Lot Lizards

by Ray Garton

  Jon felt a chill inside his chest, as if his lungs had frozen. He realized his fists were clenched in his lap and his entire body was tense. He was afraid he might get sick. He decided that was understandableunder the circumstances. After sixteen years of looking up to his dad, a good man, a strong, warm and solid man, he was now having to adjust to the fact that his dad had completely lost his mind. His dad was insane.

  "There was a hitchhiker," Dad went on quietly. "A girl. Young. I picked her up. I... hurt her. But I didn't kill her. I don't think I did, anyway. I tried hard just to take what I needed, then I left her beside the road. Unconscious."

  Jon had to swallow a lump of nausea in his throat before he spoke: "God, Dad, you, I mean, do you hear what you're—"

  "But I haven't done it again/' he added quickly. "And I won't. I get it in other ways. I don't want to hurt anyone. So I... I take it from animals. Or I steal it. From a hospital or a blood bank. But not people, Jonny. I won't hurt anymore people." Bill rubbed his eyes wearily with one hand and massaged the back of his neck with another before he continued. "But lately... well, I haven't been feeling too well, lately. Not sure what's wrong, either. Just feels sorta like...like I've got a bad case of the flu all the time. Or worse, maybe. I don't know." He shook his head as his voice faded into a whisper.

  Tears spilled down Jon's cheeks. He started to reach for his dad's hand but pulled back, unable to touch him. His voice was thick when he spoke: "Dad, you...you've gotta see a doctor. Really. Right away. There's gotta be a, a, a hospital here, right? Somewhere close, right? We could take you into emer—"

  "A doctor can't help me, Jon. Do you know what they would do if they found out what I am? Do you know?"

  "Dad, you don't you know that, Dad, there's no—" He had to stop, take a breath. "Listen to yourself, Dad. Remember when I was a little kid and you'd let me watch Creature Features even though you knew you'd be up all night telling me it was just a movie, that there was no such thing as ghosts and monsters and...Dad, you...you need help." He turned away quickly, ashamed of what he'd said and not wanting his dad to see him crying. He felt cold fingers on his chin, felt his dad turn his face around until they were looking at one another again. Jon tried to pull away, couldn't bear to see him, to see what had happened to his eyes and face, but Dad's grip was strong.

  "Look at me," Dad said. "Jonny. Look at me, Jon. Look."

  Jon wiped a tear from his eye and looked at Dad. Watched him as he opened his mouth slowly, opened it farther and farther. He saw something move in Dad's mouth, two somethings, lowering in his mouth, extending downward. Two teeth. Incisors. Growing as his mouth opened. Sliding from his gum like a snake's fangs. Needle points glistening with saliva.

  Jon began to cry like a baby.

  Bill was quick to calm his son down, holding him and assuring him there was nothing to be afraid of; though at first Jon struggled and refused to listen, he returned Bill's embrace after a few moments and begged him to see a doctor, to get help, to do something about whatever disease had done this to him. Bill said again that, although he still did not fully understand his condition, he was certain a doctor could do nothing.

  They talked a while longer and Bill tried to change the subject; Jon told him more about Grandma's stroke and the wreck they had and Bill asked him about the girls, about his friends back home and, of course, about A.J.—Bill's pet name for Adelle Janine—whom he was sure was somewhere in the truck stop at that moment, worried about Jon, wondering where he was and, considering their chilly relationship, wondering if he' d perhaps just left, caught a ride with someone and taken off.

  "You've got to go back inside, Jon."

  "Come with me."

  The words made Bill ache. "I can't," he whispered. "You know that."

  "Then let me stay with you!"

  He simply shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. Then: "C'mon, I'll walk you. There're a few more things I want to tell you."

  Outside, their feet crunching through the crusty snow beside the road, Bill said, "You've got to promise me something, Jonny. You can't tell your mother you saw me. No matter what."

  The boy said nothing, but seemed to understand, to know the kind of trouble that would cause; or maybe he didn't speak because he'd had the wind knocked out of him by it all and was still stunned into silence.

  "Can I see you again later?" he asked after a bit. "We're gonna be here a while, you know. Probably all night. I could come out after I eat, tell Mom I'm gonna play video games or go look around or something and come out—"

  "No. No, Jon, don't go outside. Listen to me." They stopped in the middle of the parking lot and faced one another in the falling snow. "Remember the girl I told you about? The girl who bit me? And the man who drove the truck?"

  He nodded.

  "They're here. Tonight. In fact, there are two trucks. That's why I'm here. To find them."

  "Whuh...what're you gonna do?"

  "Well, I'm...not sure yet. But if they did this to me, then they've done it to others. And will probably do it to more. I've been following them. It hasn't been easy because I can't start driving until dusk and have to stop at dawn. They drive during the day. Which means the driver isn't...he's not like me. Like them."

  Something changed in the boy's face; his eyes narrowed and his lower lip tucked between his teeth slightly. It was a thoughtful, scheming look. "What'd you say he looked like?"

  Firmly: "You listen to me, Jonathan, you just stay with your mother. Don't even think about it, you hear me? Stay out of it."

  "You said he was fat and ugly and smelled bad."

  "Goddammit, boy, I'm still your dad and I'll whip your—"

  "Does he have really bad teeth?"

  Bill's tongue froze mid-sentence and he stared at his son, then nodded slowly.

  "He's inside. I saw him. With another guy. They came in right behind us and the first guy was talking real loud about this bloody mess in the store."

  "Bloody mess?"

  "There was a fight and some guy bashed in another guy's nose. There was blood all over the floor and this fat smelly guy saw it and said to his friend to...to, um..." He clenched his eyes and thought hard, "...he said something like, 'Go make sure they don't come in here 'cause this'll drive 'em crazy,' something like that."

  Bill moved closer to him, suddenly tense. "Did you see them again? Where did they go?"

  "No. I don't know. I came out here right after we got a table because—" He froze, jaw slack.

  "What? Because why?"

  Jon told him of the girl he'd seen outside the window, the girl with the big eyes and pale skin who had disappeared so quickly.

  Bill clutched Jon's shoulders and said, "You listen to me, boy. See my face? See my skin? While you're here, you don't go anywhere near anyone who looks like me, man or woman. You steer clear of anybody who looks sick or even a little suspicious, you hear me?" He was squeezing Jon's shoulders tightly, shaking him a little.

  Jon's eyes widened a little fearfully as he nodded.

  "And don't go off by yourself. Stay with your mother and...what's his name? Her boyfriend?"

  "Doug."

  "Yeah. You stay with them. And keep an eye on your sisters."

  "I'm...not gonna see you again?"

  Bill wrapped his arms around his son and whispered, "I'll be here. I'll be watching you. I won't be far away. You...yeah, you might see me again," he lied. He didn't want that. Never again. It hurt too much. "You might. Now. Get back inside and apologize to your mom for running off." He slapped Jon's back, turned him toward the building and gave him a little shove.

  In the distance, a siren mourned.

  After a few steps, Jon turned back.

  "Go on. Get some dinner. The food's good here, remember?"

  Jon nodded, then hurried inside with his head down.

  Bill watched him disappear in the crowded foyer, then relaxed, no longer trying to hide the heaviness he felt; his shoulders slumped and he teetered a bit on his feet, stumbl
ing to maintain his balance.

  He headed toward the restaurant's windows, weaving between the cars, staying in the shadows. Within weeks of contracting his illness—that was how he thought of it, an "illness," because with it came things that he feared would get out of control, or take control, if he thought of it in anything approaching positive terms—he'd discovered his ability to remain unseen. Darkness had become his natural element and he was drawn to it like a shark to deep waters; in shadow, he became a shadow, and moved with more agility without so much as a breath or a blink to betray his presence. He found the shadows now, followed them without a thought, moving through them as smoothly as blood through an artery, until he was standing just a couple feet from the first window.

  Pulsing red and blue light from behind made Bill spin around; a police car was pulling into the parking lot. Probably because of the fight, he thought, turning to the window again. When he spotted Jon inside, weaving through the crowd, Bill followed him, moving fluidly through the shadows, until Jon reached their booth by the window.

  And there they were. A.J. and Dara and Cece and...Doug. Bill wondered how they'd met and, although he'd never seen him before, he wondered if A.J. had known Doug before she and Bill split up. If she'd known him well... if maybe Doug had been her reason for not coming back to Bill the last time...

  Jon started to scoot in beside Cece and Doug and—

  —he stopped. His eyes were locked on something behind A.J. His lips were parted and he was stooped forward, frozen in a half-sitting position.

  Bill followed his gaze to the next booth where two fat ugly men sat eating sloppily, chewing with their mouths open, food clinging to their lips.

  The Carsey Brothers...

  CHAPTER 9

  When Byron looked out the window and saw the police car drive up, he thought immediately of David and headed toward the rear exit.

  David Pike worked on the gas island, a nice enough kid, twenty-one or -two, with a thin beard that failed to cover the scattered pocks left over from high school acne. Byron liked him and they sometimes had coffee on their break. But only when David wasn't off with some girl, usually one of the lot lizards, which, of course, was a strictly forbidden activity for the employees and which, because he thought David was an okay guy, concerned Byron. David had a problem holding down jobs—which was understandable considering his preoccupation with anything in a skirt—and Byron was afraid he'd be losing this one soon if he wasn't more careful.

  About twenty minutes ago or so, Byron had been mopping the floor in front of the fuel desk and had looked out the window to see David talking with a young girl by the gas tanks. She didn't appear to be buying gas and, judging by their posture and the way David was smiling, she wasn't asking directions either. And Byron had seen enough lot lizards come and go in the truck stop—scruffy, haggard girls, usually gaunt and frail looking—to know this girl wasn't just looking for a nice word and a smile. At the time, he'd continued mopping, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, hoping the boy didn't push his luck too far.

  Then, as he was cleaning up a spilled Coke in the travel store, he saw the police car and thought of David again. The cop was no doubt coming in response to the call regarding the man who'd been attacked with a flashlight earlier, but there was always the chance he might stroll out back and take a look around after that was cleared up.

  Peering out the window opposite the fuel desk, Byron couldn't see David. He clicked his tongue again, shook his head again and said to one of the girls behind the desk, "Lynda, I'm gonna be outside for just a second in case somebody wants me, okay?"

  She nodded and Byron passed the bank of payphones, leaning his mop against the wall, and went outside, shivering as he stepped into the cold snowy night. Lee Russell, a pot bellied fellow with a bulbous nose that gave away all the drinking he did on his days off, was making change for a customer who had just filled up.

  "Hey, Lee!" Byron called.

  He looked over his shoulder and nodded in acknowledgement.

  "Where's David?"

  "I dunno, he took an early break, can you believe that? Again!" To the customer, an older man in an overcoat and fedora: "You have a good night now. But if I was you, I'd sit it out for a while."

  The man shook his head, jingling his car keys; he looked grumpy. "No, I'm going to turn around and head back. Just wasting time here."

  Lee shrugged and said, "Suit yourself." Then to Byron again: "He went out toward the shop, I think." Holding his elbows close to his sides, extending his forearms and doubling both fists, Lee thrust his pelvis forward a couple times and said, "Know what I mean?"

  Byron nodded; he knew. And he knew exactly where to find David. There was a small cement-floored room behind the shop with a table, chairs, a rickety sofa, an old black and white rabbit-eared television and a refrigerator. Sometimes when business was slow, the guys would go back there and play cards, drink Cokes and smoke a lot. That was where David always went when he wanted a little privacy with one of the lizards, and Byron was sure he was there now, probably on the sofa with his pants down around his ankles.

  Byron headed that way, pulling out his key ring and finding the key that would open that back room, because he knew David would have it locked. Going through the shop, Byron passed Buddy Pritchard, one of the mechanics, hunching under the hood of a Mack. "David come through here?" he asked.

  "Yup. In the back. But I don't think he wants anymore company," the mechanic chuckled, never turning away from his work.

  Without pausing, Byron went to the door in the dark narrow corridor in back and slipped the key in, opening it without knocking. He figured maybe a surprise visit would shake the boy up a little, make him think twice next time.

  "David?" he said, stepping inside. "We got a cop out fruh—"

  The only light came from a small covered lamp on the card table. David sat on the sofa with his head leaning back and arms limp at his sides. His pants were around his ankles, just as Byron had expected, and the girl he'd seen through the window earlier was kneeling between David's legs, slurping.

  But something was wrong.

  David was panting. His chest was heaving up and down in rapid piston-like rhythm and his mouth and eyes were open wide. Too wide. Not the kind of a wide that comes with pleasure but with fear or pain. And the girl, who didn't react to Byron's presence for a moment, held David's cock in her fist, pounding frantically, holding it to the side so it was out of the way of her face, which was buried in the fold of flesh between David's thigh and groin. Her head moved up and down, back and forth, and the noise she made...such a loud, thick sound, like a calf sucking its mother's tit.

  And David continued to pant, unaware of Byron. He looked so pale in the poor light.

  Feeling bad now, regretting the intrusion, Byron repeated, "David, there's a cop out—"

  The girl spun around, dark hair flying about her face with the sudden movement.

  Something dribbled from her mouth. Something dark.

  It was on David's leg, too, smeared there like jam on toast.

  David kept panting...panting and panting...

  Byron said quietly, "What in theee fuck—"

  The girl dove. She shot across the room like an attacking dog, bloody hands outstretched, mouth yawning open and eyes narrowed to black cuts. And something else, something impossible, something ridiculous. She had—

  —fangs. They were long and curved and red with David's blood and they seemed to grow longer as her lips pulled back and her mouth opened wider. She hissed—an awful sound, colder than the snow outside—and her palms struck Byron's chest and slammed him back against a four foot high bookshelf full of grimy thick binders, grease stained telephone books and catalogs, and his lungs emptied under the force of her blow. He slid to the floor and fell on his side in front of the open door, clutching his chest and fighting for a breath, just one breath, but his lungs did not seem to be there anymore and—

  —the girl closed her fists around his shirt a
nd—

  —No, Byron thought as his scalp shriveled, no, she can't do this, she's too tiny, just a tiny little thing, just a kid, she can't, she just can't, SHE CAN'T BE FUCKIN' DOIN’ THIS! —

  —she lifted him off the cement floor, his whole body, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him, just swept him up and threw him across the room, and—

  —Byron hit the back of the sofa with a monstrous thud, pounding the whole sofa against the wall, then he rolled to the floor at David's feet. He was getting up instantly, rising to his knees and turning toward the door, but—

  —the girl was gone.

  Gagging as he tried to breathe, Byron half-crawled to the door, leaning against the doorjamb as he pulled himself to his feet and leaned out to look down the corridor and into the shop.

  Buddy was still working on the truck. The girl was not there.

  Byron tried to speak several times before he actually made a sound and when he did, his voice was like rusty pipes: "Stuh-stop that guh-girl! Stopper!"

  Buddy looked at Byron distractedly. "Huh? What?"