Dead Echo

  Chapter 20: The Pendulum Begins

  At just before ten o’clock on Thursday morning, Bill Kamp pulled the SPCA truck into the driveway at 2450 Samane Street. People usually hated to see him coming; they’d be standing by their windows with every animal they owned (and he used the word ‘owned’ loosely) nervously standing around in their kitchens or living rooms, the animals doubly nervous about what to do inside a house they were usually forbidden entry. Bill thought it was pretty funny, for sure. All he had to do was pull into a neighborhood and it was like a silent alarm went off; people would be beating the streets, thrashing the bushes to get animals they very seldom even paid attention to safely back home. Not even, usually, in the fenced backyards where they should have been kept anyway. Like those dumbasses half-expected him to climb over the fences to string their dogs up. Shit, their owners maybe, yeah, but not the dogs. Hell, he loved the dogs, even most of the cats, though he did draw the line at ferrets and the big snakes. If one of those got loose under a house and ate half the fucking dogs in a neighborhood, the goddamn snake could have the other half and then some before Bill would even get out of the truck. And even then it’d just be to watch somebody else smoke that fucker out because snakes just weren’t his bag. Hell, what he’d been called out here for today wasn’t really, either. Squirrels, for Christsake. What the hell was he supposed to do about them? The motherfuckers lived in the tops of fuckin trees and that was also something he didn’t concern himself with; naw, he’d leave that for the spooks. But the new guy, Chet Michell, that prick, had gotten the call and shit always rolled downhill. Usually right down to where he happened to be standing. At that moment he had no idea whatsoever that he’d be on the evening news at both six and ten tonight.

  As he pulled up in the driveway and switched the ignition off he was thinking about the report he’d have to write up later. It was one of the biggest pitfalls of the job, he had to admit. Picking up dogs and cats, chasing just about everything except those goddamn pipe snakes, he didn’t mind any of that. But for every capture he also had to fill out a short report, and that motherfucker Mitchell had made a new policy of having everybody write a short paragraph describing the incident. Said it was for insurance purposes, something to keep the lawyers happy. Shit like where the capture was made, who reported it, damages, whatever else. Regardless, it felt like fucking English class to him and if there was one thing in life William John Kamp hated above all others, it was writing. Hell, that was a major reason he’d quit school after eighth grade (he didn’t like to remember it’d been his third time around). He was still trying to get the facts straight in his head (some squirrels acting weird, chasin some ole woman back into her house with her little toy poodle in tow), fixing to jot down his notes so he wouldn’t forget anything (fuckin important, he thought sarcastically) when he heard a knock on the window of the truck. “Goddamn!” he said, startled, and looked up into the face of an equally startled (and this was the part he liked) smaller man. A smaller man with a neat little haircut and trimmed nails (Bill Kamp wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer but he did pride himself on detail, the exact kind of thing that would place him before the cameras before another three hours were out), some “pussy man” as Bill liked to call them. Some prick like Mitchell.

  He could tell the sweaty little shit outside his truck would rather be anywhere than where he was and Bill feinted a little slow on the uptake, really just to make the bastard standing out in the heat a bit more frazzled. Because Bill could see that right up front. The guy looked like he was gonna piss his pants if something didn’t happen real quick. Bill pasted on his most sour expression and began rolling down the window of the truck. The little guy backed away as he did so, putting his hands behind his back just like a dutiful little schoolboy, and Bill cranked the window the rest of the way down, the details of his previous engagement already getting scrambled in the smoothness of his mind.

  “What is it, buddy?” he said in his most condescending manner. “I’m writin sometin up here an—“

  “The smell,” the little guy was saying. “’S been around for about a week, and it’s getting worse every day. I was going to call the police or…somebody today; I didn’t think 911 would be the thing to do, but when I saw you I figured you’d do about as good as any.”

  “You did did’ya?” Kamp said. “And just what made—“ and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Gotdamn! What the hell?” he exclaimed, already reaching to pop the latch on his door.

  The little guy had backed farther away now, though the teasing bit of triumph was readily visible on his mousy little face. “You see, I told you. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  Kamp turned on the man, trying hard to keep his cool. “Buddy, if somethin smelled like that around my house, I’d’a called somebody beside the fuckin dogcatcher a long time ago. Know what I mean?” He caught himself wagging his finger at the man and hurriedly stuffed the hand back into his uniform pocket. He didn’t need any irate phone calls to that prick Mitchell. Besides, the little dude might really be onto something here. “Listen, Mr…uh,” he began, looking down the drive at the house.

  “Pikren, Jim Pikren,” Pikren said, not moving either forward or backward a step.

  “Pikren,” Kamp repeated, turning his head back. “These people here…they got a big dog, somethin like a Great Dane or somethin?” The smell was starting to get to him, and he’d smelled plenty, had a gut like a cast iron barrel.

  Pikren had his hand up to his nose, squeezing his nostrils shut, and squinting his eyes behind his glasses. “Not that I know of,” he said nasally. “At least I’ve never heard anything, any kind of dog, I mean. Sometimes there’s kids playin…but no dogs…no sir.” He glanced back to the house again.

  “Well,” Kamp said and cleared his throat. It wasn’t so bad if you didn’t think too much about it. He squinted at the guy and asked honestly, “It’s been like this and you ain’t called nobody…?”

  Pikren let out a small sound that could have been either a laugh or a cough. His eyes were big and questioning behind his glasses as if he were afraid of getting in trouble for his dereliction. Kamp just held up his hands and shushed him. He didn’t have time for that shit.

  “S okay, buddy, forget it. Jus forget it….” and he glanced at the car in the carport. A crazy idea had come to his mind, something really out of the ordinary on such a fine summer day as today. “How long since that car’s been moved?”

  Pikren got the suggestion immediately, as if he’d already thought the same thing himself but was afraid to give it credence. “You don’t think…” he stated flatly and took another couple of steps backward, his eyes glued on the front of the house now.

  “No, now I ain’t sayin nothin. I was just wonderin how long it’s been.” He looked hard at Pikren. “Well?”

  “A couple of days,” the little man said and gulped down a mouthful of air. Then he shook his head again. “But that’s really nothing because—“ but Kamp shut him down with a quick wave of his hand.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, starting down the drive. He looked over his shoulder as he veered right toward the gate. “You say they don’t own no dogs, right?”

  Pikren shook his head, made a step as if to follow and then seemed to think better of it. He just switched his hands to the front fig-leaf posture instead. Kamp moved over to the fence, trying to adjust this new thing in his mind. The little guy was out of it; that much was obvious. Whatever happened from here on out was up to Yours Truly. He reached the gate and tried the latch. It released with a dry snap and Kamp pulled the gate back, having to rip it the last couple of feet because it kept catching in the high grass. That was another thing he noticed: the grass hadn’t been cut in a while, a week or two. He chanced a last look over his shoulder (Pikren was still standing right where he’d left him, looking toward the fence like a fuckin owl or something) and stepped into the backyard. The smell was definitely worse here. Not something in his head, the smell was definitely worse. He pulled h
is shirt out of his pants so he could get it up around his nose and went around the corner of the house. The grass was even higher back here. Musta been three weeks or so since he mowed, Kamp thought absently, scanning the yard for any kamikaze dogs still on the prowl. He chanced another whiff and felt his gorge rise. “Fuck,” he muttered and put his shirt back in place over his nose.

  There was a little screened-in porch with a barbeque pit and a couple of bicycles inside. One of the bottom sections of screen had been pulled loose like something used it for coming and going. That something, however, not in evidence. He continued his circle, his eyes trained on the house now. Beginning to feel this was definitely out of his league. He was the damn dog catcher, for Christsake, so what the hell was he doing creeping around in somebody’s backyard? He’d have to get back to himself on that one, but for the moment there was something awful goddamn odd about this whole thing. The smell for one, how the hell had half the neighborhood not raised ten shades of hell about that? It was damn near bad enough to bring him to his knees and there was still the little guy standing in the front yard, not knowing whether or not to call 911.

  Because, goddammit, something was dead back here.

  And from the smell, something a might bit bigger than a dog.

  He reached the screen door and pulled it open. Right across, not ten steps, was the back door. It was open. And not just a little bit either, but full-blown back to the wall. He could see carpet and a few shadowy images that wore the shape of furniture inside but other than that, nothing. The lights were all off. But that was definitely where the smell was coming from. He felt his balls tighten at this recognition and reached an impasse.

  If he disregarded his training (what little it had been) and went inside a residence he would be risking his job. He should turn around right now, go out to the truck, and call in the whole damn thing. Right, that was exactly what he should do. However, it was nowhere near what he was gonna do. Something was dragging him forward, irrevocably drawing him inside as a witness…

  Witness.

  The word stuck in his mind. He hadn’t thought it; it had just appeared.

  He inched up to the door and stuck his head inside. Just as dark as he’d known it would be from the patio. “Hello,” he called, stupidly, already knowing intuitively it would be for nada. He moved a little farther inside and put his hand on the door. It budged no further back. He put a foot inside the residence. The first thing he noticed was a TV sitting in the corner. Off. A deep cold set into his bones. “Hello,” he called again and stepped fully inside.

  The place was a quiet as a blast furnace after cooling.

  He moved a little farther in, chanced a look toward the kitchen. The light was off there too, as were all others as far as he could tell. No one was here. Somehow he felt he’d know if there were. Intuition, the thing that had kept more than a few dogs off his ass. He walked over to the sofa, put his hands on its back, looked around. Even through the shirt he could feel the stink getting bigger, threatening to drag him down. It wouldn’t be long now until he’d have to go back outside, leave this whole fucking business to someone better qualified. The word stuck in his throat like a chicken bone. Yeah, someone would just love to come along and find whatever it was he was afraid to find. All he had to do was go back out to the truck and make the call. He could stand by little Mr. Pikren while he did so and wait for the Calvary to come rushing down. “Fuck that,” he said and stepped around the corner of the couch, moving now to where he knew he had to go.

  It was suddenly as clear as a neon sign.

  He found himself at the beginning of a dark hallway. There were shadowy pictures in rows on the wall, whatever they portrayed lost in the reflection of glass and angles. The carpet was worn and in needed of replacing. In the darkness, a couple of doors farther down seemed to beckon. One on either side of the hall, the bedrooms he figured. Both closed. Or almost, he found as he inched forward. The one on the right was ajar just a bit, and once again, the image of prim little Mr. Pikren drifted into his mind. Suddenly, outside didn’t seem like a particularly bad place to be. He wiped a hand briskly across his mouth and continued down the hall. He didn’t worry about the door on the left yet. It was a little farther down and closed. Definitely closed. The other one, the one right here at his hand, was not. It was open, but not by much. He thought about calling out again but found his mouth dry. He saw his hand reaching out, pushing the door back into the darkness. And, once again, he felt the very real need to get out and wait on someone else to come and figure what all this shit was anyway.

  It seemed darker here than the rest of the house.

  His right hand dug at his belt, at the place where he always kept the flashlight. Sometimes he had to flush a dog out from underneath a porch and many times the light helped; it let you know what you were letting yourself in for. Now he wasn’t so sure. He watched the hand disconnect the flashlight from his belt, watched even more helplessly as his finger went to the switch.

  A solid beam of white lit the room, seemed to leap out of his hand.

  It bounced quickly across a low bureau and a wicker chair set in a corner. A bathroom opened up into further darkness just to the chair’s right. Kamp flicked the beam ten degrees and happened upon the bed. And there it froze like the temperature had dropped to a hundred below. The stink was massive, like a thing straining to be released. At the top of his mind Kamp made out the hooded shape of feet tented up through a blanket. He backed the beam up a few feet, following the contour of the form.

  The man looked like he’d been dead a lot longer than a week. His face was bloated like a basketball. In the white glow from the flashlight the corpse’s skin was green and runny-looking. The lids had stretched open and the dull sockets of sunken eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, long trails of slime having oozed out and down the chin to the pillow where a nest of flies swarmed. There was a woman lying right beside the man, her mouth open, a black tongue rolled out on the sheet like a toad. He tried to get his shirt away from his mouth and nose in time but was too late. His breakfast came up in a solid chunk that tore from his mouth and spewed out of both nostrils. The force of the two smells, the putridity and vomit, broke him to his knees and he collapsed near the foot of the bed, not far from where that one lone, dead foot poked up through the bedspread. This thought brought on another shorter but equally violent puking spree, and he leaned over on his left knee, trying to make his way back to the hallway. Anything to be out of here. The death-stink had taken on an almost physical shape, all hooks and claws, and he seemed to see shadows melting together. For one blinding second he believed the woman turned ever so slightly in his direction, as if to get a better view of the invader in her bedroom. Kamp screamed and waved the flashlight, throwing crazy flashes of light careening off the walls, the ceiling. The flies buzzed angrily. He stumbled out into the hallway. Realized he must have dropped the flashlight because he could no longer feel anything in his hand. Puke was running down the inside of his shirt to his pants. Out of the corner of his eye he made out the impression of light still inside there (with the bodies) but there was no way he was going back to get it. It’d be a cold day in hell before he’d ever even touch that thing again. All he wanted now was outside, away from this charnel-house, with the smell stuffing itself down his throat, suffocating him. Little flashes of light danced before his eyes, increasing his dizziness. He stumbled forward again and one of his hands met up with a wall. The other touched the smooth finish of a door and he went down again, this time in the children’s bedroom right across the hall. He landed stiffly on all-fours and shook his head, trying to clear the spots.

  He raised his head and found matching twin beds. A small night table sat between them, and as he looked he was once again shocked as the small lamp suddenly clicked on.

  Sitting bolt upright (as if iron rods had been driven into their spines) in each bed was a child, just as dead as the parents from the looks of it, but, impossibly, alive too. It proved a paradox
he had no way to justify. It looked to be both a boy and a girl (the boy on the left, shirtless, his sister on the right in a thin night shirt), their expressions dull but murderous. And they, too, were bloated and discolored, but unlike their parents, the ones in here had eyes burning with hatred. Huge, red bloody eyeballs tracked him on the floor and held him riveted in place. The girl moved first, in jerky strokes as she fought to free herself from the tangle of wet, seeping sheets. Never taking her eyes off the man down on his knees in the doorway, she grabbed her legs and pushed them over the side of the bed, her feet making dull, wet thumps on the carpet. Her brother on the other side was just starting to stir, though he moved in more exaggerated jerkiness, as if whatever mush was left for a brain was having a hard time getting signals through. But the intention was obvious.

  They were coming for him.

  Kamp realized this with the suddenness of being shot through the chest with an arrow. He screamed and reeled back on his knees, clawing at the carpet to get back to the doorjamb. The spots were gone from his eyes, but now, he almost wished them back. The little girl was almost out of bed. Then she was standing on the carpet in between, right in front of the night table with the lamp. Her body trembled violently and it appeared she was having a hard time getting started. But it was pretty clear signals were getting through, and from the looks of it, it wouldn’t be long before she made her legs do exactly what she wanted them to. And Kamp already knew what that was. His major problem was much the same: his legs wouldn’t work right. Maybe it was the stink (it was so overpowering now it went a million years past terrible and right up to the gates of hell itself) but he thought not. It was the boy. He’d gotten wound up in the sheets somehow, and like a cow caught in a fence there seemed no reason to guide him. He just kept thrashing around, winding himself tighter, his eyes a blaze of fury as wild grunts and shrieks burped out. He suddenly freed a hand and it smacked back against the wall leaving a large, wet print and a good deal of flesh to slide down to the head board. He pitched wildly and flung himself out of bed to the floor, where he lay at his sister’s feet. He rolled around on the floor like a huge worm trying to break out of a chrysalis. It was the wet, tearing of the blankets that finally got Kamp to his feet, his hands out on either doorjamb, his breath coming in great heaving sobs, the stink now a part of him, inside him where it rooted. He took one more look at the girl and she opened her mouth as if to smile and came for him.

  She pounced (he really had not been expecting that) and landed on the floor not two feet away, her rotten hands scrabbling at his pants legs for purchase. He screamed, kicked out, and barged out to the hallway, his ass kicking a big hole in the sheetrock that the forensics’ team would have a hard time explaining later on that day. His last look into the room was the worst, the one that never let him go for a single night during the next fifty-three years he lived at state expense. When he died he was the oldest patient in the facility. Both of them were indeed coming after him, the girl crabbing across the floor, black ooze running out of her mouth and nose, while the brother, finally torn from the folds of the blankets, was standing, lurching across the room, using the bed as a crutch.

  Their blazing eyes never dimmed in the memories that spanned all those coming years.

  He turned and ran down the hall, tripped over an easy chair and almost went down. Without thinking he grabbed a coffee table and managed to save himself from a head first dive. He dimly remembered coming in through the back door and jerked his head frantically in that direction, trying to spot it in the clammy darkness. Right there. Knowing he was only seconds away from the dead, rotten hands closing on his shoulders and dragging him back into the hall, he bolted over the couch, his feet barely hitting the floor as he tore the screen door on the patio from its hinges. Suddenly he found himself in the daylight, alone in the backyard, on his knees, gripping great tufts of grass in both hands, rooted to the earth. Holding himself down so he wouldn’t go spiraling off into madness. He was crying, wailing like a baby, and those sounds, along with a few others finally made little Mr. Pikren run back inside his house and call 911.