After Death

Death.

Who has not considered their own mortality and wondered at what awaits, once our frail human shell expires? What occurs after the heart stops beating, after the last breath is drawn, after life as we know it terminates?

Humans have asked this grand existential question ever since we comprehended life is finite. In fact, I would argue there is no greater mystery than that which occurs after we die. What exactly is the destination of our journey?

Essentially, we can start by agreeing there are two possibilities: In the broadest sense of definition, either death is final or it’s not. If it’s final, then life is ultimately for nothing, each of us a grain of salt washed away into the ocean of nothingness. If it’s not final . . . well, pull up a seat. It’s going to be a long night.

Does our spirit remain on Earth while the mortal body rots? Do remnants of our soul transcend to a celestial Heaven or sink to Hell’s torment? Are we offered choices in an individualized afterlife? Can we die again in the hereafter? Are we given the opportunity to reincarnate and perpetually maintain the life cycle? Can we find ways to cheat death and maintain a semblance of living even after the mortician declares ‘D.O.A.’? Is life merely a cosmic joke, or is it an experiment for something greater?

Throughout the tomes of history, countless philosophies offering countless solutions have been suggested, though most are riddled with outlooks entirely contradictory to each other. This poses a baffling dilemma: The desire to know resides in us all but, simply put, nobody has the answers. After awhile, it becomes mere intellectual exercise. Consider the small wrapped package under your Christmas tree. You can look at, shake it, take a guess, and convince yourself you know what’s inside. But you can’t really be certain until that day arrives to open the package and behold its mysteries.

For example, the Christian faith believes Jesus Christ rose from the dead, proving that the soul is not destroyed after death. Further, that soul will be judged by God according to conduct while alive and blessed or punished accordingly. Over two billion people accept this core doctrine. However, the Buddhist faith states there is no supreme ruler. A being’s essence will be born over and over through the process of reincarnation until, through self-enlightenment, all desires are released and the attainment of nirvana, or freedom from suffering, is attained. Though not quite as numerically prevalent, Buddhism still counts an impressive half billion followers.

And so we have two of the largest and most fervently believed religions in the world that are completely and diametrically opposed as to what occurs after death. Personal faith aside, trying to logically prove one is right and the other wrong is a troublesome argument.

And those are just two systems of belief. It’s estimated there have been over 75,000 additional religions communicated throughout the history of the world that include unique opinions of continuance after death. Or, look at it another way: Over 102 billion people have lived on Earth. Like personalities, everyone’s idea of god or religion is different. What you and I may consider aberrant is the social norm for someone else.

Most of us are familiar with certain alternative views of after-death possibilities. For instance, as children we learned the ancient Greeks believed that those traveling to Hades must be ferried across the river Styx by Charon at the cost of a coin. But were you aware that the Jivaro Indians shrink the heads of their enemies so that the souls are trapped and cannot escape to take revenge? The Karni Mata Temple in India is overrun with tens of thousands of rats, each believed to be the reincarnation of a dead human who is waiting to be reborn into a higher life form. Some forms of orthodox Christianity believe bodies which defy normal decomposition are symbols of divinity. The Yaohnanen tribe in Vanuatu swears Prince Philip, consort to Queen Elizabeth II, to be a god and worships him accordingly. Some traditional denominations of Judaism transfer their sins into a chicken and then slaughter it for the pre-Yom Kippur feast. Mormonism allows the dead to be baptized through the proxy of living members, regardless of the deceased’s own belief. Shamanism allows practitioners to astral project, control the weather, and gain control over spirits. The Aghori, a breakaway sect of Hinduism, believes that to abandon anything is sacrilege and thus eat the corpse of the deceased.

Again, what this all means is (and not to put too fine a point on it) what occurs after we leave this mortal form will never be known with absolute certainty until our time comes. Until then, it’s okay for each person to reach their own conclusion—formulate their own belief—according to science, religion, or perhaps dark, personal experimentation.

The reason I’m playing up this rumination is because most of us simply believe in whatever religion and great-beyond was taught us by our parents. We question little our inherited beliefs. For most, once a matter of faith is formulated, it becomes an unshakable matter. Personally, I’m one of these. I’m a religious man, but I also realize there is no certainty in what awaits. So I defer again to the theme of this message: Just keep an open mind.

Which leads us to the enclosed thirty-four authors.

The point of this anthology is not to deliver affirmations, but to offer suggestions. Anything is possible when the mysteries of the afterlife are concerned, and have I got a gold-standard collection of speculations to share with you. Do other life forms besides humans experience an after-death phenomenon? Can curses transcend the life-death boundary? Are there different hereafters to accommodate multiple religions? Do we all share a common singularity?

Included within this book are answers to these queries alongside tales and suppositions relating from traditional ghosts to the afterlife of e-coli. Explore the afterworld of an Australian cowboy. Discover what the white light really means to the recently departed. Consider the impact of modern, or future, technology on the dead. Follow the karmic path of reincarnation. Travel from the cruelest levels of Hell’s torments to the celestial realms of eternal paradise.

These authors wonder, like you and I, what ultimately awaits after we die. Whether their words seem brilliant, absurd, cruel, or impossible, just remember that anything is possible.

Remember, too, we’ll all learn the truth soon enough.

—Eric J. Guignard

Chino Hills, California

December 7, 2012

Memento Mori

Though not the only, Andrew S. Williams was the first author I accepted into this book who also contributed to my first anthology, Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations. As then, I read his newest story and knew immediately he had gifted me a brilliant gem. Someone to Remember explores one of the truest fears I can imagine after death: beyond merely the loss of loved ones is the loss of ever having known those loved ones. A haunting emptiness, if any form of consciousness exists at all, in the back of your thoughts wondering at what is missing, what once was. Or are we completely stripped down—purged—on our way to the lands beyond death? If there is any way to retain the memory of what it is that we lived for, this author may have found it . . .

Every day Charon asks me, in that thick accent of his, if I’m going to board the ferry. And today, like every day, I watch the hordes of people stream soundlessly onto the boat, and I tell him, No, my friend. Not today.

Still waiting, then, he says. For your girl.

I smile. Of course.

The Ferryman leans against the pier and takes a long drag on his cigarette. It glows red, lighting up the lines of his face. Under his curly black bangs lie a pair of sharp blue eyes that look out of place on his grizzled visage. One day everyone boards the boat, he says. It’ll be easier if you get it over with. What’s the point in staying here and pining?

I look up at him. I’m a tall man, but Charon towers over me by a head. How many times have you asked me that now?

He shrugs. Can’t rightly say. I ain’t one to keep track of the days.

When the ferry is full, a whistle blows a long, mournful note and the gates on the boat swing shut. There’s still plenty of folks waiting to board, but they’ll have to wait for the next run. It’s an injustice they suffer without complaint.

Charon drops the cigarette, and stubs it out under the heel of his boot. Days, weeks, years—don’t mean nothing to me. Just gotta make sure the ferry leaves on time. He turns to leave.

Do you ever miss the rowboat? I ask him.

What?

The rowboat. I gesture to the mighty gray ferry, sitting tall in the black waters of the Lethe. It’s true, isn’t it? That you used to row the dead across the river?

The Ferryman chuckles. Aye, it’s true. And hells no, I don’t miss it. Diesel power is the best thing to come to the underworld since fire. Then he cocks his head at me. Tell you what. You ever decide to take the ride, you won’t have to stand with the horde. I’ll let you up in the wheelhouse. He turns away. It’s the only thing I miss from the rowboat days.

What’s that? I ask.

I watch his broad back as he walks toward the boat. Company.

I watch as the Ferry disappears into the gloom. It reminds me a lot of the boats I used to pilot when I was alive—perhaps that’s why I’ve befriended Charon. He’d blend right in with the folks I used to work with. What would the Ferryman of the Dead say if he knew I thought of him as a tangible link to the living? There are so few things here that remind me of life, I’ll take what I can.

Around me mill the ranks of the dead, driven to the water’s edge by an innate desire to cross the river. I can feel it, too, the yearning to cross to the far side, to continue the journey, to escape this strange place that is little more than a way-station along the path of souls. People are not meant to stay on this side of the bank. It’s a barren place, wreathed in a gray eternal twilight, so dim that I can’t even see a hint of the far bank. Or perhaps the river is just that wide.

Most of the dead stand waiting for the ferry’s return. Others wander about, confused. There are men and women, old and young. None of them speak. I wander through the crowd, as I always do, looking for a familiar face—a face with a pert nose and green eyes, framed by long auburn hair. Would she have aged by now? Would her hair be speckled with gray, would lines crease her perfect cheeks? I don’t know. Charon is not the only one who cannot track the years in this place. But I will recognize her when I see her.

Someone grips my arm, and I stumble. I turn and stare into the wild eyes of a young man, a man who was perhaps a few years younger than me when he died. Where are we? he asks me, shouting, his voice echoing loud in the oppressive silence of this place. Why won’t anybody speak to me?

I’ve already stumbled and stared at him; it’s too late to pretend I’m just one of the crowd. I yank my arm away. Quiet down, you idiot. You want to get thrown into the river?

His eyes widen. You talk! You understand me! Please, his grip tightens, tell me what’s going on!

I grimace and look around. Along the path, not far away, is a small rundown building, and in the window I see the orange of a flickering neon sign: OPEN. Lethe’s tavern is always open.

I was walking with my daughter, the man says, when a car jumped the sidewalk, and next thing I know I’m here! Where is she? Where am I? Folks are glancing this way now—we need to get away from the riverbank. Please, he grasps at me, his voice growing even shriller. I just want to go home!

I ball up a fist and punch him in the face, and he falls to the ground. I brush off and straighten my tattered shirt, then kneel next to the man.

You talk here, I tell him, you’ll draw attention. Do it enough and you’ll find yourself thrown into the river. Keep screaming at me, I’ll throw you in myself. I glance up at the placid black waters. A few people wade along the shore, but no one tries to swim.

Look. If your daughter isn’t here, then she’s still alive. I hold out my hand. Get up. What’s your name?

He takes my hand, and furrows his brow. "Alex. I think. Or was that her name? Shit. I pull him up, and he stumbles to his feet. He touches his lip where I punched him, but there’s no blood, of course. Why’d you hit me?"

You were making a fuss, I say. It’s dangerous to disturb the dead. Come on. Let’s get out of this crowd.

Half-dragging the man, I push him through the door and up to the decaying wooden bar. Low murmured voices fill the room—this is the only place I ever hear voices, other than Charon’s. Clustered around the table, people hunch over their drinks, and behind the bar, elbows resting on the countertop, the second most beautiful woman I’ve ever met raises an eyebrow.

I let go of the man as he bumps into the bar. He grips it with his hands, supporting himself on unsteady legs.

The bartender smiles, her perfect teeth framed by the curve of red lips, and pours two mugs of the House Special. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?

Alex, I say, this is Lethe. Lethe, Alex.

The man clambers onto a rickety barstool and looks up. Jesus Christ, he whispers, you’re beautiful.

She laughs. I knew that man, but he and I did not get along. Drink, she places a mug in front of him, and you will know the bliss of the gods. She places the other mug in front of me. And you, my friend. Are you at last going to partake?

Do I ever?

She smiles at me, and for a moment I feel like I could forget why I’m here. You bring me so many customers, yet you never drink yourself, Lethe says. She gestures to Alex, and winks at him. This man, I can tell, appreciates the finer things in death. Go on.

Alex sips from his cup uncertainly, and then she turns to me. This fellow misses his daughter. You miss your Beloved. What makes him so different from you, that you would have him drink while you do not? Why shall he forget his life, and pass without pain or grief into the lands beyond, while you stay here and hold onto the misery of what is lost?

I grit my teeth and push my mug away. Because I made a promise.

There is a mocking edge to Lethe’s smile, but she is no less beautiful for that. "What promise? Until death do you part? She gestured to the room, then leaned in close. I do not know if you have noticed, but death has happened, and it has parted you."

No! I slam my fist down on the table and immediately regret it. What little conversation there was vanishes, and the bar is as quiet as outside. A shiver goes up my spine, and I lean in close to Lethe’s ear. She will come here one day, and we will ride the ferry together. But until then, I will not drink.

Lethe pushes the mug closer to me, and stares me in the eye. You gain nothing by staying here. Even if your Beloved joins you, you will still not be able to cross into the afterlife. There is no smile on her face any more, only a fierce determination. None who remember life can set foot on the far bank of my river.

On the far bank, I tell her, is Hell.

No, she whispers through gritted teeth. Hell is right here, spending eternity yearning for a life and a Beloved you will never see again. You want to know eternal bliss? She lifts my cup. Then drink. Or bathe in my river. Either will cleanse your soul.

I look around. The bar, like the land outside, is dim and bare. No color, except for the flickering sign in the window, which draws in the few of us who remember. The recently dead come here for comfort, for solace, for answers, and find all but the last.

There is a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see my companion smiling, all hints of his former depression vanished. He raises his half-empty cup to me. Care for a toast, stranger?

Lethe holds out my mug. Take it. Her eyes gleam with an energy I’ve never seen. She’s never been this insistent; I guess she’s finally tired of my stalling.

I take the cup from her, and stare at the water inside for a long moment. A toast, then. To Alex. I raise my mug to his with a wooden click.

Who’s Alex? he asks.

Someone to remember. I raise my mug to my lips and take some of the water into my mouth. It’s cool and refreshing, and where it touches my lips and tongue it leaves behind a numbing sensation, as though I were rinsing my mouth with liquid painkiller. The numbness works its way through my skull, leaving me lightheaded. Without even swallowing, I could soon forget my Beloved, and the wait would be over. I could board Charon’s ferry and find out what lies beyond the river.

I barely have enough strength to spit the water back into the mug. With a quivering hand, I place it back on the bar top, and meet Lethe’s stare. There is anger in her face now, and I realize the room has fallen silent again. No, Lethe. You will not claim me.

Oh, but I will, she hisses, a fierce, inhuman edge to her voice. Then she turns to my companion, her face and words once again filled with beauty, and smiles. Do me a favor, dear. Take this man to the river, and cleanse his soul.

I turn to her in shock and watch as Alex rises from his seat. He shrugs his shoulders, an apology in his eyes, but then he grabs me by my shoulders. I punch him again, sending him sprawling, and turn to leave, but Alex is not the only man who has risen from his seat. Every person in the bar stares at me.

I try to run, but that only seems to animate them. Rough hands grab me, and I am carried, struggling, out the door. I fight, screaming and cursing, but that only draws more. The dead don’t like to be disturbed, but it’s too late to worry about that—all I can do is fight.

I curse every god and demon I can name, I cry for my Beloved, I struggle with every muscle. Through the crowd, I see Lethe standing by the door, watching as the mob pushes me toward the river. I try to push back, but the crowd is too strong. They drag me out onto the rickety wooden dock, and the last thing I see is Alex, as he gives me one final shove.

A moment of free-fall, then the shock of the water. The river is cold and deep, so cold it freezes my muscles, and I struggle to keep moving, to reach the surface again. Already I feel the numbness in my limbs, a paralysis that creeps along my arms and legs, crawling relentlessly toward my head and my heart. I cannot drown here, but that does not lessen my panic, and I struggle toward the surface.

Looking up, I see the wooden dock shimmering in the water and faces staring down at me. But for all I push my arms, the surface gets no closer.

I’m sorry, Beloved. I tried to wait for you, here on the banks of the Lethe. But your face is slipping from my mind already, and the cold water is fading into a bliss that envelops me. I could hang here, suspended forever—perhaps that is my fate, to be held for eternity in Lethe’s grasp.

Something hard hits me, and I slip even deeper. The dock is invisible now—all around me is cold blackness, but it feels as though I am being wrapped in an embrace by pure bliss. Lethe is everywhere, gripping my legs, my torso, my hands—my left hand.

Then the water rushes past and suddenly I am pulled upward again, dripping wet. Charon is kneeling on the dock, holding me easily with one strong arm. He pulls me close to his face. I told you, and I know damn well I’ve told her. Everyone rides the ferry in the end.

Then, as if he were tossing a rag doll, he flips me over the railing and onto the deck.

The wheelhouse of the ferry is sparse—it’s the only part of the ferry that sits on the upper deck, separated by a stair and two locked gates from the masses below.

There are no chairs. I sit against the wall, still trying to clear my head, staring up at Charon’s back as he pilots the ferry. It feels reassuring to be here—the floor is uncomfortable, and the smell of diesel is everywhere—but it also feels familiar, in a way I can’t place. The waters of the river may have been heaven, but this is home.

Tell me about this woman you waited for.

I cross my eyes, trying to remember. Who?

"Every day you spoke to me of love, of life, of waiting for the woman you called Beloved. He turns back to look at me, disgust in his expression. A little dip in the Lethe rid you of all that? You’re weaker than I thought."

I brace myself against the wall and struggle to my feet. I’m not weak. I stumble forward to put my hands on the window, looking out across the river. A reddish glow pierces the far gloom, and I can see the outline of the far bank. What’s over there?

Charon’s expression doesn’t change. Eternity. Rebirth. Hell. Maybe you get what you always wanted. Maybe you get what you never wanted, or what you didn’t know you wanted. Or what you don’t want.

You mean, I ask him, you don’t know?

When we dock, said Charon, you’ll be as far into the underworld as I’ve ever been. I’m just the ferryman. Ain’t my place to know what’s beyond the banks.

In the distance I can make out the edge of the water and an empty dock. Only a single pathway leads away, looking much like the pathway on the other bank. It’s as if the path runs under the river and just keeps on going.

Charon swings the wheel and throttles back the engine—the wheel is solid oak, the nicest thing I’ve seen since I got into the underworld. I reach out my hand and touch it—it’s solid, and real . . . and memories come back to me. I look up at the ferryman’s face. Mind if I guide her in?

He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

Please, I say. I remember how. I’m sure. And I need to do this.

He stares at me for a moment, then steps aside. All right. I’ll go down and throw the ropes. But, he stabs a finger in my face, you hurt my boat, and I’ll find a special Hell just for you.

I can’t help but smile. Yes, sir. Then I wrap my fingers around the wheel and watch as the dock approaches, pressing the engine into reverse as we glide in. I remember it all now, guiding ferries across the sound where I lived, back and forth for years. On one trip, I happened to meet a girl with a pert nose and auburn hair framing a beautiful face with the most perfect green eyes . . .

Katherine!

The memories flow like the dam of a river has broken, and now I remember everything about her, the fog of the Lethe fading like mist under the noonday sun. The sound of her laugh, the feel of her hand in mine, the conversations we had over coffees and dinners and early morning breakfasts, and the way she looked on a sunny Spring day when we promised each other everything.

The memories are so bright and vivid that I almost forget to cut the engine before we sail back out into the current. The boat taps lightly against the wooden dock, and when I walk out of the wheelhouse to find Charon, I’m grinning ear-to-ear. He’s already off the boat, standing on the dock as he takes a long drag off a cigarette and watches the dead make their way to . . . well . . . wherever it is they’re going.

He nods gruffly. Welcome back.

Thank you. Then I realize where I am: the far side of the bank. And no one sails the opposite direction—the ferry is a one way trip. If I stay here, I will never find Katherine before she joins the ranks of the dead, claimed by Lethe. I look at Charon, panic filling my mind. The Ferryman nods slightly, as if affirming my thoughts.

I’ll give you this, he says. You know what you’re doing with a boat. That was a mighty smooth pull-in. Then he stubs out his cigarette and beckons with a rough hand. Follow me. I want to show you something.

Mounted on the back wall of the wheelhouse is a wooden oar, rough and worn from centuries of use. Charon reaches out and takes it.

This here is all I have from the old days. He handles it like a priceless artifact, touching it softly, running his hand along the grain of the wood. When you asked me if I missed the rowboat, well, I have to admit, my words weren’t all truthful. He didn’t take his eyes off the oar. For a long time now, I’ve guided a ferry. Before that I had a steam-powered riverboat, and before that I had a longboat. But I was always a rower, first and foremost. He laughs. Times change, even here.

He looks at me. And these days, one ferry’s not enough. You’ve seen the crowds we’re leaving behind on the docks. They’re getting bigger every day.

So you need a bigger boat?

Charon’s expression is impossible to read. A bigger boat, or two ferries.

But you can’t pilot two ferries.

No, said Charon. I can’t. Someone else’d have to pilot the other one. He pauses. You don’t want to leave the river, but now that you’ve set foot on the far bank, Lethe will never let you off her dock on the side of the living. People just don’t go that way.

But—

You keep an eye out for your Beloved on your ferry, and I’ll keep an eye out for her on mine. Either that, or you get off the ferry on this side, go wherever you’re supposed to go, and the powers that be send me someone else.

The second ferry is already waiting for us on the close side of the river. Charon shakes my hand, and then the hordes of the dead board his boat. I look for my Beloved but, as usual, I do not see her. I’ve told Charon everything I could—maybe one day he’ll find her, maybe he won’t. But if she remembers me, then she’ll be looking, just like I’m looking for her. All she needs to do is wait long enough for the second ferry. And we’ll find each other.

Then, together, we will guide the dead across the waters of the Lethe.

Andrew S. Williams lives in Seattle, where he tries to write stories worth remembering. His work has appeared in various anthologies, including Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations and Flush Fiction. You can find him online at www.offthewrittenpath.com.

Boy, 7. It’s a simple, telling title that leads us into this next story by famed noir writer, Alvaro Rodriguez. Grim and stark, the author presents a nightmarish scene for anyone to envision: the thoughts of a kidnapped child. Like the young protagonist, we all wish we could change the circumstances of our lives sometimes, wish we could take away the pain and tragedy, wish we could have everything we ever wanted. Can our wishes come true after we die? I like to think so . . .

Someone would open the trunk.

That’s what the boy thought. Someone would come along and open the trunk, and he would be safe. The bad man would be gone—dead—if he could have everything he ever wanted. If he could have everything he ever wanted, the man would be dead from a gunshot to the face, and then he’d fall to the ground and be eaten by dogs. If he could have everything he ever wanted, the man would be torn apart, his arms and his legs pulled so hard they would come off his body like a plastic doll.

But for now, he was in the trunk. Tied up. Tied up good. His mouth, too. His head was wrapped in something that stank. Maybe it was the bad man’s shirt. It smelled bad, like the bad man smelled. Like sweat. And fear. Maybe the fear was his. Yes, the boy thought, it was his own.

The car moved fast. It had swerved many times but was steady now. That meant the bad man still drove, but maybe if it swerved again that would mean policemen or someone else chased after him. He prayed for the car to swerve again.

It did.

His body, cinched up like it was, bounced inside the trunk. Bounced against the spare tire. Bounced against something else, something hard. Bounced as the car swerved, two things in motion, moving around.

Everything was black inside the bad man’s shirt. It covered his mouth and his eyes. Tight. But even in the darkness of the trunk, he saw light. He didn’t know where it came from. Maybe from God. Maybe from his own head. He prayed for the light to go away. It bothered him, the not-knowing. The light bothered him, too. It appeared spangled, like stars, and it wasn’t bright. Instead, it was dull, and sometimes colored, but not brightly, and still it was light . . . but it was the wrong kind of light.

The bad man made the car swerve again, harder this time, and this time he didn’t bounce, he didn’t bump. He went airborne. Nothing touched him for a full second or two—not the floor of the trunk, not the side. Nothing.

The car came down hard, and so did he. He bled from somewhere, but with his eyes shut tight, and the ropes around him, and the bad man’s shirt sleeves crisscrossed over his head, he couldn’t tell where the bleeding was, but he knew. He knew he leaked blood.

Bam!

Something hit the car, or the car hit something, or both, and he was airborne again. He didn’t like the feeling. It made him sick inside and even his stomach felt like it was airborne in the car trunk of his body, this thing inside another thing, weightless for a full second or two, touching nothing.

The car swerved. The bad man was still driving. The boy prayed he would stop and give up, or stop and get shot by the policemen who followed him. Maybe he could hear sirens, or maybe, like the lights, the sound they made came from God. Or inside his head. He prayed the sirens were real.

Then came the biggest bam of all . . .

Bam!

And he felt himself being crushed. His lungs, like his stomach, weightless a moment, then his body was a sandwich around them, his front and back the bread, his lungs the meat.

And a sound, a horrible metal sound, like the big thing in the junkyard that eats cars and spits out boxes.

And then, nothing. No light, no sound. Nothing any more.

He leaked a lot.

He heard a scratching sound. Not a mouse, but something else, like a key trying to find its way into a lock. It was close—real close—and he almost let himself believe it was someone trying to open the trunk and he hoped, he prayed, it wasn’t the bad man who had put him there in the first place.

All the sounds that came before gave the boy hope it wouldn’t be him. It would be someone else. The fire department with the jaws of life opening the smashed car like a tin can while the policemen emptied their guns into the bad man. That’s who it would be. The fire department.

But the key wouldn’t go in the lock. He heard someone trying, trying really hard. Maybe it was the wrong key.

If he could have everything he ever wanted, it would be the right key, and it would be his mother holding it. She would pop the trunk just like she did when they had a flat tire, and she checked for the jack and the spare. If he could have everything he ever wanted, she would be the one to open the trunk, and she would be surprised and happy to find him there. She would take the bad man’s shirt off his head and pepper him with kisses and wipe his face. She would untie the ropes and find the place he was leaking blood, and she would stop it. She would make a call, and the ambulance would come and take him to the hospital, and the doctors would make him well.

If he could have everything he ever wanted, his mother would give him an ice cream sundae with caramel—not hot fudge—because caramel was better. He would be in the newspapers, and on TV, and on the internet, because people would want to know what happened to him, and how the bad man had taken him, and how he had bounced in the trunk and gone airborne, and how the man’s shirt wrapped around his head had smelled, and the lights, and the sirens. He would tell them everything because everybody loved a good story, and it would make good television, and a link to the clip would be passed around through email, and his grandparents would call because they got the email, and they clicked on the link, and they would be so glad he was safe and alive, and they would never let anything like this happen to him or anyone else again.

But he still had the feeling he was a sandwich. Except now it felt like there wasn’t room for the meat. It was peanut butter and jelly, crunchy peanut butter because there were still bones inside him, and jelly, and the pieces of bread were smushed together, and the jelly was coming out the sides, and he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe . . . couldn’t breathe.

And then the key went in.

And the lock turned.

And the trunk sprang open.

And there was light.

Dim light, getting dimmer, like with the round switch on the wall that wasn’t really a switch, but a thing you clicked and turned . . .

Clicked and turned.

He felt warm and cold all at once, like the time he had a high fever and his mother was scared. She would be scared now.

He felt hands on him.

He felt the ropes coming loose.

He felt the shirt come off his head, but it still felt like it was on. Still smelled like it was on.

He opened his eyes, and he saw the bad man. It was the bad man’s body standing there, his neck and his torso, his arms and his legs, but his face was gone. It been blown away by a gunshot. Up close.

The man was there, but he was falling, falling, down to the ground. The boy watched as dogs came and pulled the bad man apart, tearing away his arms, his legs, like a plastic doll. And then he saw his mother. She held a caramel sundae, and she wore a nice dress.

He took the spoon out of the plastic wrap and ate the sundae, sitting there in the trunk of the bad man’s car, until it was all done.

Alvaro Rodriguez has worked as a reporter, editor, and screen­writer. His credits include From Dusk Till Dawn 3: The Hangman’s Daughter