by Rudy Rucker
“They can gangbang Les Trucklee,” said Danny. “They can warm him up for me.” He glared at Jack and Tonel, who had no thought of uttering a response. Danny brushed back his lank, greasy hair, drank off the last bit of bourbon-smeel, and tossed his glass to shatter in the parking lot. For the first time Jack noticed that the tips of Danny’s ears were pointed. “I can’t believe Les was talking that way in front of you two,” continued Danny. “Like he’s my sissy. He’s gonna pay the price.” And with that he roared off.
“Danny buggin’ out,” said Tonel. “Trucklee better watch hisself.”
“I don’t know how Danny can drive,” said Jack. “I’m so—” He staggered to one side and puked.
“Weak bitch,” said Tonel, not unkindly.
Jack heaved again, bringing up the day’s four Coca-Colas and the burger and fries he’d had for lunch. Right away he felt better.
The vomit was a little heap at the edge of the asphalt, faintly lit by the terrace lights. Was it hunching itself up like the smeel had done? Beginning ever so slightly to twist into an eddy?
“Come on, dog,” said Tonel. “Let’s creep on home. You can pedal, can’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Jack, looking away from the shifting mound on the pavement. “I’m better now. I got a drop of that crap in my mouth. From the golf bags. I can’t believe how much of it Danny drank. We shouldn’t have let him ride.”
“He’d a pulled his knife if we tried to stop him,” said Tonel.
They walked over to the rack and unchained their bicycles, a couple of beat-up jobs nobody would bother to steal. The night felt thick and velvety, but it wasn’t spinning anymore.
“We ought to talk to Ragland,” said Jack as they pedaled off. “Ask him what’s up.”
“I gotta eat first,” said Tonel. “Dad’s makin’ that burgoo.”
“Can I come to your house too?” said Jack. “I don’t want to go home.” And then he told Tonel the story about this morning.
“That’s some sad stuff,” said Tonel when Jack finished. “Preachers always do like that. But you sayin’ his children had pointed ears?”
“Like Danny’s,” sighed Jack. “Everything’s coming apart, just when it’s finally time for me to get out of here. Back on the terrace I thought one of those moths had a woman’s head. And the mibracc—I can hardly believe we saw that. Maybe we’re just really high.”
“Be some mighty crunk Wheelchair make you see five men turn into somethin’ like chitlins.” They pedaled down Egmont Avenue in silence for a minute, the occasional car rumbling by. Jack didn’t dare try and look at the drivers. Finally Tonel broke the silence. “If you not goin’ by the e-rectory, how we gonna get a ride?” Normally they took Jack’s mother’s car out at night.
“Ask Vincente for his,” said Jack.
Tonel’s father Vincente ran a secondhand appliance store called Vaughan Electronics—it so happened that Tonel’s and Jack’s families shared the same last name, which no doubt had something to do with plantations and slaves. Sometimes Jack would tell people that Tonel was his cousin, which wasn’t entirely implausible, light-skinned as Tonel was. Tonel’s mother Wanda had been mostly white. Even though she’d run off to Florida, Vincente had a picture of Wanda on the kitchen wall in his apartment at the back of the store.
When the boys entered through the alley door, Vincente’s wall of screens was tuned to a porno webcast; he quickly changed it to a boxing match.
“Help yourself to burgoo,” said Vincente, gesturing toward the stove.
“Put the ho’s back on, Daddy,” said Tonel. “We don’t wanna see no thugs.”
“Wouldn’t be fittin’ to expose you,” said the wiry Vincente.
He was lounging in a duct-tape-patched plastic recliner facing twenty-four clunker TVs stacked in a six by four grid. Vincente had installed special controllers so he could switch his digital mosaic between showing a bunch of random channels and showing a single channel with its image jigsawed into pieces. He’d learned electronics in the Navy during the war on Iraq. He began fiddling with his remote, breaking up and reassembling the dataflow, temporarily settling on a Sudanese dagger-fighting flick.
Meanwhile the hearty smell of the rabbit and chicken stew pushed away any lingering queasiness Jack felt. He had the munchies. He and Tonel ate quite a bit of the stew, the thuds and yelps of the movie bouncing along in the background.
Jack’s cell phone rang. He peeked at the screen, fearing it would be Mom, but, no, it was Gretchen, looking tense.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m still at the tabernacle. It’s getting way too trippy. You think you could come and get me now?”
“Um, I guess so,” said Jack. “I’m at Tonel’s. We have to see about getting a car.”
“Axe her can she hook me up a honey,” put in Tonel. “I’m driving. Right, Daddy? I can have the van?”
“If you can start it,” said Vincente, twitching his remote to break the image into twenty-four new channels. “Sneak the battery outten Ragland’s truck. I seen him come back a half hour ago. You know he ain’t goin’ out again.”
“How do you mean trippy?” Jack asked Gretchen meanwhile.
“It’s that Armageddon thing,” said Gretchen. There was a trumpeting noise in the background. “Albert Chesney is getting really weird about it. He wants me to spend the night with him at Casa Linda to help him ‘gird his loins’ for the last battle. None of the Day Sixers wants to help him. Albert says that six pure hearts can turn the tide, so he needs five people to help him. Dad wants me to be with Albert even though he himself plans to stay home. Come get me, Jack. Right now they’re watching a video, but when it’s done, Dad’s driving Albert and me to the Casa Linda.”
“Is this another of your put-ons?”
“Save me, Jack. I mean it. And, you know, I really am pregnant.” Gretchen never let up. Jack liked that about her.
“Hook me a honey,” repeated Tonel.
“We’re coming,” said Jack. “And Tonel wants to know if you can find a date for him?”
“Pinka Wright is into him. I might call her.” The trumpets rose to an off-key crescendo. “Hurry.” Gretchen hung up.
The tooting noise didn’t stop when Jack turned his phone off. After a moment’s disorientation, he realized that Vincente had tuned his screens to some random webcast of—what was it? Three glowing donuts moving across the wall of TVs, silver, gold, and copper. Behind them was a background of unfamiliar stars. A cracked brass fanfare played. Before Jack could ask about the picture, Vincente punched his controller again, splitting the image into twenty-four new channels.
“What she say?” demanded Tonel.
“Her father wants her to spend the night with Albert Chesney,” said Jack.
“She jivin’ you again,” said Tonel. “What she say about my date?”
“Pinka Wright.”
“Ooo! Let’s bounce it, dog.”
“Don’t let Ragland hear you,” warned Vincente. “He’s got that shotgun.”
First of all they had to check the tires of Vincente’s ancient van, and of course one of them was flat—Vincente’s driving license was suspended and he didn’t keep insurance up on the van, which meant that he hardly ever drove it. Tonel found an electric pump in the bowels of Vaughan Electronics and they dragged out an extension cord and filled the tire. The tire seemed to hold its size, so that problem was solved.
Next came the issue of gas. A quick check of the van’s gauge showed it to be stone cold dry. Tonel produced a can and a squeeze-bulb siphon from the back of the van. The plan was to get gas from Ragland’s truck as well as borrowing his battery.
Quietly they walked down the alley to Ragland’s truck. Tonel popped the hood and set to work extracting the battery while Jack began pumping gas from Ragland’s tank. It felt stupid to be making such a complicated thing out of getting a car. Gretchen needed his help. Shouldn’t he just walk around the corner and take his Mom’s car?
Right about then Ragland appea
red, gliding out of his backyard like a ghost, the barrel of his shotgun glinting in the streetlight. He was holding it level at his waist, pointing right at Jack’s stomach.
“You hookworm,” said Ragland. “I oughtta blow a hole in you.”
Tonel jumped backward, letting the hood slam shut. “We just tryin’ to use Daddy’s van,” he said. “We figured we could borrow your—”
“I’m gonna call the po-lice,” said Ragland. “A night in jail be good for you two whelps.”
“Oh yeah?” said Tonel. “How ‘bout if I tell them what you do to them old men in the locker room? We saw you rollin’ em up. Cops might even call it murder.”
“You was in the lockers?” said Ragland, letting his gun droop.
“We came in through the grate in the ceiling,” said Jack. “And then we let ourselves out.”
“You left the door unlocked?” said Ragland after a pause. “Oh Lord. You gotta help me now. Jump in my truck.”
“How long have the mibracc been like that?” Jack asked Ragland as he drove them towards the club.
“Goin’ on two weeks,” said Ragland. “Right when they got them big glass jars. Was Mr. Gupta showed me about the stomach plugs. He got it from somethin’ he seen on TV. The men like me to do ‘em that way. I drain ‘em every night, and plump ‘em up in the mawnin’. We use the steam room. They been payin’ me extra and, yeah Tonel, they even doin’ some yard work for me.”
“But what do it mean?” asked Tonel.
“That’s a conundrum,” said Ragland. “But I don’t want to see what happens if they get out on their own.”
As soon as he’d parked, Ragland was out the door and across the parking lot, still carrying his shotgun. Jack noticed that he’d left the keys in the ignition. Should he just take off and save Gretchen? But then Ragland glared back at them and gestured with his gun. Jack had a feeling the old man wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Somewhat unwillingly, Jack and Tonel went to lend him their support.
From the terrace, Jack could see past the barbeque wagon and into the air-conditioned grill where Les Trucklee was pouring out brandy for a last few red-faced Killeville gentry. He could hear their voices braying even through the closed windows. Nasal, buzzing, self-satisfied. Tomorrow Jack would be gone—if only he could make it through tonight.
The locker room door was still unlocked. Ragland led the boys right in. The air was thick with vapor; voices boomed from the steam room. It was the mibracc, sounding hale and well rested.
Holding his shotgun at the ready, Ragland peered into the sauna. Two of the skins were still on the floor where they’d slithered; the other three had already plumped up. They were talking about golf, poker, and politics in that bone-dull Killeville way that made it impossible to hear more than a few consecutive phrases.
“Get back in your bags!” Ragland told them. “It’s still night.”
Mr. Cuthbert looked over and gave Ragland the finger, baring his top row of ivory yellow teeth. And then Mr. Atlee strode over and grabbed the barrel of Ragland’s gun.
The blast of the shotgun shell was shockingly loud in the small, tiled space. Jack’s ears rang, he felt like he might be permanently deafened.
Though a large piece of Mr. Atlee’s stomach was gone, the mibracc was still standing. Worse than that, he’d taken control of the shotgun. Mr. Atlee struck Ragland on the side of the head with the gunstock, dropping him. And then he leveled the barrels at Jack and Tonel. The two took to their heels. There was another blast as they reached the door; the buckshot hailed against the lockers.
Without looking back for Ragland, they jumped in the old man’s truck. Tonel drove them down Egmont Avenue, tires squealing, the truck slewing from side to side. Slowly Jack’s hearing returned. His cell phone had a message on it; he’d missed the ring. It was Gretchen.
“Where are you?” cried the voice, anxious and thin. “Dad’s driving Albert and me to the Casa Linda! Oh, Jack please help me now and I’ll always—” Abruptly the message broke off. All thoughts of calling the police or going back to try and save Ragland flew from Jack’s mind.
He and Tonel made their way through downtown Killeville and out Route 501. The flare of neon lit up the muggy, moonless August sky. Here was the Banana Split, with Danny’s heavy Pig Chef Harley parked in front among the SUVs and pickups. Next door was Rash Decisions Tattoo. And beyond that was the dirty pink concrete bulk of Casa Linda, faint slits of light showing through some of the tightly drawn blinds.
Gretchen was on them as soon as they got out of the car, running over from the shadows of the Casa Linda parking lot.
“Jack! You’ve come to save me!”
“Where’s Chesney?”
“Oh, he went inside alone,” said Gretchen airily. “I put down my foot. I’m still available, Jack.” She took hold of his arm and pointed toward Rash Decisions Tattoo. “Justice of the Peace Ronnie Blevins is right in there.”
Jack felt like his head was exploding. “Damn it, Gretchen, it’s too much. You can’t keep scamming me like this.”
“Oh, I’ll settle for one last hole six blowout,” said Gretchen. “Get Danny to buy us some beer. I see his bike over there.”
“We stayin’ away from Danny tonight,” said Tonel. “He way too spun. I can buy us beer. What about that Pinka Wright, Gretchen? Did you talk to her or not?”
“I can call her now,” said Gretchen. “We’ll drive by her house on the way to the club. I bet she’ll come out with you. She craves the wild side.”
“Was it all a lie about Albert Chesney?” demanded Jack .
“Albert really does say the last battle is tomorrow,” said Gretchen. “At the tabernacle he was showing this video of donut-shaped flying saucers. Supposedly they’re going to come for us at dawn, full of devils. But angels will be here to help fight them. Albert says if six righteous people step forward they can save the day. But I think we ought to leave before he comes back out of the motel. He’s real intent on that girding his loins thing.” Seeing Jack’s face, Gretchen burst into laughter. “Why are you always so uptight?”
So they bounced out of there without seeing Chesney. Tonel got beer from a downtown 7-11 clerked by his cousin. Some of the people at the store recognized Ragland’s truck, which reminded Jack that, oh God, they’d left Ragland lying on the steam room floor at the mercy of the mibracc. What with the pot gum and the worry about Gretchen he’d completely spaced that out. It was a good thing they were heading back to the club.
Meanwhile Gretchen worked her cell phone and not only did they pick up Pinka, but a bunch more people said they’d meet them at the parking lot—arty Tyler Simpson, pretty Geli Yoder, Lulu Anders the Goth, fat Louie Levy, and even goody-goody Lucy Candler and her jock boyfriend Rick Stazanik.
The Killeville Country Club was dark, save for Les Trucklee’s office on the second floor of the club’s front side. Maybe he was waiting up for Danny Dank. But Les wouldn’t be a problem for the kids. He turned a blind eye to their hole six parties.
Some of the kids were already there, waiting and drinking beer.
“Come help me see about Ragland,” said Jack to Gretchen and Tonel.
“Yuck,” said Gretchen. “In the men’s locker room?”
“Chill,” said Tonel, who was in a heavy conversation with Pinka. “I’m gettin’ over.”
“Let’s party,” said Rick Stazanik. This was the first hole six event he and Lucy had attended, and they were gung-ho to get it on.
“There might be some zombies out there,” warned Jack. “The mibracc. You guys have to help me check if they left a corpse in the locker room.”
“How spine-tingling,” said Lulu.
“Safety in numbers,” said Louie Levy. “We’ll stick together.”
So before heading out onto the links, the gang did a quick check in the locker room for Ragland. No sign of him. And when Jack used Ragland’s master-thumbs to try and show them golf bags of bourbon, the bags turned up as empty as the gas tank on Vincente’s van.
They had some fun grab-assing and scaring each other on the long trek out to the green of hole six. But in truth there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. There were not a few laughs at Jack’s expense. And then they settled down on their green, drinking beer and chewing marijuana gum. Tyler Simpson had brought speakers and an iPod with all the alternative hits of their high-school years.
After a bit Jack and Gretchen crept off to a private spot twenty meters past the green and made love. It was, after all, their last night together. As always, Jack used a condom. He’d been a dope to let her scare him with that pregnancy thing.
“Will you remember me at college?” Gretchen asked Jack. Her face looked big and open under his. She dropped most of her games when they were alone like this.
“I will. It’s not all that far. You can come visit. Or I’ll visit here. You’ll have your classes too.” Gretchen was going to be studying at a local business college.
In the distance Jack heard the roar of a motorcycle pulling into the lot. Danny. He kind of hoped Danny was here to see Les and not here for the hole six party. What a weird day this had been. He was still uneasily wondering where Ragland and the mibracc had gone. After a bit, he and Gretchen went back with the others on the green.
An hour later, in between the songs, Jack began hearing the mibracc’s voices, accompanied by the clink of tools in dirt. He tried to tell the others, but they either couldn’t hear it or they weren’t interested, not even Tonel or Gretchen. It sounded to Jack as if the mibracc were somewhere close to the clubhouse. That meant that, all in all, it would be safer to stay out here till dawn. Lots of people would be showing up for the Killeville Barbeque Breakfast Golf Classic. And then Jack could get his suitcase, say good-bye to Mom and hop the 8:37 a. m. bus to college. He wished he’d called Mom. She’d be worrying about him.
About four in the morning, Lulu Anders, Louie Levy, Lucy Candler, and Rick Stazanik wanted to leave. By now Jack had gotten them to notice the mibracc’s voices, but the four figured that if they went all together there wouldn’t be a problem. Jack warned them not to, getting pretty passionate about it. But they wouldn’t listen. They thought he was spun. They were more scared of their parents than of the mibracc.
