by Alan Spencer
Brock took the next exit. "I can see you taking acting seriously. You'd shove one of your friends' head in an Easy Bake Oven if they crossed you."
Hannah smiled and continued her story. "After graduating high school, I moved out to L.A., worked my ass off busting tables as a waitress, and after nearly a year, I get my next break. Tampon Girl #2." Hannah raised her voice before Brock say a word. "I was in one of those movies for high school girls to teach them about menstruation. It was such a dumb scene. All I did was run into the bathroom during class with the teacher yelling at me that I didn't have a hall pass. I meet another girl in the bathroom who is also going through her period, and we talk each other through it, and guess what? She has a tampon for me, and after school that day, we become best friends. We actually meet up at an ice cream shop and eat ice cream cones together."
"Sounds like the plot of a porno."
Brock expected a punch to the arm and received it.
"I'm sure you're the source of a lot of giggling in classrooms," Brock said after the hit, remembering the health class videos he watched back in the day. "I wish I got to be the kid who had to ask his coach about wet dreams and the pros of masturbation."
"Well, the short film got me a role on a sitcom, and then two years after that, a co-starring role in a romantic comedy that's a rip-off of Mork and Mindy with a spaceman coming down to earth to find romance. It was cancelled before its first season was up. Then I got into enough movies, I found myself doing more and more westerns, and then I met you."
A guilty pang hit Brock. Now that he listened to her story from beginning to end, he really had put the kibosh on her career. He had done the same to Angel too. Brock was tearing up thinking about it, but he drove on hoping she wouldn't notice. Instead of words, Hannah leaned her head against him and petted his stomach. She understood what he was thinking.
They kept driving.
Brock's thoughts drifted to Angel. He grew apprehensive imagining how his first encounter would go down.
Hannah read into the looks on his face. "You're not going another mile without telling me what's going in that head of yours, Brock."
"I'm stressed about Angel. It's like bracing yourself for a punch that has your name on it, and you've done things that merit that punch, so there's no way out of it except to, well, to get punched."
"I think she'll appreciate you coming to visit. Sure, she's got issues she's going to deal on you, but it'll help you both. How's that journal been working out?"
Brock had kept the journal tucked under the seat of the car. He made a few more entries during the trip, one of them damning towards Hannah. He hated writing it, but it flowed through the pen and onto the page anyway:
Angel isn't the only one I've seen in precarious situations after men have finished with her. Hannah was also a regular at my parties. I once caught her passed out on my black leather sofa naked except for the rug she'd pulled up from the floor and wrapped around herself. Open condom wrappers were strewn in the vicinity, but I can't be for sure they were used on her, but I know somebody had some fun with her. Her panties were across the room. I don't judge her because I've woken with up with strange women in my bed before. I'm so glad what Hannah and I have now is so far removed from that. I'm taking out the bad memories and replacing them with good ones. And that's the thing about Angel. Does she have any good memories, or are they all bad? If there isn't any good for her now, there's no way she's going to kick the habit.
Brock finally replied to Hannah's question. "It's going alright. The journal is a self-confessional, so it's not going anywhere near publication. I have locked up skeletons in my head, and I have to free them."
"I think it's a great idea. I used to write a journal as a kid. It was about stupid stuff. What I wanted for my next birthday. I drew pictures of my dad dressed up as a princess because he'd never play dolls with us. He was a machismo guy. Maybe I'll start writing in one too. Would you ever let me read yours?"
"Now what kind of a question is that? It's deep down and personal. It's unabridged material."
"You don't trust me?"
"I trust you."
"Then let me read it."
"Why?"
"Because I want to know what you think about the past. It's about when you had the mansion, right?"
She was backing him into a corner, and Brock had only one true weapon to redirect her from the conversation. "White cake or chocolate cake for the wedding?"
Hannah smiled. "Well, that's a loaded question..."
She laid out each specific detail of the wedding, and when she was finished, they were only 22 miles away from Blue Hills, Virginia.
BLUE HILLS, VIRGINIA
Exiting the interstate and riding on a less traveled highway for twenty minutes, Brock and Hannah ended up in a heavily wooded area of bright green maple, chestnut, hickory, and oak trees. "Welcome to deciduous city," Hannah said under her breath, reading the homemade sign on the road, what was made perhaps by a child, how the letters were painted crooked. Hannah rolled down her windows. "Smell that fresh air. Oh, this is so much better than the city. When we retire, we have to get out of Beverly Hills."
"Once I pay off my debts, and if my show lasts long enough, I can build up a nest egg. I'd be up for living in the country in a heartbeat. But if you're going to be a movie star again, and we're married, your money is my money, ri-ght? Imagine if I hadn't blown my dad's estate? I'd be able to take you to so many beautiful places. We'd retire right now. I could treat you like a princess."
"I'm not a princess, and I don't want to be a princess. It's a strange way of looking at it, but if you hadn't lived like you did, I don't think we would be together now. I didn't really fall in love with you until rehab."
The bridge up ahead came into view. The sign in front of it said Blue River Bridge. Keep Under 20 Miles An Hour. The bridge extended for half a mile, the overhead beams shading them from the bright sun. Half-way through the journey, they peered down into the raging river. It was a dark blue torrent that furrowed and flowed. Before they could exit the bridge, there was a steel bar blocking the way. There was a control post, a box large enough for somebody to sit in, but nobody was there. Brock got out of the car for a closer look at the control post.
"Hello, anybody here?"
The door to the post was wide open. The control panel was on. Brock noted the metal box with a note on it that asked for a dollar to cross. He dug into his pocket and came up with the single bill, praying the creases wouldn't prevent him from using it. The machine accepted the cash, then it whirred for a moment, and finally, the steel bar lifted up. Flashing red lights hurried him on as the console lit up, counting down from fifteen seconds to cross before the barrier came back down.
Brock rushed back to the car, took the vehicle out of park, and sped through to the end of the bridge. "Where's the booth guy? Is he out to lunch or something?"
Hannah didn't care. She was entranced by the woods. "I'm falling in love with this scenery."
"It's woods. All woods."
"Yeah, but look at it."
Milkweed and ferns marked the edges of the woods. Hannah was delighted when she caught a group of five turkeys waddle about in a group. "I've never seen one for real."
"Nature at its finest. Turkeys."
The woods were so thick, Brock wondered when any actual people would come into being. As much as it was awe-inspiring to look through threads of the trees to catch an occasional gray tailed fox skirt ahead or a cottontail rabbit eat the daises spread out everywhere, he was eager to see Angel.
The clearing was a grassy area where the earth dipped into a creek, a tributary feeding into Blue River. A man stood before the water in ragged clothing, the wardrobe having seen many dirty expeditions. The man himself seemed to be in his sixties, his distraught face intense from the arc of blood trailing down his features from a bruise next to his eye
"We have to see if that man's okay," Hannah insisted, urging Brock to pull over. "He looks out of his
mind."
"That's what I'm afraid of. Why don't we go into town and call the police?"
"But he's bleeding, Brock. You would want help if that was you, right?"
He pulled over, giving in, and stepped out of the car. "Okay, but you stay here. That's the deal. If something happens, you drive into town. No arguments."
"Why are you talking like that?"
"I guess I'm scared wondering why the guy is bleeding. What if what did that to him is still in the area?"
He told her to lock the doors, then Brock walked towards the stranger. The man didn't notice him approach. He was standing erect and eying the creek and beyond it.
Brock wasn't sure what to say, so he toned down the urgency in his voice. "Can I drive you back into town, sir? You look like you could use some help."
"I'm not going back there!" The stranger snapped. "You're another one of them they've suckered into coming here. They keep drawing them in, but things are changing. Yes, they're going to get worse. There's tension in the earth. They're arguing. Fighting with each other. Battling to be the next to decide things." The man wept, "They're going to kill us all eventually."
Brock was puzzled by the cryptic words. He caught a better view of the wound that had bled to the point the man had to close his eye, the red was so thick. Someone bashed him a good one over the head. Maybe somebody robbed him and left him without a car.
Knowing that had to be it, Brock wanted to urge the stranger back into town, have him sit in the back seat, and they would take him to the hospital. "Why don't you come with us? I'll gladly give you a ride. You're most welcome to come with us."
"Aren't you listening?" The man snarled, sending a face full of hatred Brock's way. "I said I'm not going back. I won't play their games anymore. I don't care what happens. I don't care! Just stay away from me. Don't you dare get any closer to me!"
"Tell me what happened to you. I only want to help."
The man dug into his windbreaker and removed a .32 caliber pistol. He aimed it at Brock, the man's eyes as cold as the blued barrel. "I want you to go. Leave me be! I'm enjoying my final moments, so go away!"
Brock's body froze. He knew Hannah was freaking out watching the distressed man pull out a firearm on him. He became his own life negotiator. Brock was surprised at how calm and cool his words left his mouth despite the war going on inside his head. "Okay, whatever you want. I'll leave. Just don't shoot me."
"Then get going." The stranger cocked back the hammer and raised the gun at Brock. "I can't trust anyone. Anyone alive, you can't trust." From anger to an honest warning, "You watch yourself. We're nothing against them. They have plans for us." He laughed with a sickening wheeze. "It's already happening. There's nothing we can do."
Brock held up his hands and nodded in understanding, though the rant made no sense. "Okay, I'm going. Don't shoot me. Please."
Brock was unable to shake the icy cold sensation that something was really wrong.
You know nothing about this man. You need to back off and call the police. Let them talk to the loon and figure it out.
After taking a series of careful strides to the car and not taking his eyes off the disturbed man, Brock got back into the car, hit the gas, and sped on as far away from the stranger as the wheels would take him.
"Do what you will to me!" The old man shouted at the sky, throwing his head back and challenging the suspicious silence deepening around him. He knew something would intervene against him being so close to Blue Hills' town limits. "I won't fight you any longer. I know I can't win."
He kept walking forward, determined to leave this town behind. The old man was named Ned Barnes. Ned crossed through threads of the knee-high creak water. The water was ice cold, but also soothing. It reminded Ned he was a living, breathing, thinking, though altered, man.
Ned forded the waters and then walked up a short hill on the other side and kept walking closer to the bridge where he could cross out of town to Igneous County. So close to the bridge, Ned was halted, forced to slow, stop, and then dodge the baseball-sized pockets of turf exploding up from the earth, what was shredding grass and soil and spitting it higher than the old man's head. The holes expelled putrid and caustic gases. With each boil and pop, a bellowing and incinerator-intense heat crossed his body, scalding him. Then syllables, words, and screams shot forth from the holes. Voices surrounded the old man as the terrain became deadlier with each step.
Losing his gun after nearly tripping, he shouted at the sky, "Go ahead and kill me then!"
More holes burst from the ground, and Ned turned his ankles between two broken footholds. The quadriceps of his legs were singed by the blasts of scalding air, liquefying his flesh. Suffering through the horrid pain, he did what little he could to crawl on as more holes threatened to cook him alive. An unintelligible mantra spread across the air. Ned was forced to listen as a larger hole caved in below him, allowing more words to break free: "Nothing in escape/lose all your ambition for life/lose hope/lost forever/you will burn/or follow us and obey/play with us/play our game/or burn burn burn burn."
The words cycled over and over, faster and faster, the hundreds of voices distinct and varying in intensity of emotions. As the heat rose to extreme levels, the grass around Ned burst into flames and spread like wildfire. The man's facial features dripped into the deepening hole beneath him like threads of hot wax. It wasn't more than a few seconds before Ned sank into the earth, splashing into the black oil beneath the earth and evaporating.
Hannah wanted to call the police. When she dialed her phone, she hissed in frustration. "My cell phone's dead. Damn it."
Brock was calm, knowing they had left the crazy man in their dust. "Okay, I'll check mine."
"What did he say to you, Brock? Why did he pull a gun? Why was he bleeding? Jesus, tell me something."
"Give me a chance, I will." Brock didn't mean to snip at her. He dug into his pocket for his phone. He tried to turn it on, but the screen was dead. "I bet we forget to charge them at the hotel."
Hannah checked the side mirror and the rearview mirrors, her eyes as wide as he'd ever seen them, wider than in the movies where she played a damsel in distress. "So what did he say? What happened?"
Brock tried to lower the panic level of the situation. "He said he's not going back, and that's he's leaving town. He said he was finished with something. He claims there's something dangerous nearby, but he's probably disoriented. It looked like somebody hit him on the head. I've heard stories where parents with Parkinson's or Alzheimer's will just walk out of their house and go off somewhere and vanish. Maybe that's our guy. He left his house and got lost. Or maybe he left his house, fell down, hit his head, and the rest we just saw."
"But what about the gun, Brock? Did the old man dodder into a gun shop, pick up a firearm, and then go back to being a dumb old man? He was scared of something. I saw it in his eyes."
"Hey, you don't have to tell me. He aimed the gun right at me."
Hannah gripped his arm. "We stop at the first place and call the police."
"Agreed."
Brock drove fifteen miles over the speed limit to reach the next house or business. They kept encountering wooded bends. He kept reminding himself the sign said it was twenty miles until they reached Blue Hills. Hannah was about to complain about how long they had been driving when the next turn directed them to a paved road, and up that road, the woods cleared. Soon, they parked at a business called "Conquer the Mountains." It was a one-story retail store that sold hiking expeditions into the local Appalachian mountains with guided tours and access to rental supplies. Brock was grateful the front was packed with cars. That meant people were here.
He parked in the open spot closest to the sign showing a cartoon climber hiking up a steep incline. They got out of the car. Brock opened the business door for her. Inside, shelves of mountain packs, tents, souvenirs, and both cash registers were ransacked. The place looked to have been robbed.
"Oh my God, what happened here?" Hann
ah winced when she found the phone near the register had been smashed into too many pieces to be of use. "God, the phone."
"It looks like this place suffered a riot."
"You'd be right." A flustered man in his early thirties approached them from the back room. His hair was slicked back, shining in the light with a gelled sheen. The rest of him was dressed as a mountain climber, wearing a blue and yellow windbreaker and pants. He seemed to be in muscular shape, though his color was sallow in the face and he was despairing in the eyes. "Somebody knocked over my registers, stole my merchandise, and then they decided to bust up my displays. You'll have to excuse me, this just happened. I'm a bit flustered."
"We understand," Brock said, stepping closer to him and shaking the man's hand. "We just had a man from the road wave a gun at us. He was an older gentleman."
"That's got to be Ned Barnes." He accepted Brock's handshake. "I'm Michael Sands, by the way."
"How did you know who the man was?" Hannah neglected to introduce herself. "Was he the one who robbed you?"
Michael paced the store, checking the corners, righting up displays, trying to piece them back together so he could restock the mountain packs, clothing, and apparel that was strewn on the floor. After stressing over his merchandise, he addressed Hannah's questions.
"No, that old fart couldn't unlock a door, never mind rob me. He's probably drunk. And did he flash a gun at you? It's empty. It's his way of getting tourists and strangers to listen to him. It's all for attention. He's thrown in jail every other night. If his grandson wasn't the sheriff, that asshole would be facing serious jail time. Small towns, go figure." He eyed the dinged up metal shelving units with disdain. "They took baseball bats to my shelves. Why didn't they just burn it down while they were at it?"
