Peel Back the Skin

by Anthony Rivera

  And never ever underestimate the importance of distance. More is always better than less in this game. Looking up in the rearview every few seconds, I know I'm not on the side of better.

  For a second I wish I chose wits. The second passes, though, and I know I made the right call. There is no way I'd win wits.

  Because there are no escape routes when battling wits. Not with him.

  He knows all the tricks, and I don't have the mental capabilities I once had. This is his playground, and I'm just a tourist. A constant tourist. One who's tired.

  I don't engage anymore. I've let my wits atrophy. I replaced them with fear. I was lucky to get away last week. Used a turn of phrase to win. Never again.

  Enough.

  Check the rearview again. Not much traffic behind me. A few sets of headlights, mostly trucks hauling freight. Not him. Not yet.

  But he's coming. He always comes. And I always run.

  The minutes pass. The miles pass. Mississippi passes. I'm in Louisiana. I'm tired. I'm weak. My attention drifts. Still a few headlights behind me, but not him. Not yet.

  On the bridge spanning the Atchafalaya Swamp. Too dark to see anything below. Like flying over the abyss. But I can smell it, damp and stagnant. Eternal yet ever-changing.

  And not enough exits.

  I see the headlights.

  Coming fast.

  Him.

  Not much else to do but smirk because this is my fault. He stayed far enough back not to be noticed and waited until I made it onto the two-lane causeway. No real shoulders. A few turn-offs and U-turns, but, for the most part, nothing but a straight line for eighteen miles. Eighteen miles of bridge and swamp and the two of us along with a few others. At least there won’t be many casualties this time.

  The lights close to within two car lengths but no closer. He's matching my speed, daring me to move first. My Challenger has enough horses to do some damage, but nothing compared to what his heavily-modified Shelby can do.

  I can't outrun him.

  I can't out-muscle him.

  And I'm too weak to outsmart him.

  Well, what the hell does that leave?

  My smirk broadens into a full-fledged grin.

  Easy. Piss him off.

  Check my speed. A nice and legal sixty-five. Perfect.

  Then I slam on the brakes.

  I watch in the rearview as the bright reds illuminate his surprised face. I hear the screech of his own rubber as he does the same. Swerves right to avoid me. I anticipate and swerve right with him, forcing him to reverse hard over to the left. Don't know how, but he misses my back bumper and narrowly avoids the left rail of the bridge. I accelerate, pushing up to seventy and then eighty before re-sighting him.

  Shit. He's recovered fast. Already corrected and closing.

  We've done this too many times.

  I look ahead. No signs for exits or turnabouts. No land between east and west sections of the bridge. It's just us, racing.

  He stays directly behind me, about eight car lengths. He won't make the same mistake twice. Instead, he matches my speed, comfortable to stay in pursuit mode.

  What's his game? Is he baiting me into something? Or is he just bored and trying to drag this out all night?

  I look over on the passenger seat. The cardboard box sits there. In it, a .45, an Uzi and a couple of grenades. Don't want to use either gun. Hell, I can't, not with him behind me. He knows that. I'd love to use the grenades, especially since there's no traffic on the bridge, but I don't want to cause damage to the bridge and end up killing someone by accident later. I wonder if a grenade would really do all that much damage to reinforced concrete. I doubt it.

  I save it for later and look back to the rearview. Still right where I left him.

  Up ahead in the right lane, taillights. Small, round ones. Hard to tell what kind of car. A few more seconds and I realize it's the back of a semi hauling a trailer.

  An engine roars.

  Not mine.

  His.

  He's deduced my plan before I could put form to it. He knows, damn it.

  Before I can hit the left lane and blow by the semi, he's parallel to me, pinning me behind the truck and blocking me from any maneuver.

  Except slamming on the brakes.

  But he knows that, too. That's why he's got a Glock raised and pointed at my head. For some reason I notice his passenger window's down. Like he had planned it all along to go this way.

  Before I can put the brake pedal through the floor, he's firing.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  The first hits my driver side window, turning the safety glass into a mosaic. The second shatters it and hits my left deltoid. I keep my left hand on the wheel and my right on the emergency brake.

  The brake pedal turns to mush and he's flying by me. Ready to yank up on the emergency and flipped this bitch one-eighty and incinerate asphalt in the opposite direction, but not before the third bullet hits below my left arm. It tears through my armpit and hits something. Pieces of shrapnel head south toward my lungs, toward my heart.

  I wish I was strong enough to bite down and bear it, but I've never been that way. Instead, I scream and jerk the wheel right-left-right. Fight hard not to lose control. Blink away tears. The reds of the semi's lights blur and I hear him downshift. See him pull up alongside me again. He readies to fire again.

  I let go of the emergency brake. Death-grip one of the grenades. Pop the pin free with my thumb and chuck it. I don't look before I throw. I don't have to. I know I've got him.

  I accelerate, hitting fifth gear fast. In the rearview he swerves and rear-ends the semi. The driver's door pops open and he’s rolling hard on the asphalt. The Shelby makes it another twenty feet before turning the swamp orange and yellow.

  No cheering. No fist pumping. Because even though he's on foot now, he's still coming. And I'm bleeding and hurting. And it’s a long time until sunrise.

  As I cough blood and fight to keep my eyes open, I realize for the first time in a long time I might not make it. For the first time in a long time, he can afford to wait and see. For the first time in a long time, I may be fucked.

  * * *

  Coughing blood. Left eye closed. Right hand barely gripping the wheel. I pulled off the I-10 hours ago out of fear of being pulled over for driving too slow. Out of fear he would catch up and finish my ass off.

  Reaching Baton Rouge, I took side roads. Back roads. Empty roads. Anything where I could drive twenty-five and not attract attention. Neighborhoods. Business parks. I didn't fear him in this territory. I only feared missing sunrise.

  At five in the morning, I hit the road again, taking the 49 toward Shreveport. Good open country. Lots of tall grass and wetlands. Lots of nothing.

  Spit blood on the passenger side seat. It's never been occupied as long as I've owned it, so no foul. Stare hard down the road, willing the first rays of light to crest the lowland and illuminate a path of salvation. When they don't come, I turn and gaze east, almost crying. Starting to wonder if this is it, if this is the end, if I've finally lost this game. I haven't been in this position in a long, long time and it starts to sink in that this might be it. The end.

  Then the orange-yellow creeps over the horizon. The first indication the new day arrives. I swerve right and pull off onto the shoulder. Kill the engine, yank the key, and hoist myself out with my right hand, keeping my left arm pinned to my ribs, not wanting to tear any scabs or stop any clots.

  I shut the door and stumble down a berm, away from the interstate. It's a field. A pasture. Hell, I don't know. It's open land. And the further east I go, the sooner the light will hit me. So I plod. I trudge. I trip several times, hoping I'll somehow fall into the newborn light.

  Then I find a rock. Long, flat, about a foot off the ground. My mind screams Ancient altar! But I don't care. It's there. Whether for me or not, I don't know. Will never know.

  The rays are almost here and I can't go any further. So I strip off my shirt, toss it and lay
on the rock. The cool, moist surface soothes my back and sends instant chills from my head to my heels. But I ignore it because this is it. Either I'm done or I'm not. Either it's all over or it’s not.

  The rays come. I feel them creeping, radiating off the blades of grass as they’re illuminated. Then up the side of the rock as the evaporation cycle begins, clearing the rock of its night-borne moisture. Then my right arm. Instantly, I feel the warmth, the renewal, the embrace. It spreads across my chest to my left side. I lift my arm, exposing the near-mortal wound, and allow the life-giver to do its work.

  I'm safe. I'm going to make it. He can't touch me now.

  Then I pass out.

  * * *

  —salt air is thick on the wind coming from the horizon. The waves lap the hull, hard spraying mist over the sides, but I plow on toward the first rays of light, clutching the horizontal slash across my stomach, pushing hard to keep my intestines from spilling on the deck.

  Not much longer.

  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, see him several boat lengths behind. Impossible to make up the difference. He knows it. The look on his face says as much. Then he answers me by spitting and turning and disappearing below decks.

  Turn back to the eastern horizon. The first rays emerge from the sea. Then curve of the orange dome. Tears fill my eyes. I drop to my knees and flop on my side and let the—

  * * *

  "Mister, you okay?"

  My eyes flutter. I blink back the sudden rush of light. The sun is high above in a cloudless sky. An egret circles to the left.

  "Mister?"

  I sit up, exhaling the whole way. Check the wounds. Good to go.

  Turn to my right. A boy, no more than eight, stands there. Local for sure. Farmer's kid.

  "Yeah, I'm good."

  "That your shirt?"

  "Yeah."

  "That your car?"

  I look to the road and see two punks peering in the windows. Another has already popped the hood and stares at the engine as if he knows what the hell he's looking at.

  "Yeah. Those your brothers?"

  "Shit, no. They a couple punk bitches that like to scavenge around here. Always bugging my Pa."

  "Scavenge?"

  "You know, steal shit out of broke down cars and pick up shit that falls off trucks. That kind of shit."

  "You say shit a lot, kid.”

  He chews on his lip and looks down. “My Pa says it a lot. Guess I do, too. Ma hates it, but what's she gonna do. She's in a wheelchair and me and Pa do all the work."

  I nod. "I don't care."

  "Well, shit. Just trying to help."

  "Thanks. Now run along."

  "What you gonna do to them?"

  I hit the kid with double-barrel eyes. "Run along."

  It works. He sprints off parallel to the freeway then banks left into the pasture toward a house half a mile away.

  I return my attention to the punks. They've taken no notice of me. Maybe they haven't seen me at all. That's about to change.

  I push off the rock, grab my shirt and walk. No wobbles. No dizziness. Full of strength. Energy. As if last night never happened.

  "Step away from my car," I say as I climb out of the shallow ditch on the side of the shoulder.

  The teenagers peering through the windows, both brunettes and about the same age, pop up, caught red-handed, and swivel toward me. Their eyes are a little wide. Different colors. The one on my right has brown eyes, the one on the left has blue, but their faces are similar enough to give them away as brothers. Same father, different mothers. They still live with the father. I can smell his two packs a day and cheap whiskey on them like a stain painted on their souls.

  The boy under the hood doesn't pop up like his buddies. Instead, he sighs loud, and straightens up slowly. Grabs the hood and shuts it. Puts his knuckles on it. Sighs again and then turns around, wearing a big, shit-eating grin like it’s part of his face. Like it's been there since he was born.

  By that point I'm about six feet directly behind him. Hands at my sides. With my shirt and jacket on, they can't tell if I'm carrying or not.

  "Your car," the apparent leader says. "Can you prove that?"

  "I don't have to prove a damn thing.” Pat my pocket where the keys are. "It's mine."

  "You got a lot of firepower in there, mister. I think the sheriff might say it's his car now."

  "Is that what you were going to do?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean you were going to be a good citizen and call the sheriff and alert him to a car on the side of the road full of grenades and automatic weapons and a sawed-off shotgun on the back floor?” I make a slight motion to my waistline. "And whatever isn't in there?"

  He looks at my waist, at the space behind the flap of my jacket and my belt. He can't see, but he smiles as if he can see through the jacket. "I'm calling your bluff. Show it."

  "Why don't you boys just run along? Let me get in my car and go. I'll even give you the sawed-off."

  "Why take a scatter gun when we can take it all?" he asks. "And I even like the car."

  The other two come around and join their leader, standing at his sides. They're still a bit nervous but they'll follow his lead.

  I lick my lips and tap my fingers together. Here comes the hard part.

  "Do what you got to do. But you're not leaving with the car or its contents."

  "We'll see about that."

  He steps forward and swings an overhead right. I see it coming in slow motion but make no move to dodge it.

  The next moment, I'm on my right knee, blinking spots away. He's standing over me, right fist cocked, smiling. And he hammers down into my left cheekbone and temple.

  I blink more spots away. Look back up at him. Get down on both knees and raise my chin at him

  The other two look more nervous than before, unsettled, but the leader's not phased. Not one bit. He's digging it.

  Three more punches in rapid succession: right-left-right. My head flies in the opposite direction with each hit only to be course-corrected by the following punch.

  Then I lift my chin up and gaze at the leader. The smile has disappeared. His fist is cocked but it's shaking. Unsure. So unsure what to do now.

  I've seen this many times before.

  "You need to go now," I say. "Before I lose my patience."

  The punk on my left grabs the leader by his cocked arm. "Come on, man. This dude's nuts."

  "He ain't shit," the leader says, but his eyes don't match his tough words.

  "He ain't bleeding, man," the punk on my right says. "Doesn't even look like you hit him."

  "Your friend’s right," I say to the leader. "You can't hurt me."

  "Bullshit, anyone can be hurt."

  "True. There's one who can hurt me. But that person isn't you."

  "You’re crazy," he says, lowering his fist, trying to save face.

  "You'll never know what I am. Or what I do every night for you."

  "Huh?"

  "Go."

  The other two grab the leader and pull him away toward a raised Ram crew cab. They climb in and spin the back tires and haul ass.

  I remain kneeling for a moment, thinking about what I just said. What I do every night for you. It makes my stomach sour for two reasons. One, most guys like that don't deserve what I do. And two, everyone else does. But it's the few that tempt me, that make it real hard to keep going.

  I spit and rise and shrug it off.

  Won't be the last time.

  So I climb in and continue on my way.

  * * *

  I stop in Texas. Grab a room at a La Quinta. Scarf down a couple cheeseburgers before racking out. Alarm's set for five. Figure I’d get a solid nap, wake up, grab a few more burgers and meet up with him again. Settle the terms for the evening. I won't let what happened last night happen again. Not two nights in a row.

  The alarm goes off. Smack it and sit up. Feeling good. Feeling a hell of a lot better than I did yesterday a
round this time.

  That was my mistake. I didn't get enough rest, didn't get enough food, and then fell into the gulf. He almost had my dumb, lazy ass.

  Not tonight.

  Hell, I might even choose wits.

  I shower and shave, take deeps breaths of the lingering steam. Feel really good.

  The phone rings.

  I freeze, staring at it in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Sitting next to the bed. Ring-ring-ring.

  Him.

  I walk over and pick it up and say, "You're either tired or lost."

  "I'm in Shreveport."

  "So you're tired and have some distance to make up."

  "Well, you destroyed my car and left me in the middle of that fucking bridge. Wasn't a fun night. Put it that way."

  I sit on the edge of the bed. "No nights off, you know that."

  "Thank you Captain Obvious. That's why I'm calling."

  "What?"

  "I want to get a few more hours sleep, so I was hoping we could just settle the terms now. Figure you choose chase and I say okay and you take off and I go back to lovely dreamland for a while. You get a nice big head start on top of the lead you already have, and I get my rest."

  I cradle the phone and pull on my jeans. "Sounds like a win-win."

  "There you go, a win-win. All you got to do is say it and I'll write it down."

  "But I'll have to eat dinner alone."

  "I'm sure you'll be okay."

  I pull on my boots. "I don't know…"

  "Come on, don't be an asshole."

  I check my watch. Almost six. Tuck my gun in the small of my back. Listen to him breathe another few seconds. He's beat and I feel good. Fuck being chased.

  "Wits," I say.

  He laughs. I think it's annoyed laughter at first, but then my stomach drops. There's something else there. Something almost sinister.

  "You're so damn predictable. It's almost like I know you better than I know myself."

  "What did you do?"

  "Nothing. It's what you did."

  "What are you talking about? What did I do?"

  "You chose wits. And you've already lost."

  I drop the phone and bolt for the door. I open it and expect to find fire falling from the sky. The earth opening up and swallowing every living thing. The sun exploding.