by Alan Spencer
SEVERED HEAD BEAT DOWN
ALAN SPENCER
HEY, WHAT THE HELL?
Buzz Salisbury's hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel of the cherry condition 1968 Pontiac Firebird. The asskicker with blazing orange paint and an eagle decal on the hood. Buzz didn't own the sweet V-8 ride. How he came to be sitting in the driver's seat with the windows down and tearing up the highway at ninety-five miles an hour in broad daylight with no traffic coming or going in either direction didn't cross his mind. The sweet ride could go on and on, and Buzz wouldn't care why.
Not that he really had anything to escape.
He was unhindered by worries.
Pawn America, Buzz's pawn shop, was thriving. The business was booming in the wake of the struggling economy. Him and his brother were cleaning up real good. They didn't fight with each other like during the early years in the business where money was always a problem. They could drink a beer without bitching about finances. They could hire more employees to manage the place, giving them more free time. Take vacations. Pal around like two brothers who were best friends. They saw AC/DC in concert the last time the band was in the Detroit area. They fished every weekend. Their hands smelled of dirt, worms, fish guts, and cheap beer. Fish fries every Saturday. Beer shits the following mornings. They acted like two guys in their mid-twenties, though they were in their late forties, both divorced, and hungry for fun.
No worries, smooth driving.
The Firebird was on fire.
This was one sweet ride.
His wife, Celia, had remarried and moved four states away. The bitch was pretty much out of his life. He said this to her before the mutual decision to part ways was decided: You drink too much when you go out with your stupid friends, and you meet strange men and do stupid things with them. I'm surprised one of those young boys hasn't knocked you up. I couldn't imagine you raising another kid. You act like you're sixteen. Our daughter acts more mature than you do. She doesn't need us to be together anymore. You're not happy. I'm not happy. Live your own mid-life M.I.L.F. crisis, and I'll live mine.
Divorce papers filed. Settlement settled.
Sweet freedom.
Buzz was living the single's life big time. Shooting darts. Playing pool. Chatting up new women everyday. And maybe Celia had the right idea. He should be living it up too. Sleeping with strangers who only wanted to have a good time. He spent his time trying to dissect "having a good time" when he should've just had a good time.
Something else good he encountered post-marriage, the ladies loved him. They liked the fact he owned his own business and he made money. That he had a daughter that went to college, and an ex-wife who was very ex, and far, far away. They wanted to scoop him up, put him to their chest, and nurse him back to health. They could nurse him all they wanted.
Buzz couldn't help but smile thinking about all this.
The Firebird was a fucking fire breathing dragon blazing down the empty highway. The sweet engine purred destruction.
What else was good in Buzz's life?
His daughter was accepted into Stanford on a full-ride scholarship. Maria was smart. She wanted to be a lawyer. The kid was full of ambition. Parents had children just for these moments. It was all about looking back at what he accomplished.
He had nothing to worry about except what else to do with himself for the rest of his life. Life was as open as this highway.
Buzz's moment of peace was shattered. "Hey, what the hell?"
He suddenly came awake to what was happening. He hadn't seen another car driving for fifteen minutes. It was broad daylight. The dashboard clock was blank. He checked his watch. It had no numbers. Blank faced. Buzz didn't remember what lead up to this point being behind the wheel of the vehicle. He didn't own the car. He didn't rent it. He literally woke up in the seat, out in the highway he didn't recognize. And where were the road signs? Where were the other cars? How did he get to this point?
His brother would be pissed he wasn't at work. He was always at work at this point in the day. What was it? Tuesday? Yes, he should be at work. Buzz bet he had some angry voice mails by now.
He reached into his pocket for a cell phone.
No cell phone.
The cell phone was always strapped to his belt, being a business owner, so where was his cell phone? Any business owner was a slave to their cell.
Okay, I probably drank too much last night. I fell asleep in somebody's car in the parking lot. I got up, started driving, and wasn't even paying attention.
But that makes no sense! This sweet ass ride wouldn't have its keys in the ignition. I would've noticed it wasn't my car. And it's in the middle of the day, not the crack of dawn. I just got here without realizing it.
This makes no sense at all.
Buzz was panicking. He tried to steady his breathing. He had to get to a phone. Call his brother. Stack up the facts until they made logical sense.
A small bit of relief was fast approaching. The road sign in the distance. He could find out where the hell he was and find his way back to Pawn America and tell his brother a funny story. Would he be arrested for grand theft auto if it was an accident?
Accidental stealing.
The judge would buy that explanation. Yeah right.
The moment of clarity was crushing him. He was sweating through his clothes.
Just read the road signs. Find your way to somebody who knows what you did last night. Calm down. Freaking out won't do you no good until you know exactly what happened first.
Buzz decided to take the next exit. The rest stop. The sign simply said REST STOP. When the Pontiac left the sign in its dust, the letters changed to DEATH STOP.
DEATH STOP
Nobody was at the rest stop. The large area of grass for dogs to do their business was vacant. The parking lot empty. A gas station cup blew in the wind. The place seemed abandoned even though the greenery was kept up. Buzz checked the highway from his vantage point. No cars. No traffic. No people. Not a single soul.
Strange wasn't the feeling.
Paranoid was more accurate.
Buzz didn't like being alone. The feeling got worse when Celia divorced him and his daughter went off to college. The house was too quiet. Every bend, creak, and shift of the foundation was amplified. He kept the windows open when the weather allowed so he could fill in the silence. If not the open windows, then he played late night talk radio.
Why wasn't there a single person within eyeshot? Now that he thought about it, he didn't recognize the highway, or this part of town. Nothing was labeled and none of the landmarks were familiar.
Can you drink yourself to the point of long-term memory loss?
It horrified him to imagine himself at the wheel of the Pontiac and being asleep or unconscious. Was there such a think as sleep driving, or sleep driving in a vintage classic?
Buzz noticed the payphone near the community board of events. He picked up the receiver and put it up to his ear and was appalled.
"No! Please! NO! GOD NOOOOOOOOOOO!" A piercing scream. Gargling of fluids. Then the cries ended.
Buzz slammed down the phone and stared at it like it would grow teeth and start biting at him.
Whatthefuckwasthatabout?
The person sounded like they were getting killed.
Jesus.
The trail of sweat crawling down his forehead stung his eyes. He was sopping wet with nervous perspiration. He rushed over to the water fountain for a drink. He could guzzle water, splash his face, sober up, and really think about what situation he'd put himself in.
Bending over, he pressed the button. The sound of a pipe unclogging. Metal groaning underground. The spigot burped and out came a surge of blackish red fluid. It shot up over
his head like a geyser. The warm water pelted him in the eyes, stinging him worse than the sweat. Buzz bent over in pain, rubbing at his eyes. The fluid smelled horrible.
The bathroom was the only place he could think to go to clean up. There would be sinks where he could wash out his eye. Tears were flowing down both eyes. Snot was coming out his nose. His sinuses burned like he'd inhaled chlorinated water.
Vision fogged up, Buzz staggered into the bathroom. He wasn't sure which he was going towards, the "Men's" or the "Women's". He didn't care. Nobody was here.
He thought that until he heard, "Hey man, take a look at this one. You think they look good on her?"
Buzz followed the voice. Finally someone to share his predicament with, whatever his predicament actually turned out to be.
Hey pal, I drank a lot last night. I passed out in a really cool Firebird. I don't remember driving here, or how I ended up in the car in the first place, but hey, can I use your cell phone?
Entering the bathroom, he froze. Buzz saw the woman hanging with her arms above her head. Rope tied around her wrists. The woman was pale as soap. Almost blue. She was wearing a tank top and skirt. She had no legs. She just floated there. The man in the bathroom was holding up two legs severed from the meat of the thighs.
The stranger said, "These look better than those other knobby things I cut off from that other bitch, don't you think?"
Two other female legs were cast off in the corner of the room under the sinks.
The man, someone who looked like a hobo that just crawled out from under a bridge, glanced up at Buzz and realized he wasn't talking to the right person.
"Wait, you ain't Jimmy." Then the man smiled a toothless grin. "So what say you? These legs look better on the bitch? I like 'em better. Smoother. She shaved her legs before she got killed. I like 'em smooth."
The guy wanted Buzz to seriously give a verdict on the severed legs.
He didn't say a word. Buzz fled right out the door. Outside, he nearly plowed right into another hobo bridge dweller who was pushing a wheel barrow heaped with ten different severed legs.
Buzz shoved aside the psycho and ran for the Pontiac. A woman in a jean jacket with the arms cut out, long black hair with pink dyed bangs, a stud collar around her neck, stone washed jeans, and a Kreator t-shirt was running away from the vintage classic.
A lit rag was burning in the gas tank, and—BOOM!
He dodged the two guys, the explosion, and the woman who suddenly charged after him. Pure joy was etched into each of their faces. Buzz almost shit his pants at what they said.
"I want his legs!"
"They ain't no lady's legs."
"I don't give a damn. Shave them. Make 'em smooth. It's all the same. They're just legs."
"I want women's legs. Real gen-u-ine legs."
"You see any women here? You got to settle. So settle!"
"Damn it, I can't caress them the same if I know they're a guy's legs."
"When they're covered in blood, how can you tell the damn difference?"
The unbelievable argument escalated. Their voices were growing harder and harder to hear the further he fled. Buzz was out of shape. Running harder, his heart was a grenade that wanted to go off. Panting and sweating so hard he kept spitting it off his lips and wiping it out of his eyes, he was about to keel over. The downhill decline helped him surge faster without tasking his body too much.
The voices of the stalkers were gone.
Buzz wasn't sure how he ended up at the lake's edge. Muddy brown water. The sun beading off the surface. He splashed water into his face, washing off the mysterious red stuff coating his face. The coolness relieved him. He poured more over his burning hot head.
One can. Two can. Fill me up. Three can. Four can. Don't throw up. Five can. Six can. Fill me up. Seven can. Eight can. Fuck it up.
That was his father's drinking song when they fished together at the lake. One of his many drinking ditties. Chucky Salisbury wasn't a very good singer, but he was a prolific drinker. Buzz could envision his dad when they went on fishing trips with his oversized potbelly laying out on the bank with his feet dipped in the water. He didn't wear swim trunks, only rolled up jeans.
One girl. Two girl. Lick it up. Three girl. Four girl. Screw it up. Five girl. Six girl. Pre-nup.
Whenever Chucky was in arguments or in the dog house with his wife, he'd grab a twelve pack a beer and tell Buzz to grab his fishing rod. His mother, heated up, would demand where they were going. Chucky would only say, "Fuck you, we're fishing." That was the beginning, middle, and end of the explanation.
The location would've been beautiful to dip his rod in, Buzz thought, but he kept scanning the lake at every angle for the weirdoes from the rest stop.
What was their deal with severed legs?
Man, I'm in the w-rong place. They don't cut the grass here anymore. They cut other things instead.
Buzz wasn't sure if he was in backyard backwoods or near the city.
I have to be near the city. I was just on the main highway. The rest stop is over the hill. I'm not in the middle of nowhere. When I make the right turn at the right place, I'll find normal people. Not a bunch of crazy hicks.
Chucky's singsong voice echoed in his head.
Feel a tickle. Whip out your pickle. The bitch next door will pay a nickel. To look at my pissing pickle.
Buzz was about to take off running in search of any landmarks when he heard a woman laugh. One short haaaaah! A thirties-ish couple were floating by in a canoe. The guy was tickling his girlfriend. The woman had a low cut shirt with no bra on. The guy was muscle-bound, no shirt, only torn cut off jeans. The woman was leaning up against him, and they kissed. They had their fishing poles with them, but they were paying more attention to each other than the lake.
Then it happened. Two seconds, maybe not even that long. Up from the water, a giant over six feet tall with long, scraggly water logged hair and the body the size of a thick oak tree surged from below the surface. The man clutched a pair of garden shears that were five times the normal size. Impossibly huge. The blades were as long as an arm. The man threw his head back, laughing in demented pleasure. He had no teeth, only dark black gums and a purple slab of a tongue. He clamped the shears over both the man and woman's heads simultaneously. The close of the shear's blades, like a giant pair of scissors, lobed off both their heads. The spurt of blood, the heads sailed in the air, then crashed the water. Twin ker-plunks. The couple kept holding and caressing each other, floating on down the lake headless.
The killer stood in the water with both hands clutching onto the red dripping shears. His face was demented. One eye way larger than the other. "Hragh-hragh-hragh-hragh!" Each new spurt of blood from their necks delighted the evil bastard, even as the canoe was a diminishing speck in the distance.
Buzz caught the lake's sign in his peripheral. It was just up the way on the other side of the lake. If he wasn't frozen by shock before, he was now.
The sign read: LAKE DECAPITATION.
He didn't believe it. Didn't give himself a chance to believe it. The letters weren't painted on, or in any way altered. The real letters spelled the real words.
LAKE DECAPITATION.
"...in God's name?"
The man with the shears didn't move, so Buzz didn't move. Would this fiend pursue him if he did run? The stand-off continued. Shears dripped individual beads of red into the muddy waters. He heard the canoe crash with a muffled crunch of wood.
Before he could think of a plan, a woman appeared. She was the chick from the parking lot. She was pale, her make-up caked on heavy, her mascara applied heavy. She looked like a punk rocker from the 80's. Bitch front. Fake abused.
The woman charged him.
"Lady, what—"
Buzz was too slow to dodge her. She was surprisingly strong, seizing his arms, dragging him to the lake's edge, and heaving him into the water. The water was ice cold, shocking him awake. He tried to paddle back to the shore, but the punk rocker wo
man swung a machete. She was slashing at the air, throwing her head back in savage laughter at his ultimate terror. Her eyes, those big black eyes, Buzz knew she was imagining the blade going in and out of him and liking it.
The beast in the water was making his way towards Buzz. The shears opened and closed. Shrick-shrack. Shrick-shrack. The man slogged through the water, growing nearer. Buzz paddled fast. He was so out of shape. He was a body being sucked into an imaginary undertow. His efforts reaped little reward. He was an anchor, and if he didn't keep moving his arms and legs like mad, he'd sink right to the bottom. So old, so weak, so scared, Buzz could barely swim until something else happened.
Up from the depths of the water, covered in tracks of mold, decay, and purple dead skin, hundreds of heads boiled to the surface and bobbed like buoys. Each head had an expression of a scream.
"Ahgodwhatthefuckishappeninggodohgodohgawd!"
Heads crashed into him. Their jellied eyes regarded him with sympathy. One head had a mouth with a carp trapped in it, the fish body thrashing to escape. The sight gave him the jolt he needed. He was an Olympic swimmer going for the gold. Every inch of his body burned from the effort. His mind conquered pain to reach the other side of the lake, stamp through mud, and launch up a hill onto the main road. He collapsed in front of the police car that had parked itself on the shoulder.
OFFICER WHITLEY
"They were coming after me, and their heads, their heads, man, you see, their heads are in that lake! Then this guy with shears, crazy big shears, then these people in a canoe, he cut their heads off. Heads were everywhere, EVERYWHERE, and maybe they've floated downriver by now, but you'll find them, because they were everywhere. And this woman, this woman in a jean jacket, she threw me in the water, and she had a machete, and these two other people with severed legs, they wanted to kill me too. Something real messed up is going on around here, Officer, because the sign at the lake says Lake Decapitation. You have to check this scary shit out. Call in back up. Thank God I found you, sir. They were going to kill me."
