No feeling in his head, but something made him stop. He listened and heard the squeal of tires again, then the sound of metal folding in on itself.
No other cars, nobody else on the street but him.
He drank from the bottle again and ambled along the sidewalk, remembering more now. Remembering that he liked the taste of Jim Beam and the way it made him feel, even though he couldn't feel it now.
He couldn't feel it, but he knew he needed it, just like he knew he needed the raw meat.
Hunger.
Need.
Demons.
Claire would know how he died.
Claire would tell him.
He was close now.
So close.
He turned at the next corner and knew he was about to go home. He was about to see Claire and Jenny again.
They would accept him for what he was. They wouldn't mind that half his face was gone or that he needed raw meat or that Jim Beam tasted good to him. Those things wouldn't matter when he was home again.
Wouldn't matter at all.
The rain had let up.
The street was thick with silence.
He stopped and stared at the houses on either side. Most were dark. One or two with lights. None of the ones with lights were his.
He recognized a house further down. The front gate swung gently on its hinges in a breeze he hadn't noticed before.
He felt cold. Did that mean he was starting to feel again, and if so, was he going to be all right again?
He approached the gate and turned into the yard.
A white house with a screened porch.
No lights.
He moved slowly along the sidewalk, arms dangling at his sides, the bottle of Jim Beam clutched tightly in his right hand.
He heard more tires squealing, more metal folding in on itself. The noise brought him to his knees at the foot of the steps leading up to the screened porch. The voice of a little girl again, screaming, "Daddy, nooooo."
And another voicea"Claire's voicea"screaming, "Rogerrrrrrr . . ."
His name was Roger.
Roger before he was dead.
Now he was just dead.
Sirens.
He remembered the sound of sirens.
Sirens and flashing lights.
Still alive, with half of his face gone.
People everywhere, and voices that seemed to come from far away.
Couldn't make out the voices at first.
Something about dying.
He was dying.
Dying . . . but he was here now.
Home.
So dark.
Claire and Jenny were sleeping. It was late, and how were they to know he would be home tonight?
How were they to know he would be born again?
Born again, with half his face gone, raw meat smeared on the part of his face that remained, and the rest of the Jim Beam in his hand.
He looked up at the dark screened porch and tried to see beyond the murky blackness. The front door was there, waiting for him. He didn't have a key. He would knock, then Claire would show up at the door, and she would be so happy to see him.
So happy.
And she would call Jenny and they would all hug.
He stood and climbed the stairs. Each time he lifted one of his legs it was an effort. He paused and drank what was left of the Jim Beam, then he pushed the door to the screened porch open and went inside.
He knocked on the front door. It was unlocked and swung open gently.
He entered the house and tried to remember.
A light switch.
He flipped the switch.
Nothing happened. No light.
Dark.
Moonlight through the window gradually helped him adjust.
He could see enough to know there was nothing here. A dark void, just like the grave he'd come out of.
Nothing at all.
No life.
Where was Claire? Where was his daughter?
"Look at us," Claire said.
Her voice had come from behind him. He turned and looked at the screen door of the porch, slightly open, and through it he could see two people he recognized but didn't recognize.
Two people looking at him.
Claire was looking at him sideways because her head was on her shoulder. There was nothing left to support it. Her neck was broken.
Jenny, his beautiful nine-year-old daughter, was on the ground with her legs limp behind her, twisted in a way they shouldn't have been twisted. Her face looked as if it had begun to melt and then hardened again.
She dragged herself forward, bringing her mangled body to rest beside her mother. Neither took her eyes off Roger.
He raised the bottle of Jim Beam and looked at it as he remembered the reason it was so familiar to him.
The reason it was like raw meat.
He remembered the sound of their car crashing into another car, then the sirens and lights and voices.
He remembered fighting with Claire about his friend Jim Beam.
He remembered turning to slap her, taking his eyes off the road, Jenny screaming, "Daddy, nooooo," and Claire screaming, "Rogerrrrrrr," and the sound of metal folding in on itself. . . .
He remembered killing his family.
He remembered forcing them into the car that night, then staggering like a zombie to get behind the wheel where he should never have been, and he remembered turning the key in the ignition and driving off.
He remembered those things.
He remembered them too well.
Now Claire was broken and Jenny was broken and half his face was missing. Half of his face and all of his life.
But wasn't there something good?
Weren't they here now?
Hadn't they been born again?
Tax Cuts.
"Welcome," Peter Wilkes said, extending his hand. His smile was broad and his teeth were immaculately white.
The man, in his early twenties, shook Peter's hand. "We're a little early," he said. "Just eager, I guess."
"That's no problem," Peter said. "Let's get right down to business."
Peter led the couple to his desk, motioned for them to take a seat, then sat down himself, shuffling a few papers as he did. He swiveled in his chair to face his computer monitor. "What are your names?"
"Benny Higgins," the man said. "And this is my wife, Lisa."
"Benny Higgins," Peter repeated, as if the name bore some importance beyond the task at hand.
He began typing. When he finished, he turned and said, "Do you have your W-2 forms with you?"
"Yes, sir," Benny said, sliding a folder across the desk.
Peter opened the folder and studied its contents, making little noises with his tongue against his teeth. "You made a grand total of fifteen thousand dollars last year, huh?" He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Must be terribly tough to survive on such a pittance," he said.
Benny's face flushed. "We manage," he said softly. "I mean, there's the food stamps when we need them, and sometimes I get a little extra work on the side, you know, doing engine repairs and such."
"You won't be needing to claim any of that," Peter said. "I hardly think it will be worth the government's time, don't you agree?"
"You're the expert," Benny replied, not sure how to take the comment.
"Yes, I am at that," Peter replied, more to himself than to the couple.
"Do you think we'll make out all right?" Lisa asked tentatively.
Peter smiled. "My business is tax returns, young lady. By the time I finish with you, you'll be doing better than you can possibly imagine."
Benny relaxed then. Those were exactly the words he wanted to hear. Forget about the man's smug demeanor. If he could get them a return, he could have any kind of attitude he wanted.
Peter went back to work at the computer, typing information from the W-2 form. When he finished, he asked the couple some questions, typed a little more, then said, "Your return will be filed first thing in the morning."
"We appreciate that," Benny said.
"Now, if you'll wait a moment, I'll bring you copies of everything."
Peter left the room. Benny and Lisa began to talk in a whisper, excited at the prospect of getting a little money back on their tax return. They were so engaged in their conversation they didn't see Peter return with an axe.