by A. Sparrow
“That door opens, you pull in and get your ass out of the truck!”
***
I rolled into a drive-through garage that opened front and back. Once the overhead door came down behind me I was boxed in, though the back door the next bay over remained open. It looked out into a muddy junkyard full of stripped down hulks of every make and model. There were a couple sheds and a construction trailer in the middle of the desolation.
The guys hanging around were not the Mexican mafia types I expected. They were just a bunch of middle-American Anglos. They were quite a bit older than Jared and me. Maybe they had nicer clothes and a few more tattoos and earrings than the average Joe who worked in a garage, but not by much.
A guy in an over-sized trucker’s cap came up to my window and handed me an envelope.
“Cut the engine. Leave the keys. Robbie will give you a ride wherever you need to go.”
“What about my truck?”
“You can pick it up tomorrow. The Walmart on Steelyard.”
I opened the envelope. It held two hundred dollar bills.
“What the heck? I was supposed to get five hundred.” I kept the truck running.
“Since when?”
“Jared said—”
“Who the fuck’s Jared? Listen mule, get your ass out of that fucking truck.”
He had just pissed me off big time. I could almost feel the hormones oozing from my adrenal glands.
“Get out of that cab or I’ll drag you out by your fucking scrotum!
The truck was still in gear. My foot rested on the brake. I gunned the engine and veered hard left. I clipped the guy’s hip and sent him flying into a stack of cardboard boxes. The overhead door in the next bay started coming down. A guy scrambled out of my way.
I surged through the opening. The hood cleared, but the door scraped the roof and ripped off the antenna. I careened into the junkyard and roared around the side of the building. A guy in a suit and tie burst out of a trailer. Weapons appeared from pockets and jackets.
Another guy tried to swing a chain link gate closed. I slammed into it before it could latch. The gate flew open, rebounded back and slapped against my bumper. I could see guns pointing at me in the rear view. I expected bullets to fly any moment. I braced myself, wincing, for the inevitable as I stomped on the gas.
Burning rubber, I fish-tailed into the opposite lane. A UPS truck blasted its horn at me as I cut across its lane and screamed through an underpass, squealing around a hidden curve to find myself on a long straightaway flanked by a massive rail yard.
My heart couldn’t beat any faster. I was shocked to have made it this far without getting my ass perforated.
***
They must have chased me, but I saw no signs of it. It probably helped that I had switched roads and reversed directions at least a dozen times, spiraling ever so gradually away from Cleveland.
I had just passed a sign for Solon when the phone went off. It was Jared.
“Oh man. You’re dead meat. You’d better stop that truck right now if you want to live.”
“What makes you think I want to live?”
“Don’t fuck with me. We know you’re in Akron. Those guys are closing in on you as we speak.”
Dang. I had forgotten to look for the GPS transponder.
“James. Say something. Have you gone nutso?”
“Yeah. I’m nuts.”
“Why’d you do it? I mean you were right there.”
“They stiffed me.”
“That’s not what they said. They said they paid you. And you took the money and made off with their stuff.”
“They only gave me two hundred.”
“You’re lucky they gave you anything with all the shit you pulled.”
“Huh? What shit?”
“James. You turn that truck around and go back to Cleveland. Forget the money. I’ll make up the difference. I’ll give you three hundred of my own if you just go back.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “I ain’t never going back.”
“Christ, James, pull the fuck over! I’ll make them promise not to hurt you.”
“Too late,” I said. “They fucked up.”
“THEY? They fucked up?”
Another call clicked in on call waiting. “Hey, someone else is trying to reach me, hang on.” I switched over.
“Joe’s Pizza,” I answered.
“Asshole. Think you’re funny?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “Who is this?”
“You want to live. You park that truck somewhere quiet and wait for us to get there. Otherwise, you die.”
“Promises, promises.
“Listen asshole. Doesn’t matter where you go. We got a wide net. We got your name, your license, your picture, even your fucking fingerprints and DNA if we need it. We’re gonna find you. And when we take you out it ain’t gonna be quick or pretty.”
I pulled off an exit behind a flatbed hauling a bulldozer.
“Yeah? Well, happy hunting.” I tossed the phone out the window and onto the flatbed. I squeezed by on the right, turning south while the flatbed went north.
Chapter 20: Backslide
I wound my way out of Cleveland, sticking as much as possible to the smaller county roads. I was too visible on the interstate, too catchable by the fleet of Escalades with tinted windows I imagined speeding after me, though I had no way of knowing who might actually be chasing. But I sure freaked out every time another car came up on my bumper.
These slow roads sometimes led me into potential traps—miracle miles clogged with Walmart and Kroger’s traffic. I felt less exposed and more in control, my direction less predictable among the corn fields and wood lots.
I had no particular direction or destination in mind. Getting away from Cleveland was my only goal. That I seemed to be gravitating south and east was more by accident than any conscious aim.
When it got dark, I stopped for fuel in a town called Warren. I circled the truck under a fluorescent lighted awning thick with gnats and got my first look at the damage taken in the escape.
It wasn’t quite as bad as I had expected. The roof and back quarter panel taken the brunt, the roof all dented and scraped, while deep scratches scored the right rear fender. Only the stub of the FM antenna remained. That explained why the reception had gone to crap.
As I rounded the bumper, I saw some wires sticking out of a shattered brake light. I went to stuff them back in, but it was clear that these were not part of the standard equipment.
I tugged on one and out came a little black box the size of a deck of credit cards. ‘WorldTracker SMS’ was inked in white on the front. It was the freaking GPS unit!
It meant they knew I was in Warren, that all my evasive maneuvers had been for naught. They were probably homing in on this gas station this very moment.
I stomped the tracker to bits on the pavement, got back in the truck and squealed out of the station. I drove like a madman, doubling back, circling blocks, cutting through parking lots.
Wouldn’t you know, as I was screaming through Youngstown on 289, there came this charcoal Escalade in the other direction. An Escalade with tinted windows! It slowed abruptly as I passed. And in my rear view I caught them waiting for a line of traffic to clear so they could make a U-turn.
I couldn’t be sure they were Jared’s crowd but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out. I slammed my foot on the gas and surged down that road taking the first Y into an area with lots of tightly packed houses.
I plied a twisty route through the neighborhoods, and promptly got myself stuck in a cul-de-sac. I didn’t panic. I got turned around, facing the main road and turned off my lights. It might be the last place they would expect to find me, assuming there were no more trackers stashed on this truck. Maybe this dead-end was not a refuge but a trap.
I sat there, watching and waiting until some lady with a garden hose started giving me the evil eye. I took a deep breath, flicked on my lights and moved along.
I seemed to have lost them, if indeed that Escalade was ‘them,’ and not simply my paranoia. Still, I couldn’t relax. My palms stayed slippery. I could still hear my pulse pounding in my head.
I wished to hell now that I had never left Florida. But how could I have stayed? What was left for me there, but to wither and die?
No one had forced me to become a mule. A simple call to Uncle Ed would have let me know his job offer was a sham. I could have gone someplace else—some place without drug smugglers out to kill me. Some place interesting, like New Orleans or Manhattan.
Wet stuff started streaking down my cheeks. I had no idea why. Who cared if life was hard or unfair? If life wanted to be that way, then so be it. I just wished my fucking eyes would dry so I could see where I was going. Tears refracted the heck out of oncoming headlights.
A couple hours later, I had finally calmed down. I was sick of driving. My eyes stung. My back ached. I was wired, wrung out and starving. I rolled into this place called Beaver Falls, full of rusting crucibles on rail cars and spooky, abandoned steel mills, rows of them, with banks of windows all smashed. I turned the corner and a neon vacancy sign for a Super 8 appeared like magic. It lured me into its lot.
I parked in the far back corner, behind this big Ryder moving van that screened it from the road, and wandered the grounds for a bit, making sure no one was already here watching me. Visions of that psychopathic villain from ‘No Country for Old Men’ haunted me. Now I wish I had never watched that movie.
I registered under the name ‘Jerry Johnson.’ When I got to my room, I considered getting a pizza delivered, but the image of opening the door to Javier Bardem’s automatic pistol put an end to my cravings. I made do with some pretzels and a Coke from the vending machines down the hall.
I plopped down on the bed, not bothering to wash or turn on the lights or TV or anything. I buried my face in a pillow.
As I lay there thinking, this barrier eroded in my head, and suddenly it was like a dam breaking. All the fear that had been gnawing at me washed away. Why should I care who came after me, as long as they didn’t torture. A quick death promised relief. Why not welcome it?
Such feelings had visited me before, but this time I was serious. This time it hit me like a blazing epiphany. I wanted out. I wanted to blink out like a candle, tune out all of my senses, end my worries. My path was not sustainable. So let them come.
And wouldn’t you know, that damned bedspread wasted no time in unraveling its threads into a thousand strands that rose up and twined into larger cords that tangled themselves around my limbs like a goddamned Wisteria. Here it comes, I told myself, my heart ticking faster in anticipation.
***
Again I was tangled in roots, dangling from the roof of a dim tunnel. But this time I was glad to be here. I smirked in anticipation of busting out of the pod and making my way to Karla’s hooch, which was beginning to feel more like home than anything I had left on earth.
Problem was, the roots entangling me had other ideas. These were tougher and wirier than those that had confined me before. They were aggressive little buggers, attacking me, wrapping back around as quickly as I could peel them off.
I took a long, deep breath and concentrated on a few key strands, applying what Karla had taught me about Weaving—focusing my intense desire that they crumble away or turn to slime. But nothing happened. At most, I managed to tinge one of them blue.
What the fuck?
Something felt way different this time—way wrong.
I panicked and flew into a tantrum, writhing and flailing at the roots. They held firm and pressed their advantage at every opportunity, until I had no choice but give in, like a rat in the grip of a python.
I settled back and caught my breath, listening with dread to distant groans and rumblings, hoping they remained far below.
Something rustled behind me. I squirmed around to see a bald head poke through a patch of frayed roots along the wall. A man crawled through an opening, got up and looked up and down the tunnel. Satisfied, he smoothed the roots back into place with a long caress. He brushed himself off and started to walk away.
“Hey buddy! Can you give me a hand? I’m stuck.”
He glanced up, perking his ears like a bird watcher who had just heard an interesting call. He had a huge beak of a nose and a mustache to match. He was dressed like a biker with tight padded leathers top and bottom.
“It speaks,” he said.
“Listen, I can usually get myself out of these pods, but this time … I don’t know why … I’m having trouble.”
He puckered his face in distaste and turned away.
“Wait! Can’t you help me?”
He shook his head. “No meddling. Luther says, if you are not free, you are not meant to be.” He had a lilt to his English that sounded Scandinavian.
“But I’ve been down, twice already. I’ve met Luther. He won’t mind. I’m sure.”
The man turned up his palms and shrugged.
“We do not intervene. That’s now how things work. It is survival of the fittest.”
“Aw, come on!”
He squinted up at me and something his expression changed. “You. You’re the young fellow who wears dresses. The one who made the glass giraffe.”
“You were there?”
“Ach. You don’t need any help. You are a Weaver.”
“No. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. Nothing seems to be happening.”
“Well … you had better figure it out quick,” he said. “Because I am off. Best of luck.” He strode away up the gently pulsing floor of the tunnel.
“Please! At least ... tell Karla I’m here. Can you do me that?”
He continued on, not even bothering a glance.
“Please?”
I twisted back around, struggling to find a more comfortable position. The nasty things were giving me hardly any breathing space. I jabbed them with my elbows, nudged them with my knees. They were as dense as oak and about as pliable as steel.
Another pod hung in the dimness, about fifty feet down tunnel. An arm, pale and delicate protruded from a gap, dangling limp beside a cascade of long, blonde hair.
“Hey!” I said, perking up. “Anybody home down there?”
The pod rustled. A girl with narrow, mousey features squeezed her face into a cleft and stared. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
There was a long pause. “Sheila,” she said, sluggishly.
“You should get out of that thing if you can. Go up tunnel, where it’s safer. There are people who will help you. They’re not all like that guy.”
“What for?” she said. “What would be the point?” She had an odd accent. South African or something. I couldn’t place it.
“The point? Well, the point is you can’t stay in these tunnels. There are nasty things in here. Don’t you hear them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. I’m quite content just hanging out here, thank you.”
“Sheila. You need to get out of that pod. You’re too young for this place.”
“Too young for what place? My own head? I wish I could get out. That’s why I took mum’s pills. But it’s only made things worse. Maybe I should take some more … maybe I will … when I wake up.”
“This ain’t your head, hon. This is real.”
“Yeah, right. So who are you? My fairy Godfather, or a phantom?”
“Sheila. You’re too young. You shouldn’t be here. This feeling you have … you might outgrow it. It might just be puberty doing this to you.”
“Of course. Hormones. That’s what they all say.”
“But it’s true,” I said. “That’s what it could be.”
“Everyone’s a bloody therapist,” sh
e muttered. “Even the phantoms. So tell me, Mr. Phantom, why are you here? Did you not outgrow your hormones?”
“Well, I’m a … I’m a late bloomer.” I sighed.
“Who the heck are you and what are you doing in my dream?
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Sheila. This ain’t no dream.”
“Pfft. What else can it be but a bad dream? But I’m not impressed. I’ve had worse.”
The tunnel floor heaved and bulged. Something scraped against it from beneath. It thumped along in spurts, as if pausing to track a scent. It was close. Way too close.
“Listen. You don’t want to stay in that pod. You need to get out, and get out of this tunnel.”
“Whatever,” she said. She gave me this cold fish look as if I were a parent trying to get her to do her chores.
“I mean it. Squeeze out if you can. If not, focus your mind. Stare at them. Make softer, looser. Make them fall apart. It can be done. You just need to convince them that they need to be something else. It worked for me … once.”
“You’re daft.”
“Come on, Sheila! Give it a shot.”
The Reaper pounded closer. I honed my gaze onto a strand gripping my left arm. I reached inside myself, conjuring all the intensity I could muster. Cotton candy. I wanted to turn it into shreds of cotton candy.
Something released in the pit of my stomach. The strand transformed, not into cotton candy but into dozens of finer threads that held me just as firmly.
I clawed my fingernails into them and plucked them away, one by one.
“Sheila. Trust me. We don’t want to stay here. Give what I said a try. At this rate, I’m not gonna get out in time to help you.”
“Please … just … shush. Can’t I have some peace and quiet for once? That’s all I ask of you, phantom.”
Something between a bellow and a belch erupted in the darkness. A foul breeze reminiscent of road kill and swamp muck billowed up the tunnel. A prehensile whisker as thick as a garden hose uncoiled out of the darkness, tapping its tip against the tunnel walls, probing. Another whisker appeared and hooked around the stalk from which Sheila dangled.
