Joel Arnold - Fetal Bait Apocalypse - 3 Collections in 1

Gail Dupree smiled back and said, “’They know you did it.’”

Johnson squinted at Gail. They know you did it ? How did ‘I like plums and apples’ mutate into ‘They know you did it’? But that was the fun of the game, wasn’t it? So Mrs. Johnson told the class the original phrase, the ‘I like plums and apples’ phrase, and the kids laughed, and begged her to do it again.

Mrs. Johnson leaned over to Benjamin again, this time whispering a simpler, rhyming phrase, one not so easy to confuse. “Candy is dandy,” she whispered.

Benjamin nodded and whispered to Lydia, who in turn whispered to Craig Masters, and so on and so on, until once again, Gail Dupree nodded as Bobby whispered into her ear. She smiled. Mrs. Johnson said, “And what was it you heard, Ms. Dupree?”

And Gail said, “They found her where you drowned her.”

Mrs. Johnson stared at Gail. “Is that what you heard?” she asked. Gail nodded.

Mrs. Johnson looked at Bobby. “Is that what you heard?” Bobby nodded.

Johnson scanned her students. She no longer smiled. “What I said was ‘Candy is dandy.’”

“It still rhymed,” noted Gail.

Mrs. Johnson said, “We’ll do this once more, but we’ll go the other way around this time.”

She bent down to Gail, and whispered, “I loved her.”

Gail looked at her as if she hadn’t heard correctly, but Mrs. Johnson nodded, and so Gail stood on tiptoe to whisper into Bobby’s ear, and he shrugged and passed the message along. When it got back to Benjamin Cale, Mrs. Johnson hesitated a moment before asking him, “Okay, Benji — what did you hear?”

Benjamin Cale smirked. “‘They’re coming to arrest you.’ That’s what I heard.”

Mrs. Johnson blinked slowly. She heard a sound rising in the distance, a sound outside of the classroom, outside of the school building, a sound racing up the streets, getting closer and closer. The sound of sirens. “Is that what you heard, Benji,” she asked, the words causing her tongue to feel heavy and thick against the roof of her mouth.

Benjamin nodded.

“Well,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Okay.” Her eyes followed the three police cars as they slowed outside the building. Officers emerged. She dropped her hands to her sides, and plopped down into one of the small student desks as the rest of the students ran to the windows to see what the commotion was about. Her fingers briefly felt once more the memory of soft flesh going from warm to cold as she held it beneath the swift flowing Zumbro River.

Gail Dupree turned from the window and asked, “Mrs. Johnson? Can we play again?”

It was the yellow strobe of light that first caught Johanson’s attention. At first he thought it was the Gophers/Wolverines game reflecting off the window, but when the television screen went blank for a moment, the pulsing light continued.

He pressed his face against the glass of his shack, cupped his hands around his temples and looked out over the impound lot. Cars and trucks sat like sleeping lions. It was quiet out there. No one had stopped by in the last two hours. But at three AM on a Wednesday, that wasn’t unusual. Johanson yawned. His eyes locked on the blinking glow of light. It came from the back of the lot, distorted through cracked and broken windshields, a dull reflection on the few cars surrounding it. Better check it out.

A train roared by, shaking the frame of the two story shack. He waited until it’s loud rumble passed before stepping out into the frigid night.

About sixty yards away on the other side of the railroad tracks was the main office. Another glow, that of a television, came from one of its windows.

Shatterbaugh. Wonder what he’s watching?

The place was creepy enough without Shatterbaugh. He was one of those guys who’d fix you with an ‘Are you fucking stupid?’ stare no matter what kind of question you asked him. The job was a lonely one, but better to be alone that hang out with that psycho jerk all night long. Johanson headed toward the other light. The one that blinked on and off. The one near the back of the lot.

The impound lot was shaped like a giant ‘U’. A dirt road wound past the waiting cars. A tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the lot. People coming to claim their cars checked in first with Shatterbaugh, who checked their ID’s and gave them their keys, then came down to the gate where Johanson let them in.

Most of the vehicles had been towed in for parking violations. But there were others that were islands of twisted metal, doors ripped off from the jaws of life, roofs caved in from flipping over, tires missing, shattered windshields, upholstery torn to shreds and stained with blood.

Johanson probed his flashlight into the vehicles as he passed. He shivered. Kept his hand on his holster. For what? To pacify the chill that spider-webbed down his spine? He stepped through the mud and watched his breath escape in a mist. The Mississippi River, less than thirty yards in the distance, passed silently, like a long dark cat crawling on its belly.

As he neared the blinking light, he heard something. A quiet tick, tick, tick as the soft yellow glow blinked on and off, on and off. It belonged to a blue Pontiac Sunbird.

Johanson whistled softly. Must’ve been one hell of an accident.

He shined his light at it. The left turn signal continued its rigid blink. The plastic that shielded it was gone. Johanson aimed his light through the driver’s side door — at least where it used to be. Glass winked at him from the driver’s seat. The fabric was stained with blood.

Johanson reached in gingerly and found the bent lever that controlled the turn signal. He pushed it upward. The signal stopped. He let out his breath, breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. There was more blood on the passenger seat. In the back was a baby’s car seat pressed into the upholstery. Jesus.

As he walked back over the muddy lot toward the shack, he rested his right hand on the butt of his gun. This place had spooked him since the day they assigned him here. Too many places to hide, too many shadows and odd noises. He forced himself not to look over his shoulder, not to whistle, not to do any of the stupid things people do when they are unreasonably afraid. But when he finally opened the door to the shack, he breathed a sigh of relief.

The rattling of the chain-link fence and a female’s voice startled him.

“Hello?”

Johanson whipped around. A young couple stood on the other side of the fence.

Johanson swallowed. “Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see our car,” the woman said.

Johanson nodded to the main office. “You have to check in first.”

The couple looked to the office.

“Please,” the woman said. “We’re in a hurry. We need to see our car.”

“The procedure is—”

“Look,” the man interrupted. “We just want to look. We won’t be long.”

“Hold on a second.” Johanson lifted his radio to his mouth. “Shatterbaugh, you there?” He listened. Said again, “Shatterbaugh?”

No answer. What the hell was he doing?

“Promise you’ll make it quick?”

“Yes. Thank you. Yes,” the woman said.

He stepped into the shack and pressed the button that opened the gate. “Give me a holler when you’re done and I’ll let you out.”

They nodded, their eyes already searching the waiting vehicles. They stepped into the impound lot and walked slowly down the muddy road.

Johanson contemplated accompanying them, but instead only watched them for a moment, the man in a black suit, the woman in a white dress. A crescent of moon reflected off their pale skin. They walked hand in hand.

Johanson stepped back into the shack, went up to the second floor and looked out the window. The couple was already lost amidst the hulking and twisted metal shapes. He eased into the worn easy chair and turned his attention back to the basketball game. Three minutes left and it was tied.