Tentacle Death Trip

by Jordan Krall

  He’d never been a religious guy even before the nukes. It wasn’t that he was against having a belief system but he always found the idea of faith daunting. Believing in shit you couldn’t see was scary. Before the war, Samson had only believed in people, in their actions and their words. You could keep track of those things. They could be measured, evaluated, proven. It was simple because there was no faith involved. Faith was for the foolish.

  Driving into Hoghead Heaven made him think of people who still held on to their beliefs even after the world was practically devastated. Of course, all the destruction and chaos transformed the religions and often made them unrecognizable. There were hundreds of new religious sects, every one weirder than the next. Shaven-head Jews that worshipped pig gods. Christians who believed in a pantheon of serial murderers all supposedly related to the Lord Jesus Christ. Buddha-obsessed vegans who venerated (and copulated with) mutated menageries.

  Hoghead Heaven was the home of a Christian cult led by Hoghead Slim. There were a lot of strange stories about them, stories involving fungi-fueled visions, mephitic maniacs, and dozens of missing children.

  In Samson’s rearview there was no sign of Drac but he did see Junko and Mama Hell come out of a side street. Junko’s Honda looked busted up but the little thing was still zooming alongside the minivan.

  There was gunfire as Mama Hell stuck her hand out her window to fire shots at Junko who kept swerving to avoid them.

  Then Gabby came zooming up beside Samson.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. That girl came out of nowhere.

  She honked her horn and when Samson looked over at her, he saw Gabby holding her cell phone up to her ear while she steered with her right elbow. Her left hand was busy giving Samson the finger.

  “Bitch,” he said. There was no time to deal with that brat. Samson maneuvered away from her, moving fast down the street that was gradually becoming more urban than the zone he had driven out of. He sped by dilapidated buildings separated by grassy trash-filled lots. Telephone poles had been broken and reconstructed into abstract shapes. Unintelligible messages were spray painted on building walls and filthy windows. The street ahead was littered with supermarket carts so Samson slowed down and maneuvered around them.

  Then he saw the boy.

  The kid couldn’t have been more than ten years old. He was running down the sidewalk when he fell in front of an abandoned bicycle shop. Samson slowed down while Gabby zoomed up past him in direction of the kid.

  “Holy shit,” Samson said. That bitch was going to run the kid over. He pulled on a lever under the dashboard and a metal tube jutted out from the hood of his car. A grappling hook shot out of it and dug right into Gabby’s trunk. Samson yanked on the lever and the rope pulled the hook just a bit so Gabby’s car skidded just enough so she missed the kid. With a push of a button, Samson released the rope from his car and let Gabby skid out and crash into a mailbox.

  Samson drove up onto the sidewalk just past the boy. He opened the passenger’s side door. “Get in!” he yelled.

  In his rearview he could see Junko and Mama Hell coming up fast. Seconds after the kid jumped into Samson’s car, Junko’s car crashed into the bicycle shop. Mama Hell’s van skidded off into a ditch in front of a tattoo parlor.

  “You’re lucky, kid,” Samson said, putting his car in gear and speeding away.

  The boy nodded and rubbed his eyes.

  “Are you okay? You hurt?”

  The boy touched his elbows. “I’m still awake.”

  “Yeah. This isn’t a dream. You okay?” Samson said. “What’s your name?”

  “Paulo.”

  “Samson.” He put his hand out and the boy shook it weakly and reluctantly.

  There was a few minutes of silence until Paulo said, “The Christians were going to eat me.”

  Samson said, “What?”

  “Hoghead Slim and his Christians. They were going to cook me, they said.”

  “That’s who you were running away from?”

  Paulo nodded.

  “Jesus Christ, kid,” Samson said. “Do you have parents?” He immediately regretted asking that question.

  Paulo shook his head. “No.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to….”

  The boy shrugged.

  Samson stared straight ahead, not wanting to see if Paulo was crying or not. Then he saw them.

  The Christians.

  They were lined up outside of a building dressed like they were going to a wedding except they were armed with semi-automatic machines guns and makeshift blade weapons. Samson thought about what Paulo had told him about those people trying to eat him. He thought about the tradition of symbolically eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Christ and how these new Christians have been taking that literally. “Close your eyes, Paulo.” Samson couldn’t resist. He sped up, swerved, and drove through the crowd of cannibals.

  A few of them flew onto the hood and over the roof while some went under the tires, their bones crunching along with their weapons. Samson turned on the windshield wipers to clean off the blood.

  In his rearview he saw Gabby following, running over the remaining Christians.

  “Hold on, kid,” Samson said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  II.

  Seven Years Ago

  Samson nudged his wife. “Look at him sleeping. He’s so cute.”

  His wife Carol turned her head and saw their son Jack in the backseat, snoring softly. She smiled. “Adorable.”

  “When we stop, I’m going to work on the car with him. He had some ideas.”

  Carol said, “I’m not sure I want him helping you, you know, make weapons. You want our little boy doing that kind of stuff?”

  “Look around you, hon. The world’s changed. Everyone has weapons on their cars now.”

  “Not everyone,” Carol said, looking out the window at the barren wasteland of what used to be eastern Pennsylvania. “Some people have set up peaceful colonies, you know. They only have weapons for emergencies. You have a gun. Isn’t that enough?”

  “What the hell do you think I need it for? We’re not hunting, for Christ’s sake, we need them to protect ourselves.”

  “Still, I don’t think I want Jack doing it with you.”

  “The kid’s smart. He likes to be creative and think of things to help his dad. Is that so wrong?”

  “Don’t make this about his helping you. This is all about macho shit and you know it.”

  “Whatever, Carol, I’m letting the kid do whatever he wants to do. When he wakes up, you ask him if he either wants to help me arm the car or help you think of names for your peaceful little colony.”

  “Real cute, Sam. Real cute,” Carol said. She looked at him and shook her head. Their arguments usually ended like that, with his being a wise ass and with her staring at him disapprovingly. It was a good thing Jack was asleep. She hated when her son was witness to the fighting.

  “Mommy, where are we?” Jack said from the back seat. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Go back to sleep, sweetie,” Carol said.

  “No, I want to help Dad with the car.”

  “Just go to sleep, Jack.” Carol gave her husband a look that told him he’d better not undermine her. He didn’t take the hint.

  “It’s okay. You can help, bud,” Samson said. He drove a few more miles until he came to a clearing and then he parked the car.

  Carol sat on a tree stump reading a moldy issue of Good Housekeeping while father and son worked on the car.

  “Hey Dad, I had this idea.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I thought about like if someone’s following us and we don’t know who they are and we want to get away maybe we can have something spray out of the back of the car.”

  “Like what?”

  “What about….,” Jack said. “What about that stuff that comes out of fire extinguishers? Like foam or something?”

  “Hmm…..You might be on to something, buddy.�
�� Samson smiled and patted his son on the shoulder. “We’ll see what we can do. We’ll have to look around for some supplies the next time we get to a town.”

  They got back on the road without having done any major work on the car. Samson thought about how he’d work on Jack’s idea for a foam sprayer. While he was drawing the blueprints in his head, he heard the roar of motorcycles behind his car.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Bikers,” Carol said. “Coming up fast, Sam.”

  “It’ll be alright.” Samson didn’t know if he believed that himself. Most of the bikers on the road were just other people trying to survive. Others, however, just wanted to harass and steal. He had a gut feeling the bikers behind him were of that kind.

  There were five of them all. They were wearing torn black leather clothing with patches of advertising pinned to it: Party City, Western Union, American Cyanamid, Cricket Hill, Ohaus, Krauser’s, Baby Phat.

  The leading biker wore a helmet spray-painted to look like a tomato. On the front of it were the words TOMATO JOE in thick, black letters. The rest of the bikers wore no helmets to cover their long, curly hair. Their bikes were painted red with blotches of black. Each one of the men had a bullwhip wrapped around their necks.

  Tomato Joe pulled up on Samson’s side and lifted the visor on his helmet. “Pull over,” he shouted.

  “No thanks,” Samson said, shaking his head.

  Tomato Joe flipped his visor down and sped in front of the car with the other bikers following and circling the car like a merry-go-round.

  Jack was staring at the gang, partly scared but also a little bit excited at the action.

  “Get down, dude,” Samson said. “Don’t look at ‘em.”

  “Oh come on, dad.”

  “Do it!”

  “Okay, okay,” Jack said, lying down on the floor of the backseat.

  Carol whispered. “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep going until we hit somewhere that’s populated.”

  “What if that’s not for another fifty miles? Then what?”

  “I don’t know, Carol. What do you want me to do? Stop and make friends?”

  “Maybe they’re not dangerous, Sam.”

  “You want to take that chance?”

  “What if we just give them some of our supplies?”

  Samson laughed. “And then what? They’re going to thank us? You think they’ll be satisfied with a couple of cans of green beans? Be serious, Carol.”

  “I am being serious.”

  Samson said, “You want me to pull over? I’ll pull over. Okay?” He slowed the car and motioned to the bikers that he was going to stop. “You happy?”

  The gang hung back and let Samson bring the car over to the side of the road in front of a sign for MILLIE’S BBQ: Meet our Finger Lickin’ Bar-B-Cuties!

  “Just stay calm and don’t offer them a thing, okay? Don’t say anything at all,” Samson said. “Jack, stay down just in case. Put that blanket over you.” He got out and walked to the back of the car where the bikers were pulling up.

  Tomato Joe was the only one who didn’t get off his bike. Instead, he pulled the visor up and stared at Samson. The other men stood in front of their bikes with their arms folded.

  “What’s up, guys?” Samson said. “You need help?”

  The bikers laughed.

  Tomato Joe said, “Nah, but I figure you do.”

  Samson tensed up. “How so?”

  “Looks like you have a lot of baggage. We might help by taking that woman off your hands,” Tomato Joe said. “Maybe the car, too. It looks to me like you’re a man who has too much. You don’t want to be greedy, do you? You look like a charitable guy.”

  “I’m fine the way I am,” Samson said. He looked into Tomato Joe’s eyes, hoping to show him just the right amount of bravado without things tipping over into a challenge. “You don’t have to do this. If you want some shit I can probably give you a few cans of food or some water or something….”

  One of the other bikers stomped his foot. “What the fuck did Tomato Joe just say? Did he say he wanted food or water, dipshit? Huh?”

  Tomato Joe looked back at the angry biker and said, “Calm down, Bowsman. You catch more flies with vinegar than with…..what’s the word?”

  “Honey,” Samson said.

  “Wow, looks like we have a bright boy. You a bright boy?

  “No.”

  Tomato Joe squinted. “You’re coming on pretty strong aren’t you? Calling me honey and everything.”

  Bowsman said, “Looks like he wants to snuggle with ya, boss.”

  Every biker laughed except for Tomato Joe. He said, “That right, bright boy? You wanna snuggle with me?”

  “Come on, get serious. My wife and I just want to get out of here. Can’t you just cut us a break?”

  “A break? You want a break? Where was my break when Uncle Sam sent me over to Iraq and I got fucking syphilis from that sand whore? Tell me that. Where was my break?”

  Samson said, “Look, man, I don’t know about all that. We’re just trying to get…..”

  “Fuck!” Bowsman said. He walked up to Samson and slapped him in the face. “Tomato’s telling you something and you’re being an asshole.”

  The slap was a weak one but it hurt Samson’s ego. He hoped Carol hadn’t seen it.

  Tomato Joe said, “By the look of his car, I’d say he’s a fancy rich asshole.” He stepped off his bike but didn’t take his red helmet off. He walked up to Samson. “You wanna be my friend?”

  “No, not really,” Samson said.

  “Lemme fuck ‘em, boss,” Bowsman said. “Lemme fuck ‘em real good and hard.”

  “Nah, nah, calm your shit down, Bow. Take a step back.”

  The horny biker did what he was told and flicked his tongue at Samson.

  Tomato Joe said, “Now, my friend, my stranger, my bright boy, let me tell you what I think. I think we both know you’re not going to do shit. It doesn’t matter what I decide to do to you, your wife, your car. You see, my man there slapped you and what did you do? Nothing. You didn’t do a goddamn thing. You just stood there and took it. Now most badass guys on the road would hit back no matter how many men were around him. It’s an instinct. A manly instinct. I think it’s called machismo or something. You’re a man, aren’t you?”

  Samson said, “Yeah. I’m a man.”

  “You sure? I mean, really sure? If we checked your pants, would we find a dick or a pussy?”

  Samson shook his head. “Look…..”

  “A dick or a pussy?”

  “Man, come on,” Samson said.

  “A DICK OR A PUSSY?”

  Samson said, “A dick, okay, but listen….”

  “SHUT UP. Here’s the thing. I don’t expect every man to be all manly and shit and strut around like a fucking brute. Hell, before I joined the service I used to be a professional dancer.”

  Samson attempted to hold in a laugh but wasn’t wholly successful.

  “Yeah, yeah, you can laugh. I was a background dancer in music videos. Mostly hip-hop, that type of shit, you know? What can I say? I liked to dance and I made money doing it. Then I figured I’d join the Marines and kill me some sand jockeys.”

  Samson said, “Okay, listen, I appreciate your telling me all this but…”

  “Shut up!” Tomato Joe slapped him. “What the fuck do you think I’m doing here talking to you? You think I really want to make friends or something? You think I just want to share my fucking life story? No. That’s not what I’m doing. Do you want to know why I’m telling you all this shit?”

  Samson shrugged and hoped Carol hadn’t seen that slap either. He kept his mouth shut.

  “I’ll tell you why I’m telling you all this shit. You see, when I’m killing you, when you are inches away from leaving this fucking earth, I want you to know who’s killing you. It hurts more, you know. If I was just a fucking stranger and I stabbed you, all you’d think about is who I am and what kind of guy I am
and shit like that. I could be any thug or scumbag. But….” He slowly walked around the front of Samson’s car. “But….if you know some shit about me, some personal shit, well, that makes the pain of dying worse and it makes me feel pretty good, you know. It’s almost like my personality is killing you and not just my physical body. I know that doesn’t make much sense but….that’s it.”

  Tomato Joe touched his fingers to the hood of the car and purred. He looked at Carol. “She looks a lot better from this angle. It’s like I’m imagining she’s in the driver’s seat or maybe she’s driving one of those foreign cars where the driver is on the other side and I’m thinking about if she tried to run me over. I’d love to see that in slow motion. Her face would be hot like she was getting fucked or something.” He rubbed his crotch.

  Samson wished he’d bought more bullets for his gun when he had the chance but after weeks of no conflicts or trouble, he’d gotten complacent.

  Tomato Joe walked back to Samson. “So, what’s your move, bright boy?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Pretend we’re in a movie or something. You’re the hero and I’m the bad guy. What do you do now? Pull a gun on me or something? Say something tough?”

  “Look, I’m telling you I don’t want any trouble…”

  Tomato Joe laughed and for a split second, he was distracted. Samson lunged for him, landing a punch on the biker’s chin and then another in his chest.

  Though he thought himself to be relatively strong, Samson was devastated to see his attack had little effect.

  Tomato Joe seemed sincerely surprised. “Holy shit! This fucking guy. Wow, I’m impressed, tough guy.” He punched Samson in the gut and then pushed him down with a fist to the head.

  Bowsman ran over. “Shit, the guy went down easy.”

  “I bet you like that, don’t you, Bow?” Tomato Joe laughed. He looked down at Samson who was groaning in the dirt. “You’re being pretty weak for a guy who’s driving with his wife through the Wastelands. You know, if this was a movie, you couldn’t be so damn weak. It makes for a very passive hero and no one likes a passive hero.”

  “Can I go get the cunt?” Bowsman said. “I think the guys are getting bored over there. They want to get their dicks wet.” The other three bikers were still standing with their arms folded, bouncing on the heels of their feet.