No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  Next to them was a row of shuttle buses. Retired people milled about, discussing options.

  “What’s going to happen to Serge?”

  “He can take care of himself.”

  “What if he can’t?”

  “He’s risking himself to protect the whole park!”

  “That’s right. Look around at all of us that he’s helped in the past weeks. The Hornsbys, the Gotliebs, Candace . . .”

  “Not to mention me,” said a young man named Scott Packer.

  “After everything Serge has done for us, we’re just going to drive to a hotel?”

  “We can’t leave him alone back there.”

  “It’s not how we were raised.”

  “I want to go back.”

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s put it to a vote,” said Earl. “All in favor?”

  A unanimous show of hands.

  They piled back into the shuttle buses.

  Earlier in the evening, Serge had broken into the main junction box at the clubhouse and killed all the streetlights around the lake.

  The only remaining light in the entire trailer park came from the blue-white glow of a TV. Serge sat cross-legged with his face six inches from the screen, staring at static. Where he’d been for the last hour.

  In practically a trance: “All the answers are so obvious. They’re all questions. Why didn’t I see it before?”

  He looked over his shoulder at a gagged and hog-tied Russian agent. “You ought to try this. It puts the whole enchilada in perspective, like, we really don’t know anything at all about everything. Up, down, good, evil, life, death, one or two fingers up the ass—”

  Rrrrrrrrring.

  “I’ll get that.” Serge snatched the cell phone off the coffee table. “What’s up, dog? You just got to the gas station? Then you’re about fifteen miles away. We’re all at the Boca Shores retirement park . . . That’s right, the place your buddy in the Impala was watching. Threw you a curve ball with that one, didn’t I? Because that’s the last place anyone would think we’d still be after my phone call to you. But I’m just the kind of cat who zigs when others stop for selfies. See you in a few.”

  Click.

  He dialed again.

  “Mr. Buttons? It’s Serge. We’re on. It’s going down at the Boca Shores retirement park. You know what ‘it’s going down’ means, right? . . . Oh, of course, you’ve seen Miami Vice. . . . What address? Believe me, you won’t miss it.”

  Click.

  Serge got up and playfully kicked his hostage in the ribs, over and over, like he was performing some kind of soccer ball-handling drill. Playful only to Serge.

  “Oomph . . .” The captive made the sound of air wheezing from an under-inflated balloon.

  “Isn’t this great? I’m going to meet all your chums! The laugh fests that are to come! . . .” Serge jumped up and touched the ceiling, then lay stomach down on the carpet next to his captive because that’s really the only way you can talk to someone who’s hog-tied. “When I mentioned earlier about no movie-style wry banter, see, I have these wild mood swings that range from positive to fantastically positive! Unfortunately, you caught me on a downswing, so the broken nose is all on me. But if you’re starting to feel sorry for yourself, think about having to explain a blood-spattered couch to a retired couple from Kansas. That last sentence has rarely, if ever, been uttered in human history. My mind is racing. Shit, shit, shit—” Suddenly something caught his eye. Gasp! “Coleman!”

  “Whuut?”

  A head of disheveled hair had just eerily risen into view like a fog-draped scene in The Creature from Behind the Couch.

  “What are you doing here?” yelled Serge. “You were supposed to go with the others.”

  “I missed the buses, but luckily I had a chunk of hashish.”

  “You idiot! This is no time to fool around!” said Serge. “I understand this is going to be a difficult request, but for the duration can you remain inert?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Stay down on the carpet and don’t move until I get back.”

  “I’ll try.” Coleman reclined with a smile on the thick beige rug and closed his eyes.

  Serge’s knuckles rapped on the captive’s skull. “Do your people have this kind of aggravation? Probably not, because you guys build up a tolerance in grade school from your vodka Popsicles.” He pointed out the door. “Another ultra-positive mood swing has arrived, so it’s out the door and off on the wings of hope . . .”

  Serge grabbed a shopping bag and a black trench coat and dashed into the street: “We rock tonight!”

  Then a series of piercing headlights lined up at the guard shack.

  Serge froze. “Oh no!”

  The first driver used a magnetic card to open the gate, and a procession of shuttle buses rolled slowly through the entrance. They stopped in the parking lot behind the clubhouse.

  Serge took off at a sprint.

  The residents were calmly climbing out of the vehicles when Serge arrived out of breath.

  “What are all of you doing back here?” He pointed urgently at the road. “They’re going to be arriving any second! You have to go!”

  “Not a chance.”

  “We can’t just abandon you in your time of need.”

  “It isn’t how our parents raised us.”

  Serge whined and stomped his feet. “Why did I get mixed up with some of the last people in the country who have character?”

  “After all you’ve done for us.”

  “We’ll fight whoever it is together.”

  “No! No! No!” said Serge.

  A few of the residents folded their arms resolutely.

  “Our minds are made up.”

  “We’re not leaving the park.”

  “Nobody pushes us around on our own turf!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Serge. “How about this? You all go hide in your homes, where you can monitor as the Master Plan unfolds. If I get in any trouble that I can’t handle—which I won’t—then you’re free to come to the rescue. That way you’ll be my backup, with clear consciences. Deal?”

  Murmuring at first, but then heads began to nod.

  “Great!” said Serge. “Now my plan is already in motion with lots of variables on a tight schedule, so you’ve got to get inside your trailers as fast as possible!”

  As fast as possible was relative. Serge grimaced with impatience at the slow-motion deployment, repeatedly checking back at the park’s entrance gate for any sign of headlights.

  Minutes later, it was down to the last dozen residents inching up their driveways with walking aids and oxygen tanks.

  Headlights appeared.

  Serge clenched his fists as he watched the last, straggling seniors. “Come onnnnnnn! Get inside!”

  Two BMWs stopped, and the occupants stared curiously at a hand-painted banner covering the entrance sign for Boca Shores. In large bloodred letters:

  Hell.

  The driver of the first car looked at his four tightly packed passengers. “I’m already tired of this guy. No fucking around. He stays alive only long enough to help us find the other targets.”

  The final residents stepped inside and closed their screen doors as the first BMW smashed through the gate arm, sending splinters across the windshield.

  Serge jumped in a golf cart and quickly circled the far side of the lake in the darkness.

  The BMWs slowly cruised the opposite shore, checking houses.

  “What are we looking for?” asked a backseat passenger.

  “Anything,” said the driver. “He wouldn’t give an exact address, so just keep your eyes peeled.”

  “It’s not late enough for all the house lights to be off,” said another. “It’s like something’s going on.”

  “Give the man a cigar,” said the driver. “Now will everyone just shut up and watch? Is that too much to ask?”

  The Beemers continued on, even more slowly now, with the windows down. Insect
s and distant thunder. Tires crushing little stones in the road.

  Suddenly an arm from the backseat pointed dramatically out the windshield.

  “Look!”

  The lead sedan stopped in the street.

  It was a moonless night, with no artificial illumination in the park. But then more thunder, growing closer, and the heat lightning started cooking.

  Clouds flashed randomly over the eastern horizon.

  With each brilliant flash, the BMWs’ passengers strained harder to see. And what they saw made them not trust their eyes.

  Ahead in the middle of the road—lit up in a sequence of background lightning—stood a black silhouette with a flat-brimmed cowboy hat. A long trench coat flowed in the wind.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” said the first driver, cocking his gun and opening his door. “I am so going to enjoy killing this guy!”

  The sedans emptied into the street. There was a loud clatter as the rest of the guns were racked.

  The silhouette remained like stone.

  The others spread out evenly in a line from one side of the road to the other. Once the leader was satisfied, they began marching in deliberate, individual steps. Cautious glances to the sides in case it was a trap. Senses heightened. The only sounds left were the thunder and shoe soles menacingly grinding on pavement.

  The silhouette still didn’t move, feet straddling the road’s center line.

  “Is this guy insane? There are ten of us!”

  “Just stay alert. We don’t know what he’s up to.”

  As they drew closer to the mysterious figure, they could make out the orange glow from a thin black cigar.

  This time the lightning was bright and crashing. The trench coat inflated and flapped.

  Ten sets of shoes took another step in unison.

  Serge removed the cigar from his mouth and held it to a silver tip.

  The tip began to sizzle, and Serge held the rest of the device at a forward angle.

  The marching gang froze and looked at each other.

  Then, suddenly, multicolored flaming balls came flying and whizzing through their ranks.

  “He’s got incendiary rounds!” “It’s like flying napalm!” “Take cover!”

  Half dashed toward the bushes in front of some trailers, and the others dove in the lake.

  Their leader stood back in the street, staring down in disgust. “You idiots! It’s just Roman candles!”

  Serge ignited a sizzling pinwheel that zoomed and exploded over their heads.

  They ducked back down. “Are you sure?”

  “Dammit! Will you get back up here?” screamed the leader. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. This guy’s clearly a clown who has no idea what he’s doing.”

  Heads poked up from behind bushes, and others grabbed reeds as they trudged out of the water and up the banks.

  “Dmitri!”

  “What?”

  “Behind you! In the lake!”

  He spun in alarm. Then relief. “You had me scared there for a second. It’s just a few swans. They’re really beautiful. And look: They’re coming right up to me . . . Well, hello there, swans— . . . Ahhh! Ahhh! Fuck! Ahhh! Get them off me!” Down in the water he went with a froth of violent splashing. His head broke the surface, and the end of his nose was bitten. “Help! Help! They’re killing me . . .” Then back under again.

  The other men threw rocks at the swans, which caused the birds to run up the bank and start chasing them in circles in the grass. “It’s nipping me!” “Me too!” “Ouch!” “Help!”

  The leader hung his head.

  They finally dragged their injured colleague out of the water.

  “Leave him!” The leader pointed up the street at a silhouette with a billowing black trench coat, slowly marching out of sight behind a row of trailers.

  The gang took off running.

  But Serge knew the park well by now: which backyards had fences, which ones you could scoot through, which golf cart paths were dead ends. It was like a giant corn maze of aluminum siding.

  The pursuing gang quickly became disoriented.

  “We can’t get through here. There’s a fence.”

  “Go this way.”

  “A rock wall.”

  “That way!”

  Woof, woof.

  “A Doberman!”

  “Everyone, back to the street!”

  They all ended up by the lake again, panting and keeping a lookout for swans.

  “What’s wrong with you guys?” said the leader. “Go get him!”

  “It’s scary around here.”

  The leader pointed again. “There he is!”

  The shadowy figure in a trench coat darted across the road and disappeared behind the clubhouse. He checked his glow-in-the-dark watch. “Where the hell is the FBI?”

  The gang took off across the lawn toward the building.

  Scores of eyes watched from behind curtains in nearly every darkened trailer, as they had been doing since the beginning. The intruders running one way, then another, then behind the homes, the swans, everything. Dozens of phone calls began crisscrossing the park . . .

  The intruders rounded the clubhouse and stopped in the parking lot with a clear view of all escape routes.

  “Where did he go?”

  “It’s like he just disappeared.”

  A shrill whistle.

  They spun around.

  “Over here!” yelled Serge.

  “How did he get behind us—”

  They shielded their faces as another fusillade of fireworks streamed toward them. Bottle rockets screamed and exploded all around, enveloping the gang in a cloud of pungent smoke.

  “After him!”

  Serge took off again behind the trailers. The group split up to encircle him. Serge glanced over his shoulder as he hurdled a birdbath. He still had a decent lead. Then he looked forward again as the rest of the gang raced around the corner of an upcoming trailer. Serge hit the brakes. “Uh-oh.” He vaulted a fence and sprinted down a cart path.

  The others scrambled over the fence, less gracefully, and resumed pursuit.

  “I didn’t expect this many,” said Serge. Another glance at his watch. “What’s taking the FBI so long?”

  Eyes behind curtains followed the chase. More and more phones rang all around the park.

  The gang was quickly learning the back routes of the park, and Serge kept finding himself in more and more close calls, hopping fences and hedges, until he was finally flushed back into the open by the lake . . .

  A wife pleaded with her husband. “Don’t go outside!”

  “To hell with it.” The old man trudged across his front yard.

  The leader noticed the second silhouette. Squatter and slower. “What on earth?”

  The old man snapped two clips on a rope and began hoisting. All the other eyes in the park watched as a giant American flag rose to the top of the pole and flapped in the growing wind.

  Screen doors began opening.

  “Stay inside!”

  “I can’t just stand by.”

  Serge found himself alone again in the middle of the road. This time exposed without a plan.

  The pursuers emerged from behind trailers and regrouped in the street.

  “What are you waiting for?” yelled the leader. “There he is!”

  The small herd stampeded.

  “Shit.” Serge shed his trench coat and dashed up the street, passing trailer after trailer.

  The group was gaining.

  Just then: “What was that?”

  A screaming, fiery rocket zipped through their ranks before striking one in the shoulder and exploding.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Between the trailers!”

  They picked up their pace. More whizzing, crackling rockets streaked across their path as they passed each trailer. Other fireworks soared into the sky for colorful air detonations.

  The gang was running at top speed now, not after Serg
e, but from the pyrotechnic assault.

  Near the end of the road, one of the residents ignited a set of glued-together cardboard tubes designed to launch molten balls like a Gatling gun.

  The group retreated back to their leader.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “We’re outnumbered.”

  “They’re just old people with fireworks.” The leader pulled a pistol on them. “Don’t make me use this!”

  One of them pointed straight up. “Look!”

  Something with a flaming tail tumbled in flight as it arced through the night sky.

  It exploded at their feet with a tiny pool of fire.

  “They’re throwing Molotov cocktails at us!”

  “You idiots!” The leader stomped out the flames. “It’s just one of those tiny Coke bottles. It’s harmless. They can’t hold enough gasoline to do any real damage.”

  Serge reappeared near the end of the road, jumping up and down. He cupped hands around his mouth. “Yoo-hoo!”

  The leader gritted his teeth. “Get him! And no more screwing up! I swear to God I’ll shoot the next one of you who retreats!”

  They took off again.

  Up the road, halfway between Serge and the gang, an old man stood at the edge of his lawn with a large pail and sloshed the contents into the street. Then he hurried back inside.

  The intruders ran hell-bent. Another flame curved across the sky.

  “Look!”

  “It’s just another little Coke bottle.”

  They kept running.

  It shattered a few feet ahead of them, igniting the gasoline slick that had been splashed onto the pavement.

  “Ahh!” “Ahh!” “Ahh!”

  They hopped around, swatting flames from their clothes. Those who were more seriously on fire dove in the lake, where they sizzled and were attacked by swans.

  The leader watched in the distance and smacked himself in the forehead. He fired a shot in the air for motivation.

  The survivors took off running again.

  More phones rang in trailers. A number of war vets opened glass display cases and removed keepsakes.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Who’s shooting?”

  “Sounds like all of them.”

  “Where did these old people get guns?”

  “Our leader has a gun, too. Keep running!”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Of course with age and diminished eyesight, the gunfire was well off target, but sufficiently distracting.