by Sean Platt
Something inside Luca kept telling him to look for a rainbow, promising that if he found it, that colorful arc might tell him where to go. But he couldn’t see any rainbows, no matter how hard he looked, and so he had no idea how to get home, or how he had gotten to wherever he was in the first place.
Luca had tried telling himself he was inside a dream, or rather, a nightmare. He had said it over and over, but couldn’t get himself to believe it. No nightmare was so relentless or unending. He wondered if he had been kidnapped while he was sleeping, then driven far, far away. The only other thing that made any sense was that Luca had died in his sleep and was now walking through hell.
No, this wasn’t like the Hell he read about in the Bible, though Dad had always said the Bible wasn’t exactly true (even though Grandma said it was), but rather stories that were supposed to represent God in a way that made it easy for grownups and kids to both understand. “Man’s best guess,” Dad had said.
Maybe hell was really just an endless desert, and Luca was there because he deserved it for murdering Johnny Thomas and Trevor and Gus and Kiyor.
The wind came and went, but each time it did it whipped Luca in the face with gritty sand that stung his eyes and bit him all over his skin.
Luca had cried and cried, until he ran out of tears; he had hoped and hoped that he would wake up, until he surrendered, knowing he wouldn’t; and he had walked and walked for so far, that he had finally given up the idea of doing anything else, maybe ever again.
Until he finally slept.
And that, of course, would come with death.
Unless that had already happened, which Luca figured it probably had.
He kept walking his endless walk that felt somehow oddly familiar — like he’d done it before — like when Johnny Thomas was choking him, and he thought he could see his entire life like a movie played fast, except it wasn’t his, even though it felt like it, because the new one that felt as real as the old one had his family dying in a car accident, some old man adopting him, and a brother whose name just sat there on the tip of Luca’s tongue.
The movie didn’t feel like imagination, it felt like something that had happened; a memory as impossible as him walking; a memory like the one that told him to look for the rainbow.
But Luca had never gone on a walk through the desert, or lost his family, or had a rainbow tell him where to go.
Even though the stuff inside him swore that all of those things had happened.
Luca kept forcing himself forward, a step at a time, each more painful than the one before it, every step growing more certain that nothing would feel better than if Luca were to simply lay down and die.
Maybe if I lie down, like I did on that porch swing, I’ll wake up back there.
Yeah, that’s it.
I just need to rest.
He fell to his knees, but the moment his hands touched the white sands, Luca jumped back up, palms like lobsters from the lots of hot on the ground.
He would have cried if he had any wet in his eyes, but it was all dried up or gone. So instead, Luca kept walking.
Something dark dragged shadows across the sand. Luca, startled, looked around, but saw nothing. He realized with a chill that the something wasn’t on the ground, but rather above him, hovering with the promise of death.
Luca looked up to a large dark bird, circling.
A vulture, waiting for me to lie down … or die.
I can’t stop.
Must go on.
Luca wondered if the bird would attack him if he wasn’t dead. From what he could remember, vultures only fed on bodies. He didn’t think they actually killed anything. But he wasn’t sure about that, and didn’t even know if the bird was a vulture. It might’ve been a predator, maybe waiting for Luca to get even weaker.
Get weaker, or in the sun.
Luca laughed: the irony of a bird waiting for him to finish roasting. He thought again of the astronaut chickens, and couldn’t stop laughing.
The more Luca thought that the chickens weren’t funny, the louder he laughed.
Oh, God, I’m losing my mind.
Luca kept walking, trudging through the sand, ankles burning as he tried to pull himself from his ugly whirlpool of thoughts. If he could somehow remove pain from his movements, he might be able to go on, like a robot without feeling.
Just. Keep. Walking.
Eventually, I have to find something.
Luca continued, ignoring shadows from the circling bird.
After a while, the shadows left, when the bird gave up and disappeared. Luca felt relief that he could surrender his guard. And at the same time, felt an odd sense of loneliness with his only companion gone.
This, of course, made Luca think of his family.
He thought of playing Legos with Anna. He thought about the last time she’d asked him to play with his Ninjago pieces, after he’d put them with his Legends of Chima and used them to build a super fortress. Anna wanted to build a house for Boo, since Boo was so small, but Luca told her no. He didn’t want her ruining his super fortress like she always did. She said that Luca was mean and he said she was stupid, just like Boo. Now that he was in the desert, Luca realized that she wasn’t right until he answered.
That made Luca want to cry.
But, of course, he couldn’t.
Luca kept walking, his skin blistered and sore, throat raw, and body feeling seconds from collapse.
The sun went hiding behind the horizon as the sky turned from blue to purple, on its way to black. Luca touched the sand, wondering if it was safe enough to lie down on yet, then jerked it back when it was still burning to the touch.
He kept on, until the sun was gone. Purple turned to black as expected, but darker — blacker than anything Luca had ever seen. The desert was so wide open and giant that it seemed claustrophobic in the dark.
He reached out, hands in front of him, hoping not to bump into anything — not that he’d passed anything he could possibly bump into so far. Luca hadn’t seen a single cactus. Every step was timid, and since the wind had died, it was replaced by a silence so deep it was deafening, like a high-pitched whistle, constant in his head: one more hurt to pile on the many.
Luca couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment, something would reach out from the darkness and grab him.
He kept walking. Slow but steady.
Suddenly, he heard something move behind him.
Luca froze, his heart pounding as he tried to hear above the quiet’s high-pitched whine.
Something brushed by him, bumping against his waist. Luca screamed, and stumbled forward. Momentum carried him forward and he ran — faster than he would have thought possible since every inch of his body was crusted in pain.
He kept racing into the darkness, hoping that whatever pursued him was as blind as he was. He didn’t dare stop to listen, or see if he’d lost it.
Luca had to keep running, or he would be dead.
As he ran, Luca’s mind raced over the possible things that might have bumped into him. There weren’t many; how many predators called deserts their home?
Some sort of hyena? A giant, poisonous lizard? A wolf?
Luca’s feet gave out from beneath him. He lost a scream as he plunged forward, down into the darkness. His body hit the black sand hard, rolling, tumbling, out of control down a seemingly endless hill until he came to a sharp and sudden stop, gasping for air and peering into the black, ears perked to hear whatever he’d bumped into.
Seeing nothing, and hearing nothing, Luca curled into the sound as if it was Mom, feeling Alaska in his bones. The ground was still warm, unlike his insides, and felt relief against the evening’s cool air.
Luca laid down, pulling himself into as tight a ball as his body allowed, making himself as tiny a target as possible so that whatever was waiting in the dark might not find him.
Finally, after thinking he would probably die if he fell asleep, Luca could hold his lids open no longer. He closed his eyes a
nd started to snore.
Luca woke to something licking him.
He opened his eyes, blinded by daylight as soon as he did. He threw his hands in front of his face, protecting himself from the bright light and whatever was licking him.
A familiar voice said, “It’s OK, Luca.”
Luca saw Dog Vader. The dog looked down at his feet, where four bottles of water were lined neatly in the sand.
Luca grabbed the bottles, unscrewed the caps, and gulped them down, one at a time.
“Whoa, slow down there, Luca. You’ll puke. And the last thing you want to do in the desert is puke.”
Luca slowed, and swallowed, water stinging his dry throat and cracked lips.
“Where am I?” he asked.
Dog Vader said, “You’re close.”
“Close to what?” Luca’s throat hurt worse with every word.
“Save your voice,” Dog Vader said. “You’ll need it to speak with him.”
“Who?” Luca asked.
Dog Vader nodded with his snout toward the distance. Luca saw a dark shape like an igloo, maybe made of dirt, with a small trail of black smoke spiraling into the sky above the igloo.
Luca asked, “Who is that?”
But Dog Vader was gone.
Luca grabbed the remaining bottles, shoved them into his pockets, and stood. His body ached, every movement felt as if he were breaking scar tissue, but he had to move forward. Not only had Dog Vader told him that he had to, but it was the first creature he’d seen in forever.
As Luca forced himself forward, the sun returned, then climbed in the sky, cooking his flesh as the igloo drew nearer. As he got closer, Luca felt it harder to continue. But he kept on, despite the pain, until the trail of smoke pluming above the igloo had vanished.
Luca hoped whoever was there hadn’t left.
He pushed himself to move faster, even though faster was a crawl. As Luca moved closer, he saw that the igloo wasn’t made of dirt, but something darker, which he couldn’t yet untangle with his eyes.
He finished another bottle of water and shoved the empty into his back pocket as he came within a hundred or so feet of the igloo.
He was immediately met with a wall of stench that overwhelmed his senses.
Luca turned, trying not to puke. He remembered Dog Vader warning him not to. He wondered if this was why?
Luca now knew that the igloo was made of poop.
I can’t go in there.
I can’t.
Luca forced himself to duck down and look through the entrance at the someone inside.
He dropped to the sand and scrambled into the igloo, despite the reek. The man inside was older, with dark hair hanging in his face. He was also naked, except for the gloves made of poop. His eyes were closed, and he was sitting cross-legged in front of an iron pot. Beneath the pot, a fire’s ashen remains.
Luca stared, shaking and afraid, wondering why he was supposed to talk to this crazy man. The man hadn’t even twitched since Luca had entered the igloo. He wondered if the man was dead.
His eyes flicked open, blue eyes, bloodshot and tired.
“It’s you,” he said.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Roman, and I’ve been waiting for you.”
Forty-One
Boricio Wolfe
Boricio woke up, shocked to find himself in a peculiar situation — tied to his bed, and not in a good way.
His lids weren’t gummed, and he wore no blindfold, but he kept them closed while sussing his surroundings, as best he could with his lids still drawn: metal cuffs biting into his wrists, thick clothesline or something pulling his ankles and wrapping them tight, and a twitching nose said prey in his room, waiting for a purge. Only this prey made the mistake of thinking itself a hunter.
Must’ve come in through the open window, Boricio figured. Some people would do anything for weed. Boricio knew it wasn’t related to the people who’d tried to kill him and Miss Mary. Otherwise, he’d already be six feet under. No, this was someone with a fucking death wish, eager to take the Boricio Express to the Pearly Gates.
Somebody’s going to die, and I’m going to wear that somebody’s face as a mask, while I shit on their body.
Whoever had Boricio was watching him, his prickling ears said so, inches from the short hairs dancing at his neck.
Boricio finished figuring as much shit as he could with his eyes closed, then opened them to the man sitting a few feet away in the room’s only chair. It was an old dude, overweight, who looked like, and smelled like, a cop.
He met the man’s eyes, then curled his lip and said, “You wanna let me go now so we can play chase? I’ll be it first, you’ll get a one hour head start. Of course, when I catch you I’ll carry your bones in a backpack, maybe wear your fingers around my neck.”
The man said nothing, keeping Boricio wondering on his identity as he sat in the chair, running his hands along five inches of blade from his nine-inch, high-carbon stainless steel knife. The man had taste.
He stared down at Boricio, still silent, his only broadcast a gesture, ever so slight: a tilt of his head toward a folder at his feet; manila, closed, contents a mystery. Of course the folder had something to do with why the man was in Boricio’s room, maybe everything, but Boricio sure as hell wasn’t going to ask about it, or even open his mouth — not after the pile of cock hairs had refused his generous offer of being it first.
“Ah, you’re awake,” the man finally said, still staring at Boricio, face so void of emotion that Boricio had to wonder if he practiced at keeping it blank. Boricio nearly asked him, but kept his trap tight since he knew the fuckface wanted him to talk. Another several minutes of silence, then, “You’ve got nothing to say?”
Boricio smiled: The guy was already losing and too stupid to know it.
“Well,” Boricio was ballsy enough to laugh, “It would be nice to make your acquaintance since I never like to tear the life from a man’s throat, or intestines from his belly, without knowing his name first. No need to be proper, a nickname will do. What do they call you at the rest stops, Ass Vandal? Hershey Murial? Mr. Butterworth on account of your colita being so rich and creamy?”
The man’s already sour face turned to vinegar. “My name is Michael Blackmore. Four years ago, you raped and murdered my daughter. I’ve come to claim justice in her name.”
“Ha,” Boricio laughed, repeated the man’s words, but three octaves higher, then went back to his swaggered baritone and said, “I probably came for justice in her mouth.”
The man’s nose twitched, and the way it did, Boricio realized this particular purging and subsequent escape would be a fuck ton more work than the usual, and more than he had time for, considering Rose, Mary, and Paola were due back from their meeting with the Flux Capacitor at any goddamned minute.
He’d have to hurry shit, not just because he’d want to eliminate the threat to himself, and bury the evidence afterward — tic-tac-toe, three in a row — but because Boricio didn’t know what the man might do when three women came into his room and interrupted his Count of Monte Cristo.
“Look man, I’m just fucking with you,” Boricio said. “I’m sure what we have here is a case of mistaken identity. I was busy the night your daughter was raped and murdered, it couldn’t have been me. Have you checked with O.J.?”
The man looked like he wanted to spit on Boricio. Instead, he reached down, grabbed the folder from the floor, opened it, then scooted closer to Boricio. He pulled photos from the folder, one by one. The first few made Boricio feel like he was watching some Hallmark After-School Saturday Morning Special: Before Your Bitches Start Bleeding, with one photo after another of some rug rat with pigtails, then braces, then grass on her patch, which Boricio couldn’t see, but knew by the tits in her sweater. The man looked like he was teetering near losing it, so Boricio didn’t push, though he could think of a dozen things that might make the fucker fall right over. Problem was, the man had a nine-inch knife, and Boricio wa
sn’t sure he wouldn’t take the rapist and murderer with him when he went.
They reached the end of the Hallmark part of the presentation. The man pulled out the photo of a crime scene and his daughter’s mutilated corpse.
The first picture had the girl’s body sprawled across a filthy motel mattress, with some of Boricio’s funnier sketches scrawled on her skin in blood: a cat; a walrus; the Applebee’s logo with a line through it. The second picture wasn’t of the girl, so much as her head, all by its lonesome and resting on the dresser, hair pulled into pigtails — a lot like in one of the first few pictures the man had showed like shit from his wallet. Boricio wondered if Daddy saw the resemblance.
Of course, he remembered the girl, Boricio wasn’t kidding about knowing names. That somehow improved the purging, though back when he split Amber’s head from her body, it wasn’t purging so much as an excellent way to spice up a night. But Boricio remembered everything about that particular evening: He remembered meeting Amber at the Lucky Puck; remembered her looking right into his eyes and knowing she’d be eager for all the things Boricio wanted to do, except for the last one, of course; he remembered driving to the motel, in separate cars; he remembered every minute of the two hours spent filling each of her three holes — no persuasion needed; and he remembered decorating the room in honor of Heath Ledger, whose excellent performance deserved to be commemorated after the sad man lost his sad, little life one year prior.
“I remember Amber.”
Boricio saying his daughter’s name seemed to shake the man from his fugue. “You knew her name?”
“Of course, I knew her name,” Boricio said, as if it were no different from knowing how much the Astros lost by the night before. “I never get business finished without knowing a name. My way makes it better for everyone.”
The man was clearly shocked, staring at Boricio, clearly clueless as to what he should say. Boricio figured the man had never met anyone so honest, and was probably expecting the old back and forth: I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me; please, I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t hurt me; I didn’t mean to, now I’ve seen the error of my ways.
