by Erb, Thom
The wind pitched her stiff body back and forth, but an inner drive pushed her on. She didn’t understand what was happening, she didn’t need to understand. The last thing she remembered was she was tipping back a celebratory glass of Pinot Grigio as she finished her first novel, and then, she woke up here.
The sporadic flashes of moonlight burned her eyes. She fondled her way through the centuries old cemetery. With each stiff, agonizing-step, she slowly had begun to understand that she was dead. Her mind swirled like the maelstrom whipping about her. It was like her body possessed . As if she were a slave of her own the dead flesh and the deep hunger was her Master.
As she reached the muddy road of the cemetery, she noticed she wasn’t alone. She slowly craned her neck and saw she had at least twenty other similar figures following her. Something caught her attention. It was a scent. Her undead stomach growled, or at least seemed to, as she followed the urge.
The mustard colored rainstorm beat against her unfeeling body. She watched in childlike curiosity as the drops bounced off her skin, and then, she saw a figure kneeling next to a brown Chevy Chevette. The teenage driver was pulled off the main road in front of the cemetery entrance. The white glow of The Pizza Shack sign on the roof was lost within the swirl of the chaotic storm. It wasn’t the aroma of pizza that attracted Carol, no; it was the racing pulse and throbbing heartbeat of the boy changing the flat tire on the small car.
She could hear him cursing as he spun the lug wrench. Every ounce of her being was filled with one thought and that was of a soul-tearing hunger. The driver thrashed about, and stood, and tossed the lug wrench into the hatch of the car as she came upon him. He jumped back into the hatch, and as the rain pounded down, she cried black tears as she and the others tore into his delicious flesh. She didn’t want to bite the boy. She could feel what would have been her heart break as she let the warm blood and bits of tender flesh slide down her cold and taut throat. She felt as though she was watching a cheap horror movie, and while she never harmed a living thing in life, in death, all she wanted to do was devour the boy fighting to get away from her. With each and every bite, she cried inside to stop, but she couldn’t.
“Hee...l.p,” the kid cried out, and his words were lost in the storm.
Carol chomped down, again and again, relishing the tasty flesh. Cold tears streamed down her rotting cheeks, and she prayed to God to make her stop.
He didn't answer.
She finished the limp pizza delivery driver, rose, and headed toward the glowing lights farther on down the muddy access road.
It was only a few cold minutes before the ravaged teenager climbed up on shaky legs and she motioned for him to follow her.
21.
Precious and Grace
Route 14
Friday, 11:50 p.m.
Isandro sat next to the dead girl, staring at her young, dead face. Since they left the gas station, he found an overwhelming peacefulness in her wide, fear filled brown eyes fascinating. Her eyes were frozen in the moment of death, and he studied her. The gaping knife wound across her young throat reminded him of the dreams he’d had since he was a little kid. Demons coming to him at night—with their wide, smiling faces. Telling him to do very bad things to his family. The crescent shape of the gash in her neck mimicked the smiling hell spawned creatures. He had just laughed as she screamed and begged him to stop, but that never seemed to work. He ran his blood covered fingers gently over her cheek and explored the gaping wound. The dead teen’s twin sister had screamed hysterically next to her, but Bobby made sure her mouth wouldn’t let her make any noise for at least a little while.
There was something about her eyes and her face that he couldn’t escape. He couldn’t look away. The dilated orbs were calm as a lake’s water in summer time, and he envied the girl. Her pale expression was soft and free of all tension. The weight of life was off of her. She would never have to feel pain again. This brutal world would never be able to shit on her again. No more doubt, no more fear, no more hating who she was. No more running. Nobody could ever hurt her again, or treat her like she was some insignificant piece of shit cockroach, and crush her dreams and her soul. No. Not her. Hell no, not EVER AGAIN! Isandro gently pulled her into his chest and hugged her tightly. He softly kissed her sweat and blood matted hair.
“It’s going to be okay,” Isandro whispered like a ghost in the dead girl’s ear, and then kissed it. He sipped from a tequila bottle and lightly brushed her dark hair from her face.
“You are free… At last.” Isandro sipped and then kissed her head again.
“Sleep well, my sweet angel.” He gave the slack body a final kiss and shoved her away from him like a rag doll a child was bored with. His expression hardened, all calmness was lost and washed away amongst the pounding of rain on top the speeding Cadillac.
“Hector, pull over,” Isandro ordered, and drank deeply from the bottle, wiping the blade of the knife on the girl’s bare leg.
His twin brother followed the order swiftly and pulled off onto the soft shoulder, into the cover of a row of low hanging willow trees. Isandro smiled wide at his brother’s obedience. That’s more like it, he nodded, and drank from the bottle.
“This should be good, bro,” Hector said, putting the car into park. His words warbled and shook with doubt and fear. Isandro soaked in it and loved it.
“Yeah, we need to dump this bitch,” Isandro said.
“Good idea,” Hector said, and had to fight to open the door against the driving rain of the storm.
“What about this one?” Bobby asked. The girl’s head was in his lap. He licked her cheek and grabbed a hold of her ass.
“Nah, hell no. We still have time to have some fun with the bitch.” Isandro slapped the girl across the face and got out of the car behind his brother.
“Yo, Manny, white boy, grab that puta and get her out here,” Isandro shouted into the car as a bright flash of lightning lit up the inside of the Caddy.
“On it, yo.” Manny jumped out of the other side of the car, shoving Cahill forward into the dash as the sleepy white kid opened the door. “C’mon, cuz, what the hell?” Manny stopped and looked at Cahill, who was barely moving in the front seat.
“Sorry, yo, just draggin’ ass, man. It’s the damn tequila.” Cahill tried to laugh it off. His words were soft and worn. Isandro heard the exchange and didn’t really care. He just needed the putas to last until he found the Ranger and crossed the border. After that, they could all burn in hell, and he wouldn’t care.
The raging storm, and its cruel yellow-tainted wind, battered at them, as the two bangers roughly yanked the dead teen from the backseat, dragging her white shoed feet to the back of the car. Just then, a wail of sirens and bright red and white light tore through the darkness of the night. They were parked off the road and under the cover of old willows, but it was nowhere near enough cover to hide the dead bitch from the row of cop cars bearing down.
“Ah, fuck me.” Isandro sagged. He watched as what seemed like a damn parade of cop lights flash by them.
“Screw it. Toss the bitch in the trunk. We’ll deal with it later,” he said, drinking from the bottle.
“Where the hell is Cahill?” Isandro barked.
“His ass is busted, Boss. We got this,” Manny quickly said, and grabbed the dead girl’s ankles and hefted her up.
“Pussy.” Isandro peered inside the car as if his red-hot glare could reach the passed out white boy.
“Nothin’ but a thing, bro.” Hector snatched up the girl by her armpits, and they callously tossed her slack, bloody body into the cold trunk of the Caddy.
“I’m hungry.” Isandro’s words were distant and cold. They all hopped into the car, away from the torrential storm, and pulled back onto the darkened highway.
“I’m thinking pancakes,” Isandro said, sipping from the bottle, and wiping his hands clean on the dead girl’s twin sister’s Dallas Cowboy t-shirt.
“I think I know just the place,” he added,
and grabbed the girl by the back of her neck.
22.
What Are You Going to Do?
Rt. 14
Friday, 12:05 p.m.
“Where? What the hell, Ranger?” The girl was goddamn hysterical, and for Christ’s sake, driving me bat-shit crazy. I was doing all I could to get my permanently side-ways head wrapped around what the Emergency Radio Broadcast had said. Damn, just a few short hours ago, I was on a plane with an asshole Governor and worried about losing my job and my family. Now, I’m driving down a pitch black highway in foul weather that would make Noah’s rainstorm look like a fucking yard sprinkler.
“Just hold onto your damn pants.” I shot her a look. It must have worked, because she shut up right quick, and looked fast out the window.
“Take a goddamn breath. Now, do me a favor, kid. Under your seat, should be two paper bags. Can ya fetch ’em for me, por favor?” My head was still reeling, and my throat was dryer than a fire ant’s ass inside a volcano. I always had a backup.
“Uh yeah, sorry Ranger. But yo, dude, this shit is scary.” Her tone was calmer, and she meant what she said. She reached under the seat and pulled out both bags. I knew I was going to need both before this whole night was over. She shook her head and handed them to me.
“No offense, but are you sure booze is the thing you need right now?” She straightened in her seat and stared at me. I returned the look, snatched the bottles from her hand, and placed the other bag on the seat beside me. I ignored her glare and returned to the black wash of road in front of us. The kid wasn't the first time I'd heard bitching about my drinking. Another McCutcheon legacy that I'd known for years I'd have to either deal with or die. I'd deal with the demon a different day.
“Don’t you worry about me, girl.” I shook the paper bag loose from the bottle of Jameson and let it fall to the floor. I jammed the bottle between my knees, and with my free hand, opened it. I chucked the cap into the backseat, grab the bottle, and took a long pull.
“And to answer your question, Jimbo’s Rusty Cactus Diner,” I told her between swigs and wiping the remainder on my jacket sleeve.
“What the hell is that?” she asked with a sharp edge to her voice.
“A diner. You asked me where we were going to go, and I’m fixin’ to take us there.” I drank a big mouthful of the brown liquid and let it work its mojo as it slid down my parched throat.
“Is it safe?” The tough teen seemed to melt into a little girl in the passenger seat, and I felt like shit. You calloused old fool. I cursed myself a few more times before I found the words.
“An old friend of mine owns it. He’s a pecker-headed ol’ jarhead like me. You’ll be good to go, kid. Trust me, Stacy Jo, you have my word. I’ll keep you safe.” I offered her the most compassionate look I could muster. I was pretty damn sure it looked more like Frankenstein trying to smile than anything resembling comfort, but hell, it’s what God gave me.
“You’d better, old man.” She smiled weakly, grabbed the bottle from my hand, and took a shot that would have made some of my old Corps buddies proud. I nodded and quickly yanked my bottled ‘spinach’ back and smiled.
“Jimbo’s good people, Kid. And if I know him, he’ll have the place boarded up tighter than Fort Knox. He has more guns and ammo than the Texas National Guard and the whole lot of Rangers combined.” The whiskey mixed with the acid in my throat as I forced both the booze and my words back down. I knew Jimbo was a worse drunk than I and would be goddamn lucky if he even had his radio on, much less battened down the hatches. The only prayer we had for safe haven was if Robbie was working. I said a prayer for such a thing as the New York kid and I shared the bottle of liquid courage.
I hoped it wouldn’t run empty.
23.
Bad Girl
Jimbo’s Rusty Cactus Diner & Blue Sky Drive-In
Rt. 14
Friday, 12:17 p.m.
As the Cadillac crested a rise, the dark veil of night was fractured by the bright glow of neon reds, white, and blue lights. Hector was blinded for a second and had to flip the visor down to shade his eyes.
“Motherfucker.” He slowed the big car. Below them, set a wide valley, and off to the right, a glaring sign read: Jimbo’s Rusty Cactus Diner & Blue Sky Drive-in. Beneath the old sign, the diner. It was a converted, old silver passenger car that used to take folks from Houston to New Orleans back when rail travel was all the rage. Now, it was one of the best roadside diners in all of Texas. The diner was small, and beyond its dirt parking lot, was one of the oldest drive-in movie theaters in the country. The Gate was chained shut, and the two large screens set dark and silent, entertaining only the driving rain, syncopated thunder, and lightning flashes.
“Oh hell yeah, esé. There it is.” Isandro exhaled a cloud of smoke and laughed.
The crew began to stir as Hector drove slowly down the rain-slicked highway, toward the glowing sign that felt like it would burn out his already stressed retinas.
“The best fuckin’ pancakes and sausage in the whole damn universe, yo.” Isandro shoved the girl away. She’d fallen asleep a few miles back, and he’d moved onto more important things. He zipped his fly, took the final drag off the joint, and tossed it out the window.
“You sure this is the place you want to go, bro? Don't the pigs come here all the time?” Hector looked at his drunk, stoned brother through the rearview mirror.
“Don’t worry about them assholes. Fuck ’em. They’ll be too busy feeding their fat faces with donuts.” Manny cackled, sipping from a bottle.
“Ain’t afraid a no cop. You, brother?”
Hector could feel the cold stare of his brother in the rearview mirror, matched with a painful grip on his shoulder.
“’Sides, I got the munchies from hell, esé.”
His brother’s dark laugh sent chills through Hector’s body, and when he didn’t release his strong grip, Hector’s gut told him all he needed to know.
The diner and drive-in came into view as he brought the car down the hill. Hector tried to swallow, and it felt as though he had a baseball with nails and screws impaled through it in his dry throat.
Hector was relieved to see only a few vehicles in the muddy parking lot. The old windshield wipers tried their best to keep the pounding rain at bay, but it wasn’t going so good. Hector was actually glad they were stopping. With that fucked up news broadcast and this freaky weather, he quietly prayed for the end of the world.
He parked the Caddy at the end of the diner, by a dilapidated tall, palisade fence to the right, which housed the dumpsters and grease trap. He could hear the girl sobbing in her sleep from the backseat, and he said a prayer for her too.
“What we gonna do about—her?” he asked.
The girl cringed and started to scream and swing. Manny wrapped her in a big bear hug and squeezed. Hector heard all the air gush out her lungs. His chest tightened.
Isandro moved so fast, it startled Hector, and even Manny. His bloodstained hand roughly cupped the girl’s sobbing mouth, while the other hand brandished a thin, long blade. He brought it to her trembling throat.
“Cahill, give me your jacket, yo.” Isandro’s voice was monotone, and his eyes never left the young girl’s tear-filled face.
A long moment passed.
“Hey, asshole, wake the fuck up, esé!” Hector shoved the kid, who was sleeping in the passenger seat. He thought the kid was a dumb-ass, but he didn’t deserve what Hector’s psychotic brother would do to him if he didn’t do as he was told. Hector gave him another shove, and the kid finally moved.
“What the hell, yo?” The kid’s words were groggy and sounded as if they were coming from the grave—cold and distant—disconnected.
“Give Isandro your sweatshirt, man.” Hector helped the kid take the shirt off, and Cahill didn’t put up a fight. In fact, it seemed like he just went slack and let Hector do all the work. Hector didn’t care, freed the jacked from the kid, and handed it over to his brother.
Isandro had
n’t moved a muscle and was still staring into the girl’s saucer-sized eyes.
The storm raged and battered the car, rocking it like they were at sea. It must have dropped at least ten degrees in the past hour. But, Hector found it oddly humid, and his breathing became labored.
Isandro’s wrist flick was skilled and calculated. The blade sliced through the girl’s jugular. He quickly wrapped the sweatshirt around her gushing throat and tied it off.
“What are you doin’, Issie?” He couldn’t hide his nerves. A harsh flash of lightning painted the interior of the car in a whitewash that was ruined by a spray of blood.
“Sshhhh. Sleep now. It’s okay. Let go.”
Hector heard his brother whisper in the dying girl’s ear as he wiped the blade on her white cheek,
Hector wept.
Manny and Bobby watched with wide-eyed excitement, and drank from the bottles of liquor that still had blood smears on them. The girl's blood reminded Hector of when they were young and they watched football games on TV. He and Isandro would shake with anticipation as their favorite team would score a goal. That thought made him shiver, and he felt bile rush from his stomach to his throat. He fought the burning liquid back down, and wiped the tears from his aching eyes.
Isandro slowly turned his steely gaze at Hector. After a long chilling moment, he smiled wide, and brought a bottle of vodka to his lips.
“Takin’ out the trash is all, brother.” Hector saw absolutely nothing behind his eyes. They used to be so much alike. That was years ago. Now, sitting inside the Caddy filled with the smell of pot, booze, sex, and the coppery scent of blood, Hector hated himself for not seeing this coming years ago. He and his brother were nothing alike. He hated what Isandro had become, and even worse, he despised what he let himself become. His heart felt like it was filled with concrete, and so was his hope for a safe escape to Mexico. Hector and his brother stared into each other’s eyes. Hector was certain that it was too late for him and most certain his brother was evil and would burn in Hell. All hope was lost. Hector let his body sag and shifted his weeping eyes away from his brother.
