Alvin

By Paul Daugherty

Do you count yourself amongst the living or do you walk amongst the lost? Lost or dead, it doesn't really matter because the only difference is, you're still breathing air. But what if you didn't know who you were or where you came from? What if you had no friends, no money, nothing to eat and all points led nowhere? What would you do? Where would you go? Who would you turn to? What if something was coming for you that wanted to take you back to that place you can't remember but swore you'd never go back to? Without memories we're just bags of bones, wrapped in flesh and sealed with a million and one flaws. But each of us are uniquely different, one from another, and it's those memories that define who we are, not just what we see in the mirror. What if that something that was coming railed against everything you believe to be true. How would you deal with that? More importantly, what if there was a cure, a fix, a get out of jail free card? Would you take a leap of faith if it was just a phone call away? I did, knowing full well that once I dialed that number there was no turning back. The only way out now was through the belly of a beast no one should ever contemplate. Never say never and never fall prey to complacence. It's what you don't see that will kill you. But how do you kill something that's already dead? You kill them the same way as the ones still breathing air. Again, would you make that call? I guess that all boils down to how important your life is to you. To see additional work published by Paul Daugherty, please click here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682892312

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Copyright © 2016 Paul Daugherty

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2016

ISBN 978-1-68289-230-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-68289-231-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

About the Author

To my wife Debbie who always believed what I always doubted.

This book is for you.

Foreword

Our days are like nails in a coffin. It only takes a prescribed amount to secure the lid, and before you know it, they’re lowering you into the ground. A group of your loved ones and friends stand around dressed in black, fondly remembering the person no one ever knew. Inevitably, someone always says, Well, old so-and-so is up there with Jesus and his Angels now, as if you were reaping your reward in some perpetual paradise just waiting for all of us to join you. But in reality, nothing could be further from the truth.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Life demonstrates this painful lesson every day we breathe air. Unfortunately, we find it easier to cling to a lie rather than embrace the truth. We’ve become adept at rationalizing everything about ourselves because the lie is more pleasing than the insanity that is the truth. We pay for every choice we make. It’s the tie that binds us, a common denominator we all share. When our days run out, all of us ante up. There is a price that must be paid for everything we do.

In the end, we all have to write that check when it comes due. The insane part is we spend all of our days convincing ourselves otherwise. As for me, I remember being here before, and I remember being lowered into the ground, but for the life of me, I can’t recall where they took me. But I can assure you of this: I wasn’t with Jesus and his Angels.

Chapter 1

I don’t remember anything before waking up in the alley with the exception of being naked and cold. Yet when I woke up, I was fully clothed. I’m still having a hard time dealing with the irony of having no recollection of where I came from but am absolutely certain I don’t ever want to go back. In fact, every time I try to flush the memory out, I’m overwhelmed by a horrific sense of grief and despair, so much so that I’ve abandoned the practice altogether.

It’s like my brain’s missing crucial pieces of a puzzle I can’t decipher. I keep trying to move forward, but something’s always waiting to pull me back. It’s almost as if the shadows have a mind of their own because whatever’s hiding in them is always one step ahead of me.

And there’s something else. I remember being here before. I’m overwhelmed by images of faces I should remember. Somehow they draw their strength from this place. I keep trying to touch them, but every time I do, the memories slip that much further away. And I seem to be having a mini obsession with the term real world because things are never the way they appear to be. Strangely, I’m more certain of that than anything.

I’ve decided to call myself Alvin because it’s a name I particularly loathe. Mind you, I haven’t lost sight of the fact that this is a tangible memory! If I can remember a name I hate when all else fails, then I’m not apt to ever forget it. Let’s just say that affords me a measure of comfort I can cling to.

And I refuse to let my guard down anymore because I’ve caught the shadows following me. I hear them whispering, Clumsy . . . Self-absorbed . . . Just like everybody else, but that was all the incentive I needed. It gave me the edge I was looking for. I knew if I waited long enough, I’d catch them when they weren’t looking. Believe me, I’m not crazy. I know shadows aren’t real, but the things that hide in them are.

I met Benny a couple of days after waking up in the alley. I remember walking straight up to him and asking to bum a smoke. I was so desperate I was willing to cross any line, even a self-imposed one. That’s when I came to the realization this is proof positive that memories may fail but addictions always find us, no matter how far we run.

At first, Benny just stood there as if contemplating a polite way to blow me off. Then much to my surprise, he took one last deliberate drag and, with a half-baked, inebriated smirk, flipped the filter around and coughed, saying, Here, dude, finish it. He must have sensed my hesitation, which I’m sure is why he added, Go on. It ain’t what it seems, but it would appear you need it more than me. I remember thinking that was a strange thing to say, but since I was already obsessing about things not being as they appear, how could I refuse?

In the end, that small leap of faith would turn out to be one of the few pluses in my life. You see, Benny rolled his own stogies. They were a mixture of premium-grade tobacco and hand-selected skunk weed rolled into the perfect imitation of a cigarette. As he put it, it was the only viable answer to satisfying two addictions rolled into one convenient smoke.

I did everything in my power to try to convince him that the government would never issue a patent on an illegal substance, but the effort fell on deaf ears. He was all but certain he could find someone to sell on the idea. He’d even come up with a name and marketing strategy. He called them B & H Special Blends.

How ironic, I thought, here I wake up in this bizzarro world, instinctively knowing pot’s illegal but don’t have a clue as to who I am, and the first person I find the gumption to bum a smoke from apparently has as many issues as I do.

As for me, drugs have always been a diversionary tool that helps me cope with my little piece of the rock. I’ve come to realize this is something I instinctively know about myself, not a bona fide memory. I seem to know lots of little things about me personally, just nothing about the world around me.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing like one of Benny’s hand-rolled gems, but these days I’m having borderline fantasies about cigarettes. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is sound like I’m complaining, but I’ve yet to abscond even so much as one unlit virgin smoke. Ironically, that thought has blossomed into yet another obsession, and now all I can do is add it to a growing list of other ironies that seem to dog me as well.

It was Benny who introduced me to Medicine Man. He was this older, self-taught, and self-absorbed sage whose strong suit was a supposed understanding of a person’s hidden needs, but there are two sides to everything. Strip away the smoke and mirrors and what’s left is a consummate middleman with his hands in everything. And you didn’t have to talk to him long to know just how important and connected he was. I guess that’s where self-absorbed comes into play. To this day I’m still not sure if he’s legit or just another one of Benny’s goofy drug buddies. I’m trying to stay objective because I believe in giving a person every benefit of the doubt. It’s been my experience that people peel in layers and are not always as superficial as they appear. It seems to be that way with him as well.

Medicine ran a sullied but lucrative shop dedicated to the esoteric arts. He had potions for everything. Rather than a home, his humble abode resembled a black magic supermarket chocked full of even the rarest of items. His walls were lined with shelves filled with amulets, good luck charms, and books on incantations and spells. He could read the tarot as easily as deciphering the lines on the palms of your hands. And of course, the place came replete with the pungent aroma of incense, numerous oddities stacked in jars, and the quintessential black cat to boot.

Yet despite his numerous qualifications, he couldn’t tell me anything more about my memory lapse than Benny could, but he did offer up an urban legend as a possible solution. He teased my curiosity with a story about the ones he called soul walkers. According to him, they start out with a clean slate like everyone else, born here in what he calls the first world or the physical realm. They grow up, age, and die, but unlike the rest of us, they don’t stay dead. Somehow, they manage to find their way back across the void that separates the world of light from the world of darkness. And the price they pay for this transgression is the knowledge of who they were.

He told me that when a person dies, one of two fates await them. They either pass through the light into eternal bliss or lose their way in the darkness. When the latter happens, it’s the darklings who find them and bind them into servitude until that final day. He calls that day the day of the great judgment. He said he was bound by an oath not to divulge anything more but was quick to offer up a name of someone who could.

All he would add was that walkers essentially cheated death by slipping through the cracks and wandering back into the physical realm. He told me it was a fail-safe built into the system as a means of righting a wrong even though he had no proof of that. But his last consideration seemed more of a warning than food for thought. He said that when a person crosses over, the darkling they served follows them in an attempt to snatch them back across the void and restore the delicate balance between the living and the dead.

The whole time he’s yakking, I’m thinking, You just said it was a fail-safe built into the system in order to right a wrong, and now you’re going to steal the guy’s memories and sic some darkling on his ass to start the injustice all over again? That doesn’t seem quite fair, but what do I know? As far as I’m concerned, the jury’s still out on Medicine and his stories about the things that go bump in the night. I couldn’t help but think he was probably buying hallucinogens from the same guy that was selling them to Benny.

Then just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder, he threw me for one last loop. As I was walking out the door, he began apologizing profusely for not being able to tell me more but explained it was his moral obligation to give me three things he was certain I would need. The first was a piece of metal he squeezed between his fingers like a set of brass knuckles. It had a hole in the center through which a small spike that looked like a nail could be inserted and locked in place. He called it the spear. The second item was a piece of wire about two and a half feet long. It was so thin it took almost no effort to roll it into a ball around his fingers before handing it to me. But it was the third item that was the most interesting of all. It was a key he found in the alley behind his building. Since I was living in an alley before I met Benny and his key was found in an alley, he quite naturally assumed there had to be a correlation between the two. And of course, I’m thinking, You don’t even have a freaking clue what the key unlocks, but you’re absolutely certain I’m going to need it? Just before he closed the door, he scribbled down a number and stuffed it into my shirt pocket.

His name’s Mike Ike. Don’t let the scruffy exterior fool you. He knows his shit. He can set you straight, but don’t call the number unless you’re sure because once you dial up Mike, there’s no turning back, he explained. Keep them close, he instructed, referring to things he gave me. You’re gonna need them.

No turning back from what? And who the hell is Mike Ike? And why is he giving me things I’ll need when he doesn’t have clue as to who I am? How could he possibly know what I need? I can’t tell you how many questions were racing through my mind because essentially I lost track.

If something happens to the paper, he said, referring to Mike’s number, Benny knows where to find him.

Hopefully it won’t come down to that, Benny replied.

As he closed the door and we walked back to the car, I asked Benny why Medicine referred me to the man he called Mike Ike.

Last resort, dude, he told me.

Yeah—I shivered—but the way he talks, it’s a done deal.

Medicine’s always jumping to conclusions. He has a habit of gravitating toward worst-case scenarios.

So why’d you bring me here?

I don’t know. I thought he might be able to help jog your memory. If I thought he was gonna freak you out like that, I’d of stayed home, he cursed, slamming the driver’s side door.

Fair enough. So what now?

Beats me. He shrugged. I guess the only thing we can do now is chill. If need be, we’ll do what has to be done, but until we know what we’re dealing with, we chill.

Made sense, I guess. Either way, I didn’t have much choice but to trust his instincts. Besides, he hadn’t steered me wrong yet, so I guess it wasn’t too big a leap of faith to follow his lead.

Benny might have a plethora of issues that put him at odds with the mainstream, but he’s still good people, so to speak, and I’m most fortunate to have met him. He put me up when others avoided me like the plague and gave me clothes when I had none. He never pressured me and told me I could stay at his place as long as I like. I will admit it ain’t the Taj Mahal, but it sure beats living in an alley.

His apartment lacked most of the amenities people usually took for granted. The AC was always on the fritz, and his illegal cable hookup rarely produced a flawless signal, but I’m not complaining. Between working the graveyard shift on the docks and his under-the-table venture propagating quite nicely in the closet, he didn’t have a problem making ends meet.

In fact, one morning he came home and said they were looking for seasonal help. He took the liberty of running my situation by his boss, who in turn seemed more than willing to take me on under the table. I’m not exactly rolling in dough, but remember that unlit virgin smoke I was so heady about? I’ve got twenty of them stuffed in my shirt pocket now.

Here, check this out, Benny enthusiastically teased, rolling a different mixture. Got a kick to it. He choked out the words as a curl of smoke enveloped him. Now I know what you’re gonna say. I took a puff. Doesn’t quite smell as good, right?

Why do you do that, I hacked, keep tweaking it, I mean?

Because a buzz isn’t just about an addiction, man, it’s an art form, he declared. You want the shit to be just enough to send you to the edge without throwing you over the cliff. You see what I’m saying?

No, I wheezed, but I’m sure if I smoke enough of this, I will. It’s perfect, man.

Bullshit, dude, he refused to hedge. Don’t be so complacent. There’s always room for improvement.

Complacent, I queried.

Ha ha, he crowed obstinately. Granted, I ain’t no bookworm and you won’t find any sheepskins beside my name, but I do know my share of ten-letter words.

Yeah, I replied, I can see that.

Benny was suffering from a jetlag that had left him forever spinning his wheels in the sixties. As far as he was concerned, that’s when music reached its pinnacle of success, and that’s where it lay down and died. He’d even convinced himself that he had somehow been appointed caretaker of the memories of a generation and was now charged with protecting the songs most of us have long forgotten about.

Shit, he yelled as he jumped off the couch and tugged at the connection, I don’t believe this!

HD and digital were some of those amenities most of us take for granted, but not Benny. He was more than happy to spend two hundred bucks on a set of illegal rabbit ears capable of intercepting the signal from the satellite feed rather than incur a monthly bill he could more than afford. Instead, he was content with driving himself crazy over an intermittent subpar picture.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but the only lame excuse he could ever muster for not having cable was the fact it wasn’t available in the sixties. Now I could buy into that sort of purist logic if I could only figure out how stealing the signal from the cable company justified it. If it wasn’t available in the sixties, then why not abstain from it altogether?

What are you doing? I asked.

Listen. He shushed me.

When you think of Claremont Heights, the announcer began, "more often than not the image that comes to mind is the arrest of some prominent drug kingpin or another senseless killing just waiting to become a cold case. But tonight this crime-riddled community has spawned yet another plague. Please be advised that the images you are about to see are quite graphic in nature and may not be appropriate for all viewers.

"Sixteen days ago in the alley behind this row of homes, the first mutilated remains were discovered. Experts differ on what seems to be a growing danger to local pets and wildlife in the area. Some believe the culprit is human while others think it’s the work of an indigenous predator lured in by an easy food source.

Either way, there have been thirty-one incidents since then, all within this ten-block radius. Investigators have concentrated their efforts from Luna Vista Boulevard north and south just below Dixon Street. Police have no comment at this time but want to assure the community they are diligently pursuing every lead. Because some of the mutilated remains appear to have been ingested, police theorize they’re dealing with a wild animal as opposed to something else. When asked what that something else might be, Police Spokesman Dave Holcombe said and I quote, ‘Another possibility might be a very disturbed individual.’ But he immediately set about to minimize residents’ fears by saying, ‘But that’s a very, very remote possibility.’

Geniuses ain’t gotta clue, Benny snickered.

But as of this broadcast, the announcer went on to say, they readily admit they have little to go on. When asked how such an animal could remain unseen in such a congested part of the city, Holcombe was quick to point out the many vacant buildings in the area could be an excellent cover for a number of creatures.

So what am I supposed to get?

Come on, man, Benny coached me through his thought process. Don’t you remember what Medicine said? The animals, dude. He nervously fretted, as he paced around the room.

I’d forgotten about that. That’s when a cold chill slid through my chest and buried itself in my stomach. How could such a gruesome detail slip my mind? And what if it wasn’t the only thing? Maybe I’ve forgotten other things too?

It’s the first sign, dude. That’s what it is.

You’re not buying into any of that crazy bullshit, are you?

Dude, you should be the first one to jump on the bandwagon after all the shit that’s happened to you! He pushed back. You got a better explanation?

Stop it, I stonewalled him. There’s gotta be a more plausible answer.

Are you kidding me? You don’t have clue who you are, and you’re so spooked you won’t go near a cop for fear he’ll arrest you. You keep yapping about shit coming out of the shadows and seeing things that might or might not be there, so I’m just saying—he took a deep breath—keep it in mind. I know you can’t wrap your head around it right now, but I’m telling you, dude, Medicine does have a gift.

That’s not the spin you put on it the other day.

I never said he wasn’t gifted, he swore. I meant he shouldn’t have tried to scare the shit out of you, at least not all at once.

Medicine warned that if I was a walker, the dead would soon find me, and animal mutilations were a sign of their arrival. There were other signs as well, but I’ve already been experiencing most of them, so maybe I should consider a different approach. I guess it never hurts to listen.

Surprisingly, we never fixated on the mutilations after that even though they did strike an obvious chord with Benny. He was adamant about what I should do but hesitant about which one of us should make the call. He clearly had issues with Mike Ike he didn’t want to talk about, and I didn’t want to pressure him even though I was growing more and more uneasy every day.

So finally I asked him point-blank, Should I call Mike Ike?

What’s the rush? He flip-flopped, much to my surprise.Well, you were the one who said I should the other day."

That was the other day, he wheezed, striking a match.

So you’re saying you think everything’s okay now?

I never said that, he refused to admit. I said, why rush? It’s the end of the week. He’s usually with Cheri on the weekends, so what’s it gonna hurt to wait a couple of more days?

It wasn’t what he said as much as the way he said it that made me wonder if his reluctance might have something to do with her. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a woman came between friends.

In all honesty, I was really just pulling his chain. Don’t get me wrong. I need answers, but I know I’m not ready to buy into this whole walker delusion just yet; so I’m certainly not going to be too gong-ho about hiring someone to fix a problem I might not have. I was really just looking for a reaction, and the one I got wasn’t the one I was expecting.

A few nights later, we reported for our usual midnight-to-eight run only to find the place swarming with cops. One of my greatest fears had suddenly materialized. Apparently someone had broken into one of the fresh-food lockers and made off with most, if not all, of the red meat. The general consensus was whoever took the meat must have eaten some because fresh pieces of raw, regurgitated flesh were strewn across the floor. They also came to the conclusion that it had to be an inside job since it was a high-traffic area with cameras in every hall as well as inside the locker.

But the cops had already run an initial scan of the video footage and found nothing unusual. Even more disturbing, the film revealed that there was no one in