Thunderbird

by Chuck Wendig

  Then a boot to the face.

  Jerry is on his hands and knees. Drool and blood spattering against the ground, the dust swallowing it up, a tithing to the hungry earth.

  He coughs.

  He paws at his hip for the knife.

  Then: the wasp buzz whine of an engine revving up. Not a bike engine. Something else. Jerry lifts his head, blinks and tries to get his eyes to focus—

  “My hermanos are dead because of you!” Tratez roars. He’s just a blur, his hands up in the air, holding something. Waving it around. “Chinga tu madre. Now I cut you up like you cut us up. Te meto la verga por el osico para que te calles el pinche puto osico hijo de perra!”

  The blur resolves.

  Tratez has a chainsaw. Not a big one. A little jibber-jabber. Not for chopping down trees but good enough to cut up a thick branch or maybe a cactus.

  The meth cook raises the chainsaw in the air like he’s from that movie and runs at Jerry, full speed.

  A truck slams into him.

  An old pickup. A Ford.

  Tratez’s whole body flies like he’s on a rope and someone just yanked him in the other direction. He slams into a set of bikes. But Tratez is on meth or something worse. Tweakers are like rabid dogs— takes a couple shots to put ’em down. And oh, Johnny doesn’t disappoint: he hops back up on a leg that is plainly broken (white bone shining through rent skin) and pogo-sticks his way back toward the truck, the chainsaw waving, buzzing, growling in the air—

  The Ford’s door swings wide. A young woman steps out.

  She twirls a Louisville slugger, a cigarette plugged between her lips.

  Tratez hops toward her.

  She takes time to line up her shot. She points, like the Babe. Then swings hard with the bat. The bat clips into the side of the chainsaw. The whirring blades bite into Tratez’s face, and the man screams. His one leg goes out from under him, and he drops like a kicked-over coatrack.

  The chainsaw growls and eats halfway into the cook’s face.

  Vzzz, vzzzzz, grind, spray.

  Then it stops.

  So does Tratez.

  The woman— hair black and blue like an electric bruise, her face flecked with red— sniffs and, around the cigarette, says, “Hi, Jerry. Need a ride?”

  “Guh.” Jerry spits blood. “Yeah.”

  “Good. But you should know: this ride isn’t charity. You’re gonna have to sing for your supper.” She gives one last look at the body on the ground, her gaze lingering. She shudders. Then, back to Jerry: “Well? Hop on in.”

  THIRTEEN

  TRUTH SERUM

  Buzz hangs by the shower nozzle. Hands stretched wide. Wrists bound together with his own shoelaces, and his belt used to dangle him from the fixture. His feet touch the tub— he’s short, but not that short— but they have his feet bound up too. Those with the cord ripped out of the hotel’s alarm clock, which, despite all the barfy design flair of this boutique atrocity, was the most pedestrian little black alarm clock Miriam had ever seen.

  She looks him over. Wonders if that’s how she looked once. When the killers Harriet and Frankie hung her from a shower nozzle in the Jersey Pine Barrens— putting Miriam on display for their boss, the one she called Hairless Fucker: Ingersoll.

  The memory rides through her like a river of rats.

  “Wh . . . what are you doing,” Buzz says, his words pushed through sluggy, froth-bubbled lips. The heroin is doing its job. His eyelids flutter. The drug like an invisible thumb punching his pleasure buttons. “Whhh . . . whhh.”

  Gabby stands behind Miriam. Framed by the doorway.

  “Miriam,” she says in a low voice. “What are we doing?”

  “Getting information,” she says, then turns back to Buzz. “Hey. Buzz. You’re a drug dealer, right? I’ve met quite a few of you, now. I meet all kinds of interesting people. I meet the standard run of wanderers and weirdos: truck drivers, janitors, folks who clean up roadkill, buskers, whatever. But I’ve also met serial killers. And psychics. No, no, real psychics. And I’ve met FBI agents— real and pretend— and cops, and just last year, I met an ex-Army interrogator. Worked for the CIA for a time. Old guy. He told me this interesting little tidbit— and when I hear interesting tidbits, I’m like a hamster with a piece of sweet carrot. I tuck that tidbit into my bulging hamster cheeks and save it for later.”

  “Buh . . . buhhh. Bitch.”

  “Two bitches,” Miriam corrects. “Two badass bitches, each as crazy as one starving coyote. Now, to continue my story? So, he told me that the CIA was obsessed with the idea of a truth serum. Right? A magic drug you administer and then the captor goes ‘blah blah blah’ and spills what he knows. They tried using heroin withdrawal in this way. Right? Get an enemy combatant hooked on heroin— riding the ol’ H Train— and then he starts to go through withdrawal, which is apparently like having your soul torn out through your mouth and asshole simultaneously. So bad, you’ll do anything for a hit, including tell the truth.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t use this stuff. . . . You can’t . . .”

  She smacks him. It echoes sharp in the bathroom.

  His eyes blink.

  “Stay with me, Buzz, because I don’t have time for the whole nightmarish plunge into withdrawal thing. I’ve got ten minutes at best, and if I don’t get what I want, I’m going to— well, kill you, probably.”

  Gabby can’t seem to contain the small gasp that comes out of her. Miriam shoots her a reassuring look accompanied by a short shake of the head, as if to say no, not really, I’m just pretending.

  But in the back of her mind, she knows she’s not pretending.

  She’ll kill this guy.

  And that’s fucked up. He’s a douche, not a murderer. In fact: she’s the murderer. Grosky called her a serial killer and, ha ha ha, what, no, of course she’s not. Except— what if she is? Easy to justify her killings, of course: she kills bad people. Other killers. Molesters. Rapists. The men who are monsters.

  This guy’s crustache and e-cig are offensive.

  But not kill-worthy.

  Right?

  (She tells herself it’s just the cigarettes. Or, rather, their lack. She’s a lot more murdery without nicotine, it seems.)

  No time to worry about this now, Miriam. It is what it is. You are who you are. Two precepts she hopes direly to change.

  She clears her throat, plasters the sinister smile back on her face, and says, “Now, what this Army guy I talked to figured out was that their hook-and-withdraw tactic was actually too complicated. Because you know what people like to do on heroin, provided it’s good stuff and not shit? They tell the truth. They tell the truth because they just want to experience the high— they want to roll around in sunshine, drool, giggle, and sleep. But the interrogator keeps asking them questions, keeps—”

  And here she leans in and smacks him again. His eyes blink and he makes a sound like “Muhhh.”

  “— harassing them, and they’ll spill their guts just so they can be left alone and enjoy the high. So. Now I’m going to ask you. Where is Mary Scissors? Tell me now and I leave you alone to hang here and enjoy the ride.”

  “Skizz,” he murmurs.

  “Yeah. Yes. Skizz.”

  “I’m not gonna . . . Puh— puhlease just go—” His eyelids flutter like moth wings after a child has rubbed all the powder off.

  Smack.

  “Wake up, you crusty, vaping turd. Mary! Scissors! Now!”

  “She’s . . . gone.”

  “Gone?” No, no, no, no.

  “She left us. Left our crew. Gave us what we needed, then . . .”

  His eyes close.

  Her hand forms a fist and she drives it into his middle. His eyes bulge. Desperation is a drill boring into her brain stem.

  “Then what?” she screams.

  “She bailed on us.” Every word he speaks punctures a bubble of saliva that forms over his lips. He tries to whistle, but he just blows spit. “Hightailed it.�
�

  Her guts sink. Her shoulders sag. This isn’t possible. She was so close. She could taste it. A bleakness settles into her then. She’s chasing a phantom.

  A year ago, she was given her way out: the name of a woman who could help her “cure” her condition. Who could kill this horrible thing that grows inside of her, swelling in the place of the child she once lost.

  I need it gone. Lest the curse consume her. And then become her. Because that’s what it feels like, some days. Like her psychic power is in the driver’s seat and she’s belted into the backseat, screaming as the car careens forth.

  But suddenly, the dream of excising her curse is fast turning to vapor. The woman who was supposed to help her, Mary Scissors, is gone. And she’s really just a name, anyway, isn’t she? A specter she’s chasing down the highway. Miriam’s never met this woman. She could’ve been bugfuck shitballs. Mad as a starving rabbit. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this?

  Tears mar her vision. She blinks them away but they keep returning.

  She hasn’t felt this way since she wrote her own diary.

  Dear Diary . . .

  She slams down a mental wall. No reason to revisit those memories.

  She sniffs. Clears her throat. Gives a stiff nod. “Right, then. I guess we’re done here.”

  Buzz says, “But.”

  Miriam blinks. “But what?”

  “She’s gotta . . . still be in town. Or nearby.”

  Hope flares. A match struck in the deep dark. Light and heat pushing back shadow.

  “Why?”

  “Pro . . . probation officer. Manda . . . manda . . . tuhhh.” He breathes loud, whistles through his nose. His eyes shut.

  “Manda? Amanda? Mandy? Wake the fuck up!” Miriam’s about to yell, kick, scream, slap, but it’s like he anticipates what’s coming, even through his opiate haze.

  Buzz says, “Mandatory. Meets once a month. Pima County Superior Court. In Tucson. Drug tests and alla th . . . thaaaat.”

  Holy shit.

  Mary Scissors is still in town. Or close enough: Tucson is only an hour away. Which means—

  Miriam still has a chance.

  A chance to find Mary Scissors. A chance to change her own destiny.

  She faces Gabby. Feels the smile tug at her cheeks— a smile big enough she feels like she might turn into Ms. Pac-Man, her head splitting in half, hungry for pills and ghosts. Gabby asks, “Is that it? Is that what you need?”

  “It is.”

  Gabby grins. Her scars stretching.

  Miriam turns, pats Buzz on the cheek. “We’re done here. Thanks, Scuzzy Buzz. We bought you the ticket, so enjoy the ride.”

  Buzz gurgles and passes out. Miriam grabs the bag of money, hooks her arm around Gabby’s, and they get the hell out of there.

  FOURTEEN

  TWO STARS, CRASHING TOGETHER

  They fuck in the cab ride back to the motel.

  FIFTEEN

  BLACK HOLE

  The two of them lie there, all glistening sweat and panting breaths. Headlights from the motel parking lot shining on their bodies. Gabby’s leg is draped over Miriam’s. Miriam’s arm is flopped across Gabby’s chest.

  The last hour replays.

  Tongue-wrestling in the back of an Arizona cab, hands down each other’s pants, fingers searching. Back at the motel, crashing through the door, shedding clothes like a magician flinging handkerchiefs all over the stage. The pressure of four fingers in the small of her back. The comfort of a face between her legs. A tongue there, hungry and insistent. Her spine arching— every synapse about to blow like an overloaded fuse box. Her mouth finding the scars across Gabby’s face. Kissing a line along them. Hands cupping her ass. Twist of pain sweet pain as thumb and forefinger twist her nipples— tune in Tokyo, tune in Tokyo. Heat and light. Sheets tangled. Laughing and moaning and grunting and laughing some more. Teeth and tongues and little kisses and big kisses and—

  “I thought you said you didn’t want this,” Gabby says.

  “I say a lot of things.”

  “But weren’t we supposed to just be friends?”

  “We are friends. This is friendly.” She feels Gabby watching her. She turns, meets Gabby’s gaze. Here in the half-dark, her scars are almost invisible. “You’re harshing my buzz here, lady.”

  “Ugh. Buzz. I don’t want to think about him.”

  Miriam laughs. “What an asshole.”

  A little voice inside her echoes Gabby’s question: Why? Weren’t they supposed to be friends? Miriam pushes the protest to the back of her mind but it keeps popping back up: You did it because you felt good and wanted to feel better.

  “You were amazing tonight,” Gabby says.

  “I was?”

  “You were.”

  She hnnhs. “Maybe I was. So were you. You got some bona fide badass in you.”

  “You really might find this woman. Mary.”

  “I might, at that.”

  “And you really think she can . . . help?”

  That word, help. Gabby won’t say help with what, because Gabby doesn’t like talking about Miriam’s curse. Maybe because she doesn’t really believe it. Maybe because she does, and it’s too scary to contemplate— a world far bigger and more fucked up than imagined, Horatio.

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  Gabby leans in, kisses her shoulder. “I hope so too.”

  Miriam lurches forward, sitting straight up. A craving sprints up her spine. Her skin crawls like she’s covered in ants. The nic-fit has presence, as physical as a python winding its way around her neck. Her mouth can taste the cigarette she wants to plug between her lips right damn now.

  She winces. A mad laugh keens through her gritted teeth. It isn’t a happy sound. Gabby sits up with her. “You okay?”

  “I want to smoke.”

  “You’re quitting.”

  Miriam thrusts up a finger. “No no no. Don’t tell an addict they’re quitting. It’s like telling a cranky person they’re cranky. It just makes it worse. Like, seriously, I know we just had a very lovely time, but don’t think I won’t bite you.”

  “You can bite me.” Gabby runs a hand down Miriam’s spine. Her hand reaches the lift of Miriam’s hip, then slides around between her legs. Miriam shivers. Hot and cold, her body wet, her mouth dry. “I can make you feel good. I can even give you something to put in your mouth . . .”

  A crisp gasp comes from Miriam. Then she pulls away and steps off the bed in a tangle of sheets. “That sounds awesome. It really does. But I need to smoke. I need to smoke the way a fish needs water. I’m sure I have an emergency cigarette around here somewhere.” She flings open the nightstand drawer. Looks under the alarm clock. Goes to the ugly chair in the corner and pops up the cushion.

  She has no memory of hiding a cigarette anywhere. But, she’s been drunk a few times, and— maybe she did it then? Maybe Past Miriam was planning on doing Future Miriam a really nice favor, and maybe she left a little present—

  “Come back to bed,” Gabby says.

  But Miriam, she tears through the room like a pissed-off housecat: pawing through things, flipping stuff off flat surfaces, fuck this, fuck that, fuck this thing over here, where’s my fix. A magazine flops. A lamp rattles. A remote control spins to the ground and quickly she snatches it up and bangs it hard against the heel of her hand—

  The battery compartment pops off.

  Inside: no batteries.

  Instead: one cigarette broken in two halves. Little specks of nicotine sandwiched between them. She plucks them out with pinching fingers. Sniffs them. Ahhh. Holds them up like precious little gifts, then swings them through the air like a symphony conductor with his baton. She hums “Ode to Joy.”

  “Miriam—” Gabby says.

  “Oh, god.” A grim revelation tears the scales from Miriam’s eyes. “I don’t have fire. I don’t have fire!” A caveman’s anxiety seizes her. “Quick, find some shit in this room that we can rub together to
make flame.” She snaps her fingers, her whole body thrumming. “No, no, I know, you wanna say, We can rub our bodies together to make flame, and that’s super-cute and I promise soon as I smoke this one last coffin nail I’ll get right back to quitting and then we can get right back to doing awesome things with our many digits and orifices, but for now—”

  A phone rings.

  Gabby arches an eyebrow. “Is that my phone? That’s not my phone.”

  “My phone is gone.” That woman stole it.

  Miriam kicks over a pillow that had fallen to the floor.

  Underneath: the dead man’s phone. The one that belonged to the sniper. Steven McArdle.

  Don’t answer it, don’t answer it, don’t answer it.

  Miriam answers it.

  INTERLUDE

  LOUIS

  She sits across from him at a Fort Lauderdale coffee shop, and she tries not to show how much sitting this close to him hurts her. She refuses to give even a glimpse of how the space between her guts and her heart aches: a sucking wound. How she feels like a little kid who wants to cry so hard, she can’t catch a breath. A little kid who lost a favorite doll. A doll without its stuffing. An everything without its everything, which means she’s left with nothing.

  Louis can’t see any of that. Instead, she keeps this dumb, fakey-fakey smile staple-gunned to her face. A big-ass sleep-aborter mug of coffee sits cradled between her hands, and she tries hard not to show how, right now, the thing she wishes for is not to drink it all but rather to crush it between her palms.

  “I’m surprised you wanted to meet,” she says.

  Outside, it’s blue skies and palm trees. A skateboarder whizzes past. A surfer walks by, board in hand pointing the other direction. Seagulls swoop and shriek. Louis’s eyes follow them. Like he doesn’t want to look at her.

  “I thought it’d be good,” he answers. “Closure and all that.”