Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

Of course, my brilliant idea didn’t work at all. Once the two heads were separated from the others, the bag shifted and nearly rolled off the dolly. The bulk stayed on the wooden flat, but the two heads rolled off the edge. With a crunk and a puff of dust, the first hit the floor. The second landed on the first.

They were far from where they’d be any use to me. Their eyes rolled wildly, then settled as they took in their surroundings. One head had half its skin missing. It also had an aquiline nose and dark wavy hair that, I swear, looked recently combed. The other was younger, sporting a blond Mohawk and what was either a big scar or an ornate tattoo on a flat forehead.

They saw me, saw the dolly. Twisting toward the light, they saw Jenkins. They kept twisting, looking around, trying to find something. Turgeon, I guessed. When they didn’t see him, they were either pleased or worried. It’s hard to tell with heads.

The next surprise was that they could move. Not that they’d win any races at the county fair, but the one with the fancy part had enough neck muscles left to inch along as if he were being pulled by a few thick worms. Not to be outdone, Mohawk Joe, on his side, used his jaw to crawl.

As they moved, they made those scraping, hissing noises. I barely heard them, but they meant something to the heads still in the bag. Working their jaws, pulsing their remaining muscles, like the two on the floor, they all shuffled out of the bag. Some rolled off the dolly and fell to the ground. Others settled on the wood before jumping down to join the others.

Most were male, but there was one woman, a redhead with a missing eye. Some were older, with bald spots; some had neatly cropped hair. One was ugly as a prizefighter, nose broken in a dozen places; another was still handsome enough to have a career modeling hats. I wouldn’t say they were all high-functioning. More like they ran the gamut.

Daddy emerged last, as if he’d waited for the others. I took a good long look at it. Despite being the cleanest, best-cared-for of the lot, it looked the most drained, the most worried. When it hissed and clicked, the others gathered around.

As the heads arranged themselves, it turned and stared right at me. There were lines in its face that told me that in life it had been a tense, angry man, kind of like my own father. It blinked, hard, over and over, trying to communicate. I showed it my ropes, but it didn’t seem to care. When I nodded toward Jenkins, though, it followed my gaze. Its hissing grew louder, frenzied. Obedient, the others started moving, rolling, crawling, under the plastic, toward Jenkins.

That could work, too. If they kept heading toward him and making those creepy noises, he might hear them. The heads on their way, I thought I’d go back to working the ropes. A scraping turned my eyes down. It was a head. Instead of going along with the others, it had squirmed up to me. It was right below my face, listing left, then right, trying to get my attention. I had to fight an urge to kick it away.

When it realized I was watching, it rolled onto its side. Mouth opening and closing, it made the same two terrible, impossible sounds over and over— achshh bree achshh bree achshh bree .

I knew what it meant. It was saying, “Ashby. Ashby.”

It was Frank Boyle’s head, asking about his adopted son.

For better or worse, I had an answer. “He’s at peace.”

As it took in the news, Boyle’s head made a motion like it wanted to swallow hard. It blinked, huffed some air through its nostrils, then turned to join the others.

The heads moved slowly, but surely. Ten feet from Jenkins, seven. Their little noises were barely a whisper above the vacuum’s rush, but they might make it. They might.

If Turgeon hadn’t spotted them first.

He emerged from the dark with a wicked glint of silver, still a few yards from Jenkins, but knowing he had to make his move fast. He crept with exaggerated slowness, choppers out, blades extended. The heads picked up speed, hopping, rolling, trying to make themselves loud enough to warn Odell about what was inching toward his neck.

It definitely wasn’t something you see every day.

30

As Turgeon slinked, the heads lumbered, increasing their little gasping so much I thought for sure Jenkins would finally turn. He had to. But no.

Oblivious, Jenkins turned and yanked out a chunk of plasterboard that looked like South America. It buckled against his knee with a crack and an asbestos-laden puff. The way he stood now, when the heads did get his attention, he’d wind up putting his back to Turgeon to see them.

I had to get into the game or it was over. I braced my elbows against each other and pulled so hard the rope threatened to tear into my dry skin like old, worn leather. I tried my ankles. There was more give, but not enough to matter. I tried to work the gag out, but the filthy wad of cloth was too deep in my mouth for me to maneuver my tongue behind it. My best efforts were as pointless as a condom in a dead man’s pocket.

I thought of Ashby, how I wished I’d struggled more when he went into the vat. Was I still holding back? Afraid to hurt myself? Being dead, it was second nature to be more careful, to keep things from getting damaged. But there was no point now in worrying about cutting some wrist skin. If ever I should break some bones, it was now.

I pulled at my wrists as hard as I thought I could; then I pulled harder. The rope’s prickly fibers jabbed my skin, but I kept at it until it felt like they were tearing muscle. Still, no go. I worked my ankles like an epileptic having a fit, smashing them into the edge of the cart. I heard a crunch, thought I’d broken something. The rope was looser, but still held.

The only thing left was my tongue. I balled it up and yanked it back in my throat for all I was worth. I felt the little flap connecting my tongue to the bottom of my mouth, the frenulum, grow tight, but I kept pulling. I imagined that day at the office when I saw the photo of Lenore and Booth. I pictured myself punching a wall, harder and harder.

With a shivery burst of rage, I pulled at my tongue until I got it behind the gag. At best I’d bruised something. It hurt like hell when I pushed against the gag, but the pain was easier to manage than the rope.

Just as I saw Turgeon lunge, the wad of cloth finally moved. His face was lit with the kind of rapture a kid has when he’s riding a two-wheeler for the first time.

The first sound from my throat was an airy pop as the gag flew out. The second was loud enough to make me forget I was the one yelling and wonder who the fuck was being murdered.

“Look out!”

As I screamed, I threw my head back, so I wasn’t sure exactly what happened when. When I looked again, Jenkins still had his head. He’d spun in time to save his neck. Not his arm, though. The clippers were buried in his left shoulder.

With a giggle, Turgeon clamped the handles. The blades scissored; the orange suit shredded. I saw white padding, then Jenkins’s gray skin beneath. Next came a crunch that almost sounded like another piece of plasterboard buckling against Jenkins’s knee.

Hanging by a few orange threads, Jenkins’s arm twirled slightly before it fell. It landed right in front of the parade of bobbing and hissing heads. Jenkins looked from his arm to the heads to Turgeon. To say he was shocked would be a gross understatement.

The psycho worked to get the clippers open again, but a bit of orange jumpsuit cloth was wedged between the blades. Fishing it out slowed him so much, he wasn’t even looking when Jenkins’s meaty right arm came up and swatted the clippers.

The D-cappers flew over the heads, hit the floor, flipped and clattered against the concrete. When he realized what happened, Turgeon’s baby face went still. Then it got all puffy, as if he were going to break into tears.