Robert Duperre - The Gate 2 - 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

Dwight didn’t do anything but stand in a silent trance.

“Dad,” he heard Jimmy say. He didn’t turn around. Even when his son was standing right by his side, he didn’t move. “Dad, are they really zombies?”

“I guess in a way they are,” Dwight whispered. He wished they never followed Mrs. Hendrickson to that godforsaken park. It brought back too many bad memories and feelings.

Jimmy hugged him. “They’re nothing but dead things, Dad. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from them.”

Dwight smiled for the first time that night. A feeling washed over him, one he wished would never disappear.

Michael Crane is the sick and twisted author of Lessons and Other Morbid Drabbles , In Decline (stories), and A Gnome Problem (a novelette). He went to Columbia College Chicago where he earned a BA in Fiction Writing. He currently lives in Illinois where he continues to write and drink way too many Red Bulls.

It’s late Friday evening in the pub, and Laura’s in her wheelchair too close to the fire in the hearth. The heat burns her leg and stings tears under her eyelids. Her world spins sideways when her head lolls to her shoulder. She feels spittle on her chin, and phlegm in her throat. She gags, but no one notices. She’s been gagging all evening, but Pete and the others are good at not noticing. And her thighs are still chaffed from Pete fucking her earlier. Or was it Don? Since the incident , anybody could be fucking her and she’d not know.

And Pete says: “I hear there’s a two-for-one offer on entrance to the zoo.”

“I’m not surprised,” says Maureen. “The zoo’s crap. I’ve been, and I counted just the one bored-looking penguin last time.”

“They have got a new elephant,” says Don.

Pete grins. “A new old elephant. I heard it was one Whipsnade didn’t want any more. Maybe it was a defective one.”

“Laura used to like the elephants,” says Don. He sighs. “And the lemurs.”

They turn toward Laura, and she twitches in her wheelchair, feeling their stares upon her as harsh as any fire in the hearth. She feels her eyeballs flicking in their sockets.

Maureen laughs. “Now she can’t tell them apart, eh?” She leans forward, turning Laura’s ear toward her. Laura’s world spins once more. “Do you know the difference between an elephant and a lemur, Laura?” She taps Laura’s head, and inside the sound booms like in an empty chamber. “Is it the sort of thing you think about alone in there all day?”

“Don’t,” says Don. “You shouldn’t be laughing at Laura.”

“Then again,” says Maureen, “maybe we should go to the zoo, Pete. You could take Laura. It’ll be nice for her to be amongst the moth-eaten animals, seeing as she’s defective herself. It’ll be like she’s with equals. Maybe you can swap her for a smarter looking chimp when no one’s looking.”

Don downs his pint. “That’s not fair,” he says. His face has reddened. “Laura can’t help the way she is, and you shouldn’t be mocking her.”

“It’s true Laura did like animals, though,” says Pete. “Back when she was compos mentis, I mean, back before the incident . Perhaps a day out in the fresh air will do her some good.”

“Then it’s settled,” says Maureen. “Tomorrow, after lunch, we’ll all have an afternoon at the zoo, and if we can tell Laura apart from the gibbons, intellectually , then the coffees are on me.”

Later, back home, it’s cold and dark downstairs alone. Laura can’t shiver, not since her brain and muscle and sinew all but parted company, and when Pete’s pissed-up, when he can’t be bothered carrying her upstairs to bed, he leaves her in the wheelchair downstairs in the corner by the fish tank. It’s safer that way, he says, in case he falls backward on the stairs. As if Laura would mind snapping her neck as she tumbled. Sometimes he leaves her down when Maureen slips away from Don and comes back for a nightcap.

Laura knows each fish by name; even the dead ones Pete forgets to flush. The tank heater rumbles and gurgles, and the bubbles from the fish-shit encrusted diver ripple dull rainbows on the living room ceiling. The shifting colours are hypnotic. Beyond the glass the fish bob aimlessly, sluggish and directionless like the stray thoughts in Laura’s head.

Did she ever like elephants? She doesn’t think so. But then, she’s not sure it’s she who stinks of puke and urine since Pete’s not bothered changing her bag since lunch time. When you’re not sure of that , how can you be sure of anything?

The tank thermostat trips and the heater switches off. The fish shift, startled by the silence, like they do the dozen times an hour the heater starts and stops. And somewhere, in the dark depths of Laura’s brain, as if triggered by the sudden quiet, a neuron fires. A second answers it, and a third, and Laura knows there’ll be a storm soon. It’s the only way her mind works these days, by unleashing raging torrents of activity. It’s only by letting axons burn freely can she think.

Do I like elephants? she asks herself.

She feels lightning streak in her head and hears the rush of wind in her ears. The colours on the ceiling deepen to a painful hue. A dull ache grows behind her eyes. Her limbs don’t move, yet in her mind she sees them thrashing against her wheelchair. But by morning she’ll know the answer. She’ll know if she likes elephants, and in some small way that’s one more step toward knowing herself once more.

And lemurs, she adds, what about lemurs?

It’s warm, Saturday morning. Laura’s slumped in her wheelchair outside in the garden to the rear by the bins. Out of the way , Pete says, while he trundles the Vax over the carpet by the fish tank. The carpet by the fish tank is threadbare by Pete’s Vax.

Don’s here. Laura knows his cheap aftershave. It goes everywhere Don goes and lingers where he’s been. Sometimes, during the neuron storms, Laura thinks she smells it on her blouse.

“Sorry about last night,” Don says. He leans inward to fuss with Laura’s blanket and pillow. “Maureen’s a right arsehole when she’s pissed. We all have our own ways of dealing with the aftermath of the incident , and Maureen’s is to be brash and mocking. She doesn’t really mean it. I’ll bet she’s sorry this morning.”

Don lifts Laura’s chin with a finger. His skin is warm and firm against her cheek. Laura shudders; it’s a caring touch where Pete’s is now only a carer’s. She knows there’s a subtle difference.

Don stares down into her eyes. He looks tired, with more crow’s feet than Laura remembers. But Don’s eyes are ocean deep, and the flecks of orange in his pupils add fire to his gaze. Maureen and Pete won’t look into her eyes like that. Perhaps they’re afraid they might somehow be drawn in, to swap places, and maybe rightly so considering none of them truly understand the incident .

“Don’t you go worrying,” says Don. “It will work out in the end.”

He smoothes a fold in Laura’s dress, and for a moment his fingers brush and linger against her breast below. She wears the pink bra, delicate and feminine , not like the great ship-building plates Maureen wears. Laura’s bra is lacy and sheer, so much that a hint of nipple pokes through, hardening against Don’s knuckle. He turns his finger in small circles against the nub.