Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  “Get the fuck off me, yo.” Cahill tried to shove the thrashing man off him, but the muddy soup of the dirt road fought against him. He found himself tiring against the old man’s attack. He kicked his knee up into the attacker's stomach, but all it did was throw the old timer's biting mouth onto Cahill's neck. He screamed as he felt the fake teeth dig deep into his shoulder and tear a hunk of flesh free. He felt a searing pain fill him, and white flashes ruled his vision. He frantically reached out with his one free hand. It found purchase on a thick limb from the broken tree, and he gripped it tightly.

  He shifted his hips enough to get out from under the old man; blood covered his face and bits of Cahill's flesh hung from his twisted face. Cahill rolled in the watery mud and held the large limb like a baseball bat as the old man stood to meet him.

  “Motherfucker!” Cahill yelled into the cold, rain filled dark. White wisps gushed from his mouth as he ran toward his attacker. He froze in place for one split-second as he caught the old man's sullen gaze.

  “What in he...” Cahill felt the words slip through his pursed lips. Black tears seemed to be pooling in the old timer's eyes and streaming down his blood-soaked cheeks. His mind was a blur with confusing images and sounds. The man lunged again. This time, Cahill jumped to the side and let the man fall face first into the door of the car, collapsing in a heap. The man sat, splashing around in the middle of a puddle filled with yellow rain-water.

  Cahill raised the tree limb as the man tried to chomp at his legs. Cahill held the limb high as lightning flashed, bathing the clearing in white light. He lost his breath as the old man snatched Cahill by the legs. He fell clumsily on top of the old man. The thick end of the limb made a loud, squishing sound as it pierced the prone man's right eye, spitting blood into the rainy air. In one crazed motion, Cahill drove the wooden weapon deeper into the cranial cavity as he felt the man's eye pop.

  He rolled off the old man and into the middle of the muddy road. It took few minutes for him to catch his breath and to try and wrap his drunk, stoned mind around what had just happened. He rubbed his eyes and squeezed his head, hoping it would wipe the nightmarish incident away.

  It didn't work as he tried to stand up. His legs failed him, and he fell back down. He fought to catch his breath and stared at the dead man lying in the mud.

  He heard the crew getting pissed and calling for him—threatening all kinds of grizzly torture if he didn’t get his lily-white ass back to the Caddy. He stood, pain tore his shoulder, he touched it, and the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Damn weird, he thought. He looked from his wound down to the dead old man, who had the maple limb jutting out of his eye socket.

  “Fuck this noise.” The gang-banger shook his head and took some of the mud from his pants and covered up his blood-soaked hip. He pulled up the hood of his track suit, deciding it was best if he didn’t give the assholes back at the car more reasons to bust his balls any more than they already do.

  He turned, started back down the waterlogged road to the car, and a strange tingling began spreading out like lightning from the bite in his shoulder.

  Once at the car, they asked him what the hell happened. He just shrugged and held back the wince of pain, saying he slid in the mud while taking a shit. They all laughed at him and climbed back into the Caddy, while he slowly got into the passenger seat.

  The car pulled back onto the main road and sped off. To Cahill, the rain suddenly seemed colder, and the night, a bit darker.

  12.

  Riders on the Storm

  Rt. 45 South

  I was pissed. Pissed at the Governor. Pissed at the stupid rain. Mostly, pissed at myself. I never should have been suckered into giving the girl a ride. It smelled like bad news six ways from Sunday. I was damn sure I was already screwed. Adding this runaway to the mix was like ordering arsenic to my last meal of brisket and whiskey. But again, what do I do? Take a big fat helping and swallow it? Fuck me, when will I ever learn?

  “Thanks for ...helping me back there,” she said. I could tell she meant it, but the words came out like pulling a rusty nail from an old barn plank.

  The last thing I needed or wanted to do was talk. I shot the long, curly black-haired girl in the worn green Army coat an annoyed look, hoping it would shut her up. I’ve never counted myself a lucky man. So far, this day was holding up its end of the shitty bargain, and this dark ride would obviously be no exception.

  I said, “Welcome,” and hoped the conversation was over. As usual, I was wrong.

  “I'm Stacy Jo,” she offered. She fetched a cigarette out of her backpack and then lit it. The blood splatters on the old bag caught my eye again. I filed it away and kept driving through the raging storm.

  “No smoking in the car,” I told her, and motioned toward the passenger side window. She mumbled something as she rolled the window down a crack and tossed the cigarette out into the stormy night. “Of any kind.” I found myself letting a small grin go. She seemed like a smart kid—she'd catch my meaning.

  “Sorry,” Stacy Jo said.

  He knew she caught him looking at her backpack or maybe smelled the herb, and quickly changed the conversation.

  “You’re a Ranger, huh?” she asked, tucking the backpack underneath her leg. She looked toward the ground.

  “Yes'm,” I said, noting her failed attempt to hide the pack.

  “Sweet! You kicked the crap out of that shit-bag biker.” She smiled.

  “I’m used to dealing with those kinda folks,” I said. I suddenly felt thirsty and groped my jacket pocket for the flask to only come up empty.

  “I could have handled it, ya know.” Her tone sounded defiant, and once again, a small smirk escaped.

  “I'm sure you could have taken care of all four of them,” I said and leaned toward the glove box. She slapped my hand away.

  “Whoa, hold your horses, girl. I'm just fetchin' something out of the glove box.” I held my hand up in a ‘surrender’ gesture and smiled at her. I was starting to like the girl’s gumption.

  She pulled her knees back and grabbed a hold of the backpack, as I opened the glove box and searched for the bottle. I shoved by back-up 38. snub nose under some paper work and kept feeling around. After almost driving off the slick, rain covered road, my hand finally found purchase on the cold glass. Once out, I slammed the door shut, opened the top with my teeth, and took a swig.

  “Thirsty, Ranger?”

  I could tell she was fishing for my name. Since any chance of a quiet ride to Houston was all shot to hell the minute I stupidly offered the girl a ride, I took another sip, and gave in.

  “Yes, I am. Thanks for asking. The name is Jay McCutcheon.” I wiped the excess whiskey on my sleeve.

  “Glad to meet ya, Ranger Jay McCutcheon. Sorry about the flinching thing. It's been a strange trip from New York.” She quickly turned her face to stare out the dark window as the last of her words flitted out like the raindrops that pelted it. I also noticed the strong grip she had on her backpack. I was pretty damn sure her gaze was fixed on something far darker and colder than the rainstorm beyond her window.

  “Likewise. Where you headed?” I asked, sipping.

  “Mexico,” Stacy Jo stated flatly with determination, looking out the window.

  “What’s in Mexico?” I knew she was on the run. I’d seen the same look on dozens of kids over the years. They all shared the same distant, scared look—like they were running from some really bad shit, but they weren’t too sure what kinda new shit they were heading to. This Stacy Jo was different. She had no fear hiding behind those bright blue eyes— no sir— just a lot of anger and resentment—a damn fitting attitude for the young runner from New York.

  After a long thick, silence, she said, “Family.”

  The girl tugged at her jacket. I could tell she was trying to see where I was going with my clumsy interrogation.

  “Ah, you have family back in the Big City?” I pursued, trying to keep sight of the yellow lines of the road. I didn’t know wh
y I was even asking, hell, I just wanted to get home. Maybe that was it; I was just trying to keep my mind off of what was waiting for me. Or even worse, what wasn’t waiting.

  “Nah, not really. Just a drunk dad who probably hasn't even notice I’m gone,” she said in a voice that seemed to lose a bit of her swagger. Then she reached out for the bottle. I gave it to her, and she took a shot. “Oh, by the way, Ranger, not everybody who lives in New York lives in the Big Apple, ya know.” Her ballsy tone and façade was back up and in place. I was damn sure there was more to this kid than she was showing.

  “You tell me cowboy, where you bunkin’ tonight?” she said with the worst southern accent I’d ever heard and followed with a forced chuckle.

  “My road ends in Houston. I'm sure you can pick up a bus from there.” I smiled and hoped that would put the idea into the young girl’s head that’s where the ride ended. “Oh, and you sure ain’t gonna pass for no Texan, that’s for certain.” I grinned.

  “Thank, God.” She laughed, this time genuinely, and followed it quickly, “What's in Houston, Ranger?”

  “My wife, well, fiancé, and daughter,” I said before I knew it. The words slipped. I sipped again.

  “Wow, congratulations. Was that who you were calling back there at the redneck rodeo?” she said with a smile.

  I hated to agree with her, but being born and raised in Texas, and working in the Rangers, didn't do much to dispel the back-woods stereotype that most southerners had.

  “Thanks. Yeah, but she didn’t pick up.” I could tell my words held more emotion than I planned. I could have, for the third time this day, kicked myself hard in the ass. I was really thirsty and really didn’t want to explain my train-wreck of a life to a teenage runaway.

  “I noticed. Everything okay, Ranger?” she asked and held her hand out for the bottle in my right hand. She smiled, and I handed her the bottle. She took it, sipped, and continued, “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. Ya just seemed pretty upset when you hung up the pay phone, is all.” She shrugged and handed the bottle back.

  I didn’t know what to say. Here I was in the middle of the worst rainstorm I’d seen in years, probably lost my job, and to add piss icing to a shit cake. I was pretty damn certain that Inez and my daughter had already high-tailed it down to Mexico, and here I am wagging my tongue to some stray I’d just picked up in a shit-hole parking lot. Hell, the man upstairs has one twisted sense of humor.

  “It’s okay, kid. You ain’t too far off,” I found myself saying, staring into the wet night rushing by us.

  “I just need to get home,” I added, sipping from the bottle, I thought I’d change the conversation. “So, what you running from, and what’s with the blood on you?”

  13.

  Woke Up With Wood

  Rt. 14

  Friday, 10:15 p.m.

  The Caddy was running on fumes. Hector saw the red, white, and blue sign lights of ‘ART’s Gas-A-Torium and Truck Stop.’ He guided the big cruiser into an open pump. The rowdy Crew didn’t even notice as he got out and began filling the car. The rain beat down on top of the huge gas station roof and reminded him of gunfire. Gunfire had become all too familiar for him. He’d been bangin’ for almost ten years, and that was considered by most as close to godliness, or just damn lucky, Hector thought. He was tired, he’d killed, he’d raped women, beat the shit out of other gang members, and even civilians. But now, he was almost thirty, married with three kids, and just damn tired of the lifestyle. He’d only agreed to break Isandro out of prison because he was his brother. It’s what his dead mother would have wanted. She never wanted them to get involved in the gangs. She had dreams of them becoming doctors, lawyers, and she even told Hector once that he could be El Presidente of the United States. It was something that made her glow with a smile wider than the Rio Grande.

  Isandro wasn’t the same brother he’d remembered. Gone was his loving, compassionate brother. Of course, he was a bad-ass with other gang members; you had to be to survive as the leader. But before he got busted, they’d get together away from the gang and drink and talk about their Mamma, and Papi. They'd share their dreams of quitting the damn gang and starting a restaurant in New York City, where their cousin Katie lived. They’d laugh, dream, drink, and talk shit until the morning light. All that was gone after the botched hit on another gang’s leader, where the man’s entire family was slaughtered. Even the opposing gang leader’s six kids. Hector believed in his tired heart that that’s when his beloved brother Isandro died too.

  The blaring horn of a white semi heading back onto the highway shattered his memory and brought him back to his dark reality.

  He heard the click of the pumps shut-off and stared off into the storm raging all around him. He knew what Isandro was doing was wrong. He looked like his brother on the outside, no longer on the inside. Maybe he could talk some sense into him. Maybe the time in prison had changed him. Maybe God had answered Hector’s prayers and had delivered Isandro back to him—the old Isandro, his blood. The brother he once knew and loved. He had to try, and something told him that the old brother was still inside the hard shell of the fully tattooed, angry man. The raping, brutalizing, and soulless killing was just his brother crying for help. If anyone could get through the thick, armor-like skin of Isandro Dianira, it was Hector. Once again his dreams were shattered as Isandro’s cold voice ripped his prayers away.

  “Hey esé, you gonna pump it or fuck it, yo?” Isandro said as he got out of the back seat, his hands and white wife-beater shirt, slathered in blood.

  “What the hell?” Hector stepped away from his brother, staring at the blood. His head spun to the back window, and he peered through. As he feared, one of the twin girls lay limp on the back seat, like a rag doll that no longer had anyone to play with her anymore. Her throat lay splayed open, blood just beginning to coagulate from the fresh wound. Bobby held the dead girl’s sister and kept her from screaming. Hector’s mind raced—filled with images of the dead girl's eyes. All the eyes of the dead stared into him. Into his soul. Sweat raced down his face, and his heart pounded like a million jackhammers. Something had to be done. In a cold, sharp moment, he made up his mind. Then, solidified into one determined thought.

  “This shit ends now, Isandro!” He stepped toward his brother; who was wearing a dangerous smile. Bone shuddering thunder rocked the gas station and yellow-tinted lightning cast dark shadows over his brother's harsh face. Hector jumped back as he could have sworn it was the contorted face of a demon. Bile rose in his throat, as his taller, stronger brother swiftly approached him— his grin now gone—replaced with a sinister sneer.

  “What was that, brother?” Isandro’s words hissed out as cold as the whipping rain all around them. Yet Hector could not, would not give up on his brother.

  “You are better than this shit, Isandro. Mamma didn’t raise us to be heartless killers and rapist. It’s not too late, brother. We can hit the border and ditch these pendejos and leave this gang shit behind once and for all. Just like we used to dream about, remember?” Hector pleaded, standing up straighter now, with hands folded in a prayer gesture toward his brother.

  Isandro tilted his sweat-covered head, and the smile returned to his angular face. His deep-set eyes squinted as he took his brother’s new attitude in.

  “Oh, so now my pussy-ass brother is going to save me from the fiery pit and make our dead mamma happy, is that it, esé?” Isandro spoke in a tone Hector had never heard before. It made his blood freeze. His heart ached with sorrow and fear. Hector backed out into the rainy storm as his brother slithered toward him. “Hell, holmes, you didn't seem to mind enjoying that fine pussy back there. What? Now you suddenly got some Jesus’er something?”

  “No, that ain’t it at all, Issie. I know you’ve been away a long time, but there’s still a chance for you…for us.” Hector never saw the fist coming, and white flashes of pain ruled his eyes. His head snapped back at his brother’s ferocious attack. Hector collapsed into a puddle o
f mud as the storm raged all around them.

  “This has been a long time coming, BROTHER. Let’s get some shit straight.” Isandro stood over Hector, and the harsh light from the gas station overhang cast Isandro in complete shadow. Hector felt his body tremble and his will seep into the muddy earth beneath him, as his towering brother continued his dark tirade. “I am the fucking El Presidente, NOT you, esé. You hear me? Do ya?” Isandro whipped a six-inch, bloodstained knife out of nowhere and held it to Hector’s twitching throat. Isandro’s white teeth splintered the black shadow of the gas station light.

  “Brother, I…just wan—” Hector said. Trying to crawl backward.

  Hector watched as something dark washed over his brother's face.

  “Wanted to what, Brother? Tell me what YOU want ME to do? Stop me from having my fun? Is that it, Brother?” Isandro flicked his wrist, the blade of the big knife sliced into his brother’s neck. Blood slowly dripped from the fresh wound as Isandro squatted down on top of his prone brother—his wide smile the only thing Hector could see.

  Isandro was losing control, and Hector was getting worried.

  “I'm the leader, brother. You follow me or I will gut you like a pig and eat your heart out and wash it down with tequila. You understand me, esé?”

  Hector wept and nodded as the storm lit the sky, and darkened his soul.

  “Get your sorry ass up and pay for the gas.” Isandro licked the bloody blade and shot Hector a wink before hopping into the Caddy.

  Hector's chest tightened, and a deep sorrow shrouded him. He wiped away cold tears as he walked toward the gas station.

  A punch of thunder rattled the station and made Hector jump as he got to his feet. He hoped his shaking knees would hold up. It was too late for his brother. Tears escaped from his swollen eyes as he made his way to the Cadillac. He swallowed hard and was grateful now for the large trunk.