He could already hear her lecture. He decided once he was arrested, he would refuse her visitation rights. She didn’t need to see him behind bars and he didn’t need to see her judging him for shit that wasn’t his fault.
Shit like running over and killing a woman. A woman who was still somewhere in those bushes, serving as a midnight snack for the insects. They couldn’t just leave her there. She was a human being. Billy said her name had been Samantha. He knew a few Samanthas in town. Only one of them was blonde, like the one he’d seen in the bush. Although he hadn’t taken a good look at the dead girl’s face, he was willing to bet she was the same Samantha who worked at Burger King. She was known around town as a good source for bad meth. And if she was in the meth business, then it was likely Billy and her were acquaintances.
She hadn’t been that old. Early twenties at the most. Her body would continue to age, but her mind would not. Her flesh would deteriorate but her heart would no longer beat.
Why was she naked, anyway? What the fuck was Billy planning on doing with her? He’d never trusted Eliza’s brother, but now he was afraid of him, too. Only a fool didn’t fear a man riding a crank binge.
If anybody was arrested, it should be Billy. Maybe they all should be arrested, but Nick didn’t like the sound of that. Billy was too dangerous to be left alone. He needed to be locked up. Him and Lewis, except Lewis was different. Lewis wasn’t even human. Him and Billy differed in that Billy didn’t know what he was doing, he was just too high to realize the consequences of his actions. He could be helped for this sickness. Lewis, on the other hand, couldn’t be helped. He was a murderer. A serial killer, if the rumor about the severed heads was true. A sick deviant needing to be put down. Nick didn’t want to be the one to have to put him down, but he didn’t know who else would be up for the job. Hell, he’d already killed one person today. What was another?
But how would he do it? Slice his throat? No, fuck that. That was way too graphic. Just thinking about it made Nick want to vomit. Maybe he could just poison his food or something. There was bound to be some rat poison or some other toxin floating around Sergio’s uncle’s cabin.
Nick sat down on a log at the thought of Sergio.
Sergio had been a good man. More importantly, he had been an amazing writer, and Nick had been truly lucky to exclusively publish his work. Sometimes Nick felt guilty publishing him, because he knew he could never truly market and promote Sergio as he deserved. Sergio was a writer who needed to be read by thousands, not be dozens. With the recent controversy involving The Cumming of Christ, Nick was positive Sergio would finally receive his long-owed recognition. And maybe he would, but now it would be found postmortem. And maybe that was all right, in a fucked-up way. The best writers didn’t get recognized until their deaths. Maybe now it was Sergio’s turn to be a legend. A mascot for the new breed of degenerate writers. He would be what Sonic was for Sega, but for small press literature.
As he sat on a log, leaning back against a tree stump and looking at the polluted sky, Nick came to a decision. He would kick Billy out of the group. Tell him to turn himself in to the police or fuck off someplace else; he no longer wanted anything to do with his toxic ass. Then he would put Lewis down for the big sleep, feed him some poison or pour bleach down his throat, something, who gave a shit, really; the man was a monster and deserved to be put down as such. He’d let Harlan go, but not before punching him in the face for all the shit he’d said on his blog. He had no idea what he’d do with Jared. Maybe by the time Nick returned to the cabin he would have bled out from his head wound.
Nick would try for Mexico. Or maybe Canada. It was probably easier to live as an outlaw in Mexico, he figured. He’d ask Louise, Eliza, and Stephen if they wanted to join him. If they didn’t, then fine, whatever, they’d go their separate ways. If they did, then tomorrow, after taking care of everybody else, they would plan their trip. If they didn’t leave by tomorrow, they might as well turn themselves in. Hell, tomorrow might already be too late. He had no idea how much the police already knew. They might not have even found Sergio’s body yet.
When he made it back to the cabin, there was another car parked in front of the cabin. Billy was outside, on his knees with his hands raised high. Standing in front of him was another man, one Nick didn’t recognize.
In one hand the man held a pistol and in the other he held a severed head.
38. AIM FOR THE HEAD
Joseph Nous got off work at 6:00 P.M. and he couldn’t stop thinking about Sergio Placid. He’d stopped reading The Cumming of Christ. Every time he tried to continue he would break down crying. Sure, Sergio wasn’t the first corpse he’d seen, but goddammit, this one had struck a nerve. All day he’d spent reading his words, and to randomly stumble across his murdered body? Joseph had never been a very spiritual man in the past, but after today, shit, who wouldn’t be?
When he made it home, his dachshund, Lucy, was waiting in the doorway to greet him. She ran around him in a frenzied loop, tongue out. Deep down, Joseph knew she was only excited to see him because his presence meant somebody was finally available to open the back door and let her outside to pee and bark at birds.
He let her out and took off his uniform, changed into more casual clothes. A frozen Hungry Man would accompany him tonight for dinner. Instead of Netflix, however, he’d resort to the Internet for entertainment. Sergio Placid had a semi-popular blog about writing that he’d update twice a month. It would never be updated again. Joseph wondered if Sergio’s fans were aware of his demise yet. Was his family?
The last blog post Sergio had written had been about the death of the reclusive writer and the rise of the whore. The whore being, of course, the writer who threw himself or herself out in the wild and did whatever it took to get their work read. The kind of writer who wasn’t just a writer, but an editor, a publicist, and just about anything else one could imagine.
Joseph read the article as he shoved forkfuls of microwaved mashed potatoes into his mouth, the sound of Lucy barking in the backyard as background.
“Shoot Your Readers in the Head”
by Sergio Placid
You’re surrounded.
The living dead circle you like bicycle bullies around the fattest, foulest child in the school. There’s not many bullets left in your pistol, so you have to make every shot count. If you even slip up in the slightest, these things are going to eat you alive. They’ll rip out your guts and breathe in your entrails. There is no time to waste. Take them out before they turn you into a sandwich and move on to someone more interesting.
Raise your arm. Tighten your finger around the trigger. Aim for the head.
Shoot.
There are no do-overs. There are no time-outs. The time to act is now. So shoot.
Now imagine all these drooling flesh eaters are potential readers, and each bullet in your gun is an opportunity to be read. An opportunity to be successful, whatever successful even means to you. There are a finite amount of opportunities in the world, so you have to make each shot count.
You have to aim for the head.
Destroy the brain. Convert the reader.
There are certain misconceptions about the world of writing. Readers without any actual connection to the writing industry often assume writers are rich, and that every single book published hits bookstores worldwide and sells like stolen perfume bottles outside a Wendy’s (I’ve had strange encounters behind Wendy’s).
There’s a reason a stereotype exists that involves parents not wanting their children to become writers. It is not just a silly fear—it is a legitimate concern for their children’s wellbeing. Professional writing is no joke—it is extremely difficult to make a living off your words, especially if you publish with a small press. You have to bust your ass, and even then, it probably won’t be good enough.
It will never be good enough. But you can try.
But how can one writer market to thousands of potential readers? Simple—by starting off small. By plant
ing your seed into one reader and allowing your fiction to gradually grow and spread through many more. I realize how gross “planting your seed into one reader” sounds, and I do not regret my phrasing in the slightest.
You have to appeal to readers. When you realize that you’re not just selling your book, but yourself as a human being, then you can start taking your career seriously. Always remember, the book is not the product—you are the product.
Get out there and interact. Show the readers you’re someone worth reading. Show them you are a person.
The day of the reclusive writer is dead. He shot himself over an embarrassing lack of sales.
Joseph let Lucy back inside and refilled her food and water bowls. He returned to the table with a fresh beer, scrolling through Sergio’s blog. This was a man who knew what he was talking about. Someone who wasn’t fucking around. Joseph had never possessed any interest in writing before, but reading Sergio’s articles on writing made him sincerely believe he could do it, if he disciplined himself well enough.
Joseph found another interesting blog post, not so much about writing advice, but about his favorite places to write around the city. He said unlike most writers, he despised writing in public. Sergio figured the kind of writers who liked writing in Starbucks didn’t actually like writing, they just liked being seen as a writer. Sergio preferred doing his writing in seclusion, without interruption. He did a lot of it at his apartment, but he admitted that the Internet ate up a lot of his time. No, his favorite place to write was a cabin his uncle owned. It was out in the woods, away from civilization. No Internet, no electricity, no anything. He would go up to the cabin every month with a stack of notebooks and write like a crazy person, then go back home the next week and type everything he’d written. Most of the time, he was able to write one or two novellas over the weekend. Some people went fishing for relaxing vacations. Sergio went writing in his uncle’s cabin.
Fascinated that there could be such a spot somewhere close by, Joseph logged into the police database and searched Sergio’s profile. He found his uncle, then looked up the man’s known property. The cabin wasn’t difficult to find. It was about a half hour away from Joseph’s house.
Joseph leaned back in his chair and thought about the cabin. It was up there in the woods, empty. Sergio would never again step foot in it. He would never write again. The thought made Joseph incredibly depressed. He wondered when Sergio’s uncle would return to the cabin. Did he even know about his nephew’s death yet?
Joseph finished his beer and thought about it some more. He was putting his shoes on before he realized what he was doing. He got in the car and started driving, still not fully aware that he was driving out to this dead man’s writing utopia. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there. He just knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight until he at least saw it in person. And maybe if it was unlocked he would take a walk around, get a feel for it, sit in the same places Sergio had sat, maybe even whip out a notebook and write like Sergio had written.
Joseph had never felt so inspired in his life.
39. IMAGINARY LOVERS
“I’m going to call the police.”
Louise stared at Stephen, fists balling up, resisting the urge to strike him. “You are not calling the police.”
Stephen sighed, pacing the bedroom. He had dragged her in and shut the door shortly after arriving at the cabin. Louise thought he was going to fuck her or something. But apparently he just wanted to bitch.
“I swear, I’m the only one thinking any goddamn sense around here,” Stephen said, “because you’ve all lost your minds.”
“How you figure?” Louise asked.
Stephen looked at her like she was an idiot. “People have died, Louise. Sergio was murdered. Nick ran over some girl with his car. Who’s gonna die next, huh? Because it’s bound to happen again. And again. That’s our life now, unless we call the police and put a stop to all this.”
All Stephen ever did lately was whine about everything. Louise couldn’t stand it. “I don’t understand how I was ever attracted to you.”
“That’s a real nice thing to hear,” Stephen said. “I’m trying to be serious here.”
“If we call the police, we will be arrested. I do not want to be arrested. Neither do you. It isn’t that complicated, dude.”
“How can you say that? Kidnapping? Murder? This isn’t simple.”
“Sure it is.” Louise nodded. “Murder is the simplest thing on the planet. And the most natural. One moment you’re alive, then the next you’re not. Just like the way God intended.”
“I’m not talking about dying from natural causes here. I’m talking about murder.”
“We are all murdered in the end,” Louise said, “and God is our murderer.”
Stephen threw his arms up in the air, groaning. Then he knocked a pile of books off a dresser. The whole cabin was littered with paperbacks, which seemed to be an ongoing theme in the places he visited. “Now’s not the time for your mind trips, Louise. Goddammit, why is everything a game to you?”
She shrugged. “I guess because in the end, what the hell does it matter? We’re all gonna end up like Sergio, anyway. So fuck it.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Stephen said. “Last night, after the bar, don’t you remember what a great time we had together? We stayed up, making love . . . wasn’t it wonderful?”
“I was pretty drunk.”
“You’re pretending like you were too drunk to remember what happened, but that’s bullshit. You never blackout. You remember, and I know you felt something.”
“Yeah, your dick.”
“More than that. You know what I mean.”
Louise was quiet.
“I know we don’t get along all the time, Louise. I also know we get along better when it’s just me and you and there’s nobody else around. It’s like you put up this defensive shield, and you don’t want anybody to know you have emotions, that you could possibly be in a relationship with anybody else. Well, I know better than that. I know you love me. And I love you, too, despite all the mean things you’ve said to me lately. I know you didn’t mean them, that you were only saying those things because you were afraid. There’s no reason to be afraid. It’s okay to love me.”
Stephen had moved closer to her now, kneeling on one knee and maintaining eye contact. Almost like he was proposing to her or something. Louise couldn’t help it. She started laughing.
Stephen frowned.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re . . . too romantic.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
She nodded. “It is when you’ve created the romance in your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude, the girl you were just talking about? That wasn’t me, I don’t know who that was except some imaginary fuck-dream. You have no idea what type of person I am, you just project this stupid chick flick girlfriend who doesn’t even remotely resemble me. You’re a hopeless romantic, and no, that isn’t a cute quirk. It’s an annoying mental disorder. Admit that we don’t have shit in common besides the publishing company and let’s just move on with our lives. We were good fucks and that’s about it.”
Stephen’s eyes became wet and tears started dripping down his cheeks. He looked pathetic.
“Stephen, come on . . .”
Stephen shook his head, biting his lip. He turned around and ran out of the bedroom.
She sat on the bed, not giving a shit if she ever saw him again. Then she heard him scream.
40. DAT ASS
Billy tried to sleep, but it was pointless. Experience told him that he hadn’t been awake nearly enough days yet to reach a relaxing enough state of mind to be able to sleep. He couldn’t exactly remember how long he’d been awake at this point. After so long, time ceased to exist. Sleep was a fairy tale. His eyes were cracked rocks. The world was his playground, but he didn’t have the energy to play.
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He stayed on the couch for a while with his eyes closed, resting his head on Harlan’s lap. He hated the man with a passion, but had to admit he made a comfortable pillow. He couldn’t get his mind off the contents of Lewis’s trunk. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw them. They were calling for him. Like they were these fucked-up sirens guiding his brain into the ultimate crash. He kept thinking the heads belonged to him, that Lewis didn’t even exist, it was Billy all along who owned the collection. They were his rewards and he was neglecting them in a hot trunk, letting them rot. He was a terrible head owner. He didn’t deserve them and they didn’t deserve him.
But then Billy turned slightly on Harlan’s lap and whacked his face with a surprised erection, and he screamed. He jumped up and pointed accusingly at a confused Harlan. “You perverted bastard! I was trying to rest!”
“What are you talking about? I was sleeping.”
Billy made a disgusted grimace and exited the cabin. His sister was sitting on the steps, looking at the sky. He sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I suppose I could be worse. What about you?”
“I keep thinking about those heads,” he said, staring at Lewis’s car, eyes glued on the trunk.
“What about them?”
“Who do you think they belonged to?”
“His victims, obviously. The sick fuck.”
“I know that, sis, but I mean, do you think they were chosen at random? Or were they his friends, family, what?”
“Why don’t you go ask him?”
Billy shook his head. “I don’t want to be alone in the same room with him. He terrifies me.”
“He should terrify you. It would be strange if he didn’t.”
He let her words drift in the air for a moment, then said, “What are the chances of accidentally kidnapping a serial killer?”
How to Successfully Kidnap Strangers Page 13
