“Who’s fault?”
Mike looked over at the window. His emotional roller coaster hit another sharp turn, taking him to rage and anger. “Them! Their fault!” he shouted. He pointed awkwardly with his left hand, hurling his glass with his right. Fortunately his drunkenness spoiled his aim and the glass shattered against the wall rather than shattering the window.
A second later Tim saw the priest’s true intended target. A black cat, similar to the one he saw through the motel window, perched on the outside ledge. It blinked, undaunted by the sudden display of violence.
“Get away from me you bitch!” the priest shouted, nearly to the point of tears once more.
Tim fairly leapt from his chair, hurrying to the window to shoo away the cat. “Beat it!” he shouted. “Go on, get out of here!” He waved his arms at it.
The cat blinked again, arrogantly ignoring him. The cat looked past Tim, and its eyes suddenly went wide. It disappeared from the ledge in a flash, an instant before a loud explosion went off behind Tim, nearly scaring him out of his skin. The window shattered beside Tim’s left hip.
Tim dove for the floor, covering his head. “Christ! What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, forgetting who he addressed.
Mike came to the window, revolver in hand. “Almost got her,” he muttered. “I told her never to come back.”
Tim rose and snatched away the revolver, thankful that he emptied his bowels before his shower. “Are you crazy? You could have killed me!”
“Bah!” The old man dismissed the statement with a sharp wave of his hand and walked away from the window. “I just wish I hadn’t missed her.”
“It’s just a cat!”
“No!” Mike roared. “Not just a cat! None of them are just fucking cats or just fucking birds! They’re spies! All of ’em! They work for the witches!”
Tim cocked his head, wondering what suddenly happened to reality. “Did you say, ‘witches?’” Surely a Catholic priest didn’t believe in witches and goblins and so forth. At least not real ones, anyway.
“You think I’m nuts,” the priest stated matter-of-factly. “I knew it. I told Gus that. But did he believe me? Nooo! ‘You got to tell ’im!’ he says. Stupid bastard.”
“You’re not making sense,” Tim told the man.
The priest gave an exasperated sigh, waving his arms in the air in frustration. “Because I’m drunk,” he mumbled. He stumbled and fell, landing hard on his backside.
Tim set the pistol on the desk and hurried forward to help Mike back to his feet. He then dragged him over to the cot. The priest went willingly, rubbing his sore backside as he sprawled out on the cot. “I’m just drunk. Again.”
“Sleep it off, Father. Relax.”
“No! I have to warn you!” He grabbed at Tim’s arm.
“About what?”
“The witches! I have to warn you about the witches! Gus was right!”
“I thought you said he was wrong.”
“He was, but he was also right! I do have to warn you!”
Tim tried not to laugh. He just hoped the man would not vomit in his lap. Or in his sleep, and end up dying like so many rock stars have. “I’m going out for awhile. You just get some rest.”
“No! That’s even worse! You can’t go! You mustn’t! They’ll get you!”
“Who, the witches?”
“Yes! You have to listen to me! Things ain’t right in this burg!”
“Alright, alright,” he said consolingly, “I believe you. I’ll watch out for the witches.”
Mike seemed pacified. “Good. Good man.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “Have to watch out for the witches. Can’t let any more men die…” His voice trailed off as he either fell asleep or passed out.
With a shake of his head, Tim rose and retrieved the handgun from the desk. An older model Smith and Wesson, it had a small frame and a short barrel. The small cylinder held only five rounds. He opened it and counted four unfired shells, all .357 Magnum. Quite a punch for a small piece. It definitely would have ruined his night had it hit Tim in the back.
He ejected the spent shell and tossed it into the garbage can, then carried the pistol upstairs with him where it would be safely out of the old man’s reach. Maybe he would give it back in the morning. Maybe. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed the gun on the mattress. He stared at it absently for a few minutes.
What to do, what to do.
When he told the priest he was going to go out for awhile he had not been serious, but he suddenly found himself reconsidering. Maybe it would not be such a bad idea after all. He had nothing better to do. With any luck, he would find his car. The worst thing that could happen would be he learned his way around this town a little better.
His mind made up, he went to the closet and retrieved the jeans he arrived in. He tossed his sweatpants over the footboard, pulled on his jeans, and tucked the black t-shirt he wore into his waistband. He then pulled his socks and boots back on and went downstairs to check on the priest one more time.
The older man snored like a bear.
Good, he thought. He cast a surreptitious glance at the money clip. With a shrug, he removed two twenty dollar bills from the bundle just in case. The priest offered it to him, after all. And maybe Mike was right, maybe a drink would do him good.
As he approached the front door he considered the gun lying on the bed upstairs. He doubted he would need it, and it safely out of reach of the priest’s reach. With a nod of reassurance to himself, he went out into the cool night air.
Chapter Six
Tim walked the streets of Rapture, fists thrust in his pockets, trying to fit in with the rest of the population. It was harder to do than he expected. Nearly everybody he passed, whether across the street or by his side, gave him a long, hard stare. Any time he returned the look, the gazer would suddenly avert his or her eyes.
He tried to avoid the residential streets, hoping instead to find a place where he could find a bit of friendly company. So far, the priest had been the only cordial person he met. Unless, of course, he counted his evening caller with the oral fixation.
Then again, she stole everything he owned.
He passed Medusa’s and felt a blush crawl over his face. The same two motorcycles, this time washed clean, sat in the parking lot amidst a clutter of cars. He could barely make out the din of loud music and bawdy cheers through the walls.
Dark came on suddenly around seven thirty. The near-full moon painted grey any shadows the streetlights could not reach. His mind wandered as he took in the sights around him. Rapture was no different from any other small, rural town, really. Sure, the populace was a bit eccentric, but the place had the same homey atmosphere one could expect from, say, an old “Andy Griffith” episode. In one home, a pair of pies cooled in the window. He half-expected Aunt Bea herself to suddenly appear and test them with a fork.
A short distance ahead a barber pole spun silently, the never-ending red corkscrew working its way slowly upward. One door beyond that he passed a backlit white sign with black lettering identifying the place as a dentist’s office. Then, last in the same building, he passed an electrical repair shop. Signs out front told him all three places closed at six o’clock, just as they did every evening. He wondered if everybody went to sleep that early. The stores across the street appeared to be closed as well.
He walked on, taking in the fresh air if nothing else. He figured the search for his car would be near futile, as anyone bold enough to steal it in such a small town surely had a place to hide it.
Finally Tim came to the edge of the town once more, in the same quarter as the motel. A stand of trees half-concealed a large playground. A small path led through the trees, a sign overhead simply stating Village Commons. He turned to his right, passing the front yards of several houses. Just as he was about to turn back into town, however, he spotted an isolated light a few hundred yards beyond the edge of the park. His curiosity piqued, he made off toward the lamp.
The lamp eventually de
fined itself: a square white sign with a Miller Beer logo emblazoned across the center. Moving closer yet, he saw the word “bar” painted across the center of a weather-beaten wooden door beneath the Miller sign. The bar itself looked rather old, the wooden planking along each wall scratched and peeling all along its surface. A curved iron bar crudely bolted to the door served as a handle. A tarnished deadbolt lay nestled into the wood above it. He found he actually expected the bolt to be locked as he reached for the handle.
To his pleasant surprise the door opened easily, albeit with protest from the squealing hinges. The inside of the place had a rustic air, but the decorator took it a bit too far. The floorboards showed the wear of thousands of shoes and boots. The round stools were in various states of disrepair, the one at the end deflated by lack of stuffing. Of the handful of tables spread around the interior, most supported upside-down chairs. Poor lighting and a film of dirt or dust conspired to conceal the posters on the walls.
The bar’s single patron sat at the far end of the bar, reclining against the wall and idly pushing his mug back and forth along the surface. His beer sloshed a lazy circle within its glass confines.
The bartender wiped already-clean glasses with a dry, dirty white rag. He perspired steadily like a cool glass of water on a hot day, though the bar could scarcely be more than a handful of degrees hotter than the outdoors. His puffy red cheeks pushed in toward his fat, protruding lips, giving him the appearance of a fish in a funhouse mirror. “What’ll it be?” the man drawled.
“You have any imports on tap?” he asked, daring to hope.
“Domestic,” came the simple reply.
“How about Samuel Adams?” Fishface shook his head. Tim shrugged. “Doesn’t matter then. The rest of the domestics taste the same to me. Just make it a cold one.” He moved halfway down the bar, leaving a comfortable buffer zone between himself and the other customer should the other prove not to be in a friendly mood.
Fishface scarcely acknowledged the request. Instead, he simply selected a mug he recently dirtied with his towel and held it under a tap. “You gonna run a tab?” he asked, setting the beer down roughly. The thick head washed over the side, adding to rings and stains that gave testament to the fact the bartender seldom, if ever, used coasters or napkins.
“If that’s alright,” he said, realizing he shouldn’t expect good service in a shabby place. Fishface didn’t answer. He moved off down the bar, lifting yet another glass into the soft light for inspection.
Tim and the other patron drank in silence, alternating sips and surreptitious stares at one another. Looking over his shoulder for the umpteenth time, he spotted a jukebox in the corner. A spidery crack threaded its way through the heavily fingerprinted cover and a thick layer of dust gathered on the console. He doubted it had been used in years.
“Boy, this is a cheery place,” Tim said with what he hoped sounded like cheerful wit. It earned him a solemn stare from the bartender. Shaking his head, he downed the last of his beer and pushed it forward for a refill. Fishface took the hint and obliged him.
“You’re new around here,” the other patron said suddenly.
Tim took the opportunity to get a good luck at the man for the first time. He was older than he had first appeared, perhaps pushing fifty or, on the outside, sixty. White hair protruded in greasy white tufts from beneath a dark green John Deere cap. He wore the basic farmer’s uniform: faded denim overalls and a tattered, blue flannel shirt.
“That’s right,” Tim replied. “I’ve only been in town a couple of days.”
“You’re the boy staying with Tierney?”
“Yessir.”
“Good man, Father Tierney is. Damn good man.”
Tim nodded in agreement. He wondered if the old codger would still think so if he told him the priest nearly shot him in the back.
“Why don’cha come on over here so’s we can talk a bit.” The farmer patted the stool beside him.
Why not, Tim thought, carrying his beer over with him. He actually selected the second stool away from the farmer to allow for some elbow room. He held out his hand. “I’m Tim Wilder.”
The farmer took his hand in a firm grip. “Bob Tanner. Pleased to meetcha.”
For a few moments they sat in awkward silence.
“So, you own a tractor?” Tim asked conversationally, gesturing toward the man’s cap. A really stupid question, but maybe it would get the conversation rolling.
Bob scowled. “Not anymore. Three weeks ago, I lost my home, my farm, and all my property.”
Tim blushed at his social gaffe. “Sorry, man, I didn’t think…”
The ex-farmer waved it off. “Ah, you couldn’t know. It’s not important, anyway.” He held his beer mug out toward Fishface, who came over to refill it.
“You don’t have any pretzels by chance, do you?” Tim asked.
Fishface instantly produced a small basket of twists. He bit into one and found it stale. Unsurprised, he ate them anyway.
With their mugs topped off their conversation resumed. Fishface stood just within earshot at the opposite end of the bar. They talked and joked for an hour, finding they had quite a bit in common. Both were divorcees (though Bob’s marriage ended seven years prior), and both lost everything to their wives in the end.
“You know what the problem with women is?” Bob asked. “They just can’t fuck.”
Tim cocked his head to one side at this, like a dog hearing a strange command for the first time. “What do you mean?” He could not count the number of times he had sex with his wife (or even other women previously), and oftentimes it had been good.
“Think about it. It’s always the man doing the fucking, even when the woman is on top. You’re inside her. Missionary position, camping on the peg, doggy style, whatever. You are fucking her. You follow?”
“Sure.” That didn’t necessarily mean he agreed.
“Of course, that fucking is purely physical to most men. You put it in and out a few dozen times, have your orgasm, drop your load, and you’re done. But the woman, deep inside her twisted little head, she knows you’re inside her, where she’s most vulnerable. You’re inside her defenses, see. And they can’t handle that. So, they feel the need to get even.”
Tim recalled his psych courses at school. “You mean penis envy?”
“I’m talking penis revenge!”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No! See, the really jealous ones? They fuck your mind! They get inside your head, rattle it around a bit. The physical part comes later, and I’m not just talking about sex. I’m talking they fuck you up but good!”
Tim fixed him with a nervous stare. He didn’t notice Fishface now watched them with equal intensity. “I think you’ve had just a tad bit too much to drink, Bob,” he said carefully.
Bob leaned close to Tim and took hold of his elbow. “Look here, boy. I like you,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Well, Bob, I like you, too, but…” he began. Suddenly uncomfortable, he pulled his arm away. He couldn’t help but wonder if this talk of women was more than just misogyny. They both drank quite a bit. Maybe the booze brought down Bob’s inhibitions.
“Not like that, youngster! I ain’t no faggot. I’m just telling you things ain’t right in this burg.”
The sudden echo of the priest’s words snapped Tim to sobriety. “What did you just say?”
“Things ain’t right in this burg,” he repeated softly. He looked over Tim’s shoulder briefly.
Following his gaze, Tim turned in time to see Fishface suddenly turn his back to them. He obviously eavesdropped on their conversation, and he still had one ear cocked in their direction.
“How do you mean?” Tim murmured softly.
“The women. They run this town, boy.”
“The witches?” he guessed, wondering how much of the drunk priest’s words would be corroborated by this drunk farmer.
Tanner paled. “Hush boy! Never use that word around here! Just
’tween you ’n me, though, that’s the word for them.”
“C’mon. Surely there’s no such thing as w—er,” he dropped off, searching for a better word.
“You just try and tell them that,” Tanner told him, as if a dare. “They got their eyes and ears all over the place, too. Wouldn’t be hard.”
Tim rubbed at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger and wondered how drunk he was. “So what you’re saying,” he began calmly, “is that women run this entire town?”
Again, Bob briefly looked past Tim toward the bartender. He nodded.
“And they want to fuck me? Physically and mentally?”
Again the nod.
“So that’s the reason only girls go to school here? And all the men work in town?”
“Exactly!” Bob said excitedly. “That’s exactly it! You’re already on to ’em!”
Tim shook his head. “Come on. I saw some weird things,” images of the women at the diner, the foot fetish ordeal, and the abuse of the waiter coursed through his memory, “but what you’re saying can’t be right.”
“Take heed, boy. It could save your life. The women in this town can do things. Strange things. Evil things!”
“You mean magic?”
“Call it magic, call it voodoo, call it fucking feminine charm! It all amounts to the same thing! This town’s only been here for thirty years or so. But ever since then the women have been in charge. Us men, we’re only here for labor and breeding.”
Tim couldn’t help but laugh. “Breeding? Now you’re being ridiculous!” Tanner slapped him hard suddenly, his leathery palm stinging Tim’s face. The blow startled him so bad he nearly fell from his stool.
“Don’t sass me, boy!”
Behind them, Fishface turned and focused his full attention on their conversation. He still held mug and towel, both motionless.
Tanner’s face and eyes burned with anger. “I lost everything I had to these cunts!” he shouted. “First my daughter, then my wife and the rest of my family! I had to give up nearly everything I had, until they finally took it all! I’ve been living in my son’s basement the past few weeks! Do you have any idea what it’s like, sitting in the darkness, alone, while your only son is upstairs being abused by his wife!? Do you? It’s the most heart-breaking thing you could ever experience, let me tell you!”
Deadliest of the Species Page 8
