Basement People

Basement People

The car, beached and harpooned in the gathering dusk, bled feeble light from its open door. Sonny looked to Mount Sentinel instead. The sunset adorned it in a fairy tale of pinks and golds.

He tossed the football and caught it.  then tucked it under his arm. Standing awkwardly, he took a tin of Blistex balm from his pocket and smeared some on his lips. The Montana air was dryer than in the Florida swamps, that and the Accutane pills he continued to take meant his lips were always chapped. It was worth the occasional bloody smile to be free of the zits, and lips were supposed to be red anyway.

The dry air, the sometimes fierce Winters, which thus far he had only heard about, were small price to pay for life in Hellgate, where though the woods were full of grizzly bears and mountain lions, the people acted like humans on this side of Hell's Gate.  He had friends here, actual kids his own age, fourteen, who liked him and he liked back.

Only a few weeks ago, enough friends showed at McCormick Park to have an actual game against some boys from Loyola High. This evening, it was just he and Richie Addler, both of Hellgate High, tossing the ball into the Summer air crisped at the edges by September's end.

Howie, who had a bear hug for all after every touchdown and who cursed like an Elko whore (whatever Howie meant by that), had been the first to disappear in the high heat of early July, and with him half the guys were restricted to home.

By mid-July, their parents allowed them out again and things were back to almost normal until the last week of August when freckle faced Phil and his hacky sack vanished.  Now, after weeks of going stir crazy at home, and begging mom, he was once again allowed to return to the park, new cellphone in his pocket.

He tossed the pigskin and ran to catch it. It landed by his toe, and bounced into the street. He would never play for the Montana Grizzlies, none of the guys would, he thought, but that was okay. Even a skinny geek like him was allowed to enjoy the sport here.

This time, as he picked his ball off the road, the car entered his conscious thoughts. It chimed, determined to tell its driver the door was still ajar. When is a door not a door? When it's a jar.  The lights were on in the house closest to the car and Sonny thought he might knock on the door and let the owner know. He also thought he might cross the street instead and hurry home. That would be the smart thing to do, that car, and that house, they looked buggy, out of place in this roachless paradise.

Sonny's thoughts turned to dinner. Mom, God bless her soul, promised meat loaf, iced with heaps of potatoes whipped like cream. If she had any handy, there would be cheddar cheese on top of this; baked crusty, yellow molten lava beneath. He broke into a trot.

For the tiniest instant, when he saw the dented grillwork leering at him with its bucktoothed smile, he almost crossed to the other side of the road. But then, heart suddenly pounding, he saw the cans of food, the broken grocery sack, and the fat man face down and half on top of the bag. The fat man made a sound, not words, but a pitiful mewling sound.

Sonny stopped.

A line of blood leaked from his nose and down his pock marked cheek where it mixed with bits of dirt and gravel embedded in his pasty skin.

"Are you okay?" Was all Sonny could think to say.

The fat guy stopped his whining, abruptly. He lifted his head off the pavement and looked at Sonny with eyes like raisons pushed into dough. "Oh, praise the lord."

Sonny recognized his accent. He had to be from Alabama.

Sonny's eyes scanned over the man. Lumps of fat, like pillows stuffed here and there under his clothes puffed out in directions independent of his frame.

Sonny pulled his cellphone from his jeans pocket and flipped it open.

"Don't bother," the fat man said with a dismissive wave of his chubby hand. His arm jiggled after the gesture. "I reckon I can make it with a little help from you, friend."

The phone was dead anyway. He thought it would be because he spent an hour, sprawled under a maple beside Richie yakking to the guys who couldn't make the game. That, and he could never remember to plug the darn thing into the charger at night which always got mom nagging.

"I don't think I can," Sonny said. Sonny weighed 83 pounds, soaking wet, holding his breath, and standing just right on the scale.

"I can stand up," His voice conjured images in Sonny's head: heaps of grits, messes of 'slaw, and yellowed hunk of rancid lard. "I twisted my ankle, but I think I can make it up to the house." Looking much like a beached manatee, grunting, the man pushed himself up on to all four flippers. He made pained noises as, hand over hand he climbed the car. The open door bowed and scraped the asphalt. He let one rip.

Sonny had never been too high falootin to see the humor in a good fart, but he found he just couldn't laugh. It would be like laughing at a cripple.

"Dang... that was a real... cotton shredder," he said. Elbows on the door and car roof, hands waving away the smell, he panted and grinned with beefy lips.
A small smile found its way to Sonny's face after all. Standing there, the guy looked less like a sea cow and more like a bowling ball. Except for that face which would be most at home munching water hyacinth or mindlessly chewing cud. He was at least an inch or two shorter than Sonny and so wide it was hard to imagine him getting through the car door.

"Well now here's a deal... good old boy to good old boy... for you buddy," he huffed, "five dollars... put them there cans... in that there bag." He pointed toward the back seat. The oily sheen on his face glowed deep with the last of the sunset light.

Sonny filled the white bag with the three cans of Chef Boy'r'dee Ravioli, the can of beanie weenies, and a handful of Brussels sprouts, still in their clear plastic bag, clear except for some mysterious brown goo.

"You look like a strong boy," he said, still winded. He waved Sonny closer with his jiggling bare arm.

Sonny didn't like the look of where this was going, but he obeyed. The guy probably couldn't run ten steps without dropping dead of a heart attack. One false move, and Sonny would be out of there. He was sure of it.

The man slung his sweaty arm around Sonny's shoulders it splatted like a massive tree frog against his bare neck. Sonny's knees almost buckled under the weight of it.

"Sorry buddy." He pressed his hot sweaty armpit into Sonny's shoulder. It smelled like he hadn't bathed in weeks but resorted to covering his stench with fruity cologne. "They call me Russell, or Russ, whichever you like."

Sonny introduced himself, trying not to gag impolitely.

"Well that's a damn fine name," Russell said, "Sonny's--you ever ate there?"
Sonny nodded the best he could, against the Russell's slug-like arm.

"Them and Fat Boy's, good eatin' Bar-b-que. I reckon they don't have them 'round here. If they does, I ain't found me none."

It wasn't just body odor and cheap cologne, there was something else, something rancid, something humans had no business smelling like. It was some seasoning Sonny's mother used once then threw away along with dinner, lemon pepper, maybe.

Sonny's spine felt warped like a lumberjack's saw strummed with a bow string. At least Russell was short. If he had been tall, Sonny's spine would have snapped, he was sure of it.

The man made a ghastly slurping sound with almost every step, like a plunger in a mucky toilet. Russell's armpit was almost scalding hot as they mounted the single step up to his front door which, thankfully, he'd parked in front of. Mom's meat loaf was next to heaven, but Sonny decided he would shower before dinner. The idea made him feel somehow guilty, the guy probably had a gland problem and couldn't help being fat... and smelly, could he even fit in a shower?

When Russell opened the door, Sonny dry heaved into his hand. The hot and humid air smelled like Russell, and worse.

"Jus' set 'em over yonder on the kitchen counter," Russell said, pointing the way. He eased himself into a Lazy Boy that had seen better days.  Plump flies buzzed around the Scooby Doo bed-sheet draped across the back of it. A newer, smaller recliner sat next to it. Between them was a table lamp and on it, half hidden under potato chip bags, handcuffs, a bag of KitKats and a Halloween makeup kit and a few Hot Wheels cars.

The seats faced the wall that opened to the kitchen. There was a couch in the middle of the room, slip covered in Toy Story sheets of Buzz Lightyear falling with style. Sitting as Russell was, the couch must have blocked the view of the TV which was on cinderblocks among a tangle of wires.

Sonny wasted no time getting to the kitchen and he hoped Russell would have his five bucks ready by the time he got back. If he didn't, Sonny planned to bolt out the door and into the fresh air, screw the money.

He wanted to run now, but the clutter of toys on the floor made that impossible. Where were his wife and kids? It seemed hard to believe he was married, looking and smelling like he did. Sonny scolded himself for thinking that, but it was true, the guy was gross.

The kitchen seemed to explain the smell. Grimy pots full of water in shades of grey and brown bubbled in the sink. On an island of foamy scum in the topmost pot, a frenzied maggot circled. Crispy fly pupae, like Rice Crispies, were glued around the outside of the pots, above water line. Around and on the refrigerator handle there were streaks of white fat and black blood.
Sonny dropped the bag on the counter which festered with something watery brown. To the left of the counter was a stove covered in filth and beside it, a chef's knife caked in stringy dried meat, more fat and blood smeared on a white door. Four eyebolts were screwed into either side of the door and the both jambs. A length of steel pipe dead-bolted through the eyes.

The poster on the door had once read "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." The lines, in permanent marker ink, ran through "woman scorned" and scrawled below them, "boy forlorn." Sonny reread it, "Hell hath no fury like a boy forlorn." He wasn't sure exactly what it meant except that it seemed weird. The picture was of a fire breathing monster sledghammering the hood of a car, four feet hung out the back window. The rising gorge in the his throat told him to leave the smelly kitchen at once and ponder the meaning some other time.

When he turned back toward Russell, he saw the real source of the stench. On the floor, in front of the couch, a Tickle Me Elmo doll lay on its back like a stoned hippie tripping on clouds in his sky. Elmo was smiling wide, motionless, blissfully ignorant of the furry mess on the couch above him. It writhed with maggots and crawled with flies. The Rottweiler's belly had split open and liquids soaked the cushions.

"Don't you worry none, ol' Falco ain't gonna bite you," Russell said, "Sometimes he bites them there flies but he ain't never bit no one."

Sonny stared into the hole in the end, the business end, of the Russell's gun. It was very dark in that big hole. Russell had produced it as if by magic. The magician's handcuffs, half buried in baby fat, dangled from Russell's right wrist. Light from the lamp glared off the silver cuffs like sunlight from a windshield. The house seemed very much brighter, the colors of the toys almost psychedelically intense.

"Best shut your mouth before something flies in," Russell said.

Sonny's first thought was that mom was going to kill him. Russell was probably going to do that for her. His heart pounded so hard the veins in his neck ached.
"Have a seat, Sonny." Russell nodded toward the other chair.

Sonny had shut the front door himself. He was a fast runner, but it took much less than a second to pull a trigger.

"Don't even think about it," Russell said. "Now sit yourself down and we'll play."
Sonny thought he could duck behind the counter before Russell could fire, but then what? There were no windows in the kitchen. There was the door by the stove, but it would take forever to unlock and it was in the line of fire.

Sonny stepped forward and a cold draft blew from under that white door and up his jeans legs. He looked into the hallway on the opposite side of the foyer. His right foot found its way over a Star Wars light saber. The doors down the hall were all shut. He put his right foot down and something plastic crunched. He didn't know what it was but Russell sure seemed to.

"You broke my toy, stupid idiot!" Russell's raison eyes now bulged from their dough. "You broke my Mighty Morphing Power Ranger."

Sonny was tempted to say what his mom would have said,  that he shouldn't have left it on the floor. "I'm sorry Russell, I didn't see it there." He didn't like the sound of his own voice, although he'd tried to keep it calm, the voice he used around frightened animals, it sounded like a little kid's, a very frightened little boy's voice.

As quickly as Russell's squall came, it was over. His eyes settled comfortably back into their doughy beds and beamed at Sonny. "I'm sorry too."
They were those flimsy doors, the ones in the hall, like he and his kid sister had once broken down while rough housing. Even if they were locked, he thought he could break through. How long would it take to throw open a window and jump outside?

Russell, obviously, had been playing sick. How quickly could he really move? If these were his toys on the floor, and he played with them there, in addition to being abso-freakin-lutely insane, he must not have all that much trouble getting off the ground. Although, Russell was still wheezing in his chair and there was no need to keep up the act now.

It was a ten or fifteen foot run to the hall. Even if he leapt it in a single bound, would he make it before Russell shot? Maybe Russell would miss if Sonny dropped and rolled like a solder to the hall. Maybe this manatee was a dead eye shot.

Sonny found himself on trembling knees standing before Russell whose gun was still pointed between his eyes. Russell's grin reminded Sonny of the Gerber baby on the jars of pears his mom used to feed his sister. It seemed hideous on his face.

"Have a seat buddy," Russell said.

Sonny sat. Russell shook the handcuffs over Sonny's lap.

"Put 'em on."

Sonny fumbled to get them on with his fingers which quivered like rattlesnake tails. The metal was cold and hard on Sonny's wrist.

Sonny knew fear, that feeling when the school bus drives off, kids cheering out their windows, and you stand alone where a redneck bully taunts, taller and more muscular than your P.E. coach, inches from your face, knowing you might soon be in the hospital. But cuffed to this fat grinning fool among his toys and rotting dog, Sonny knew there were things worse than broken bones or even death and Russell could deliver them with a smile. He wished he had bolted down the hall.

"Tighter."

Sonny ratcheted them down two more clicks. One click more and it would cut off circulation. He notice the handcuffs had been modified. The cuff around Sonny's bony wrist, although it seem absurdly large, was smaller than the one around Russell's enormous wrist. The chain was longer than they always looked on cop shows.

"We're going to be best buddies now," Russell said.

They sat in silence. Russell stared at him the whole time, a thick smile. Sonny couldn't bear to look at those lips, red and beefy chewed raw and ragged. Sonny watched the flies buzz over the dog on the couch.

"That there's old Falco," Russell said, "best friend I ever had.  Course, he don't get around much these days."

What the heck was Sonny supposed to say to that? He nodded as if the dog were bright eyed, bushy tailed and full of the High Pro glow.

"I don't think Falco's got much longer," Russell said. "That's why I was hopin' we'd be friends. I could use a buddy to help me through my time of mourning. Do you like me?"

Sonny had a few choice replies, but said nothing. His eyes were now on the door by the stove. Why was it locked like that? Sonny thought he knew and it made the watery feeling in his bowels even worse.

"I like you," Russell said.

Sonny remembered Barney the purple dinosaur on PBS, "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family." He loved Barney, back when he was four, watching it with his mom on the rocking chair (She was making meat loaf tonight. While his sister ate at the table, mom was probably standing at the front window by now wondering where he was), but now he saw those big spaced out lizard eyes, that huge yucking purple mouth and wondered what kind of grownup, dinosaur or man, prefers the company of children.

He knew. His mother had warned him about perverts, and the guys, between games at the park, had filled in the details more fully than he'd wished to know. Russell would do that. Sonny also knew Russell had worse up his sleeve. Sonny couldn't imagine what those things were, but they were there behind Russell's piggy eyes.

He should have run for the door. Russell would have shot him but that would have been better. He might have made it out the door, to die in the fresh air, Montana air that smelled of Christmas even in July. 

"I want to go home," Sonny said. 

"This is your home now," Russell said. "We're going to be bestest friends now, like brothers." He winked. He no longer held the gun.

"I'm not a little kid," Sonny said, "I know you're going to hurt me."

Russell looked as if he'd been slapped across the face. "I'd never hurt you. We're buddies now."

"You're a pervert," Sonny said.

Russell's jaw dropped. It started to close then drop open again. His face had gone scarlet and broken out in little red bumps, like  diaper rash on a baby's butt, Sonny thought.

Russell's chins waddled as he shook his head with increasing vigor. "I'd never do that to you. I love you, Sonny."

Insane as the scene before him was, and crazy as the thought made Sonny feel for having it, he found he believed Russell.

"I'm a good guy," Russell said, "I don't do things like that. The good book," he nodded toward the end-table by the couch and the black leather bible on it, "says 'do unto others as you would want others to do unto you.'"

Russell leaned in confidentially, "Others did bad things to me. Things I'd never have survived without God's help. I'd never do that to a friend. See, that's the other side to the golden rule."

Sonny wondered if he'd do them to an enemy. He didn't think so. The guy was clearly bonkers, mad as the infamous hatter, but he wasn't a pervert. Sonny thought he should feel relieved, at least a little, but he found he didn't.

"Let's stop talking about nasty stuff," Russell said, "Let's play. I've got Playstation and Nintendo. I just got me a Wii too."

That would mean going to the TV and maybe having to sit on the couch with the dog. A big grub inched its way along the backrest, across Buzz Lighyear's helmut, then fell with no style to the floor.

"I don't like video games," Sonny lied.

Russell looked crestfallen, but brightened back up. "Do you want to see my Transformers, robots in disguise?" He sang the last bit.

"I'm too old for them," Sonny said.

"You're never too old to play with toys. I do."

"I like football," Sonny said, "we could go to McCormick Park and play." It felt like a stroke of genius. He'd be uncuffed and he could run home. Or else, they'd attract a lot of attention and someone would help. Surely someone would be there, even at night.

Russell looked betrayed. "I've been a good friend to you, don't you go making me out to be no fool.

"You know, I never had me a lot of friends growing up. I 'spose I never learnt how to be a good friend because of it. But I think if you'll just give me a chance, you'll like me back."

That seemed improbable, to say the least. "It was like that for me too, before I moved here." There, that was the voice Sonny was looking for. It was the voice he used at the back corner of a stall, when, while mucking it out, the horse went wild. Calm, compassionate and in control.

"Really? But you seem totally awesome," Russell said.

"They didn't think so in Florida," Sonny said, "I didn't have any friends."

"None at all?" The look of empathy on Russell's face was painful to witness.

"None. A lot of guys beat me up, too. Others called me names, even the girls did." It was an understatement.

"They called me 'queer lips' and 'jellyroll,'" Russell said. "But things are better now, right?"

"Yeah, I have a lot of friends here. It's why we moved."

"Me too. Only I ain't made any friends, 'cept you. And Howie, and the other guys but they all went away."

"Howie?" Sonny knew all along that Russell had done something to Howie, but hearing it straight from the pigs mouth sent his heart pounding again. "What did you do to Howie?"

"Nothing. He left me. He didn't want to be my friend. I tried to talk sense into him, but he wouldn't listen." Russell's voice was sad.

Feeling some hope despite himself, "Where is he?" If Sonny could survive Russell, he could send a search team after Howie, Phil too.

"The basement people took him." Russell gestured toward the white door by the stove. "I told him not to go down there, but he wouldn't listen. Nobody listens to me."

"Who are they?" Sonny thought he knew enough to know he didn't want to know more, but the question came out anyway.
Russell looked confused.

"Basement people?" Sonny pressed on.

"I thought everybody knew what basement people was."

Sonny shook his head.

"I think they follered me from Alabama," Russell said. "Sometimes they comes up the steps late at night. But don't you worry none, that door's locked like a bank vault. I won't let none 'em get at you, neither would Falco. That's why I got me this gun too."

Russell waved the gun; it had been in his lap. Sonny flinched.

"You didn't think I was gonna shoot you with it did ya? No, lord no, I was just making sure none 'em follered you from the kitchen."

Sonny thought of pointing out that if the door kept the basement people in the basement, there was no reason to worry about basement people in the kitchen, but there was no sense in doing that since this was all crazy talk anyway.

"What did they do to Howie?"

"Well, I reckon they took him to the other side."

The words stomped out the last ember of hope, that maybe Richie was down there, the others too, alive, and maybe even well, one of Russell's basement people.

"They're bad," Russell continued, "I think one of 'em tripped me out yonder, before you found me. But the lord works in mysterious ways, don't he now? I mean, we wouldn't be best friends if they hadn't. Yeah sir, all things work out for the glory of God and those who serve him."

The cuckoo bird flew from the clock over the kitchen doorway. The little door at the top of the clock opened and closed seven times and when it had finished, Sonny said, as casually as he could, "Well, it's late, I better be getting home. Mom hates it when I let my dinner get cold." It seemed worth a try.

"Oh, if you're hungry, I can cook us up a steak." Russell said.

"No, I couldn't impose," Sonny said. That's how his mother always bowed out of unwanted dinner invitations.

"It ain't no problem at all, the freezer's packed with steak, only take a minute to cook you one." Russell arranged his bulk to stand.

"No, really, my mom made meat loaf, my favorite."

"Got plenty a ground meat too, the lord's blessed me with more meat than I can eat. And that's saying something." Russell patted his gut which jiggled like lazy swells on the Gulf of Mexico.

"Well, see, she made it just for me. It wouldn't be right to let her go to all that trouble and then me not eat it, would it?"

"You don't want to eat here do you?" Russell frowned.

"No," Sonny said.

"I could clean the kitchen, if its on account of the mess."

"No, I really need to go home."

Russell's jaws snapped shut. The frown deepened into an ugly grimace. Air hissed in and out of his nose, like Sonny's pet snake did when provoked.

"I can come back later," Sonny said. "Maybe you can even teach me how to play video games."

A red tide rose in Russell's baby butt cheeks. He hissed louder.

"Honest. And maybe my mom will even let me bring over a slice of meat loaf, so you don't have to cook."

Russell leapt to his feet. Sonny, was at those feet before he even realized he had been airborne. Russell and the handcuffs kept his left shoulder from touching the ground. His arm shook like a rag in a dog's mouth as Russell had a tantrum.

"I ain't stupid! You don't want to be my friend," Russell said.

"I do, I do to," Sonny said, his voice back in that unnatural register. The handcuff seemed to be rubbing against raw bone.

"You think I'm stupid. You think I don't know you ain't comin' back."

"No, really, I'll come back, I promise. I'll be your friend, just let me go."

Sonny spotted the gun, which had fallen off Russell's lap, his left shoulder was practically on top of it, and would have been had Russell not been flailing his arms about. He reached for it with his right hand.

The kicks came instantly. The first one crushed his hand into his armpit. Pain flowered in his pinky. The second blow was to his face. There was a moment of dark numbness that exploded into pain in his cheek and left his head buzzing. When he opened his eyes, the Lazy Boy was far behind.

Russell jammed the gun into Sonny's temple.

"Be my friend," Russell said.

"I am your friend, Russell, honestly."

"Please, oh God please be my friend. I need you," Russell said. Tears dripped from his beady eyes and on to Sonny's shirt. He thrust the gun into Sonny's temple so hard Sonny thought his skull would crack.

"We're friends, best friends forever. I-- I'll bring you meat loaf and everything." Sonny said.

"Argh!" Russell ground the gun into Sonny's skull. "Be my friend dammit!"
"I am," Sonny said.

"You dirty rotten filthy liar!" Russell's breathing was harsher than the words.
"You're just like the others, ain't you?" Russell nodded toward the door by the stove. "Ain't you now?" Russell's enflamed cheeks waggled like turkey waddles as he looked down on Sonny. "Bullies! You're going to hell."

"No I'm not."

"You think you're so cool," Russell huffed. His face seemed to be made out of melting candle wax. Sweat tricked from his nose as he pulled Sonny backward through the kitchen. Russell now held the chain between the cuffs, even with all that padding it must have hurt him too. His face was so red it seemed to bleed. He had to be close to having a heart attack or stroke.

Oh, if he'd just drop dead, Sonny thought.

"Rotten scum-buckets the whole mess of you."

Sonny saw the couch passing by on the left. He wrapped his feet around one of its stubby legs. Russell pulled harder. The pain in his wrist was terrible, but he did not let go. There were worse things behind that door, he knew it. The couch followed them for a step or two. The dog teetered at the edge of the couch, then sloshed back like a wineskin full of puke. The flies swarmed around the dog like bees robbed of honey. Elmo, the doll, didn't notice.

"Let go, you stupid bad boy," Russell said. His breath came in great ragged gulps.

Come on heart attack, Sonny thought. The extra weight of the couch was helping, just a little more would put him over the edge.

"Let me go Queer Lips!" It hurt like hell but he yanked against the cuffs.

Russell yelled something unintelligible and yanked. The dog teetered again, this time closer to the edge. As it rolled back, its front leg split from its side like a turkey wing torn loose for thanksgiving dinner. The leg bounced once on the cushion and broke again at the wrist when it landed, draped effeminately over the edge.

Elmo, one arm sprawled beyond his head, legs crossed, tripped to groovy clouds only he could see, oblivious to the dog and the yelling. A lost maggot crawled over his unblinking eye.

No time to gawk. Had to get down to business.

"No one likes you, Jellyroll," Sonny said, "'cause you've got fatty pants."

"Shut up you big meanie!" Russell's face was bright red now, and gleaming with sweat. His eyes rolled up into his head and Sonny thought for sure the man was going down. Instead he yanked again.

"Where have those queer lips been?" Sonny asked.

Russell yanked. The dog teetered, but not as close to the edge as last time.
"I bet all the jocks love those big queer lips and a bit of jellyroll," Sonny couldn't believe he'd said that. After the things he'd been through, he'd promised himself he'd never speak like that to another human, but here he was.
Russell roared incoherently. He yanked and plunked down on his fat hams. Yelling in pain, Sonny landed beside him.

This time, the dog fell and splattered on Elmo. This set Elmo off on a fit of giggles, busting his gut in the busted dog's gut, he wallowed in it like a wild man.

"Falco!" Russell's voice was operatic.

Seeing his chance, Sonny scrambled to his feet. He'd kick the tub of lard senseless. Maybe he could even reach the knife on the stove. The cuff snapped at his arm and he fell on the kitchen doorway.

Elmo, tickled with reefer madness, sat himself up, laughing hysterically at Sonny.

Russell made slobbery choking sounds as he waddled to his feet. "He was the only person who ever loved me." He said it, bloodshot eyes locked on the dog corpse, lower lip quivering.

Elmo plunged back into the dog, kicking his leg in delight. He flung a maggot from his toe. 

"Shut up Elmo!" Russle stomped his foot and the whole house shook.

Sonny crab walked toward the couch. There was Falco's mess there, but he needed the weight. He glimpsed that the couch leg was gone right before Russell snatched him backward.

Elmo popped back up, and for a split second, Sonny thought Elmo pointed at him and laughed.

They moved faster now. Blood dripped from Russell's fingers. Face, a peculiar shade of maroon, almost mahogony, Russell let go of the handcuff chain. He took Sonny by the hand. Hefting his body back he yanked.

Russell turned away. His tee shirt was soaked beyond the yellow limits of it sweat stains.

"You smell like crap." Sonny sounded like a wounded animal to himself. "How do you wipe that big fat ass? I bet you don't. You walk around with Hearshy syrup between them big fat jelly rolls don't you?"

Russell was blubbering, something about everyone always picking on him. Well, join the club, pal, Sonny thought.

He was to the door now. *When he pulled it out of the eyebolts, the metal pipe sounded like a sword being unsheathed. It scraped against the poster on the door, "Hell hath no fury like a boy forlorn." The pipe clanged to the floor and rolled into Sonny's hip.

"You're going to be sorry," Russell said. "I'm going to make you sorry."

He opened the door. The smell gut punched Sonny. He didn't think anything could be worse than the rest of the house, but somehow this was. It was dark beyond the door, but as he flapped around behind Russell, he glimpsed steps leading down to the basement.

"Wha'chya gonna do jellyroll, eat me?" Sonny's right hand found the pipe. He lifted, felt jagged bone rubbing jagged bone and dropped it.

Russell turned.

"Everyone hates you fatso loser." Sonny said.

Elmo sat up and laughed his little red head off.

Russell leaned back for another yank. His contorted face relaxed into a lopsided fool's grin.  His knees folded. Russell fell backward on to the stairs. Sonny flew. There was the sound of splintering wood, but the staircase held. Sonny landed, pinned between Russle and the cellar wall.

Dazed, Sonny stared at the wooden step under his face and his hand linked to Russell's beside it. The staircase thrummed. Sonny felt as if he were a flea on a woofer speaker and someone was slowly upping the volume of a very low note. He could almost hear the wood buzz beneath him. Russell's arm flew up, punching Sonny's face, then spun him around. Russle lay on his back, arms and legs twitching in the air, clawing at the rafters.

The spasms ceased. A liquid gurgling sound came from Russell. In the other room, Elmo continued his knee slapping good time.  Sonny's arm throbbed a little offbeat with his heart.

Squatting against the wall, cold water droplets spattering his left cheek, Sonny looked up at the stove, and the knife. He had heard about animals, and people, gnawing themselves free of traps. Sonny wasn't about to do that though, not unless things got really desperate, and then it would be Russell's arm.
Trying not to pull too hard against the painful cuffs he reached for the knife. His index finger stopped an inch short.

"Crap," he said. Straining against the cuffs, he tried again. The pain was unbearable and he was inflicting it upon himself and somehow that made it worse. His middle finger bumped the knife. It spun on its handle. Not much though, it wasn't hopeless. Beyond screaming, he pulled with all his might. The knife turned a little further away.

He laid back down. Russell slid. His head thunked on the next step, dragging Sonny a foot further into the basement. Russell's body gurgled-- was it a corpse yet?

Two more splinters broke; about midway down the steps from the sound of it. Sonny froze. There were bad things down there in Russell's hell, where the bad boys went. He could smell them.

Howie, he was down there somewhere, maybe in a shallow grave. Maybe not. Unbidden, the image flashed before Sonny's mind's eye of Phil's face, in every freckle a maggot wagged its tail, riddled him like the dog. What had Russell done to him?

Russell gurgled. Sonny was pretty sure he was still alive. He hoped Russell didn't come to, he might thrash around and roll further down the steps. Better yet, he hoped Russell would just plain die. He deserved it. Although, did he really want to be handcuffed to a corpse? Another splinter released with a snap.

He heard another sound, deeper down in the basement, a soupy sound. He told himself it was just water in the plumbing.

He looked at his wrist. The cuff was buried in the swollen tissue.

Keys! How could he have been so stupid. They had to be in Russell's pockets. Unless he forgot them. Grownups were always losing their keys.

The stairs crackled again, this time followed by a quiet moan. And that other sound, bones rattling in a pot boiling soup? It came from beyond the edge of light cast upon the dirt floor, somewhere in the shadows.

He felt the steel pipe under his knee. He lifted it and his broken hand sang a protest song. He picked it up in the middle pinching it between three fingers. It still hurt but not insanely so.

He rotated it through the air and reaching over himself moved it toward the knife. A foot of air filled the space between the pipe and the knife.
He set the end of the pipe down on the linoleum floor and slid his fingers further down the pipe. He reached again and despite his straining, the other end of the pipe rotated toward the floor.

He set it down again and slid his fingers further up it. Now, with painful effort, he could point it toward the knife again, but was an inch or two short. It began to dip downward. Grinding his teeth, he lifted it and strained against the cuffs. The knife clattered to the floor.

Sonny collapsed backward to breathe. Then his back, the bare spot where his shirt had pulled away from his pants, squeaked across the linoleum. Russell's head thudded on a step.

Panicked, Sonny grabbed for the knife and missed.

Thud, Thud. And more gurgles from Russell.

He laid motionless, afraid to even breathe, listening to more wood splinter. Then a loud crack. The cuff pulled him back. He thought he'd land on the basement floor, but only slid a few inches.

He used the toe of his shoe to slide the knife toward his hand. Then, using the heel, he shuffled it the rest of the way.

Flurries of little crackling sounds echoed in the basement, aftershocks from the great break. Gingerly, he rolled on to his belly. His chin was between the first and second step. The staircase canted wildly to the right, away from the brick wall but still attached. It and the railing bowed down in the middle like a skateboard ramp. Russell's gurgling body was tilted against the railing.
Sonny had seen his mother dismember a chicken before. She said she was "jointing" it. The knife wouldn't go through bone, not even chicken bones, (unless you used a cleaver) so you had to cut between the bones at the joints. There wasn't room around the cuffs. He'd have to cut at the elbow.

Feeling sick with himself for what he was about to do, had to do, and feeling dizzy about the warped stairway, he eased himself down the steps. He stayed on his belly and close to the brick wall.

Was he about to murder Russell? He figured he probably already had. It was easy to do, to become a murderer, when his own life was about to end. If the stroke or heart attack had killed Russell, Sonny's transition from innocent boy to murderer had gone unnoticed by him. Now he wanted to hurl.
If fatso wasn't dead, and he cut the arm off, he soon would be dead. He'd bleed to death.

That was different, wasn't it? More like cold blooded murder. After all, he could lay here chained to Russell until help came. His mother must be missing him by now. The police would come looking.

Of course, they'd looked after the other kids were killed. The killer was handcuffed to Sonny's arm, not some cop's.

Where had he left his football? By the car, he hoped, but he couldn't remember. It almost seemed he'd brought it in with him.

Russell gurgled, a wet snorey sound.

He looked at the fat bastard's arm. It was as big around as he was. He had an idea. He took off his belt, no easy task with only one partly working hand.

Carefully, yes very carefully because of the weakened staircase, he wrapped it around Russell's arm, above the elbow, around the biceps. He held the buckle in place with his chin while he used his free hand to thread the other end through. It barely reached, but he was able to bite the leather and pull it tight. He cinched it down to the third hole. Russell gurgled, or was that a moan?
Biting his lip, he sawed at Russell's elbow. The skin and fat rode back and forth the with blade. A butter knife would have worked better. His hand screeched in pain with every stroke.

Russell moaned. It was definitely a moan and not just a gurgle. Was he in pain? Sonny saw movement on his face. One eye moved, as if dreaming, beneath its chubby lid. The other eye stayed still. Sonny wasn't a doctor, but it didn't take one to know that Russell had to be seriously messed up for only one eye to move. He probably felt no pain.

The skin was abraded, red, but not actually bleeding. Maybe, like one of those prisoners who spooned their way through concrete walls, he could free himself in a few years. It would get easier as Russell decayed, maybe it would only take a month.

He inspected the blade. There were bits of dry meat cemented to it. How the fat guy managed to cut anything with it was a mystery to Sonny. Maybe he was cutting ground beef. Or sausages.

What if that's Howie?

Sonny dropped the knife. The point hit his forearm. He jerked his arm back from the pain which only enhanced the pain from the cuffs. The knife landed on the step and stopped instead of tumbling down as Sonny had feared it would. A bright red spot of blood welled up where it had hit.

He picked up the knife and jabbed it into Russell's elbow. He saw fireworks behind his eyes from the pain this caused his hand, but he'd had no time to admire them: Russell flinched.

Sonny landed on Russell's chest, face to face. That one eye scanning below its lid.

"Mmrrr," Russell said.

Sonny jumped off him. The staircase oscillated under him, wood fibers splintering with each downbeat. The knife in Russell's elbow waggled in counterpoint.

When it had stopped, Sonny realized two things. One, he had wet himself, embarrassing but after what he'd been through, forgivable. Two, he wasn't going to stab Russell again.

He remembered the keys which were hypothetically in one of Russell's pockets. The two pockets he could get to were full of candy wrappers. The other two were burried under mounds of impenetrable fat.

Sonny stabbed again. He fell into a hypnotic rhythem like his mother's sewing machine. His mind skipped town.

Sonny's self cowered far away in the deepest of the cellars beneath his mind among the graves for life's little horrors, the things best forgotten, safely buried lest they walk again. He  eyed their tombstones and the barren ground that covered their final beds. And if a skeletal hand should thrust through the sand he'd turn away and let them roam, for the dead cannot harm the living. He gazed without understanding at an open grave and watched Russell's blood fill the hole and his screams curdle and clot the pool of red. The caretaker, he who has no face, came and shoveled a tidy mound over it.

Sonny left the cellar, tugging Russell's arm into the kitchen, where the scummy pots bubbled and boy fat greased the refrigerator handle. Panting and sweating he dragged the heavy forearm clear of the door. He had to shut it.
He slammed the white door. The poster, "Hell hath no fury like boy forlorn," lost a tack and canted askew. The eyebolts stared back at him, pleading to be run through by the pipe. It was on the stairs by Russell. Stairs that had moaned and now thudded.

Some doors were best left shut.

His hand clutched something. He looked. It was the knife, its serrations caked and clotted with fat and blood. He dropped the tool. He swiped his hand, careful of his finger, across the refrigerator. It left an oily red smear along the edge of the door.

He lurched back on his heels, man was Russell fat, and the arm slid silently on its grease. He gathered himself and heaved again, no time to waste; something was coming, he was sure, pounding a step at a time up the stairs.
It was harder on the gummy carpet and through the little kid's toys. What did it weigh, sixty, eighty pounds, almost as much as he? He dug in his heels and pulled.

A loud crack and then a bang issued from the basement. He guessed the staircase crashed to the ground. That was good, the basement people--lets get real, that's what was on the steps afterall, he thought--couldn't get to the door without steps.

As if to mock the rational world, something scraped at the door.
His legs moved doubletime, past the mess of the dog on the floor, and Elmo who, batteries going dead, giggled but didn't wallow in the dog slush, and around the couch.

He cried out when the door knob poked him in the small of his back. The thing in the basement, the basement person, perhaps with a helpful hand up from his friends, rattled the other door knob.

Sonny gripped the front door knob and turned. The twisting motion tortured his broken finger. The cool metal slid smoothly under his hand. His operation--had the patient survived?-- on the fat man left his hand as well lubricated as the wet end of the arm. He wiped his hand on the door,  and twisted again, and again it slipped.

The basement person had better luck. That door bounced off the wall with a bang followed by the unmistakable thump of it hitting the basement person's head. Sonny heard another sound, which he knew to be the poster falling to the floor.

"Don't look back," he told himself.

Using his free wrist, he hefted Russell's arm and his own to the door knob.

Heavy steps in the kitchen, and a papery whisper he knew to be the poster stuck to the basement person's bloody foot. Swish-thump, swish-thump, swish-thump. It was out of the kitchen now. He could hear it breathing.
He twisted the knob and it turned.

Swish-thump, swish-thump.

He tripped down the front step and lurched into the street. His throat burned and he realized he had been screaming.

THE END