Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  “We're gonna hide out until thinks really start to heat up. Then, we're gonna jump out and scare the shit out of 'em.”

  “They're not gonna be scared of us.”

  He slings the backpack to the ground, crouches down, unzips it. I wouldn't be surprised to see Josh pull out any number of paraphernalia that are sure to land us in the back of a Crenshaw's Creek County cruiser, but even I'm surprised. It's not alcohol, it's not junk food. It's two furry-looking suits, like something the school mascot would wear, only better made. “No, but they'll be scared of Big Foot.”

  “What is that?”

  “I told you. It's Big Foot,” His voice echoes through the clearing, as he shoves a suit into my hands. “Here! Here! Try it on!"

  "What the hell for?" It's all so childish really and frankly I'm a little embarrassed for him. It's not like we're freshman.

  “It's for scaring the hell out of the Rednecks."

  My forehead tightens. My gaze meets his. "Josh, you've gone mental?"

  He waves his hand, as if to say we're past all of that, now. “This is what we do. We hide out in the woods. Wait until they start to get a little tipsy, then we go all Last of the Mohicans on their asses."

  "Josh, they're never going to fall for that! They're not idiots. Well, uh, maybe they're idiots, but they're not blind!"

  “Of course, they will,” he says. “That's how urban legends survive. These jackasses hang onto just enough superstition that they can't say for a fact that Big Foot doesn't exist.”

  “Well, the whole idea behind Big Foot is that he's BIG. He's not a hundred and twenty pounds.”

  “It won't matter. It's all about the element of surprise.”

  "Everyone'll suspect us.”

  “No, no. Everyone'll suspect me. They still think of you as their little shepherd boy.”

  “I'm in.” I blurt out. It's a spur-of-the-moment decision. Even if it is a tad grade school, it beats being thought of as 'the shepherd boy'.

  “Alright, Alright! I need ya to do something for me.”

  “Uh, I've come this far. What d'ya want?”

  “When the time comes, I need you to be Big Foot.”

  “Uh, yeah. We already settled that. I'm gonna do...whatever this is.”

  “No, you don't understand. I need you to really be Big Foot. The costume will only take you so far. Then, you're just a jackass running around in a furry suit.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I need you to act the part. You're wild. You're crazy. You've never had a home-cooked meal before. You've spent all your life wandering around in these woods. And now these kids are here. And they're taking something from you.”

  Humoring him, “Yeah? What are they taking?”

  “I don't know. Your home. Your nest. Your way of life. They're here on your turf and it's personal. Got it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good, now let's start making the footprints.”

  Chapter 31

  At first it's just the breeze—soft and steady—and a choir of crickets chirping. The steady thump of bass music from a car stereo, wheels rolling on gravel, and grinding brakes enters the mix. A head hangs out the window of a black Nova. "Whew hew!" A Redneck voice echoes across the clearing, as if to announce his presence. Another car, screeching guitar music, the kind of rowdy laughter that one resorts to when volume is no longer an issue. The rattle of ice in coolers, the crack of beer cans, the the clanging of folding lawn chairs. The noise builds, carrying into the woods, as if broadcasted from loudspeakers.

  Another round of "whew hew" screeches into the twilight sky and the slow and steady trickle of cars moves into the clearing. The sound of wheels in gravel becomes a constant theme that ebbs and flows.

  A loud "there ya go" carries into the woods, as the fire lights, the wood crackles, and orange light flickers off the trees. “Yeah! Fire! Fire good!” A girl claps her hands and shouts.

  A Redneck peels off his shirt and pounds on his stomach.

  "Let's see what ya got, bad ass. Bring it."

  “The sound of a fist pounding into a tightened stomach mixes with a chorus of "oh" and "you gonna take that?"

  As if it's a breach of some sort of etiquette otherwise,

  another Redneck peels off his shirt. "Bring it. I can take whatever you can dish." It's official. We're just a few mud flaps short of a tractor pull.

  Stop everything. The flies are really starting to buzz, which can only mean there's fresh feces nearby. The camp fire billies watch the parking area, some of them climb to their feet. A few drift closer to the parking lot. Grant The Goon emerges from a row of parked cars, but what's the point in being Redneck royalty, if you can't have an entourage? He's not alone; there are four of them, moving in formation like they're part of a parade.

  Grant pauses near the fire, as if he expects to be asked to pose for a photograph. He moves about, shaking hands, like he expects to be met with freshly-baked pie and a key to the town. Turning to onlookers, he holds a hand to his ear, as if to say “I can't hear anything”. A fresh wave of “whew-hew” breaks out in his honor.

  Somewhere in the sea of parked cars, someone finds a volume knob. The voice of Hank Williams, Jr. croons above the clearing, singing "If the South Woulda Won". Apparently, it's something of an anthem, the kind of song that you take your hat off and stand up for, sing loudly.

  The song ends with a loud roar: clapping, hooting, anything goes. The noise is just barely beginning to die when someone shouts:

  "Get 'im, Grant. Kick his ass!" And just like that, the two roughnecks who were testing each other's gut muscles earlier are now egging on a match between Grant and Troy Schaffer.

  My heart beats faster, sweat trickles down my forehead, as my anxiety builds. Push is about to come to shove and it suddenly occurs to me why they call them “roughnecks”. These guys are used to a certain amount of brute force and there's so many ways this can all end badly. Parked out in the lot are at least a half dozen trucks with antlers mounted on their grills. What would these guys do to a Sasquatch?

  "Josh," I whisper. "This isn't gonna work."

  He waves his hand dismissively. "Be cool, Caleb. It'll work."

  "No, man. These guys don't play around."

  "Caleb, whatever happens I got your back. Alright?"

  Josh does nothing to push back the wall of worry that's starting to build around me. I'm sure he means it, but he doesn't seem to realize that it may not be enough. The Redneck to Sasquatch ratio isn't very good right now. "Alright, Josh. I got your back too."

  While Grant and Troy duke it out by the bonfire, a chubby kid with a backward baseball cap squirts some lighter fluid into a charcoal grill. Blue and white flames shoot high into the air.

  "Easy Hoss. Don't set yourself on fire," someone calls to him.

  "No, it's cool. I got it. Who wants a hot dog?"

  A collective squeal of "Meeee" echoes across the clearing, like a selfish aboriginal war cry.

  Josh kicks back, leaning against a tree trunk, just smiling, enjoying the spectacle.

  "Man, someone's gonna get hurt."

  He shrugs. "Maybe."

  "Well, how much longer are we gonna wait?"

  “Until we get the sign.”

  “The sign? What sign?”

  “When the first cheerleader loses her cookies, then it's time.”

  “That may never happen.”

  “That always happens.”

  The crowd gets a little louder as Grant throws Troy to the ground. He's on top of him in a second flat, as a loud “Kick his ass, Grant” comes from behind them.

  “He's got 'im someone shouts.”

  “Come on Troy! You can get out of this.”

  “One...”

  “Come on, man!”

  “Two!”

  “Quit being a wussy!”

  Cheers and hoots spread across the clearing. It's over. Apparently, Troy is pinned.

  The crowd spreads out a bit, as Troy climbs to his
feet, knocking the dust off his jeans. He's shaking hands with Grant while someone at the stereo struggles to make an executive decision: Garth Brooks or Alan Jackson?

  "Get ready."

  "What? Now?"

  He points out into the clearing, where a girl in skin-tight jeans and a halter top, staggers away from the crowd. She's got this walk that I've only seen once in a B-budget Zombie flick, staggering along like she doesn't realize that both legs still work. She stops once to steady herself, putting her hands on her knees. Behind her is a girl in glasses and a red sweater. Her arms are crossed as she watches like a doting librarian. "Hey, Jen? You okay?"

  "Donch be schtupid," she slurs. "I'm find."

  "Well, be careful. It's dark out here."

  Jen stumbles to the edge of the clearing, crunches into the weeds a little ways. She staggers forward until her foot bumps into something that sounds hollow—a tree stump perhaps. She collapses to the ground and the sound of her puking carries into the woods.

  "Holy shit!" A guy shouts near the bonfire. "Will ya look at that?"

  "What is it?"

  "It's like a footprint, but... it's huge!"

  “Remember,” Josh whispers. “It's personal. They took something that belongs to you.”

  It all comes down to this, and I don't think I can do it. It's hot in this suit. My head's spinning, my heart's pounding, it's hard to breathe, and there's a pretty good chance that I might pass out. But there's nothing I can do. I'm a part of this now. Even if I only make it a few feet, they're gonna see me. Josh is gonna scream and there's no way to stop him. And I'm gonna be standing here. And there's nothing I can do. Even if I turn around and walk away, someone's gonna see me, walking down the road in this suit. It's all gonna get out anyway. And what it really comes down to is that I'm really sick of being the little shepherd boy. And even if I'm caught red-handed, what can anyone say? What can Dad really say about it? We're not the good guys anymore, so it doesn't matter. “Okay. Ready when you are...”

  Josh is on his feet, letting out the kind of “Go!” that you hear in World Cup soccer matches, when it's no longer a cheer but something that signals that a melee's about to break loose. His arms stretch out into the darkness, as the kind of eerie silence—that comes just before a tornado—settles over the clearing. The silence is broken by his loud and barbarous wail. It's the kind of cry a pig makes when it's about to be slaughtered. It carries through the clearing, like a freeze-ray, stopping hundreds of frightened Rednecks mid-step, with wide eyes and gaped mouths.

  As my feet, clumsy in their over-sized shoes, grip the ground beneath me, a strange feeling crawls through my body, straightening my spine, curling my lips, causing the hair on my neck to stand. My shoulders become heavy, as if I'm carrying the weight of the world on my back. My chest vibrates as I roar. I've been around for a thousand years and these people have been taking from me. They've captured and murdered my children, they've stolen my food. They've chased me and beaten me, but now's my revenge. I'm alive inside my anger, and there's hell to pay.

  My growl spills out into the clearing, sounding out doom to those who cross my path. Lumbering forward, my chest puffs out within my gray furry suit. My chin is tilted in the sky, so that my war cry will carry out to them.

  There is a brief moment of silence as the presence of the beast descends upon the bonfire. Horrified drunken eyes register the reality of the hairy monster before them. It is like something out of a 1960s horror film, as they stare in a stupor of gaped mouths.

  Lights from a pick-up truck flash on me, as a single scream, shrill and piercing lets loose. A chaotic mumble of “oh my god” and curse words erupt. The clearing is a chorus of screams, voices calling out to God, crying, fleeting apologies to their mothers. Chairs overturn. Coolers spill. People are knocked to the ground in a melee to get away.

  “It's personal.” There's all the time in the world. I can wait them out, take them apart one by one. Slowly, I amble past the bonfire, while raising an angry fist into the night sky. Some run toward their cars, others bolt into the woods. The timid curl on the ground, covering their heads.

  Another cry escapes my lips. These creatures need to know that I am here. They need to know that I seek justice. I screech like I've never screeched before.

  A stone's throw from the bonfire, terrified school kids claw their way into a black Nova, locking the door. I will show them. I will teach them. How dare these kids try to escape my justice! I lumber toward the car, climb onto the hood.

  “Someone call the police!” A voice shouts.

  The shocks squeak as I bounce up and down on the hood, pounding my fist into the metal roof.

  “No!” A girl's scream cuts through the clearing, as she hurries toward the woods.

  Another scream. I jump down from the hood to follow after this screaming creature who dares to encroach upon my nest.

  Leaping from the hood of the car, I pound on my chest, turning slowly around. As my final cry sings into the clearing, my eyes fall upon our beloved hero, the mighty Grant, waddling along toward his car, like a kid who's pooped his pants. Like a puppy, Troy trails along behind him.

  Josh screeches again. His shadow stretches some thirty yards in the light of the campfire, as he makes his slow retreat into the woods.

  Chapter 32

  It's a game called “Hold on for Dear Life”. The Kawasaki hums beneath us and Josh wrestles the handle bars. The headlights hunt their way through the darkness, dodging trees, hopping over hills. Even if it weren't pitch black night, my eyes water, choking on the fumes of burned motor oil and the heat of this damned furry mask. It's nearly impossible to see where we're going. I'd get rid of the mask, but there's no time to take it off and I need both hands to hold onto the motorcycle.

  “You're gonna get us killed!” I yell, but it's no use. My voice is drowned beneath the hum of the Kawasaki and the noise that carries up from Barrel Road—racing engines, squealing tires. “Josh!”

  He leans back and cocks his head toward me. His lips say “hold on,” but it's impossible to hear his actual voice. The bike bounces over a bump, skids sideways for a moment, but before I catch my breath, the earth falls out from under us. It isn't until the shape of a fat tree appears below us that I realize that the bike is tearing down a steep hill. If the brakes are working, Josh doesn't care to use them.

  I pound at his back, trying to get him to slow down. He leans and starts to look back at me, but there's no time. He jerks at the handlebars, twist, narrowly avoiding the tree. “Stop! We're gonna get killed! Stop!”

  Trees blur by like guardrail posts on the interstate. All the while, the most frightening images flash through my mind—images of crushed bones and shattered teeth, bent metal parts, my mother at a closed casket. “Josh, stop this damned bike!”

  The tires make the sound of a jet landing as they touch down on a trail of hard dirt. The ground is starting to level out. The tree growth is starting to open up. The bike slows down.

  The trail sets down into a clearing, where there's a barn and cattle at pasture. A long gravel drive climbs over a hill, where the outline of a large black barn and the yellow lights of a house peek through a thick bank of trees.

  As the trail lets out onto a gravel drive, the long shadow of a tall security fence stretches across our path. The fence towers above us—perhaps fifteen feet high—with barbed wire at the top. It runs parallel to the drive for as far as the eye can see.

  Josh lets off the throttle, as the bike begins to coast.

  “What is this place?”

  Josh steers the bike off the gravel lane onto a freshly-blacktopped driveway. A tall chain length gate closes off the driveway. It's the kind of gate that you'd expect to see at the entrance to a military base or an industrial complex, not someone's home. “My dad's house.”

  To be fair, I don't know for a fact what Harlan does for a living, but it's clear that he doesn't drive a tow truck. It's a safe bet that he's one of the ones Rooster was talking about, wh
o don't advertise in the yellow pages. His house, his land—maybe all of Barrel Road—is likely shaded on Rooster's map, unsafe and off limits. I can't say for certain that Harlan's a grower, a runner, a dealer—or anything else—in the dope-growing business, but this place looks like a military compound.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Josh glides the bike up to a tall brick gatepost, where a key-entry pad and a surveillance camera are mounted. “We're gonna stop in here for a bit.” He lifts up his mask, looks at the camera, and waves.

  “I don't know, man.” Even if I'm dead wrong—if Harlan has nothing to do with the dope business—he's still the half-naked guy I saw running around looking for his dead son. Yes, it's sad and everything, but also scary. It means he's out of his head—that he's unstable. Marilyn's afraid of him, Deputy Hayes is too.

  A click echoes off the driveway, as the gate lurches, and slowly opens. “It's cool, Caleb. Dad just gets a little paranoid sometimes.”

  “About what?”

  He doesn't answer. He gives the throttle a little squeeze as the bike rolls toward the house.

  The house isn't a total dump, but like everything else here, it leaves the impression that security is more important than curb appeal. It's a three-story brick building, with small windows and heavy shutters and an attached garage. A black catwalk wraps around the roof. Like the shutters, it appears to be something that's actually used, where one might expect to find a lookout posted on any given night.

  “Josh, lets' just go. Alright?”

  “We just got here.” The garage door opens as a security camera mounted to the side of the house angles toward the bike. He steers the motorcycle toward the house.

  “Man, it just doesn't feel right.”

  “Caleb, if you're not safe here, you're not safe anywhere. Trust me.” He pulls the Kawasaki into the garage, lowers the kickstand, and kills the engine.

  The first thing I have to do is get out of this suit. “Whew! I'm burning alive in this thing.”

  Josh reaches back with one hand, grabs my mask by its fur, rips it off of me, and slings it against the wall. He then grabs his own mask and does the same thing. He's still kind of cackling. “Caleb... I didn't get a chance to say anything back there, but that was beautiful, man!”