yeah. Untraceable. I got you. Good point.”
Clay needed money to skip fast but there was no use doing something so risky that it would put him in even worse trouble. Sooner or later, he’d get called in and questioned about Julie Soto’s disappearance. They’d never find her body, so he wasn’t as worried about a murder charge anymore. He was merely expecting the police to keep a closer eye on him soon. Julie barely had any family, and few friends, so questions about her disappearance could take a while. She was too good for the likes of him. She was too good for this world too. Clay would bide his time, stack cash, and figure out where he would go next. He had money now and that meant he had a future.
He just had to keep his sanity. Every night. he slipped inside that putrid restroom to discuss plans with the talking toilet; another fragile bite of his sanity was eaten away. Even his brother Russ wasn’t doing too well.
“So, now Rusty,” reported Clay with a sigh, “has an imaginary girlfriend.”
“Well, good for him,” said Kip as he drove, with a slight smile.
“It ain’t good for nobody. That means we have two people in the family losing their minds.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Clay.”
The tires rolled over gravel as they entered the lakeside community. Residents were out on Jasper Lake. Motorboats cut across the water pulling skiers, some middle-aged fat women waded out into the water with children bobbing along with arm floaties and rafts. The scene made Clay feel nostalgic and sad.
“We really should have taken my sister’s car,” mused Clay. “We stick out like a sore thumb in this ride.”
“No. Your sister’s clunker would have broken down halfway back and then we would have been totally screwed.”
“Maybe.”
The charger bumped along. Up and down a few dirt roads later, they pulled into Mr. Eddie’s driveway. A large sign at the gate read: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
“Cute sign,” remarked Kip with a chuckle.
Kip killed the gate latch with bolt cutters and they cruised up the long driveway. The Crime Scene tape was already gone. The house sat abandoned waiting on the Janick estate. At the front door, both Kip and Clay carried huge toolboxes, Clay also wielded a sledgehammer. Kip was a skilled locksmith, but even he had trouble with the front door lock. When it finally clicked, Kip examined the deadbolt right above it.
“Fuck it,” he said to Clay. “Slam it.”
Clay whacked it three times before the door caved in. There had even been a slide bolt on the inside. Mr. Eddie kept things tight as the asshole of a submarine. The hall and the den still had a burnt odor. What would have been the backdoor was a huge gaping hole of splintered metal and glass like Godzilla had taken a huge bite out of it. There was an attempt to tape a tarpaulin over the hole, but part of it was already beginning to sag at the corner. They should have just come in that way but it would have been seen by people on the lake possibly.
“I wonder what went through that wall?” quipped Clay, “A fucking missile?”
Kip pulled his head back from peering downstairs.
“Smells like barbequed death down there,” Kip laughed. “That was a fucking killer party, though, huh?”
More of that irritating giggle. Clay popped him in the chest.
“I had a homie die here, asshole!” They were nose to nose. “You better watch your mouth, Kip!”
Kip slugged him in the bicep and told him to watch his attitude. Back and forth they went for a minute. The heat, the sweaty work, and merely being stuck with each other for so long was wearing them down. Before the testosterone fueled petty young man dance could commence, they shook it off, calmed down, and decided just to get right to the task at hand.
The safe was located behind a large framed photograph of Eddie Janick standing on a pier, holding up a long catfish, a cigar clamped in his mouth, under a Braves baseball cap. Mr. Eddie’s bulbous Buddha belly seemed to take up the whole picture, eclipsing even the trophy fish.
“How did our demon friend even get the combination?” wondered Kip. Clay huffed. He was tired of talking. He wanted to get done and haul ass home.
“Supposedly,” Clay stated, “when he was alive, he played cards with Mr. Eddie a lot.”
“No shit?” Kip laughed.
“He said he bled him dry more than a few times,” said Clay. “Mr. Eddie hated him because he always won.”
“So, he just looked over his shoulder once and memorized it?” said Kip.
“Yep. Mr. Eddie kept taking betting cash from his safe,” Clay pointed at the wall. “Can we get moving along with this, dude?”
Kip nodded. What they saw behind the picture made them stop. The was a locked metal door, a small screen, and a keypad on the front. This wasn’t a surprise; they had to dial the combination. Above that was another square, recessed door with a red button on it and no keypad over it.
“What’s the red button for?” asked Kip.
“No idea. We should push it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s there.”
“Nah,” said Kip. “I don’t trust it.”
Kip took out the Post-it note from his pocket that had the combination on it. He dialed it. The lock whirred.
“See? It worked!”
When he pushed the rectangular door all the way, the little door above slid open. A small circular hole was revealed. Then a loud pop and Kip was thrown across the room, crashing against the wall. He slid down, the side of his head blown out, blood pouring where his eye and cheek had been a moment prior.
Clay stood in shock, watching the thin gunpowder smoke wisp up from the most creatively fucked up security system he ever saw.
***
Clay sat chain-smoking on the floor for several hours. Maddening silence. He had found a bottle of Jack Daniels in Mr. Eddie’s liquor cabinet and was draining it.
“You’re going to give me a nice funeral, right, Clay?” asked Kip again, splayed out with his torso against the wall, his waist hanging inches above the carpet. He was about ready to flop over by now, but dried blood and gooey brain matter kept him stuck to the wall. Kip was a very talkative corpse.
“I want to be buried next to my mom, all right, Clay?”
“Absolutely, bro,” Clay choked back tears. He had known this poor dead bastard since the third grade, since sitting across from each other at Andrews Elementary. He had gone to Kip’s mom’s funeral years ago. They had their first fight in the ninth grade when Clay found out Kip had sex with his older sister. They bonded when Kip got out of jail. They had so many memories, many he was glad to forget, like when this current situation would become a bad memory. This surely would cost another chunk of his diminishing sanity.
Now, he had to figure out how to dispose of his best friend’s body.
“Take my part of the money and buy me a nice casket, Clay.”
“Oh, buddy,” Clay dragged on his cigarette, “You’re gonna get the finest mahogany casket. In the nicest funeral home in town with a string orchestra. All that shit, man!”
Clay took a hard tug from the bottle, and his chest heaved.
