The Bride Stripped Bare

by Rob Bliss

  “The dirt road to Paco’s is coming up on your left.”

  And just as Gord pointed through the shattered windshield, wind battering our faces, I thought I saw a star that had fallen to Earth. Then two stars appeared low on the road. My addled brain finally clicked in that two headlights were heading towards us.

  “Shit,” Gord said, taking up the shotgun and aiming it through the windshield. “Just keep it steady, eyes wide…your job is to get us onto the dirt road. I’ll take care of the shooting.”

  He was stating the obvious, but I needed to hear it. My arms started shaking and I couldn’t stop swallowing, neck tight, mouth dry. In my head I started a mantra: “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck” as the vehicle closed in. I slid my ass down in the seat and must’ve looked like a little old man barely seeing above the wheel. I was preparing to duck and drive blind.

  The vehicle—a Jeep jacked up on thick tires—rushed up on the opposite side of the road. Gord got off the first shot—the gun blasting me to deafness—and hit a man standing up in the back of the Jeep, aiming something at us. He flew backwards like an airborne crucifix and then folded up and tumbled on the asphalt.

  Gord was a good shot, thank God. I had stayed low but sat up again when the Jeep passed. Looked behind me to see it smoke its tires to do a one-eighty and head after us. I stepped on the gas.

  “It’s right there,” Gord said, pointing at a dirt road that was almost invisible. Just dust and dry, rutted mud that descended from the road and wound into dense trees. I cranked the wheel as Gord scrambled a hand around the floorboard and dash and seat, collecting shotgun shells, then he shifted his ass and aimed the gun through the back.

  He loaded and shot, but since there was a limited number of shells, he didn’t fire too randomly. Plus, when the truck was on dirt, bouncing and skidding, and the Jeep behind us doing the same, it was tough for Gord to get off any decent shots.

  In the rearview, I saw a driver and a passenger—the passenger with a revolver aiming from his side window, firing wildly. Bullets hit the truck or deflected off into the forest. Gord and I kept low. I was basically driving by aiming the truck’s single headlight between stands of trees. If there was something on the road, I would’ve hit it. At least the top of my head was below the line of the back window. Though the wind howled into the cab, I thought I heard the hiss of a bullet or two just over my scalp. I scootched a little lower.

  Gord fired shells, then ducked down to reload, hand scrambling in the dark cab. “Fuck yeah! Got a headlight and his windshield! Glass in the face, you fuckers!”

  I didn’t hear any more bullets for a few moments and Gord looked over at me. “The driver’s blind—think he got a piece of glass in the eye—but he doesn’t have the gun. I got an idea. When I say so, hit the brakes and brace for impact.”

  My left foot was hard against the floorboard, already braced, and my head and neck were pinned against the seat, so I wasn’t worried about whiplash. Gord edged higher up the seat, exposing himself, the gun holding as steady as possible in his hands.

  “Come on, fuckhead—that all you got?” he yelled, then ducked down as a few bullets came in response. He whooped and laughed, looked at me. “They’re weak—hit the brakes!”

  I did. Gord had both legs bent, feet on the glovebox to brace himself, shoulders against the seat. The impact jolted us, but not as hard as it could’ve—the Jeep’s speed was too low with the driver probably trying to pick glass out of his face.

  In a flash, Gord stretched half his body through the rear windshield and started firing off shells, reloading, firing again until he couldn’t find anymore shells littering the cab. The last headlight behind me had snapped off with a crash of glass. Then Gord got out of the truck. I sat up to watch him rush to the Jeep’s passenger side, wrench the door open, gun barrels aimed inside, though the gun was empty.

  The passenger fell out when the door opened. “Chris, they’re dead,” he called. “Come here.”

  I put the truck in park, raced to the driver’s side of the Jeep. Face covered in splashes of blood, shards of glass protruding from skin, buckshot shearing away a good chunk of the right hemisphere of the brain…I could still make out that it was a woman. Once beautiful, in fact. I stared at her, chin sagged to her collarbone, arms limp at her sides, a rake of blood pouring down her shirt, over her heavy breasts, pooling on the seat between her cut-off denim shorts.

  I felt sick, puked a small puddle onto the ground.

  Gord tossed the shotgun aside and rifled through the Jeep, the glove compartment and under the seats, and through the pockets of the dead passenger on the ground. The search gave him a revolver. Found a box of bullets in the glovebox, but there were no other weapons. The man who was blown off the back had taken his weapon with him. I checked under the woman’s seat without looking at her. Trying not to get her blood on me, but that was impossible.

  “Turn off the ignition, throw the keys into the bush. This thing will help block the road just in case more are on their way. We got lucky twice—third time’s the charm. Let’s get the fuck to Paco.”

  I threw the keys into dark trees and Gord and I headed down the road. Leaving behind another scene of death. My mind couldn’t process all I had done or seen in the last few hours. So I told myself to stop thinking—just act. Thinking too much got you into trouble—acting kept you alive.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 8

  Paco’s house at night was more ominous than in daylight. No lights on inside or outside, which made it look more abandoned and derelict. Like a lonely house where a killer once lived just before he shot his whole family then turned the gun on himself. Or a serial killer’s humble abode, where every pebble and leaf on the lawn, and every nail holding the clapboards together, had a spot of someone’s blood on it and would tell a hellish story if any of it could talk.

  Gord told me to pull into the driveway, but not right up to the house. Kill the remaining headlight fast. Stop and wait and listen and watch. Just because it didn’t look like anyone was home didn’t mean Paco wasn’t watching us, about to creep up behind us and press a cold barrel behind one of our ears. Been there.

  I whispered as quietly as I could, keeping my lips from moving. “I’m following your lead. You tell me what to do, I do it. But please don’t get me killed. If you can help it.”

  “I’ll try” was the response, not encouraging. “We don’t go in the front, don’t knock on the door—Paco wouldn’t answer anyway. Safe bet that the place is locked up, all booby traps in place, and he won’t be happy to see us.”

  Gord had the revolver in hand, re-loaded, the box of bullets sitting on the seat between us. He shoved the gun down the back of his pants, flipped his shirt over its bulge.

  “He can only shoot one of us at a time.”

  “You really know how to make me feel better, Gord, you fuck,” I whispered.

  “Just stating facts.”

  “He has an arsenal. Automatic fire can kill two birds with some pretty quick stones. And we can’t fly away.”

  “We’re not going to give him that chance,” Gord vowed.

  “You have a gun, I don’t. What do you think the chances are of me wrestling any gun out of his hands—and living—after he kills you?”

  “Not good.” At least Gord was honest, the bastard.

  “I hate you, Gord.”

  “I love you, Chris.”

  I followed his lead and squeaked open my door as quietly as possible. But with the kind of silence only heard—felt—in the depths of a dark forest, a squeak sounds like a banshee wail. I winced with every inch that the door opened. Like pulling off a bandage, I chose to just push the door open in one shot. If the sound woke up the ogre, so be it.

  Leaving our doors open, Gord and I stepped to the front of the truck. I followed behind as we made our way over and through the labyrinth of litter on the lawn. Slow steps, like walking across a minefield, feeling with the soles of our shoes where we were stepping before putting w
eight down on each foot. This wasn’t a comedy, so thankfully we didn’t kick a hubcap and send it rattling into a pyramid of scrap metal, bringing it crashing down.

  I had a feeling I knew where Gord was leading me before we got there. And I was right. The outhouse. He motioned for me to get on one side, he on the other, then we slowly tilted it backwards on its hinges and let it rest on soft weeds. A hole faced us that was so black it was two-dimensional. Like looking at the portal into another dimension. Paco’s dimension.

  Gord stepped to my side, pulled my shirt to draw me a little way from the hole—as though it were able to hear us.

  He whispered, “You lower me down. It’s not too far a drop. I won’t break my legs, but I’ll make a helluva noise once I land on the elevator platform at the bottom. Might wake our friend—wherever he is—might start him shooting. If he kills me, you gotta figure out what to do on your own. Kill Paco then try for the tunnel—do not go back to town.”

  All the air left my lungs. “I fucking hate you. Don’t you dare die. I’ve still got too many questions.”

  He smiled in the darkness, hissed a laugh, and gave me a quick one-armed hug. Then he knelt at the edge of the hole and listened. I knelt beside him. I had never seen anything darker than that hole, I felt that if I put my hand in, the darkness would consume my flesh, crawl up my arm, devour me.

  Gord and I kept silent, though our shoes scraped dirt, making me even more nervous. I regretted doing that coke, but regrets never kept anyone alive, so I told my mind to shut the hell up.

  Dipping his legs into the blackness, Gord sat on the edge of the hole. I tried to figure out the best way to hold his weight, lower him down, but not go down myself. I lay on my stomach and felt around with my feet for something to hook my toes around. A tree root arched out of the earth for my left foot, and a half-buried piece of metal was enough of a sturdy post for my right foot to hook around. Gord shifted his sitting position, grabbed my hands, and slipped his ass off the ground. Soil and stones fell and clattered on the wooden elevator platform. We both winced, held silent for a moment, waited for Paco. But he never arrived. So, I lowered Gord deeper into the hole.

  I could only see his hands clasping mine, the rest of him swallowed by blackness. Then his fingers loosened, and his grip left my wrists.

  I opened my hands and it seemed to take hours of freefall before Gord landed on the plank of the elevator. The hollow boom of his boots on wood echoed up the shaft. We both held our breath. The echo died. We both stayed silent and waited a little more. Gord likely had the revolver out of his jacket and in his hand, sweeping the darkness for a target, hoping he hit it before it hit him.

  A breeze blew my hair as I looked at the dark terrain around me, sniffed the pine air. My feet still hadn’t relaxed from each of their securing hooks, my whole body tensed as I lay on the ground.

  Then I felt something cold and hard worm its way under the hair at the back of my neck. Thought it was a mosquito or a bug until, trying to bat it away, I felt steel.

  Heard the click of a gun.

  “Hola, fucker. That’s a funny way of taking a shit in my outhouse.”

  ««—»»

  I needed to pee but couldn’t move. The muscles at the back of my neck were tight and my fingertips dug into the earthen lip of the hole.

  “Gord,” I called down an echo. “Paco’s up here.”

  The owner of the gun kept it pressed against the base of my skull as he stepped to straddle either side of my prone body, leaning over to investigate the dark.

  “Gordy?” Paco called down. “What the fuck are you doing in my basement?”

  “Hey…Paco,” Gord said, trying to sound nonchalant, but his tone was unconvincing. I hoped Gord was thinking faster than I was, coming up with an excuse to get the gun off my head.

  “Dude,” Gord tried again, though I thought he was talking to me. “We got a fuck-up with the shipment. Some fuckers stole part of it, then came after us looking for more or something. We wasted them.”

  “Who the fuck were they?”

  “We don’t know. Most of it was unloaded when we got back, but I kept a few bags for personal use. Had them in the truck—some goddamn good ole boys I’ve never seen before thought they’d try their luck. We left them for dead back near the highway. Check out my truck—its shot for shit—we’re lucky we’re alive.”

  I felt Paco’s looming body move away from me, the gun barrel gone, his feet crunching dirt.

  “You stay put, Gordy. I’m taking your boy, checking your story. If it’s bullshit, I blow his head off. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I was sandwiched, face pressed to the ground, between two guys who couldn’t see each other in the dark, but who had just made a deal for my life. What a great vacation.

  “Get on your feet,” Paco instructed.

  I stood, hands held palms-up as I walked—stumbled, tripped, kicked scraps of loose metal—to the truck with Paco at my back, a rifle barrel leaning into my spine. Not an ancient, backwoods rifle one inherits from grandpappy, but one of the shiny modern ones which Paco had in his arsenal.

  When we got to the front of the truck, he said, “Stay there, don’t fucking move, keep your hands up—good bitch.”

  I stayed where I was and watched him move around to the driver’s side. He pointed the rifle barrel into the bed of the truck as he looked in, but there was nothing to see. His coke was gone. A flashlight would’ve helped him, but maybe he could see in the dark. The interior of the truck cab was too dark, and I wondered what proof he would need to not shoot me in the head. Could he make out bullet holes in the doors? The smashed glass should’ve tipped him off that we’d really been shot at.

  Then he did something weird. I thought he saw a ghost and wanted to shoot it. He raised the rifle up to his eyeline and aimed into the cab. But he didn’t shoot. Instead, he roved the barrel from the seats to the floorboard to the dash, and kept the rifle raised as he walked around to the back of the truck.

  And then it hit me. He was looking through a scope on the rifle, and it probably had infrared night vision. Paco wouldn’t be the type to use a flashlight to see in the dark. Let your rifle see for you—and shoot the enemy who skulked around your property.

  He was a smart fucker. I hated him more.

  On the passenger side, he looked through his rifle scope again, then looked at me—barrel first. Tilting the rifle up, he reached into the truck and grabbed something, then lifted a full hand to the rifle scope to get a better look. Looked at me while he dropped whatever was in his hand into his shirt pocket. Popped the glove compartment open, slammed the passenger door closed, did the same beneath and in the narrow space behind the seat.

  Not looking happy (as usual), he slammed the passenger door closed, held the gun at me from a low angle.

  “Where’s the gun?” he asked me.

  “What gun?”

  He dipped fingers into his pocket and threw bullets at me. The box which was left on the seat. “Open your fucking jacket.”

  I did. I took it off, let it hang from an upheld hand like a deflated balloon.

  “Lift up your shirt,” he commanded. All this time, he was inspecting me through the rifle scope—which meant, of course, that the rifle was always aimed at me. So, I obeyed all his commands, hoping to God the rifle’s safety was on. If it had one. “Lift up your pant legs one at a time. Kick your shoes off—don’t touch them—kick them. Drop your pants—below the fucking knee, fucker. Pull your underwear down and lift your balls. Scratch your fingers through your hair. Okay, now get dressed—ándele! Head back to the shithouse.”

  I had never been strip-searched before, so it made me feel incredibly violated. Thank God it was dark so I couldn’t see myself. How in the hell could I stash a gun under my balls? And if I had, how could I have walked? Especially in the dark?

  Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Paco had searched people by rifle scope before, obviously. He knew what he was doing—he had to, since he shipped a to
n of drugs to and from two countries.

  I tried to tell myself not to panic. Didn’t say a word as I got dressed and continued following instructions back to the outhouse tunnel.

  “You got bullets in your truck, ese,” Paco called down the hole.

  “No shit,” Gord called back. “Bullet holes all over the place.”

  “I didn’t say bullet holes—I said bullets. A box of them on the seat. Where’s the gun?”

  Gord may have paused too long. Paco was getting antsy, shuffling around the lip of the hole, barrel pointed down to see through the dark. I hoped Gord had the revolver hidden.

  “I dunno—did you check the truck?” he finally said.

  “It’s not in there.”

  “It must’ve bounced out, I dunno. We were off-roading to get here. The windows got blown out—I’m amazed the bullets didn’t bounce out too.”

  “Fuck that shit—get up here—keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I heard Gord’s boots stomping on the wooden base, then he must’ve found the control for the elevator. Its chain rattled and the motor hummed, but not for long. All hollow echoes stopped.

  “Paco, someone’s gotta be down here to work the controls. I got it in one hand, but if I go any higher it’ll drop, and I’ll be stuck in the shaft.”

  Paco muttered Spanish curse words under his breath, then pointed the rifle at me.

  “Get in the hole. You bring him up.”

  I sat on the edge of the blackness, legs dangling, looking into the abyss. “Gord, I’m coming down. I can’t see shit. Sorry if I land on you.”

  “Wait a minute,” he called back up. “Let me go back down. I’ll work the controls, bring the elevator to you.”

  I looked back at Paco. He was looking down the hole with the scope. “Okay, Gord, do that. But I can see you from here—I got a scope, and I’ll riddle you with holes if you fucking try anything.”