Good & Dead #1 Read online

  “Newcomer and junior Michael Wallace forced our undivided attention to the story with his dramatic entrance into the scene.”

  There were more cheers. Randy punched him in the arm.

  “An excellent set and a believable lead performance from senior Tom Hambright make Charlotte Birdwell’s debut as a director a smashing success, and a delightful (but spooky) surprise for a student production.”

  “If you’re in the mood for a late night scare, get thee evil eyes to the 23rd street theatre, where For Evermore will play late throughout the week. Call for dates. Box Office opens at 11. Curtain at midnight,” He finished with a flourish and a bow.

  Charlotte beamed with pride. Michael smiled, too. I helped.

  “Alright, now you’re just a creeper,” Randy said under his breath.

  “Shut up.” Michael blushed.

  Everyone dispersed into lively conversation, and Michael bumped awkwardly from one group to the next before making his way to the snack table. He selected a slice of Hawaiian pizza and a filled a plastic cup with coke, and retreated to a table in the corner. Randy’s voice carried over the crowd, and Michael smiled as he told the story of their fourth grade production of Cinderella, during which Michael puked on the fairy godmother’s dress.

  “You’ve come a long way!” Randy hollered over at him.

  Michael’s mouth was full of pizza, so he gave him a thumbs-up so sarcastic it may as well have been a middle finger. Full of free food, Michael was the first to reach for his coat.

  “Are you leaving already?” Charlotte asked.

  Michael had not seen her standing there. “Uh…yes,” he replied, one arm already in his jacket. I sound like a cyborg whenever I talk to her. “I have a paper to write. It’s due….last Wednesday.”

  “Oh, okay,” she laughed. “Are you sure? This was your first stage experience, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Michael gestured to Randy. “Except for Cinderella.”

  “That doesn’t count.” Charlotte waved his remark away. “You were a kid. As an adult,” she said, “half the fun of acting is the opening night party. Well, when the show is good, anyway. Plus this is your night, in a way. You saved the show.” Even though she barely came up to Michael’s shoulder, her effect on him was beyond intimidating. He stuck his other arm in his jacket and turned down the collar.

  Michael laughed. It was a really painfully weird laugh. Now I sound like a donkey cat. I’m a donkey cat cyborg.

  “I don’t know about that,” he choked out. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did very well,” she said, beaming at him encouragingly. “I think there are some bigger roles in your future.”

  “Oh, dear, I hope not,” he said, wondering how long it had been since he had last used the phrase ‘oh dear’. “I don’t think I’m cut out for acting.” He reached for his cup and took a nervous sip.

  “What? You’re a natural,” said Charlotte, “I thought you did great, especially for a stage virgin.”

  Michael choked on his drink, coke dribbling down his chin. Behind her, Randy shook his head in horror. Michael glared at him and wiped his chin with his sleeve. “I thought you did really well. Wasn’t this your first time directing?”

  “It was,” she replied, “and I thought I would hate it, but it was a lot of fun.”

  “I think my head would explode if I tried to keep track of everything that went into it tonight,” Michael said. He was finding it very hard to stay focused on what she was saying. He thought he was looking at her too much again, but this was the longest conversation they’d ever had and he didn’t know where else to look.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she said. “Just this guy,” she said, pulling Tom over by the arm, “making my life miserable.”

  “I made it a night to remember!” Tom said boldly. Then, mock-afraid, he added, “I’ll do better next time. I promise.”

  “You better,” she said as Tom wandered away through the crowd.

  “Hey, lady!” Randy said in a voice that was brazenly loud even for him, brandishing his empty cup at them. “This party is fun! I haven’t even thought about my midterms once!”

  “You okay, Randy?” Michael asked.

  “I got to tell YOU a secret!” Randy yelled, turning to Michael and leaning in, “Man, I was standing right there listening to you two talk, and…”

  “Randy, that’s not a whisper—“ Michael began, but Randy cut him off.

  “And! It was so funny. You…” he paused to look into his empty cup, “You lost your stage virginity, and she lost her directing virginity. It was SO HARD not to come over here and be like: Hey! You both lost your vinginerty on the same night! That’s a hard word. Virgnininty.”

  “Wouldn’t that have been funny?” he asked, turning to Charlotte.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said calmly, accepting Randy’s friendly embrace. “It would have been very…funny” Charlotte half held him up and reached into his jacket pocket at the same time, taking his keys.

  “Cutest pickpocket ever!” Randy yelled. Several people nearby turned to look at them.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said, the corners of her mouth twitching up in annoyance. “This was meant to be an alcohol-free evening, Randy,” she said, putting Randy’s keys in the pocket of her green cardigan.

  “Really, man,” Randy said to Michael, “I can’t blame you.”

  “Randy, What are you doing?” Michael asked sternly.

  Randy laughed. “You are so….you know what you are? You’re a chicken! Man!” Without warning Randy turned and kissed Charlotte full on the mouth.

  Before Michael knew what was happening he was grabbing his best friend by the back of the collar and dragging him by his armpits across the room. “Are you okay?” he asked Charlotte as he backed away.

  Charlotte wiped Randy slobber off her face. “I’m fine,” she said, clearly lying. The other girls swarmed in to console her. They glared at Michael and at Randy, who was laughing stupidly, still gripping his red cup.

  Michael tried to get out of there as quickly as he could, but Randy was quite heavy, and he kept grabbing chairs and dragging them along. “Stop it, you jerk!” Michael yelled, trying to keep his grip on his fat friend. Everyone was staring at them.

  Randy didn’t stop laughing until the back door of the theater slammed shut behind them. Michael deposited him on the curb and walked toward the street to hail a cab.

  “What is your problem?” Michael asked angrily.

  “Why didn’t you punch me?” Randy asked from the curb.

  “What? Why would I—“ Michael began. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not drunk are you?”

  “Of course not,” Randy said, getting on his feet, “You were supposed to punch me!”

  “You’re crazy!” Michael sputtered, walking back toward the building. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

  “You could have been the hero, man.” Randy walked past Michael to the street and caught the attention of a passing cab. “But instead you’re out here with me. I’d say you’re the crazy one.”

  “I can’t believe you’re mad because I didn’t punch you!” Michael yelled, meeting Randy at the curb.

  Randy paused before closing the cab door in Michael’s face. “Goodnight, nerd.”

  Michael turned back toward the tiny parking lot, fuming.

  He is out of his mind, Michael thought, kicking a soda can into the narrow alley next to the theatre. After a couple minutes he realized he was going to have to go back inside to get his bag. Resigning himself to ridicule, he walked to the door, took a deep breath, and went inside.

  Everyone looked at him when he came in. Michael felt his face grow hot. He was sure even his ears were turning red. He spotted his bag on a chair on the far end of the room and made a beeline for it. He was almost back to the door, jacket on and bag over his shoulder, when Charlotte spotted him.

  “Michael!” she called, making her way toward him through the party.


  Can I pretend I didn’t hear her? Michael seriously considered running for the door—it was certainly what he wanted to do—but she was already closing in.

  “Michael! Why are you—” she began.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “I didn’t—”

  “Why are you sorry?” she asked. “What did you do wrong?”

  Michael stared at her. His face was completely blank. He had no idea what to say. Finally, he smiled at himself. “I don’t know,” he said, laughing nervously.

  Charlotte smiled. “You look so embarrassed! I came over here to thank you. What did you think I was going to do?”

  “Yell at me,” he said almost inaudibly.

  Charlotte laughed out loud. Several people turned to look at them. “You’re a good guy, Michael.” She started to blush, and then she gave him a hug. “Thank you,” she said, stepping back before Michael realized he should probably hug her back.

  “Good luck with your paper,” she said as she returned to her friends.

  Michael stood there for several seconds, looking at his bag. Then he found the door.

  The alley was still deserted. Randy was right. I should have punched him. He was smiling from ear to ear as he walked toward the street.

  A strange sound from behind made him jump.

  Michael turned and looked into the gap between buildings. There was barely enough space for a small car to pass through, and it was strewn with garbage and discarded pieces of past sets that leaned against the walls. There wasn’t much light. He strained to see what had made the sound, but all he saw was two large dumpsters and a couple of drifts of filthy New York snow. He turned to go.

  There it was again. It was like a scratching…then a whimpering sound. Michael’s stomach churned and he spun around and looked again.

  Something moved between the two dumpsters. He peered into the alley, edging closer.

  With his eyes focused ahead, his foot caught on something and he fell, landing hard on his forearms. Bits of ice and dirty snow stuck to his jacket. He rolled onto his side to see what had tripped him.

  It was a shiny green high-heeled shoe.

  “Ma’am?” he asked urgently as he got to his feet.

  There was no answer. Feeling like he was not ready to see the rest of what might be behind the dumpster, he thought of running back into the theatre for help. She might be hurt. He pressed on, feeling around in his pockets for his phone. He rounded a trash pile and saw something that made is stomach lurch.

  There was a small stream of dark liquid running out from between the dumpsters.

  Michael’s heart beat wildly. He felt entirely unprepared for what he was about to see.

  I’ll go back for help, he thought numbly, already half turning.

  An enormous shadowed form rose from between the dumpsters. He could feel eyes staring right into his. Michael may as well have been made of stone. In three huge strides the figure closed the distance between them.

  But I was just safe inside, he thought stupidly. I was just there. “Help!” he whispered.

  The figure seemed too tall to be human, and too wide to be real. Michael watched in slow motion as an enormous fist was raised. And then he was flying across the alley, pain racing through every inch of him. He hit the old brick building with enough force to drive the breath from his body. Light burst across his vision, for a moment it seemed the alley was full of fireworks. He landed face down on the filthy street.

  Strong hands lifted him off the wet pavement. The world was spinning in grays and blacks. He saw a second man kneeling near the dumpsters, the dim light shining on his leather jacket.

  Then he saw her.

  Stark white. Body twisted. Eyes open and blank. Hair cascading over the trash, streaked with red. There were two horrible gashes cut into her neck, from which blood still seeped out in weak gushes.

  “Hey!” The man in the jacket stood and gestured back down the alley. Michael thought he heard the theatre door open and shut, and voices on the street.

  Michael stared up into the broad face of the man who held him a foot off the pavement. His dull eyes swung in and out of focus. A nasty smirk played across his face, and he threw Michael between the dumpsters. There was nothing Michael could have done. He landed horribly on top of her still-warm body.

  Michael screamed, scrambling to get away from the corpse. A searing pain stabbed his ribs and ran all the way down to his toes.

  “Shut him up!”

  The other man leaned over him, a mass of brown curls silhouetted in the dim light. “He’s scared out of his mind.” He looked at Michael in disgust, his dark eyes taunting. The man’s mouth was crimson with blood. It was splashed across his cheeks and dripped from his strong chin. A red drop fell from the tip of his nose and splashed on Michael’s chest. Michael’s stomach lurched. Fear trapped his voice in his throat.

  “Yeah, he’s a real winner.” The larger of the two looked Michael over and smirked. He was Italian, with broad shoulders and a thick body. He wore a gray T-shirt and jeans. He looked like a normal guy and the devil himself at the same time. He picked up a two-by-four from on top of the dumpster and raised it above his head. Michael never had a chance of escaping.

  3

  Michael was having a dream. It was a hazy wash of images, all gray and black and spinning fast. He heard the sounds of the city at night like they were on the other side of some vast wall. There were lights and moving doorways and a feeling of floating. Someone had just been hovering over him. He felt cold hands on his chest. Everything turned red….

  The first thing he was aware of next was pain. Intense, pulsing pain in his temples. Terrible images flashed lightning-quick through his mind.

  It was just a dream, he told himself, trying to still his breath. God, my head is going to explode. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to dull the searing pain. He shivered.

  Why am I half naked? He lay there on his bed in only his Spiderman boxer briefs, his pale, scrawny body frigid and aching. He struggled to remember undressing. Then a much more troubling question came to mind. How did I get home?

  Michael stood and looked around his apartment, trying to figure out what had happened. He remembered lights. Fireworks?

  He threw a blanket around his shoulders and walked numbly to the open window. He stared at the latch. He had never been able to get it to budge, yet there it was, unlocked. Little flakes of rust peppered the worn hardwood below the window. He shut the window. He stood there staring at the floor as if the displaced rust would animate and tell him how it had gotten there. Glancing about the room he saw nothing had been stolen. What in the world…?

  He remembered the show. Tom’s forgotten line…Charlotte’s smile…Randy in the alley…then….

  Nothing.

  He rubbed his eyes again and shuffled to the bathroom. For how he was feeling, he was sure he must have been knocked unconscious. But, looking in the mirror, there was no injury. Just his normal, Irish-white skin and lopsided mop of brown curls. He felt slow and stupid. He just stared at his eyes in the mirror.

  Eyes.

  A horrible flood of memories rushed past.

  There had been a dead woman. He had seen her. He remembered her ashen face, eyes reflecting the dim, flickering street light but taking nothing in. No. It didn’t really happen.

  The alarm by his bed buzzed, and each blaring, ugly noise seemed to be echoing through every inch of his body. Michael walked stiffly toward the nightstand. He flipped the button to off. The pain in his head eased greatly. It’s just a headache.

  It was just a dream, he told himself sternly.

  Then he saw the time.

  9:42 a.m.

  "Ah, crap!"

  Michael frantically rummaged through his many piles of semi-dirty and very dirty clothes, looking for jeans that smelled sanitary. He found a pair under the bed and threw them on. There was a gray Beatles t-shirt on the nightstand and one gray and red wool sock halfway to the bathroom. He spotted a black dress
sock near his shoes by the door. Jacket. Scarf. Keys. He slammed the door behind him and raced down the hall for the stairs.

  "Ah...bag!" he shouted, getting his keys back out of his pocket and rushing through the door again. Where is it, where is it? His cell phone rang from somewhere in the bathroom. It was in the bag hanging on the doorknob. He fished it out and threw the bag over his shoulder.

  "Hello?" he yelled.

  "You are so dead," said Randy.

  "I know! I know! I slept in. I'm leaving right now. Has it started yet?" Michael asked in a panic, racing down the stairs.

  "No, but you've only got a few minutes. He already asked me where you are. I don't think he'll let you in late. You better run."

  "I'll be there as fast as I can," Michael said, taking the front steps three at a time and running out onto the street. He swallowed his nausea at the thought of having to tell his mother he took a zero on the midterm and tried too hard to stop thinking of what he could barely remember.

  Michael rounded the corner to the mathematics hall at exactly 10 a.m., chest heaving from his sprint through the streets.

  “Hey, Michael,” said Elvis, the school’s head janitor. He was standing in the way, calmly ringing water out of a mop. “You kids get so worked up when the tests come around…third hall of vomit this week.”

  “Sorry,” Michael said, rushing past, nearly out of breath.

  The freshly mopped floor glistened in the mid-morning light streaming in through the tall windows that ran the length of the hall, and the brilliant orange “Caution: Wet Floor” signs gleamed like torches along the black and white tile.

  Dr. Rogers stood at the end of the long hall, in the doorway to the last classroom, with a hand on the handle of his classroom door and his eyes on his watch.

  “Dr. Rogers!” Michael called, one of his hands pressed against his chest, attempting to ease the wheezing sound his lungs made every time he exhaled.

  The old man looked up, his face a grumpy scowl.

  “Mr. Wallace,” he said, looking back down at his watch, “You have 29 seconds before I close this door.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said as he tried to step with grace down the wet hall. His nearly tread-less sneakers were useless. He wobbled horribly with every step, and grabbed the nearest window sill for support.