The boy was alive, and he had proof of who Wayne really was.
Getting up from the floor, Wayne noticed a fluttering piece of paper posted to the outer windshield. On his hands and knees, he picked up the .38, crawled out of the car and jumped to his feet. Scrambling over the hood, he snatched the paper from the glass before the wind could.
It was a note: a note from the boy.
Wayne read it again and again until the words were stamped in his brain.
No, he told himself, balling up the paper and throwing it to the ground. I can’t lose. Not to HIM. Gun now back in his cargo pocket, he ran back to the trunk, grabbed his bag for a second time and jogged up to the still empty bathrooms. Wayne ignored the chantey of whispers in his head as he changed his clothes, the whole time snarling and spitting at the graffiti scratched walls. In sorrowful, heavy-hearted words, the chant behind his eyes reminded him that They had let this happen.
They wanted him to fail.
Using the crossed wires in his head They hijacked his reality—made him live a simulated existence, or possibly alternate timeframe that splintered off from this one. Or maybe he’d been tricked into experiencing a false perception of his actual reality; a minor sublet in the space/time continuum. Either way, it added up to sabotage. They knew what he was planning and were trying to stop him.
I don't need you! Wayne screamed, projecting in his head out from the river. I can do it on my own! Go ahead and get your new model, it won't do you a shit of good! He'll be dead before the weekend, and I'll be all you'll have left. So, HA!!
He waited for a response wanting to hear Their collective voice riddled with hurt and anger, but got nothing. They were above petty arguments, and in the end would choose anything over nothing. The Harvest couldn’t wait. It had nothing to do with personal taste—just production. Fresh plasmid was too important of a resource to throw away over matters of civil disobedience. Numbers are the sole currency of the cosmos.
Pushing the worthless anger at unseen forces all the way down, Wayne set back out for the road. He revved up the engine and started to shift into gear, but stopped. All at once he realized Kieffer was on foot and couldn’t have gotten very far no matter how long he’d been out. There was at least a week's worth of walking from here to Hampden, maybe eight hours from the next exit if he followed the interstate. Kieffer would probably trace back up the Southbound, that way Wayne couldn't just drive by him on the way through. But if Wayne chased him on foot…
There's no time for that. You will have to move to Phase III.
That was it. His mind was made up.
Zombified by perseverance with only his physical body behind the wheel, Wayne drove back onto I-95 and kept going south.
The new cycle was only miles away.
Chapter 12
April 12, 2006
9:49 pm
Hampden, Maine
Kieffer sat, eyes trained on the small lighted building across the parking lot of the rest area. Parked, Wayne turned off the engine and opened his door. The gum Kieffer had been chewing was now flavorless; a chunk of red clay that made his jaw muscles feel rubbery and tired.
Standing outside the car Wayne leaned back in the doorway, gun in hand, and said, “Alright, come with me.”
But, Kieffer didn’t move. He sat staring out the window. His plan—one that seemed so simple and idiot proof when he contemplated it—had fallen apart as soon as they pulled into this rest stop. All other options now led to his death.
“Kid, let’s go,” Wayne said, already losing his patience. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Still looking out the window, Kieffer heard himself say, “Kieffer, my name is Kieffer.”
Sighing, Wayne took another glance around the empty parking lot and ducked back into the car. “Okay, Kieffer, get off your ass and come with me. I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
Still refusing to face him, Kieffer ignored Wayne and blew a big pink bubble that swelled to the size of his head. The lamest stalling tactic, but it was all he could do. He nervously blew until —POP! — it deflated like a hot air balloon tragedy. Its resonate echo flashed through the cramped silence of the cab before blinking out through the open driver side door.
The sound of Wayne’s gun clattering to the floor forced Kieffer to look over. When he did he was welcomed with a familiar dead-eye stare. The same one he had seen in Ashley’s living room. Body resting halfway in the driver’s seat, neck limp and jaw dangling open, the puppet was back on its strings. Wooden Wayne stared through him, stared around him. No longer of this mind.
Scared stiff, Kieffer sat perfectly still and fought against the cold stare drilling through his skin. Slowly, he moved his right hand along the door at his back. His fingers felt along for the handle. Once they found it, he was free.
Wayne hadn’t moved at all since his power down. His eyelids stayed wide open; exposing the hateful gray eyes like two blown bulbs. A broken cyborg, short-circuited mid-action, flashed its empty retinas at him in the dark. The glassy twinkle in those dead eyes looked like blinks sometimes to Kieffer, fast and subtle. But, he couldn’t be sure. Wayne could be playing possum, waiting for the best time to reanimate. A broken Jack in the Box; its spring torn from its crank. Or—maybe—making a sick game out of Kieffer’s last moments alive.
Finally, the latch popped on the passenger door, and Kieffer slowly pushed it open, Wayne’s outline leaving his sight. Kieffer was certain that if he looked away, he would die. He had one foot out on the pavement when suddenly, he stopped.
From where he crouched, half-standing in the open doorway, he could see the red notebook lying on the dash in front of the wheel.
Taking no time to think, Kieffer held his breath as he leaned back into the car.
Creeping over the seat, he leaned across the dash. His fingertips barely reached. Now that he had the notebook, only one thing was left. His phone. Lucky for Kieffer, it had fallen from Wayne’s pocket and onto the floor. Arms just long enough to avoid Pinocchio’s wooden touch, Kieffer stretched over the center console.
Got it.
A little further ahead on the floor, he saw Wayne’s gun.
This is your chance! Grab the gun! Take him out!
And—for a second—Kieffer actually did lean back across the seat, fingers twitching along the floor for the cold steel of Wayne’s .38. But just as he was about to grab the barrel, he stopped. Kieffer knew he couldn’t shoot Wayne. He thought about taking it anyway, throwing it into the woods so Wayne couldn’t kill tonight, but that wouldn’t work either. His gun was a tool, not a means to his madness. It would take a lot more than that to stop The Doll Man. But if not death, then what?
Phone in hand—convinced his dick would get cut off any second—Kieffer climbed out backwards from his seat through the door. Safe under the halogen night, he checked his phone. Still working, full battery, but no signal. He’d have to walk until he got enough service to call for help.
Fuckin Verizon! Covered anywhere, my ass!
Still needing it for later, he shoved the cell back in his pocket and turned his attention to the notebook. Feeling the clock running down, Kieffer flipped to the last few pages. What he read on the second to last page, freshly scratched in new ink from earlier that night, held no surprise for him. It only confirmed what he already knew.
It's my move, Kieffer thought to himself as he tore out the last blank page and pulled the pen from the curly spine of the notebook. Better make it a good one.
Using the hard flatness of the hood, he jotted down his message. Spitting out his gum onto the front windshield, Kieffer stamped the wet wad with his fingers then pressed the note on top of it, careful not to wet or tear the paper.
Facing Wayne still petrified in the driver’s seat, the note read:
I have the book. Stay away or else. If anything happens to me or Ashley, THEY will find you.
T.D.M.
The purposeful use of The Doll Man's moniker would undoubtedly enrage Wayne. The symbol was an add
ed touch. Kieffer only hoped that it would make Wayne angry enough to give up his original plans for the night and chase him instead. The emphasis on the word They wasn't intentional on Kieffer’s part. Though, Wayne wouldn’t see it that way. Kieffer didn’t know why he chose to write that. For some reason, it just felt right.
As he ran out of the rest area heading north through the tree line, he prayed the wind didn't take his letter. He prayed to no one in particular as pavement turned to grass, cement to bark and leaves.
Crashing blindly through the brush, it finally dawned on Kieffer. He was playing a deadly game of checkers, each move bringing him closer to the end of the board. The stakes were too high for him to slip now. He had to keep moving.
As he pushed his way through the woods along the shoulder of the interstate, stumbling over branches while ducking from the passing lights of oncoming traffic, Kieffer thought to himself:
Shit, I should’ve learned to play chess instead.
Chapter 13
April 13, 2006
12:12 am
Hampden, Maine
Ashley woke to the crackled Tetris-themed ringtone of her cell. Still half-asleep, she felt the nightstand by her bed. Her eyes took a second to adjust against the harsh light of the tiny fluorescent screen. The sight of Kieffer’s name flashing in blocky letters knocked the sleep clean out of her head. What replaced it was a deep sense of worry.
Kieffer would never call this late... unless…
“Hello?” she answered, trying not to let her concern show. A thin static filled her ear, the muffled words on the other end barely discernable through the crinkly insectoid hum.
“Ashl—I need a fa–”
“Hello?” she repeated. “Kieffer, I can barely hear you.” Turning on her Invader Zim reading lamp she got from Wayne last year at Christmas, Ashley sprang from her bed and looked out the window. The stars, old and dull, twinkled down at her; the moon shone in its usual dusty glow. It was a clear night for as far as the eye could see. No rolling storm clouds to mess up the connection. That probably meant Kieffer wasn’t at home. But where?
Ashley listened to the hum of static, bracing herself for his voice from the other side.
“Kieffer, where are you??” She couldn’t hold the concern out any longer. A pang of nausea fluttered through her stomach as her Mom’s worried “Wherehaveyoubeenit’salmostmidnight” tone burned bright in every word. The question hung in the starched netting of static. She was about to repeat the question when his voice burst back through.
“–ou, texts aren't sending. Reception’s not gre— I-95 South. There’s been an accid–”
Still standing at the window, Ashley watched as her own darkened reflection faded. With the phone pinched between her ear and shoulder, she flung open her dresser drawers for new clothes.
“Accident? Where? Where on I-95 South??” Putting down the phone for only a second to slide on her hoody, Ashley was close to panic. She imagined the scene; a heap of crushed metal, beacons of black smoke and spilled oils tainting the air. In that burning heap of crumpled aluminum, bent driveshafts, and crispy bundles of flesh, Kieffer was using his last moments of life to call her. To say goodbye.
Wait a minute… doesn’t Wayne have some stupid conference or something? Oh my god… could he be involved? Like, a freak accident or multi-car pileup?
Rushing to conclusions, Ashley took a step back, trying hard to stop acting like a silly twat and think rationally. Kieffer was in trouble, that much was certain. But his voice sounded normal. Almost too normal. Specks of salt began to fall on the open nerve of her mistrust.
Tone is trivial. He’s probably in shock, lost in the bad connection. You can barely even hear his voice.
Near death or not, tone or no tone, it was obvious Kieffer was asking for help.
Just as Ashley was about to ask him again where he was, Kieffer’s voice came through one last time.
“–ot sure where I am. Walking up the inter— orry, but I didn’t kno–”
Suddenly the hum of static was gone. Ashley let the phone fall from her ear. The call had been lost.
Not wasting anymore time, she pulled on a pair of acid-washed jeans and crept downstairs to the kitchen. With the skills of a cat burglar she snatched her shoes and jacket. Slipping her mom’s keys from its hook by the back door, she entered the garage.
As she had done a handful of times in the past month, Ashley unlocked the garage door from the mechanical opener and lifted. After the door was all the way up, she waited a couple seconds for the sound of approaching footsteps from above, then used Sharon’s keys to unlock the Buick.
Ashley still had a driver’s permit, which only allowed her to drive with a guardian present. This was fine with Ashley, except Wayne and Sharon were never around when she wanted to drive. To be fair, they did ride with her a lot at first, but as soon as she passed her test and logged in her hours of supervised driving time, the ride alongs stopped. Between her schooling and their work schedules, no one ever had time. And with all the added drama in her life as of late, the need to feel the passing road was stronger than ever. Especially on those nights when sleep turned stale and the four walls of her bedroom seemed to swell in on her like hardwood tumors.
Until now she had only taken her mom’s car around the block. Just enough of a ride each time to calm herself down. Barely using any gas. Sharon never noticed, and if Wayne did he didn’t care enough to bust her for it. No harm, no foul. It wasn’t the act of driving that soothed Ashley’s nerves at night, but the feeling of being a free passenger. Hearing the lull of the engine. The rhythmic tick of the radiator. The gentle swaying sensation you get, like you’re floating on a current of air just centimeters from the ground. The action was secondary; the effect was what brought back the memories.
Memories of Dad.
When Ashley was a baby her dad used to take her on midnight car rides around town. Still a toddler, poor baby Ashley cried almost every night; face hot, gums throbbing from her first set of teeth coming in. The only thing that’d put baby Ashley to sleep was the car. So at least four times a week until she was two, her father would wrap her up like a Sunday picnic and head for the road. Although she no longer had any distinct memories of those times, that soothing feeling of an old comfort remained.
Letting off the clutch, she let the car roll silently out. Driveway set at a downward slant, Ashley felt the back-end gain momentum. The curb was coming. She cut the wheel, tires softly squeaking off the wet pavement. The dark square of Sharon’s second story bedroom window never left her sight. Ashley wondered whether she was doing the right thing. She had always told herself that she’d never fall in love and end up getting used up and tossed out like her mom. That sappy shit was for dandies and insufferable assholes who think life isn’t worth living unless you get shit on every once in a while. Not Ashley.
Then why are you going? You don’t know where he is… or who he’s with…
Ashley never considered this. Kieffer didn’t have his driver’s permit, and as far as she could tell didn’t want to drive. She did remember him mentioning once that his mom sometimes worked nights, but didn’t she drive to work? As soon as Ashley considered this, other questions rose from that plate.
Why’s he out so late so far away from town? Who’s he with? I thought I was his onl–”
Two houses down the Buick’s momentum slowed to a snail’s crawl. Ashley came back to her senses, brought the engine to life. Grinding into drive, she skidded across the road towards town. Stale, vented heat washing the inside of the windshield, she piloted her mom’s Buick along with one hand while wiping fresh tears away with the other.
When she saw the blue signs for I-95 South finally light up in her headlights, the well had gone dry.
On the interstate she drove as slow as she could, almost causing two rear-end collisions forgetting to signal on the offramp. The north and south interstate stretched the entire length of Maine, nearly three hundred miles from end to end. One l
ong zipper right down the middle. Ashley had no idea where Kieffer was on this stretch. She was coming from Exit 180 and moving backwards. That left way too much space between her and the Piscataqua River Bridge at the Maine/New Hampshire border. From where she was there was over a hundred and fifty miles of trees, road, trailers and moose in either direction.
That’s love for ya. A single planet of white sand and crumbled rock. A place where it rains sweat and tears, the volcanoes and geysers spew curdled continents of jizzum. It spreads, hardens in the winds of empty promises. You’re either stranded in the middle of it all alone, dying of exposure, or running through the starched grey deserts with another stranded body, looking for nourishment and meaning. And you might find it. A little bit, anyway. But, not enough for the both of you. There almost never is.
Cars whizzed by impatiently as Ashley rode the yellow line, head swaying back and forth searching the hills and trees.
As she passed the exit for Brunswick/Fairfield a dense shape got caught in the right corner of her headlights; a huddled mass squatting by the right shoulder of the road. Without thinking Ashley slammed on the brakes, veering the car over to the right just in time to avoid a passing pick-up truck. Its horn blared at her as she hit the blinker and skidded to a stop.
She flung open the driver side door and jumped into the road. Turning back towards the dark body, she was blinded by an approaching light. Tires and metal flew by, a speeding semi narrowly missing her. Its passing winds tugged at Ashley’s hair and clothes, but she stood her ground. She treaded against it, running up the road. The shape, now the definite outline of a body, was tinted red from the flow of her brake lights.
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