The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  ‘Hondas . . .?’

  Duke sneered at him. ‘I look like the kinda guy’d get himself caught dead on a rice rocket?’ He tossed a can of Budweiser to Norman and took one for himself. They popped open the beers. As they started to drink, Boots came striding toward them.

  ‘Whoa, mama,’ Duke muttered. Norman stared at her.

  She smiled and waved. He returned the wave. Doesn’t she know how awful she looks? Her shoulders and hips seemed even broader than he remembered them – her arms and legs thicker. She also had a bit of a paunch. She had no business wearing such a skimpy bikini. It was black, which made her skin look very pale and pasty. As she swaggered closer, Norman saw that the bikini was knitted. Its top looked tired and loose. Limp strings held triangular patches of black yarn across her breasts. The patches bobbed and jiggled and swayed as she walked.

  Black cords strained down over her hips to pull at a V of yarn that came up from between her legs.

  ‘Bitchin’ bikini, babe,’ Duke said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Norman added. Hideous! he thought.

  ‘You like?’ Boots asked. Stopping in front of them, she flung up her arms and cocked a hip. ‘Da-dahhh!’

  Her bikini top was too small and too loose. Half an inch of skin showed under each breast. Before Norman could get a good look, however, she turned around.

  Black cords were tied in bows behind her neck and back.

  ‘Da-dahhh!’ she proclaimed again, and swished her butt to one side.

  Her ass cheeks were wide, white and smooth – and mostly bare. A couple of cords slanted down from her hips. They met a narrow patch of yarn that stretched tautly down the center. Through the tiny holes in the knitting Norman glimpsed the crack between her buttocks. His heart thudded.

  If the front’s like that . . . Boots continued her slow turn. Seconds later she was facing him again.

  Oh, my God, Norman thought. The view ripped his breath out and pumped heat into his groin. He didn’t want to be caught staring, so he forced himself to look at her face.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Is it . . . is it homemade?’

  Boots beamed. ‘How’d you guess?’ Not waiting for an answer, she pranced over to the third towel. She sat down on it, cross-legged, one knee pointing at Norman and the other at Duke. Duke tossed her a beer.

  As she snatched it from the air, Norman watched her breasts. There was no doubt about it: her nipples were actually jutting out through artfully contrived small holes in the knitting. Their tips were sunlit and pink as tongues.

  I’ve gotta stop looking, he told himself. Gotta. Gotta! He raised his beer. The top of the can flashed in his eyes. It blocked his view of Boots while he drank. When he lowered the can, he tried to keep his gaze on her face.

  She was smiling, her attention on the beer that she was about to pop open.

  She really is ugly, Norman thought. Very piglike.

  Boots tilted back her head and drank, so he dropped his gaze to sneak a look between her legs.

  Doesn’t she know? he wondered. My God, it’s sticking out like she’s got it mashed up against a tiny little chain-link fence.

  She knows, all right. She has to know. She’s just some sort of weird pervert, or nympho, or something. Or maybe she doesn’t know, or doesn’t think it matters. Any way you slice it, Norman thought, she’s definitely not operating with a full deck. She wears a thing like that in front of us. Why the hell didn’t she let us watch her change? She’s showing off everything she’s got anyhow.

  She’s nuts, that’s why.

  ‘You lookin’ at me?’ Boots asked.

  Norman couldn’t believe it. She’d caught him! Heat surging to his face, he met her stare and shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t looking at anything.’

  ‘You were, too.’

  ‘No. Honest.’

  Duke smirked. ‘Busted.’

  Suddenly grinning, Boots said, ‘Well, don’t.’ She reached out and gave Norman a playful slap on the knee. ‘Ain’t polite to stare at a lady’s cooz.’

  She burst out laughing, and so did Duke. After a moment or two, Norman joined in. He wasn’t amused, but he laughed with a mixture of relief and nerves. And gratitude.

  She isn’t so bad, he thought. Most gals would’ve torn me apart for doing something like that.

  Most gals don’t wear a bikini like that.

  She doesn’t mind me looking, he told himself. That’s the thing. She likes it. She wants me to do it.

  All the more reason to get the hell out of here.

  Norman took a few more swallows of beer, then set his can on the towel by his hip.

  He shoved it to make it stand upright.

  ‘I’m getting pretty hot,’ he said.

  Duke and Boots laughed about that.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ Norman said, grinning. ‘Anyway, just watch my beer for me, okay? I’m gonna get into my trunks after all. You guys can go ahead and break out the food if you want. I’ll be right back.’ He got to his feet and stepped off the towel. ‘Either of you need anything from the car?’

  Boots shook her head. Duke waved him off.

  ‘Right back,’ Norman said, and started toward the parking area. Halfway there he had a strong urge to glance over his shoulder. Don’t! You’ll blow it. Duke’ll come running. Just play it cool. Walk slow. Don’t look back.

  He listened but he didn’t look. He heard the squeal of seagulls, the rush of the surf, but he didn’t hear anyone coming.

  What’s to hear? Footsteps in the sand? The click of a switchblade spring?

  They aren’t coming, he told himself. They bought my story. Hook, line and sinker.

  Maybe.

  Then he was so close to the Cherokee that he knew he’d made it.

  Unless they’re right behind me . . . He’d heard that gals like Boots made trophies out of fellas’ gonads. His shriveled up tight.

  As Norman reached into his pocket for the keys, he leaned toward the driver’s door and turned his head.

  They were both still sitting on the towels! Not even looking at him!

  Head down, Duke was reaching into a grocery sack on his lap. Boots appeared to be watching him.

  I made it!

  Norman unlocked the door, swung it open, and climbed in behind the wheel. Hand trembling, he slid the key into the ignition. A buzzer sounded. The noise made him cringe, but he told himself that Duke and Boots couldn’t possibly hear it. They might hear the door thud shut, though, so he left it open.

  Don’t close it till the engine’s going, he told himself. You’ll be outta here before they can even get off their butts. On the beach, Duke took something out of the sack.

  A brown bottle. The coconut oil. For a full, rich tropical tan.

  Norman felt a tightness in his throat. He’d wanted to be there when she slicked herself up with that oil. Wanted to watch, and smell it, and maybe give her a hand.

  Boots took the bottle of oil but didn’t open it. Instead, she set it on the towel by her side.

  Of course, Norman thought. She’s gonna wait till I get back. She doesn’t want me to miss the show.

  Little does she know . . . He started the engine. Their heads turned.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. He shifted to reverse. Duke and Boots stayed sitting on their towels, staring at him.

  They aren’t even gonna try to stop me, he realized. It’s like they don’t even care.

  Why should they care? Three’s a crowd, right?

  That isn’t it, he told himself. The thing is, they know there’s no point. They can’t possibly stop me. They wouldn’t stand a chance. That’s why they aren’t trying.

  As Norman started to back up, Boots raised a hand. The same hand that had patted his knee after she’d caught him looking. It flapped up and down, waving good-bye.

  Chapter Ten

  Pamela sat up. She’d spent long enough stretched out on the seat, sometimes gazing up at the ceiling of the bus, sometimes sleeping. She didn’t mind the
sleeping. But she was wide-awake now.

  If she stayed on her back, she would start dwelling on Jim and Rodney – Rotney! – and all the terrible things that had happened. Or she might start wondering about Sharpe again. What was his problem? Where was he taking her?

  She sat up, swung her legs off the seat, and gently placed her feet on the floor. Leaning forward, she peered through the windshield.

  Still in the middle of nowhere.

  It looked nice out there now. The bright, hot glare of the sun had mellowed. The pavement, the whole desert landscape, was awash with a rosy glow.

  Must be almost sundown, Pamela thought. Her mouth was dry.

  Sharpe had given her a plastic bottle full of water after they’d finished dumping Rodney’s body. She’d been sipping at it, off and on. Between drinks, she’d kept it trapped between her hip and the seat-back. It must’ve rolled against her rump when she sat up. She could feel it there now.

  Reaching behind herself, she picked it up. She twisted off the cap and took a drink. Her stomach growled. She looked at Sharpe. From where she sat, she could see only the top of his head. So she stood up. Wincing with each step, she limped across the aisle. She swung around and dropped into a seat. Now she had a side view of Sharpe. She took another sip of water.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

  He didn’t so much as glance her way. ‘No talking to the driver while the bus is in motion, Pamela.’

  ‘Oh, give me a break.’

  ‘Company policy.’

  ‘What company? This is your bus, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Pamela sighed. Turning her head, she gazed down the aisle. Back there, the bus was dim with murky golden light. She could make out the blurred shapes of the mannequins. They seemed to be bouncing and swaying a little with the motions of the bus.

  She faced Sharpe. ‘Is it against the rules if I chat with the other passengers?’

  This time, his head tilted back. Checking her out in the rearview mirror. Pamela saw the reflection of his face. He still wore the sunglasses.

  His thin lips didn’t smile. ‘They don’t say much,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing with them?’

  ‘Driving ’em.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘None of my business?’

  Sharpe didn’t answer.

  ‘You’ve got to admit,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty strange.’

  ‘Quiet, now,’ he said. ‘That’s too much talk already.’

  ‘I’m a little hungry, you know.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘You don’t have any food in here?’

  He shook his head again. ‘We’ll be stopping by and by. Now, cut out the talk.’

  ‘Okay.’ Pamela settled back in the seat, sipped water, and wondered what he meant by ‘by and by.’ To her, it meant ‘soon.’ But maybe it didn’t mean that to Sharpe.

  Maybe it’s like ‘In the sweet by and by.’ She tried to sing the old hymn in her mind.

  In the sweet by and by, we will come to that beautiful . . . something. Shore? Cross? Sky?

  That sort of ‘by and by’ – the hymn sort – didn’t seem to mean ‘soon’ at all. It had to do with when you’re dead; she was pretty sure.

  Terrific, Pamela thought. We’ll all just gather at the river.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Those things aren’t mannequins back there. They’re just former passengers you starved to death. Petrified passengers.’

  Sharpe didn’t look at her, but his back seemed to stiffen slightly. A jaw muscle bulged.

  Uh-oh, Pamela thought.

  ‘Just kidding,’ she said.

  He acted as if he hadn’t heard her. His back remained rigid, and the muscle in his jaw stayed knotted.

  ‘I’m just hungry,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t mean to say anything wrong.’

  Sharpe’s head lifted slightly. ‘Never mind,’ he said. Moments later he raised an arm to point out a roadside billboard. ‘We’ll stop there,’ he said.

  The big white sign had red lettering.

  MAKE A PIT STOP AT PITS

  IT’S REALLY THE PITS

  PITS, CA, pop. 6

  Pamela had heard of Pits, but she couldn’t remember. No. Wait. The T-shirt on the kid.

  She peered down the aisle at the boy dummy. His T-shirt looked dark and rusty in the gloom, and she couldn’t make out the words. She was sure, though, that they were about the same place as the billboard. Pits, California, population six.

  Leave it to California, she thought, to have a town with only six inhabitants AND still make a big deal out of it.

  At least one of them apparently had a sense of humor. The kid bought his T-shirt there, so . . .

  The kid did not buy his T-shirt there. The kid is a dummy: he’s never bought anything anywhere, period.

  Sharpe must’ve bought the T-shirt, Pamela told herself. Or he got hold of it one way or another. The same with the clothes on all the other dummies . . . And me.

  She felt a corner of her mouth stretch. I’m just one of the gang. Sharpe’s gang. With one minor or significant difference, depending on how you look at it.

  She shook her head and wondered how she’d digressed to such a level.

  The T-shirt on the kid. Sharpe must’ve gotten it at Pits, which meant that there had to be a store – some sort of gift or souvenir shop. And a place like that was almost certain to carry food.

  A whole assortment of snack food would probably be sold at a place with souvenir T-shirts for sale. Pamela longed for an actual meal, but anything would do: potato chips, popcorn, pretzels, peanuts, candy bars, jerky. And a good cold beer to wash it down. Though a soda would be fine. Probably can’t get beer at a gift shop.

  A few minutes later, they drove past another billboard.

  IT’S THE PITS GAS! FOOD! FUN!

  ONLY TEN PITIFUL MILES TO GO

  PITS, CA, pop. 6

  Things are looking better and better, Pamela told herself. The place wouldn’t advertise food if you couldn’t get an actual meal there. A cheeseburger, for instance. Or a hot dog. Maybe pizza. And only ten miles away.

  About fifteen more minutes, at the speed Sharpe seemed to be driving.

  Pamela spotted another billboard in the distance and watched it grow until she could read it.

  IT’S NOT PITTSBURGH

  IT’S JUST THE PITS

  COME SEE OUR

  PALACE

  !!!THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD!!!

  PITS, CA, pop. 6

  Soon another billboard appeared.

  ASK TO SEE OUR PITS

  FREE LOOKS

  JUST ASK!!

  FIVE MILES TO GO

  PITS, CA pop. 6

  Smiling, Pamela shook her head. Ask to see our pits? What does that mean? Next came the best of the billboards.

  EAT! EAT! EAT! THE PITS CAFE

  BREAKFAST, LUNCH, DINNER

  DOWN-HOME COOKING

  !!! PLUS OUR FAMOUS BOTTOMLESS PIT OF

  COFFEE!!!

  PITS, CA, pop. 6

  A real cafe! Thank God, Pamela thought. But she suddenly realized that she wouldn’t be able to pay for a meal. She had no money.

  Or anything else.

  She had nothing at all of her own. She’d been naked when Rodney had attacked her. Later, he had dressed her in the costume that he’d brought with him. He’d dragged her out of the house without her purse. And now she was wearing clothes from one of Sharpe’s mannequins.

  She didn’t even have her engagement and wedding rings. At the bathroom door last night, Rodney had pulled them off her finger. ‘We don’t want these! They’re his. He can have them.’ One at a time, Rodney had hurled the rings at Jim’s body. The engagement ring had hit Jim in the forehead and bounced into the bathtub behind him. In the tub, it had made a sound like a coin clinking and rolling around. The diamond wedding ring had landed with a quiet little plip sound on the i
ntestines bulging out of the slit in Jim’s belly.

  Pamela pressed a hand against her mouth. Her eyes watered. Why did I have to think about that? Get used to it.

  I am getting used to it, she thought. Must be. I didn’t throw up this time.

  Didn’t even gag.

  But she did feel ashamed of herself. For the past half-hour or so she’d been thinking about almost nothing except where and when she would get her next meal.

  Jim’s dead. He’s never going to eat again. And I’m worried about being a little hungry. What the hell is the matter with me?

  I’m alive, she reminded herself. What am I supposed to do, give up eating?

  ‘I don’t have any money,’ Pamela said. Before Sharpe could respond, she hurried on. ‘I know I’m not supposed to talk to the driver while the bus is in motion, but I’m starving and we’re almost to this cafe and I haven’t got a dime on me. But I want to eat. Okay? I mean, I will be able to pay you back. It just might take a while. I’ve got a bank account and credit cards, but I don’t have anything with me. Rodney didn’t exactly let me pick up my purse while he was dragging me out of the house last night. And also, he burned the house down so there went everything. Like my checkbook and credit cards? But I’m not poor. I have a job. I can pay you back if you’ll buy me something to eat. Okay?’

  Sharpe’s head lifted slightly. ‘It’ll be on me.’

  ‘That isn’t necessary, but . . .’

  ‘I saved your life, so I reckon you’re family now. I take care of my own.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ Pamela said. She wasn’t sure about having Sharpe think of her as ‘family.’ Before she could give it much thought, however, Pits came into sight beyond the windshield. It really is the pits, she thought.

  What she saw was a roadside conglomeration consisting of a run-down gas station and a small cafe surrounded by a vast parking area that seemed to double as a junkyard. There were a few old mobile homes scattered around the rear. Between the gas station and the cafe but back a short distance was a fenced area that appeared to be a graveyard. On a rise beyond the graveyard was a Victorian house that looked as if it had been uprooted from a movie-studio back lot where it might’ve been used decades ago as a setting for haunted-house flicks.

  That must be the Palace, Pamela thought. ‘What a dump,’ she said.