The Graveyard Shift Page 4

  All of them are watching me in this chair, thinking about the daughter they lost. The sister they lost. And yet, Macy Stadler’s just going to go back to the arms of handyman Jeremy. Bill Stadler’s going to go back to his imaginary numbers. Stella’s going to go back to her vodka and her denial. I wonder if their chairs bind them the same way mine binds me.

  Before throwing the switch, a hood is placed over my head, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to see them, and they don’t need to see me. They can’t even see themselves.

  An Axe through Bone

  I’m pretty sure I’ve become addicted to my own imagination.

  It’s all I can look forward to these days. In fact, it’s all I can think about when I wake up in the broken, twin sized bed in my tin can-sized apartment, and then eat some random breakfast I won’t remember eating, before slugging down a pot of coffee I won’t remember drinking. It’s the only thing that keeps me whole. Not my youth. Not my health, or my modest looks. Not my job. It’s either think about the magic—the dragons, the barbarians, the falling swords and the clashing shields—or think about my wife.

  She should have died clasping my hand, in a plain, not-quite comfortable bed in the house we’d spent 60 years turning into a home. Not at the age of 25, in a hospital bed, surrounded only by a grieving husband, an indifferent night shift nurse, and the shrill, beeping machines that I’m still paying for monthly because I ripped them out of the goddamn wall and stomped them into bits.

  And there I go, thinking about her all over again, as I lock up the door of an apartment I couldn’t care less about anyone breaking into and file off down the street toward work.

  It’s funny, really. You see all these news stories about how green tea, or vitamins, or certain vegetables can lower your risk of cancer. How eating healthy and keeping active keeps you one step ahead of the grave. But what they don’t tell you is that no amount of green tea can ward off something like bone cancer. And what they also don’t tell you is that cancer sweeps in like a hurricane, and no matter how much warning you think you have, it’s never enough. There are no guidebooks, no instruction manuals, and no one to hold your hand through it. One day you’re walking your wife home from the hospital in tears, and the next moment you’re walking out of her funeral service, and the tears haven’t stopped, only now you’re wondering where the hell you go from here. It’s an answer I’m still figuring out three years later.

  After my wife died, my therapist told me I should take up a few hobbies. So I took up gardening. And working out. And fighting barbarians. Again, that whole imagination thing. These days I live a lot of my life in my head, and out of all my hobbies, it’s the only one that really brings me any form of comfort. It’s the only one that makes me feel like I have any sense of control.

  The day has barely begun and I’m already immersed in my thoughts, ignoring the world around me as my torn work boots clomp up the hilly sidewalk running along Line Avenue. Children are passing me by on their way to school, but they pay me no mind. They step silently off the sidewalk as I pass, like tiny soldiers interrupted mid-horseplay by the presence of their drill sergeant. When I’m daydreaming I look intimidating—eyebrows pinned low, lips pursed, nostrils flared. To them I’m some lean, muscular thug in a wife-beater and faded jeans and dirty boots off to sell drugs or beat someone up. If anyone told them I was really daydreaming about riding dragons or scaling a tower or rescuing a fair maiden, they’d probably laugh themselves hoarse. But that’s beside the point. I like the façade. It means they leave me alone.

  Another gaggle of kids pass me, a trio with hair as golden as the sun—two boys, one girl—and they all smile at me in a manner that is way too upbeat for my liking.

  “Hi, Robb!” chirps the girl.

  “Don’t say hi! I bet he’s gonna chop you up with his axe!” taunts the first boy. The second boy slaps him in the back, utters a loud shush, and is relieved when I pretend like I heard none of it.

  I just keeping walking as Ruth, Tom, and Sam continue laughing and shouting their way to school. My employer’s children.

  Before I know it I’m rounding the next street, heading up to the house on the corner. My employer, Mr. Howard, stands outside awaiting me.

  “Robb,” he says to my left shoulder, not one to make eye contact with me. “Hey, how are you today?”

  “I’m fine,” I breathe. We both know I’m anything but. “How are you?”

  “Good, thanks,” he says. “Hey, so before you get started I just wanted to ask you something. We’re gonna be, uh, going out of town again soon. Just for like a day. You think you can watch the house?”

  Let me check my schedule, I think—these are the kind of dark thoughts my therapist does not appreciate. “I can.”

  Will smiles, simply because he thinks I don’t know what ‘go out of town’ really means. I smile back because I do.

  I am Will Howard’s gardener, landscaper, and sometimes house sitter. His house is… well, special. Haunted. Possessed. Magical. Hell, I don’t know what to call it. But as I stand here thinking about what it feels like to put my axe through the side of a dragon’s head, I know even someone like myself can’t scoff at such things as magic. The promise of magic is all that keeps me going these days.

  This ‘out of town’ trip is good news for me. Will and his family will leave for a while, and by leave I mean that they’ll disappear. They’ll just vanish into thin air and then reappear in hours or sometimes days. I’d like to think they go on adventures, the kind of adventures I have in my head. Swords. Shields. Goblins. Wizards. Saving the world. But it’s not my job to ask questions. It’s just my job to mow the lawn and trim the hedges and maintain the flowers and the pecan trees out back. And in exchange, I get my own adventures.

  “Fellas,” a voice barks from the edge of the street, drawing me sharply away from my thoughts. “Nice to see you again.”

  It’s Officer Brody, staring holes into us both from behind his enormous sunglasses, of which the sun is reflecting off of them like a death ray. You see, he knows something is strange about Will Howard, his house, and his family, but Officer Brody just can’t pinpoint it. And because of this, he likes to stop by for random visits. Just last week he found the kids playing with a sword. Not a plastic sword, or a Styrofoam sword, but a sharp, tempered, steel sword, looking so old it should have been in a museum, with the tiniest snag of green flesh at the tip. And ever since, Brody’s come by more often. A lot more often.

  “What can I do for you, Officer?” Will asks. His tone is friendly, but behind that is exasperation. I imagine it’s the third time in the last week he’s asked Brody this same question.

  “Oh, just following up on a call,” Brody replies, as he shifts his weight on his feet. For a small town police officer he’s in decent shape—that shape not being a complete circle. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and a little menacing in his appearance. Beneath his gelled, jet black hair is a jet black mustache snaking down into a jet black goatee. He looks like his own evil twin.

  “Uh, what kind of call?” Will asks. His eyes glance my way, and I’m not sure whether he’s glad I’m there with him or wishing I would leave.

  “Oh, just some concerned folks reporting they heard a lot of screaming. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” Will says. “Of course. Probably just the kids being a little too rambunctious. I’ll talk to them after school.”

  Brody is leaning on his feet, trying to stare into the house’s windows from the sidewalk. I’m not entirely sure what he’s trying to achieve, but after a few moments of leering he seems satisfied and takes a step back. “Okay, Will. You take care.”

  He turns to leave, but before he does, he throws a glance my way. And a smile, one that’s not entirely friendly. “Hey, Robb, buddy. You check out that e-dating site I told you about?”

  “No,” I grunt.

  “You should really check it out, man. It’s good. You probably won’t find Mrs. Right, but you’ll find Ms. Right-Now,
you know?”

  I say nothing.

  “We all have to move on some time,” he reminds me, and tips his hat as he circles his patrol car to the driver side door.

  Will’s glancing my way to see if I’m hurt by this comment. I am, but my expression retains its indifference. It’s a mask I wear well.

  “God, I can’t stand that guy,” Will says. “Y’all don’t take anything he says to heart, okay?”

  I say nothing.

  “Okay. Well, Robb, I’ve gotta get ready for work, but just to confirm, you’ll watch the house tomorrow, right?”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks. We all appreciate it.”

  As Will heads back inside the house, I step into the backyard to begin my day. It’s not much—pecan trees, a nice yard, some shrubbery that I keep well-trimmed. But my eyes are on the garage apartment situated in the far back, specifically the empty living space perched above the garage that houses my clippers, and my gloves, and my axe.

  Once upon a time ago, when I first sought out the job, I asked Mr. Howard if I could stay up there. He said he didn’t want anyone living there—something about safety codes not being up to standard—but he’d be happy to let me use it to store some of my tools. I knew then he was hiding something. A secret. And boy, what a hell of a secret it turned out to be.

  You see, the irony is that Will hired me because he thought I lacked imagination. Wake up, go to work, trim plants, eat, sleep, exist. I’m just the muscly lunkhead whose verbal vocabulary consists of standoffish, one word grunts…right? But what he didn't know was that my imagination is my everything, and inside that garage apartment it creates pure magic.

  It’s calling me again—the apartment. And I can’t resist it. It’s Monday morning, and since I don’t work weekends it’s been over forty eight hours since I was last here. Forty eight agonizing hours. I’m heading toward the garage apartment like a dead man walking toward the light of God. The kids call this room ‘The Imagination Room.’ I know this because I listen to them while I plant seeds, or prune leaves, or rake up fallen pecans. They’ve told me almost everything without saying a single word to my face. That’s the wonderful thing about children, is how much they’ll tell you when they think you aren’t listening.

  I step into the tiny apartment, which is a mostly empty living room, an entirely empty bathroom, and a closet containing a few of my tools. As I approach the closet, I feel a smile creeping on my lips. Inside is my axe—a simple tool, nothing more than a metal head perched on a wooden handle. It’s often used for cutting down stray branches and chopping firewood but will today be used to cut down barbarians.

  It feels so good in my hand. Lightweight. Responsive. Like it belongs there. I have no need for a sword, or a spear, or a wizard’s staff. Just my axe.

  And so it may seem odd that I’m laying down on the bare floor, closing my eyes, clutching my axe to my chest like a prom queen clutching a bouquet of flowers. It may seem odd that my nostrils are flaring as I take in the stale air of an apartment that’s hardly ever used. But by my second breath, the musk is gone. I smell the grass, and the dirt, and the lingering scent of rain. I can feel the wind pushing my hair.

  When I stand I’m still clasping my axe, only my axe is longer, sturdier, with a fiery red tip. Gone is my grungy work clothing; in its place, grungy armor. I’m clad in dark leather armor and animal skins, both of which are painted in scuffs and slight tearing. They’ve held up well despite all of the battles I’ve put them through. I’ve been in many, and have not yet seen my last.

  Haunted. Possessed. Magical. Again, I don’t know what it is—this room, this world—I just know that it works. I lay down in this apartment, I drift off thinking about my deepest fantasies, and then I’m here. I know it’s not real. I know with every fiber of my being that it’s just my imagination. And yet as I stand in the heart of the imperial city of Falkhaven, surrounded by dirt streets and wooden cottages and men and women in tunics and armor much as my own, it’s hard to dismiss as simple fantasy. The man who approaches me, bearded, out of breath, and pushing hot air that stinks of old ale and putrid vegetables—it feels all too real.

  “Milord,” he tells me, with a curt bow, “you’ve returned. Thank the gods.”

  “Have you any word of Mary?” I ask.

  He shakes his long, curly black locks. “I have not, sir. I imagine she is still being held by the Rohkai.”

  I smirk, not just at his news, but because I wish I had better control of my imagination. It seems that even though my mind can create mythical creatures and warlords and entire cities, my wife is not something I can just conjure up in front of me. Believe me, I’ve tried. It all points back to the Rohkai holding her. I don’t know what it means. I just know that I’m going to keep trying. Otherwise, what’s the point?

  “They hit us hard,” Enric says. Only now, as I glance behind him, do I see that some of the cottages have scorch marks. Hay bales are strewn into the streets. Dried blood stains coat the walls. There are less people bustling about than usual.

  “Then I’ll return the favor,” I say, clenching my axe.

  “The Jarl wants to see you first.”

  I follow my friend Enric through the market, past a sea of haggling vendors barking out their wares, past butchers carving the day’s selection of meats. We make our way to the stone walkway leading up to the wooden longhouse where the Jarl (or leader of this region) makes his home, along with the rest of the soldiers. I can see they’re still recovering, because they are sparse, their armor is heavily dented, and they seem weary.

  “Good day, Sir Robb,” calls a bandaged soldier as I enter the longhouse.

  “Good day, Tyrus,” I reply, before glancing up at the table where the Jarl stands with his brow furrowed. “Good day, Jarl Strolf.”

  Strolf, who looks like a Hell’s Angel in a ruby red cloak, greets me with the kindest of smiles. I know everyone here, and I like everyone here, just as they know and like me. Falkhaven is my home, and I am its hero.

  “Robb,” Strolf says, pushing a hand through his stringy, piss-yellow beard. He moves a figurine on the table—of which a map of our world, Enderiel, has been painted—and sighs. “Their numbers are growing. There’s even rumors that their leader is a rider now. I’m worried our city won’t survive another attack.”

  “It won’t have to,” I say. “Because I’m going after them. I’m going to sneak into their camp and I’m going to butcher every last one of them.”

  The Jarl seems pleased with this. Enric, however, does not.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Enric asks. He’s a Ward of Fairhaven—a poor man’s deputy, if you will—and his question is filled with apprehension. “You will be strongly outnumbered.”

  “I’ll be fine. Just keep an eye on the city.”

  Enric hands me a leather pouch. I can’t see what’s inside, but it smells strongly of healing herbs.

  “Then take this, Robb, and please be careful. In case you come across their rider.”

  “I don’t need a flying dinosaur to win a battle,” I tell him, as I turn my axe over in my hands. It’s felled more than a few dragons since I’ve started my adventures here.

  The Jarl wishes me luck, and so I head off, but not to the Rohkai. No, I head down the road, to the Dancing Goblin Tavern, where I plop onto my favorite barstool and raise my finger. Saria, the barmaid, slides me a nice, frosty ale and asks me, or rather begs me to regale my latest adventure. I’ll probably have two or three beers before I head off, because my last adventure was a big one.

  I know, I know. In situations like this, after his town has been violently attacked, the hero is supposed to valiantly march off to battle and defeat the villain, right? Well, this is my story. And in my story, I drink a beer or three before I head off to battle. It’s one of my few pleasures other than killing. Plus, the beer they have here is amazing. It’s strong, and flavorful, and not like that horsepiss you’ll find floating around a Superbowl party.


  Besides, I’m the hero, and I will still prevail in my quest. I always do.

  Fifteen minutes later, as I sip the last of my third ale and slip Saria a tip, in gold coins, that’s worth more than she makes in a month, I push myself to my feet and head out the door. Nightfall is drawing near. I don’t understand exactly how time works here—hell, I don’t understand how much time has passed in the real world, either—but I always play it safe and keep my adventures relatively brief, because I fear the repercussions if the Howard family knows that I know about their secret room.

  So with that, I mount my horse and make haste to the caves in the north.

  The plains outside of Fairhaven are nothing short of breathtaking. Everything is brighter and so much more vibrant here in my imagination. The grasses are so vividly green it’s almost blinding, and the path I’m following is lined with the most fantastically purple lavender. Lavender was her favorite flower, and as I pass by row after row of tall violet stalks, I can see why. It’s beautiful.

  This is all a stark contrast to the territory that belongs to the Rohkai, and I know this because soon the lavender is gone. The grass here is brown, and thinned out, and the only trees are brittle branches limping off the edges of a lop-sided stump. I’m quickly approaching the mountains, which are bare and dry and devoid of color. My horse has now gotten nervous because his steps are slower, more reserved. I find that I’m a little nervous, as well. Nervous, a bit drunk, and clenching my axe like it’s going to fall out of my hands if I don’t.

  This is what it feels like to be alive.

  “That’s close enough,” a voice calls, from the mouth of a cave. What steps forth is a man covered in wolf pelts and bone. His helmet, made of shiny white bone. His necklace, his wrist bands, the shoulder pads of his armor, all bone. He is a Rohkai. He is one of the bone warriors of the northern plains, and he might look just like any other warrior in my imagination, but he’s killed my soldiers, he’s raped their wives, and he’s burned down their houses. He is a plague on this world.