The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  The tractor lay on its side ten yards away, the windshield and windows shattered, the metal twisted and crumpled like tinfoil. Its deformed shape gave me the shivers. Petty and I stared at each other in amazement.

  We should be dead.

  Petty ran toward the tractor and I ran after her. Now that I was up and moving, I felt specific pains. My ankle was the worst, but my right elbow and my neck hurt too.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  She looked in what was left of the tractor. “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “The laptop.” She ran in ever widening circles. “The laptop!” Her tone was frantic.

  “Never mind,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here before the cops come out of Uncle Curt’s house.”

  “I need that laptop!” she screamed.

  “Why?”

  “Stuff about my mom’s on there. I have to—­”

  “No you don’t! We have to go! Now!” I grabbed her arm and made her walk alongside me, and she only fought me a little bit.

  “I’ll call Uncle Curt and tell him to go look for it.” Though I knew it was probably destroyed anyway.

  I patted my pocket. “Shit,” I said. “My cell phone’s gone.”

  Petty didn’t respond.

  We trotted toward the road, me glancing over my shoulder at Uncle Curt’s house every few feet. To my heightened senses, everything appeared sharp and vivid, as if I were looking through a magnifying glass. The red of the tractor. The silver edges of the still-­morphing black clouds. The green of the clumpy grass.

  I reached into my shirt pocket for a smoke and pulled out the waterlogged and squashed pack. I kept my disappointment to myself, though, because Petty wouldn’t be sympathetic at all. I crushed the pack and threw it on the ground.

  A silver pickup truck appeared beside us as if by magic. There was nowhere to hide. The driver’s side window rolled down.

  “You okay? Are you all right?” The man’s voice was high and tight, no doubt goosed by adrenaline. “Good God, look at you two. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

  “We’re okay,” I said. “Just a little shook up.”

  “Can I give you a ride, then?”

  Petty shook her head no, but I squeezed her arm. “Thank you, sir, that would be very helpful.”

  I opened the passenger door then shoved Petty toward it. She resisted, and I hissed in her ear, “This is how we’re going to get out of here. Get in the fucking truck. And wipe your face off. You look like a goon.”

  She did.

  “Can I call your ­people for you?” the driver asked once we were inside, his cell phone at the ready. With a large but well-­kept beard, pink cheeks, and glittering blue eyes, he’d be a dead ringer for Santa Claus in another ten years or so.

  “No, that’s all right,” I said. “If you could drive us down to I-­70, that would be great.”

  The driver gave me a strange look. “I-­70?”

  “Yes sir,” I said. I couldn’t think of any believable reason why we’d want to be let out at the interstate, so I didn’t try to give one.

  “I’ll take you right up to your door if you tell me where it is,” the driver said.

  “That’s not necessary,” I said, and stared through the windshield, feeling the driver’s eyes on me. The silence stretched, and I had to suppress my babbling reflex.

  “So what happened to you all?” he asked, putting the truck in gear and accelerating forward.

  I exchanged a glance with Petty.

  “We were out walking when the storm hit,” I said, “and truthfully, I don’t have any idea what happened after that.”

  “I’ll tell you this—­you’re lucky to be alive. Apparently the tornado was on the ground for about a tenth of a mile.”

  “Any houses hit?” I said.

  “Nope, but a barn was taken out. Haven’t heard of any fatalities.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “I’m a storm chaser, you know,” the driver said.

  “Is that right,” I said.

  “Whereabouts did you say you two are from?”

  “I didn’t say,” I said, then clamped my lips together.

  “You doing okay?” the driver said over my head to Petty.

  Petty seemed not to have heard anything, just kept glancing out the window at the side mirror.

  “She’s kind of traumatized, you can imagine,” I said.

  “Sure, sure,” the driver said.

  I prayed the bearded man wouldn’t say anything to Petty to make her draw her gun, if she still had it on her.

  We got to I-­70 and two cars were parked under the overpass.

  “Thank God, Jenny, look, they’re already here,” I said, pointing in the direction of the cars.

  Petty glanced over her shoulder, probably looking for “Jenny.” Then her mouth dropped open with realization.

  “Those your ­people?” the driver said skeptically. I knew he’d seen the uncomprehending expression on her face.

  “Yup,” I said. “Thanks a bunch for the ride. We really appreciate it.”

  He pulled over and put the truck in park. Petty opened the door and hopped out. The driver grabbed my arm. I stared at the hand and then at his face.

  “You should go get her checked out,” he said. “I think she’s in shock. She might have a concussion.”

  “I will, sir. Thanks again.”

  The driver didn’t let go.

  I bit my lip. “Thanks again, sir.” I slowly pulled my arm away without looking into the man’s face, got out of the truck and closed the door. The truck stayed put.

  I took Petty’s arm and we ran across the road, my ankle feeling loose and sore.

  “Don’t look back,” I said.

  The truck remained, idling at the side of the road.

  I walked up to a silver Nissan and tapped on the driver’s side window. I turned my head and waved at the truck. Still, it didn’t move.

  The window rolled down. “Did you see that?” the woman in the driver’s seat asked. She was obviously still shaken by the tornado, her eyes immense. “You musta got hit! Look at you!”

  “Any chance we can get a ride?”

  “Well, I, uh—­”

  I lowered my voice. “Listen. That guy who dropped us off is harassing us. I’d appreciate it if you’d let us get in the car for a minute.”

  “Well—­”

  “Please. I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

  The locks popped. I opened the back door, pushed Petty in and got in myself.

  “Is he still there?”

  The driver looked. “Yes.”

  “Give the lady fifty dollars,” I said to Petty.

  She pulled a wet wad of bills from her pocket and counted out two twenties and a ten.

  “How about now? He still there?”

  Petty handed the money wordlessly over the front seat. The lady took it. “He’s leaving.”

  “Is there any chance you can give us a ride on westbound I-­70?”

  “I’m headed east,” the lady said, but I could tell she was lying. I didn’t blame her. Here were these two mud monsters, one of them a mute, who were trying to get away from Santa Claus Junior by sitting in her car and ruining the upholstery.

  “Okay. We’re going to wait another five minutes or so, and then we’ll get out.”

  The driver never spoke, but kept shooting worried glances at us in the rearview. We sat in silence until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We got out of the car and walked to the westbound on ramp.

  DEKKER AND I stood under that overpass by the on ramp and stuck our thumbs out. My ears were filled with a high, metallic-­cricket chirping backed by a low buzz. I kept mov
ing my jaw and putting my hands over my ears.

  “Your ears ringing too?” Dekker said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Were we actually in the tornado?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine we were, or we’d be dead. I think it came awfully close though.”

  I heard the traffic humming overhead, sparse but steady. I was antsy because I couldn’t imagine a police car wasn’t about to happen by. The rain began falling again and within five minutes we were mud-­free and drenched.

  We stood there for another fifteen minutes before a Peterbilt semi-­trailer truck drove toward the on ramp from the north. It geared down, pulled over behind us and stopped. The door opened and a guy shouted, “Need a ride?”

  “How far you going?” Dekker called back.

  “Colorado. You’re welcome to ride along. Plenty of room.”

  “What if he recognizes us?” I said.

  “My own grandma wouldn’t recognize me like this,” Dekker said. “Let’s go.”

  I got a good look at the driver’s face—­it was round and pink and smooth. He didn’t even look like he shaved. He wore jeans and a T-­shirt and a billed cap that said Bad to the Bone. He was a smiley, laughy person. I was grateful Dekker got in first and sat in the middle between us.

  “Did y’all get caught in the tornado? I saw it from a ways away, but wow. Name’s Ray,” he said, holding out his hand to Dekker, who shook it. Ray kind of saluted me, but I turned away.

  “I’m Ted,” Dekker said. “And this is Jenny.”

  “Jenny. I like that name,” Ray said.

  “You don’t by chance have any water in here, do you?” Dekker said.

  Ray pointed over his shoulder. “There’s a cooler behind the seat there. Help yourself.”

  Dekker pulled out two bottles of water and handed one to me. I opened it and drank it down without stopping. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was. Ray leaned forward, giving me a smile. I looked away again.

  “We appreciate you picking us up,” Dekker said.

  “This is the best part of my job, picking up folks like y’all.” He laughed to himself. “Y’all like jokes? What’s the hardest part about eating a vegetable? Putting her back in the wheelchair when you’re done!”

  That one didn’t even make any sense. I decided right then I wouldn’t talk to Ray or even glance in his direction at all.

  “How long you been driving a truck?” Dekker asked him.

  ­“Couple years now. It was great when I started, but then they put the GPSes in the trucks so you can’t make as much money anymore, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Sure,” Dekker said. “That’s too bad.”

  “So what do you call a thirteen-­year-­old girl from Missouri who can run faster than her six brothers? A virgin!” Ray laughed at his own joke.

  Dekker smiled politely and rubbed his eyes.

  “Does she ever talk?” Ray said, pointing at me.

  “It’s been a tough day,” Dekker said.

  “She don’t need to talk, I guess,” Ray said. “That’s fine. That’s fine. Want to hear a joke about my dick? Never mind, it’s too long.” He laughed some more.

  I was so sleepy. The gentle vibration of the truck, the comfortable seat, the droning of Ray’s voice. I shook my head trying to stay awake, trying to stay vigilant, but my eyes were so heavy, I felt like I could fall asleep with them open. Ray and Dekker chatted, and the last thing I remember is Ray saying, “You know why they call it PMS? Because Mad Cow Disease was already taken!”

  That was the last thing I remembered before the slowing motion of the truck woke me up, and it was ungodly bright. I figured we must have slept through the night and into the afternoon, but then I saw the blazing fluorescent lights overhead.

  I needed something to eat and to go to the bathroom.

  Dekker’s head was on my shoulder. I shook him. “Wake up,” I said.

  His eyes fluttered open and he smiled at me and stretched.

  Ray was alternately watching us and out the windshield as the truck rolled to a stop. We were parked between two other semi trucks.

  “Just gonna make a little stop,” Ray said. “Just a little stop. Whyn’t y’all come inside?”

  “What time is it?” Dekker asked him.

  “About three A.M.,” Ray said.

  I opened the door and climbed down, and Dekker followed.

  “You fell asleep like immediately,” Dekker said, yawning.

  We followed behind Ray, who kept glancing over his shoulder at us, as if he was afraid we weren’t going to go in or maybe rob his truck or something. Bright light emanated from a glass door that Ray held open for us.

  Chapter 19

  I'VE ALWAYS BEEN slow to wake up, and Oma loved to make fun of my morning zombieness. She knew never to tell me anything important within thirty minutes of rising. I was especially reluctant to wake up now because I’d been dreaming I was onstage at the Uptown, playing the drums to cheers and applause.

  I was reliving the dream as I led Petty through that side door, and it took me a good twenty seconds before I realized what I was looking at.

  It was a giant sex toy store.

  Blockading us on every side, floor to ceiling, were brilliantly lit displays of neon colored dildos, vibrators, fetish stuff, DVDs, books and magazines. There were boobs and genitals everywhere. Truckers browsed magazines and checked out toys, glancing surreptitiously at Petty from beneath their cap brims.

  My instant panic felt like the flu—­surreal, delirious, feverish. I had to get Petty out of here before she realized what she was seeing. This might really and truly send her over the edge, and if she pulled a gun in a store like this, we were really and truly fucked.

  I hoped since she’d probably never experienced anything like this, none of it would register.

  Petty blinked in the unforgiving fluorescent light, and she had that unfocused look she got when she wasn’t really present. But it couldn’t last, because sooner or later her eyes would light on a big veiny cock and she would figure it out.

  Ray watched her face, confused by her seeming indifference. So I stepped into her sight line.

  “Petty,” I said in as calm and quiet a voice as I could muster, “this is a sex shop. Let’s go right back out the door.”

  “It’s a what?” she said, in a normal tone of voice. Heads swiveled toward us.

  “We need to leave.”

  “But I have to use the bathroom,” Petty said. “And I need a—­”

  And there it was. Her gaze had landed on who knew what, and her eyes grew round and enormous. Now she saw everything. She turned in a circle, surrounded by the truckers’ barely concealed boners.

  She ran for the door with me close behind her. In the parking lot, I now saw the sign we had missed on the way in, groggy and exhausted as we were, declaring ADULT SUPERSTORE!

  Petty paced in front of Ray’s semi truck.

  “What was that? What was I looking at?” Petty said. “What was that?”

  I held my hands up as if trying to calm an angry animal. “Take it easy, Petty. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  She paced some more. “Why would they have all that naked . . . the little statues of . . .” She shuddered.

  Ray walked out of the door, a big grin on his face. “See anything in there you liked?” he asked Petty.

  He reached out to tickle-­squeeze her waist.

  “No!” I shouted, but it was too late.

  Petty spun around and lunged at the guy. Whip-­quick, she was behind him, had him tipped backward with her arms restraining his. Ray looked completely astounded, a How did I end up like this? expression on his goofy redneck face.

  “See if he’s got any weapons,” Petty said to me.

  No more giggling or guffawing from Ray. Only stupefied gasping. “What
the fuck?” he said.

  I was rooted to the spot, afraid any sudden movement would trigger a violent slash-­fest on Petty’s part.

  “Frisk him!” Petty said, wrenching Ray’s arms as she did so.

  He grunted in pain, and his pleading eyes rolled in my direction. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  “You shouldn’t have touched her,” I said.

  “What the hell kinda whore are you anyway?” Ray choked out.

  Petty’s head swiveled toward me, her eyes demanding an explanation or a reason not to kill this trailer-­park Casanova. And then it hit me.

  “Ray, I think you got the wrong impression about us,” I said. “We’re students. We just needed a ride. We’re not in business. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “But you got no bags or nothing . . .”

  Petty’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t loosen her grip. “You mean—­he thought I was a prostitute? Is that what he thought?”

  I nodded.

  She squeezed him tighter and he squealed. I held up my hands palms out and almost said her real name. It was automatic. I had to concentrate. “It’s a misunderstanding. Let’s just go.”

  “Not until this guy apologizes.”

  “Okay.” To Ray, I said, “How about you apologize to the lady?”

  “Sorry,” he said hoarsely.

  “Satisfied?” I said.

  “I should cut your throat, you sicko,” Petty said to him.

  Ray’s knees buckled, and the only thing keeping him on his feet was Petty’s iron grip. Just then another trucker came walking out the building’s side door. He had a large bag of goodies in his hand, which he dropped on his foot when he saw what Petty was up to. He plucked up the bag then reached for his phone.

  “Drop it,” Petty said.

  He didn’t.

  “I said drop it.”

  He held up the phone to focus the camera.

  Petty let go of Ray, yanked her gun out of its holster and pointed it at the guy with the phone, who hadn’t gotten his shot framed the way he wanted it yet. He froze with his phone out in front of him.