The Other Side

by Daniel Willcocks

  Jaws, claws, and tentacles sprung out all around him, devouring his arms, legs, face. Pitch black, they came directly from the tar. Hell, they were tar. And there was this sound. A deep, visceral gurgle, like the groan of an empty stomach. It came from all around us and lingered long after the skinhead had disappeared on the horizon.

  Jesus Christ, what is this place?

  We threw our lot in with Richie the hillbilly, and I hate myself for it.

  He’s been pestering us to join him for days, now. He and his huge bouncer buddy would stroll to the middle of the bus and sit behind Jordan and me. Then Richie would look at where Juan and his crew were lying around with their shirts off and their feet up and tell us how it was only a matter of time before they threw us whiteys out of the bus so they could have all the women to themselves. Richie and his guys lacked the manpower to prevent this, but with us on their side the odds would be equal.

  Every time they gave us that speech, I felt the urge to tell them to stuff their bigotry up their asses. And, every time, I’d think of the way Juan watched us—his bloodshot eyes sliding from one face to another, lingering just long enough to make you feel like you were being challenged—and instead of blowing Richie off, I’d tell him we’d let him know if we changed our mind. I kept expecting Jordan to interfere, but he just sat there, nodding his head at whatever I said, the conviction with which he’d told the skinhead to fuck off gone.

  But today we gave in and joined Richie and his crew at the back of the bus. Richie and the bouncer took that as a green light to do whatever they want, because now they’re dropping racial slurs every other sentence and boasting about serving time at Crim’s Cove. The effeminate teenager giggles like a girl at everything they say. Christ. I have to keep reminding myself that, as much as I want to kick their teeth in, at least Richie and his pals didn’t rape anyone.

  Yeah, Juan raped the housewife. That’s what made us join Richie. Juan and the Indian brothers approached her seat and began talking to her quietly. She shook her head, then waved her hands in a go-away gesture. Juan grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to the front of the bus where they ripped off her clothes and took her, one by one. She shrieked about judgment and the bus being our last chance and how they’d never be able to explain themselves if they went on with this, but then Juan gave her face the speed bag treatment and she quieted. The yuppie and the construction worker looked terrified, but didn’t dare interfere. Kevin saw everything, and nobody cared enough to so much as cover his eyes. Not that they needed to.

  The fucking kid was grinning the entire time.

  Jordan has abandoned the alien abduction theory.

  Now he thinks we’re trapped in the Matrix. In reality, we’re all lying in some top-secret underground base with our brains connected to a supercomputer. Some government organization—CIA, NASA, the Men in Black, you name it—is using us as guinea pigs to test their new virtual reality tech. Or deliberately running a nightmare simulation to see how people would behave in a situation like this.

  If that’s the case, they must be pretty disappointed. We’ve been in this bus for, maybe, two weeks and it’s already a jungle. Richie has even armed us. With shanks. He and the bouncer gathered pieces of splintered seats, then tore the teenager’s shirt to strips and wrapped them around the shards of plastic to form makeshift handles. They claim they could turn one of the handhold poles into a spear, but they don’t want to attract Juan’s attention just yet.

  Jordan tells me not to worry. Since this is a computer-generated simulation, dying will probably cause us to wake up in the real world. Worst case scenario, we’d feel some “artificial pain,” whatever that means. Of course, when I suggested he test that theory by sticking his shank into his throat, he told me to shut up.

  So much for scientific research.

  The entire bus smells like Juan’s innards.

  That’s the good news. The bad news is… Christ, I don’t even know how to say it…

  He was raping the housewife again when Richie got up and started walking. The bouncer followed, then the effeminate teenager, and, lastly, Jordan and me. Juan saw us coming and, without the slightest hesitation, looked at his crew and screamed that “the hour of revolución has come.” Yes, he used those exact words.

  The only ones who came to stand at his side were the Indian brothers. The yuppie and the construction worker stayed in their seats, their eyes hopping rapidly between him and Richie. I don’t know if they chickened out or if they, too, thought him a madman, but God, I was so relieved. I really thought Juan would back down.

  Instead, he drew out a shank of his own and howled like an animal. The Indians didn’t look as insane as him, but they must’ve seen something in Richie’s eyes before I did, because they produced their own shanks and took position at Juan’s sides, like movie bad guys making a last stand.

  And a last stand it was. Spitting and growling, Juan kept swinging at Richie and the bouncer until they shoved him against the back of a seat and buried his own shank handle-deep in his belly. Despite being outnumbered, the Indian brothers managed to cut Jordan’s arm and almost push me out of the bus. We slashed them all over their faces and necks and kicked them out like bloody sacks. The tar ate them just like it had eaten the skinhead. I leaned against a window afterward, deafened by the pounding in my temples. I was so glad the rapists had been dealt with.

  Only, it wasn’t enough for Richie. He charged into the front and drove his shank into Lakisha’s neck, turning her scream into a wet gurgle. The bouncer ran in and bashed the yuppie’s head against the wall. The construction worker threw a punch but slipped and stumbled and then Richie and the bouncer were all over him. Afterward, they dragged their victims—still kicking and groaning and begging for mercy—to the doors and threw them out. That deep intestinal growl returned, growing louder with each body they dropped into the tar.

  They left Juan for last. I thought they just wanted to taunt him but, instead, they cut up his pants and used the strips to tie his wrists to a pole. Then Richie grabbed the shank protruding from Juan’s belly, and twisted. The smell of shit filled the bus. Jordan and I turned and vomited, and so did almost everyone else. Even the bouncer couldn’t keep from clamping a hand over his nose. Only Richie laughed.

  It went on and on. I expected Juan to die or lose consciousness, but no, he kept writhing and shrieking like a pig being butchered.

  Now, I’m not a doctor or anything, and I know people don’t just die instantly like in the movies, and that adrenaline can keep you going when you should be cold… But this still makes no sense because, you see, it’s been a fucking long time—days, at least—since they tied him to that pole and Juan’s still alive.

  I’m looking at him as I write this. His midsection resembles mashed tomatoes and there’s more blood on the floor than he could possibly have in his body. Not only is he alive and awake, they have to keep tightening his bonds because he keeps trying to free himself. Richie says he has no intention of throwing Juan out. He gets his kicks out of teaching Kevin how to best cut Juan up, an activity Kevin enjoys even more than Richie. The kid even gave Juan a nickname.

  Punchbag.

  The housewife stepped off the bus.

  She’d been awfully quiet since Juan and the Indian brothers raped her and, come to think of it, I guess I should’ve seen it coming. She simply stood up and went to the open doors, her slippers squishing through Juan’s blood. She lingered in the doorway for a while, staring at the red sky. Jordan asked her what she was doing, and she looked at us, broken nose twitching, and said, “It’s the end in the tar. It’s kinder than what they’ll do to us.” Then she took another step and was consumed.

  What must’ve tipped her over the edge was the sight of the bouncer raping the stewardess. Yeah, rape is back. In retrospect, I feel like a moron for ever thinking it’d go away. The stewardess followed the housewife’s example soon after. Richie realized what she was about to do an instant too late. He tried to tackle her,
but her naked body was slick with sweat and blood, and she slipped past him. That made the nurse the last woman on the bus. They tied her to one of the seats to keep her from getting away. Then they did the same to the effeminate teenager.

  Richie and the bouncer don’t bother putting their clothes on anymore. They just stroll around with their dicks swaying, rambling about God and judgment and how they’re the kings of this bus. They tell the nurse and the teenager they’ll end up like Juan if they don’t behave, and then laugh as if amused by their own wit. Kevin giggles at all this like it’s a cartoon he’s watching. They haven’t turned on Jordan and me yet, but we both know it’s only a matter of time. I’m pretty sure they do, too.

  Jordan’s convinced the bus can’t keep going forever. Sooner or later, it has to arrive at a station. He has no idea—not even a theory—what this station might be like, but he knows for a fact he doesn’t want to share it with Richie and the bouncer. He says we have to do something.

  We have to bury those motherfuckers.

  Jesus, there’s blood all over this notebook.

  It’s my fault. I forgot to wipe my hands. Not that there’s much clean cloth left to wipe them with. Even my shirt is torn and soaked with spit and sweat and blood and other stuff I don’t want to think about. Damn. Now half the pages are soaked and some of them are stuck together. Damn, damn, damn.

  As of an hour ago, Jordan and I are officially murderers. The bouncer was taking the teenager from behind, their naked bodies glistening with perspiration, when Jordan walked up to him and drove a shank into the bouncer’s kidney. The bouncer actually kept thrusting for a few moments before his moans became screams. Richie rushed to his aid, shank raised, bellowing so hard spittle flew from his mouth.

  I ran in and swung my own sharp piece of bus seat—Richie’s own handiwork—and I don’t know if I got lucky or if Richie didn’t see me coming, but the next thing I know my shank’s sticking out of his throat and his face is right next to mine and his eyeballs are fucking huge and he’s vomiting red all over me. I fell, and he fell on top of me, and I swear to God he would’ve strangled me if Jordan wasn’t there to pull him off.

  The two of them were both very much alive, struggling even, as we dragged them to the doors and kicked them out. Juan was, too. His mouth—what was left of it, anyway—kept opening and closing as we cut him loose and rolled his ravaged body into the tar. I don’t think he was trying to thank us. Can’t say I blame him. The nurse and the teenager didn’t thank us after we freed them, and I can’t say I blame them either. Only Kevin acts like none of this bothers him.

  The bus sails on.

  Jordan was right. There really is a station.

  It appeared on the horizon about an hour ago, straight ahead. It flickers there, a fiery speck, its light so sharp I can’t look at it for more than a few seconds at a time. The nurse wailed the moment she saw it, and so did the teenager. They ran to the back of the bus and crawled under the seats, their naked bodies curling on the floor like oversized fetuses. Kevin didn’t scream or try to flee, but he has paled visibly. He just stands at the front of the bus now, staring at the distant glow, unfazed by its brightness.

  Jordan looks sick. His face is pasty and his teeth chatter. His skin glistens with a layer of sweat thick enough to drink. He thinks we’re on our way to Hell. That that’s where the things waiting for us at that station will send us. When I told him that sailing across a tar-sea could hardly be compared to roasting eternally in a lake of fire, he looked at me and said we deserve to be here. Because of all the pizzas we sold. And because of what we did to Bobby Nickelsen.

  I told him to go fuck himself.

  No.

  This can’t be happening.

  Jesus Christ, get me out of here.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  SHIT.

  Everything is shit.

  Christ Almighty, maybe Jordan was right. Not about us going to Hell, because fuck that, but about us deserving to be here. You see, we used to sell pizzas. That’s what we called the merchandise so that we could safely take orders, in case the cops were listening. Vegetariana was weed, capricciosa was junk, margherita was glass, and so on. Jordan used to feel bad about it and wanted to quit, but I explained to him that if we hadn’t sold those losers the drugs, they would’ve bought them elsewhere. After all, nobody forced them to use that garbage, so what the hell did he have to feel guilty about?

  Anyway, that’s not why I brought this up. It’s about Bobby fucking Nickelsen. I knew that guy was trouble the moment I saw him. His hair was always twisted in long greasy strands, his bangs glued to his forehead, his clothes dangling on his frame like rags from a hanger. He reminded me of those spiteful mutts who wanted nothing more than to bite, but tolerated your presence because you occasionally threw them scraps. Still, he had two things going for him. The first was a taste for cappriciosa, the second a seemingly endless supply of hard cash.

  Bobby had been our customer for about six months when, one day, instead of paying as usual, he and his skank girlfriend pulled a gun on us and made us hand over the pizza. We did, and they let us walk. It was a dumb thing to do, seeing as we knew where he lived. Even if that hadn’t been the case, we knew many of his friends and they’d sell him out in a blink if we offered them free samples. I doubt he knew what he was doing. I think his mind was too fried.

  The next night, we got a gun of our own, plus some baseball bats for good measure, and went to sort it out. Bobby and his girlfriend were so blasted they didn’t even notice us until we were in their apartment, their gun safely in my hand. So we took the baseball bats, and the rest, as they say, is a clusterfuck. We wanted to give them some bruises and crack a few teeth, but we got carried away and Bobby ended up on the floor with his forehead literally beaten out of shape. He didn’t die, but… let’s just say he won’t be identifying us to the cops. Or identifying anyone else, ever again.

  Jordan thinks Bobby’s the reason we ended up here. He believes we’re on our way to be judged. He says that’s why nobody dies on this bus—we’re past that. They want to hear us justify our crimes one last time before they drop the hammer. And they know everything.

  Or rather, that’s what Jordan thought the last time we spoke. I don’t know what he thinks now, or if he’s even capable of thinking, anymore. I haven’t talked to him in about a day. Or to anyone else, for that matter.

  Because…

  You see, I…

  I’m all alone, here.

  The nurse was the first to go. I was reading this notebook when I heard a splash. I spun around, but all I saw was the top of her head sinking into the tar. The teenager went next. He approached Jordan and me, and said he was glad we killed Richie and the bouncer. He had this plastic look in his eyes, like a cheap toy. Then he headed for the open doors. I shouted and got up, but he stepped out before I could reach him.

  By then, the station had grown from a bright speck to a fist-sized blaze. If you focused on it for a few seconds, you could discern dark shapes soaring within it. They didn’t remind me of anything in particular, yet, whenever I glimpsed them, my skin broke out in goosebumps.

  Jordan couldn’t stand the sight of them. He’d start wailing every time he looked, letting out this loud, undulating sob that gnaws on your nerves and makes you want to rip your own ears off so you wouldn’t hear it anymore. God, I tried, I really, really tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept telling me to cut the bullshit, to stop lying to myself. The only way out was the tar.

  In the end, Jordan stood up despite my protests and started for the doors. I grabbed him and tried to pull him back, but he dragged me along to the doorway like I weighed nothing. I started begging him to stop, and he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Come with me. We can jump together.” I told him he was out of his goddamn mind.

  “You really think you’re innocent, don’t you?” he said, then looked toward the station. “You can bullshit me and you can bullshit yourself, but they kn
ow who you are. We’re all bad people here, Steve. They gave us a chance to choose nothingness over punishment. It’s as merciful as they’ll get.”

  I told him to cut the crap, that that makes no sense, that, even if we did bad stuff, we had good reasons for it. Jordan’s face only got sadder. I was still talking when he went limp and let himself tumble out, like his bones had turned to jelly. If I hadn’t let go, I would’ve fallen out with him, face-first into the tar.

  Kevin held on the longest. He’d been standing at the front of the bus, staring at the oncoming station, ever since it first appeared on the horizon. Eventually, he turned around and made his way toward the middle doors, leaning on the seats to support himself. His eyes had gone a murky white, like there was fog inside them. He stopped in the doorway, looked in my direction, and muttered something. I didn’t catch it, and didn’t ask him to repeat. I just sat there and waited for him to do it. It wasn’t a long wait.

  I’m all alone, now. The last passenger on tar-express, nearing the end of his journey. The station is so close it covers the horizon like a vast fiery cloud. Its light paints the tar orange, making it seem like the bus is sailing on a sea of molten gold. Or lava. The air here is full of soot. It dances in the light like dust particles in a sunbeam, sticking to my face and prickling my skin.

  Please get me out of this place.

  Help me.

  Anyone.

  I can’t jump. I can’t.

  There’s nothing after the tar. Everything just ends.