The Killer's Game

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “Easy, boy. You’ll get used to this.”

  The bristle worked inside to clean him, but Bill knew he wasn’t dirty. This made him wonder about Dave, him doing this, smiling while he did, poking fast as he could in the ole pipe. But, then again, it did feel pretty good.

  When Dave finished, he said, “When you go to work, little fella, make me proud.”

  On the way out, Dave stopped by Miss Maudie, bent looked up her tail pipe, said, “Clean. Really clean,” and departed.

  That day, because of the new coat of paint, the finishing touch, Bill thought he would be sent to work. Dave had said so. But no. The day went by and the other steam shovels, including Miss Maudie, went out to do their work, but he remained inside, fresh and blue and unused.

  That night, when the steam shovels returned, he was still in his place, and they, tired, weaving their shovels and dragging their treads, were hosed down by the other Daves, rubbed with rags and oiled and put away for the night.

  What is wrong with me? thought Bill.

  Why are they not using me to build roads and schools and churches and synagogues and all that shit?

  What’s up with that?

  Night came and shadows fell through the windows and made the barn dark. Bill squatted on his treads in the gloom and tried not to cry. He was so disappointed. And with the night, he was scared.

  He hated the dark. And he hated the dreams, and he knew if he slept they would come.

  But if he didn’t sleep, how would that be?

  What if they called him out tomorrow? He’d be too tuckered to shovel. He had to sleep. Had to.

  And he tried.

  And did…

  Down in the motor functions where the oil squeezed slow and the little rotors turned and the fans hummed and the coals burned, down there, way down there in the constantly fed nuclear pellet fire, Bill dreamed.

  And the dream was a blossom of blackness, and he was falling, fast, so fast. Then he hit and his engine screamed. His lights popped on. Then Butch’s lights popped on, and there was a hum of Butch’s motor, and a clunk of treads, and pretty soon, Butch, was beside him.

  “You just a big Tinker Toy, and you starting to make me really mad, little squirt. You wrecking Butch’s sleep. And Butch, he don’t like it. He don’t like it some at all, you diggin’ on that, Tinker Toy? Well… No, you don’t dig at all, do you, little friend? You sit and sit and soon rust and rust. If you live that long. You scream that engine again, you gonna wake up with a crowd of mechanics around you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bill said.

  “Good. Now…” and to emphasize, Butch lifted his shovel and rubbed it against Bill’s side, made a scratch that ran all the way from Bill’s cab to his treads, ”there’s a little taste of what may be the appetizer to a big ole dinner. Dig? Oh, wrong term for you. You don’t dig at all. You’re too little.”

  “I may be little, but I’m willing to work,” Bill said. “I want to build schools and churches and—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Billy. Hear me, little bitty Billy. You just a big Tinker Toy.”

  “I…”

  “Hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s better, oil squirt.”

  “Lebe em alone, ya ole clunk of paper clips.”

  Lights were coming toward them, along with a rattling sound, like loose bolts and creaky hinges in a bucket, and soon, close up, Bill saw that it was Gabe, the Wise Old Steam Shovel. His paint had gone gray and his shovel wobbled and leaned a bit to the left, and his treads were frayed, but his head beams were still bright.

  “You talking to me, Four Cylinder?” Butch said. “If that many work.”

  “Gid the fug away from him,” Gabe said, “or I’ll slap duh gohtdamn steam out of ya.”

  Butch laughed.

  “You do any slapping, old shovel, your shovel will come off. You barely running on treads now, you greasy box of parts.”

  “Kizz muh ass,” Gabe said.

  “Won’t poison myself with that idea,” Butch said. “Gonna let you go cause you so old you make the stone wheel look like it a modern invention. You do, you know.”

  Chuckling under the roar of his engine, Butch motored off.

  Gabe lifted up on one tread and let fly a steam fart that sounded like a howitzer.

  “Thad’s whad you can do wid yer gohtdamn stone wheel, ya big hunk of bolt-suckin’, leakin’ steamin’ pile of—”

  “Please,” Bill said. “There’s a lady nearby.”

  Bill rolled his headlamps toward Miss Maudie, who sat with her beams on, awakened by the commotion.

  “Oh,” Gabe said. “Sorry, girlie. Gid a liddle worked up sometimes.”

  “Excuse us for the bother,” Bill said to Miss Maudie.

  “That’s all right,” she said, and the sound of her motor made Bill feel a tightening in his joints and a gurgle in his transmission fluid. She blinked her headlights, then shut them down, with, “But I do need the sleep.”

  “Sure,” Bill said. “Of course.” And he could feel a tingling in his lines and parts that wasn’t just fluid circulation.

  “Yah ain’t eben giddin’ none, and you done exhaust-whipped,” Gabe said.

  “Sshhhhhh,” Bill said, letting out a soft puff of steam. “You’ll embarrass her… And me… And Butch will come back and scratch me again, or beat me… But thanks. Thanks for taking up for me.”

  “Ain’t nuthin’. Jes wand to sleep muhself. So shud up. ‘sides, don’t like to see some medal-assed whipper-snapper bullyin’ a liddle steam fard like yerself. Now, go to sleep.”

  “Sure,” Bill said, and smiled. “Thanks again.”

  “Nothin’ to id,” Gabe said. “And kid, you’re habbin’ dreams, right? I hear ya moanin’ yer engine.”

  “I am. The same dream.”

  “Whad is id?”

  Bill told him.

  “Huuummmm,” Gabe said. “Pud my thinker on thad one. I’m a preddy smart fugger, say so myself… But in the meantime, ya want to git them dreams outta yer head, least a lidde, what ya do, ya close yer eyes, and ya think of yerself ridin’ Miss Maudie’s tail pipe like yer trying to climb a gohtdamn straid up incline without any treads. Gid me? That’ll put yer liddle nut of a fire in a gohtdamn happy place, thad’s whad I’m tryin’ to tell ya.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Done said.”

  And with that, Gabe chuckled dryly and rattled off to leave Bill with the shadows and his dreams.

  Inside Bill the little nuclear pellet fed the fire that fed the coals that heated the water and fed the steam, and once again, Bill dreamed.

  He first dreamed of a fine, warm place with soft light and he dreamed of mounting Maudie, his dipstick out, riding her tailpipe like he was going up a steep incline. It was a good dream, and he felt a kind of release, as if all his steam had been blown out and all his oils and fluids had been sucked from him. It was a feeling like he could collapse into a heap of smoking metal, and it felt good, this dream, but when it was over, he dreamed of falling again, and falling from way up and down fast, striking

  the ground, going to pieces, squashing Dave this way and that. And when he awoke, panting heavy through his steam pipe, he found that in his sleep, during the dream about Maudie, he had squirted transmission fluid all over the floor.

  (Or had it happened out of fear?)

  He was glad it was dark. He was so embarrassed.

  Bill looked about, but in the dark all he could see were the shapes of the other shovels. He glanced where Maudie’s shape was, and she was still and her lights were shut up tight behind their shields.

  Near the wall, where Butch stayed, he heard Butch snoring, the air blowing up through his steam pipe in a loud, masculine way. The big bruiser even snored like a thug.

  Rest of the night Bill tried to stay awake, to neither have the bad dream or to think of Maudie, but think of her he did, but this time, differently, not mounting her tailpipe as if trying to push up an incredible
incline, but side by side with her, motoring along, the two of them blowing a common tune through their whistles, her turning her shovel to him, lifting it, and underneath, her bright red rubber bumper was parting to meet with his… and kiss.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  He was never going to kiss Maudie or mount her tail pipe.

  And, the way it looked now, he was never going to build schools and churches and such for all those children, and what did he care?

  Little bastards. They didn’t need that stuff anyway.

  Then daylight came through the windows of the garage and turned the floor bright, like a fresh lube spill, and for a moment, Bill was renewed and hopeful and willing.

  A bunch of Daves came into the garage and each of them climbed onto a steam shovel, and Bill, hoping, hoping so hard he thought he might just start his own engine and drive out of there, saw his Dave approaching.

  His Dave climbed inside his little cabin and touched the controls and Bill’s motor roared. Bill felt his pistons throbbing with excitement, felt oil growing warm and coursing through his tubes and wetting up his machinery. When Dave turned him around and drove him out of the garage, he was so proud he thought he might blow a gasket.

  Outside he saw sunlight shining bright off his blue shovel and he could feel the ground and gravel crunching beneath his treads, and to his left and right were the others, rolling along in line, off to work.

  His dream had come true.

  They motored to the site and begin to dig. It was a location that would provide space for a large apartment complex, and it was next to another large apartment complex, right across from two other large apartment complexes and a row of fast food joints, out of which came a steady stream of Daves who didn’t drive steam shovels.

  The site was currently a patch of woods, a bunch of beautiful trees full of happy singing birds and squirrels at play. But fuck that. Bill and his fellow shovels were at work.

  The steam shovels rode in and pushed that shit down, dug up the roots and pushed it in a pile to burn. Birds flew away and squirrels scampered for safety. Eggs in fallen bird’s nest were crunched beneath their treads.

  The machines dug deep and pushed the dirt until anything that was rich with natural compost was completely scraped up and mounded, revealing clay beneath, red as a scraped wound. Half of the patch of woods was scratched away in short time, and Bill was scraping with the rest as hard as he could, knocking some of his bright blue paint off on roots and rocks. But he didn’t mind. Those were battle scars.

  In the cockpit he heard Dave say, “Now we’re talking. Lookin’ good. Fucking trees. Goddamn birds. Shitting squirrels.”

  About noon they stopped so the Daves could climb down and gather up and eat food and drink from the little black boxes they carried.

  Bill, parked by Gabe, said, “Gabe. What about all the birds and squirrels and little animals? What about them?”

  “Fug em,” said Gabe. “They’re all gone, who’ll gib a shit? Can’t fret over somethin’ ain’t around, can ya kid? ‘Sides, whad’s them fuggers ever done fer ya?”

  “Well…”

  “Nothin’. Not a gohtdamn thang.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess… But, gee, Gabe, what happens when all the world is scraped down, and they don’t need us?

  “Aw, we’ll push down old buildings, scrape em down red to the clay, and they’ll build some new shit. Always somethin’ fer us to fug up so stuff can be built again. Don’t fret, kid.”

  “But, don’t the children need trees for shade, and don’t trees help make the air fresh…”

  “Don’t believe thad shit. Tree is a tree is a tree. Them liddle children, shit, them fuggers can wear a hat and breathe through an oxygen mask for all I care… Hey, saw yer greasy spot when you rolled out this mornin’. Kinda had ya one of em night time squirdaramas, didn’t ya?”

  Bill felt embarrassed. “Well, I…”

  “Fug it. It’s normal. Thinkin’ about thad liddle cuddie over there, weren’t ya, son?”

  Bill looked where Maudie was at rest, next to the last line of trees. She looked bright and gold and even with dirt and clay on her shovel, she had a kind of charm, a sweetness. And a nice tail pipe.

  “Well, said Gabe, “ya was thinking ‘bout it, wadn’t you? That’s why ya squirded yer juice.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Gohtdamn, boy. Ain’t no suppose to it. Thad’s all right. Thad’s natural. Ought to try and talk ya up some of thad, thad’s what I’m trying to tell ya. Was younger, ya can bet I’d be sportin’ around her, throbbin’ my engine, whippin’ muh shovel. Muh old dipstick pokin’ up under muh hood. Hell, all I can do these days is use id to check muh oil.”

  “I was wondering about that, Gabe. If the dipstick is under the hood, and the… well, you know, the ladies tail pipe is where tail pipes are… How does that work, Gabe?”

  Gabe laughed. “Ya kiddin’, ain’t ya? Naw, gohtdamnit, ya ain’t. Well, son, on the old underbelly is another panel, and ya get stiff and pokey, it hits the hood, but when ya want to do the deed, ya see, ya led thad little section underneath ya pop open, stick lowers, and, well, son, ya’ll figure it out. Promise. Figured out in ya sleep, didn’t ya? Old parts and lines knew whad to do without no thinkin’ on yer part.”

  “I didn’t say I was going to do anything—”

  “—shit, boy. Ain’t nothin’ wrong wid wantin’ a piece of tail pipe. Oh, and I been thinkin’ on yer dream, and I know someone might be able to help ya on that. Can figure it… But later. Here come duh Daves. Time to gid wid it.”

  They went back to work, and pretty soon Dave said to Bill, “Bill, we got a big old stubborn tree that just won’t go, and we got to push it down so we can scrape the clay. I think you’re ready for it. Am I right? Are you ready?”

  Bill rumbled his engine and whistled air through his steam pipe in response.

  “All right, you little shovel, let’s do er.”

  And away they went. Bill lifted his shovel and poked it out and Dave guided him to the tree. It was a big old tree and round enough that four men with their hands linked couldn’t have surrounded it. Must have been hundreds of years old, but Bill, he was determined it wasn’t going to get a day older.

  He put out his shovel and began to push. He pushed hard, giving it all he had. He revved up his engine and whistled his steam and dug in with his treads and…

  The tree didn’t move.

  He revved up higher and pushed and pushed and…

  Nothing.

  He might as well have had his engine turned off and be sitting in the garage with a tread up his exhaust.

  He pushed harder, and…

  He cut one. A big one. It came out of his exhaust with a kind of blat-blat-blat sound.

  Bill couldn’t believe it. He had cut a fart to end all farts, and right in front of Dave and all the other steam shovels. He turned one of his head beams slowly, looked to his right, and there was Maudie. She was so shocked the split in her front bumper hung open showing her gear-cog teeth (all perfect and shiny), and Bill, he wanted to just run off a cliff. But there weren’t any cliffs. Just that big tree standing upright in front of him, and he hadn’t done any more than crack a little bark.

  “Well,” said Bill’s Dave, “this is just too much for you. We’ll have to get a bigger and better machine. One that can do the job. And we might want to cut back on that cheap transmission fluid, boy.”

  Dave backed Bill off from the tree, stood up in the cab and called out, “You better bring in Butch. This is a job for a real steam shovel.”

  Bill felt his body droop on its treads. His shovel hit the ground with a thud.

  He was not only a weakling and a farter, he was being beat out by his worst enemy.

  Butch revved his engine and threw out his shiny shovel and went up against the tree, and at first Bill thought: Well, he won’t do it either.

  The tree stood firm, not moving, and then, suddenly, it began to lean and lean and lean,
and there was a cracking sound, then a cry of roots and timber like the sound of something being jerked from its womb, and the great tree went down, the roots popping up, clay flying from them in red clunks.

  Butch backed off, lifted his shovel, and with a sort of slide, treaded back to the center of the work force.

  Bill saw Maudie turn and look to him, and her bumper was split wide again. But this time, she was smiling.

  Back in the barn, Bill sat alone as the windows turned dark. Gabe came rolling over.

  “Ya all right, son?”

  “I guess.”

  “Damn, boy. Can’t believe ya farded. Thad one knocked a bird out of a tree, gabe us all an oil stink ya wouldn’t believe. A fard like that, ya must hab passed into another dimension for awhile. Yer gohtdamn headbeams crossed, you cut wind so hard.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Ah, don’t led it bother you. I led fards all the time. And sometime on purpose… Big ole tree like thad, it ain’t for a kid. I couldn’t do it. Well, in my day I could.”

  “Young as me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Damn, what a fard.”

  “Please, Gabe. Don’t mention it anymore.”

  “All right. But, son, it was a champion.”

  Bill sighed.

  “Ya know, I told ya I had someone could tell ya ‘bout them dreams yer always having?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m gonna bring him over. Sid tight.”

  Gabe rolled away, and a moment later, Bill saw him return with an old gray steam shovel who had steam coming up from between his bumpers. When he got closer, Bill saw that it wasn’t steam at all, he was smoking a metal pipe stuffed with old oily shop rags.

  “This is Professor Zoob,” Gabe said.

  “Ah, how are you ma boy?”

  “Fine… I guess. Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “I am in the back of the garage, yes. I hang there and do little jobs. Push garbage about. But I am old and they do not call me out much. I would think, soon, I will be for the scrap machine, yes. I have been around for many years, I have, and was driven by a student of much psychology. He studied in my cockpit during his breaks, yes. And when he did, he read aloud from his books, and I listened. I learned much. I learned much about dreams, I did.”