by Brad Hart
Destination? San Feliz.
Soon to be a city of death.
Chapter Four
The two twenty-one-year-old lovers sat in the old Buick on the hill overlooking the Pacific. It was dark. Not many cars drove by, except for a small sedan and a big pick up truck lifted up on beefy tires. There was another car in the lot, but it was at the other end with the lights off. It looked like no one was in it, like it had been abandoned there for some reason.
Patrick Starkley and Isabella Weir paid no attention to it. They were young and in love, so all they paid attention to was each other. It was a happy time in their lives. He had proposed to her two weeks ago, and they’d already begun planning the wedding. They were ready to start their lives with one another.
This night was a special night. It had been nothing in particular; just the two of them out on the town, but that was special enough. Patrick had gotten off from work early at his shift as a nurse at the town hospital, and he’d surprised Isabella at home with Chinese takeout. Then he took her out for a horror movie and afterward a romantic drive along the coast.
And then there they were, sitting in his old classic car and looking out at the moonlight over the Ocean. The water was black, and the light reflected off it, and Isabella felt like it was picture perfect, like something out of an old Hollywood movie. She leaned against her man and felt his warmth. She loved him so much. She was a lucky girl, and he was a lucky guy. She knew that couples like them didn’t happen all that often. There were good relationships, and then there were fantastic relationships. Patrick and Isabella fell into the latter category.
He turned his head and smiled at her. That same goofy smile as always; the one she’d fallen head over heels for. He kissed her, wrapping one hand around the back of her soft golden locks and putting the other on around her waist.
“I love you so much, baby. Seriously… Nights like this – well, every night with you – they all they mean the world to me.”
As their lips began to touch once again, and for the last time in their lives, the passenger door window shattered.
Before either of them could scream, a pair of beefy gloved hands grabbed hold of Isabella’s throat and hauled her out of the broken window. The man holding her by the neck then dropped her onto the ground and held her there with his boot pressed over her stomach. She was trapped, screaming, flailing her arms and legs on the ground.
“Hey! Hey, man - don’t hurt her!” Patrick shook and acted on instinct as he crawled over the glove compartment and into the passenger seat. The shards of glass dug into his bare knees and he winced with pain as he opened the door.
As soon as he stepped foot onto the concrete the man aimed a gun at his chest. Patrick stood staring at the gun, wide-eyed. He looked down at his fiancé. She was on the ground, held there by the man’s foot. He looked back up at the man. It had all happened in a matter of seconds, so it was the first time he had been able to get a look at the guy’s face. Or try to.
The man was wearing a red mask with two eye holes. He said nothing, but he breathed heavily like he was out of shape. Or excited. Like some kind of freak experiencing an adrenaline rush. He held the gun with alarming precision at Patrick’s chest. Isabella was squealing on the ground.
“Please. Please, sir. I have money. I can give you what I’ve got in my wallet, and I can give you my ATM card. You can tie us up and leave us here, please just don’t hurt us. I can-”
A bullet rang out and echoed loudly in the quiet night. It sounded like a grenade going off. It was the ugliest sound Isabella ever heard, and she wanted to die herself when she saw what had happened. It had blown a massive hole through Patrick’s chest. He dropped down to the ground, dead. His head smacked the asphalt with an ugly crack and spun around to face Isabella. The two of them lay next to one another. The only difference between them was that he was dead, and she wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. She stared into her fiancé’s lifeless, bulging eyes, and began to howl with pain. No one would hear her. No one except for the man holding her there.
She squirmed, she writhed, and she reached up with a fist and grabbed hold of the man’s crotch. She squeezed as hard as she could. The man doubled over with agony and took a step back, grunting and falling against the car. She was free then. By God, she was free. With all her might, all her terror and rage, she had managed to get out from beneath the monster. She stood up, mind reeling, body frozen with shock. She almost didn’t go anywhere. She felt like she couldn’t move.
But then she found the will. If she didn’t move, then she was dead. She was going to have a hole the size of a softball in her body just like Patrick did. She was sobbing as she began to sprint. The mascara was running down her cheeks and neck.
She ran as fast as she could toward the road. Beyond that was lots of farmland and endless mountains below the shining stars and vast emptiness of the sky. She needed to get away from him. She needed to be as far as possible from him. She could hide out there somewhere. It was dark, and he wouldn’t find her. Maybe he would get nervous, thinking she had escaped and called the police. Maybe he would leave, and she could hike her way back into town. She was screaming, heart thumping like a jackhammer, legs shaking, tears and sweat streaming.
The bullet grazed past her hip. It came so close with such force that she’d felt it. She made the mistake of looking back, and then she saw how close he was. She screamed louder, and then she turned again and ran like hell toward the road.
She didn’t make it.
It was dark, and she didn’t see the bench. She was in mid-stride when her shin slammed right into it, sending her toppling over it and into the brush. “Oh, God,” She murmured as she tried to bring herself to her feet. Her leg was stinging. If she was able to pull herself to her feet, then it was going to hurt. She wasn’t going to be able to run, at least not for long. The sage was thick and dense, and her feet were stuck in it. She groaned as she pulled herself up and started toward the empty highway.
Booted footsteps barreled toward her. She turned to look as she took one step forward, and then she gasped. He was right behind her. Massive, gloved hands wrapped around her torso. She screamed and was tossed onto the ground. The man squatted down and pressed his knees over her back, holding her in place. He put his gun in its holster and then pulled duct tape from a satchel on his hip. He tore off a big piece and wrapped it around Isabella’s screaming mouth. Then it was quiet, except for her muffled moans.
He stayed on top of her, feeling his heart thumping fast. This was even better than he had expected. When he had been watching them from across the parking lot, he had been somewhat excited, but now the adrenaline was pumping fast and it was even more thrilling than he had imagined. This was a good one, a solid catch, and he wished he could hear her scream more, but it was too dangerous in public.
Isabella whimpered through the thick tape and began to hyperventilate. Her eyes were streaming tears. She was groaning and trying to bite through it. The man grabbed her by the neck and jammed his face against hers. He snarled at her.
“Shut up, or I’ll cut your tongue off.”
**
Logan pulled into a fleabag motel’s parking lot and got out. He checked into a small room and set his bags on the table. Never set your bags on the floor in a motel was one of Logan’s mottos in life. Stay as far from the ground as possible. It was filthy, especially a place like this, but Logan didn’t need luxury. Stay smart, and a dump like this would be just fine. There were no rats, so it was good enough.
He went to the bathroom and splashed his face with water and then he left. He needed some food, but the spot he was in seemed desolate. There was a diner and a restaurant on the main street, but they were both shut down for the night.
There was noise, however. Loud thumping music that came from somewhere down the street. Logan followed it; undoubtedly it would lead to a bar. Some bars have food, some don’t. Logan hoped this bar had food, and lots of it. Hell, anything would do at that point. What he really
craved was a juicy burger. If they didn’t have that, then he’d settle for anything.
All bars have alcohol, but Logan wasn’t going to be partaking in any of that tonight. He wasn’t looking to go down that rabbit hole again. Not then, at least. Not until it got bad enough that he couldn’t bear it anymore. Life, that is. Death, murder, and mystery. The line of work he was in would eat at a man, and sometimes Logan felt like it would send him over the edge. He walked toward the bumping sound of the bass, and then the bar came into view; a seedy old thing. He doubted anyone young would be in there. He doubted anyone good would be in there, either. He hoped he wouldn’t smash any heads on pool tables, but without alcohol the chances of that were slim. He figured he was good to go. A quiet night out, a nice dinner, and then sleep. No confrontations, no violence. He was staying sober, and that was good. But the chances of it were still there. Even stone-cold sober Logan had a temper, and it wasn’t a pretty one. Especially when he was hungry.
After walking into the bar, he was greeted by the wafting odor of smoke and alcohol. The floor was sticky with spilled beer on the soles of his shoes. It wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty. There were five bikers sitting at a table in the corner, and a group of college-aged kids standing at the bar dancing and holding their beers, swaying their hips and laughing and yelling. Logan walked up to the bar and looked at the guy behind it. He looked like he was in his thirties, but it was hard to tell behind the bushy black beard on his face. He had a bandana and a tattoo of an X under his left eye. He grinned at Logan and showed three gold teeth front and center. He was an ugly thing, that was for sure.
“What can I get you?” The guy burped.
“Got burgers?”
The bartender eyeballed him for a moment. It was as if he was thinking of something smart to say. Logan sighed, knowing that something bad was coming. Then the man said: “Stopped cooking at ten.”
Logan checked his watch. It was two minutes past. “Well how about I throw in a five-dollar tip and you get your cook to fry me up your best late-night patty?” He pulled out his wallet, grinning ear-to-ear. He was going to play it friendly, and hopefully that worked out in his favor. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.
“Some kind of joke?”
“You think so? I’m hungry,” Logan said.
He stopped grinning. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Nope. But wherever a man is, he needs to eat.”
“Stopped cooking at ten,” the bartender said again. “You hard of hearing? That genetic, or you get dropped on the head too many times?”
“Give me a club soda, then,” Logan said.
The bartender eyeballed him for a second and then nodded his head. He grabbed a can from the fridge, then a glass. He poured the soda into it. No ice. He sat it in front of Logan.
“Eight bucks, buddy.”
“For a soda?”
The bartender paused. “Make it ten.”
“I’ll go somewhere else.”
“I poured the drink. You’re going to pay, and you’re going to pay what I say.”
“See you later. Next time I’ll come back before the cook leaves. I still need to try that burger,” he turned to go, clenching his fists. Breathe.
“Hey,” the bartender yelled. Logan headed for the door. The music stopped when he got there. “Don’t move. I got a gun on your back right now and if you open that door then I’ll blow you back to wherever it is that you came from, mister. You got that?”
The laughter had stopped when the music died. Logan grinned. It was time to have some fun, he guessed. There was always time for that, even when a man was dry. He had a gun too, but he wasn’t going to use it unless he needed to. He wasn’t going to pull it out and flash it around like a kid showing off his new toy. He wasn’t stupid enough to do that, and he could handle problems with his fists, if need be. He turned back around. The bartender was pointing a shotgun at his chest, right at his center mass. He was holding it steady, but he looked scared. There was fear in those angry eyes.
“Hey, asshole, why’d you turn around? You stupid or something? You got a death wish? I said don’t move. That means don’t turn around. You come in here causing trouble and stiff us for the price of a drink, now you’re going to pay for it.”
“An eight-dollar club soda. No kind of soda is eight dollars.”
“Over here, now. Come on. Back to the bar, smart guy.”
The bikers were watching in the corner. The group of college kids had backed off and were slowly making their way to another corner. They didn’t want any of this.
“Frank!” The bartender yelled.
“What?” A muffled voice blurted out from behind the closed doors of the kitchen.
“Get your ass out here!”
The doors swung open and a man came out wearing an apron. He was holding a spatula. “The burgers are gonna burn, Jimmy. What do-” His voice trailed off when he saw the bartender holding the gun.
“We got a prick here who won’t pay for a drink,” the bartender said.
“Thought you said you guys stopped cooking at ten,” Logan said.
The bartender kept the shotgun on him. “Shut up. Pay for your damn drink and then get out of here.”
Logan paused. “Alright, alright. Take it easy. Do I have permission to walk to the bar? I’m going to pay now.”
“Yeah. But don’t try nothing funny. I’m not a stupid guy. I’m fast with my finger. I pull this trigger and then you go goodbye.”
“You afraid?”
“No.”
“Okay, then put the gun away. Now.”
“No.”
“Some kind of scared-y cat?” Logan laughed.
“You calling me a wimp?”
“Is that what you are? Okay, makes sense now,” Logan chuckled and walked toward the man. “Put the gun away,” he said, and his voice wasn’t playful anymore. He stopped at the bar.
The man with the spatula in his hand stood there. He was a big guy, carrying a lot of fat. It looked like there was probably a lot of muscle underneath that fat, too.
“Don’t try anything,” the bartender said, lowering the gun. “I don’t need this gun to whoop your ass, boy.”
“Boy? You look younger than me, son,” Logan said, reaching into his back pocket. “Well, maybe if you shave that ugly mess off your face. You look like an eighteen-year-old with pubic hair glued on your cheeks. Trying to grow a big boy beard, huh?” He pulled out a piece of paper. Then he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a pen.
“What are you doing? Pay me or I’ll whoop your ass.”
“I’m writing a check.”
“We don’t take checks, punk.”
“You’ll take this one.”
“That’s not a check, anyway. It’s just a piece of paper.”
“It’s a check,” Logan said, and then scribbled something on the paper and signed his name. “See?” He said, raising it close to the man’s face. The man craned his neck over the bar and looked. “Can you read? Check it out.” Logan said.
The man was squinting. Maybe he really couldn’t read. Then Logan realized he could, judging by the furious expression on his face. The note read: SCREW YOU. Logan smiled. It was time to have some real fun.
Before the guy could go for the gun, Logan slammed his fist into his nose, which broke easier than he had anticipated. Then he dropped his head onto the table and crashed it into the note. The blood came fast, and it stained the note red and made it stick to the man’s face when he yanked his head back up. It looked comical, and Logan went in for a final punch which sent the guy blazing back into the shelf of liquor bottles.
The various bottles of bourbon, vodka, and tequila came crashing down until all of them had shattered on the barroom floor; glass shards spraying and alcohol creeping across the wood. The man with the spatula seemed frozen in place. It seemed like it took him a minute to process what was going on. A slow thinker, probably.
He took a step forward the
n, waving the spatula in the air. He was holding it like a club. He swung it down and Logan maneuvered out of the way, then slung a left hook up into the man’s throat. He finished him off by sending his booted foot up into the man’s balls.
The man dropped the spatula and made a sick gurgling sound, and then fell to the floor clutching his crotch. The bikers hadn’t moved. The college kids ran out the front door, laughing and screaming. The bartender pulled himself to his feet and pulled the red-stained paper from his face. He looked ugly, sweaty, and furious.
He reached for the gun as Logan hopped over the bar, sliding on the wood until his ass slipped off the other side and his foot careened right into the bartender’s neck. It sent the man spiraling backward right into where he’d come from, back into the shelf of liquor which was now empty. The guy slid back down onto the floor onto the broken glass bottles with a loud crunch as the blades dug into his ass. He made a whimpering sound and stared up at Logan with squinted, glassy eyes.
Logan took the shotgun from behind the counter, unloaded it and tossed the shells across the room. He walked to the front door and opened it, then tossed the shotgun onto the sidewalk. Then he walked back around the bar and picked the bartender up by the ear.
“I’ll have that burger now, tough guy, and don’t even think about spitting in it because you’re mad at me.”
Chapter Five
He went back to the fleabag motel and relaxed. It was easy to relax that night because he was tired, and his stomach was full. The burger had been good. It was juicy and cooked medium well, just like he’d asked. Best of all - they didn’t spit in it, because he watched them cook it. The walk home had been pleasant, and he had thought everything over. First stop in town, and he had already pissed off someone enough to pull a shotgun on him. Things were looking up. He was going to be popular around these parts, he could tell.
