The Nightrunners - Joe R. Lansdale.wps

by phuc

  work, and not responding to phone calls.

  Police discovered the bodies shortly after 9

  a.m. The bodies were found in the bedroom

  and

  both

  had been

  mutilated

  beyond

  immediate and positive identification. The

  motive for the murders has not been

  determined, though robbery is suspected. No

  missing items were verified, however. There

  was a considerable amount of vandalism.

  Paintings had been smashed over a bedpost

  and blood from the victims had been poured

  into a flower vase. The next-door neighbors

  reported that they had heard nothing out of the

  ordinary. The couple had been dead for at least

  twelve hours . . .

  At this point, no one knew there was a connection between the two savaged bodies and what was going to happen to Montgomery and Becky Jones.

  ELEVEN

  Later that night, while highway patrolmen and local law officers searched for the car Trawler had identified before he was murdered, the kids continued to sit in the pasture and while away the hours eating candy bars and drinking hot Cokes.

  And Becky lay in her bed and dreamed:

  Shadows moved from behind the pines. Faces burst into the glow of the moon—

  goblin faces.

  Laughter.

  " I wanta ram it all the way up her ass."

  More darkness.

  Moonlight.

  Darkness.

  Alternating slats of each.

  A body, dangling, upside down; a woman, her feet attached to something . . .

  something Becky could not define.

  The shoulder-length hair was dark and undulated with the breeze. Blood dripped from the face, congealed in the hair, splattered the ground. The face . . . she couldn't see the face, but it seemed to be turning, like the earth orbiting the sun, turning, so slow, but turning, half-profile . . . the face was a mess. Hair was plastered to it with blood. There was a deep, dark crack in the skull. The face was turning even more . . . looking like . . .

  NO!

  Becky awoke. Sat upright in bed. The face had looked like . . . Oh God, could it have been?

  Monty was awake. He turned to her. "What's wrong, hon?"

  "What's always wrong? The dreams . . . the premonitions."

  "Just nightmares—"

  "Fuck you!"

  She pulled away from him, rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. But she did not try to sleep. She did not want to sleep. Did not want to see the rest of that face, for she feared whose face it might be.

  Monty called to her once, softly.

  She did not answer.

  He sighed, rolled over and tugged at the bedclothes. Soon she could hear the sound of regular breathing. He was asleep.

  Good, that was what she wanted, to be left alone.

  Or was it?

  Oh God, she did and she didn't. She wanted to be alone and she never wanted to be alone.

  One moment it was comfortable, the next it was if she were on the face of the moon looking out at earth, thousands of lonely miles away.

  Today when Monty held her on the dock after the premonition, it had been wonderful.

  The love and concern he felt for her had radiated from him as warmly as the sun, so why now, when he was merely expressing his concern, should she be so angry with him?

  What if things were reversed? It was him telling her that he was having premonitions.

  Would she believe him? She wondered.

  And who says the dreams are premonitions? she asked herself. What dream have you had that has come true other than the first?

  Perhaps the doctor was right, it's all in your head and the first dream was nothing more than a coincidence, wishful thinking. It was possible. Even likely.

  After a while, Becky rolled over gently and looked at Monty. He slept clutching the pillow to his cheek. She reached out and stroked his hair. Why can't we touch? Really touch? Why can't we?

  No answers came to her. She rolled away from him and stared into the darkness, willing away sleep.

  But it came anyway, this time without dreams.

  Until just before morning, then she had a very ugly one.

  TWELVE

  October 31, 12:02 A.M.

  The blond kid driving the '66 Chevy through the velvet night was named Brian Blackwood. He had the Chevy vent glass cranked all the way open and the wind was blasting his hair back. His eyes were watered with tears, but they were not tears of remorse, sadness or pain; they were fostered by the cool October wind and the rapid movement of the car. There was no room left inside Brian for idle tears, not anymore.

  From here on out he was a rock,. and a rock felt no pain.

  The waiting had gotten to him. He wanted to push on, get to the task at hand.

  But he knew that wasn't wise. If he could lay low one more night, the law would pretty much be through with the area and things would be safe.

  Yet, the waiting was eating at him, and the voice in his head was persistent. He had decided to change locations, find a place a little closer to their destination. Camp there.

  Just being closer would help ease the pain in his head.

  He mentally visualized the map he had made Dean Beaumont draw; it was clearly outlined in his head, and he no longer needed to look at it, even if he was making his way there by roundabout methods.

  Soon . . . Soon . . . Soon.

  In the last few days he had witnessed three murders, contributed to all three, and personally performed one himself (he could still visualize the deep, red arc he had made in her throat shortly after slicing the nipples from her breasts). He hated that the highway cop had not been his kill, but that was unavoidable. Looney Tunes had the shotgun, and it was only fair.

  Still, kicking a dead cop in the balls didn't do much for his disposition; didn't squelch the desire to kill; a thing that had become like an itch with him. (Thank you, Clyde, for the rash, because it feels so good to scratch.) Soon, tomorrow night, he would scratch that itch again. He had two murders planned— no, let's be accurate about this; executions. But before these executions took place, the victims would know fear. They would suffer the torment Clyde suffered waiting in his cell. Thinking about those grey walls and steel bars . . , And they would feel much more pain than he felt when he hung himself.

  Why, Clyde? Why? Not like you to do that sort of thing.

  Ah, but maybe there is a why. Is that you I feel stomping about in the back of my brain, Clyde? Is that your mind mating with my mind, possessing my soul with your own?

  Are you me? Am I you?

  Huh?

  Oh yeah, I hear you, baby, I hear you, and they'll get theirs soon. Forgive my doubts about you. I'm tired, and it's so weird.

  What?

  Tomorrow night. No later. I promise.

  And so for a few more miles the car rolled on. Brian driving with his pale face ghostlike in the night, the others sleeping, storing up.

  PART TWO:

  The Guts of the Fish

  One year earlier (October

  to October)

  "Some of our neighborhood kids will

  shoot you for a buck or maybe just

  for laughs. It's got me so I'm soared

  to walk my own turf after dark, and

  I'm pretty tough. But they're real

  monsters, some of them. And they

  come younger every year."

  —Anonymous Chicago car thief

  possessed adj. 2. Controlled by or as

  by a spirit or force.

  —The American Heritage Dictionary

  Houses are like the human beings

  who inhabit them.

  —Victor Hugo

  (1)

  BOYS WILL

  BE BOYS

  ONE

  Not so long ago, about a year back, a very rotten
kid named Clyde Edson walked the earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it any way he wanted.

  He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.

  He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged.

  They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.

  And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.

  Things got worse after that.

  TWO

  —guy had a black leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-ass tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eye working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.

  You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-looking. Out of step. But who's going to say, "Hey, dude, you look funny"?

  Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.

  Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between classes; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a sexual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet—can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.

  Brian knew who Clyde was, but this was the first time he'd ever been close enough to feel the heat. Before, the guy'd been a tough greaser in a leather jacket who spent most of his time expelled from school. Nothing more.

  But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noonday sun.

  Cool. He had that.

  Class. He had that.

  Difference. He had that.

  He was a walking power plant.

  Name was Clyde. Ol', mean, weird, don't-fuck-with-me Clyde.

  "You looking at something?" Clyde growled.

  Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.

  After a while he said innocently: "You."

  "That right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Staring at me?"

  "I guess."

  "I see."

  And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then.

  Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.

  He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.

  And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his cock ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.

  Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.

  Clyde dug that.

  He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.

  Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.

  Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.

  The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.

  Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go ... for a moment.

  He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherfucker!"

  Then the principal came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the principal and the principal went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the goddamned shit out of the goddamned principal in the middle of the goddamned hall.

  Side by side they stood. Kicking.

  One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

  Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .

  THREE

  They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.

  Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.

  Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge:

  "He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . ," and so forth.

  If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.

  He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on.

  He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.

  When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little shit has a bookful . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted.

  Or to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.

  If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first time—and that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when its committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.

  All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.

  And it was window dressing, nothing more. Brian was put on light probation, and Clyde, who was already on probation, was given the order to report to his probation officer more frequently, and that was the end of that.

  Piece of cake.

  The school expelled them for the rest of the term, but that was no mean thing.

  They were back on the streets before the day was out.

  For the moment, Clyde went his way and Brian went his.

  But the bond was formed.

  FOUR

  A week later, mid-October

  Brian Blackwood sat in his room, his head full of pleasant but overwhelming emotions.

  He got a pen and loose-leaf notebook out of his desk drawer, began to write savagely.

  I've never kept a journal before, and I don't know if I'll continue to keep one after tonight, but the stuff that's going on inside of me is boiling up something awful and I feel if I don't get it out I'm going to explode and there isn't going to be anything left of me but blood and shit stains on the goddamned wall.

  In school I read about this writer who said he was like that, and if he could write down what was bothering him, what was pushing his skull from the inside, he could find relief, so I'm going to try that and hope for the best, because I've got to tell somebody, and I sure as hell can't tell Mommy-dear this, not that I can really tell her anything, but I've got to let this out of me and I only wish that I could write faster, put it down as fast as I can think.

  This guy, Clyde Edson, he's really different and he's changed my life and I can feel it, I know it, it's down in my guts, squirming around like some kind of cancer, eating at me from the inside out, changing me into something new and fresh.

  Being around Clyde is like being next to pure power, yeah, like that. Energy comes off of htm in waves that nearly knock you down, and it's almost as if I'm absorbing that energy, and like maybe Clyde is sucking something out of me, something he can use, and the thought of that, of me giving Clyde something, whatever it is, makes me feel strong and whole
. I mean, being around Clyde is like touching evil, or like that sappy Star Wars shit about being seduced by the Dark Side of The Force, or some such fucking malarky. But you see, this seduction by the Dark Side, it's a damn good fuck, a real jism-spurter, kind that makes your eyes bug, your back pop and your asshole pucker.

  Maybe I don't understand this yet, but I think it's sort of like this guy I read about once, this philosopher whose name I can't remember, but who said something about becoming a Superman. Not the guy with the cape. I'm not talking comic book, do-gooder crap here, I'm talking the real palooka. Can't remember just what he said, but from memory of what I read, and from the way I feel now, I figure that Clyde and I are two of the chosen, the Supermen of now, this moment, mutants for the future. I see it sort of like this: man was once a wild animal type that made right by the size of his muscles and not by no bullshit government and laws. Time came when he had to become civilized to survive all the other hardnoses, but now that time has passed 'cause most of the hardnoses have died off and there isn't anything left but a bunch of fucking pussies who couldn't find their ass with a road map or figure how to wipe it without a blueprint. But you see, the mutations are happening again. New survivors are being born, and instead of that muck scientists say we crawled out of in the first place, we're crawling out of this mess the pussies have created with all their human rights shit and laws to protect the weak. Only this time, it isn't like before. Man might have crawled out of that slime to escape the sharks of the sea back then, but this time it's the goddamned sharks that are crawling out and we're mean sonofabitches with razor-sharp teeth and hides like fresh-dug gravel. And most different of all, there's a single-mindedness about us that just won't let up.

  I don't know if I'm saying this right, it's not all clear in my head and it's hard to put into words, but I can feel it, goddamnit, I can feel it. Time has come when we've become too civilized, overpopulated, so evolution has taken care of that, it's created a social mutation—

  Supermen like Clyde and me.

  Clyde, he's the raw stuff, sewer sludge. He gets what he wants because he doesn 't let anything stand in the way of what he wants, nothing. God, the conversations we had the last couple of days . . . See now, lost my train of thought. . . Oh yeah, the social mutations.

  You see, I thought I was some kind of fucking freak all this time. But what it is, I'm just new, different. I mean, from as far back as I can remember, I've been different. I just don't react the way other people do, and I didn't understand why. Crying over dead puppies and shit like that. Big fucking deal. Dog's dead, he's dead. What the fuck do I care? It's the fucking dog that's dead, not me, so why should I be upset?