Free Ghoul by Brian Keene Page B

paper mill with him every day. Why should he be stuck doing this stuff all summer long, just because his father was a drunk? Chores, his father called them.
    Barry knew about chores, and this wasn't it. Timmy had chores; weeding the garden and sweeping out the basement, stuff that took him an hour or so to complete. Timmy bitched and complained about it, but Barry could only laugh. Timmy had no idea how lucky he was. He didn 't have to bust his rear just to cover for his old man's laziness.
    Barry didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, but it certainly wasn't his father.
    Buzzing gnats flew in front of his face, darting for his eyes and ears. He waved them away and dropped another shovel full of dirt onto the coffin, listening to it hit the wood and trickle down the sides.
    Minutes later, another sound echoed across the graveyard, the roar of the backhoe's powerful diesel engine as it sputtered to life. Slowly, his father backed it out of the utility shed and drove over to the grave, carefully weaving the big machine through the tombstones. Barry backed out of the way, grateful for the short break, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Using the scoop, his father quickly filled the hole with dirt. Then he shut off the backhoe, hopped down, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled into the sky. The tip glowed.
    Barry thought his father seemed nervous.
    The sun edged closer to the horizon.
    “No screwing around now,” Clark grumbled. “Let's get this done quick. Your mom's got dinner waiting.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Barry tensed. His father's tone was all too familiar. It meant trouble tonight. For him, for his mother, for anybody who did anything to piss him off. Barry wondered whose turn it would be this time.
    He hated his father. Sometimes, late at night when everyone was asleep, Barry imagined what it would be like to kill him. He thought about it again now. To hit him over the head with the shovel, dig up the dirt and throw him down on top of Dane Graco's coffin, then fill it all in again, burying his old man alive. He grinned, even as sour bile rose in his throat. He knew it wasn't right, thinking that way. He knew that God could see inside his heart, just like Reverend Moore said. But he couldn't help it. Besides, if God really cared, then why didn't He step in and help them? Why did He allow Barry and his mother to continue living this way? He imagined his father in the hole, gasping and sputtering as the dirt hit him in the face. His smile grew broader.
    “What are you grinning about?” Clark grunted. “You laughing at me?”
    “No.”
    “Then what you grinning about?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Wipe that damn smirk off your face and keep working.”
    “Yeah ...”
    “Yeah? Yeah what?”
    Barry lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
    They replanted the squares of sod on top of the grave, as they'd done so many times before, and neither said a word to the other as they worked.
    Barry watched his father out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if he was drunk yet. He knew that his father kept a bottle of Wild Turkey hidden in the shed, and it was very likely he'd taken a few swigs while getting the backhoe. Barry hadn't told Timmy and Doug about the secret stash. They might want to try some, the way they had last summer when they'd found a six pack of Old Milwaukee beer that Pat Kemp had left in the creek to stay cold (the oversized pounder cans). Secretly, Barry was terrified of alcohol and its effects. He'd seen firsthand what it did to his father, turning him into someone else, into a monster, and he had no desire to do the same. Barry 's biggest fear was of becoming his father. He'd heard other adults say that happened--as you got older, you became your parents. He'd vowed that in his case, he'd make sure that didn't happen. Never. He hated it when some well-meaning adult patted him on the head and said, 'Why, you look just like your father.'His father was an abusive drunk, and Barry had the scars, both