by Jordan Krall
TENTACLE DEATH TRIP
Jordan Krall
Five drivers.
One race.
Millions of tentacles.
Copyright © 2012 Jordan Krall
Cover Art © 2012 Hauke Vagt
www.eraserheadpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where prohibited by law.
This book is dedicated to my son.
***
It is the year 2025. Ten years ago the United States of America strong-armed its way into another world war but this time it found itself on the losing end, ravaged by nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons. The rest of the countries of the world are now working to rebuild civilization, collectively shunning the USA. Now the inhabitants of America are at the mercy of mutants, freaks, marauders, gangs, and the most powerful warlord gangster in the country, the mysterious Mr. Silver.
PROLOGUE
The house was partially destroyed and looked extremely unsafe but Chaps didn’t care. He dug through the rubble that served as the front door and crawled into the building. His friend Ryan was right behind him, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
“You think there’s anything good left?” Ryan said.
“Shit, there better be. Last five houses we hit were empty as hell. This one’s gotta have something. It’s the biggest one on the block. Right now I’d settle for a fucking T.V. Guide.”
“Well,” Ryan said, tripping on a black block of wood, “I figure if we don’t score anything here, we should move on to Hackensack.”
“Yeah.” Chaps walked through what resembled a living room except the furniture looked like ancient objects not fit for comfort. He was used to scavenging for supplies but had hit a period of bad luck recently.
He put his hands on the couch but quickly pulled them away; the fabric was warm and moist. Though he’d been in similar situations for years, Chaps never got used to the effect the war had on fabric. He found it strange that inorganic materials had been affected so much. But maybe it made sense. It hadn’t been just nuclear weapons used in the war. Chaps heard there was a lot of biological and chemical shit used by all sides of the conflict. He had heard how some woman spent the night on a couch and woke up with the fabric melded to her body. She had to cut herself off it with a piece of aluminum, losing much of her skin in the process.
Chaps didn’t want that to happen to him so he never slept on anything but dirt but even then you never knew what was in the soil. There could be radioactive worms or something. Just the thought of nuclear creepy-crawlers made him shiver.
He carefully grabbed the couch again and said, “Help me turn this shit over quick.” Ryan took hold of the other side and they flipped it.
“Jesus.”
Underneath was a crude decagram made of green bones and Matchbox cars.
“Grab those cars. We can probably trade them.” Chaps said. He wasn’t really particular when it came to looting. From his experience, he learned that no matter what it was that was found, there would be somewhere in the wasteland who wanted it. One time he found a pouch full of old grocery store coupons. Despite their being useless after the war, Chaps had found a woman who offered him sex in exchange for them. The coupons held some psychological value to her, something she could use to pretend the world hadn’t changed, hadn’t turned to shit. Though he couldn’t really relate to that, Chaps had taken her up on her offer but had gotten some bizarre disease as a result. His teeth were never the same.
Ryan grabbed the cars and stuffed them into his pockets.
“What about the bones?” Ryan said.
“What about them? If you want ‘em, take ‘em.”
Ryan shook his head.
They continued to ransack the house but found nothing else but a shower curtain.
“We can use this,” Chaps said.
“For what?”
“As a poncho, you know, when it rains.”
“It’s moldy as hell,” Ryan said, grabbing a corner of the curtain and sticking into his friend’s face. “It almost looks alive or something.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, man. It doesn’t take up much room anyway,” Chaps said. When he grabbed the shower curtain, he realized just how moldy it truly was. He wasn’t going to admit that to Ryan, of course. Once he made a decision, Chaps stood by it. The curtain felt alive in his hands like a flattened tentacle.
After their search, they walked outside and sat on the curb. “Some toys and a shower curtain. What a haul,” Ryan said. “We don’t catch some better luck soon, we’re going to be in bad shape.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Maybe we should have taken those bones.”
“Green bones? Anyone ever ask us if we had green bones? You think people want to trade for them?”
Ryan shrugged. “I heard you can get high off Yugg bones.”
“Who the hell said they were Yugg bones?”
“No one, I’m just saying. They looked weird. Maybe we could crush them and, you know, smoke them.”
“Don’t be a freak, Ryan.”
A sound from behind the house startled them.
“What the hell was that?” Ryan said.
“Shhhh!” Chaps put his hand up. “Shut up.”
There was another sound like someone dragging empty cans. Chaps pulled his knife out of belt and walked towards the noise which was getting louder. A figure walked out from behind the house.
“Christ! It’s Mario,” Chaps said. He turned to the man walking towards them. “What the hell are you trying to do? Scare us to death?”
A short, swarthy man with a handlebar mustache walked over to Chaps and Ryan, grinning ear to ear. “Aye, well, thought you’d hear me coming with all these cans, yeah.”
“Why are you carrying those around?” Ryan said.
“I don’t know, bud. I don’t know, really. Just found them along the way and thought they sounded nice.”
“Well, you sure as hell can’t sneak up on anybody.” Ryan said.
Mario laughed. “Guess not. Hey, you guys hear about the race?”
Chaps said, “Yeah, but I didn’t think that was real. Sounds like a fucking joke.”
“Naw, it’s for real, bud.”
Ryan piped in. “What race?”
Mario lowered his voice and talked slowly. “Mr. Silver’s holding a race for the best drivers.”
“No shit?” Ryan said. “Silver?”
“Yeah, Silver.” Mario said. “It’s starting from his compound in Jersey City and goes all the way down to Atlantic City. Real hardcore shit, you know. Kill or be killed.”
Chaps said, “I heard the winner’s gonna get as much gasoline they can fit in their gas tank plus supplies. Food, water, whatever.”
“Shit,” Ryan said. “But who’s going to trust Silver. He’s a gangster. A maniac.”
“Rich maniac, remember,” Mario said. “But he does follow through with his promises. Remember last year’s race between Sabbath and Chainsaw Cook? Sabbath won a car, bud. I saw it.”
“I heard something else, though. Something about a new city,” Chaps said.
Mario’s face turned grim. “Yeah. I heard about that, too. A city that rose from the sea or something.”
Ryan laughed. “What? You mean like Atlantis? Man, that shit’s fake like UFOs and Bigfoot.”
“No, not Atlantis,” Mario said. He crouched down. “R’lyeh.”
“Never heard of it,” Ryan said.
“I heard it’s a bad place, bud.”
Chaps said, “Well, I heard it’s a
fucking paradise. The winner gets to live there or something.”
Mario shook his head. “Not a paradise, bud. Not a paradise.”
“Well,” Ryan said. “If I had a motherfucking car, I’d enter that race.”
“It’s an invite-only deal,” Chaps said. “I heard Silver sent one of his guys to recruit the best racers.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah,” Chaps said. He turned away from his friends and walked out to the edge of the road. “You guys hear that?”
“What?” Ryan said.
“Sounds like a car.”
Mario stood up. “Marauders?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s a trade bus,” Ryan said.
“Shhhhhhhh!”
They stood silently, perking their ears up to hear the sound. In the distance, a rough purr of an engine echoed.
Soon they saw it: a car, sleek and dusty and coming up fast on the horizon.
Ryan said, “Better get out of the way.” He moved towards the house and the other men followed. They stood on the porch, watching as the car approached, interested in the possibility of someone new to bargain with.
Ryan squinted and tried focusing on the vehicle as it got closer. “Looks serious.”
“What do you mean?” Chaps said.
“Doesn’t look like a wanderer.”
“Shit, bud,” Mario said. “I think we should leave. I’m getting some bad vibes, you know.”
“Nah, just wait.” Chaps walked across the lawn. He wasn’t worried about one car on an empty road.
The car approached and slowed while passing the house.
The three men caught a glimpse of the driver: a very beautiful and blonde woman in her late twenties who winked as she drove by.
“Wow,” Ryan said.
“Wow indeed,” Mario said. “This is one time I really wished I had a car.”
“Do you even know how to drive?” Chaps said.
“No but I’d learn, bud. For her I’d learn.”
The car drove a half mile down the road and then made a U-turn in the parking lot of a burnt down convenience store.
“She’s coming back.” Chaps stepped out to the edge of the road. It had been so long since he was in the vicinity of a remotely attractive female. As the car drove back towards the house, Chaps felt his heart flutter in anticipation. Maybe this chick was in heat. Maybe he could have a crack at her.
Ryan called for him. “Dude, get the hell back here.”
“No, just wait. She’s slowing down,” Chaps said, taking a few steps into the road to flag her down.
“I’m serious, man. Get the hell over here.” Ryan jogged off to the road and pulled Chaps back.
“What the hell….?”
Before Chaps could finish his sentence, the car that had been slowing down was speeding in their direction. He was in mid-scream when metal hit flesh and bone.
The car was a bullet of siren screams. With engine roaring, it plowed through Chaps and Ryan. It was quick and painful with body parts and blood bursting into a rainbow of gore.
Windshield wipers fluttered quickly to clean up the mess.
Mario had been standing in front of the house but was now running through the backyard making his way through the overgrown grass. The car followed.
Mario didn’t make it very far. It was seconds before the car nipped the back of his knees in a blur of cracked bone, causing the man to fall forward. The car didn’t hesitate. It quickly separated Mario’s head from his body, sending it onto the hood of the car where it sat staring through the glass.
The driver cackled. “Get the hell off my car, asshole.” She slammed on the brakes. Mario’s head rolled off the hood and fell into a patch of toxic grass and bulbous mushrooms.
With screeching tires the car sped back to the street. The girl inside put a cell phone to her ear and said, “Oh my god, can you believe those guys? What a bunch of losers digging through garbage. What’s that? I can’t hang out tonight. I told you I’m going to that race. Yeah. Well, I’ll call you later, sweetie, okay?”
She nodded and listened. “I miss you, too.”
But there was no one on the other line. Cell phones hadn’t worked since the war.
“Okay, I’ll call you when I get to the race,” the girl said and placed the phone on the passenger seat.
She stepped on the gas and brought her up to its maximum speed. She was going to be late for the race. It was all because of those guys at the house. She almost regretted stopping to snuff them out but then realized it had been good practice. Her car sped off North. She was on her way to a race.
A death race.
TENTACLE DEATH TRIP
CHAPTER ONE
Howdy, race fans! I’m your humble host Enzo. You will not believe the exciting spectacle you are about to witness. Mr. Silver himself, yes, that Mr. Silver, he’s put together the best race you’ll ever see in your life.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying, “Enzo, what about the race between Sabbath and Chainsaw Cook? What about the three-way between Cane Toad Moon, Meat Sham Bo, and the Laird? Well let me tell you, people, those races are nothing compared to what’s coming up. I can assure you! This is will be one for the record books!
*
The rumble of the engine made Samson nervous.
He felt this way despite his having won two dozen races against some of the fiercest competitors. He beat Razor Mays and Macronympha Phil in Baltimore and left plenty of racers in his dust within the last few years. But this race was different.
Samson sat looking out the freshly-washed windshield and waited for the race to begin, a death race, a gory opiate for the masses. There he was revving his engine in Mr. Silver’s Northern Compound, one of two places the warlord gangster called home and the starting point for the race. Situated in Jersey City, New Jersey, it was a stadium constructed out of concrete blocks, truck skeletons, and random pieces of industrial plastics.
Samson looked over at the other drivers. There were supposed to be four other than himself but he only saw three. The one to his immediate left was a plump, older woman in a souped-up minivan. Her body was wide, her neck short and fat, and her red hair sitting on top of her head like a dead fox. The woman was inspecting her engine when she looked up and made eye contact with Samson. She stuck out her tongue and wiggled it obscenely.
Samson was startled by an emaciated man in the audience who screamed at the woman. “Fat bitch!” The man stood up and grabbed his crotch with his dirty, mangled hand.
The plump racer pulled a flare gun from her waistband and pulled the trigger. A bright flash left the muzzle of the gun and landed on the man’s face. He screamed as the skin on his face melted off into his hands.
The audience cheered.
Samson turned his eyes away from the gory scene and looked to his right where a small Japanese woman was sitting on a small two-door car. Something wasn’t right about the woman, though. Samson squinted and looked at her legs. They were hairy.
It wasn’t a Japanese woman. It was a man. He was wearing so much make-up it he resembled a slutty, underdressed Kabuki actress. There was a handcuff on each of his wrists but the chain that had connected them was dangling. The Japanese man was grabbing small handfuls of his hair and eating them.
Samson turned away and got out of his car to get a better look around. Next to the cross-dresser was a muscle car convertible Samson couldn’t identify. It resembled a Corvette but it just looked….wrong. The drive was even stranger looking: a beefy, half-naked man with a mohawk. His skull was made of glass, his brain and eyeballs visible through it, seemingly floating in gasoline. Two leather straps criss-crossed his chest and on his shoulders were large metal spikes. He looked more like a steroid-infused gladiator than a racer.
Samson wondered where the fifth driver had gone. He got back into his car and that’s when he heard the engine behind him.
A blue Camaro IROC-Z sped down the road and entered the entrance to t
he arena. Samson watched as the fifth racer pulled up next to the plump, red-haired racer and her minivan. Inside was a young, blonde woman chatting on a cell phone.
The crowd of spectators cheered as a bullhorn sounded through the compound and one of the video screens flickered on. Silver’s face appeared on the screen looking fox-like and well-fed. He wore a short ponytail and a gold chain with a sun-shaped pendant.
He said, “Hello drivers and race fans, I’m Mr. Silver and I welcome you to the greatest race of your lives.” With that the crowd cheered louder not only because of Silver’s words but because some of his men were starting to throw small packets of dried meat into the audience. No one but Silver knew exactly what kind of meat it was but Samson was sure he didn’t want to know. The people didn’t seem to care. They were poor and desperate for some sustenance to go with their bloody entertainment. Their lives consisted mostly of survival and Silver’s diversion was a bright point in their somber existences.
Through the loudspeakers, Silver went on, “I’ve always lived by the rule: if you get, you give. I’ve always gotten a lot of enjoyment from races. The roars of the engines, the suspense as the drivers make their way around the track. It is one of life’s greatest thrills. Because I’ve gotten that, I’m going to give it back by staging one of the most spectacular races ever imagined.” The pony-tailed gangster chuckled.
Samson watched the other racers as their eyes were glued on Silver’s face. They looked enthralled as if the race was the best thing that had ever happened to them.
“But with everything there are rules!” Silver said. “First, you cannot leave New Jersey and drive through the Western Wastelands. I consider that a blatant show of disrespect. I’m a man of respect if nothing else. You should understand that leaving New Jersey is an instant disqualification and that means you will be killed on sight.”
He snickered. “There is one gas station and it is in Hell’s Fish Market. You cannot attack the other drivers when they are at the station. This is very important. Consider it a safe zone. Once they leave the station, however, then you may commence with the violence. Got it? Other than that, you may maim, burn, kill, and destroy anyone or anything in your way except for my people. The more violence the better the entertainment and that’s what the audience is here for. That’s something you must remember: you have an audience. As a driver in my race your life is no longer your own. You are not living your life in isolation. I have cameras nearly everywhere and everything will be broadcasted here for your fans and for your fans that are waiting so patiently in my Atlantic City compound. They deserve a show. Never forget that. They deserve a show!”
