Luther Blacktop

by Robert Revolver

  Just hang in there, old man. It’ll all be over ten minutes after we get there. At least it better be or we’re going to be answering a lot of fuckin’ questions…

  He pushes the pedal down harder, squeezing every extra horse he can find from his late-nineties, 210-horse, Ford 3.8L V6 Thunderbird. The original engine is rolling over two-hundred thousand, but she still screams like a cat with its tail on fire.

  “We’ll be there any minute.” He announces, looking into the rearview mirror. The backseat is dark, but there is a shape that blocks part of the back window. It doesn’t move. “All right, you remember everything we talked about, don’t you?”

  The shape remains still, but Luther smiles anyway. His thumbs roll back and forth across the front of the steering wheel, physically ticking off each step of the plan. Up ahead a single light begins to crawl out of the darkness. It’s barely visible, not much brighter than a star on a clear night. It’s the edge of town, the last bit of reflective paint on Mannsville’s welcome sign. Milton’s Grease ‘n Tire is only another block away.

  Luther kills the headlights and lets the Thunderbird slow to a growl. The rain pounds with growing ferocity against the roof. He takes it slow, noticing the very faint glow in the windows of the office. Making a wide right, he pulls around to the back of the garage, careful not to drive on anything with a good memory.

  The backside of the garage is blocked by piles of scrap metal and soggy pallets. There are barrels and dumpsters and old cars lined up for the rest of the block. It a whole junkyard that easily doubles the footprint of the whole town. Milton’s truck is parked by the back door. He’s left the driver-side door wide open.

  “Looks like he was in a hurry.”

  Luther clicks the key back in the ignition. Starved of fuel, the Thunderbird shakes a few times and then chokes to death on an overflow of exhaust. Luther breathes out, listening to the clatter of falling rain and reaches into the glove box. Pulling out a small black bag, he proceeds carefully, resting back in his seat and dumping the contents of the bag into his lap. The first thing to appear is a large, sheathed knife. Its handle is thin and made of wood with four small brass rivets, the kind that comes out only on Christmas to whittle the turkey. Behind that, falls out a small packet of off-brand antacids.

  “There you are,” Luther laughs, shaking his head. “My lucky charms.”

  Popping off the top of the pill vial, he lifts it to his lip and throws his head back. A number of small white tablets roll into his mouth and he swallows them down in seconds. Emptied, the vial hits the floorboards of the passenger side, along with the ceremonial knife without another thought. Luther keeps the only thing left in the bag—a clean pair of black, leather gloves.

  “Mannsville, you’re about to be famous.”

  As he opens the car door, the storm slaps his face with a sharp, cold sting. It’s worse now than then when they left. The humidity is still peaking, raising a foggy mist above the ground. Nice setup. Within seconds, every stitch of clothing on his body is wet. He keeps his head down and walks around to the back side of the car, stopping for only a second to pop open the back door. It rocks free of the frame only an inch before he lets go of the handle and proceeds to the trunk. There, Luther stands and waits, letting his mind run through the scenario one more time. A stream of water creeps down across his forehead just as his eyes rediscover the glow of the office lights through slivers of a boarded up window.

  While he stares at it, something passes in front of the window and blocks it out. Something head shaped. Milton’s head shape. He stands perfectly still, not making any other motions with his hands or body. He knows that they can see each other, but he hasn’t acknowledged it at all. Luther waits, letting the rain continues to run down his face, rolling into the corner of his mouth and soaking into his grin.

  Ready if you are…

  He leaves the car and heads straight for the back door. Straight for Milton’s head-shadow. The wind follows him in, filling the darkened garage with a rustle of flapping tin and swinging chains. With it comes the clinging bite of kerosene and an overpowering reek of rancid oil. It burns the back of Luther’s throat, forcing his head down and close to his chest. He covers his mouth and remains focused on the open back door.

  Here I come, ready or not...

  Luther pushes through the doorway and starts into the first bay of the shop, careful to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible. Inside, the shadows are lumpy with metal cans and various garbage. There are benches piled high with dusty boxes of obsolete parts. Tire balancing machines line the back walls, blocked off by several overflowing scrap drums and a hanging engine block. The choking stench of oil grows even worse inside. It passes across his skin like black smoke rolling off burning plastic.

  Luther’s eyes narrow, already dry and sore. He steps across an old oil trench and slips into the second bay, then the third until he finds the window that Milton was standing at only a few moments earlier. He’s gone now, but nearby, the door to the shop’s only office hangs open just a crack. Luther holds still, listening to the voices whispering inside. They both speak with a noticeable lisp, slow and deliberate, like repeating instructions…

  Whatever you’re doing in there, don’t fuck with me, Milton…

  The glove on Luther’s right hand tightens into a fist, crinkling the leather. He turns his body to the side, craning his head toward the opening. Closer now, the familiar reek of Josey’s bedroom begins to spread across his face. The pungent, sickly sweetness sticks to his lips and his teeth. He breathes, in and out, shallow at first, trying to get used to it as fast as possible. But it’s too much. It’s stronger than it was in the house, way stronger. It strikes him straight on the chin, sending the whole room into a spin…

  Lightning flashes on every side of building followed immediately by a crushing explosion of thunder. Luther stumbles, finding a door behind him pushed loose in the storm. Fresh air. He backs away from the office but his lungs pull in another breath tainted with their poison. The blood starts to flush out of his face. His stomach turns. He feels the vomit rising.

  Oh, shit…

  The back door is suddenly blocked. Its presence resets his drive, puts him back in the moment. He sees a thin, dark shape pass behind the frame.

  “All right, Milton,” Luther swallows, regaining his balance. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  In a second, Milton’s there and the next he’s gone, hidden again in the first stall where Luther originally entered the building. He coughs and shakes his head. His heart is racing. His feet holding still.

  “Mither, Blacktop.” Milton’s voice rises. Or is it? It’s different now… Luther’s jaw tightens. Milton is advancing. He weaves through the garage like a cat, completely silent until he’s right up behind Luther. “I want one more chanth for you to reconthider.”

  Luther remains near the incoming breeze and turns around slowly. His blood pressure is beginning to rise. The phone call comes rushing back to him, shaking his lungs, pumping the blood back into his head. Goddamn it, old man, you can’t back out now. There are way too many things in motion... The office door swings open a little further and reveals Josey inside. The walls are lined with pale green file cabinets, paper-piled tables and dirty tools. Josey is resting in the center of the tiled floor. His skin lies in a pile beside him, reflecting the glow of the lamplight from every fold and twist.

  “Milton?”

  Luther steps forward again, more than ready to put this whole night behind him as quickly as possible. Josey hears his approach and smiles. Turning away from the lamp, the hard shadows fill in across his eyes and sink into the wrinkled sinew around his mouth. They sharpen his features, casting him as a mocking, conjured demon. His lips, looking like red-soaked yarn, part around his teeth. He’s happy.

  Because he’s changed the plan...

  Luther quells the anger inside him and buys a few more seconds of patience. Josey shivers a little as the storm winds reach him. He leans forward, l
etting his eyes fill with light. They’re bloodshot, shifting back and forth while he reaches for the door.

  “Grandpa, it’th that man from my bedroom.”

  “Good.” Milton answers, his voice weak and softened with a serpent-like lisp. “Pleath thtep inthide Mither Blacktop. I need you to thee thomething.”

  “Milt—” Luther begins to protest but instead locks his fists at his sides. One more chance. This is it. Impatient and pensive, he steps into the room and waits while Milton pushes the door shut from behind. His hand comes into view first, holding the knob from the back side.

  Luther’s angry mouth slams shut, holding back the reflex to scream...

  Milton’s hand is nothing more than a gnarled ball of dark red muscles and bones. No skin. His arm follows and then his shoulder, his side and then his face. All skinless and covered in a thin layer of translucent, yellow grease. Luther steps back and looks him in face.

  So it runs in the family…

  Milton stares back. His eyes appear three times larger than normal, glowing in the light. Below them, his yellowed teeth bite together, revealing that a few of his molars are missing. There are gaps in his jaw line hidden between the weathered muscles sagging from his cheeks. Luther swallows, suddenly feeling like a lion that has just watched the corpse of his last dinner get up and walk away.

  “Now you know our thecret.” Milton reveals with a crooked smile. His tongue licks at the roof of his mouth, molding each word carefully before it passes between his lips.

  “Thurely, together we are worth more to you than a chair in the circuth.”

  Luther puts a little more distance between them to take in the full picture of Milton’s thin, knobby frame. Without skin, his chest heaves above every breath, the muscle tissue flexing, cascading across his ribs and down over the top of his stomach. He’s so much thinner, a half of the man he met earlier today. However, unlike Josey, his skin is only partially removed. It’s split open down his right side from his armpit to his hip. He’s unzipped himself through the opening, letting the flesh hang around his waist like a pair of wet overalls. The arms and fingers swing freely beside his knees, inside-out and yellow.

  Luther takes a deep breath, hiding his emotions behind a face chiseled through experience. Milton rolls his eyes over at Josey and watches him look away, frowning with disappointment already.

  “I knew he wouldn’t do it, Grandpa. I told you.”

  “Milton, what is this?” Luther asks, “Do you think two grease monkeys are better than one?”

  Milton suddenly snarls as if had just swallowed boiling water. There’s a loud groan in his throat, much louder than if he were still wearing his skin.

  “Mither Blacktop, there ain’t another thoul in a thouthan mileth that hath theen what you are theeing right now.”

  Luther glances down at the flesh coat hanging over Milton’s belt, and then to the wall behind him and the open drum resting in the corner. It’s hand-stenciled in white paint, GEAR OIL. There’s a fresh trail spilled on the floor, spreading between both Milton and Josey.

  “But your son has seen it, hasn’t he?” Luther asks. “And he’s disgusted.”

  Milton’s teeth come together. His paper thin lips squirm across them like a pair of earthworms. “That ain’t histh wordth. Ith that woman he’th with. She ain’t no good for thith family. Not for thith town.”

  So that’s what this is all about... You got a problem with his wife. Okay, let’s run with that.

  “She’s gone, Milton. And she’s been gone for a long time.” Luther leans forward, adding heft to his voice. “I didn’t talk to her and your son didn’t even mention her. He told me about this grease, though. And he hated it. He hates what you are and the people around here do, too. They’ve left here because of you.”

  “You’re a liar.” Milton reels, “Thath not true.”

  “Yes, it is. They left because they were scared. To put a freak in a cage is one thing. You can charge admission to see it. You can drag them from town to town and collect a decent income. But to have them out in the open, like you and Josey, that doesn’t work. That makes people nervous. They get scared and they leave. Or—”

  “Or they come and bear witneth.” Milton cut him off. He’s visibly desperate. “They’ll pay good money to thee uth if we do it right!”

  “No, they’ll pay good money to come here to kill you. The only thing better than seeing a freak is killing one and being the lucky bastard who did it. You start advertising this and you’ll both be dead before you see a single dollar.”

  Milton is fully taken aback. His bare chin tips into the air and he steps away, pacing toward Josey with the weight of revelation bearing down on his bare collarbones. He stops above Josey, looking down at the back of his wet skull. Josey’s eyes are closed and his head rocks back and forth. His lips look like they are counting something inside his head.

  Outside, the storm rages on. There would be sirens going off if this town had any. There’s just loose tin overhead and the whole room sounds like it’s threatening to come down on top of them. Luther holds his ground, watching as the grease, muscles and tallow of Milton’s face look like he just bit into a whole lemon. His knobby, skeletal fingers roll up into two fists, flexing his forearms, as if they were a pair of coiled serpents, ready to strike.

  And then he exhales and all of that pent up emotion calmly drains from his body.

  “You’re going to thpend eternity licking at the devilth booth for thith, Mither Blacktop.” Milton preaches, his voice steady and calculated. He steps away from Josey. “You go on and do it now. If thath your only way.”

  Luther shakes his head and looks back at the window above Josey. In the reflection on the glass he sees Milton slouching, hanging his head low as he inches closer to his original place behind the door, closer to the oil drum. He sees Josey too, still counting the imaginary things running through his skinless skull. He’s well up well over a hundred. Then Luther catches a glimpse of himself and for just an instant there’s something else. There’s a shadow standing in the doorway behind him. It’s waiting patiently just beyond the edge of the lamp-light…

  You asked for this…

  “Alright, Milton. You’ve got a deal. I’ll hit him first.” He says glancing at the desk in the opposite corner of the room and the large steel crowbar leaning against the wall directly behind it.

  “But then you’re going to finish him.”

  Without taking his eyes off the old man, Luther carefully steps around Josey and reaches for the crowbar. Josey doesn’t budge but he’s still mumbling. Milton visibly swallows, but gives no protest.

  “It’s okay.” Luther begins, pulling his eyes away from Milton and preparing himself. Just sit still now. It’ll all… be over—”

  Then, just as Luther’s fingers touch the crowbar, Josey suddenly jumps up from the floor. He throws his hands out and runs straight for the window.

  “NOOOO!”

  He screams at the top of his lungs and crashes into the glass. It cracks, but it doesn’t break from the frame. His hands pull back, cupping into sharp, spiky fists, and beat against it, splattering grease. Josey pounds again and again with everything he’s got but the window holds. Luther yanks the crowbar off the wall and pulls it back, aiming to sink the first blow into his lower spine.

  “Now, Joethy! C’mon boy, git him!”

  From behind him, Milton suddenly reappears. Luther spins around, but he’s too late. Milton is on him before he can react, wrapping a sleeve of his skin coat around his neck and cinching it as tight as he can. It stretches and constricts like a noose. Luther fights to pull it free, but it’s too slippery to hold. It’s soon crushing his throat and cutting off his breath.

  Nice move, Milton. I didn’t think you had it in you.

  His feet flounder beneath him, stepping onto Josey’s pile of skin. It smears across the floor like a large pizza and steals Luther’s balance. He slips and begins to fall, keeping one hand on the skin sleeve wrapped aro
und his neck. With the other he tries to steady the crowbar and take a swing.

  But before he can, there’s a sudden jolt of electrical pain in his wrist. He drops the weapon and finds Josey’s teeth gnashing back and forth, sinking through his glove and breaking the skin underneath. The pain is sharp and hot. He tries to shout but the words can’t escape.

  Milton laughs in triumph and pulls the skin even tighter around Luther’s neck. The reek of old, rotten blood fills his nostrils. The taste gets trapped in his mouth. He struggles, bucking his shoulders against Milton and finally throwing Josey’s snapping mouth away from his hand. Starved of blood, his mind thinks everything is on fire. The room begins to bloom with exploding red stars.

  “You’re gonna thave thith town alright, Mither Blacktop. All... by... yourthelf!”

  THUNK.

  Luther sinks the crowbar into something fleshy near his side. There’s no sound. No scream. He jerks his hand back, but the bar won’t budge. It’s stuck wherever it is. There’s pain but it’s in his wrist. He’s losing feeling in his legs.

  Shit, did I hit myself?

  He strains his neck to see and let’s go of the crowbar. It could have been his own body, maybe Milton’s...

  Then Josey falls onto the floor, shaking and choking.

  “OH GOD, JOETHY! NO!!”

  Milton cries, letting his snare fall slack around Luther’s throat. He drops to his knees and reaches for his grandson. “No! God, no. Joethy, you can’t go now!”

  Released from Milton’s grip, Luther’s feet lose the battle with Josey’s skin and finally shift out from under him. His head slaps against the hard, tiled floor, washing the room with a bright, purple explosion.

  Luther wheezes, gasping for air and fighting through the pain to reopen his throat. The familiar burning toxic reek rips down his throat, purging the blue from his face. It burns but its air. His mind rushes forward. With Milton distracted, he has to work quickly. He pushes his hands down into Josey’s skin sack, lifting himself off the floor and away from the chaos.

  Milton is working frantically, his red fists wrapped around the end of the crowbar still lodged in his grandson’s body. The wound sputters with escaping air while he pulls with all of his weight. From inside, there is a loud deflating gust of air just before the bar slowly begins to slide free.