Kind Nepenthe

by Brockmeyer, Matthew V.

  It wouldn’t start again very easily. The lift pump wouldn’t be able to cycle fast enough to overcome the air in the lines. There’d be no vacuum, even if they filled the fuel filter with diesel, and DJ doubted those dumb hippies would have enough mechanical know-how to get even that far.

  Naw, they’d be plunged into darkness and panic. Most likely run off somewhere to start calling for help. He doubted they’d stay the night there with no power. When they left he’d hit. If they came back while he was in the middle of taking down the grow, well, he’d just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

  He thought about Katie. He didn’t even know where she was. Probably at his old man’s place. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, and felt a lingering sense of sorrow over it. But she’d asked for it. Getting all in his face like that. Teach her a lesson at least. Bet she’d think twice before pulling that shit again.

  There it was: the sputter of the engine dying. He heard it distinctly even over the squawk of ravens fighting in the trees above him. He watched with a grin as the lights flickered and went dark. The valley below him was now just a pit of darkness, quiet but for the sound of wind whipping the trees and the occasional patter of rain as a storm cloud blew over.

  He felt a lopsided grin come on as he heard voices, scared and panicky. Trying not to laugh he struggled to hear what they were saying, but couldn’t really make out any words. He recognized the roar of the old Dodge Ram starting up. They must be trying to pump more diesel into the fuel tank. He laughed. That would only send the air pockets deeper into the engine. He could make out the grinding of the starter and shouting. Fucking idiots. Screaming, crying, the whimpering of a little kid. Then darkness and silence.

  Here was the moment of certainty. What were they going to do? Dig in and wait until morning in the darkness, or run away like frightened little rabbits?

  15

  Calendula was in the grow room. The first red hairs were beginning to appear on the buds, as well as a thin sheen of crystals. The pH had been starting to climb in the nutrient solution, so he was adding liquid-down to the vats, doing the math on a calendar on the wall with a stubby pencil and then carefully measuring out the correct amount into a large beaker.

  He was checking the led indicators on the digital pH meter when the lights began to flicker. For a moment the ballasts and fans all went quiet, then hummed again loudly, then went silent. Only the buzzing in his head remained.

  At first the orange glow of the incandescent bulbs left the plants cast in amber shadows. But then, as they cooled, the glow faded leaving darkness, complete and absolute.

  “Fuck.” He used his hands to guide himself along the wall, knocking into jugs of fertilizer, banging into the CO2 tanks, terrified he was going to trip and fall, crashing into plants and destroying them. But then he was to the far side, feeling along until he found the knob to the heavy, industrial door. He thought he heard laughter, high pitched and bright, but it seemed like he was always hearing someone laughing. It had grown as prevalent as the humming in his skull.

  —

  Megan was in the kitchen watching episodes of Full House while Rebecca sat on the porch going through the trash, looking for boxes of wine with a splash still left in the bag. She had just found a heavy box at the bottom of the heap. She ripped it open and pulled the clear plastic bag free, tore open the corner with her teeth, and was sucking the sweet, purple juice from it when she heard the generator begin to sputter. She sat for a moment, stunned, the beginning of a serious drunk just coming on, surrounded by trash and unable to comprehend what was happening, what this meant, when suddenly Calendula came rushing by.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?” She looked at him with a myopic squint, glasses dangling lopsided from her face, as he bolted past her and towards the door.

  “The fucking generator turned off.”

  “Why?”

  He cast a cursory glance back at her, tinged in disgust and impatience, and went out the door without answering her.

  —

  Just let it be the low oil shut-off, he thought, an easy fix. But when he saw the puddle of diesel spreading out from the generator shack, he knew that it was something far worse.

  The spill glimmered with incandescent rainbows as it leaked across the wet clay ground, through the scattered trash, Bermuda grass and thistle sprouts.

  Throwing open the door to the shack, he desperately glanced around, squinting for light in the evening’s murky glare. Then he saw it, up on the ceiling where the fuel tank lay, oily fuel still streaming from a loosened bolt on the fuel tank’s drain.

  Could the vibrations of the motor have loosened it? That’s what must have happened.

  He fumbled about for a wrench, climbed up onto the generator, and with some serious stretching managed to tighten the nut with his hand.

  He had fucked up. This was his job. To make sure things like this didn’t happen.

  Then he thought of the ghost of the little boy. Could that motherfucker have done this? No, no, he couldn’t have. Crazy just thinking like that.

  He tightened the crescent wrench around the bolt, wincing as his knuckles scraped across the fuel tank and fire-like pain danced through his hand. He gave it another push till it would turn no more and the bolt was tight. Maybe if he could get the motor cranked up quickly everything would be all right.

  He leapt down and hurried out of the shack, Coyote’s words from his first day there swarming his mind like angry bats: Never, ever let the generator run out of diesel.

  “Calendula,” Rebecca called as he passed her, “help me.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “The diesel, we have to stop it from leaking into the river.”

  She was on her knees, digging a trench with her hands, trying to damn up the gigantic puddle of fuel.

  “It’s going to go where it’s going to go. We can’t stop it now. It’s too late.” Leaping into the old Ram pickup and cranking it up he hoped upon hope there was still some fuel in the transport tank.

  “But, Calendula, the river. We can’t let it all go into the river. It will poison the river.”

  “Fuck the river. What about the plants? We need to get this generator started.”

  Throwing himself from the cab he scampered up into the bed of the truck, grabbed the nozzle from the transport tank, and pulled himself atop the generator’s fuel tank. He unscrewed the cap, stuck in the nozzle, and squeezed the handle. The sound of fuel gurgling out and splashing into the tank gave him hope. Maybe it would be all right. Maybe it would start back up. Please, let it start back up.

  He climbed back down, ignoring Rebecca, who inched along on her hands and knees trying to divert the stream of diesel, covered in mud and fuel, weeping quietly, dusk deepening into darkness around her.

  Licking his lips, his eye twitch going batshit crazy, Calendula cranked the ignition key. The starter churned and the giant generator shuttered and hiccupped but nothing more.

  Again—that grinding churning and nothing. Again. And again.

  “Fuck,” he hollered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  He searched for the choke, hoping that might help—though he could feel that the generator was still hot and knew deep down that it was a useless gesture—found it, engaged it, and cranked the ignition again. Churning, churning, churning. He disengaged the choke. Tried again, panting, the smell of the wooden shack— diesel, oil, mold and rot—filling his lungs and face.

  He paused and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, waiting, thinking maybe he had flooded the engine, the only sound now his own heavy breathing and the sobs of Rebecca outside in the mud. He thumbed his wart, sweat gathering and dripping down
from his hairline and into his eyes. He scrubbed his face with his hand then put his fingers on the ignition key, pulled his lower lip into his teeth.

  Again he cranked the ignition, again the starter grumbled but the engine did not catch. “Come on, you motherfucker,” he said, now keeping the key cranked to the right, the starter churning and churning till it started to grumble and slow.

  He released the key and closed his eyes. He tried again and the starter churned even slower. When he tried again there was only the click-click-click sound signaling that the battery had grown too weak to power the starter. Coyote had mentioned the battery was weak and needed replacing. Mentioned it several times in fact.

  Calendula stumbled from the shack. He could hear the river. The trees in the distance were black skeletons in the mist. He turned back toward the shack and began to slowly and rhythmically beat his head against it as the world turned away from the sun and darkness grew about him.

  —

  Whispering to herself as she scurried through the muck on all fours, shoveling up clumps of diesel-soaked earth and clay with her hands, Rebecca felt a presence before her, eyes peering down, and she looked up, startled to see Megan standing there, bunny stuffy clutched to her chest. She was nothing more than a shadow, a tiny figure of darkness.

  “Megan, honey, you all right?”

  “It’s dark in there. I don’t like it.”

  “I know, honey. We’re trying to get the lights back on now.”

  Rebecca rose from the muddy puddle of diesel, her face and hair streaked in dirt.

  Megan said, “What happened?”

  “It’s just a little accident. Everything is going to be all right. Just wait on the porch, okay? Mommy’s dirty and has to get cleaned up. I’ll meet you there in two minutes. Kay, kiddo?” She forced a smile, trying hard not to sound as deranged and lost as she felt.

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Watching Megan shuffle away, Rebecca was suddenly very sober. She looked down at herself, caked in filth. What’d become of them? They had definitely crossed some line, gone far over it. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing. She had to be rational, had to get them out of here. She had to convince Calendula to leave.

  —

  Calendula thumped his head against the side of the generator shack, slower now, and softer, but steady still. Rebecca stepped up to him and began talking.

  “Calendula, we’ve got to get out of here. Get a hotel. It’s dark. I’m covered in diesel and need a shower. We have to get in touch with Coyote. He’ll know what to do.”

  Yes, Coyote. They did have to get in touch with Coyote. It was true. Only Calendula needed to think of a way to make this seem like it wasn’t his fault. He had to think.

  “Let’s get a hotel room, make some calls. Google diesel engines. Think about this. Coyote will know what to do.”

  Calendula said nothing. He felt spent, defeated. He rested his aching head on the plywood wall of the generator shack, unable to muster the motivation to move, to acknowledge her, though he knew she was right.

  The sound of distant wind and the river. The night was upon them and the distance between them grew very dark.

  Finally, Rebecca took him by the hand and gently pulled him away.

  16

  Night had fallen and the whole place was simply darkness now. Shit, DJ thought, maybe they were more tenacious than he had thought. But then he caught the muffled sound of their shitty little Subaru station wagon starting up and the twin glow of headlights.

  He watched as the lights ascended up the driveway, paused, so someone could open and close the gate, started off again and began to slink back and forth up the cutbacks and out of the valley. As they grew smaller and finally disappeared into the far-off hills, he began to laugh. Ha. Just like clockwork. Perfect fucking plan.

  He pushed himself up from the ground, his legs numb and full of stabbing needles. He flicked on his headlamp, ran in place for a moment to get his circulation going, slapping his hands together, and then started down the thin deer path that cut through the thick tangle of whitethorn and manzanita.

  Coming to a clearing, he sauntered over the crest of a grass-covered hill bordering a stand of live oaks. He stopped and took out a small prescription bottle, twisted off the lid and poured a small bump of meth onto his palm, snorted it up. Whoa, it was a beautiful night, the fog and the trees. An owl hooted. Yeah, one beautiful motherfucking night.

  He jogged the last quarter of a mile through the woods and back to his truck.

  Swinging himself into the cab, he turned over the engine, put her in gear, and made his way around the hills and down to Coyote’s gate. He parked, got out, and unlocked the gate, remembering Coyote’s old combination that hadn’t changed in years: 6969. Stupid, dirty old man. Leaving the gate open behind him, he drove down into the valley, towards the compound.

  Pulling up in front of the chef house, he killed the engine and waited a moment in the darkness, looking for signs of life. Nothing stirred.

  He slipped the elastic band of his headlamp over his baseball cap, pressed it on, and got out of the pickup, ambling across the yard and up to the screened-in porch. He glanced quickly left and right, opened the screen door, and ducked inside. He stepped up to the front door, hammered his knuckles against it.

  “Hello? Anybody home? Avon calling.”

  He wondered what he’d say if the door swung open and someone asked him what he wanted. S’up? Just thought I’d stop by, being in the neighborhood and all. Spider still live here?

  He jiggled the doorknob, gave it a push, just out of curiosity. Locked tight. He was getting ready to kick in the door when he thought he heard a squeal of laughter to his left, outside the porch.

  He glanced over and for a moment thought he saw, poking around the corner of the house, the smiling face of a little boy, snickering at him. He blinked and it was gone.

  “Hello?”

  He looked around the side of the house, his headlight beam scouring the grounds. Nothing. Just his imagination.

  It was easy for your mind to play tricks on you in the darkness. The speed didn’t help.

  Truth was, this old, falling-down shithole always was spooky as hell. Everyone said it was haunted. Whatever, time for business.

  He went back to the front door, heaved in a breath, lifted his right leg, and brought his boot slamming down against the door. It was sturdy and didn’t budge but he thought he heard a mild cracking sound.

  He repeated the action. Crack. Yeah, this time, it definitely made a crunching noise and he could feel the door begin to give. One more time, he lifted his foot, slammed it home, and—BAM—the door flew open.

  Ha ha. Easy-peasy.

  “Honey,” he shouted, sticking his head into the darkness and peering about, the headlamp casting its light about the kitchen, “I’m home.”

  FIVE

  “It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.”

  ― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

  “You’ve made your bed. Now lay in it.”

  —Common folk saying

  1

  Calendula straddled him and raised the shovel up, gripping it tightly by the shank with both hands.

  “Fucking thief!”

  He slammed the blade down into his neck—blood spurting up into his face as the body writhed—then jackhammered it up and down again and again in a savage frenzy.

  Tearing into the neck, he worked his way through the windpipe, which quickly shattered and crumpled, and then into the tendons and muscles, hacking past them until he found the spine, digging the rusty edge of the shovel in un
til he felt it slip between the vertebras.

  He leveraged the handle back, and with a grunt, snapped the head free. It rolled about a foot or so away and came to a stop, facing him, eyes staring wildly as if incredulous of this indignity, mouth slowly opening very wide before beginning to close again.

  The body was still twitching as Calendula rolled off and collapsed to the ground, all of the adrenaline in his system suddenly spent and gone, leaving a dark emptiness in its wake.

  The rain had abated and the wind blew the black clouds from the sky exposing stars and a dirty sliver of moon. He lay on his side, breathing heavily, his nose and lungs filled with the strange scent of death: metallic, sweet, and already somehow putrid though the body was still warm. The cold, rain-drenched earth grew warm as the puddle of blood seeped into the ground and bellied out around him, blooming like a hot, liquid flower.

  How? How had he gotten to this point? He’d done it for Rebecca, for Megan, for the dream. They’d worked too hard, given up too much, to see their reward vanish like that. Spider had been right, he needed to stand up. Be a man. It was the only way to make the dream a reality. The only way to get their own land.

  A flash of distant light and then the low murmur of thunder. He was now a murderer. Somewhere deep inside him this truth acknowledged itself and a part of him cracked and gave. He felt his belly drop within him, that sensation you get in a plane when going through turbulence, and he began to shiver uncontrollably.

  Again he wondered: how had he gotten to this point?

  He supposed that dark part of himself had always been evident, lurking in the background like the shadows of winter which never seemed to leave the chef house.

  But it wasn’t until the generator shut down, all that diesel spilling out like blood from a gutted animal, that he felt himself tumbling over some precipice, desperately reaching for a handhold and finding none, everything foggy and in slow motion. They were just so close. So fucking close…