And it was true: while Jules was nothing if not iconoclastic in his tastes—living very simply on the spartan first floor of a converted Victorian manse on the outskirts of town—his road tastes were nothing short of regal. The Chrysler was big and square and imposing, a rolling slab of unabashed gas-guzzling Detroit iron, fifteen years old, immaculately maintained.
The interior was a Ricardo Montalban wet dream of rich caramel-colored leather, overstuffed and opulent. The sound system was an Alpine custom installation-complete with a remote-controlled multidisc CD changer, bi-amped crossovers, and subwoofers under the seats—and it had set him back over two grand.
Money well spent, Jules always thought. He didn't care a hell of a lot about real estate or furniture or the other anchoring accoutrements of civilization. His home was clean, and comfortable, but apart from his music collection it was clear that it was but a stopover point on the way to something better. Once upon a time he'd actually made an overture to permanence, had some posters from the Monterey Jazz Festival mounted in matte black frames. They were still leaning against the dining room wall, awaiting a decision as to where to drive the nails. Such was his nesting instinct.
The road was another story. He'd bought the car some five years ago, as a reminder to himself that one day he would hit it again, just take off for parts unknown, carrying nothing more than the song in his heart and his love of the blues, and whatever worldly goods would neatly pack into the Chrysler's cavernous trunk. The car itself became a kind of rolling icon to his freedom, and the mere sight of it never failed to cheer him.
One day, he thought. One day I will.
Provided, of course, I don't freeze to death tonight, he amended. It was fucking cold out here, the temperature easily in the twenties. He fished his keys out of his pocket, grappled with the little black remote dangling off the key ring. He punched the disarm button, waited for the chirp.
Nothing happened.
What? he thought, his hackles instantly up as his eyes searched for broken glass or gutted dash. Everything was intact. He remembered the cardinal rule of troubleshooting, which he'd come up with after watching two guitar players stall a gig for twenty minutes and drive the roadies crazy because they weren't getting power to their amps, only to discover that they'd unwittingly plugged into each other's access jacks.
Always check the stupid shit first.
Jules flipped the remote over. The battery had fallen out.
"Shit," he sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket. The battery was there, along with the little plastic cover panel. Shivering, he fumbled the pieces together, pushed the button. The disarm signal chirped obediently, automatically unlocking the doors in the process.
Jules jumped in and cranked it up; the big V-8 rumbled to life. He flipped on the defrosters, waited for it to start warming before stepping out again. He stood, turned to shut the door . . .
. . . and that was when he saw the reflection in the driver's side window, coming up from behind so fast that he barely had time to turn before it slammed him into the door panel, breaking his arm and three ribs just from the force of impact. Jules thought to cry out to Syd, but there was no time, no time at all. Slavering jaws fastened on his throat, cutting off his screams before he had a chance: severing his larynx even as they slashed his jugular and carotids, sending hot red rain to paint the side of the car.
The rest was over in a matter of seconds.
But it seemed to take forever.
SYD FELT SICK as he flushed the urinal: a queasy-hot churning in the pit of his stomach that spread through his chest to his limbs, started his extremities to tingling. Vertigo spiked him in the temples, sent a dull clang echoing through his brain, and as he leaned forward till his forehead grazed the cool, graffiti-laden tile, he felt like he might just pass out.
"Whoa," Syd mumbled, fought to remain lucid and standing. He pulled back, forced himself to focus on the wall, the jittery scribblings that graced its surface. Some disgruntled customer had done a little magic marker mayhem, a crude hairy phallus plunging toward a garish caricature that looked like an Easter Island icon with teeth. The words stopped moving, registered in his brain.
THIS PLACE SUCKS. BITE ME WHERE I PEE.
"Asshole," he grumbled, turned away. Who wrote that? Behind him, water swooshed and gurgled, releasing the medicinal waft of urinal cakes and recycled beer. The plumbing burbled and belched obscenely as he moaned and reached for the door.
His head cleared somewhat as he escaped the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom. He took a few steps, felt the buzz recede into the background. Still drunker than shit, but at least he wasn't gonna fall over. I'll be okay, he thought. I'll be fine.
Let's just get the fuck out of here.
"Hey, Jules," he started as he entered the dance floor, "did you see what some asshole wrote—"
He stopped, looked around. The bar was empty.
Strange, he thought. He could make out the faint subsonic rumble of a motor running outside, wondered why Jules hadn't come back in to shut things down. Syd crossed the room, heading for the front door. As he did he realized that the place felt suddenly ominous around him, as if he were somehow attuned to the residual vibe of everyone who had ever been there. It felt like everything else in his life: weirdly alien, suddenly soured. As Syd laid his hands on the door handle he wondered what was happening to him, and if he would ever feel the same about any of it again.
Syd pushed the door open.
And stepped outside.
THE DOOR SHUT behind him, locking him out. Syd squinted, scanned the lot. It was desolate, devoid of life. Two cars were left, demarcating an area that could hold two hundred. Syd's Mustang was off to the right, some three rows back. The departure of the other vehicles had left it alone, giving it a strangely abandoned quality. Jules's big boat was to the left, toward the far end of the building. As Syd veered toward it he could see wisps of exhaust curling from the tailpipe. But no Jules.
So where the hell did he go?
Syd cursed himself for not thinking about the door, propping it ajar. There was nothing else to do now.
"Jules?" he half-whispered, immediately thought why are you keeping your voice down, stupid?
"YO, JULES!"
No answer. His cry was swallowed up by the empty lot.
As he moved closer to Jules's car he saw that there was a patch of gravel steaming by the driver's door. It looked like Jules had spilled some coffee, or taken a leak. Neither theory made any sense. Another smear graced the door panel, thick as paint. Syd reached out, touched a finger to it.
And his heart froze.
"Oh, fuck," he gasped. "Oh, fuck." The world went fun-house wobbly around him. From the darkness there came a moist cracking noise. Syd looked up with eyes wide as pie plates.
Something was moving in the shadows on the other side of the car. His head spun, consciousness pinwheeling across the inside of his skull, and for one brief disorienting moment he thought it was a very large dog hunkered over a ripped-open garbage bag. Then the thing in the shadows reared up and he saw that it wasn't a dog at all.
And the garbage bag had legs. . . .
Oh god. Syd doubled over, puked right there on the spot: hacking and retching up a vile spew of bile. It splattered on the ground, mixed with the blood pooling there. When he opened his eyes again he saw that the creature had risen, was standing crookedly. It was a huge malformed silhouette, easily seven feet tall. Its eyes burned like molten slag. It looked at him and made a very bad animal sound: low and menacing, strangely pleased. Its lips curled back, flashes of light glinting off its teeth.
And suddenly everything Syd knew about keeping cool and not showing fear was bullshit, rendered worse than useless as his legs started moving all by themselves. Running. Running.
Behind him, a fearsome howl rose up.
Syd ran, the beast hot behind him, its loping stride overtaking his own desperate retreat. His car was thirty million miles away, his car was parked in a dis
tant galaxy. And the thing behind him was gaining. Syd's survival instinct kicked in, hurtling him forward . . .
. . . and then he was there, slamming into the passenger side of his car a heartbeat before the shadow-thing caught up to him. Somehow his keys found the lock, his hands pried open the door. He dove across the interior and pulled the door shut a split second before the beast smacked into the side. The passenger side window cracked and starred. Syd jammed his key into the ignition. The engine shuddered and groaned.
"MOTHERFUCKER!!" he shouted. "GO GO GO!!"
A great shadow loomed outside the shattered glass. The engine caught, rumbled to life. Syd jammed his foot to the gas, felt it roar in response. The door clattered, started to open. Syd threw the shifter into gear, popped the clutch.
The Mustang's rear wheels spun, sent up a roaring granite spray. Syd wrenched the steering wheel to the left, sent the car into a hard three-sixty across the barren space. The door clicked shut. The thing held on. Syd seesawed the wheel back, whipping the car so hard to the right that he thought he would roll it as he did a vicious figure eight.
Somewhere coming out of the second turn the creature lost its grip, went sailing off into space. Syd didn't see it land. He didn't need to. The road was directly before him. He had his shot.
He wouldn't get another.
Gunning it for all it was worth, Syd aimed for the entrance. The Mustang slalomed and slid, picking up speed. By the time he cleared the entrance he was doing fifty, and he went screaming onto the road without letting up or looking back. If anyone had been coming in either direction he'd have been hamburger.
But luck was with him. It was late. The road was empty. The Mustang made the turn, missing the guardrail with inches to spare. Syd straightened out and floored it, the speedometer arcing past sixty, seventy. The Chameleon's sign disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoking rubber.
Syd drove and drove: going nowhere but away, his body shaking, his thoughts slam-dancing between shock and shrieking terror. The straight road gave way to twisting mountain curves. Syd's hands white-knuckled the wheel as his mind rebelled, tried to strike deals with the unreal. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be denied. The details were too clear: burned into his gray matter, stark and garish in his mind's eye. The steaming blood. The lifeless form strewn across the cold ground.
The thing that hovered above it . . .
From behind, the glare of hi-beams and flickering light. It was Jules's sedan, jerking and weaving as it hurtled forward, eating up the distance between them. Syd screamed, punched it again. The speedometer climbed, leveled off at eighty. The road snaked out treacherously before him. The sedan's headlights disappeared momentarily as he hooked around the next bend.
But by the time he went over the last rise that marked the beginning of the downgrade the Chrysler had caught up, its big angular bumper riding up his ass as they roared down the road. It nudged him, a two-ton kiss that crunched metal to metal and crumpled his flimsy rear end. The Mustang screeched and skidded; Syd jerked and screamed again, almost lost control. He was drunk and scared shitless. He was losing his mind.
A sign flashed yellow, illuminated by the headlights as it whipped by. no passing, dangerous curves ahead. The Chrysler crossed out and into the oncoming lane. As it did Syd heard the stereo, maxxed and blasting, some wild-ass Stevie Ray sonic assault so loud it penetrated the slipstream, the roar of the dueling engines. The sedan pulled abreast of him.
Syd glanced over, blood thudding madly in his head.
The dome light was flickering, so he couldn't clearly see the interior. But something very large was behind the wheel, and a very dead Jules was riding shotgun: his face pulped and mangled, his head puppeteered by the monster beside him. His throat was completely gone, from Adam's apple to spinal column. Syd watched in horror as Jules's face twisted around, smacked and slid against the glass. His dead friend stared blindly at him, his features smushed and distorted.
Then the monster flicked its wrist.
And Syd lost it completely.
Jules's face was still stuck to the glass: skin sloughing off his skull like a cheap Halloween mask as his body slumped. The flesh hovered on the window for a moment before sliding away, leaving a gore-streaked smear in its wake.
The road hooked to the left. The thing behind the wheel accelerated, veering back across the double yellow line.
It smacked into him, crushing the left front quarterpanel as it tried to force him off the road. Syd felt the Mustang pitch to the right, saw sparks fly as the guardrail connected like a can opener, peeling sheet metal into jagged, razored ribbons. The blackness beyond the edge of the road yawned beside him.
Syd countersteered, throwing his weight into it. The Mustang groaned and pushed off the rail, tires screeching as it bit back into the lane. The Chrysler lurched and surged, swerving away as Syd cursed and downshifted, dropping back one car length back as the Chrysler rocketed ahead.
He was behind it now, the big black sedan weaving back and forth as they slid through the next set of turns. The Chrysler cut to the right; Syd hit the gas and steered left, trying to go around it. The road hooked and swooped. The Mustang's engine screamed as he took to the outside lane, roared past his tormentor . . .
. . . and that was when the big sedan came careening back, swatting into him at seventy miles an hour. Syd felt his right rear end buckle as the tire disintegrated, throwing smoke and chunks of rubber all over the highway. The wheel jerked out of his hands and he lost control completely: the Mustang fishtailing, g-force and momentum carrying him clear across the road and into the concrete retaining wall on the other side.
There was a grinding trash-compactor roar, a white-hot blast of pain as the driver's side door buckled and caved in on him and a lacerating shower of glass swarmed like hornets in the air. Syd's mind dislocated, felt reality go molten, elastic. The car was still moving, wholly of its own volition. The sound was deafening. The car was still moving.
The last thing he saw was an enormous tree, rushing madly toward him.
Then, impact.
And blackness.
THE CHRYSLER SLOWED to a stop, some two hundred yards down the road. Vic turned the volume down and hit the power-window button. He listened for the sound of fire, or maybe a nice explosion.
But aside from the tortured rumble of the sedan's engine, all was quiet. He'd lost sight of the Mustang shortly after it hit the retaining wall. The curve obscured the rest. He put the car into reverse, began backing up. He'd gone maybe three or four hundred feet when he saw a wheel, upright and wobbling as it rolled all on its lonesome down the darkened road. Another fifty feet back, and the wreck came into view.
The Mustang had wrapped around a gnarled old oak. The front end was crushed from bumper to windshield, the rest of the car mashed like an old beer can.
Vic smiled. He could see steam wafting up, hear the groan of metal settling. He watched for a minute, didn't hear anything else. He'd kept his promise, all right. Just like he said he would.
Never laid a hand on 'im, he thought, and began to chuckle.
And the chuckle became a laugh, the laugh a full-scale belly-buster. He looked up, saw the waning moon, dolefully observant. She was the perfect lover, he mused. She kept her opinions to herself. This time when the urge to bay rose up inside, Vic gleefully gave in.
Then he turned the stereo way up high. Put the car into drive.
And together, they howled off into the night.
PART TWO
Jane
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
26
AH, HOW THE mighty had fallen.
The name on the sign hanging over the door was Big Dan's Deadbeat Bar & Grill; and whether that was simply truth in advertising or actual self-fulfilling prophecy, the end result was the same.
It didn't matter that it wasn't the actual name of the bar—which was Danny D.'s, for anybody who cared. Once upon a time, some whiz kid had scrawled the words on the flap off a case of Genni
e Cream Ale, found a stray nail poking halfway out above the door. The rest was not so much history as irony, or entropy. Dan didn't much care for the sign, but he couldn't be bothered to climb up there and take it down. And neither could anyone else.
Which pretty much summed it up. The bar wasn't just a dump; it was a black hole. And moreover, a virtual loser magnet, ground zero for bottom feeders, with a rich redneck history of shootings and stabbings to go with its watered-down booze and lobotomized IQs. It had the kind of desperate dog kennel vibe you made cruel jokes about when your life was on track, but found yourself naturally gravitating toward when that same life horribly disassembled.
Syd had spent a good bit of the last eighteen months there. It somehow spoke to his condition.
Ever since the crash and burn.
The door opened without warning. Another loser, coming through. Syd winced against the light, the dark shape it framed. He couldn't see who it was, nor imagine that it mattered. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Syd was on his seventh beer. On the outside, yet another Pennsylvania spring had sprung: a bright, shiny, sun-spackled chlorophyll explosion, draping the world in its first blush of green.
He knew it was beautiful, and that it should be inspiring; but, frankly, at this point, it just gave him a headache. The sun was too bright, and what it revealed was too damaged. The world didn't bear up to such close scrutiny. The shadows made a lot more sense.
Just as it was easier, in the long run, to bury the truth____
The door shut. Syd blinked back the little floating dots, let his gaze flicker across the room. There was Doris the troll, on her perch by the corner, with her bottle of Pabst and all those hairs in her chin. There was Big Dan himself, a blubbery mountain of caked sweat and whiskey-soaked lard. A couple of big-mouthed Blutos—Syd had nicknamed them Bo Hunk and Dick Weed—slowly pissed each other off as they argued last night's pre-season game. Maybe a half-dozen others, mostly regulars, were scattered around the bar. He didn't know their real names, didn't want to; it was easier to make up his own.
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