Nightmare Ballad

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

  For all this, there would be no mending.

  Chapter 19

  Johnny’s head was blank.

  Blanker than usual, he thought dryly. He’d decided to stay at his house for a bit, rather than book the cabin in Big Bear. Fuckin’ thing was expensive, and it would have turned out to be for nothing, because he hadn’t heard the ballad, not a single note since that awful night. His contingency plan was to get on the road if it came back—he wasn’t an asshole—he knew that those people at the plant died because of the danger he brought. Now their faces went through his mind, from that young kid Grover all the way back to Mouse Stedding. Johnny hadn’t liked those men, to their faces. Secretly though, the idea they’d been taken from this world, lives ended because of him, just about brought him to his knees. They weren’t bad people. Some of them had even taken the time to try to know him, maybe understand him, too. He should have done the same in return. He’d always planned to, but so much time passed that he let it all go. Story of his life.

  Sitting here, on his sofa, watching Looney Tunes marathons, it was all he could do to keep from slitting his wrists.

  Then there was Mandy. His heart had so long been occupied with memories of Lisa that he’d forgotten about the Johnny Cruz before her. He was a younger man, full of hope about his new job at CRR Motorcycles. Goddamn immortal. He’d conquer the world with his babe by his side. The notion that he’d ever be reunited with her had to be the most farfetched thing from that nightmare, and holy shit were there a lot to choose from. He expected her reaction in seeing him—actually thought it’d be stronger, but she was as nightmare-drunk as those cops were—expected her to run screaming from him, in fact. Yet, in spite of knowing all that, Johnny couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pain by how she’d recoiled. They had been in love, too, once before. Hadn’t they?

  Daffy Duck got his face blown off. Johnny took a sip of warm Tecate and wiped a drop away from his mustache. From there he touched the scabs on his face and shifted around to feel the others across his chest, back, ass, and thighs. The head of his dick was raw. He couldn’t remember where those came from and felt at peace with that particular amnesia. The different positions, the moans, the pain and pleasure, those he did remember, but not fondly. Several times he’d sat at his computer to jerk off to his favorite booty site, but all the naked bodies made his skin crawl.

  The first night he’d gone to sleep, although he didn’t hear the song anymore, he feared it would return while he was sleeping, or just before nodding off and then he’d be unable to defend himself. Just in case, he had his old shotgun, but no shells for it. Used all of them to blow away a manikin he’d found in the headworks at the sewer plant. That was a good day, and he had no regrets about using up the ammo until now.

  Nothing happened the first night though.

  The second night, he wondered if he’d have any normal nightmares and die of a heart attack, thinking them the real thing. Again, nothing happened. Some End of The World this turned out to be.

  He wasn’t convinced things were back to normal, even if his edginess had gone down a few notches. Now and again he checked his work phone. There were a couple messages from Luke. Mostly updates about Dara. He had sent a text late last night, warm and drunk as a horny skunk: GLAD SHES DOIN GOOD. That’s about as good as it got from Johnny Cruz. You sure as hell weren’t going to receive a “get well” bouquet.

  Luke knew as much and likely didn’t expect hugs and kisses. Still, that guy always gave him a chance. For a long time Johnny thought about giving the bike he was working on to Beltran. Maybe he’d give it to Luke instead. After all, his kid probably wouldn’t accept anything from him.

  He glanced at his phone once more.

  “You sorry son of a bitch,” he whispered. All this time, he was hoping he’d get a call back from Professor Charles Reinhardt. The douche probably wouldn’t recognize the number, but Johnny hoped he might return the call, something like Hey, were you trying to reach me the other night? Beltran’s here. Would you like to talk to him?

  Johnny had let the phone ring a couple times that night before hanging up. It was pretty goddamn sad, too, because he actually felt accomplishment in waiting that long. He didn’t want to answer to his son. He didn’t want to hear what the eight year old had to say. Because he knew it couldn’t be good. In that split second before cowardice got the best of him, Johnny had all his words planned out. “I know you don’t love me, kid. I appreciate that because you have every right. Just don’t hate me, okay? Remember that we were once friends, you and I. We slow danced to Iron Maiden that one time in the living room and…we laughed so hard we almost wet ourselves. Didn’t we? You can’t hate somebody you laughed liked that with. Not totally. Right? But like I said, I understand and so, now, I’ve got to go. I love you and always will.”

  This is what really bugged the shit out of Johnny. Did he hang up because he was afraid to recite his speech? Or because he had hopes this wasn’t the end of the world? Did he believe it was possible? What if this nightmare was some kind of glitch in the universe that had come and gone? Life would go on as it had before. No more get rich schemes. He’d find another city job, save some money, get his shop. Maybe when Beltran was eighteen, he’d get a wild-hair and move out to California to live with his old man. Crazier shit had happened.

  Compulsively, Johnny stroked his bandito mustache and took the remote off the arm rest. Probably the first time the cartoon channel had been changed in days. He put on the news to clear his mind.

  Stupid mistake.

  A bug-eyed reporter, who could have been anything from Japanese to Hispanic to Italian for all Johnny fuckin’ knew, gestured at the sewer plant with an open hand, pawing the air. The plant probably looked abandoned to someone who’d never seen it before. The reporter said in a meandering tone, “Petunia Stedding’s father, George, and mother, Alice, had worked here until their recent tragic deaths at a community swimming pool, unfortunately overtaken by frogmen. Now, in a horrible chain of reaction from grief, Petunia was found floating in the plant’s aerator ponds, dead. She’d been at the plant with her grandmother to collect some of her father’s belongings…tragically also, the grandmother suffered a seizure and heart attack, possibly from the acute stress of witnessing Petunia jump in. Some people had suggested the Alien invader who killed the other plant workers also had a hand in Petunia’s death, but there is no evidence to support thi—”

  Johnny flipped the channel away and stopped when the picture of the old steel mill came on screen.

  Another stupid mistake.

  A blonde reporter spoke into the microphone as the wind tossed her hair over her face. “Strangely, the husband and wife, Michelle and Bruce Gamble, had recently rented another U-Haul trailer and yet were found dead near this one instead.”

  Shot of the U-Haul and various jagged spear-holes through its driver side door. Beyond it, the entire yard of crates looked to have been crushed under a single mighty foot. Having a coliseum fall on top of you will do that. In the background of the video, Johnny made out the shape of some of the coliseum’s stonework against the mill, bits that had survived once the nightmare lifted. They had made it through. What else had made it through?

  “Both died of internal injuries, indicating puncture wounds, but bizarrely there was no trauma to their skin, as though they were stabbed from within. In addition to these atrocious deaths, a ring of dog fighters, known as the Inland Mixx, were found brutalized nearby, at first thought of to be caused from an explosion, judging by the condition of the yard. However, early reports about the presence of fertilizer do not substantiate this since no ignition device was found on the premises. The injuries of the deceased are now being considered as animal inflicted.”

  Grainy photograph shot of a middle-aged man with bad teeth and an obvious chestnut-brown toupee to complement a dirty blonde mustache. “Edward Jacobs, a local Riverside oral surgeon, was found dead a few blocks away from the catastrophe at the storage yard. Detectives have
confirmed for us that his injuries are indeed the cause of a dog attack. From the wounds to the neck and face, this would be a large dog—”

  Click.

  Black screen.

  Johnny’s hand hung suspended in the air, remote control pointed. He let it slip from his fingers and it hit the carpet. A moment later, he allowed his arm to fall to his lap. Enough time had passed. The music hadn’t returned. If he heard a peep, there was still the cabin and enough money left on the Visa card. He couldn’t rot in this house a moment longer.

  Shasta’s awaited. Where everybody didn’t give three fucks what your name was, but still wanted a reminder other people in this world did exist; even if you were a waste of good oxygen, you could likely find someone worse off than you.

  Johnny felt dizzy as he slid off the couch. He’d ordered three pizzas and had been living off those and lime-chili Ramen. It all burned in his stomach now, clashing with the tequila. Disregarding the unpleasant sensation as best he could, he waddled to the garage, opened the door and flipped on the light. Rebuilding and modifying his bike had been the only thing keeping him from becoming a goddamn Warner Bros. cartoon these days. Since he already had most of the parts he needed, he’d made a lot of progress. He’d put off these mods for the last two years, buying the stuff, but being a lazy fuck about hunkering down and installing them. Last night on an internet forum he’d found an awesome tank lift and ignition/coil relocation. After he did that and farted around with the headlight a little more, the bike would be better than new.

  But still not as unnaturally badass as that nightmare version had been.

  For now, he didn’t feel much like chancing some of his drunken welds from last night. It would be better to do a test run around the neighborhood later. That would mean taking the bus again. Whatever. Probably better not to drive drunk without a headlight anyway. All this nightmare shit was making an honest man of him.

  Johnny took a quick shower. He didn’t even do his usual routine, a disgusted once-over in the mirror of how fat he was. Borrowed time, remember, shit bird. Freedom is death. Death is freedom. Just not as fun. He had to chuckle at that. Did being a blubbery fuck even matter, though? Of course it didn’t. Everybody would be dead soon. Fat or thin.

  He did a piss-poor job of drying his long hair, which he typically put more effort into—chicks, when there were chicks, found his shiny Indian hair attractive, and from there, with enough drinks in them, just settled for the rest of Johnny Cruz. Maybe now that he had perfect vision and didn’t have to wear those thick as shit eyeglasses, he might be able to work more magic than usual.

  Yeah right. You wouldn’t know what to do with them if that even did happen.

  In his post-shower hastiness he left a wet stripe down his black KILLSWITCH ENGAGE t-shirt, but since it was still pretty much an inferno outdoors right now, he didn’t worry about that because it’d probably be traded for sweat by the time he reached the bar. At least he had a freshly laundered (and thank Christ looser fitting) pair of cargo shorts to wear.

  The bus didn’t smell like ass. And that might have been a good thing, but it smelled like balls instead. No matter how you described it, the stuffy-fuckiness he had to breathe on the way to Shasta’s did nothing to improve the bubble of bleh in his stomach.

  Grease would be the only thing to help. He kept focused on that all the way to the bar.

  “Loaded potato skins,” he said, scooting in on the stool.

  The bartender was new, an older man. His face looked as worn and creased as Johnny’s soul felt.

  “You from around here?” the man asked, writing his order on the tab.

  “Uh yeah, I come here all the time.”

  “Really? Well I’m glad you’re back. The place is under new ownership and we run a different show. Don’t let nobody tell you otherwise.”

  Holy shit. So used to his habits, Johnny had come right back to the site of a nightmare. You stupid son of a bitch! What the hell had he been thinking? What if this set off another one?

  Johnny began to rise out of his seat, panicking. The old man frowned and surveyed him. Calm your ass down. There’s no music. The ballad’s gone. Chill fucker. Chill.

  Johnny pretended he was just getting comfortable. He did check the back booths for those Bone Men. Empty. Like the rest of the place.

  “I don’t believe in that stuff anyway,” he told the man.

  “What stuff?”

  “The stuff that happened here.”

  The man lowered his voice and leaned into the bar. “Well, I’m sorry to bring up the bleak, but there’s no sense in not talking about it. I don’t know how it happened, but the poisonings are sadly true. At least, that’s all the autopsies could point to. Most of our regulars died after some sort of day-long party, so it must have been minute doses taken over a long period. The bartenders died the same way, and Jim Clevates, the owner, wasn’t even in the state so he knows nothing about it. The families of the customers are no help. They just figure it is what it is. Anyway, Jim’s a friend, and I used to come to this pub when it was Lucky’s.”

  “Yup, remember it then, too.”

  The man nodded and looked around in desperation. “I’d hate to see this place get shut down for good. I hope we can salvage the name and keep going.”

  Johnny swallowed and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.” The man’s voice rose. He glanced around, a man surveying the spoiled landscape of a sacred area. “Me, too.”

  “Well, I’m here.”

  A calm smile entered the man’s face. “That you are. Tell your friends.”

  “I’ll tell them,” said Johnny, with a smile of his own.

  A few wannabe bikers shambled in, leather squeaking and heavy feet clomping. “A squirrel trying to get a butt-fuck,” said one with a shaved head to a cadaverous man with slicked back red hair. This man chuckled politely but obviously didn’t find the joke funny.

  “Hi, guys,” said the bartender. “Menus?”

  “Nah. How much are your pitchers of Bud?”

  “On special. Seven bucks.”

  The red-haired whistled.

  “Just two glasses,” said the shaved head.

  “You sure? That’d be six bucks. Pitcher holds about four and half pints. Better deal.”

  “I said two glasses, old timer.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “You know it. Hey, put on the TV. Isn’t there a game on?”

  “Don’t think so, but here.” The bartender picked up the remote, and an old tube TV flickered on over the row of Scotch. He looked back at Johnny. “You decide yet?”

  I sure as fuck don’t want a glass of Time or Death.

  They’re the same drink….

  “I’ll have a pitcher of Tecate with those skins.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Tecate?” the red haired guy piped up. “Mexican piss water, how can you stand that stuff?”

  Johnny ignored the bait and watched the TV. It was the news station he’d been watching earlier. And the hits kept coming.

  “Authorities have now identified the body in the foothills near the treatment plant as that of Lisa Gwendolyn Reinhardt, a Flagstaff woman who once lived in the area with her son. Reinhardt had succumbed to diabetes several years ago and was buried in Arizona, where her family still lives today. The grave site at the Calvary Cemetery has not been disturbed, leading some to believe her body was never actually buried there and an investigation with the cemetary is underway. Her husband, Charles Reinhardt, a professor at the University of Flagstaff, openly shunned the media in the past during a school protest, and has again not made himself available for interview.”

  That’s good Charlie, thought Johnny. Keep those reporters away from my Beltran. He doesn’t need those assholes reminding him his mommy is gone…and especially not that she resurfaced, like this.

  The bartender set down his pitcher and a glass. Johnny quietly thanked him and expertly poured one. Then drank it down by
half.

  “Thirsty man,” said the red-haired biker.

  “Somewhat,” answered Johnny.

  “What’s up, brother? How’d you get so tore up? Cecil, check out his face and arms. What’s that look like to you?”

  Johnny grunted. “You guys knock it off. Leave me be. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, he knows. He’s got us all figured out. Mister…. Mister…help me out, Cecil.”

  “Shit, man,” said shaved head. “Mister Cat Scratch fever. What the fuck did happen to you, big boy?”

  Johnny looked over his glass. “Give it a rest.”

  The guy raised his tattooed hands. “It’s all good brother. It’s all good. Just bustin’ your berries.”

  “Bet his old woman did up his face like that!” said the red-haired asshole.

  Shaved head’s mouth opened for a nice, wide laugh, just as Johnny’s pitcher of beer shattered in his face. Johnny jumped up and dove into both men, taking the stools down with them amid shards of glass and beer suds. Events suddenly ran together: he was punching one of them in the face; he couldn’t tell who at first because of the blood; driving his fist down; the stinging bruising breaking madness in his knuckles feeling so wonderfully wonderous and again and over and once more; and he was being kicked in the side and punched in the head, and oh it was the shaved haired guy he was punching; how great because Johnny didn’t like his asshole smile or his asshole face.

  Then something split across the back of his head and the lights went out.

  Opening one eye was terribly difficult.

  The world appeared in a thin slice and dropped to nothing.

  Johnny did this probably fifty times before the slice widened.

  He could see the bars and the corridor. He’d been here before. The Riverside drunk tank down at the station. At least he was alone, and the cell was clean. His head throbbed under an ace bandage wound tightly around his head. He heard something click down the hall…but it wasn’t in the hall; rather, this sound was, in his head. Faint, but undeniable.