Frank heard the nigger's footsteps. They were loud at first, and then they were muffled by the wall between the bedroom and the hall. The front door slammed. Footsteps on the gravel. And then nothing.
He lay completely immobile in bed, the piss drying on his body, the taste of metal still lingering in his mouth. The rain had picked up again, the wind, too. He knew he had to get up and do something about the power. Go find the circuit box and see if he could get the lights back on. He couldn't just lay there in the dark. It was making him crazy.
But Frank couldn't get himself to move. The nigger might be out there. He might be waiting for him, just giving him a bit of false hope before he took that hope away. His fear was paralyzing him. No, Frank thought. The nigger wouldn't kill him tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight. It wouldn't make sense for the nigger to let him live, only to shoot him a few minutes later.
And then an even more troubling thought occurred to Frank.
He realized there was a good chance this nigger was not the only one who wanted to kill him.
About the Author
SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER's first novel, The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys, was hailed by Publishers Weekly as a "touching and impressive debut." His short stories have appeared in dozens of popular magazines and anthologies, including Asimov's, Analog, Ellery Queen, Realms of Fantasy, and Weird Tales. His fantasy chronicling the untold story of Pinocchio, Wooden Bones, will be released by Simon and Schuster in the summer of 2012. He lives in Oregon with his wife, two children, and thousands of imaginary friends. Visit his website for yournger readers at www.rymadoon.com
Also by
Scott William Carter
www.scottwilliamcarter.com
Novels:
The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys
President Jock, Vice President Geek
Lincoln and the Dragon
Drawing a Dark Way [Rymadoon]
A Tale of Two Giants [Rymadoon]
Wooden Bones (forthcoming)
Short Story Collections:
The Dinosaur Diaries
A Web of Black Widows
Tales of Twisted Time
The Unity Worlds at War
Strange Ghosts
As Jack Nolte:
(Mystery and Suspense)
The Gray and Guilty Sea
Everybody Loves a Hero
As K.C. Scott:
(Romantic Comedy)
Dog Food and Diamonds
Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, December 2010. Copyright 2010 by Scott William Carter. Originally appeared in Ellery Queen, June 2007.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Road Gamble
Whipping around the sharp bends, tires squealing on wet asphalt, Simon pushed his little Miata close to eighty. The wall of pine trees on both sides, as well as the black sky above, created a dark tunnel into the hills. He was thinking about making it to the coast before midnight, early enough to squeeze in a few hands with the late night poker crowd at the casino, and he didn't see the motorcycle until he was almost on top of it. With no taillight, and with its rider clad in black, the bike emerged from the dreary gloom like a moth alighting on his windshield.
"Holy mother of—" he cried, stomping on his breaks.
The seat belt snapped taut against his chest. His car fishtailed, back tires screaming, front end coming inches from the bike's mud-caked license plate.
Up close, the Miata's headlights slashed through the rain and the dark, illuminating the man and his bike in vivid detail. The guy's glistening jacket bore a striking design: a white bear head in profile, glowing as if luminescent. It was the only thing on the rider that wasn't black; pants, boots, even the helmet melted with the stormy night, making the bear appear to hover over the road.
Simon didn't know much about motorcycles, but the bike was definitely too sleek and compact to be a Harley. It looked like it belonged on a racing track, not a highway.
Heart pounding, Simon eased off the biker. He would have thought the commotion would startle the guy, maybe caused him to swerve, but the biker's only reaction was to turn his head halfway around, just far enough that Simon's headlights appeared on the helmet's mirrored faceplate like a pair of hot ember eyes. The guy looked for a moment, then turned back to the road.
And dropped his speed down to thirty.
Son of a gun. Simon could understand the guy being pissed—Simon had nearly plowed over him—but going half the speed limit, even in these conditions, seemed petty.
The squeaking wipers struggled to keep the windshield clear. Dashboard fans roared out a steady stream of warm air. There were few opportunities to pass on Highway 18, but Simon knew there was a passing lane in a few miles. He'd driven this road so many times, every pothole and mile marker was burned in his memory. He'd wait a few minutes, give the guy a chance to cool down. He really wanted to get to that poker game—he was already imagining the rush of tossing in his first ante—but he didn't want to get into some kind of stupid road game. In these conditions, one of them could end up dead in a ditch.
As his heart slowed, he felt a pang of remorse. What if he had died out here? Tomorrow—Saturday—was Jana's second birthday. He could just imagine the look on her face as she sat on their crappy lima bean couch in their mouse trap apartment—an apartment that should have been packed with children laughing and making noises with party favors, but instead would be empty and deathly quiet—as her mother explained why Daddy wasn't coming home.
She was so young . . . In a few years would she even remember him?
Guilt—it was the worst kind of feeling, a feeling Simon had come to dread because he knew it always lurked somewhere around the corner. The worst part, the absolute worst part was that Tracy would know, if he died on this stretch of road at this time of night (when he was supposed to be hanging out at Steve's watching horror flicks) that he had broken his word.
Promising to give up gambling forever was the only way he had been able to keep her from leaving him.
But what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. After all, he wasn't playing like last year when his losses forced them to file for bankruptcy. No, it was nothing like that. Just an occasional game here and there. For fun, really. Spare change he earned from his tips, money Tracy never saw. He'd never dip into his bank account again. He was in control now.
His radio, turned low, was losing its Rexton signal to static, and Simon clicked it off. When he did, he noticed his hand was shaking. Apparently the incident had gotten to him more than he thought it did. The biker went on puttering at thirty, the spray from his back tire misting in the beams from Simon's headlights. Not a single car passed from the other direction, but Simon knew the road was way too popular, even on nights like this, to chance passing with a double yellow.
Jana's birthday, he kept telling himself. Jana's birthday.
He honked his horn a few times, but the guy didn't react. A few minutes later, they crested a rise and rounded a bend, entering a brief downhill straight stretch. Ah, now here was the passing lane. The road opened up, the dotted white line appearing. Accelerating, Simon moved to the left. The biker stayed on the right and in a few seconds Simon was alongside him.
For just a moment, no more than a few seconds, Simon eased off the accelerator to look at the biker.
From the side, it was easier to get a good look. He was a big guy, not tall but broad, wide across the shoulders, thick in the middle. If he had a neck, Simon couldn't see it—his helmet sat right on his linebacker shoulders. His pants tucked snuggly into his boots, pullin
g tight around his bulging calves. His hands, covered with black leather gloves, were also huge. Clenching the handlebars, they made the bike seem undersized beneath him, like a toy.
Simon realized this guy didn't seem like a guy at all. He seemed more like the creature on the back of his jacket—a bear. He suddenly wished he could see the guy's face. Would he look like Grizzly Adams, hair all over the place? He chuckled at the thought.
As if sensing he was being mocked, the biker turned and looked. It was then that Simon realized he had made a terrible mistake, lingering like this; imagining the eyes staring at him from behind the face shield sent a chill up his spine. He did not know this man, had no idea where he was going or why, but he sensed that this was not somebody to mess with. This was not a man you stared at, not for five seconds, not even for one. He wasn't threatening in a Hell's Angel sort of way, all bravado and bullying. Most bikers acted tough because they didn't want to fight, hoping their image of toughness would be enough to scare you away. No, Simon got the feeling this guy didn't care about projecting an image of toughness.
He didn't need to act tough because he was.
As if he had just come face to face with a rattlesnake, Simon turned slowly toward the road, applying gentle pressure to the accelerator.
But as he accelerated, the biker also increased his speed. Forty-five miles an hour . . . Fifty . . . Fifty-five . . .
The end of the passing lane was coming up in a hurry. The guy stayed right there, across from his window. Simon didn't dare look, but he saw well enough with his peripheral vision that the guy was still looking at him.
A yellow sign warned of the end of the passing lane. Sixty . . . Sixty-five . . . Seventy . . . For Christ's sake, the guy would not back off. The dotted white line vanished, the two lanes merging into one. His heart racing, Simon punched the accelerator and his Miata jerked forward.
He hoped one last burst of speed would propel him past the biker, but the guy stayed neck and neck. Worse, the road brought them together like two canoes in a narrowing river, and soon the guy was so close to his passenger side window that Simon couldn't help but look. There, beyond the rain-streaked glass, lost in all that black leather, was the shiny faceplate still looking straight at him.
Cursing, Simon hit his brakes.
The biker sped past. Immediately the guy started to slow down — dropping, dropping some more, forcing Simon to keep tapping the brakes, until they were all the way back down to thirty again.
"I don't believe this," Simon said aloud.
He honked his horn a few more times. Again, the guy puttered along, not once turning to look back at his follower. There wasn't another passing lane for at least ten miles. At this pace, the poker games would be shutting down for the night by the time he got there.
Simon thought about taking his chances across the double yellow line, but as if in response to his thought, a pair of headlights emerged from the gloom and a van whipped past, rocking his car and spraying his windshield.
He laid on his horn, then gave the guy's back a double bird. Still nothing. Maybe the guy was deaf. He drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. He'd just have to bide his time. There was a place to pass in a few minutes, and if he had even a hint of open road, he'd go for it. Show this punk what real speed was all about.
But when he reached the area to pass, and started to make his move, the guy sped up again.
Totally unbelievable. The guy was determined to be an absolute prick. This went on for another ten minutes—slowing in the double yellows, speeding up in the passing areas—until finally Simon couldn't take it any more. He was going to pass and damn the consequences. The jerk was on a motorcycle, for Christ's sake. He would have to back off or he'd end up flying over his handlebars.
The nachos and cheese he had an hour earlier now came back to haunt him; his stomach churned and gurgled. He'd need a bathroom before too long. He was halfway to the coast now, in one of the darker stretches; the dense forest on both sides crowded the twisting road, the branches reaching overhead, creating a canopy. They passed a wooden sign indicating they were in the Van Duzen National forest. Simon knew that except for a rest stop and a campground, there wouldn't be any other sign of people for twenty miles.
At least the rain had lessened to a light drizzle, allowing him to turn down his wipers. He passed up a couple opportunities to pass until he hit the spot he wanted—another downhill slope with a passing lane. Then he bore down on the gas. His quick move got him alongside his companion, but as expected, the biker matched him.
Simon clamped down on the steering wheel. He felt his pulse in his hands. They streaked down the hill, the forest a blur on both sides. The extra speed increased the moisture spattering his windshield, making the glass blurry for seconds at a time, but Simon didn't want to take his hands off the wheel to speed up the wipers.
They barreled along, his speedometer passing over seventy, then eighty, then ninety . . .
As his engine screamed, Simon held his breath. The dotted white line vanished. The road narrowed. The punk still wasn't backing off, and there was no way Simon was letting off the juice now. He took a quick glance at the biker and, with a chill, saw the guy look over at the same time.
The extra lane disappeared, and then the two of them shared a lane, Simon partially over the double yellow. A bend in the road loomed ahead, a wall of trees beyond it.
Knowing his Miata cornered well, he kept his speed high and squealed around the bend. The biker stayed right with him, leaning into the curve, his shoulder nearly touching Simon's passenger side window.
That's when a pair of headlights appeared.
Simon had only a second to react. The gap between the lights made him think the vehicle was a semi or a motor home, and he jerked his wheel to the right. He knew the biker was there, but he had no other choice. As the truck—and it was indeed a semi truck—rumbled past, shaking his little car with its wall of wind, the Miata bumped the motorcycle.
The guy swerved onto the shoulder and beyond, kicking up a shower of mud. Simon's momentum drifted him toward the shoulder, and for a second he thought he was going to hit the guy again, but the biker suddenly dropped behind. By then they had rounded the corner and Simon had the Miata under control.
He gasped for breath, finally remembering to breathe. Heart pounding in his ears, he roared up a hill in the storm, nothing but open road in front of him. The surge of adrenaline lit every one of his senses on fire. He did it. He actually did it. Glancing in his rear view mirror, he saw only blurry darkness behind him. The guy was gone. He must have pulled off, shaken up by the whole thing. Simon had actually proven the cooler customer.
"Hot damn," he said.
The glass splintered instantly into a spider web of cracks, the sound as loud as a gunshot. Simon yelped and ducked to the right, car swerving. He glanced up just in time to see a fist strike the window—a black leather fist wearing gleaming brass knuckles.
This time the glass gave way in the center, shards landing on Simon's lap.
The wind roared in his ears. Wet air rushed into the car, smelling of pine and mud. Simon saw the outline of the biker outside the window, and seeing the shine of the leather through the broken glass suddenly made the guy more real—as if before he was merely a projection of Simon's tired mind, or a villain in a video game.
They neared the top of the hill. Leaning away from the window, Simon edged closer to the edge of the road, but the biker followed, punching the glass again. More glass went flying, and this time a piece struck him above his mouth.
Tasting blood on his lips, Simon hit the brakes, hoping his attacker would race by, but the guy slowed along with him. The fist came through the window again, and this time the burly hand struck him on the cheek. It was only a glancing blow, more leather than brass making contact, but it was still powerful enough to jerk his head to the right. Purple and red stars flashed in front of his eyes.
When his vision cleared, the Miata was halfway in the ditch.
As it plowed over the uneven ground, the car trembled and shook. The side of his face throbbing, the skin around his left eye already swelling, Simon steered the car back onto the highway. The biker was there, but Simon wasn't going to get punched again. As they roared over the hill, the night a swirl of black and green around them, he let out a primal scream and swerved at the biker.
The guy was too fast. He moved even farther to the left. They banked around a gentle curve, and it was then that a white motor home emerged from the night like a whale surfacing from the depths of the ocean.
Just in time, Simon whipped the Miata back into his own lane. He cringed, expecting to hear a sickening crunch.
But there was no such sound.
After the motor home roared past, blaring its horn, there was the biker on the far left shoulder, keeping pace. He turned and looked at Simon.
Simon's stomach churned even worse—now he really needed a bathroom. As they hit another straight stretch, not a car in sight, the biker barreled across the lanes. Simon swerved back and forth, trying to keep his attacker at bay, but these feints didn't fool him. He turned along with Simon, and then deftly sidled up to him. Simon leaned away, expecting another blow, but this time the fist grabbed his steering wheel.
Last Stop on Dowling Street Page 2
