Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  14

  Sure Got Cold When The Rain Fell

  Rt.45 South

  Friday, 10: 24 p.m.

  I wasn’t sure how to ask the kid, and had no damn clue how she’d react to my questions about the blood on her jacket and pack. I really didn’t need the extra crap, but some habits just won’t die. I could see her pull inside, not just her body, but her eyes and every part of her seemed to want to wash away in the damned rainstorm. I wasn’t going to let her, ‘Take a goddamn day off.’ The thought bounced around again inside my racing head. Some demons are hard to shake.

  “I’m tryin’ to help, kid. Honest. What’s with the blood?” I tried to be subtle, but as usual, I was as subtle as a bull in a china shop. She looked at me with big blue eyes, over the collar of the all too familiar Marine Corps jacket, and searched for trust. I did my best.

  “Kid, I am the Law, but inside this here car, you’re safe as safe can be, so come clean,” I tried again. The storm was kicking the car all over the road. The little red dummy light on the dash told me the gas was almost gone, but I wasn’t giving up. Someone tried to hurt this kid, and something told me she had made damn sure whoever it was didn’t win the day.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she spoke in a whisper—something I was damn sure this tough teenager from New York wasn’t used to doing—I let her continue. She held her hand out for my bottle. I hesitated, but gave in. She took it and sipped deeply. Her big blue eyes never left me as I drove into the storm, looking for a gas station.

  “What’s not your fault?” I asked, taking the bottle back and jiggling it to make sure it wasn’t empty.

  “The fat guy on the bus…He …tried to ra…rape me, that piece of shit,” she vomited the words as if they were a confession mixed with proclamation. She turned her gaze out the dark window, but I could her see her fighting to hold back the sobs. She was a tough kid. Rock hard tough.

  “Ah hell, girl.” I didn’t know what else to say. The more I knew, the more the lawman side of me would kick in. My gut told me this kid wasn’t a cold hearted killer. I just let my words hang there in the stale air of the car.

  After a long moment, she continued, “This guy had been watching me, since he got on the bus back in Pennsylvania, with his bulging eyes. I tried to ignore him, Ranger. I really did. He had perv written all over his dirty ass.” She sat up straight. Her posture and tone changed into those of defensiveness. “The sicko kept looking at me and licking his fat lips like I was a Big Mac or something. Man, it freaked me out, so I went into the crappy bathroom, hoping to get away from him.” She swallowed hard, and her breathing became short. She looked away as if to ignore the images running through her frazzled mind.

  “He followed you in?” I knew the answer, but figured it might help her to get it out into words.

  “Yeah.” Her voice was small and distant, and I knew those images caught up with the poor kid.

  “He busted in and I…I…told him to back off” Her cold wall was crumbling, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. Hell, I couldn’t even solve my own fucking problems. What made me think I could help her?

  I searched my whiskey-hazed brain for a comforting response, but that was one of Inez’s biggest bitches about me. Too distant…disconnected, the therapist told her. Disconnected my lily-white, Irish ass. You do my job for one day and you’d goddamn well understand why I wasn’t always up for family ‘show-n-tell’ when I got home. Blood and guts weren’t anything to me anymore. Senseless violence was like my first cup of coffee of the day—black, hot and steaming. Like a pile of cow shit—both are pretty damn plentiful in Texas—and just a fucking walk in the pasture for this Ranger. Hell, how do you come home, to your woman and your baby girl, and talk after leaving a crime scene where an out of work oil rig worker decided to string his wife and six kids up from their clothesline with barbed wire? Oh, and that was after he cut them all in half with a handsaw. He then had the balls to call and have us come down and kill his drunk, dumb ass.

  Suicide by cop, my ass. I’d like to have strung that sick Motherfucker up by his balls and pick the meat from his selfish, sick bones. That’s why I never talked much and spent my free weekends lost in a bottle of Jameson and repairing drywall. After all the shit that happened to me over the past few hours, this was the last thing I needed, but I still couldn’t ignore the poor girl. I ain’t that kinda cop or man. I sipped and continued to listen.

  “I had no choice, Ranger. You believe me, don’t ya?” She turned to me with a look asking for absolution. I sure as hell was no priest, but I did my best impersonation.

  “Yeah, kid, I do.” I meant it. I gave her a soft smile, as soft as my lined face could manage at least.

  “You gonna turn me in?” She looked long and hard at me, her words came out in a cold, somber breath, and her eyes were wet in the corners. Her body was tense, and she clenched the backpack to her chest. I was torn between my job and my conscience.

  “No.” I gave her my word. I’d have to let it play out. Hell, my world could end tomorrow and all this shit wouldn’t matter. It was then that I saw the hazy red, white, and blue fluorescent glow off to the right.

  ‘ART'S Gas-A-Torium & Truck Stop.’

  “Need to fill up,” I said, grateful for the timing, and pulled off into the rain-slick parking lot, coming to a stop at an empty gas pump. I needed to try and reach Inez again, and Christ, it wasn’t a conversation I wasn’t looking forward to. It felt like my gut was fixing to boil over and burst out my body.

  15

  Heard it on the X

  Rt. 14

  Near College Station.

  Friday 10:37 p.m.

  Cahill felt as though his body was about to burst on fire. The pain started in his shoulder, where that bat-shit crazy drunk old man tried to make a turkey sandwich out of him. Damn bastard almost succeeded too, if it wasn’t for the young scrapper’s lightning fast reflexes and ghetto-toughness. If only Isandro and the other pendejos could have seen him jam that branch through the old, but much bigger man’s, eye socket. He was one hell of a bad ass and sure to be fully made into the gang once they crossed the border into Tijuana. He’d tried to take his mind off the searing pain shooting all the way down his arm and spreading into his sweat-covered chest. This shit ain’t right, yo, he kept thinking while looking back at the Crew getting busy with the girl in the back seat. He knew damn well he best keep his dumb-ass mouth shut or it might be his head that gets kissed with the next bullet from the ‘Boss’s’ gun. Fuck that noise, he added after each time he wanted to tell the Crew about his throbbing wound. In the end, he feared the Big Honcho, far more than any stupid infection. But still, he felt as though he was inside a freezer and his head was trapped inside a cooking microwave. Every part of his body stung with pain, and even his bones hurt like a bitch. There wasn’t much the white boy could do but try and keep his swirling mind off the spreading agony. The only two options he had, were watching the bright and oddly mustard colored lightning strikes that seem to be racing the Cadillac, or the radio playing some kind of rock music Cahill’s stepdad used to listen to. He thought the band was called, ZZ Top, but after all the years, the pot, booze, and now the blinding shock of the bite on his festering shoulder, who the hell knew? He was almost asleep with his head resting peacefully against the cold glass of the passenger window, when the country rock tune was interrupted by a harsh, sharp blast of horns over the radio. A deep voice of a man followed, not the normal DJ, but someone sounding hot-damn important and nervous. Cahill leaned into the dashboard to hear better.

  “We interrupt your normal broadcast with an Emergency Broadcast announcement.”

  The reporter’s voice was controlled, but even through Cahill’s buzzed and blood loss state, he could tell this wasn’t no lame-ass hurricane warning. As the Crew in the back were hitting their peak, he had to lean in closer to the radio speaker to make out the dark words. He also saw that Isandro’s brother, Hector, was wearing the same expression he was, and they b
oth hunched to hear as the Emergency Broadcast continued.

  “We have reports from the White House and the Pentagon that there have been what can only be explained as biological or nerve gas -type of attacks on all major cities across the country. The reports are coming in slow and sporadic, and I cannot speculate on the totality or the complete nature of the attacks in specifics, but what the C.D.C. and the Government is saying, is that as odd as it sounds, that anyone in direct contact or who is exposed to virus-like attacks, well, the survival rate is nearly 0%, and those who do succumb to the virus, seem to…rise from the dead and attack the living. A State of Emergency will be going into effect immediately, and all travel is prohibited. It also seems to be an airborne and is now spreading with the heavy winds that are coming off the Atlantic, spreading this virus toward the central and western part of the country. It is highly stressed by the White House and the Department of Defense that this is only in the best interest of all citizens of the United States. They ask that you please stay in your homes and do not leave for any reason and to please have patience while the C.D.C. and other agencies formulate a defense for these heinous attacks on our sovereign na…” Piercing static cut the man’s last words off.

  Cahill stared gaped mouthed at the radio and tried to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. He must be in shock, still drunk, baked or something. What the hell? He caught Hector shooting him the same, ‘Oh, shit,’ expression, but before he could speak, a stabbing pain in his shoulder and head took consciousness from him.

  ***

  Isandro had been keeping one eye on the white-boy since the rest stop, and something wasn’t right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his shit wasn’t right. He wasn’t going to waste too much time on it though, after all, he had some fine ‘Talent’ that was performing for him and his Crew. He watched the twitchy kid in the Adidas jump suit with cautious interest.Smiling, he laid his head back and gently ran his hand through the girl's hair, continuing to force her to blow him. Knowing full well, he'd have to do something about the kid, and maybe, even his brother. He’d caught Hector eyeing him up and giving him ‘questioning’ looks ever since the blonde bitch back at the Mickey Dee’s parking lot. Isandro didn’t know what problem his twin brother had, but the puta had better get his shit wired tight or he’d be looking to hire a new driver fucking soon. The Voice kept whispering to him that Hector would be a problem, and that he should take care of it, before shit got bad. Isandro tried to silence the Voice, but knew deep down, he'd lose in the end and blood would be shed. He knew he should fight the dark desires, but like a drug, he needed, no, loved, the darkness, and even, the Voice.

  “I’m getting’ hungry, brother. I’m thinkin’ I might need to feed my appetite soon, esé. Let’s stop, got it?” He laughed as he finished and shoved the girl toward Hector. He watched his brother’s nod through the rearview mirror, his eyes were jumpy, and sweat poured down his face. Isandro found a bottle of whiskey and chugged from it as he watched the two figures in the front seat of the Caddy, and wondered which one of them would try and fuck him over first. He sipped, smiled, and enjoyed the world he’d created, wondering how it was going to end.

  16

  Every Night a New Surprise

  ART'S Gas-A-Torium & Truck Stop

  Rt. 45 South

  Friday, 10:53 p.m.

  I got out of the car without a word. The second I opened the door; the stench of rotten eggs, or maybe it was sulfur, punched me in the face. The air was heavy enough you could almost cut it like a thick-cut porterhouse. If I were a betting man, I’d wager this foul air wouldn’t taste nearly as good.

  “Whoa, what the hell is that?” Stacy Jo gagged as she got out on the other side of the car. “If this is what Texas smells like, man, I can’t wait to get to Mexico, damn.” She covered her mouth and nose with her jacket collar. “I have to hit the little girls’ room, Cowboy, hopefully it will smell better in there.” She managed to get me to crack a small grin as she headed toward the truck stop.

  “It’s probably just some shit whooped up from the desert and the Gulf. Bet ya, it caught a ride with this damn storm.” I told her,not quite sure I believed it myself. Then realized I was talking to myself like a damn fool when I noticed that even the color of the driving rain had a screwed up yellow, mustard color to it. Odd, I thought, and took a sip from the bottle while watching the young girl walk toward the bathrooms; noting a ’78 Pontiac Trans Am, a Dodge Little Red Express pick-up truck, and a Ford Econoline van with four men gathered around the open side door. They were covered in shadows and swaying like black balloons in a windstorm—probably drunk Mexicans coming up here for work.

  I tucked the bottle back inside my jacket, pulled the nozzle from its cradle, opened the gas cap, and began filling the car. I watched the girl change her path away from the van and the drunk Mexicans. I chuckled. They’re just honest men looking for work girl, I thought, and listened to the rhythmic clicking of the gas pump and the drumming of thunder waging war with the night above me. It was time to face the music and call Inez, to fill her in on my latest cluster-fuck. My stomach tightened, and I could feel moisture gathering around the corners of my eyes. How could I do this to her and baby Bellia again? How is one more broken promise and bullshit apology after another going to make her stay? Not this time? Goddammit Ranger, you really fucked things up beyond all recognition.

  Click.

  The harsh noise from the pump’s automatic shut off slapped me upside the head and brought me out of my pity party. Make it right, McCutcheon, make it right once again. I tried hard to convince my old stubborn self that I could work such miracles, but something was telling me that this drunk, Marine, Texas Ranger, was running out of mojo and miracles. I screwed the gas cap back on and headed toward the station, rummaging through my pockets for some change to make the call. “Christ, figures. Can’t I catch a fuckin’ break?” I asked to no one but the pouring rain and flashes of lightning.

  I was still cussing as the clunking and clanking of old bells rang when I entered the old gas station. The only person inside was an old man, whose gnarled body reminded me of a question mark. I’d take the over-under on if the old timer was working here when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. I nodded to him and tapped the brim of my hat. He just stared with a squinted face like someone was holding a bag of cow shit under his nose. I grinned and made my way to the coolers in the back of the store. I knew I was putting off making the call, but I wasn’t ready to deal with Inez. For Christ’s sake, how do I tell the woman that my stupid temper got me fired two weeks before our damn wedding? I stared at my reflection in the beer cooler and didn’t like what I saw. I never did. I hadn’t shaved or slept in a couple days. I was drunk and looked like death warmed over. What the hell was there to like? Then it happened; it began deep inside my gut with a burning heat that spread out to my chest and out to my arms and legs—a fever of anger that I could never control. It was a demon that had cost me one marriage, my Marine career, and now, odds are strong the love of my life and my sweet baby girl— Bellia. I leaned heavy onto the cold glass of the beer cooler, and it felt good. I needed to be cool. My breathing was shallow and harsh. It was an all too familiar occurrence, and I was damn tired of letting that sonuvabitch win.

  “Say, boy, you okay back there or’n I gotta call the authorities?” The old-timer’s voice matched his bent, weathered body. It forced a small crack of a smile in my taut face. I leaned away from the glass door and opened it. I took out a Pabst Blue Ribbon Tall Boy and turned toward the old man.

  “Nah Sir, I’m right as rain. Couldn’t decide just how to wet my whistle.” I exhaled, holding the cold beer can to my forehead, and headed toward the check out.

  “Well, son, this sure as hell ain’t no museum. It’s just booze fer cryin’ in the sink.” He rasped a chuckle and chomped on a cigar that was bigger than his crooked fingers.

  “Yeah, that be certain,” I said, cracked open the tallboy, took a sip, and then something green a
nd fuzzy caught my eye off to my right. I placed the beer on the counter and squatted down in front of a display filled with stuffed animals. Instantly, my demon blew away like the cold, crap-smelling wind and rain outside. It made my heart warm as I picked up the plush, stuffed turtle with big, droopy eyes. Bellia was all I could see in my mind, and I heard myself say her name as I stood up.

  “What’s that, son?” The old-timer leaned over the counter.

  “Bellia, that’s my daughter’s name. She loves turtles. That’s what I call her.” Those goddamn tears welled up again, and this time, I didn’t give two golden shits. I knew now more than ever, that I had to make it work with Inez. I couldn’t live without my girls.

  “Ah, I see. Real pretty name.” The old-timer took a puff on his cigar clinched between his yellow teeth and rang my beer up. “You gonna pay for that turtle, or ya gonna ask it to dance?” He reached out for the stuffed animal, and I caught a glimpse of the globe, and anchor tattoo on his forearm.

  “It might be the best partner I had in a long time, old man,” I said wearing a wide smile. He shot me a look, and after a long moment, smiled back, the smoking cigar still clinched between his teeth.

  I added, “Semper Fi.” My tone was serious, and he knew it. He paused, looked me up and down, nodded with understanding, and punched the keys on the cash register.

  “That’ll be $10.32, Marine.” He coughed and took a sip from a glass with some brown colored liquid in it.

  I handed him a twenty, grabbed the beer, and took a long pull. “Can you give me at least two dollars in change? I need to make a phone call,” I asked, feeling like the old jarhead and I had a new understanding. Boy, was I wrong.

  “’The hell I look like? A goddamn bank, fer fuck’s sake?” He munched his cigar and blew the smoke out in swirling rings while making change. I didn’t know what to say and sipped from the beer.