Sobbing, T.J. ran toward the road and called his father.
“Joseph, where’s our son!?” cried Carolyn over the phone,
two days later.
“What do you mean?” answered Joseph. “He’s with me.
He didn’t tell you? He showed up on his bike the other
night. He said you knew. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, my god. His face….” She trailed off and Joseph could hear her guttural squeals in the background.
“Carolyn, you’ve got to calm down. What happened?”
She explained to Joseph, as best she could, what had
become of Greg. How he hadn’t answered her texts or calls.
Through the screams and coughs and the manic mantra of
“No, no, it can’t be real, ” Carolyn let out a few details. Coming home to a broken screen door. The sickening, dried
pool of blood and shredded skin. Flies buzzing around.
Greg’s chest torn open, maggot-ridden intestines and
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various innards strewn about the floor. She said animals
had decimated his body as if it were some wild game in the middle of the forest. There were teeth marks, unmistakable for anything else. Large chunks of meat had been stripped
from Greg’s torso, a show of savagery that seemed almost
sadistic in its magnitude.
• • •
It was a cool, late-summer afternoon when T.J. and Joseph
set out on the Otselic River. T.J had been living in Joseph’s small apartment in town while Carolyn sorted out Greg’s
financial arrangements. Since Greg’s gruesome demise,
Carolyn had done a tremendous amount of soul-searching.
She even apologized to Joseph for not letting him take
T.J. on vacation that summer. With Carolyn distracted,
T.J. found it easier to convince her to purchase expensive terrariums for his bedroom, and had even gotten her to
buy him new fishing equipment and a pair of kayaks.
They were floating down the river when something
caught Joseph’s eye on the far bank. “Psst, T.J. Do you see that? Is that what I think it is?!”
T.J. followed his father’s line of vision across the river.
Crawling out of the water was a four-foot-long, dark-olive alligator. Its belly was distended, appearing as if it had recently consumed a large meal.
T.J. had been certain he’d never again see Jesup. The
little gator had grown considerably on fine, organic meats since he’d nabbed it at the sanctuary down in Georgia—and
it was a sight to see him now on the riverbank, living as
nature had intended.
“Dad, I’ve got something to tell you...”
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• XVII •
mODEL CITIzENS
Al Larson, star slugger for the Lestershire Lips, was
slumped over in the home team dugout, scratching
feverishly at his skin. An incessant itching rash had appeared on his chest during the first inning, growing increasingly more persistent as the game progressed, to the point where it had become unbearable. It got so bad that the coach had to bench Al in the fourth inning after he misplayed an easy pop fly and cost the team a crucial run.
“Damn, Larson,” said Chuck Teague, the hitting
coach, taken aback by the nasty rash that had formed on Al’s forehead. “What happened? You run into some poison ivy
along the third base line?”
“It’s the darnedest thing. Just started out of nowhere,
like I slid headfirst over sandpaper.” Al dug his nails into his skin, trying to manage whatever relief he could, however momentary. He pulled the front of his jersey down to reveal that his chest was red as well. “It’s all over, too. The front of my legs, arms—I’m not sure how much more I can take,
to be honest.”
“Let me go get you some of that ointment that Lefty’s
always using.”
But by the time Chuck returned, Al was already rolling
in the dirt, yowling in pain. Frantically, Al ran his hands
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all over his body, as if it were crawling with fire ants; his concerned, and perplexed, teammates stood in a semicircle
around him. Several personnel rushed into the dugout to
see to him while Chuck phoned the nearby firehouse.
Not ten minutes later a fire truck pulled onto the field.
Hundreds of fans had remained in the stands, curious as to what had happened to end the game an inning early. The
emergency medical crew rushed to the dugout and looked
over the star ballplayer.
“Gosh, Mr. Larson, did you collide with Tris Peak in
the gap or somethin’?” said Tommy Chance, the youngest
man on the fire crew.
Al only rasped and groaned in response. Chuck stepped
forward to point out the rash on the man’s chest. “He’s
been itchin’ all game, son. We haven’t the foggiest what
happened,” said Chuck. “Lefty’s special ointment didn’t
do much for him. I guess it’s better suited for spitters and cut fastballs.”
“Let’s get him on the stretcher, Tommy. He’s going to
Memorial,” said Tommy’s partner, Dick Furch.
Al lay on a bed in the emergency room of the local
hospital, his skin raw and tender. He couldn’t quite grasp it, how the rash and the itching had come so abruptly. He
had heard of guys coming down with issues after spending a little too much time with the Baseball Annies, but never in his life had he seen, or felt, anything quite like his current predicament.
The nurses covered him with ice packs to try and stifle
his desire to itch as he waited. A half-hour or so later, a man in a white coat walked into the room. He looked closer to fifty, with silver hair and pallid skin, and he carried himself with the air of someone who commanded respect.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Larson. I’m Dr. Drummond.
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mODEL CITIzENS
I’ll be taking care of you today.” Drummond was the head of the ER. “It’s not often we get a star ballplayer in our midst.
You led the team in homeruns last year, is that right?”
“Hello,” said Al, weakly. “Yes.”
“Impressive.” The doctor examined Al’s face. “Can
you tell me when this rash began to develop?”
“Just this afternoon, Doc. One minute I was fine,
standing there listening to the national anthem, and the
next my skin feels like it’s on fire and my face and chest are red as hell.” Al paused and realized he had ceased itching.
“And now, it’s as if it never happened!”
“You haven’t come into contact with any exotic plants
lately?”
“No. Christ, these ice packs really did the trick.”
“Did you ingest anything out of the ordinary? What
did you eat in the last 24 hours?”
“Eggs. Bacon. A turkey sub. Tobacco. Chewing gum.
Seeds. A dozen bananas. A couple beers.”
“And you say your skin went from normal to beet-red
in a matter of minutes?”
Al nodded.
Dr. Drummond paused. “I see.”
“So what’s wrong with me, Doc?”
The conversation was broken by a ruckus in the hallway.
A stretcher was wheeled into the room, on which lay Tommy
Chance, the young firefighter that had assisted Al not an
hour before. Tommy was struggling to breathe and his
skin had turned a deep, distressing blue. The medics that
wh
eeled him in attempted various resuscitative methods,
which seemed to work, as Tommy eventually came to.
There was a moment of relief before Tommy began to
gasp for air again. Al watched, amazed, as Tommy began
to spit and vomit up water, gushing out of his mouth as
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if a rushing tide had formed in his throat. This spectacle subsided after another minute and Tommy lay on the bed,
breathing easier.
“Was this man pulled from the river?” asked Dr.
Drummond.
“No, no, Doc. This is my partner, Tommy Chance. We
were all just sitting at the card table back at the firehouse, not ten minutes ago, and he began to turn purple and flail around,” replied Dick Furch.
Dr. Drummond put his stethoscope to Tommy’s chest
and back and listened. “Tommy, have you been swimming
in the past 24 hours? There is such a thing as delayed
drowning.”
“No, Doc,” said Tommy, breathlessly.
“Well, your lungs seem clear. We’ll get you an x-ray,
just to make sure.”
When the commotion had died down, Dr. Drummond
sent the remaining hospital staff to tend to other rooms,
and Tommy’s partner, Dick, back out to the waiting area.
He stood between Tommy and Al’s beds and addressed
them both. “Gentlemen, I don’t need to tell you that you’re both presenting with some very curious symptoms. In the
past month, a number of men have come in with severe
complications and then miraculously recovered before we
could diagnose them. A police officer with severe impact
trauma from just sitting at his desk, the elementary principal having broken both of his arms during an afternoon nap,
our very own mayor passing blood out of every orifice…” The doctor paused, considering how crazy it all sounded, and he had witnessed it. “I think there might be a commonality
between what you and Tommy are experiencing. Now, this
might sound odd, but hear me out...”
Al looked at the doctor incredulously, then over to
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mODEL CITIzENS
Tommy, who bore a similarly perplexed look upon his
still-blue face.
“Doc,” said Al. “I don’t understand. You think me and
Tommy’s maladies have something to do with each other?
Sure, he helped me out on the ballfield—thanks for that,
pal,” he said, addressing Tommy, who nodded back. “But
other than that, we’re practically strangers.”
“You’ve got more in common than you know,” said
Dr. Drummond. “The two of you should come with me to
Mr. Lester’s house, up on the hill. I really believe he can help us out on this one. He’s a personal friend.”
“How’s Lester going to help out my rash, Doc? I don’t
think you can just throw money at this problem. Let me talk to…” Al stopped as another wave of heavy itching abruptly
returned. It was spreading rapidly. Meanwhile, Tommy
looked on, fearful he would again begin coughing up water.
“You sure you don’t want my help?” said Dr.
Drummond.
Tommy spoke up. “Mr. Larson, I really think we should
listen to the doc and go up to the Big House.”
Al relented, while Dr. Drummond made arrangements
for a car to meet the three men out in front of the hospital.
The car arrived at the Sunshire Chateau, the Lester family home, fifteen minutes later. The Sunshire overlooked the
valley and village of Lestershire, the town the Lester family had founded and built up through farming and then boot
manufacturing. It was an impressive structure, one which
every citizen in the valley was familiar with (you couldn’t miss it if you simply looked north from Main Street). Mr.
Lester was powerful, but Al was certain Lester’s abilities did not extend to curing mysterious illnesses.
“I’ve treated the Lester family my entire career. He’ll
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
hear me out,” said Dr. Drummond, as the trio headed to
the front door of the red brick mansion.
Al and Tommy looked at each other quizzically,
curious of what the doctor wasn’t sharing. They knocked
and a maid answered, recognizing the doctor and inviting
the men inside to wait.
“May I ask the reason for which you are calling, Doctor?
Mr. Lester has been very busy,” said the maid.
“Tell him Al Larson won’t be able to play in the series
against the Scranton Miners this weekend,” stated the
doctor. “That should do the trick.”
The maid nodded and headed down a hallway, while
the trio of men looked around the grand entranceway and
main receiving hall of the Chateau. An ornate maroon-
and-white rug covered what they could see of the ground
level of the home. Turn-of-the century chairs and sofas
decorated the vast room.
“What’s up, buddy?” Tommy called out to a boy of
about eight-years-old, who had been watching through a
railing from the second floor.
The young boy laughed and ran off out of sight.
Meanwhile, the maid had returned to take the men back to
Mr. Lester’s private office.
“Al, goddamnit, what’s wrong now? You need a bigger
bonus?” said Mr. Lester as he stood behind his cluttered
desk. “Drummond, don’t tell me he’s got bone spurs or
somethin’.”
“No, Mr. Lester, my pay is fine. It’s this rash…”
The doctor cut off Al. “Mr. Lester, this is Tommy
Chance. He’s one of the firefighters who saved the carousel from burning down over the winter. A real hero.”
“Yes, nice to meet you, Tommy. Thank you for your
service.”
• 170 •
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Lester queried Tommy and Al about their respective
recoveries. The men only noticed the doctor’s strange
contorting limbs when he knocked into Lester’s large globe humidor.
“Drummond, what the hell are you doing?” barked
Lester.
The doctor had a blank look on his face as he spasmed
and his limbs seemed to move at unnatural angles. Al winced at what sounded like Drummond’s ligaments stretching
and popping beneath his skin and watched aghast as the
doctor’s arms and legs twisted at the joints. He thought
he had witnessed the absolute limit of the human body’s
pliability when the doctor’s torso suddenly bent backwards at an obscene angle. Without explanation the spectacle
ceased and Drummond ran out of the office and down the
hall.
Al and Tommy stood silently, mouths agape, shocked
at the extraordinary scene they had just witnessed. They
looked to Mr. Lester for answers.
“Oh, Lord, not again… I’m gonna strangle that
goddamn nanny!” Lester stormed out a second door,
leaving a stunned Al and Tommy to question the sanity of
the other two men.
“What’s going on here, Al?” asked Tommy, his voice
trembling, still somewhat raspy from the trauma he had
&nb
sp; endured earlier.
Al didn’t respond until a man’s scream shook him
from his daze. The pair ran back down the hall and out
into the entranceway.
“That sounded like the doc,” stated Tommy, as the
men paused to listen.
• 172 •
mODEL CITIzENS
Again, a man’s fearful call resounded. “Upstairs. Let’s
go,” said Al.
The ballplayer and the firefighter ran up the steps and
down the hall, peering in room after room of the long
corridor, searching for Dr. Drummond.
Finally, Al opened a bedroom door and found the
good doctor. “Tommy, he’s in here. C’mon!”
The two men stormed into the room and didn’t know
what to make of the scene. Dr. Drummond was standing
stock-still in front of an open window, while the young
boy they had seen earlier played with his dolls on the floor.
There was a fat man with pins stuck in his belly wearing
Mayor Petcosky’s distinctive decorative sash, a policeman
that Tommy instantly recognized as Detective Burnett (by
his bright-red hair) run over by a police car, a fireman
standing in a glass of water, and a baseball player wearing a jersey with the name ‘Larson’ stitched on the back, sliding face down on the rough Berber carpet.
“You son of a…” said Al, seeing that the boy was about
to push his white-coated doctor figure out of the second-
floor window of his replica Sunshire Chateau dollhouse.
“Put that down!”
Before the boy could respond, Al swiftly grabbed him
and knocked the doll out of his hand. Dr. Drummond
simultaneously collapsed next to the window.
Tommy retrieved the policeman and firefighter from
their precarious situations, and carefully pulled each pin from the mayor’s big belly. He held his double and the
other notable men protectively, starring daggers at the
young boy.
“Let me go, Mr. Larson!” yelped the boy.
Al released the kid and cuffed him on the back of the
head.
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
“Jonah, what you were doing with these dolls was very
wrong,” stated Dr. Drummond, who had slowly risen on
sore, shaky legs.
The boy abashedly collected some of his unexceptional
toys, as the men chastised him. He then scampered out of the room cackling to himself that his nanny, Ms. Manouchka,