by S. P. Shane
Motorcycle Roadkill
MOTORCYCLE ROADKILL
a novel by
S. P. SHANE
Copyright © 2014 by S.P. Shane
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
Wednesday, September 8
Doc Finkelstein says for me to keep up with my running, even if I'm not gonna run track at the new school. It's good for my anxiety, and lessens the chance that I'll end up rocking myself in the corner. He's probably right, at least about the anxiety part. All that noise goes away when I'm running hard, my heart's pounding a mile a minute, I'm sucking wind, and trying not to pass out. I fall into a little rhythm. “One and two and three and four. And I'm walking out the door. One and two and three and four...” It's a little beat-box I keep writing in my head.
By the time I hit Main Street, I'm scooting along at a pretty good clip, doing my best to escape the shadow of Calvary Hill's steeple, which stretches halfway across town. Painted brick buildings with tall paned-glass windows hug the sidewalk and black lampposts lean over the street. There's a movie set quality about it, as if Main Street's merely a facade—a staging area. The real Crenshaw's Creek lurks somewhere out there on the narrow side streets, the gravel lanes, the windy roads leading out into the country. A baseball diamond appears strangely out of place in the middle of town. It may have been the main event at one time, but has since been overtaken by weeds and briers. Across from the field, a series of rusted steel buildings hide behind tall security fences and empty parking lots.
At Garret Street, I round the corner and press on toward the highway. Part of me just wants to get a feel for how long it takes to get to the edge of town, but more than anything I want to make sure I can get there on foot. I want to know that—if push comes to shove—I can make my way down there with a backpack slung over my shoulder. I want to know that I have a way to get to a bus stop, a train depot—any place that leads outta here.
A traffic light blinks yellow where Garret meets the highway. I slow to a trot. Not a single car in sight. No trucks. No motorcycles. Nothing. If I have to hitchhike from here, it could be a long wait for a ride.
Bracing my hands against my knees, I pause and catch my breath. A moment later, I straighten myself and stagger around. My eyes fall upon a bare patch in the grass. A little trace worms its way up toward the tree line, where it widens into a trail. Being in unfamiliar country, I don't wanna wander too far, but a little excursion could be interesting.
My pace builds to a slow jog again, as I hobble toward the trace. As I cross the highway, the scent of cedar and pine drifts toward me and for the first time I think that this isn't such a bad little town after all. Fresh air. No traffic. Plenty of trails to hike. What more could I want?
By the time I hit the tree line I'm running at a pretty good clip again. It's just a minute or so later when I find myself in the middle of wilderness, feeling somewhat relieved that the town and the watchful eyes of lurking neighbors are well behind me. I'm alone. Free. On my own.
I run along for a while, just swimming in my thoughts, as a gauntlet of thick trees emerges all around me. A flutter of motion catches my eye. It takes a full minute to realize that I'm looking at a little yellow canary, as it hops along the ground—startling only because it fluttered out of nowhere.
I've always had a strange fascination with birds. Flying is effortless for them—instinctual and reflexive. It took us ages to figure out how to fly, and—unlike them—when our machinery breaks, we fall, we crash, and sometimes we never fly again. But it's not the mystery of flight that I admire; it's their freedom. These little creatures can spread their wings and go anywhere. Nothing's stopping them.
Back in Cleveland, I used to sit on the porch for hours with a pair of binoculars and a copy of National Geographic's "Birds of North America". Robins and jays are common in Midwestern states and it doesn't take much to identify them. Orioles are rarer but not unheard of. They come north to nest during the summer months, but begin migrating south by August. When I'm birdwatching the questions I always ask myself are: where do these birds come from? And where are they going? The idea that birds are born with an instinct for migration and know that there's someplace they need to be—even if it takes a lifetime to get there—is something I can't quite wrap my head around.
This little bird is particularly odd—out of place. It's not something you'd expect to see in this part of the country—not out here in the wild. It's most likely a pet that somehow got out of its cage. But me and this little guy are kindred souls: neither of us belong here.
He scurries along, whistling a little tune, while in the distance the buzz of a chainsaw enters the mix. I cock my ear toward the sound, as it grows louder. Down the trail, white light reflects off of something metallic—a motorcycle. The tiny speck grows larger as it approaches, its motor louder. The bike sails toward me so fast that it looks like it's airborne, bobbing from side to side with the wind. The rider lets out a quick shout, as he buzzes by me.
I step to the side of the trail. And in a split second the bike passes me. I'm unable to hear what the biker yelled. It was too fast—his voice lost beneath the noise of the engine. All I see is a blue bike and a man in blue jeans and a white t shirt riding away. Strands of blond hair hang from the back of his red helmet. The bike disappears from sight and I turn back to watch the bird, as it hops along into the woods.
I don't know why I'm following him. For a moment, I'm not thinking about Mom or Dad, my stinky little room back in the parsonage, or how much the new school's gonna suck tomorrow. I'm just thinking about that bird... flying free from his cage. And for a moment I almost envy him.
The bird bops along through the trees, tweeting a little tune. As he nears a grove of Maple trees, he skips, spreads his wings, and disappears into the branches above. I pause, listening for his song, but hear instead water babbling over rocks—a nearby creek.
The grove is cluttered with fallen branches and twigs. A narrow trace leads through thorns and briars, where the terrain turns into a real game of Twister—ducking under low-hanging branches squirming between shrubs. With every step, the ground crunches beneath me.
Near the creek, the ground levels off and becomes smooth. A series of gray hoses comes into view, running from the creek to a field ahead. I'm hardly an expert on farming, but my guess is that it's an irrigation system of some kind. Maybe there's a farm nearby. Maybe that's where the motorcycle was headed. My eyes peel for signs of a road or a farmhouse.
A little ways off the creek a field comes into view, but there's not any farm equipment nearby. No tractors. No barns. No split-rail fences. A musky scent hangs in the breeze and row upon row of tall green plants—maybe forty rows of plants. And it's a bit small to be a farm. Maybe it's someone's garden, but there's not a house in sight. There's just a tent, a lean-to and a generator. Something's not right here. It's—I don't know—off.
Out of the blue, a squeaky sound like an old stiff hinge, echoes through the clearing, followed by cold silence. A car door closes and my whole body freezes: my back, my chest, my arms, my spine, my neck, everything. The cold smack of a gun being grabs my ear. A quiet gasp. Darkness closes around the edges of my vision.
Boots crunch against hard soil, and a shadow crosses my path and a middle-aged man, with a greasy gray beard and a pale, ashen face is staring directly at me. He wears a blue flannel shirt and jeans and a machine gun hangs from his shoulder.
“Oh, crap, Caleb! What'd you get yourself into?” That little voice in my head
that was so quiet while I ran is louder than ever, screaming at me. “Get down! Keep your head low. He's gonna see ya!” But there's no point in being an idiot. Of course, he sees me. He's. Standing. Right. There.
As if he could read my mind, his voice calls out. “C'mon outta there.” Even if he didn't have a gun—and obviously he does—there's no way to out run him. Idling behind him is a dirty brown jeep.
“Show me yar face.”
Surrender is a universal gesture. It means the same thing wherever ya are. Two shaky hands held high into an unforgiving sky. My whole body shakes. This is it. This is the day. On the outskirts of a Podunk little town in the heart of Misery, I'll go up to meet my maker.
He raises his gun and points it directly at me. I do what he asks, raising my chin to meet his gaze. He's close enough for me to see his cold gray eyes. There's a George-Washington-Dollar-Bill kind of emptiness about them, as if he's the kind of man who discarded an actual life long ago. He's not the kind of man who cries at funerals. He's not the kind of man that reflects deeply on things. He's the kind of man who simply does what must be done and never looks back. He doesn't know remorse.
His voice is calm and composed. “What's yar name, boy?”
My hands remain in the air. “Caleb... Calloway.”
Something moves behind him. I'm almost afraid to take my eyes off of him, but there's someone at the jeep. Vaguely, in the corner of my vision, stands a man in a camouflage jacket,blue jeans, and frizzy brown hair. He faces away from me, slowly scanning the woods. He strolls away from the jeep and into the tent.
“Calloway? You're that Yankee preacher's boy?” Gray Beard asks.
In the middle of pure terror, a laugh nearly erupts from my belly. A faint grin cracks my face. Even at the end of a gun, I'm still the preacher's kid. Still the little kid who plays the shepherd boy in the manger scene. “Yes, sir. That's me.”
Gray Beard lowers his gun. “Good thang. I was fixin' to put a hole clean through ya.”
“Look, I wasn't trying to... Uh, I was just takin'... a hike.”
“Ya best be turnin' on 'round now...Next time I will shoot ya.”
“Uh, yes sir,” is all I can think to say.
If there's one thing that Doc Finkelstein was right about, it's that running's a good thing for me to be doing. There's no beat-box this time around—no counting. I haul my skinny white ass as fast as I can.
The woods pass in a pulse of white light. I'm almost to the trail again when I hear the roar of the motorcycle and a sound like a deer scampering through brush. A blue motorbike appears right in front of me. Red Helmet. Blond Hair. His eyes are hidden behind a sun visor, but he has a young face. He can't be older than twenty.
“Get on.” He gestures behind himself with his chin.
“Why?” Owing to the circumstances, I'm revisiting Mom's piece of advice about accepting rides from strangers.
He snickers. “So, I can get you outta here before ya get yourself killed.”
At least this guy's not pointing a gun at me, promising to put a hole through me. “Alright, thanks, dude.”
What are the rules? Arms around waist? Shoulders? I don't know the first thing about motorcycles, and I'm pretty sure it shows.
“You'll have to grab on,” he says—whatever the means. To what?
A nod “alright.” As I scooch up to the motorcycle, its engine breathes hot air against my leg. I gag on gasoline fumes and the scent of burnt oil. My heart's pounding from my all-out run, my ears are ringing, and I''m a puddle of sweat. And I'm about to leave a Caleb-scented grease stain on the back of this dude's bike.
But if there's one thing I want right now, it's what the motorcycle dude said: outta here before I get myself killed. I hike my leg in the air, like I'm winding up to pitch a fastball and slide it over the seat.
“Go on. I don't bite.” He raises his arms for me to reach around him. This is so weird—so awkward that I practically squirm off the seat. I reach around him, and feel the heat of his body, as my arms slide against his waist. My hands meet in front of his stomach and I lock my fingers together.
As soon as my butt hits the seat, the bike's rolling. Motorcycle Dude leans forward and pushes the throttle like he's mad at it. The bike lurches and then screams forward as the trees blow by at Mach 5. Its vibration passes through my body, rattling my teeth and shaking my bones.
For a moment I feel like an Ewok, sailing through the forest of Endor on a Jedi star-craft. The trail hums beneath us, as a gray haze of dust and gravel rises in our wake. A minute later the highway comes into view and the Motorcycle Dude eases the throttle. The bike slows as it rolls through the weeds near the shoulder of the road. He clamps on the brakes and my body pitches forward—smashing against his back.
“Uh... sorry,” is all I can think to say, but he doesn't even look back at me. And just like that, the ride's over.
“Should be safe from here, little dude,” he says.
“Thanks for the ride.” I glance down at the ground, thinking about how I'm gonna get off this thing without him noticing my situation.
“You alright?” He glances back at me.
“Fine.”
“Uh, it's not a good idea to be running around in the woods, little dude. At least not on this side of the highway.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter.
“Well, look I have errands to run.” He settles back on the seat.
“Uh... I'm...” My voice is cut off by the motor, as he revs the throttle. “Caleb.”
The motorcycle spins sideways, tossing off gravel, and for a moment he looks like he's about to wipe out. Before I can say anything further, he speeds toward the tree line.
“HEY, WHAT'S YOUR NAME?” I shout after him.
He disappears into the woods.
Chapter 2
Thursday, September 9
Soft morning light peeks through the blinds, making shadowy lines across my body that remind me of prison bars. I'm awake, feeling like sleep is a long lost friend. Here it comes: the knock. One, two, three, four, and pause.
“Hey, Caleb. Time to get up.” My day cannot begin without Dad's say-so. The door squeaks open. “Time to bust a move. You're going to be late.” Every morning of my life he says the same thing.
He runs his life and his house like a military operation: tight schedules, mind-numbing routines, and detailed procedures for the simplest of tasks. It's not enough to put the coffee cups in the cupboard, but their handles must be turned to a five-o'clock position. Variance is the enemy. Nonconformity is the devil. Everything must fall in line.
The sound of heavy-footed dress shoes on tile echoes up the stairs. Dad mills around in the kitchen, talking with Mom. It's amazing that I hear him above the pipes, above the running water. His spoon chimes in his coffee cup, as Mom rattles his pill bottle. She has to remind him to take his heart medication, or he won't take it. The back door squeaks open and he steps out the door. My anxiety goes away.
The door slams shut. Dad has left the house. I crawl down to the kitchen, where Mom watches out the window, as Dad crosses the lot to the church. He keeps his office there.
“Good morning, Caleb.” Mom leans against the sink and stares out the window. Her auburn hair is pulled back from her face in a French braid, revealing tired eyes and worry lines. She wears in a tan blouse, black slacks, and black heels.
“Mornin' Ma.”
The smell of freshly brewed coffee looms in the air. Scrambled eggs simmer in a skillet.
It's hard to tell what kind of mood Mom's in this morning. Sometimes, she leaves things alone, but other times she's a willing ally. No one knows what I go through like she does. As the preacher's wife, her life gets picked apart a dozen different times on a daily basis. It's not like Crenshaw's Creek will be any different than Cleveland. If anything, it'll be worse. There's probably not much else for the pew hogs to talk about.
"Are you settling in okay?"
All I can do is shrug. Little point in telling
her that I was nearly killed last night by some crazy guy with a machine gun. "My room smells like cat piss."
"Urine, Caleb. Urine's a more appropriate word."
"Fine, Ma. My room smells like urine... Kind of makes me sick."
"I guess Reverend Sheldon had a cat."
"Guess so."
"Well, did you sleep okay?"
"No, ma. I kept having dreams about tying my principal to a chair and setting the school on fire."
She laughs and settles down into the chair. Sips her coffee. She gets, even endorses, my dark humor. "Just make sure you tie the knots good and tight. Can't have anyone squiggling loose while you pour the kerosene."
"Really? Kerosene? You think that's the way to go?"
"Oh, of course. Anything else just smacks of amateur."
"Good point."
She takes another sip of her coffee and peers over the local rag. It's the Crenshaw's Creek Recorder—turned to the Help Wanted section.
"Looking for a job, Ma?"
"Something. Even if it's volunteer work. I'll lose my mind if I just sit here all day."
"Can't lose what ya never had."
When my plate is cleared, she grabs for it at once and hurries to the sink. She drops the plate into the dishwater and glances back at me with laughing eyes. She's dressed, she has her make-up on, and she's ready to go. The only problem is that there isn't anywhere for her to go. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of her when her guard is down, when the world is far less certain.
"Mom?"
She turns to me. "Yes, Caleb?"
"What the hell are we doing here? We had a good thing going at Immanuel." The 'hell' word slips out of my mouth, but it doesn't seem to phase her.
She shrugs. "The decision to leave the Immanuel Congregation wasn't entirely your father's choice." She looks away, visibly twisted. She makes that face she does when she's ready to be blunt, but there's also hurt and shame in her eyes.
