by Robert Bevan
To keep the phone from ringing a second time, Bucky picked up the handset.
“Texaco,” he whispered as curtly as he could manage. “What the fuck do you want?” There was no response. No dial tone. Nothing. A closer examination of the phone revealed that he'd fucked it up pretty bad. Two seconds of reflection on that fact was enough to assess his situation as being a little less ideal for it.
But at least he still had his shitty Nokia. He felt his pocket, but the phone wasn't there. Where the fuck had he left it?
The sound of breaking glass further tested the resolve of Bucky's heart and bladder, but it was too far away to be the glass protecting the counter. It was probably one of the refrigerator doors.
Bucky looked up at the security monitor and confirmed his suspicion. Devouring dozens of boxes of snack cakes had apparently built up a thirst. Zabor had moved on to pop.
The drinks were further away, so Bucky felt a little better this time about peeking over the counter, going so far as to stand most of the way up to get a better view.
Zabor was biting indiscriminately into two-liter bottles of Coke and Pepsi like a goddamn savage.
Bucky shook his head and muttered to himself, “One or the other. Make a fuckin' choice and stick with it.”
His cell phone was there on the counter. The blinking green light indicated that he had a text message. He grabbed the phone, dropped back down to the floor, and activated the screen.
With only 2% battery power available, Bucky needed to act fast. There was one unread message, and it was from Floyd.
Opening the message, he found a picture of a man's ass, presumably Floyd's, but it was slightly out of focus. The picture had been shot from too far away to have been a selfie. That didn't bode well for the current state of the group.
Bucky tried Floyd's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. “Fuck you!” he whispered after the beep. After he'd hung up, it occurred to him that it might have been wise to leave a more informative message. It didn't matter much. He was pretty sure Floyd didn't know how to use his voicemail anyway.
He dug in his pocket until he found the paper Zelda had written her phone number on. His phone battery now at 1%, he carefully tapped out the phone number and pressed the phone icon. It rang a few times, but nobody answered.
“Fuck,” said Bucky. He didn't want it to come to this, but he had no other choice. He dialed 9-1-1.
The operator picked up almost immediately. “9-1-1. What's your emergency?”
“I'm at the Texaco in Hell's Titties.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Goddammit! Fuckin' Crawford! I'm in here with a seven-foot tall cockroach demon. I need someone over here, pronto.”
There was no response. Had she hung up on him? Bucky looked at his phone to discover that the screen was blank. His battery was dead. Still, that didn't necessarily mean that she hadn't hung up on him first.
Bucky sat back, feeling defeated. He was weaponless, cut off from the outside world, and had to piss so fucking bad.
Then inspiration hit him like a kick to the nuts. He worked in a goddamn gas station. They sold phone chargers here. All he had to do was run out, grab one, run back in, lock the door, and reestablish contact with the world beyond Texaco. He was confident that he could do that much, but not in his current condition.
Fortunately, inspiration begot further inspiration as he thought of one solution for his two additional problems. He was sitting among eight empty beer bottles. Filled with piss and recapped, those could be used as projectiles. Maybe not enough to hurt a demon, but perhaps enough to confuse it long enough to complete his mission.
Good idea or not, Bucky's bladder was about to make a decision for him. He unzipped and hosed into a Coors Light bottle, filling it up in almost no time. Balancing the first upright and transitioning to a second bottle proved tricky. There was some spillage, but nothing that couldn't be cleaned up. He tried to recall where the paper towels were. If his mission went well enough, he could grab a roll of those as well.
By the seventh and eighth bottles, Bucky had his system worked out, minimizing the spillage. When all the bottles were full, he still had a little piss left in him.
The beers in his case were getting warm, but Bucky had to be in top condition if he was going to complete his mission. He popped the cap off one more bottle, chugged back the contents, then pressed his dickhole against the mouth and emptied his bladder.
Even with the help of Scotch tape, he was only able to get a decent seal on four of the bottles. The rest of the caps were too bent. That would have to be enough. He couldn't carry much more than four anyway.
Bucky peeked over the counter again. Zabor was still going to town on the pop fridge. The floor beneath him was a sticky brown mess. Zabor was so distracted by the syrupy beverages that Bucky's makeshift weaponry might have been unnecessary. But there was a psychological aspect to it. Bucky just felt more confident walking out there holding four bottles of his own piss.
Easing the door open, he saw that he had a clear path right to the phone chargers, and it was a good distance from where Zabor was greedily guzzling back a bottle of Dr. Pepper. He resisted the urge to run, judging stealth to be the wiser option. He crouched low and walked sideways like a crab. The beer fridges behind him did little to deter the sweat pouring from his brow. About halfway to his target, he started to relax. He'd been keeping his eyes on Zabor the whole time, ready to duck. But the big-ass cockroach hadn't even so much as glanced in his direction.
Then, without warning, a bottle flew at Bucky. He ducked out of the way as it smashed through the glass door of one of the beer fridges. His heart raced as he glanced into the fridge. A torn plastic bottle of Diet Coke was spilling its guts, mixing a dire cocktail at the bottom of the fridge with the wine coolers it had smashed upon impact.
“Two can play at that game, you son of a bitch.” With a sudden rush of adrenaline, Bucky sprang to his feet and cocked back his arm to return fire.
He was surprised to discover that Zabor's attention was still focused on the pop fridge. The demon was clearly agitated by something as it hissed and spat, but it wasn't looking in his direction.
He was equally surprised at the sensation of warm piss running down his arm.
“Fuck,” he said, crouching down again. His seals hadn't held. The caps fell completely off, drenching Bucky's entire right arm in piss. It even ran down the side of his shirt. The customer service representative at Walmart would almost certainly try to take issue with that when he went to return the shirt tomorrow.
He set the two re-emptied bottles on the floor, his mind refocused on Zabor and the Diet Coke bottle. Suddenly, it all made sense. That wasn't meant for him. Zabor still didn't know he was there. That was just a reaction to the artificial sweetener.
Bucky moved a little more quickly to the phone chargers and grabbed one with his free hand. He was about to turn back when he had a brilliant idea. He set down the other two piss bombs and carefully opened the door to the fridge with the Coors Light. He grabbed two cases and set his sights on the thick steel Employees Only door. Two steps of crouched running in, he slipped in his piss puddle and landed hard on his back.
“Ow,” Bucky groaned. His vision was blurry and his back was warm as he admitted a hard truth to himself. Walmart wasn't going to take back this shirt.
Grabbing hold of the two cases of beer again, Bucky got back to his feet. Just as he stood up, some asshole with their high beams on pulled into the parking lot, nearly blinding him.
“The fuck?” shouted Bucky, temporarily forgetting his situation.
Zabor, who's attention had also been focused on the car, turned toward Bucky. It spread its wings wide. Its disgusting little mouth parts twitched and clicked as they dripped with orange Fanta. “SHAVAL MUSTAB BUUUCKYYYY.”
“Aw shit!” Bucky's body moved faster than it had done since junior high, which was especially impressive considering it was carrying forty more pounds, not even counting
the two cases of beer. He dropped the beer, making a mental note to give them a little time before opening one, and slammed the door shut as Zabor flew over the aisles toward him.
He double-checked the deadbolt, then jumped back as Zabor pounded on the door from the other side. The door held. That was good, but Bucky had one last thing to take care of before he allowed himself to relax. He opened the cash register, took out the I.O.U., ripped it to tiny pieces until he was satisfied that it couldn't be put back together, and dropped the pieces into the garbage can.
He sighed and twisted the cap off one of his not-so-cold beers. “Cheers, Zabor.”
It was important to celebrate life's small victories. Surveying the carnage outside, Bucky figured Mr. Stonebaum wouldn’t notice if he had one cigarette. A beer and a smoke to calm his nerves while he waited for the cavalry to come. He lit up the cigarette and prepared to open the phone charger when he noticed something on the packaging.
Compatible with iPhone
“Son. Of. A. Bitch.”
Chapter 24
Floyd crawled slowly out from beneath the Tiny Tino’s factory security shutter and stood with his hands up. Beside him, Mark, Thorin, and Rainn had already assumed similar positions. Floyd squinted slightly in the high beams of Roger’s police cruiser. He could make out the glow-edged silhouette of Roger standing with his hands on his hips.
Part of Floyd knew he was in some pretty deep shit, but another, much more stoned part of Floyd thought that Roger looked like he belonged in a bad episode of the X-Files. He could feel a treacherous giggle trying to escape from his gut and through his mouth.
“Hi, Roger.” Floyd waved.
Roger sighed heavily. “Just what the heck are you people up to? I come out here expecting to find a couple of liquored-up teenagers and here I am talking to grown-ass adults.”
“In fairness, we are liquored-up grown-ass adults,” said Floyd.
Roger shook his head. “What in the hell were you doing in there?”
“Eating pizza, mostly,” said Rainn.
“Uh-huh,” said Roger. “So you guys hit the wacky-backy too hard and came out here to satisfy a bad case of the midnight munchies?”
Rainn snorted a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Come on, Roger,” Rainn said. “You’re the same age we are, why are you talking like a dad from an eighties sitcom?”
Floyd thought he could see Roger’s face turn beet red, even in the low light. In high school, Roger had always been one of those guys who turned red at the slightest exertion or embarrassment. They’d had a nickname for him, even. What was it?
“I gotta say I’m disappointed in you, Rainn,” said Roger. “I always had you pegged as a stand-up gal, but here you are damaging private property and stealing from a local business.”
“It’s not like that. Well, it is, but it’s not like how you’re saying. We’re happy to pay for any damage to the door and any profits we may have…uh… eaten into.”
Mark barely contained a snicker. Thorin was looking at the floor, his lips pressed firmly together.
“You’re darn right you will, soon as I take you all down to the station and charge you.”
“Oh, seriously?” Rainn flapped her arms out in a shrug. “All the real criminals in this town and you’re going to waste your time with this? We said we’d pay for the damages, Roger, you know we’re good for it.”
“Well, that’s not the point, now, is it?” said Roger. “I’m going to arrest you, and charge you, and if Mr. Tino wants to work out some kind of arrangement with you then that’s on him.”
“Roger Rush!” Floyd suddenly blurted out.
“What?”
“That’s what we used to call you in high school, on account of how every time you got worked up, you looked like you’d taken a big ol’ face full of poppers.”
Mark’s shoulders were shaking. Thorin looked like we was trying to bury his face in his own chest.
“High school was a long time ago, Floyd,” Roger said calmly. “We’re all grown men and women now.”
Floyd coughed into his hand. “Of course. Absolutely.”
“And yet here you all are, breaking into a pizza factory.” Roger expanded his arms as if to encapsulate all the sheer fuckery before him. “You can get delivery, you know. So what is all this, some kind of prank? A dare?”
Rainn rolled her eyes. “Do we look twelve years old to you, Roger?”
“Well, you don't look it but you sure are acting it.” Roger put his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I try very hard to be a fair man, but after the couple of days I’ve had, people calling me up about monsters—”
“What did you say?” said Rainn.
“I said I’m getting a little sick of practical jokes—”
“No, about the monster?”
Roger waved a hand dismissively. “We’re getting a lot of call outs tonight, is all, mostly from people who are high or drunk or crazy.”
Mark and Thorin exchanged a glance. “Would this monster happen to be a seven-foot-tall cockroach?”
“How did you…?” Roger leveled a cool stare at them. “If you guys know something about all this nonsense, you need to tell me. People are wasting police time, and if there’s some kind of hoax going on, the sooner I know about it, the safer everyone will be.”
Floyd shook his head. “Ain’t no hoax, man. That’s why we’re out here. We’re hunting that sucker down.”
“I don't like to cuss, Floyd, but what's coming out of your mouth right now is pure bull-plop and you know it,” said Roger.
“He’s right, look—” Thorin reached into the back of his pants and pulled free his water gun “See, we’re—”
Roger’s sidearm was in his hand with lightning speed, transforming him from friendly neighborhood cop to no-bullshit iron fist of the law in half a second. “You put that down right now, son, or I put you down.”
Thorin turned pale, even for a goth. With shaking knees, he carefully bent down and placed the water gun on the ground. “It’s…It’s filled with bug spray. Just bug spray, I swear!”
“Slide it over.”
Thorin obliged. Roger picked up the Super Splasher and gave it a tentative sniff. Then he holstered his side arm. “You people honestly believe you’re out here hunting a giant bug? With a kid’s toy filled with bug spray?”
“I realize that sounds…” Rainn paused. “I don't want to say ‘retarded’ because that’s an awful word, but I’m having trouble thinking of a better way to sum it up.”
“Idiotic,” Roger offered. “Offensively idiotic. What do you guys take me for?”
“Now listen, Roger.” Floyd stepped forward, hands still up. “I know how it sounds. Heck, I’d have a hard time believing it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”
“We’re not lying,” said Mark. “We’ve seen it. It’s out there.”
“And you’re telling us other people have seen it too, right?” said Rainn. “Don’t you think you should at least hear us out?”
“Sure, yeah, other people say they’ve seen it too,” said Roger. “But this afternoon, an old lady swore blind that her husband had been kidnapped by a supermodel, so what does that tell you about what people say?”
“But if everyone’s reporting the same thing, aren’t you obliged to take it seriously?” said Thorin. “What if you’re wrong? People’s lives could be in danger.”
Roger’s reply was interrupted by a burst of static from his radio. He held up a finger to put a pin in the conversation and raised the radio to his ear. “What is it, Ethyl?”
A crackly voice came from the speaker. “‘Nother monster sighting, hun.”
Roger turned a hard eye to Floyd and the others, daring them to say anything. He spoke into the radio. “Where this time, Ethyl?”
“Up near the Texaco,” came the reply.
“Oh shit,” said Floyd. “Bucky!”
“What’s Bucky got to do with this?” asked Roger.
>
“He’s working up at the Texaco. He knows about the bug, he was hunting it with us!”
Roger looked from his radio, to his cruiser, back to Floyd.
“Please, man,” Floyd begged. “You’ve got to let us go help him. He could be in deep shit!”
Roger nodded thoughtfully to himself for a moment. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You guys are going to get in my cruiser, and I’m going to take ya’ll down to the station.”
“Roger, come on!”
Roger held up a finger. “But… we’re going to swing by the Texaco and check in on your friend first.”
Floyd deflated with relief. “Mind if Thorin grabs his Super Splasher back?”
“He will do no such thing.” Roger patted his sidearm. “Whatever shenanigans are going down, I’m more than prepared to deal with them. Now all of you, get in the back seat.”
Chapter 25
The idiot outside finally turned off their goddamn headlights, but now they were honking their horn. Could they not see that Bucky had some shit going on at present?
He leaned forward and squinted, but one of the exterior lights was reflecting on the van’s windshield, and he couldn't make out anyone inside.
Finally, the driver leaned out of their window. It was Zelda. She was screaming something at him, but he couldn't hear what. He did his best to read her lips from fifty feet away.
“Fuck me?” Perhaps his interpretation was wishful thinking. Considering the current circumstances, she couldn't possibly expect him to –
“BUUUUCKYYYYY!” bellowed Zabor, still pounding on the Employees Only door.
Bucky rolled his eyes. That's it. She's shouting Bucky. “Thanks, Zabor.” He waved at Zelda to show that she had his attention.
She held up her cell phone, put it to her ear, and pointed to him.
He felt a little better now about her not having answered the phone before. She must have been driving when he called her. Now, what was the best way to communicate to her that his phone was dead?
