The Route
by Joey Pettine
Cautiously the paper boy squeezes the water out of the cylindrical bottle and into the second of the two tiny water guns. He does this with the care of a demolitions expert handling nitro, making sure as not to spill a single drop of the precious liquid.
The sound of dripping water becomes slightly high pitched and Ronald, still with extreme care, releases pressure from the plastic bottle and stifles the thin stream of water. He places the bottle right side up on the kitchen counter, less than half an inch of water pooling at the bottom of the bottle, and then closes the tiny plastic plug atop the neon yellow water gun. When he is sure the toy is leak proof he slides it into the right back pocket of his jeans, opposite the neon green water gun in his back left pocket.
Ronnie looks at the clock on the microwave. Almost 5:00 AM. He better get moving.
He swings the fridge door open and drops to his knees, sliding open the left produce drawer.
"Damn," he proclaims, "we're all out."
He slams the drawer shut and then pops onto the balls of his feet as he simultaneously closes the fridge door. Then he goes to the cabinets, opening the wooden doors and searching frantically or something, anything. Finally he comes across something. He throws the shaker into his jacket pocket and then leaves the kitchen, fluidly grabbing the sack off the dining room table, the one with THE FALMOUTH RECORD printed on the side, and heads for the door. Abruptly he stops as he notices his Swiss army knife sitting atop the fireplace. He thinks only for a moment and then he grabs the Boy Scout relic and heads back into the kitchen.
Moving with haste and surety he flips out the large blade of the pocket knife and holds it over the kitchen sink. Then he takes the almost empty bottle and uses the last of the water to christen the blade. The clear liquid hits the steel, sluices down the blade, and streams right into the sink's drain. Then he flips closed the blade, droplets of water still resting on its width, and slides the knife into his side pocket. Overkill, maybe, but now he knows he is ready.
He leaves the kitchen one more time, heads quickly through the dining and living room, and exits out the wooden and aluminum front doors into the cool, dark morning. It's time to deliver the papers.
The route itself is not a long one. Four blocks up Stoller Street, one block over, and then four blocks back down Brahm Street, not even a half hours walk in the daylight, but in the dark recesses of this cold weekday morning this menial job seems more like a trip through some medieval gauntlet. Ronnie steels himself, taking deep breaths and watching them turn to a sort of fog as he exhales, then warily he starts up Stoller Street.
At this instant Richie Fallin, a boy who attends sixth grade with Ronnie, wakes up briefly and peers out his window, his beak-like nose rubbing against the cold glass. He catches a glimpse of Ronnie heading off to deliver the papers and makes an almost subconscious mental note of the large wooden cross and the white rosary hanging around Ronnie's neck, just over the strap of the paper sack. He will have a field day telling everyone in school about it later. Richie returns to sleep and dreams happily about a medieval kingdom, a dragon, and a giant needle.
The first block passes easily for Ronnie, tossing a paper here and there without event. It is around the second block that he begins to feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at attention. A feeling of static electricity washes over him and his chest begins to hum with the frantic thumping of his heart. He can hear things scurrying around in the underbrush, whispering, and he feels eyes upon him. He ignores them as well as his fear and delivers the papers.
It is around the third bock that the feeling of static electricity has grown into the steady throb of high power lines. His legs hum with energy and he looks down to see both the wooden cross and his mother's rosary are glowing a white light. His fear decreases minutely and he finishes up the third block of Stoller Street.
Onto the fourth block, the sound of animal scurrying still following him, he begins to hear a high creaking sound. The creaking raises in decibels until it reaches its climax and then the sound travels back down the way it came. With each house Ronnie can hear the sound growing louder. At the second to the last house he recognizes the sound for what it is, an old wooden rocking chair.
Ronnie strolls around the high hedges of Mr. James's house and stops at the foot of the driveway.
"Mornin', Ronnie," Mr. James calls from the porch.
"Good morning, Mr. James," Ronnie replies stoically.
Mr. James is sitting at the edge of the cement porch, rocking slowly in the shade. Normally Ronnie wouldn't be able to see anything in the dark but the glow from his cross has grown in power and gives the distance between him and Mr. James a sickly glow. Ronnie can see the full length of the driveway, the tiny pile of papers which he himself left at the foot of the porch throughout the week, and how healthy and young Mr. James looks even though his skin is an ailing shade of pale.
"Felling better this morning, Mr. James?"
"Beyond better, m'boy, I feel like a new man."
"I wonder why?" Ronnie asks sarcastically.
"Who cares why," Mr. James says, and now he stops rocking and leans forward out of the porch's shade," Why don't you come up here and gimme my paper?"
Ronnie takes a step backward and gasps. Mr. James's eyes are glowing a bright red and long canines hang over dead, purple lips. Ronnie then takes a step forward, those red eyes drawing him like a moth to a flame. He can see everything in those eyes; Mr. James getting sick, no one seeing Mr. James for over a week. Ronnie takes another step toward the dead man and then he slides a paper out of the sack and tosses it casually at Mr. James. Mr. James catches the folded paper easily and the two men break eye contact. Ronnie is struck with the brightness at which the light from his crosses glows and a power vibrates through his chest. He almost has to shield his eyes. He also realizes that he has somehow made it up the length of the driveway and is standing at the foot of the porch steps. These realizations come to him as quick as one, two, three and then he turns tail and runs back down the driveway and up the remainder of Stoller Street, throwing the last paper willy nilly into a bush, the sound of Mr. James laughing maniacally chasing him up the street. What would have happened if he hadn't thrown that paper? Might he have just continued walking pausing only a moment to remove the crosses from his vulnerable neck.
Ronnie takes the right at the top of Stoller Street and starts his short walk down Jefferson Avenue. He stops to catch his breath and regain control of his fear. He had come awfully close there and the realization bends him over like something awful just took a bite from his nether regions. His left hand falls limp, brushing the contents of the paper sack, his right hand fingering the shaft of the wood cross around his neck.
Swift movement out the corner of his eye. Strong hands grip his shoulders and cold flesh chills him to the bones. Then there is a bright flash that engulfs everything for less than a second, the cross. The dead creature flees as swiftly as it attacked, squealing inhumanly as it goes. The attack and retreat take less than a minute all together and the only proof it ever happened is a black whiff of smoke like from an extinguished match.
Ronald catches his breath, once more getting himself under control. All around him the sound of scurrying emanates from the bushes, the trees, the dark corners of every yard. Red eyes glare at him hungrily. Ronnie grips the cross tight and reaches into his sack, pulling out the Bible he placed there this morning. A dull glow emanates from this as well, its pages giving off a candle strength shine. There are a few hissings from the dark. Ronnie replaces the Bible in its ready position and continues on.
He turns the corner onto Brahm Street, trying to ignore the eyes watching him, and he wonders if this is what Billy Juin went through before they got him. Billy had been a good friend of his at school, not a particularly amazing kid but a nice one, and Ronnie felt bad when Billy had gone missing. This had been less than a month ago.
Of course Ronnie wasn't supposed to know what had gotten Billy. Supposedly Billy had just gotten sick and had to go away. But Ronnie knew the truth.
He can hear footsteps, leaves crunching, branches cracking all around him. There must be a dozen or more around him now just waiting for him to slip up, drop his guard for a second.
He makes it past the first block of Brahm Street and breathes a little. Only three more to go.
The sounds around him grow in numbers and he knows they could be quiet if they wanted, they could be as silent as the wind, but they want him to know they're there.
The second block goes without a hitch. Two to go.
A few bland hisses reach him but these aren't too bad. The worst is the giggling cat calls they whisper onto the tail of the wind.
…can't keep it up forever…
… sleep like the dead…
…no escape…
He feels like a walking piece of meat and realizes this is what sexual harassment must be like.
He is halfway down the third block now, fast approaching his final stop. He takes the last paper from his sack, leaving only the Bible to give it weight, and he hurries his legs a little. Standing at the bottom of the walk he brings back his arm and aims for the porch. Then everything stops dead in its tracks.
Standing atop the porch is the most gorgeous sight he has ever seen. She can be no more than eighteen years of age
(forever eighteen now)
and her skin is as white and pure as January snow. Her hair is a fiery red, like her eyes, and the silken crimson flows around her shoulders as if it was alive. She beckons to Ronnie and he feels himself lose everything. Why worry? Why fight? The paper falls from his limp fingers. His body moves of its own accord, slowly approaching the beautiful figure on the stoop. Who is this woman anyway? Some girl from the local high school, someone who was just passing through, someone who never made it where they were going, maybe someone who should be old and decrepit but instead has spent the last thirty years of her life an eighteen year old succubus. Does he really care though? He is only a few steps away and then he will never have to worry again. He can have the girl, he can have the night, he can have whatever he wants. It'll be alr-
No.
He stops for only a moment but it is a moment enough. His feet resume their stroll and he knows he cannot fight his own legs, the girl is like a magnet and there is no way to escape her pull, her fiery red hair and blazing eyes. But he can feel something in his right arm, a twitch, and then slowly his elbow bends. His hand moves as if weighted down and he can feel his muscles strain against themselves. It's as if he's swimming with lead weights on his wrists. But still he flexes with all his might, focusing on the arm and only the arm, feeling it slowly rise upward.
Only a few more steps now.
His arm is a ninety degree angle now, his fingers just brushing the lip of the paper sack, struggling to crawl into the bag.
His feet collide clumsily with the porch's bottom step and then begin to lift.
Success. Three of his fingers find purchase and inch their way into the bag. His arm screams in hot pain as his muscles work to save his life.
The woman reaches out to him and her fingers touch his lips. He can feel his prepubescent member stiffen and rise.
He lets go and his arm falls into the bag, smacking into the leather bound Bible. He grips it hard and electricity shoots up his arm, acting like a catalyst which sends the rest of his body exploding with power. Never in his life has he felt so strong.
He leaps backward off the steps and lobs the Bible like a grenade. The red haired beauty sees it only too late and he has time in that fiery flash of holy light to see
(a field of roses stretching miles in every direction, the tower looming bef-)
her eyes go wide with surprise.
The young girl screams in pain and Ronald's feet hit the ground. He almost loses his balance but his legs regain themselves as his hands move with a mind seemingly all their own.
He turns to face what he knows is there, the horns of the bull, and sure enough as he rotates toward the street what must be close to twenty vampires surrounded him. He has actually turned right into the face of one, its fangs gleaming in the morning moonlight, as it reaches for his soft flesh. It grabs at his chest then the creature laments its own pain as there is another flash of light and smoke. The monster retreats on all fours, hissing like a cat, and Ronnie bewails the loss of his mother's rosary, now nothing more than an assortment of beads lying on the pavement.
His hands finally complete their journey to his behind and Ronald Glead unholsters the neon water guns from his back pockets. Everything is moving in super slow motion now and the shots are easy. An old man vampire on his right, shot between the eyes. The holy water leaps from the gun in a beam of pure white light, reminiscent of some science fiction energy blaster, and hits the old man with a flash of flame and smoke. The skin burns and bubbles in seconds leaving a misshapen scar. The old man holds his face, tendrils of smoke whisping through his fingers, and Ronald shoots him once again. He howls in frustration and leaps into the air, bounding away from the battle.
To his left a young girl claws for the neon green gun. He pulls his hand away and gives her three straight shots along her chest and shoulder. Her upper area begins to smoke and she hisses in pain. Ronald lets one rip right into her mouth and watches in horror as her gums immediately begin to bleed and one of the long canines drops to the ground. She runs away screaming and crying like a normal little girl.
Still they come. Teenagers, children, elders. Men and women, big and small. At times he feels as if an entire towns worth of people must be after him. Yet he moves with the speed and grace of a professional. His hands are the weapons and the guns seem only to be an extension of them. He whirls around in circles and arcs, the heels of his feet never touching the ground, the lapels of his jacket never touching his sides. Each shot from the pistols is precise and critical; the eyes, the throat. Not enough to kill them but enough to keep them at bay. To drive them off. The green gun runs out first and he reholsters the weapon. His right hand continues to fire on the monsters while his left hand reaches into his jacket. Now he sees the vamps are retreating, wounded and smoking they bound off to find refuge before the sun rises. This is good because Ronald can feel the yellow gun is as empty as the green one. He reholsters the weapon but it's not over yet. His left hand pulls free of his jacket pocket and he makes one final turn, his left and right hand working together as one.
The red haired woman leaps off the porch, her breasts still smoking from the initial hit, the Bible twisted and singed on the porch floor.
Ronnie let his left hand continue to arc as his right jerked hard and sure. Something came loose and then there was a harsh caustic smell as the garlic powder shot from the canister in a cloud of beige and completely engulfed the red haired woman's head.
The beautiful woman continued onward for a moment, into the cloud, and then she stopped abruptly. Ronnie could not see her face well; it was wholly plastered with garlic powder, but he could see her eyes. They were wide, they were scared, and they were hurt.
At first she screamed, the worst scream he had ever heard any of them emit, and he wondered if this would draw more of them or scare them off. Then her face began to bubble and break out in boils, puss and blood oozing from her cheeks and split forehead. Tears of blood began to flow from her eyes and as she vomited up pools of it, Ronnie could see teeth come out in those horrid wretches. The color of her face went from a pale white to a coal black and Ronald could see her hair was falling out in great clumps, chunks of her scalp coming off with it. The skin began to peel from her face and then her eyes split like two grapes under too much pressure. All the while she continued to scream and then she fell to the ground, holding her face like the old man, and the last thing Ronnie saw before he ran away was her nose falling to the ground in a chunk of puss and blood.
Ronnie ran for his home, his legs stretching and pumping down the last block of Brahm Street. He makes a right onto Davison Avenue and now he can see his house again. Nothing ever looked so beautiful in his life. Off in the distance a bird whistles and Ronnie knows that sun up cannot be far off yet he does not slow or falter. His feet hit the ground in loud clomps and he can fell his chest screaming for air and rest. Then the cross begins to glow again, he pumps his legs faster, trying to get home, but the closer he gets the brighter the cross glows. Then just when the cross is so bright he thinks there must be a vamp right behind him, his feet hit the soft grass of his lawn and the front door is mere yards away and he can almost reach out and---
Something hits him hard. He sees stars and can feel his feet switch with his head. The back of his shoulders hit the ground first, followed by his head, and now he is seeing double as well as stars. Then there is pressure on his chest, light but heavy, and another magnificent flash of light. He smells sulfur and then the light is gone, the dark is all encompassing.
Ronnie shakes his head lightly and tries to get up but something has him pinned down. His head finally stops reeling and then he can see. Sitting on his chest, a wide smile across his dead face, is Billy Juin.
"Hey, Ronno," Billy says as cheerily as ever, "What you been up to?"
Ronnie attempts to throw Billy off him and Billy just laughs. It is like trying to lift a house.
"I don't think so," Billy says.
"What the hell do you want, Billy?" Ronnie asks.
Now Billy's face goes solemn.
"Just to give you something," he says.
Ronnie can feel the fear in him now, the realization that he is going to die. He has made it through an entire cavalcade of the undead and now he will die five minutes before sunrise and be found dead on his own lawn. He thinks hard, trying to figure a way out, but he has nothing. The bible, the cross, the rosary, everything is gone. All he has is the weight on his chest and the pain in his side. He goes to say something to Billy, then gives up. Billy as well realizes the futility of conversation and leans in for his gift.
Ronnie closes his eyes and feels everything. The grass on his shoulders, the electricity which seems to radiate from Billy, the pain in his muscles, the throbbing in his legs. Then it comes to him. He moves quick, knowing he has less time than ever. Billy screams.
Ronnie pushes with all his might and throws Billy onto his back. Ronnie jumps up to his feet and staggers a few feet away. He watches in awe as Billy Juin, a sixth grade boy he used to play four square with, writhes on his lawn like some dying slug, the shaft of a pocket knife sticking out of his back and the tip of the blade piercing his heart. Billy screams in utter agony and Ronnie watches the blade go from a dull glow to a pure white beacon. It looks like a star has replaced the area where Billy's heart used to beat. Around the glow Billy screams in utter agony as his body shrivels and rots. The skin droops and the eyes shrivel inside the head. Billy's flesh, his skin, his muscle just wither and shrink until it is only brittle bone covered by a thin layer of slimy, decaying skin. Puss and blood ooze from various areas on Billy's body and his clothes soak up as much as they can. Then Billy's screams are cut off, the body shifts a few moments longer but there are no really great changes, what's done is done. All that remains of Billy Juin is a set of blood soaked clothes and a corpse, successfully decayed almost a month's time.
The knife stops glowing and Ronald feels all the energy he woke up with this morning gone. His muscles ache like never before and his mind is just too tired to think. He is pretty sure that he has to go catch the school bus soon but that won't be a problem when his dad wakes up and sees a corpse on their lawn. Ronnie thinks about getting his knife out of Billy's body but the act seems like too much to do. Ronnie feels fatigue take over and he falls to his knees. His hands squish into the cool grass and he has the urge to just lay his head and sleep.
Out of the corner of his eye Ronnie watches as the tip of the knife begins to glow again. Somewhere on the other side of the lawn Ronnie watches the cross also begin to glow. His hairs stand on end and Ronnie has just enough strength to lift his head.
The street is filled with vampires, there must be double what had attacked him on Brahm Street and now he positively knows there is no hope for him. He tries to get up but only falls back onto his ass, what energy he may have had, whether it be from him or some other source, truly is gone now. He eyes the crowd of vampires as they close. He can see the old man he shot, one eye missing and the other horribly misshapen. Mr. James is there too, he walks upright, no longer needing a cane, and smiles wide. He looks around to find the little girl he'd shot in the mouth but she is nowhere to be seen. Then one of the vampires comes before all the rest, its face is a dark burnt black, covered with boils and lesions, and deep red eyes glare out from bulbous ditches. There is no nose and what remain of the mouth is nothing more than blackened gums and an odd assortment of teeth. Thin strands of red hair cling to the boils atop the scalp.
"No more," a beautiful voice emanates from that blackened demon and then Ronnie hears that faraway bird whistle one last time and collapses onto the grass, utterly spent. He hears their hissings and giggles as they approach and then a sound like mass panic, feet hurrying to find a way and people scurrying to reach safety. That beautiful voice calls out to him one last time.
"Enjoy your day, paper boy, because the night is ours."
Ronnie slips away into a light sleep.
When Ronnie comes to the sun is on his face and birds abundant are whistling. Ronnie feels a bit stronger and sits up.
"You okay over there, Ronnie," he hears a voice call and looks to see Mr. Dean in his car, stopped in the middle of the street.
"I'm fine, Mr. Dean," Ronnie replies, "just enjoying the morning."
"Well you better get inside and get your stuff, bus'll be here soon."
"Thanks, Mr. Dean."
Ronnie slowly picks himself up, feeling a lot better after his short nap, and stretches, his muscles ache but no need for real alarm. Suddenly he remembers Billy but when he turns his eyes back to the lawn there is nothing but mussed grass. Then he looks around for the wooden cross but that is missing as well.
…the night is ours…
Ronnie begins to cry. Can he deal with tonight? Or tomorrow? Can he do what he has to do every day? He knows a grownup shouldn't so why should he?
Ronnie heads back inside.
"Tonight," he says again and cries a little more. Then he begins to laugh, almost a crazy laugh. And then he is in his home, tired but still giggling. He has to move fast if he's going to catch the school bus. He has a long day at school. Then he has a long night. And tomorrow he has to get up bright and early to do his paper route. And as Ronald Glead heads upstairs to take his morning shower he worries. He worries Stasha Caldwell might find out he likes her and then he'd have to deal with that.