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

Tears? Why you cryin’, sweetheart? I ain’t gonna use any of ’em on you. No, really. I promise. None of these shiny, bladed doohickeys are for you. Not one.

Ha! Merle must think he’s your man, now. The way he’s nibblin’ on your ear is almost tender. He sure is friendly, isn’t he? That’s gotta sting a bit, though. Y’know, I read somewhere that everywhere a male rat walks, he leaves a trail of urine ’cause his dong drags along the ground all the time. I wonder if that’s true. I hope not, or you have about a dozen trails all over your body. That’s kinda disgustin’. But at least you won’t have to put up with it for too long.

The only real bitch about this is I can’t send this tape to the cops like I did with the last two. I’ve said you’re my ex-wife on here a few times already, and I even said Brian’s name. That would make it too easy for those bastards. But that’s okay. I’ll take this tape out and put another in just before we start. This part of the conversation is always more for me, anyway. The part I want the cops to hear is what comes next.

So, you ready?

More tears? Shakin’ your head? Come on now, hon. This is no time for that. We got work to do. What are you lookin’ at, anyway?

Oh, right. The saws. Don’t worry. Those are for later. I gotta take a few steps to hide your identity from the police. Gonna be hard for ’em to figure out who you are without fingerprints and shit. By the way, you still got that tattoo on your ass? Never mind, I’ll find out myself after it’s over. As a bonus, Brian and the boys won’t know what happened to you. You’ll have just disappeared one day and never come back. I like that idea. That’s what happened, after all. You left this house one day and just never came back.

But like I said, I’m over it. Mostly.

It’s time to get started. Let me change over the tape real fast.

Okay. Done.

This is the tape I’m gonna give the cops.

Hi cops! Ha ha ha. It’s me again.

That reminds me of that Ray Stevens song, “It’s Me Again, Margaret.” Funny shit. You ever heard it? Crap. You can’t talk. I keep forgetting about the gag. Just nod or shake your head.

No? Don’t wanna? Fair enough. I guess I can’t blame you, what with Merle takin’ chunks outta your cheek like that. Anyway, it’s been nice catchin’ up, but I think we need to speed this along, don’t you?

Oh, so now you can shake your head. You got a nice, wide stubborn streak, don’tcha?

Anyway, as you can imagine, it’s gonna take Merle an awful long time to finish the job. I ain’t got that kinda time. That’s why I brought a few of his friends over. Check this out.

Oooof! This box is fuckin’ heavy.

There. Got the top off. Here you go, honey. Here are some more friends to play with. Three dozen of ’em, to be exact. Took me forever to catch all of ‘em. I made sure they were all males, too. Call me old fashioned, but havin’ females in there would just feel weird , y’know? I guess that means you gotta put up with the urine trails. Sorry about that.

But don’t worry, I’ll stay here with you until it’s over. And since you got that gag, you can scream as loud as you want. That should help a little.

Wow. You’re gonna break your spine doin’ that.

David McAfee is the author of many books, including 33 A.D. , 61 A.D. , The Dead Woman (The Dead Man #4) , and Saying Goodbye to the Sun . His stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including his own collections The Lake and 17 Other Stories and Devil Music and 18 Other Stories. David lives a currently nomadic existence with his loving wife and two wonderful children. To read more about his ideas, works, and general musings, visit http://mcafeeland.wordpress.com.

He lives with his son in a cabin next to a cold, rusty river. The rust reminds Tab of blood spilled in the Mekong. His blood. His mother and father’s blood. Caught in a hail of bullets as they swam toward freedom. But that was many years ago, and this rust comes from the taconite processing plant twenty miles upstream.

His cabin has two bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a fireplace that pops and hisses during the winter and the cool, spring nights. Tab wishes his wife were still alive. She always talked about living in a home with a fireplace.

The Kraemer River smells like fish and rust and pine. The walleyes and northerns are sparse, and those caught are thrown back in. The DNR says the mercury levels are too high, that eating the fish is dangerous. But sometimes Carl and Tab sit on the bank and throw in their lines and struggle with the slippery fish, reel them in with whoops of joy, admire them briefly, and throw them back in. It’s times like those when Tab feels he’s getting his son back.

Forest. Deer. Moss. Pine. The air tastes sweet and cool. The sun is a mellow orb through the trees, the rays neither harsh nor demanding. The forest can be dark, even when the sun is high in the clear sky, but the pine and birch branches shelter, they do not menace. A big change from New York City. No gangs. Carl is sixteen now.

“Are you bored here?” Tab asks.

“Sometimes.”

“What about your school friends?”

Carl shrugs.

Life is so much better here. During the year, Carl became involved in basketball, his grades improved. Good people here.

Carl says, “People in school call me a gook.”

Tab’s smile vanishes. “What? Why is this the first time I’m hearing this? Who calls you that?”

“Some of the kids.”

“Which kids?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“When did they call you this?”

“A bunch of times.” Carl looks at his father, his eyes steady and cold. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want us to move again.”

“You know why we moved.”

“I liked New York. I had friends there.”

“Thugs and hooligans. We live here now. These are good people. Maybe some are ignorant, but soon they’ll see we’re good people, too.” Tab smiles encouragingly at his son. “We’ll survive here. We will, Carl. We’ll survive.”

An aluminum canoe with fading red paint washes up on shore while Tab and Carl cast their lines to the river’s poisonous fish. There is crude lettering on the bow. FARBANTI. There are dents, too, but they can be pounded out with a rubber mallet.

“Help me push this out into the river,” Tab says.

“Why don’t we keep it?”

“Because. Maybe someone is waiting for it.”

They slide it over the muddy bank into the water where the current takes hold. It straightens like the needle of a compass and disappears into the evening’s dim light.

New York. As many people as insects. Ceaseless noise.

But this is where Tab married. Where Carl was born. Where Mina died.

One sweltering night, when Carl was only fourteen, there was a knock on the apartment door. Rare to get visitors. Tab opened the door a crack, leaving the chain attached.

Carl. In handcuffs. Smelling of beer. Cigarettes. A cut on his face. An ugly bruise. Suspended between two policemen.

“This your kid?”

Tab unlatched the chain and opened the door wide. “Yes, this is my son.”

“We saw him jump out of a van, throw a punch at a college student. When we intervened, the van took off.”