David Wong - John Dies at the End

“I don’t know. I can’t believe this phone still works.”

“It won’t for very much longer. Half a block away, there should be the hot dog guy. Can you see him?”

I walked a dozen steps, smelled it before I saw it. The cart was plastered with right-wing stickers, and had a yellow-and-orange umbrella hanging over it. The hot dog guy was painfully thin, looked about one hundred and sixty years old. As much a landmark as this city has.

“Okay.”

“Buy a bratwurst from him.”

Questioning this seemed a waste of words.

The man and I exchanged $3.15 and a brat wrapped in a hot dog bun and a sheet of wax paper.

For a moment, I hesitated, then drew two fat, neat lines of mustard along its length. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Cell phone balanced between shoulder and ear, John spoke again, as if under water, his voice growing fainter by the second.

“Now put it up to your head.”

I looked down at the rivulets of oozing grease, congealing with the now dripping mustard and was thankful that I didn’t use ketchup or that brown hot onion sauce.

Glancing around, I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as I lay the sausage against my ear. Abruptly, my cell phone went dead.

A drop of grease dribbled into the dead center of my ear, creeping like a worm down onto my neck and below the collar of my shirt. A group of men and women in business suits walked by, swerving to avoid me. Across the street, a homeless-looking guy was staring at me, curious. Yep, this was pretty much rock bottom.

As I was about to reach for a napkin and at least get my money’s worth by eating the bratwurst while it was still hot, I heard it.

“Dave? Can you hear me?”

John’s voice, coming clear as day through the tube of seasoned meat. I glanced down at the cell phone and got the point. The display was black, the glass busted out of it. A green circuit board was poking out of the warped seam along one side.

“All right, all right. I’m hearing you through some kind of psychic vibration or whatever and not the phone. I get it. You could have just told me that.” I lowered the sausage and replaced it with the cell. “Okay, what’s next?”

Nothing.

I heard a faint sound coming from the bratwurst, put it back to my head.

“Dave? Are you there?”

“Yeah. I can’t get you through the cell now.”

“You have to talk through the bratwurst from now on.”

“Why-”

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

“-Okay. What do we do?”

“The only reason you can hear me is because you got some of the soy sauce into your system, from the syringe. But it’s not very much and it won’t last long.”

“What is it, John? The sauce… it was alive. I swear it-”

“Listen. You gotta get over to Robert’s place. There aren’t any cops there now, but there will be. We have sort of a narrow window here. Take a cab to Wally’s and get your car, then go to Shire Village on Lathrop Avenue. It’s a trailer park, south of town past that one candy place. You should be able to get there in twenty minutes with any luck.”

“I don’t have any cash. I had five bucks and I just spent three of it on the bratwurst.”

“That bratwurst was three bucks? Holy crap. Okay. Give me a second. All right. Check between the sausage and the bun. You’ll find a hundred dollar bill folded up in there.”

Encouraged that maybe all this black magic could actually produce something positive, I fingered around under the sausage for a few seconds.

“Nothing here, John.”

“Okay. I guess I can’t do that. Do you have your ATM card?”

TWO HOURS LATERI pulled my Hyundai into Shire Village. The now-cold bratwurst sat on the dash, little smears of mustard on the windshield where the sloppy wax paper contacted it. I put it to my head.

“John?”

I was greeted with a burst of static, but then John’s voice came in, fainter than before.

“Dave?”

“Yeah.”

“What, did you drive under a bridge just now?”

“No. We’re at the trailer park. Finally. Which one is Robert’s?”

Static again. Then: “It’s wearing off. Don’t talk, just listen. Go inside and-”

Static.

“-and as long as you absolutely remember not to do that, you’ll be fine. Good luck.”

“What? John, I didn’t catch the-”

Dead. The voice was gone, the static was gone. It was just a sausage again. I resigned myself to the hope that whatever I had to do next would be apparent from a look at Robert’s place.

His trailer was one of only two that had yellow police tape over the porch and door, and the other one looked like it had been abandoned months ago. Meth lab.

I parked off in the grass across the lot and walked toward Robert’s abode. Nobody was there, or at least nobody who came in a car. I knocked for some reason, then went in.

They had cleaned up the blood and guts. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me, since I should have known they wouldn’t just let the entrails collect flies for twelve hours. Still, I recognized the room from the photos the cop showed me, the scene of Robert’s wet explosion. The carpet was still a few shades off from its original color and the walls were forever stained a faded reddish-brown. And there was a smell, awful and organic. Mildew and rotten milk and shit.

The walls were stripped bare, no family photos or framed landscapes from Wal-Mart or movie posters. Did the cops do that? No television. A sofa, a chair pocked with cigarette burns. Was he living here, or squatting?

I glanced into the open kitchenette at one end of the trailer, then turned and walked down a short hallway to the other end. I pushed through a closed door leading to what had to be a bedroom-

– and stopped. I was suddenly looking out over a snow-dusted field, a range of mountains spiking into a stunning violet sky from the horizon. Not a picture, that’s not how it struck me. It was like that end of the trailer had been chainsawed off to reveal the outdoors, only if that had really happened I would’ve only seen the neighbor’s rusty trailer and an abandoned Oldsmobile floating among the weeds. What I saw instead took my breath away.

I stepped backward into the hallway, dizzy, disoriented, afraid I would be sucked in somehow. It took almost a minute to realize what I was looking at.

It was a painting. A floor-to-walls-to-ceiling mural. He had painted the walls, the trim on the windows, the damned glass in the window. He painted over the curtains, painted the carpet, painted the sheets and wrinkled comforter on the unmade bed so that, when viewed from the doorway, the effect was beyond photographic. There was a half-full water glass on the nightstand, and a sprout of ice-coated weeds painted on the wall continued on the nightstand and onto the glass. There was a little crack in the glass and the artist incorporated it into the painting, the fracture becoming a glint of sunlight off an ice-covered leaf.

The effect was too much. It gave me a heaviness in my gut like the first time I saw a skyscraper when I was a kid. Picasso could not have done this, not if he had a lifetime to devote to it. Step on that carpet and disturb the texture, or brush against the comforter and the effect would be ruined.

Whoa. Just… whoa.

I don’t know how long I stood there, absorbing it, overwhelmed by the details.

There’s a deer, complete with little hoofprints in the snow. A happy little cabin, the family in the yard…

As I took in those little details, my amazement began to sour, congealing into a cold dread.

The cabin on the mountainside, that’s not a little tree out front. It’s a makeshift cross, with a man hanging from it. His legs have been cut off. The woman standing next to it… look at the infant in her arms. It has a single, curved horn coming out of its skull. And unfortunately for the old man, the baby still looks hungry. The frozen pond in back, those aren’t reeds sticking up through the ice all across the surface. Those are hands. And that deer? It has a huge cock, making a little trench in the snow behind it…