This guy by the name of Bosco called me up.  I didn’t recognize the number but I answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Dave, I know what we have to do.”

“Yeah?  What’s that?”

“We gotta go to the cemetery and dig up Bukowski.”

I was halfway out of bed and not ready for this.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s time, man.  He’s been waiting for somebody to come and get him.”

I reached the bathroom and began to piss.

“He’s been buried for over fifteen years.”

“I know,” he said, “that’s why we’ve got to hurry.”

It was not yet noon and I had nothing to do.

“You realize how this sounds, not to mention I never hear from you.”

“I know man,” he said, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’ve been wrapped up in a number of games and I can’t always get my hands on a telephone.”

“That’s why you buy one.”

“Yeah, but phones these days are too complicated.  You know me, I can’t maintain one of those two-year plans.”

“Go to a 7-Eleven.  They sell pay-as-you-go phones.  No hassle.”

I stretched high and mighty.  After I let out a long groan I said, “At least that way I would know it’s you calling and not a debt collector.”

“Yeah, maybe . . .  I’ve heard of those.”

I walked into the kitchen and started the coffee.

“What kind of games are you talking about?”

“Shit, there’s another call, hold on a sec.”

The line went silent.  The coffee maker began bubbling and croaking.  I grabbed a cup from the cabinet and poured some coffee prematurely.  It dripped and sizzled and some spilled on the counter.

The line clicked over.

“Dave, you still there?”

“Yeah.”

I sipped the coffee and it burned my tongue.

“Oowwww! Goddamnit!”

“What?”

“Nothing.  You were saying . . .”

“Umm, I don’t remember.  What was it that we were talking about?”

I opened the sliding door out onto the porch.  The sun was still on the rise and it hit me in the face.

“I had asked you about these ‘games’ you mentioned.”

I shielded my eyes and sat in the chair.

“Ohh, that’s right.  I’ve been working with this guy latterly.  He’s a computer hacker, a real one.  He finds ways to steal information and sell it on the black market.”

I lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke at the sun.

“What kind of information?”

“It’s mostly credit card information taken from stores at shopping malls, corporate retail stores.  He gets into their networks and filters the transactions where credit cards were used.  Then he takes the numbers and burns them onto blank credit cards and sells them.  He even knows how to access PIN numbers for each card.”

“This sounds familiar,” I said.

“There’s been cases of it across the world for the last few years, all different guys, different groups, but he told me his method is safer . . .  He’s showing me all kinds of shit!  I’ve been helping him here and there.”

I kicked my feet up on the railing.

“You’ve been hacking into networks for him?”

“No, not me.  I couldn’t begin to . . .  I’m just running around for him, making deliveries, picking up the blanks, driving him to places.  He lets me use his car when he’s at home.  Man, you should see this guy at work . . .”

The coffee went down better.  Below me three fat girls were laying out by the pool.  They were all in bikinis.   One of the girls suddenly went to get up and slipped.  She rolled off her cot and fell to the ground.

“Whoops!” I said.  “Careful down there . . .”

“I am,” said Bosco.

“No, not you.  These girls.”

“Yeah?” he said, “Are they hot?”

“Not really,” I said, standing and turning away.

“I’m telling you, what I’m doing now, it beats a real job, at least the one I was doing before.  And, the money is fast, and there’s lots to be made.”

“So, if you’ve been making money for this guy, you could afford a phone.”

“I’ll get to that.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I met the guy a few months ago.  He says he’s been running this deal for over a year now.”

“Just be careful,” I said.  “If the IRS catches on you two are going to have a fuckload of explaining to do.”

“He says it’s no big deal, if anything they slap you with a little jail time.  I’ve been there already, it’s not so bad.  You just gotta make sure you keep your feet straight, your head down, learn the routine.”

“That sounds sexy.”

“Not like that,” he said.

“Sure.”

“You gotta meet this guy,” he said.  “The kid’s a fucking genius.”

“There’s a lot of them out there.”

“He’s only nineteen and has his own car, has an apartment he’s paid a full year in advance, fully furnished, gets laid all the time; Jesus, some of the girls he’s introduced me to . . .  Man.  And he’s into some strange shit that I never even thought about.”

“Experimental stuff?” I said as I walked back into the kitchen.

“He’s an interesting shit to say the least.”

“Yeah?”

“Strange shit, man.”

“Like what?”

“Like, witchcraft.”

I stopped short of pouring another cup of coffee.

“Witchcraft?”

“He reads these books; I don’t even know where you can find them–they look like their straight out of the Brother’s Grim or something.  He practices spells, chants, rituals too, and he . . . he drinks human blood.”

“Does he?”

“He says it’s better than booze, it elevates your mind and it takes you to a whole new level of being.  It’s not quite cannibalism, but he says it increases ability, and  strength, and power . . .”

“You’ve been doing it too then?”

“No,” he said, “not me . . .  I don’t think I could.  I mean, I’ve heard about Wendigo legends, and the evolution of man, what happens when a man devours another man, I don’t really want to get involved with any of that stuff, I got enough problems as it is . . .  But shit, listen, that brings me back to my proposal.  This kid says he can bring the dead back to life.  He wants me to find someone noteworthy.  So, Bukowski, what do you say?”

I opened the leftover pizza from last night and threw a couple slices in the microwave.

“Those rituals, eh?”

“Yeah, crazy right?”

“I don’t know, I have a lot to do today.”

“Your writing can wait.  I mean, think about it.  If this works, if he can bring the dead back, wouldn’t you have questions for Bukowski?”

“I think that can wait.”

“Why?  I’m telling you man, this kid is for real.  He’s done it on animals–a couple cats, his dog–and it fucking worked.  They were fucking walking around and everything–I’ve seen one of them even.  He wants to try it on a human but doesn’t want anything to get back to him.”

“And that’s where his errand boy comes in.”

“So how about it man?”

I drank more coffee and filled a glass with water.

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe.”

“Come on.”

“It’s a six hour drive to Green Hills.”

“That’s why we got to get moving.  I already have all the material we need,” he said.  “Two shovels, a tarp, some rope, and duct tape.  Oh, and masks.”

“What, like, hockey masks?”

“No, like dust masks.  The kind you buy at the hardware store.  Like you said, it’s been over fifteen years . . .”

“Alright, sure.”

“I’m serious man.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

I sat down in front of the computer.

“Let me think about it a little bit.”

“Great,” he said.  “Seriously, man.  I’m going to go.  I have to square a few things and I’ll call you later.”

He hung up.

I sat there for a while.  Then I got up and dressed and walked to library.  I checked out books by Kafka, Hesse, a copy of Rolling Stone magazine, and The Possessed (The Devils) by Dostoyevsky.

Walking back to the apartment Bosco’s voice kept repeating “dig up Bukowski” in my head.  That son of a bitch is always finding those dark places where nobody goes looking . . .  And I’ve never turned him away.  That’s why he always called me first.

But I’ve heard of stranger ideas.  I caught up with a friend from high school a few weeks ago and he spoke of how large fucking creatures, these highly evolved, ten-foot tall beings were coming back to Earth soon; how some believe them to be the physical embodiment of angels, and how they were coming back to fuck our women; how the world as we know it will soon be at an end.  If that’s a possibility, why not consider resurrecting a corpse?

I dropped the books off at home and walked to the liquor store, bought two quarts and a pack of Bugler, got back, opened the first quart and rolled a couple cigarettes.  A few hours passed and my phone rang.  It was a new number, another that I didn’t recognize, but I knew it was Bosco.  I decided to let it go to voicemail.

The next morning I woke to several missed calls, all from different numbers.  Why can’t this bastard just buy a phone? I thought.  I pissed and flushed, drank some water, made the coffee.

I wasn’t sure whether or not he was serious.  But it was a rotten feeling, this whole unearthing of a dead man.  It didn’t matter that much who, just the whole idea of it.  Sure, we all have thoughts about the afterlife, or whatever you want to call it, but if it’s all true, would it even be him if what Bosco said this kid can do?  Would summoning some sort of spell really reach out and yank him from his fifteen and change stint roaming in the spirit world?  Or would it be more like a zombie?  Shit, is that how Romero got the idea?

The phone rang again.  New number.  Okay, you fucking degenerate, you’re either going to tell me you were fucking with me or that I am insane.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr. David Carrier?”

“Yeah,” I said.  Immediately I began thinking to myself I was an idiot for answering the call.  Fucking credit collection agencies.  “Who is this?”

“This is Officer Troller calling from the San Mateo Sheriff’s Department.  How are you doing?”

I stepped out on the porch and sat down with my coffee.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m calling you today because a Mr. Brian Wallace, also known to go as ‘Bosco’ has you down in his records as his next of kin, and we are required to contact you in the case of a disappearance.”

“Disappearance?”

“Have you spoken to Mr. Wallace anytime recently?”

I thought of lying.  Eh, why bother.

“Yeah,” I said, “I talked to him yesterday.”

“What did you two talk about?”

I lit a cigarette.

“All sorts of things.”

“Such as?”

“Working, living, dying, girls we’ve fucked, hockey scores.”

“He didn’t speak of anyone specific, or any events that you could tell me about?”

“I don’t understand,” I said.  “You said he disappeared.”

“We received an anonymous call late last night.  We followed up on the caller’s story which led us to Mr. Wallace’s residence.  There were clear signs of a break-in, and a struggle; I don’t want to alarm you but there was a considerable amount of blood.  We sent a sample out to our lab and it returned to us this morning.  The blood belonged to Mr. Wallace.”

I suppose anything is possible.

“We checked around.  It turns out Mr. Wallace was connected to some sort of sect that practices a kind of ritual . . .  Again, I don’t mean to alarm you Mr. Carrier.”

“That’s alright,” I said.  “Ritual?”

I heard him flipping pages.

“This sect, has been, uh, digging up graves at Saint Mother’s Memorial out on Pine St.  There were four graves that we discovered so far; their bodies were missing . . .  And as of now we have been unable to locate the whereabouts of this, group.”

I walked back into the kitchen for more coffee.

“I’m sorry if this is sudden for you Mr. Carrier.”

“It’s ok.”

“May I ask, how are you related to Mr. Wallace?”

“I’m not,” I said.  “He’s just some guy I know.”

“Oh.  Well, then, that definitely changes . . . our situation here, doesn’t it?  Okay, well Mr. Carrier, for your consideration of this case, if you would be willing to tell me anything you know, that could help us find Mr. Wallace, and, this supposed cult that he was affiliated with?  I mean, anything at all . . .”

“Check the mall,” I said and hung up.

I drank another cup of coffee before going into the bathroom to start the shower.  I took off my shorts and stepped in.  The water was colder than I thought and when it touched my skin my penis retracted.  I adjusted the faucet until it was hot and then I put my head into the water.  What a sick fucking joke.

Author: Lawrence Goodwin

• Short Stack