Corrosion Read online

  Outside, the wind was picking up, and I could hear some trash cans crashing against the asphalt like drunks on a dance floor. I pulled out my can of snuff and snorted a pinch. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to sleep. That’s when the vision came to me. A memory or a premonition. A vision so vivid that I started twitching and jerking, fingers covering my mouth in terror.

  I’m on the Mountain and the snow is falling. I’m just standing there, a homemade axe slung over my shoulder, gazing at the old shack, wood rotting before my eyes. And then I look up and see a figure, monstrous and translucent, dart from behind a collapsed mine and vanish into the trees. Trancelike, I move away from the shack and start toward the thick forest where the creature has vanished. Dead branches and dead leaves crunch beneath my feet, the winter snow whitening the high hills of hell.

  Within the woods, ancient and deep, the pines sway back and forth in unison, the shadows swarming and lunging. The sun peaks through the clouds and reflects brightly against the dirty snow. I swivel my head, searching for the strange creature. Nothing but trees and snow and frozen weeds. I look down. I see footprints, barely visible. Eyes peeled on the ground, I follow the footsteps as they wind through the mountain trees. I quicken my pace. My breathing is heavy and irregular. Off to the right, a stream flows gently, blanketed by snow. Somewhere an eagle screams.

  I walk a long ways, far away from the mining shack. Then the footsteps are gone and so is my shadow. I tromp through drifts of calf-deep snow, breathing hard. I catch another glimpse of the stream, dark under snow and ice and branches.

  And then I see the opening of a cavern. The sun is sinking behind the jagged peaks, and the sky is a muted pink. Several large stones block the cave’s opening. I get to my knees, drop my axe to the ground. The stones are lodged into the dirt, made heavy by the snow. It takes me some time to pull them away and when I look at my fingers, I see that they are bleeding.

  On my hands and knees, dragging the axe behind me, I enter the cave. Everything is dark, the light vanishing completely as soon as I pass the first bend. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a lighter and strike it on. The rocks are pale and seem ready to collapse inward at any moment. The dirt floor is damp. It smells of a primeval pool of water, of mildew and rot.

  Then the lighter goes out. I strike it a few times but it doesn’t take. I toss it aside and continue onward, unable to see my hand an inch in front of my face. From somewhere outside the cave I hear what sounds like shouting, a ghostly Comanche battle cry. And then another sound: an echo of high-pitched shrieks followed by a thunderous whooshing and then my own screams as a colony of invisible bats fly around my head, hungry for feeding time.

  I continue crawling through the tunnel as it becomes narrower and narrower. And then the sudden onset of light. I tilt my head upward. There is an opening in the ceiling, not much more than a foot in diameter, and the final remains of light filter through.

  Just ahead, the walls widen into an underground room, the end of the passageway. I straighten up and step inside. My fingers are bleeding badly and I’m shivering. I can see the plumes of my breath.

  On the dirt floor are several cans, all opened and emptied. Beans and corn and soup and apple juice. Smashed and rusted. There is a wool blanket, all tattered and torn and eaten through. And lying on the blanket, what looks to be the remains of an old lurid graphic novel. I bend down and pick it up. It is waterlogged and nearly disintegrates in my hands, but I can still make out the artwork on the cover: a muscular and heavily tattooed soldier brandishing a machine gun, about to shoot through the skull of a knife-wielding, turban-wearing Arab. Fight to the Finish it’s called. I drop the comic to the ground and stare up at the wall. Black scrawl written in the handwriting of a child: I am because I am because I am because I am.

  And then he appears. A boy of about sixteen. Face sickly, eyes wild. He wears a wide-brimmed preacher’s hat. He takes a few steps forward. I know who you are, he says. I raise my axe. He’s unconcerned. He continues walking toward me. I know who you are, he says again. When he’s no more than a step away from me, he covers his face with his hat. I can hardly breathe. A moment later he removes the hat and I can see that his face is melting, skin dripping to the cavern floor like wax. I drop my axe to the ground and he’s laughing and laughing and I realize that I’m staring at my own face…

  * * *

  Two days later, three in the morning, wind blowing hard. Lilith was gone. We’d made some plans before she’d left. They weren’t all that well thought out. I’m gonna be staying with my aunt in Rifle, she’d said. I’ll stay there for two nights. Here’s the key. You might have to jiggle it a bit. And walk lightly. The floor creaks. It shouldn’t matter. He’s a sound sleeper. Especially when he drinks. He always drinks.

  It didn’t get any lonelier than this. I put on my jacket. I walked down the hallway of the hotel. One of the room doors opened and a man stood there with thick yellow-gray hair, slicked back into a pompadour. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes cloudy. His hands were covered with lesions. He wore a too-small white T-shirt, his belly bulging out the bottom. I nodded at him. He watched me walk down the hall, and then I heard the door close.

  I didn’t want anybody else to see me, so I climbed down the fire escape, tearing the cuff on my jeans. I leapt to the ground and landed awkwardly, rolling onto my side. I got to my feet and wiped myself off. I pulled up the collar of my camouflage jacket and stuck my hands in my pockets. Then I got in my truck and hit the engine.

  Outside, the sky was black and the moon was a sliver of china. I felt more than a little tense. I kept worrying that I was being followed by the stranger or the sheriff, kept glancing in the rearview mirror, but there was nothing but gnarled junipers and cottonwoods.

  The radio was playing static and my skull was filling with blood. I searched for some pleasant memories. Carving pumpkins with my mother at the kitchen table while the autumn leaves fall lazily to the ground. Sledding down a steep hill, the snowflakes landing on my tongue. Tossing a baseball with my father, knowing smiles on our faces as the ball smacks against the leather. Sitting by the lake on a lazy summer afternoon, watching the tadpoles dart through the water. But these times had never happened, and they were soon replaced by a more grotesque image: a woman lying on a canopy bed, maggots crawling in her eye sockets, a wooden cross hanging upside down on the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut, drove blindly.

  At the McClellan house. Sitting in the ghost truck, breathing deeply, staring at the darkened windows. Knowing that fate was relentless. No sense in fighting. I pushed open the door, stepped outside. Sweat dribbled down my face. Everything was silent except for an owl hooting. I walked slowly, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

  The lights were out and the pigs were sleeping. I stood at the front door. A tin can blew across the porch. It startled me. I opened the screen door. I pulled out the key from my shirt pocket. The wind was blowing and my hands were trembling. It took me thirty seconds or more to get the key in the lock. Slowly, I turned the key and pulled it out. I twisted the handle and pushed open the door.

  I stepped inside. It was pitch-black. I pulled out my penlight and turned it on. I walked through the living room, my boots echoing softly on the hardwood floor. Strange shadows filled the room. It was hard not to feel disoriented. I walked down the hallway, slowly, uncertainly. The floor wouldn’t stop creaking. I thought I heard something else, a low grinding sound. I noticed that I wasn’t breathing…

  The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar. I opened it slowly. The curtains were open and the moonlight was shining through. I turned off my penlight, placed it in my pocket. Nick’s clothes were crumpled on the floor and his boots were resting by his bed. He was lying on top of the blanket, arms at his side, stomach rising and falling gently. I stood in the doorway, watching, watching.

  The silence of the house was getting to be too much and I was filled with anxiety. I walked cautiously toward the slumbering figure and the oak floorboards creaked again.
I paused. My heart was pounding in my rib cage and my head was throbbing. I took a few more steps forward. The gun dangled from my hand. Nick stirred, sighing deeply, shifting his arm to shield his eyes. I stood there, not moving, not blinking.

  There was a pillow at the foot of the bed. I picked it up, my fingers digging into the stuffing. For a moment I thought about turning around, walking right out that door. Then I thought of Lilith and everything slipped my mind. I sucked in a giant breath and then I pounced. I smothered his face with the pillow and he jerked awake, flailing like a cutthroat trout. I jammed the gun where I figured his mouth to be and fired once, twice, three times. His body jerked a few times, then it relaxed, arms falling back to his side, head lolling onto his shoulder.

  I pulled away the pillow and dropped it on the bed. His face was a bloody mess, his eyes opened wide. Nick McClellan was more than a little bit dead.

  CHAPTER 9

  I felt like I was going to be sick. I stuffed the gun in the front of my pants and backed away. The room was spinning Wizard of Oz style. A crate of chickens and two men in a rowboat flew outside the window.

  I staggered through the house, wiping down doorknobs and every trace of my presence. I kicked open the front door and let it slam shut behind me. I glanced around. No sign of life anywhere. A man was dead and nobody knew. So what? People die every second. The snow had started falling, the mean old wind blowing it every which way. I shoved my hands in my pockets and quickened my pace. My body was getting cold. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  The black shadows of the Rocky Mountains loomed up ahead. There were no sounds but my heart beating and the wind through the windmills and skeleton trees. With the gun in my pocket, I pulled up the collar of my jacket and made my way hurriedly back toward the pickup. The snow had accumulated enough that I was leaving tracks. I’d have to throw my boots away just as soon as I got back to the hotel…

  I thought about the whole situation, and I felt a little bit queasy. A man dies and there’s no turning back. It’s finished, and that means for always. But none of it mattered. We’ve all got to die sometime. And Nick McClellan had all but begged for it. The way he’d treated Lilith. I’d seen the bruises. I’d seen the blood. A man like that…he didn’t deserve to live any more than a rabid dog. So why couldn’t I shake this uneasy feeling?

  I drove, my hands gripping the wheel tightly. The radio was tuned to a fascist talk show, the words a blur of hatred. Snow blew into the windshield, making it hard to see. My breathing was slow and labored.

  Nothing but a socialist and a Marxist and a Muslim, the man shouted. My mind was filled with static. And then rising above the static, the sound of a siren, muted and ghostly. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw red, yellow, and blue lights flashing, tearing the night in half.

  I didn’t slow down, not right away. The gun lay on the seat next to me, lonely and menacing. Resigned to my fate, I hit the brakes, pulled over to the side of the road. But the trooper didn’t stop and my truck shook as he sped past. I stayed on the side of the road for a while, hands shaking, shoulders heaving. And then I felt like maybe the Lord Jesus was looking out for me, and my body relaxed some. I thought about Lilith, thought about her milk-white skin, her heart-shaped lips, and for a moment, just a moment, thought that salvation was in reach…

  * * *

  About two miles west of the McClellan household there was an abandoned grange. And behind the farmhouse, leaning forward like a drunk ready to vomit, a dried-up water well, the metal bucket still hanging from a rope. I got out of the car, grabbed the killing weapon, and walked toward the well, snow crunching beneath my feet, breath pluming from my mouth. I stood over the well and looked down into a black abyss. Clenching my jaw, I placed the gun over the edge of the well. Then I released my grip and the weapon fell, splashing into the dank water.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, I was back at the hotel. The sky had lightened to a bubblegum pink, but nearly all the rooms were still dark. I walked through the hotel lobby and I kept thinking that I saw a figure skulking at the perimeter of the room. I made my way up the staircase and there were dead-man shadows on the wall. I continued down the hallway, stepping over warped floorboards and olden moans, and came to my room and shoved open the door. The window was open a crack and the room was cold. I pushed down the window, then quickly stripped out of my clothes and dropped them on the rusted radiator.

  For a long time, I sat huddling in the bed, shivering, pretty sure that all hell was about to break loose.

  * * *

  The next couple of days weren’t much of anything. Mostly I just sat in my hotel room and chewed tobacco and drank brandy. It was okay. Nobody bothered me. I tried calling Lilith a few times but she didn’t answer. It was just as well.

  Sometimes I’d go into town, walk around a bit. I kept my eyes open for the stranger, kept my eyes open for the sheriff. I didn’t see either one of them, but I felt their presence, yes I did. I read through the local paper, watched the evening news. There was no mention of any murder…

  Dustin called me on the phone. Where the hell are you? he said. Your shift started an hour ago. The boss man ain’t pleased.

  Tell him I quit, I said.

  Now come on, Joseph. Jobs ain’t easy to come by these days. I can make up an excuse for you. Say you’ve got diarrhea or some shit. No need to be rash, my friend.

  Things have changed. I don’t need a job no more.

  You win the lottery?

  No lottery. Change of priorities, is all.

  Yeah?

  You make the realization that we don’t ride the train, the train rides us.

  What the hell are you talking about?

  I’ll be seeing you, Dustin.

  * * *

  My hotel room was beginning to smell. Something was dead. A rat maybe. Smell triggers memories…

  Remember that woman? Nothing but skin and bones inside a long white nightgown. Body covered with sores oozing blue fibers, white threads, and little black specks…

  Remember that old man? Gnashing his teeth and tearing his clothes. Wailing in the small hours of the night. Praying on scabbed knees…

  Remember that boy? Sitting on the end of the bed watching her. Tiptoeing through the hallways, the soundtrack of organ music echoing against the walls, the language of God splattering on the linoleum…

  Remember those neighbors? Knocking on the door, making all kinds of inquiries. Showing up at night spraying Lysol around the base of the house…

  * * *

  Eventually, I got a hold of Lilith. She didn’t sound like herself. Who is this? she said.

  You know who this is, I said, my voice raspy and crackling.

  Lilith didn’t speak. I could hear her breathing.

  It’s all done, I said. He won’t be bothering you no more, no how.

  More silence.

  He begged for mercy. Some people don’t deserve mercy.

  Jesus, she said, voice trembling. You’re serious.

  Hell yes, I’m serious. When can I see you? I need to see you.

  I don’t know. Fuck. Don’t call me anymore.

  What?

  It’s over, Joseph. Don’t you see?

  Wait a second. I—

  The phone clicked dead. I slammed the receiver down, and the phone exploded, the chassis and circuit board landing across the room.

  I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I rubbed my temple with my thumb. Terrible images appeared behind my eyes. A little Iraqi girl leaning against a smoldering building, staring at me with those big brown eyes…An American soldier, his bare arms bronzed and buff, tossing a baby in the air and impaling it on his Civil War bayonet…Walking through a deep and loathsome valley, pulled along by a faceless man, a river of blood boiling down below…Gazing into an endless pit, malformed bodies writhing against one another, scratching away their diseased skin…

  This world was getting to be too much.

  CHAPTER 10

  He wore
a mask. A white rubber mask pulled across his face as tightly as a drumhead, tufts of iron-gray hair sprouting wildly from beneath his wide-brimmed black hat. And behind the mask, nothing but black holes for eyes, like those of dead man. He stood on a wooden crate outside of Del’s Lounge bellowing out in a booming voice. He wore a string tie and torn frock coat and waved around a tattered Bible high in the air, preaching about Satan and Salvation, about Heaven and Hell, about Sin, Sin, Sin.

  Shouting: And God shall cast wicked men into hell at any moment! His shovel is in his hand, and he will gather his wheat into the garner and then he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire! Yes, justice calls for the evildoers to be thus cast into hell and makes no objection against God’s destruction. And hear me when I say that every nonbeliever belongs to hell; that is his place!

  Yes, brothers, yes, sisters, I have been to dozens of towns all across this country, from ocean to ocean, from desert floor to mountain top, and never before have I been in a town that reeks so much of sin! Boozing and whoring, stealing and raping! You are truly the people of Gomorrah and you shall be consumed by fire and brimstone! But perhaps it is not too late. Now is the time to awaken to the deafening calls of God’s word and fly from the wrath to come. Sinners, sinners: escape for your lives, look not behind you, escape from this world, lest you be consumed!

  And a few people stopped and listened, and a few people laughed or shouted obscenities. But this merchant of the damned kept right on preaching, his wrath not concealed by the rubber mask. Shouting: All of you sinners who have not accepted the word of Jesus Christ, you’re fooling yourself! You’re in denial of the grandest kind! And this denial will lead you to feeling the burning horrors of hell, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is never quenched! Hell: a place of awful torment. Hell: a place where unconverted men spend an endless eternity, without hope. Yes, you unconverted sinners, soon you’ll be dead and you’ll learn all about what you have lost!