“Out where?”
He scratched his head for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “The basement.”
Our basement wasn’t really a basement at all in the traditional sense. It was completely unfinished, more of a high-roofed crawl space. The floors and walls were dirt, and there was a cinderblock wall in the center that divided the room in two. It was isolated and close at the same time, and best of all, the only door was on the outside of the house, tucked away on the far side of the back porch. If we got the body down there, it would be a cinch to sneak him out once night fell.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It would work. I really think it would work.”
Andy turned back to the body and stared at it. “Now,” he said. “Getting it down there…”
“Yeah…”
We both sat there, just staring.
Then Andy said, “Sleeping bag.”
Dad had bought him a real heavy-duty one a few years ago, and with some work, we could probably fit the Thief all the way inside. While Andy went and dug it out of his closet, I searched around in the utility room for some thick, yellow rubber gloves. I felt guilty for refusing to touch it, especially after the little bit of bonding we had done the night before. Even so, the thought of putting my skin against it filled me with a revulsion I couldn’t begin to explain.
“You ready for this?” I asked tentatively as I re-entered the bathroom.
“Not really,” he replied.
Together, we stared down at the thing in the tub.
“What about that?” he asked, pointing to the bear.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I want it. I really do. But I don’t even know if it’s mine anymore.”
“Leave it,” he said. “It won’t ever feel the same again.”
It was true. I knew it was, but it felt like losing the single thread that still attached me to Mom. The only thing that was ever truly from her. I imagined what she would want me to do, how she would feel about all this madness. In the end, I decided to let it go, and we went to work.
In minutes, we were both slick with sweat, and more than once, each of us had to step away and cover our mouths to keep from gagging. We threw the window open the rest of the way and turned on the overhead fan, neither of which seemed to help much. It wasn’t the smell of rot or decay that you might imagine. Instead, it was the scent of a slab of ribs left on the grill for too long, burned until the good smell of food turned pungent and sharp, twisting into something beyond foul. There were hints of other things too: dark, moldy smells that baked out of the old clothes, as if they had been buried in black dirt for years. We tried to feed the body into the sleeping bag headfirst, working it down an inch at a time. Once, when Andy tilted the head back, the mouth yawned open and an ancient, dry smell drifted out, like old grass clippings in the sun.
The Thief was lighter than we thought, his skin and body almost crisp to the touch. When he’d told me he never ate or drank, I hadn’t believed it, but now I understood. He really hadn’t been alive, not in the traditional sense, and I imagined that if I pressed hard enough, I could sink my hand into his chest. He reminded me of a mummy, something that had long ago lost whatever made him human, driven forward by some dark energy – hatred maybe.
By the time we had him halfway in, Andy stepped back and said, “I need some air.” He walked straight out of the bathroom and out the back door, standing in the clean, open air with his nose to the sky.
I followed him out, saying, “It could have been worse.”
“Yeah,” he replied, eyes squinting. “I know that’s true. But it doesn’t seem true. The whole thing smells like a nightmare cookout.”
We sat there on the edge of the porch for a moment, just resting, watching the leaves waving on their branches. “I wonder what his name was,” I said finally.
“Who cares?” Andy replied.
“I do. You should too.”
“He tried to kill me. Or change me. Or whatever.”
“Yeah,” I answered. The real Andy was back now, and it finally felt like the two of us could talk.
“You know, I talked to him last night.”
“You did?” he asked, incredulous.
“I did. I think he knew he was dying. Something about how weak he was. It was like he was back in control again.”
Andy kicked at the dirt around his foot. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know. You’re part of the reason he’s in there right now.”
“I didn’t fucking start this,” he spat.
“No. No, you didn’t. But you broke that globe.”
“Oh, come on…”
“No,” I said. “You could have gotten us both killed. We were almost out when you pulled that shit.”
The other Andy, the wild one, would have yelled back, or slapped me, or maybe even worse. But this was Andy Andy.
“I don’t know why I did it,” he said furtively.
“I think I do.”
“Well then,” he said, “tell me.”
“When you were… dreaming. When that voice was talking to you. Did it feel like it was trying to change you?”
“I dunno,” he replied. Then, after a pause, he said, “Yes. I think so. No. I know so.”
“I thought so. He,” I said, pointing behind me to the open window, “used to be like you. The last Thief snuck into his house while he was asleep, took him away from his mom, locked him in a cage, and sucked out everything good.”
“What are you saying?”
I glared at him. “I think you know. You were the next in line. If I hadn’t found you, then in a few weeks or months or even years, it would have been you sneaking into houses.”
I think he already knew this, at least in some way. But hearing it laid out like that, the logic of it was impossible to deny. It floored him, and I could see the other half threatening to burst out and have his way. He closed his eyes, and he seemed to be fighting with himself, like a sick man wrestling with his urge to vomit. The moment faded, and when his eyes opened again, I knew Andy was still in charge.
“There was something else,” I added once he had calmed down.
“What now?”
“Me,” I said plainly. “I mean, when he touched me, there was something he liked. Something… new. I think it was because I’m a girl, but… I’m just not sure.”
“Come on,” he said, standing back up. “We can’t change any of this, not yet anyway. So let’s just get this over with.”
We slipped the rest of the sleeping bag down over him quickly, both of us pretending not to notice when the zipper rubbed the flesh from his arms, peeling it off like a layer of old onion. He was, as I feared, too long to fit, but he was thin enough to fold up at the knees. We shimmied the bag the rest of the way and zipped it closed. Then, with me on the back end and Andy on the front, we lifted him out. It was a slow, messy trip through the house, mainly because of me. I was, without question, the weak link in the project.
“Just drop it,” Andy said halfway down the hall after I struggled to pick our load up for the third time.
“I can do it,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Just drop it,” he barked. “I can just drag it.”
The sleeping bag left lines in the carpet which I followed along and scuffed up with my shoe. I considered getting the vacuum out, but me cleaning house on a sick day would have sent up about a dozen red flags. When Andy had dragged him to the back door, he stopped to catch his breath.
“Go on,” he said between huffs. “Check it out. Make sure there’s nobody out there.”
It was a school day, so the coast was clear from kids, and pretty much all the adults would be at work. Down the clearing of the backyard was a small creek, and just past that was the set of apartments. Only a few of the windows pointed our way, but we knew at least a few parents who worked the night shift. That, along with mailmen, deliveries, and stuff like that, meant there was no way to be truly sure it was clear.