Crossing Bedlam

by Charles E Yallowitz

  The shadow on the floor moves away, so Cassidy flushes and heads out the door to wash her hands. She immediately notices the busty woman wearing a sexy cowgirl outfit that looks to be one violent cough away from busting at the seams. Not hiding her desires, the stranger is licking her lips and her hazel eyes never straying from the blonde traveler. Leaning on the electric hand dryer, the obvious prostitute allows the smell of her sweet perfume to travel across the room. The couple and the drug addicts are gone, which makes Cassidy even more uncomfortable. Already worried about leaving Lloyd on his own for too long, she dries her hands on her pants and heads for the door.

  Passing the cowgirl, the blonde feels a hand grab her butt and she whirls around to throw a punch. Cassidy stops when she sees the woman leaning forward to deliver a kiss, the advance swiftly dodged out of fear of a contact drug. She is caught off-guard by the speed and flexibility of the prostitute, who seems very determined to make physical contact. Rushing for the door, Cassidy finds that there is a padlock on it and guesses the key is with her admirer. Hearing the cowgirl approaching, she sighs and turns around to press the barrel of her handgun against the woman’s forehead. At the click of the hammer, the prostitute’s sultry expression turns into one of fear and she begins shuddering. Warm tears roll down her cheeks, the young woman having known many in her trade who have been killed in similar situations.

  “My name is Jezzie. Please don’t kill me. I have two kids and my husband was killed by a local gang. This is all I can do to make sure we survive,” the woman bawls, falling to her knees in order to beg more effectively. She relaxes when the gun is lowered, but notices that the weapon has not been holstered. “A man paid me to give you a good time. He said you looked lonely and kept staring at the waitresses. I’m not very experienced with women, but I thought if you were willing that you would give me instructions. My tongue-”

  “Stop! Jezzie, right? Good thing Lloyd isn’t here because he’d have a field day with that name,” Cassidy says, helping the woman up. There is still something off about the cowgirl, but she is unable to put her finger on it. “My mom did the same thing as you, so I can’t be angry or judgmental. We do what we have to these days. Now you’re very beautiful, but I’m not attracted to women. My friend is, so maybe I’ll hand you off to him. I mean, you’ve already been paid and it might calm Lloyd down.”

  “You can’t do that,” Jezzie blurts out, leaning away from the scowl she receives. Backing toward the nearest stall door, the woman glances around for a weapon or exit. “The payment was only for you, so I can’t switch customers. House rules . . . We could just sit in here for an hour and talk to make it seem like we did stuff. I’ll even tussle my hair. Maybe you can make some noise to help my reputation?”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Only I have the key.”

  “Then give it to me.”

  “You’ll have to find it.”

  Cassidy rubs her eyes in frustration and opens them as soon as she hears movement coming toward her. She sees Jezzie charging with the lid of a toilet tank, the porcelain object heading for the blonde’s side. Wanting answers more than a fight, Cassidy stays out of the cowgirl’s reach and waits for an opening. The swings are sloppy and several of them are made blindly, making it easy for the more experienced blonde to dart in with a stun gun. Jezzie moans and squirms at the burst of delicious pain, but maintains enough control to slam the tank lid onto her opponent’s shoulder. A loud pop tells both women that it has been dislocated, which only succeeds in enraging Cassidy. Kicking the prostitute’s legs out from under her, she pounces on the falling figure and puts her handgun against Jezzie’s eye.

  “Okay! I surrender! I mean it this time!” the disheveled cowgirl says, putting up her arms even though she is prone on the floor. Realizing that she has gone too far, she takes a deep breath and pulls a picture of her children out of her cow-patterned cuff. “I wasn’t lying about them. Just hear me out. A gang leader named Jackman hired me to keep you in here. He did think you’d be kept busy with sex, but said that I had to do whatever I could to restrain you. Otherwise, he’d hurt my kids and scar my face. All I know is that he wanted your friend and the trucker. Word is that he kidnaps people in the area and sells them into slavery. The drunker the target, the easier it is for him to do the job. It’s always men too. He thought you were a bodyguard, so he had to get you out of the way. Please don’t kill me or let him know that I squealed. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  “He’s probably already done the kidnapping by now,” Cassidy mutters, reached into Jezzie’s cleavage to claim the padlock key. She ignores the woman’s yelp of surprise and holsters her gun before moving away. “Prostitutes always hide keys between their tits. I hope you realize that if I go out there and discover you’re lying again, I’m going to shoot you.”

  Cassidy waits for Jezzie to nod and get off the floor, the cowgirl ignoring the wet toilet paper that is on her skin and clothes. Cringing at the dull pain in her shoulder, the blonde takes a deep breath before popping her arm back in its socket and letting the limb dangle numbly at her side. Removing the padlock, she braces herself for the worst and finds that she expects the Half-Dead to be standing on the other side of the door. Instead, she sees that the place is as lively and busy as ever, more so considering a gang of rifle-toting cheerleaders has joined the drunken festivities. The only difference that concerns the young woman is that the trucker and Lloyd are missing, their unfinished drinks and food still on the bar. With a muttered curse, Cassidy moves back into the bathroom and closes the door to face the nervous prostitute.

  “It looks like you were right,” she whispers, not wanting anyone to overhear their conversation. It would not surprise her to learn that someone is waiting to jump her in the busy bar. “My friend is gone. Now he could be in the bathroom, but I’ll go along with your story for now. Tell me where I can find Jackman. Preferably alone.”

  “Nobody outside of the gang can tell you that,” Jezzie answers, holding up her hands when she hears the click of a gun. It turns out to be the doorknob opening and a stunning redhead wanders in with a drunken smile. “I can point out his men if you’re determined to cause trouble, but you can’t let them know it was me. Please don’t put me in danger.”

  “Not a problem since Jackman will be dead or worse when I’m done.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Let’s just say I have some negativity to unleash. Ugh, Lloyd is starting to rub off on me.”

  “In that case, I’ll give you and your friend a good time for a discount whenever you return.”

  “No. Just no. Please send me in the right direction and never make that offer again.”

  Cassidy notices that the redhead is peeking under the stall, so she draws a knife out of her boot and slams the weapon through the side wall. The shrieking prostitute scrambles into the open, clutching her pasty-covered chest as if she is about to have a heart attack. A rapid series of nods is all the scantily clad local can muster to assure the cold-eyed blonde that she will keep her mouth shut. Plucking the blade from the stall, Cassidy puts on a wide smile and drapes her arm around Jezzie’s shoulders. Messing up their hair, she leads them through the bathroom door and mixes into the crowd as her new friend subtly points at a man in leather. The two women approach the biker and he only has a second to believe it is his lucky day before he feels a handgun slip through his open zipper.

  “Should have kept your fly up,” Cassidy whispers, licking her lips and releasing Jezzie. “So I hear you know where I can find Jackman. Take me to him or you’ll have an even bigger mess in your pants. Do we have a deal? Good.”

  *****

  Lloyd groans and blinks several times, the bright lights surrounding him causing vertigo and disorientation. If he had been a better man in his life, he would be wondering if he died and went to heaven, but that thought never crosses his mind. Touching his body, the serial killer figures out that he is wearing jeans and no shirt. As his heada
che lessens and his eyes adjust, he sees pieces of furniture meticulously placed around the nicely decorated room. All of the wooden surfaces have been dusted and polished while the twin leather couches smell like they are fresh from the store. Wooden stairs go up to another floor, a trail of empty picture frames along the white wall. Thick carpeting is under his bare feet and his hair is damp from being recently cleaned, the smell of shampoo still hanging in the air. Shifting in the plush chair, Lloyd takes his time examining the beautiful house that is filled with sunlight. There are paintings on the walls and several tiny trinkets that he imagines a housewife would order off the Internet. Legs and lower back aching, he rocks to his feet and notices a sweating glass of water on a coaster. His mouth is sour and dry, so he claims the cold drink and prays it is enough to help him survive what might be the worst hangover of his life.

  Groggily walking to a window, Lloyd can see that he is on a suburban street that has remained untouched by the chaos that devastated the rest of the country. The lawn is perfectly mowed and there is a red-shirted lawn jockey holding a lantern in the center. An aluminum mailbox sits near the curb, his last name having been painted on both sides. Shade trees dot the block, some of them with bicycles leaning against them. Lloyd guesses it is garbage day due to there being cans for trash and recycling in front of the houses. It takes him a few minutes of staring at the flowers to realize that there are no cars on the street, but every driveway has at least one vehicle. He does not have much time to think about where he is before the sound of running water draws him to the kitchen.

  Lloyd stops in the doorway, his mouth wide open at the sight of the gorgeous woman cleaning dishes. Her slender body is framed by long, black hair that shimmers in the light coming through the curtained window. Her only article of clothing is a white apron, which makes Lloyd wonder if he is dreaming again. The woman dries her hands on a towel and moves to take the apron off, but freezes when she turns to see she is not alone. Instead of screaming and throwing something, she smiles warmly at the dumbstruck man and walks across the clean floor. Her hazel eyes hold an enchanting spark that mesmerizes Lloyd, the sensation becoming stronger when she gives him a kiss on the cheek.

  “You should have told me you were awake, honey,” she whispers, running a finger along his scars. Taking his hands, she stops him from touching anything more than her arms and face. “I would have put clothes on because I don’t want to make you too excited. The doctor said you need to get some rest and avoid exerting yourself. Are you feeling better? You’ve been having a rough week with your condition.”

  “What condition?” Lloyd asks, enjoying the view when the woman goes to put a white robe over her apron. He runs a hand through his hair and finally realizes that there is a ring on his finger. “More importantly, who are you? Last thing I remember, I was in a bar talking to a big trucker and drinking. Everything got fuzzy after a few hours. Now I’m in suburbia with, pardon my language, a fucking beautiful woman wearing very little in the kitchen.”

  “That’s so sweet,” she replies, returning to give him a peck on the lips. She lets Lloyd’s hands wander a little around her sides, but clasps them behind her back when he tries to move them under her clothes. “My name was Emily Stein and now I’m Emily Tenay. You’ve been here for a month and I’ve been taking care of you. We fell in love and two days ago you decided that we should be married. I was so happy and a local preacher did the service. As for your condition, you were slipped tainted alcohol by that trucker who stripped you of all your belongings. He brought you out here and left you for dead at the abandoned high school. The poison has made a mess of your memories and your heart is weakened, but you’re getting stronger every day. I hope that you can leave the house soon.”

  His headache returning, Lloyd frees himself from Emily and takes a seat at the small kitchen table. The way his body aches and his mind continually loses focus makes him think there is a good chance she is being honest. Examining his arms, he sees areas where intravenous needles have been injected and secured. The spots are tender and sore, so Lloyd assumes he has only recently been taken off the fluids. His concentration breaks when Emily sits on his lap and massages his neck, her breath tickling his skin. Sweat trickles down his face and his heart beats so hard that he expects it to explode, the sensation ending when his pouting wife moves to another chair.

  “That was intense and kind of sad at the end,” Lloyd admits, rubbing his chest until the pain goes away. Taking another sip of water, he gladly accepts a homemade cookie from the plate that is pushed toward him. “Not sure why I can’t go outside. Is this place radioactive and I’ve yet to build an immunity? I’d ask if you have a tail or some kind of mutation, but I saw enough of you to see that you’re perfect. Going by my luck lately, I’ll guess that my condition makes it so that we haven’t consummated anything.”

  “We tried, but you fell unconscious for two days before we could get very far,” Emily explains with a tired sigh. Adjusting her robe to show more cleavage, she leans forward to brace her hands on Lloyd’s legs. “I know this is hard for you and most of our time together is nothing more than a blur. If it helps your mood, we bathe together and I try to do little stripteases before we go to bed. I promise to do a special one tonight since you’re having a lucid day. Maybe we can push a little further if our luck holds out.”

  “Sorry, I stopped listening after you mentioned being hard, came back for striptease, and then all I heard were breasts,” the grinning man states, mildly surprised that the woman blushes and turns away. Inching his chair closer, he tries to touch her bare legs and stops when his body shudders. “What happens if I try to go outside? This condition is very vague, which brings up questions that I can’t hold onto for very long. It doesn’t help that your eyes are amazing. At least the few times I’ve looked at them.”

  “You would become overstimulated if you stepped outside,” Emily says, rising from her chair to put the dishes back in the cabinets. Fearing that the view of the backyard will cause trouble, she draws the curtains and loosens her robe to distract her husband. “Not that it is much better with me here, but I can help you maintain control. Wandering away means you could pass out somewhere and make me a widow. Can I trust you to stay in the house when I’m away? I work at the local supermarket to bring in food and fuel for our generator. There are puzzles and plenty of books in the library. If you prefer television then I have a decent DVD collection in the den.”

  Lloyd rubs his eyes and yawns, his energy already fading. “Thanks. Actually, I have one last question. I was traveling with a young blonde that is more like an adopted sister than anything you have to worry about. Do you know what happened to her?”

  “She seems to have gone on without you.”

  “Then I guess I’ll enjoy the sexy part of my story and see if I return.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. You said something about a striptease?”

  Emily smirks and takes her husband by the hands to lead him up to the bedroom, her thumbs rubbing his knuckles the entire time. She lets the robe fall to the floor as they move toward the large, soft bed and passionately kiss. Lloyd slips his hands under her apron while she runs her fingers around his waistband. Before anything can happen, a burst of pain erupts in the serial killer’s chest and he collapses onto the mattress.

  *****

  The smell of hamburgers wafts out of the previously abandoned fast food restaurant, which the Border Collies motorcycle gang calls home. At least thirty bikes are in the dirt-covered parking lot, several of the vehicles having sidecars for their tail-wagging mascots. Not an overly aggressive group, they specialize in local convoy protection and indulge in occasional raids when not kidnapping people for Emily. This lifestyle has helped them maintain a large membership and constant supplies, beef and fuel being their two favorite payments. A single tent is the only other structure besides the restaurant and the dogs rest in its shade with their own food placed within a collection of decorati
ve bowls. If lonely or hungry, the animals wander into the building through a carefully installed doggie door. Every time one of the mascots enters, the people inside cheer and have a drink while the real Border Collie approaches whoever is free to give them attention.

  Smoking a cigarette away from the others, Jackman sits in a booth and watches his gang celebrate their latest job. It was an easy raid that he had to miss while delivering Lloyd and the trucker. He trusts the men and women he rides with to operate in his absence, which is why he took an extra day to relax in suburbia. They will be going back to Emily’s territory soon in order to take advantage of the warm showers and soft beds that are a nice change from lumpy bedrolls and cold lakes. He runs a small comb through his gray hair and gives special attention to his thick muttonchops. When a young woman in denim offers him a frothy beer, the gang leader smiles and pushes it back to her while patting the keys that dangle from his leather jacket’s pocket. Closing his eyes, Jackman lets the tension of his position wash away and imagines driving the open road with no responsibility. Before the collapse, he was an accountant who dreamed of riding around the country after a well-earned retirement. With the IRS being nuked and taxes being a local affair that involved trading goods, the middle-aged man has decided it is the perfect time to follow his dreams.

  The next round of burgers is being served when all of the dogs come rushing into the building. Excited and bounding around, it takes the bikers several minutes to calm the animals down. Jackman scowls and glances outside to see what has the mascots riled, his eyes widening when he sees his motorcycle has been moved a few yards away from the parking lot. Sliding out of the booth, the gang leader stops when he sees that everyone is looking out the other side of the restaurant. Pushing his way through the crowd, he sees that somebody has written a message on the towering sign. Neon red letters spell out ‘Let’s Be Friends’ and there is no indication of how the writer got up the pole. Minutes pass and nothing happens, so everyone goes back to their celebrating. The dogs remain in the restaurant, but stick to the kitchen where they devour whatever falls on the floor. Jackman is the last person to go back to his seat, his eyes darting around the gathering of people. There is something off about his surroundings, but he simply cannot put his finger on the difference.