If Not to Heaven

The gas gauge’s orange dial bounced above empty as I rolled into Four Winds, Louisiana. I had nothing but a wood nickel — good for one free drink at Hor ‘n Haw’s – and a backseat of fire extinguishers.

A local credit union’s sign claimed the temperature sat at a hundred and eight degrees. But that number was a bucket of peels: it was at least one ten. My car’s fan blasted on max, but with how hard the sun spat, I still thought the windshield might melt into my lap.

My eyes hopped from the road to the gas meter. Sell, sell, sell. Make a sale. Make it fast. Or beg for gas.

A year ago, I sold bug spray in Baton Rouge. It was a good story: folks under me, folks under them, and all that money floated up like sweet lard. But it only took one bad phone call and kablam. No more bug spray. No more job. No more sweet lard.

I landed on my two cheeks knocking on doors in some pucker mark towns south of Shreveport and north of Natchitoches selling residential use fire extinguishers. But, in Louisiana – a place guilty of having too much water – folks are more interested in killing bugs than fires.

Thick forests consumed half of Four Winds. A blip of commercial buildings included a fried chicken stand, a grocery store, and a gas station. Little brick houses scattered through the forest at seemingly random locations. It wouldn’t do. No matter how slick or silvery my tongue, I’d be lucky to make a sell at one in ten houses, but I’d be out of gas before I could hit half that many. I needed a cluster. Somewhere cramped, like a neighborhood or living complex. “God, show me the way.”

I drove on, scanning for the right street to hit. Four or five chained huskies barked and snarled as I rode past a rotting wooden house. Poor dogs were begging for someone to scoop them up and return them to Siberia, where they belonged. “Sorry, fellas.” I glanced in the car’s review mirror. The dogs’ tongues poured from their mouths, and the sun’s rays dug into their thick fur. “That just ain’t right.”

The orange you’d-better-get-gas-now-you-son-of-a-bitch light flicked on. I wrung the steering wheel and eyed the glovebox, picturing the King James Bible inside. “Father, by your grace, give me somewhere to sell.” I flicked sweat from my forehead. “Show me where to sell. Show me where to knock. Amen.”

The jungle cleared into a flat green lawn. A paved path led to a tall brown brick building with white-trimmed windows and flat Greek pillars. It looked like one of those big fancy private schools you see in pamphlets or on TV. A cobblestone sign sticking from the cut grass read Briar’s Chapel School Elderly Apartments.

I pulled to the curb. “Ask, and you shall receive. Knock, and it shall be given unto you.” I thumped my car into park and checked my hair in the mirror before fishing an extinguisher from the backseat and kicking the car door open.

The structure stood three stories tall, and the air smelled like cooked rocks. The concrete path sizzled and softened my shoe’s rubber soles. I hurried up a set of brick stairs, my shirt sticking to my damp skin as sweat bubbled from my forehead.

A small paper sign – which someone should have placed at the bottom of the stairs – informed me that this entrance wasn’t in use and that I would have to use the southern entrance. I groaned as I trotted down the stairs. I don’t know why God wanted me drenched in sweat before I started selling, but he’d better be satisfied with one detour.

I cut through the grass and circled to the south side of the building. The sweet reek of rotting garbage grew as I turned the corner and descended a set of concrete stairs. Dried mud dauber hives stuck in the basement door’s corners, and a faded No Solicitors sign hung proudly in the center. I smiled, picked something out of my teeth, and opened the door.

I figured most apartment interiors had cooling, but I was Judas wrong. A wave of boiling air scented like wet glue clawed past me, desperate to meet the outside oxygen. I made a “whoo” sound as I stepped inside.

A little wooden booth – like a ticket stand at the state fair – sat in the center of a small lobby. Dark green carpet flattened across the floor, and glops of hardened white paint dripped from the interior brick walls.

A chubby old man with a urine-yellow book leaned back in the booth, and two buzzing fans peppered his damp skin.

“How are you living?” I smiled and closed the door behind me. “It’s cooler on the grill than in here.”

The man peeked up from his novel, his eyes clear as a shard of smoky quartz. Fat rolled from his neck, and a spotted wart grew from his cheek.

“Those fans must do wonders.” I tugged at my shirt collar, and a pleasant air flowed across my chest. “It’s like I just stepped inside a lizard’s cage.”

“Ain’t got no reptilians here.” The old man lowered his book. “Figure they’re all up in DC.”

“Of course.” I smiled wider, and my cheeks ached.

“You won’t need to worry much about the heat.” The man looked me over. “We don’t do solicitors.”

I peeked down at the extinguisher in my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not fixing to bother anyone.” I fished a business card from my front pocket and slid it through a slot in the booth. “I’m not actually a salesman. My name is Knox Corbin. I work in security. Just like you.”

The man examined my card.

I glanced at the front door and wiped the sweat from my face. It was too damn hot. But how long would I last outside? Especially once my car ran empty and I had to heel it door to door. “May I ask your name?”

“Horton,” he said, still looking at the card.

“Horton? Well then, this must be Whoville.”

“Sure is.” Horton tucked the card into his paperback. “Fire extinguishers?”

“Yes, sir.” I lifted the metal canister. “I’m hoping to talk to some of your residents about fire safety.”

“I think that’s quite the last thing on their mind,” Horton said.

I wiped the sweat from my stinging eye. “If that’s true, I’ll be on my way with a clean conscience in a few minutes, no harm done to anyone.”

“Can you handle the heat that long?” Horton chuckled, revealing a cracked front tooth.

“Sure thing. I was raised south of here.”

“Orleans?”

“Baton Rouge.”

Horton grunted his approval. “Alright, then.” A padded office chair groaned as Horton straightened up. “You go on ahead and sell your sprayers. But you listen to me a minute.”

I nodded but bounced on my toes and glanced toward the hall.

“Let me give you a warning. This is a home for folks with no fortunes or redemptions. They’re tired, grumpy, and a bit stirred in the brain.” Horton’s finger hovered over a square black button. “The front door locks on the inside to keep residents from wandering out. When you’re done, I’ll let you out. If I’m not here, just wait, I’m probably pissing.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.” I stepped past the booth. “I won’t be long.”

“Hold on.” Horton leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “What brought you here, Mr. Corbin?” The question hung for a moment. “I can see you stopping in a town like Stonewall or Mansfield. But why stop at the deepest basement in Four Winds?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the good Lord guided me here.”

“Sure.” Horton frowned and leaned back in his chair. “And maybe not.”

Large foggy bulbs filled with dead flies struggled to illuminate the white hallway, which stunk strangely like a fisherman’s tackle box. A dehumidifier hummed as it dripped water into an overflowing bucket, and the roar of various television programs bled into the hall. Beautiful black doors marked with gold numbers lined both sides of the aisle.

I stood before the first door, wiped sweat off my face, and swished around the little saliva my mouth could produce. How did poor old Horton sit in that booth all day? He should be a shriveled hunk of jerky, even with two electric fans. I adjusted my shirt and fixed my hair. I’d make a quick sale, enough for some gas, and get out of here, God willing.

 Salty water tickled down my cheek as I knocked. Staticky laughter played from a television as footsteps thumped toward the door. Hopefully, a whiff of some of the air-conditioned apartments would be enough to cool me down.

A chain rattled, a bolt snapped, and the door creaked. Hot ammonia burst from the apartment, flooding the hall with a thick stink. I turned my head and covered my lips. My tongue pressed into the top of my mouth as the chemical burned my nostrils and forced tears into my eyes.

“Hello?” An old woman peeked up from a crack in the door.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

Bronze-rimmed glasses enlarged the woman’s flat, watery eyes, and thin white hair receded halfway across her scalp.

“Hello, ma’am,” I said, and my stomach lurched. “It’s hot. You ought to flip on a fan.”

“It’s always hot.” The woman’s muffled voice sounded like she spoke through a pillow. She glanced at the fire extinguisher. “Are you from the fire department?”

“No.” Drops of sweat dripped down my face and clung to my chin and nose. “Horton wanted me to ask you a few questions about fire safety.”

Her fingers, each adorned with a thick metal ring, clanked against the door.

“Did you know—” The taste of cat urine stained my tongue, and I paused, flexing my stomach. “Did you know the government requires fire extinguishers everywhere but in the home? Schools, malls—” I swallowed hard as vomit bubbled at the back of my throat. “Government buildings. But not homes. Aren’t homes most important?”

The woman touched a sharpened nail to her wrinkled pink lips. “You’re selling extinguishers?”

Yes, ma’am.” I caught myself swaying gently and straightened out. “I know it don’t seem like the sort of thing you’d toss onto a shopping list, but it’s important to be prepared.”

“How does it work?” Her big eyes blinked. “What does it spray? Water or something?”

What does it matter? I resisted an eye roll and smiled wide. “It’s a mix of chemicals.” I knocked on the metal canister. “Our extinguishers use a combination of water and carbon dioxide, which will suffocate any fire.”

“Is it cold?” Her arm abruptly lashed toward me, and though she was shrunk from age, her limb seemed to stretch.

My body jerked as I stepped back.

She froze, tilted her head, and glared curiously.

“I—I’m sorry.” I licked my lips, spreading dry slime over dried flesh. “What was your question?”

She withdrew her hand behind the door. “What temperature is the water that shoots out? Is it hot or cold?”

“Um—” I laid my palm on the extinguisher. “It’s like snow in a bottle. But I don’t think the fire minds none.” I aimed the extinguisher’s nozzle away from the door. “I’ve never been sprayed, though it’s tempting in this heat. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“When you’ve lived in the South all your life, you get used to the heat.”

“Ma’am, I’m born and bred from Baton Rouge, and I could never get used to heat like this.” I wiped my face again, and my skin burned.

“My husband was from Port Allen.” Her wrinkles deepened as she smiled. “How much?”

“Thirty-four ninety-nine.”

Her lips curled. “Expensive.”

“It’s cheaper than fire damage.”

She tapped her fingers. “I have cash in my purse. Can you wait here while I look for it?”

“Well—” I glanced toward the lobby and thought about heading back outside as the building’s thick air stuck in my throat. “Why don’t I come back in a few minutes?”

“Oh, no. I’ll be quick.” She backed into her apartment, leaving the door cracked and the putrid heat of her room radiating.

“Holy mother.” I picked at my damp shirt, which clung to me like a second skin.

Horton wasn’t lying; something was off about this woman. I waited a minute, and my leg started bouncing. The air felt like it was growing hotter. I peered into the apartment. “Ma’am?”

A boxy television illuminated a living room cramped by cardboard boxes and stacks of mail. She’d never find her purse in that mess. A dark shape darted across the living room, spilling a pile of mail onto the floor. Probably one of many cats this woman cared for.

“Ma’am?” I leaned further.

A giant crucifix, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, leaned against the living room wall. It was something you’d see hanging in a mega church, except that the crucified was not Jesus. The figure had no hair or beard, and rather than bearing the crown of thorns, a prickly vine wrapped around him like a spool of barbed wire, pinning him to the wooden beams.

I didn’t grow up Catholic, but I worked serving food at Lady of the Lake Hospital and knew some of the saints. But I couldn’t remember a saint that died on the cross like that.

The woman suddenly reappeared, sticking her face through the crack. “Here it is.” She held up a lime green purse.

“You have a beautiful apartment,” I said.

“I don’t like it.” Her bony fingers shook as they unclipped the purse. “Are you religious?”

“I was raised Presbyterian,” I said.

“I figured,” she said. “Is that why you’re knocking wood trying to save souls from fire?”

I chuckled as sweat dripped down my face. “I’m happy to do God’s work, but that ain’t how you save a soul. Only by God’s grace can we be saved.”

“Grace?” She sneered. “What is grace? What is being saved?”

“Ma’am?”

She pulled a stack of browned bills from her purse and filed through them. “My oldest boy, Danny, plucked me from home and dropped me here. That was his grace, but it don’t feel much like my salvation.”

“Sure.” I wiped my damp palm across my pants. “You have the cash?” I smiled.

“Here.” She slapped the wet wad into my hand.

“Thank you.” I set the extinguisher on the floor. “Let me count that for you and make sure you’re not giving me too much.” Or, more likely, too little. The bills stuck together as I shuffled through them. “Five. Six. Seven. Twelve…” I pressed my teeth together. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that’s only thirteen.”

“Oh no.”

I placed the bills into her hand. “Maybe next time.” Dampness spread under my pits and across my back as I grabbed the extinguisher and turned toward the lobby. I needed some air, and I needed it bad.

“Wait.” She dug through the purse. “I have some coins, I think.”

“How about I come back another time,” I said breathlessly.

She snagged my arm, and the heat of her metal rings burned through my shirt. “I need that extinguisher.”

I jerked my arm free and stepped back. “I’ll come back another time.”

“Please.” She held out the wad of cash. “Take it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Her eyes deepened and seemed to grow as her gaze viciously picked at my flesh. “It’s too much. You need to give me that.”

I held the extinguisher away, and my smile melted as my face relaxed. “Have a good day.” I walked briskly down the hall.

“Wait.” Uneven, slow steps thumped behind me. “I just need it for a moment. Just long enough to cool myself off.”

I growled and stared straight ahead. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

“Grace,” she said. “Can’t you show me grace over a few dollars?”

I neared the lobby and glanced back briefly. Something long and fleshy seemed to hang from the old woman. My head snapped forward. The heat blurred my eyes; that was all.

“Please,” she said, still thumping slowly toward me. “I can’t take it anymore.”

I nearly leaped into the lobby. “Horton, there’s a—”

The wooden booth sat empty.

“Horton?” The white walls suffocated my words.

“Give it to me!”

I yanked at the front door, but it stood firm in its frame.

“I need it!”

I smashed the butt of the extinguisher into the door.

“I need the cold!” A twisted shadow stretched into the lobby.

My arm hair prickled as bumps crawled up my skin. “Holy…” I shook my head. “Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.” I tucked my head down and ran toward the hall. I turned sharply to the right, away from the woman, and as I turned, the tips of manicured nails brushed the back of my shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Horton?” A thick, dry paste replaced my saliva, and the heat dried my throat. It’s a school. There had to be stairs, windows, multiple entrances, and Horton. “For God’s sake, Horton, where are you?” I scanned the doors for signs of a bathroom but found none.

I strode further down the hall, and the old woman’s steps faded. For a moment, I thought she’d given up her crazy and gone on home, but then I heard the thumping, quieter now, but still there. Something tugged at my eyes, wanting me to look back, but I held my gaze forward.

The hallway halted at an unmarked door. That had to be something. God guided me here, so he’d better get me out. Dry skin stretched around my knuckles as I grabbed the knob and opened the door.

Dusty rags and bottles of cleaner lined a wall of shelves, and an old vacuum leaned in the corner. Dust and chemicals boiled in the air.

“No, God,” I said. “No.” I slammed the door. Heat stirred my brain, and darkness crawled across my eyes like a horsefly creeping onto a camera lens. What would kill me first? The smell of chemicals? The crazy hag? The heat? Dampness stained my clothes, but sweat no longer clung to my skin. The heat sucked all the moisture away, leaving a gritty saltiness across my body.

I slowly turned, my back leaning against the door. The hallway blurred and stretched forever. The black doors melted and slowly dripped into the hall, filling the passage with an army of dark figures. I blinked, and the colors moved. I blinked, and my vision cleared.

Wrinkled figures stood outside each apartment, the light of the dull bulbs catching their eyes as they glared at me. Spanish moss poured from a bloodless incision across the stomach of an old shirtless man, and his veins popped up his arm as he gripped a sharpened wooden cross. A bald woman leaned on a cane of flesh and bone that twisted from her arm. The old woman still limped down the hall toward me, prayers mumbling on her lips and grotesquely long arms dragging behind her.

I didn’t scream; I didn’t think to. My muscles seized, and my teeth pressed together.

The lights flickered out, surrendering the aisle in darkness, and the elders’ eyes glowed like wild animals in headlights. Perfect silence filled the hall, sullied only by the rasping breath of the building’s occupants.

The eyes watched me.

Then, all at once, a great cacophony of shuffling feet shattered the silence.

My hand clawed at the door behind me as the eyes bobbed closer like buoys gliding across a black lake. I stumbled into the closet, rammed my shoulder against the door, and held the knob.

The army of rasping elderlies gathered around the closet, their hot breath colliding with the door.

The knob grew hotter, and the stench of cleaners stirred my guts. I pressed my eyes closed as acid bubbled in the back of my throat. My flesh hugged my bones, and my stomach cramped at the need for water. I was cooking alive. I needed to think. I needed to cool down. “God, please.” My eyes burned, but no tears came. “Please help me.”

The rhythmic, struggling breath of the elders grew quicker, the door shook, and the room grew hotter.

I slowly released the doorknob. I raised the fire extinguisher and turned the nozzle toward my face. They wouldn’t burn me alive. I have water. I have winter snow in a bottle. My fingers wrapped around the extinguisher’s trigger and squeezed.

The canister hissed deeply as it spewed white fire. I screamed as the icy maggots born of negative temperatures withered my skin. The extinguisher fell from my fingers as I pawed at the burning snow. I choked and clawed at my neck as the carbon dioxide filled the small closet.

I fumbled for the knob, and the door flung open. I rolled into the empty hallway, gasping for air, my flesh burning.

The hallway lights flickered, proudly displaying their bulbs of little black insects.

I got to my feet and ran toward the lobby, mist floating off my shirt.

Horton sat in the wooden booth, still reading his novel. “Any luck?”

I ran to the front door and grabbed the knob.

“You done?”

I nodded.

Horton groaned, and his chair squeaked. “You taking a break? Or you finished?”

I peeled my lips apart. “I’m not coming back.” The words flowed like a dull wind.

Horton chuckled. “I’m not sure that’s up to you.”

The front door clicked mechanically, and I pushed it open.

“You told me God guided you here,” Horton said. “Well, maybe sometime he’ll guide you right on back.”

The End

Author’s Biography

Toban Barnes is a writer from the rocky mountains of northern Utah. He primarily writes horror fiction but experiments with other genres. His published works include poetry, short horror fiction, and an interactive horror video game. Toban loves experimenting with genres and changing the way readers interact with fiction.