1

Afternoon, October 30, 2015

A magazine doesn’t seem like an effective weapon, but he’d seen people use them. Jason Bourne bludgeoned a man with his own mail once. He stabbed a guy with a pen, too. Same movie. Clark wondered if the director was trying to make some statement about the power of words, but they really didn’t talk much in those movies.

Clark looked over the shattered room. The latest issue of Time hung from what was left of the coffee table. Far too thin and flimsy, you couldn’t use Time to discipline a dog. You could probably do some damage with a Field & Stream. You could stop a bullet with the right Vogue. But Time? Christ, who even subscribed to Time anymore? Killing Henry wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do, Clark knew that, but it’s not like Henry had a good grasp on living.

Henry was splayed out on the carpet, just below the dangling magazine, which seemed ready to fall at any moment. Soon the week’s cover would mask Henry’s eyes like a mortician’s sheet. If there were any synapses still firing in Henry’s brain, he’d slowly fade to black while staring at a woman breastfeeding a toddler. Clark had been fed formula. He thought. Never occurred to him to ask.

Rather than a magazine, in the end, the second death came with the handle of a La-Z-Boy recliner. Clark, much like Henry, had not seen that coming. Clark never understood why La-Z-Boy handles slid off so easily. Held in your hand, it had the weight and feel of a socket wrench. The handle was soaking in the toilet now with a half-bottle of bleach Clark found under the sink. The water had turned an earthy shade of pink, and strands of Henry’s hair whirled. Chemical fumes wafted from the bowl. The handle leaned against the rim like a wooden spoon. It was a witch’s brew. Eye of newt. Clark supposed there was actual eye in there, if you counted whatever was oozing from behind Henry’s glasses.

After it was done, Clark had walked into the kitchen. He’d grabbed a plastic bag and duct tape from the closet, then rifled through the refrigerator. He made a cheese sandwich. Extra mayo. He wasn’t hungry, but he’d need fuel. And he had the time. No one came to Henry’s place anymore.

Back in the den, Clark threw the last of the crust in his mouth and nudged the Xbox off with his toe. They’d been playing The Last of Us. Clark was sitting on the recliner, Henry on a stool dragged from the kitchen, which had been the first source of tension. But Clark had called the La-Z-Boy, and rules are rules. Henry could be pissed, but he also could have owned some more fucking furniture.

Henry was also backseat driving, which was the second issue. It was Clark’s turn as the hero. Playing as the bedraggled protagonist, Clark had to navigate a post-apocalypse filled with mutants and marauders. After clearing a rotting warehouse of enemies, he’d been searching the rooms for supplies. Under boxes for rags. In lockers for sugar or blades. Items were scarce in the game, and what you could scavenge could be used to craft weapons and health kits. The better prepared you were, the better equipped you were to win. It’s an essential, though admittedly not thrilling, part of the game.

“Dude, just move on.”

“There’s still stuff here.”

“You’re not using items anyway. You’ve had full ammo for like a half hour.”

“I’m not going to shoot guys if I don’t have to.”

“You know bullets aren’t in the game for show, right? If you use some, you will find others later. It’s crazy, I know.”

“Or I can just sneak around and alway have full ammo in case I need it.”

“It’s just so fucking boring to watch.”

“It’s safe.”

“Yeah, ’cause playing safe always works so well for you.”

It had been instinctual. Before Clark fully registered what he’d done, he recognized there had been an impulse and a complicit acceptance to follow through. His pulse never jumped. His heart may have paused for a second, but the beat had returned, calm and steady.

His memory of the kill had burned down to sensations. The feel of fake wood on his fingers. A look at Henry’s temple. The whoosh of air. The sound, somewhere between cracking an egg and cracking a beer. The smell of blood. It was as if the film reel of the moment had melted, and just a few frames of Henry’s death remained for a slideshow. Henry was alive. Henry was dead. The time between was mostly ash.

To be fair, Henry was dying. Reality wasn’t that stark. It was a drop of blood that clued Clark into the issue and brought him fully into the aftermath.  

He’d been staring at Henry’s face, watching the blood collect and trickle.  Henry was on his back, with his head turned slightly, so most of the blood ran back through his hair and into his ear, but a pool had built around his cheekbone. When the surface tension broke, a rivulet slide along the side of his nose and spilled down toward his moustache. The source soon found other distributaries, and as the bleeding slowed, the streams lost momentum, and a drop hung suspended on the rim of Henry’s nostril. And it began to sway. It was barely perceptible, but the movement was there, each short inhale and exhale pushing and pulling at the liquid, slowly drying Henry’s blood into a ruby stalactite.

        Blood was an issue, but one he could solve. With the handle disinfecting, he pulled the bag over the head and duct taped it closed around the neck. Standing back, he watched for breathing. The plastic wavered, but slowly floated down to the wound, where the blood gripped the bad and sucked it in. Then everything was back to being still.
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 Now was the time for action. Step one was to survey the area, so Clark walked outside into the decaying fall.

        He held his breath and listened for signs of approaching life. Straining, he thought he could hear the sound of wet tires on the asphalt of 118, but it could have been his imagination or a humming in his ears. Between the road and the house there was nothing but a winding dirt driveway and acres of shedding elm, birch and maple.

        Fallen leaves would make for good cover, especially with snow on the horizon. Under layers of rotting foliage and hardpack, the body could disappear for months. Animals would smell blood before the snow ever came, though. Feasibly, they could destroy the evidence, but a coyote could also run out into the road with an arm in its mouth. Clark try and dig a hole in the stiffening earth, but a look around the yard—shaggy in places, dead in others—wasn’t encouraging. He strolled toward the garage, but didn’t expect to find much in terms of home and garden equipment.

        The air in the garage was a brackish mix of old fuel and wood mixed with the wind squeezing its way through the slats. In the center was the CR-V, one of those cars referred to on the forums as a faux-by-faux. Though it was advertised as rugged, the vehicle was just front-wheel drive, and in the snow it dragged its ass around like a dog with hip dysplasia. Something to be put down.

        There was a pegboard on the back wall with a random assortment of tools—a framing hammer, a backsaw, a row of worn chisels. Clark’s father had been a carpenter and an amateur woodworker. He’d helped Clark build his storm shelter, and Clark still used the same tools his dad got in the 80s. He grabbed a paring chisel and thumbed at the rust spreading on the bevel. He found a pair of work gloves on a small work bench and slid them on his hands, where they hung baggy and loose.

        In the corner were an old gas-powered push mower and a weed-whacker. At the base was a nest of tangled filament and dead grass. The only thing that looked to be in working order was the hedge trimmer, perched on a wall rack, gleaming like a prize sawfish. Clark supposed he could use the trimmer to hack through the body. Separate pieces would be easier to hide or transport. The concern, however, was the ensuing blood. There was already a not insignificant amount congealing on the carpet. He didn’t like the idea of potentially adding a gallon of new fluid to the problem. An intact body would be heavier, but it’d also be cleaner.

        In the far corner, behind the trash cans and a bin filled with old newspapers, was a wheelbarrow. Pushing aside a dusty bag of mulch, Clark found the wheel flat and cracked with age. Even if there was a pump to be found, it was useless. The Honda was the only easy way to move the body off the property, but the thought of seeing people while in the company of a corpse brought a wet sting to the back of Clark’s eyes. Limbs in garbage bags would look be more inconspicuous, but aside from the fluid issue, Clark had also never taken to the sensations of butchery. There was probably nothing but cheap liners back in the house anyways. Clark imagined a garbageman hauling the weight of a torso from a dumpster, what bone could do to off-brand plastic. The car was a no-go.

        Walking to the passenger side, Clark opened the door to wipe his prints, but he didn’t. He’d been in the car hundreds of times. He’d been in the house countless more. There was no erasing him from this place, and an attempt to do so would just arouse suspicion.

        Before closing the door, Clark rooted through the console until he found a tin amongst the discarded napkins and loose change. He snatched an old water bottle from a cup holder—a pool of brown, tobacco-flecked sludge sloshed on the bottom—and walked back to the driveway to have a think.

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Clark’s father hated the term “fireman’s carry.” Thrown over your shoulder, the person you’re trying to rescue is more exposed to smoke and heat then they would be if you left them on the floor. Nowadays, firefighters drag people along the ground, which doesn’t look quite as heroic. For the removal of a drunk, or a body, however, the fireman’s carry does suffice.

        Clark found a pack stowed in a closet, dropped a tent inside, and filled the space around it with newspapers. On top he placed a hammer, the bottle, now filled with actual water, and canteen of gas he syphoned from the lawnmower. In a side pocket he jammed in Fruit Roll-Ups and some oatmeal creme pies. He still wasn’t hungry, but he’d need energy for the hike. The pack would carry all the supplies he’d need, and cinched well, would help support the body’s weight.

        Back in the living room, Clark double-bagged the head for safety and finagled the body into a sitting position. He then had to prop the body upright, which he figured would be the most difficult part of the ordeal. Clark hadn’t lifted since high school, and Henry had gone a bit doughy since their JV football days. They barely got to play except for special teams, and Henry would still always drink a third of the team’s Gatorade. One game they were fucking around on the bench, and Henry missed Coach Heslin’s call for a sub. Coach was so pissed he made Henry run sprints along the sideline until he doubled over and puked lemon-lime bile on his legs. Henry spent the rest of the half rubbing grass into his thighs so people would think the stains came from the field, like he put down a punt returner with a slide tackle.

        As Clark slipped his arms underneath Henry’s pits and squatted down to lift, he saw that Henry had wet himself again. It was then he realized Henry had probably evacuated his bowels, as well. Such a stupid way of phrasing things. Like shit was running from a burning building, like even shit wanted nothing to do with a corpse.

        Clark pushed the legs through another garbage bag and wrapped it around the waist like a giant plastic diaper. He then got behind the body, felt for the belt and hoisted.

        Fetid leakage dripped to the carpet, and Clark’s throat jumped. Nothing solid dropped from a pant leg, however, so cleaning vomit wouldn’t need to be added to the list. With a second jerk, Clark got the body to a close approximation of standing, and crouching to catch the head on his shoulder, he got the weight to lean into his. The face rolled toward him, and lukewarm blood sloshed against his ear. What would the blood look like in there? Would it be blacker now? Would there be a congealed ring, like when you leave wine sitting in a mug overnight? It sounded like you’d think, thicker maybe.

        Dropping to his knees, and with a few shrugs of his shoulders, Clark managed to maneuver the body across his back. With the pack in place, a decent portion of the weight was distributed to his hips, easing the burden, but executing this plan was going to be exhausting. Still, it was the best option he could think of, and he had the time. No one came to Clark’s place anymore, either.

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It wasn’t anguish, but just calling it pain was too general a term. Not suffering, either, but a few hours after the kill, Clark ached. It was all hitting him now. After a three-mile hike into the woods carrying an unwieldy barbell of stink and Clark’s thighs suddenly cramped, chopping him down with a sensation he hadn’t anticipated.

        Clark crawled to the closest fallen limb and pushed and pulled the branch along his thighs, trying to scour his muscles of lactic acid. According to the literature, you sweat about 27 to 47 ounces per hour of exercise. Clark estimated he’d lost about 50, and the bottle he brought only held 20. Noob move. Without needing to portage about 170 pounds of meat, however, the hike back to the house, and running water, would be easier. Still, the clenching of his legs proved a failure in his planning. Throwing the stick aside, Clark wrapped his hands around his thighs, driving his thumbs into the rigid tissue.

        Once he could get to his feet, Clark walked around the small clearing he’d fallen in. To the north there was a short rock wall, as the land continued into higher elevation. To the west was the quiet, ass-end of the Missisquoi, and to the south and east was a three-mile deep screen of forest before the road, with just one empty structure in between. Clark dragged a toe boot through the dirt. The surface was dark and soft. He stamped his foot down and felt the give the soil, which meant the subsurface would be loamy before there was any bedrock. He could kick and scratch out a shallow trough easily, so this would be the place. He’d scrape out a pit, and circle it with rocks to trap and radiate heat. He’d crumple up sheets of newspaper, and surround the pile with a teepee of dry twigs and branches. Fuel logs would be harder to gather, but they were around. He’d need to get the fire ripping and keep it searing for as long as possible. Then he’d place his friend, soaked in blood, shit and a canteen’s worth of gasoline, on top.

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Some unexpected issues arise when you burn a corpse. You imagine there’ll be some ugly sights—peeling, charring, bubbling. You don’t think about the sound. Steam escaping through the splitting of skin. Hot blood hitting orange embers. There’s not a big difference between the pops of a burning log and the small reports that babble out from a body during a cremation, but it’s there and it’s significant.

        The smell, however. The smell brings whatever reality you imagined into the world of hallucination. The smoke crept into Clark’s head and saturated his thoughts. Rather than smog, the smoke electrified things, and Clark’s thoughts and the effigy he sat witnessing crashed and combined in flashes of loud, vivid color. The smell set a match under Clark’s limbic system, and the scents of scorched hair, dirty laundry, rotting leaves and baking meat left his mind briefly without purchase. Cooking fat infused the air with particles of wax, and all Clark could think of was crayons.

        A walk cleared his mind, but he didn’t want to leave the fire unattended for long. A chill had crept into the air, and Clark’s forearms had goosefleshed below his rolled sleeves. Still, before returning, Clark removed his flannel and tied the shirt around his nose and mouth. The sweat that had collected on his t-shirt cooled, and slight shivers began to pulse up his ribcage.

        Close to the fire was the only place Clark could be if he was going to stay out for the rest of the night. The tent was still in the pack, and he didn’t have the energy to set it up in the dark, or try and sleep in the shadow of a slowly forming skeleton. Instead, he sat before the fire, his knees tucked to his chest, gazing at the bizarre mutation to black. Sitting, however, quickly sucked the the heat from his body, leaving Clark to pace around the fire, weaving past channels of smoke that flowed with small changes in the breeze.

        The sneakers were still intact. The rubber and foam of the soles held their shape, and the leather was slow to burn. Clark propped the feet under a log and shook the dribble of gas left in the canteen out onto the laces. Clark kicked himself for not taking them off before they left the house.

        He should have removed the belt, too. The metal buckle shone in the concave crust off the stomach. Clark fished it out with a stick, dragging the point along the flaky char.

        The hands were nearly gone, the palms cleaving between metacarpals, firm meat still latched to bone whiter than Clark would have imagined. The fingers were ashen, burned to points. Clark had considered snipping them off earlier, but now, sticking out like candle wicks, it appeared one slap with the stick would have them shatter.

        Henry’s head.

        His eyes were indistinguishable now. Just the two piping tops of neighboring volcanoes. Strangely, the muscles on his face had held their shape. A log lay behind Henry’s skull, the heat from white embers slowly curling his scalp upward, but the cheeks had stiffened with the burn. The skin was patchy, but Henry’s scruffy beard had barely singed. Henry’s nose, proud and Roman, swam dorsal-like above the wavering heat. It jutted just slightly to the side. They’d been playing army in a creak god knows how long ago, and Henry had slipped on a wet stone. Clark had held his t-shirt to Henry’s face to staunch the bleeding as they ran home. Clark’s father was pissed. Tilt the head back. Jam some tissues up there. Now you’re out a shirt.

        There was a faint line of scar tissue along the bridge. That couldn’t be anyone but Henry’s nose. They’d still had fun that day. That was definitely Henry in the fire. He should have put him face down.

        The lips had shriveled, giving way to rows of teeth, the right side stained from six years of Winstons. Clark knew he should have pulled them, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t reach into his friend’s mouth like that, tear away at the roots.

        Clark removed the shirt from his face and used it to pull a rock from the edge of the pit and roll it into his palms. He then stood by the head, held his arms out, and let go.