5 Minute Reads | Anthology

The Knowing Inside John by robertswilson

by robertswilson 

The Knowing Inside John

In the dream, John knows the phone will ring. In his sleep-induced reality, he sees it wake up Sheila, so he gets to his feet. Something akin to consciousness stirs in the back of his mind, and he realizes he's no longer completely dreaming. He really did just get up. He really is making his way toward the living room phone on the dark, wood-stained end table by the old beige recliner Sheila's father gave them. The phone rings, but in this plane somewhere between reality and dream, John isn't sure which side the ringing is coming from. He reaches out just at the beginning of the third chime and picks up the receiver and puts it to his ear.

Static greets him at first and he waits patiently like a zombie put on hold. Your call is important to us. He giggles then stops as a voice replaces the static. It's guttural and deep and metallic and not speaking English. Instead it grinds and tears and growls and clicks and something deep inside John's mind understands every sound but doesn't share the wealth. Instead, it passes responses through his lips.

"Yes.

"I will.

"I have.

"Yes.

"Yes.

"No.

"Yes.

"Uh huh... left index finger... lower right rib bone... esophagus..." He stands, listens, nods for a long time as the voice spirals into twisting metal tunnels, grinding them into curls of shaving and then the phone is silent and John puts the receiver reluctantly back on its cradle and stands there wondering if what he just experienced was real. He can feel the fuzzy carpet beneath his feet scratching against his dry peeling skin. The voice in the back of his mind says he should go back to bed. He wants to object, but he's not sure why anymore. Whatever just happened is fading and he can imagine the warm comfy bed beneath him, holding him, cradling him, keeping him warm.

He shifts on his heels and heads back to the bedroom, lies down then plummets into oblivion.

***

The sun shines as John steps from the white Plymouth Voyager toward the building, briefcase in one hand, a small cooler in the other. Blue siding hangs in patches from the walls. Boarded windows and bird nests seem to make up the rest of the structure. John makes his way to the door in the narrow alley behind the building and pulls out a single silver key. He puts it in the lock and turns, steps inside.

The place is dark. Cold. Quiet. But John needs no light to see, needs no sound to hear. With neat precise steps he follows an invisible maze through the blackness then stops. Muffled whimpers alternate between shaking breaths just below. The knowing inside John comes alive and he kneels down on one knee, sets the briefcase and cooler down.

The man before John sits gagged and tied to a chair bolted to the floor. John pulls a pair of hedge clippers from the briefcase and steadies himself. He puts the sharp Y around the man's left index finger and just as the body attached to it begins to quake, he squeezes the two handles together. Muffled whimpers turn to muffled screams as the finger plops to the floor. The whimpering returns, but the knowing inside ignores it and so does John.

He picks up the finger, puts it in the cooler. Returning the clippers, he pulls out a long surgical blade and some needlenose pliers. Legs and hands scramble to break free from the bruise-tight ropes but only manage to flap at best. The eyes are pleading as John glances down without emotion. Tearing open the man's shirt is easy enough. Then comes the scalpel. He cuts through the flesh like jelly. Smooth, slick, and easy. Careful to keep it straight, he makes a long horizontal incision. The screaming pitch rises as John pushes the pliers into the wound and snaps the bottom rib loose.

After dropping the bone into the cooler and putting away the pliers, John climbs onto the man's lap, sliding in the puddle of sweat and blood. He grabs the man's chin, squinting to get a good look at his target point of entry.

The thick red gag drapes down under the man's chin and John pulls it out of the way, then goes to make the final cut. As his knife nears its victim, the torn cloth falls softly in the way, sending a wave of frustration through John's nerves. He reaches up and swiftly rips the gag away with the blade, tearing into the man's right cheek. A scream erupts into a flood of desperate words.

"...don't know what you're doing, they've got you. Look at me! Can't you see? You'll kill me! Aren't two seeds enough? I promise... they'll never know. I'll... run away. Some other place. You can give them someone else's fucking esophagus. Please, wouldn't you do the same if you had--" the voice peels into gargles as John slices carefully into the man's neck and down the middle of his chest and before long, it goes silent.

When the man's esophagus sits wrapped in plastic between two ice packs, John closes the cooler. He makes his way back through the invisible maze and leaves, locking the door on his way out.

***

In the Kitchen, Sheila welcomes John home with a kiss. He sets his briefcase down and sighs.

"Long day?"

"Oh yeah. Another rough client. But in the end I got what I came for." He grins.

"Well, good. Sounds like it was worth the trouble." She turns and opens the refrigerator. John walks past her and out the back door. He puts the cooler with the three seed-implanted tissues down on the patio. Come morning it will be empty same as always.

Its job well done, the knowing inside John crawls back into his mind, deep within the comfort of subconscious bliss to wait for the next reclamation.