Wet Drive

by Jay Harez

  Right before Bonanza was about to start she came out of the bedroom crying about the girls needing clothes. Charlie had had a few beers – Milwaukee’s Best was his preference – and his spatial reasoning was not at its best. He half-heartedly threw an empty at her and told her to quiet herself.

  Charlie had put in approximately thirty minutes work carefully balancing two pair of cinder blocks on top of each other, a sheet of plywood on top of them, and his prize television on top of it all.

  The wife – never having been too ‘fleet of foot’ – backed into the television. The television – in slow motion – rocked backwards. Charlie tried to rise from his broken-down Lay-Z-Boy but he was seconds too slow. His wife screamed and ran for the bedroom. The TV crashed face down. Thin wisps of smoke drifted from the slots in the back of it.

  Charlie could now leap out of his chair. In one motion he removed his belt and ran through the locked bedroom door. The wife was screaming that she didn’t mean to. Charlie was beyond rage…he was going to hurt her. He was going to hurt her until she was suffering like he was. Until she felt the loss and anguish and pain that he did…

  He heard the sound of a gunshot from outside. There were only three aluminum steps that had come from the factory with the doublewide.

  With part of the belt wrapped around his fist Charlie brandished the belt at his now silent wife and gave her the look that told her this wasn’t over.

  Charlie sidestepped the bedroom door that now hung on by the bottom hinge. He saw the front door of the trailer open as his oldest girl walked in with his .22 rifle. She went over to the pantry and replaced the rifle right where Charlie kept it. Charlie exited the trailer knowing what he would see when we opened it. He flipped on the outside light and saw his dog. It had been shot in the gut just behind the rib cage. The smell of feces, urine and blood formed a cocoon around the tableau.

  It had been years since he had smelled that particular combination which was - unbelievably - stronger than Ben Franklin’s choice of colognes. Charlie he got past the smell and realized the lock was just a façade built into the panel of the truck’s door. He started to reach for it and then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Ben Franklin.

  “Please do Senor.” Ben Franklin said.

  Charlie touched the lock and it gave a little. Then slowly the whole eleven by eleven panel opened from the bottom to reveal a sophisticated ten-key pad along with a series of read-outs and gauges. As Charlie started to scratch his head a series of low-pitched growls were heard from the truck. Then the banging started. The Rottweiler which had proven to be quite domesticated sprang up from its bedding in the corner of the shed and ran into the house. Charlie hadn’t even noticed the animal before.

  The phone rang. Everyone was focused on the truck and the phone was background noise. The howling began then. This time it wasn’t just one high-pitched keening noise; it was a chorus of howls. It sounded like a pack of wild dogs and Charlie thought back to the BBC reporter and the hospital.

  Ben Franklin looked at the phone, pushed the talk button and shouted “What?!”

  “As you are now aware, the cargo is dangerous,” Mr. Phone said.

  “Well how about me and my friends start putting bullets into your vehicle until that noise stops?” Jesus asked.

  “Release the vehicle and the driver or…” said Mr. Phone.

  “Or what, Mr. Phone!?” the terror in Ben Franklin’s voice had taken it up an octave when he asked. “What are you going to do!? Huh!? We release your driver and your stupid truck or what?!” Ben Franklin shouted with more fear than anger.

  Ben Franklin and a few others began aiming various side-arms at the vehicle, .22 rifle, and the passenger with the shotgun took a step backwards but managed to keep their weapons trained on the truck. Despite the din from the truck the now silent phone became a point of curiosity. Everyone’s eyes slowly drifted toward Ben Franklin and the tiny device. Then almost on cue Mr. Phone spoke the most frightening phrase Charlie had ever heard.

  “…or I open the truck,” said Mr. Phone.

  The words were so brief and nonchalant that had it not been for the banging and howling it would have had no credibility.

  “You do it and…” Ben Franklin stopped mid-sentence as the door rose about one and a half inches from the bed of the cargo area.

  The howling stopped for half an instant and a cascade of refrigerated air began to seep from the newly formed breach. No one in the rear section of the pre-fabricated metal shed moved for nearly three seconds. Then the noise increased to an almost deafening level.

  Blackened and gnarled fingers clawed at the small crevice. They moved so rapidly they almost blurred. The furious motion of the clawed hands was interspersed with what appeared to be snouts. Much like a Doberman’s but slightly blunter with canines that made Charlie scramble backwards on the floor of the garage until he bumped into Ben Franklin’s legs.

  All that stood between the creatures in the truck and the aromatic sweaty flesh of Charlie and his captors the door. The door appeared thin and weak but it held somehow and this frustrated the creatures beyond measure. The howling intensified, the dark, clawed hands scraped and grasped with more intensity. The creatures displayed the crazed behavior of feral, tortured beasts.

  .22 Rifle displayed the fastest reflexes. Under normal circumstances he would have tilted the scales in the favor of the five banditos with his three shots at the door. Despite the tight grouping he actually made circumstances worse.

  Charlie was lucky to have been virtually sitting on the floor of the shed when the ricochets came. The first one removed Charlie’s cap. The second one careened through the wall of the shed. It was the third shot that took off the front section of Ben Franklin’s lower jaw.

  Ben Franklin screamed loud enough to rival the creatures and dropped the phone to grasp what was left of his bleeding mouth. The phone virtually fell into Charlie’s lap and Ben Franklin turned and brought up his pistol to draw a bead on .22 Rifle. The scent of blood made the creatures go berserk. The vehicle shuddered and rocked.

  Whatever guts Charlie had came to the forefront as he grabbed the phone and dove under the truck. The eighteen inch ground clearance gave him plenty of room to crawl toward the front of the vehicle and arrive outside of the shed.

  “Driver what is going on?!” shouted Mr. Phone. “Answer me!”

  Ben Franklin was staggering while trying to point his gun at .22 Rifle. Charlie continued to belly-crawl forward. He felt the concrete floor give way to the sandy surface of the yard.

  “Driver can you hear me?!” the agitated voice of Mr. Phone asked.

  “Yes!” Charlie shouted as more shots resounded behind him.

  “It is imperative you get into the cab of the truck and lock the doors,” instructed Mr. Phone.

  Charlie noticed the phone battery was starting to run low.

  “I’m trying to!” Charlie shouted.

  He also thought that if he had other transportation he would haul ass away from here and accept his losses. The Hummer! If Charlie could make it to the Hummer he would be set. Charlie rolled sideways and emerged from beneath the truck. He was between the truck and the chicken coop facing the Rottweiler. The dog whimpered and looked inquisitively at Charlie with a tilt of its massive head.

  Charlie stood up and sprinted for the Hummer. The Rottweiler trotted beside him panting but showed no interest in mauling him. Road luck. Charlie jumped into the passenger side of the Hummer and reached for the ignition but of course the keys weren’t there. They were probably in the pocket of Ben Franklin. Charlie couldn’t tell which screams were coming from the truck and which were the highway bandits.

  He thought to grab the charger for the phone.

  “Driver are you in the cab?” Mr. Phone asked.

  Charlie leapt out of the Hummer with the phone in hand and the charger dangling. In the pre-fab metal shed a new form of chaos was breaking out. Hummer passenger took a few shots at the sliding door. The pellets
from the shotgun exploded in all directions and he didn’t have shells to reload. Machete Mamma in one deft, single-handed, upward stroke removed the gun arm of Ben Franklin sparing the life of .22 Rifle. The blood splashing around the shed was driving the creatures insane.

  “Driver in about five seconds that door will open completely,” Mr. Phone informed Charlie. “If you are not in that cab when that happens I cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “I’m in the cab!” you psychotic fuck thought Charlie.

  “Under your seat are two thermoses; a yellow one and a blue one. Open the blue one and pour as much of the contents on yourself as you can,” instructed Mr. Phone.

  The keys! In the ignition and ready to go. Charlie tried to start the vehicle.

  “Attempts to start the vehicle will fail…” said Mr. Phone. “…and gravely disappoint us.”

  Who the fuck was ‘us’? Charlie thought. He left off consideration of this new element when he heard what sounded like a small motor whirring behind the cab. The rear door opened fully. Then he heard the screams, the gunshots, and the baying of at least half a dozen…dogs?

  From the cab Charlie could see into the window of the room he had been held in. The window was dirty. The chicken-coop was another obstacle and of course it was dark now. But Charlie saw Machete Mamma run into the room with her baby on her hip. She didn’t have time to shut the door behind her and the hallway light illuminated the room dimly. This was the only explanation Charlie had to offer for the hulking thing he saw follow Machete Mamma into the room only seconds later.

  Charlie was certain he saw the machete arc through the air and the glint of the hallway light off of its blade. He heard a dog-like yelp that was more guttural and deeper than he had ever heard from a dog. Then he heard Machete Mamma scream. Neither was in view but Charlie could imagine the scene and it made him sick.

  The shooting had stopped and just a few low growls and snorts could be heard. Charlie realized that the window was open almost too late. He held the two thermoses in his lap. He was reaching toward the fuse box beneath the steering column in the hopes of bypassing whatever starter-kill device was there when a head appeared in the window. It was a dog’s head, saliva and blood mixed to create a viscous drip from its snarling mouth. It looked at Charlie and the growl intensified.

  “Obedience will keep you alive,” Mr. Phone said.

  Charlie popped open the blue thermos and poured the contents over his head. He closed his eyes and fought the reflexive gag that came to his throat. When he opened his eyes the creature was gone. Charlie had never been a religious person. He had tried a few fringe organizations and they had all been wasted efforts. At this moment he was willing to solicit any deity who could remove him from this truck, this particular property, or, ideally, Mexico.

  “What now?” Charlie asked the phone.

  “Drive. New coordinates have been sent to your GPS. Follow them.” Mr. Phone said.

  Charlie felt the ignition engage and the diesel engine rumbled awake. Charlie didn’t remember turning the keys but he knew it was time to move. He began driving when the phone beeped to signal the battery was dying. He plugged it into the charger and mounted it next to the GPS.

  “Are you hurt?” the phone asked. The question sounded urgent and unconcerned at the same time.

  “No.” Charlie replied.

  Too much had happened too quickly for him to process. All he knew was that if he could distance himself from this truck he would be better off. Then he remembered where he was. An ambush set-up like that would have to be permitted by someone, either Cartel or Federales or both.

  And both could be looking for anyone who might have been in the area once word got out about the fate of Ben Franklin and company. And word would get out because this was Mexico. To make things totally fucked Charlie didn’t know what part of the interior he was in. His captors had put the hood on him as soon as they had loaded him into their vehicle. Plus it was dark. He checked the phone, ten-thirty p.m. exactly. He still had a quarter tank of fuel.

  “This is more than I signed on for,” Charlie sad half aloud. He had forgotten the phone was still on.

  “Yes it is,” replied Mr. Phone, though he did not offer to follow up on the assent.

  “Think of something appropriate.” Charlie said.

  “The new coordinates are on the GPS. It’s only a few miles away. When you get there take the other Thermos and pour the contents on the floor of the cargo area. I realize that you have had…an experience but for your sake it is important that you pay attention to this part…you must get in the cab and stay there” said Mr. Phone.

  “What’s in the thermos?” Charlie realized he may need to clarify. “I don’t want to be splashing cyanide or something worse around.”

  “We would not endanger you intentionally,” Mr. Phone said. “Your destination is approximately five miles away by road, three and a quarter as the crow flies.”

  “OK?” Charlie said as his destination approached. This had started as a wet-drive south and turned into the mother of all cluster-fucks. And what’s the distance as the crow flies got to do with anything Charlie asked himself.

  Charlie saw that his destination was an abandoned hotel and smelled something other than the syrupy gunk that soaked his clothing for the first time. Salt. Salt-water to be more specific.

  The phone had something to say.

  “The U.S. military requires that its soldiers be able to run a mile in under seventeen minutes.” Mr. Phone paused, “Our…your cargo is faster. The second thermos contains a lure of sorts…once it is open and gets into the air…it is important you be in the cab.” The line went silent.

  Did this asshole expect Charlie to draw those things to him? Charlie knew he had to be misunderstanding.

  The hotel was set back from the main highway. Charlie parked and got out. The rear door was still open. Charlie held the thermos at arm’s length and poured three quarters of the contents on the floor of the cargo area. The inside wasn’t illuminated but he could make out several pallets and what appeared to be bedrolls piled in the forward section. Not his business. Who the fuck tries to slip into Mexico anyway? The smell was sweet but left bitterness in Charlie’s mouth. Then again, between the salt in the air and the gunk that soaked his coveralls who knew what thermos number two actually smelled like?

  Charlie put the lid on the thermos, climbed into the cab and went to sleep. Noises from the rear of the truck had awakened him at intervals leading to dreams Charlie could not explain. He dreamt that the insane shoot-out in the shed had been accompanied by the barks and howls of wild dogs. He was mentally drained. Those idiots firing their guns in that small space could have left them all deaf. He remembered the smell of cordite and blood. Mostly he remembered the smell as the door opened. It was the smell of dogs but stronger.

  The dog or wolf or coyote or whatever the fuck it was had stood at the driver’s side window. How was that possible? He remembered the hand with its claws and the muscular forearm that trailed behind it.

  He remembered now. It all came back. Maybe his mind had ‘slipped’ or failed him. Because his cognitive skills disregarded some events, perhaps because of the difficulty he had had comprehending them…but in the warming light of day… The cab was starting to warm up.

  He knew for a fact that on at least one occasion he had run depleted uranium ammo south and on two others he had hauled biological waste that was cheaper to send south than dispose of in the states. There was a reason Mexico was called God’s Blind Spot.

  Charlie didn’t have ethical or moral conflicts to impede him. However he did have a strong sense of ‘not getting fucked over’ and it was screaming to take his six grand and let this truck roll off of a cliff somewhere.

  The phone vibrated.

  “Driver.” Charlie growled.

  “Glad you are awake and made it through your ordeal,” Mr. Phone said.

  The ordeal is not over thought Charlie.

  “I know the rul
es!” Charlie said without thinking, but he did know the rules. The rules, all two of them, were almost instinctive and the idiots that didn’t know them usually didn’t live long enough to be learn. Rule One: drive. Rule Two: Don’t open the truck.

  “We appreciate you adhering to them,” said the phone.

  “I seem to be the only one so we need to come to an understanding,” Charlie stated.

  “We have given a great deal of thought to your situation and have this to offer, one hundred thousand dollars. Is this satisfactory?” the phone inquired.

  Charlie didn’t even know anyone who had one hundred thousand dollars, except maybe his ‘perfect’ brother in-law.

  “Driver, is this acceptable?” the phone asked again.

  “Yes,” Charlie said, still wondering what one hundred thousand dollars looked like.

  In his mind he saw himself eating rare steak on a beach (not a Mexican beach of course) but a beach somewhere…maybe Paraguay. He glanced at his face in the side mirror. He looked like shit. He had rings under his eyes and a sneer that he wasn’t aware of. He had tweeker written all over his face, although he had never used meth. As he looked at the face of the unknown man in the mirror a question erupted to the forefront of his mind.

  “How did you know I was awake?!” he looked at the phone as he asked as if he could get some read on the display panel that might lend some insight into this latest mystery.

  “As you are aware the vehicle you drive has been…modified to accommodate our needs,” the phone informed Charlie.