Dead Run

Ethan Fleisher

12:18pm

Dear Mr. Turner Wilds,

It’s 12:18 and bright.

You have 9 hours to dump this drag

Or you’ll be dead by night.

I’ve given you a warning

Though I’m not so sure you’ll heed

So I’ve called three small numbers

Now the pigs have come to feed

7100, 34th street NE

A cool breeze swept through my hair, and nearly sent the letter sailing. I gripped it tighter, ripping the fragile corners. I cursed quietly to myself and read it again.

The words didn’t change. And the black garbage bag by my feet didn’t change either.

I was standing at the end of a lone, dirt and gravel driveway ten miles out of town, with no one within half that distance. The mailbox was open, and below it was a half full black garbage bag tied securely. A Hallmark sympathy card had been attached, the cover reading, “sorry for your loss,” with the inside inscription being the above…. Poem.

It was a Monday afternoon, cool, bright, a typical beauty of a Minnesota day. I was supposed to be fishing. That’s what I had told my roommate, anyway. In reality I was simply bumming around on this property a friend and I had stumbled upon years back, since it seemed it had been uninhabited for years. We’d also found fireworks in the garage after breaking in through the window. We’d visited that house many, many times.

However, what frightened me, was that mail had came to this address. It had also came at a very strange hour. Mail usually came at least two thirty, never noon.

The most frightening thing, however, was that I did not own, or even reside here, and the letter had specifically addressed Mr. Turner Wilds.

My name is Wilds. Turner Wilds.

A blue jay somewhere above my head chirped noisily, than let out it’s rambunctious shrieks. Swallows dove and ascended at the peak of the old, decrepit barn in an aeronautical display of excellence. The constant buzz of the crickets and locusts gave the air an electric quality.

A long, hard shiver reeked havoc on my spine.

I turned slowly from the letter, and looked towards the loft of the barn. It was dark, empty, abandon.

The vehicle that had dropped off the bag and the letter was a dark van with tinted windows. I hadn’t seen a driver, since the door had just opened up and dropped its contents to the ground.

I’d watched it pull away, not thinking to look for a license plate. I hadn’t thought at all. I’d just watched (from the door of the garage) as it pulled up, threw out the bag, and left.

Now I regretted it.

I slowly pivoted on my heel, never taking my eyes off the card, like somehow it could tell me something that I wasn’t yet aware of. Of course, nothing new popped into my skull.

Slowly, the wheels began to turn in my mind. You have 9 hours to dump this drag or you’ll be dead by night. Nine hours from now would be nine eighteen. If this card were real, which I was almost sure it wasn’t, I’d be dead shortly after if I didn’t do as I was told.

I looked back at the bag. It was tied securely, not even offering a glimpse of what was inside. So I had to dump that bag, or as the letter stated, a drag at nine eighteen tonight. The address given, 7100, 34th street North east, must be the location to make the dump.

Or it could be a place to get completely embarrassed by my buddies for believing in their crap.

“Dumb bastards,” I muttered to myself, stuffing the card into my pocket.

I took a step back to the bag, and stared at the shape it had taken on impact, hoping to get an idea of what it was without actually opening it. If my friends were behind this, (though come to think of it, none of them had a van with tinted windows that I know of) it could be filled with anything from someone’s garbage to a bag full of kitty litter. I preferred to stay away from either scenario.

It was ballooned at the bottom, and appeared to be lumpy, with several round objects that all were nearly the same size. Some were inverted, and the bag was pulled taught across the hollow rim. Yes, it was either bowls or pottery. I was slightly disappointed that they couldn’t have come up with something more creative. Dumping old dishware in a bag isn’t exactly…. Thrilling.

I rolled my eyes, and ripped open the knot.

Immediately, a pungent odor nauseated me. I coughed, and turned away without getting a sure glimpse of what was inside. The smell was familiar. I was a hunter, and I’d smelled blood before, the fresh, cloying smell of a skinned animal.

This was blood. And lots of it.

My heart began racing, and my stomach twisted into a knot. Slowly, I leaned back over the bag and pulled open the tear.

“Dear God.”

The bag was filled with scalps.

There were scalps of all different sizes, torn, or sawed, from the rest of the head. There must have been a dozen, some with black hair, blond hair, brown- all tossed into the garbage bag. Thick globs of blood and chips of bone were stuck to the sides, shimmering in the sunlight.

I turned and vomited.

12:21pm

I puked for a minute straight.

When I was finished retching, I turned back to the bag and remember the last stanza of the poem: I’ve given you a warning, though I’m not so sure you’ll heed- so I’ve called three small numbers, now the pigs have come to feed.

What did that mean?

I figured he meant exactly what had just happened: I didn’t believe him, so he…. So he called three numbers? Now the pigs have come to feed?

I watched a fat bumble bee fly into the opening of the bag, and another wave of nausea hit me. This time I fought it down, and turned away.

Now the pigs have come to feed….

Then, like the smell of blood had hit me a minute ago, the realization of what those words meant hit me now. He’d called the police.

On himself? On someone else? On me?

He had. He’d called the police on me. But… for what? What had I done? Did the guy in the van frame me somehow?

No. It was impossible. There was no way this guy could frame me for the… contents in that bag… or had I just framed myself? I’d touched the bag with my bare hands… If this guy was smart, he would have used gloves.

And the card. My fingerprints were all over the card.

I had let myself become a suspect.

…but how the hell had no one ever heard of a dozen murders? If anyone here had been killed, the public would be alarmed immediately. This was suburbia. Oak River. When someone is killed, everyone knows.

I was in deep shit.

I was also alone. The realization that I was ALONE brought the terror in pulsing through my veins to a steady rush.

I pulled out my cell phone and called the only person I’d ever want to put through the hell of this situation. The only person I trusted to stay calm.

“Hello?”

“Hey Marshall,” I said. I was amazed he still had the same cell number. Marshall Tethers had been my best friend since elementary school.

“Hey, Wilds,” he said in a chipper tone. “What’s up?”

“You need to come down to the old farmhouse on Rattlesnake road. Now.”

“Why? I’m at work.”

“Not anymore. Marshall… we’re in deep, deep shit here buddy. You need to get out of there now, and meet me here. As fast you can.”

“Why?”

“Go. Now.”

I hung up.

This was the first time I’d spoke to Marshall in two years.

12:24pm

I started my car.

It was a black Chevrolet Camaro my grandpa left me when he died. It was a ’67 and in mint condition. A 427 engine with dual over head cams got me where I needed to go. Power steering had been added to the package later, as well as some new interior.

It could get me to that address by nine o’clock, no problem, if Marshall would hurry the hell up.

Of course, it had only been three minutes since I’d called him.

With the car idling at the end of the driveway, I lit up. It was a filthy habit, but one I figured I needed every once in awhile.I inhaled the nicotine carefully, pushing it down my lungs and through my veins, over my aching nerves.

Slowly, I began thinking more clearly.

This sick bastard wanted me to dump these scalps at 7100 34th street Northeast before nine o’clock. If I didn’t, he would kill me. I had no doubt that whoever the hell this guy was, he would kill me, since, apparently, he had no problem killing a dozen others just to screw with me.

…or was I just an escape route?

Possibly, he’d killed them for other irrelevant reasons and found the best way to dispose of any evidence was to frame me-

But why the game? No. I wasn’t just an escape route. I was his plaything. I had become a wondrous little mouse and he was the cat.

I swore to myself, and found that I was growing shaky again. Wilds, buck up. You can handle this… you’re a big boy. You’ve got an apartment, a car, a job, and no family to worry about if you die…

If you die. Great thinking, buddy boy.

I took another long drag on the Marlboro, and closed my eyes.

7100 is near. It’s probably on some back road just outside of Oak River. Perhaps it’s a landing and it really is in Oak River, and I’m supposed to dump the scalps there…. Would a bag full of scalps float?

I took another puff. Let the blue smoke crawl upwards, snaking away like a parasite invades a host. Choking the air, and strangling the purity. It was sin itself.

Sometimes a little sin is all you need.

I pulled the card from my pocket, and looked at the sappy, gold embroidered cover. Get well soon. God, this guy is sick. I opened it up, and re-read the clever little poem.

I’ve always enjoyed poetry, the way the words flow together, the way it paints an entire masterpiece in your head with only words.

Now I hate it.

I glanced down at my watch. It was an expensive Jockey, also a gift from my grandpa. It was silver with gold hands. I had no idea what karat it was, but in all honesty none of that meant anything to me. My grandpa had given it to me out of love, and that was enough.

A minute had passed.

God, nine hours never seemed so short.