So I'm just sitting there, minding my own business, lighting a smoke. And then this car screeches in next to me.
I see a kid fly out and slam the door. And then he turns -
Fucker starts pounding on my window.
Well, what the fuck. Suicidal kid. Jock. Buzz cut, straight-arrow type. Looking up, and back at me. All worked up over something.
I rev the engine once, hard, and drop my hand from the gearshift. Picturing the baseball bat under my seat. Cut off, so it hides good. And my knife, behind my left hip. Just in case.
He looks all around, overhead, like a plane's gonna crash or something. That made me wonder. Maybe not that crazy after all. Before I finish the thought, he pounds on the door one more time, looking me right in the eye. And I don't see a challenge in there. Not dangerous, big as he is. He looks sorta confused -
I get a bad feeling...
He looks at my arm, and back at my face. Right then, his face changes. A-ha. And he opens the door.
"Back," I say. Reaching for the bat, mainly out of reflex -
"Go," he barks. "Right now."
"Wha-," is as far as I get.
"Now, dammit." He looks up again. Up, and over my side of the truck. "Go!" He shuts his eyes real tight, and sighs hard. And jumps in.
I get my fingers around the bat...
He grabs his right arm. Pushes up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo. Low on his forearm. It's... fingers. Jet-black. A hand, holding a feather.
I throw it in gear, slinging him back. Smoke the tires. He slams the door and looks out the windows. He's scared.
We get the fuck out of there.
I came from the north, and there's nothing but dark bayou road for a good forty miles, that way. So I hang a hard right, skidding on the gravel.
"You better be right," I tell him.
"Rope," he says, looking at me. "A coil of rope. Fell out of the sky."
"Shit. Where?"
He looks out the rear window, into the bed of my truck. "There."
Well, we're fucked. I look over at him. "What the fuck are y- uh, shoulda just kept on going."
He looks like he swallowed a bug. "I guess. I just... couldn't let 'em..." He looks at me.
"Yeah," I sigh. "I know that one. Been there." He looks out back again. I get my pack out and tap him on the arm with it. He sees it, makes a relieved noise and turns around. Shakes one out of the pack and drops it alongside me, already digging for a lighter in his pocket. Fires up smoothly. No awkwardness at all. A lot of practice, looks like. He's just a kid, and he tugs on a nonfilter like he's been at it as long as me. Goes for another long drag, like he needs it, and leans his head back. "What's in the box?"
"What box?"
He looks straight ahead now. "Oh... The one right behind you. In the corner of the bed."
I close my eyes and groan. "Beats the fuck outa me."
He shakes his head. "That's what I thought."
"Fuck this," I say, gunning it. "What we need is lots of cars. Freeway, big parking lot."
He takes another drag and shakes his head. "Forty-five minutes, easy. Right at 53, right again over the bridge -"
"That's too far."
"I know." We look at each other again -
And we both grin. Not 'cause it's funny. Hell no.
"Chuck," I say, sticking my hand out.
"Blake," he says. Good, solid shake.
"Alright, here's the plan," I tell him. "You can bail out when we're on the bridge. Or run like hell while they're tying me down."
He looks down at his smoke. "We can do better than that."
"Okay," I shrug. "It better be quick, though."
"The idea was to... warn you."
I chuckle at that, but it sounds pretty harsh. "Yup. You did that, alright." I shake my head. "Trouble is, I'm already fucked. Good try, though -"
"No. Not yet, you aren't."
Not yet, I think. But soon. And you too, kid. "You ever been... not the only one? Caught?"
He finishes the smoke, starts to roll down the window - and stops himself. Smart. "Uh, well, I moved out here to... lose 'em. Don't know anybody else who g-"
"No, Blake," I say quietly. "I mean, hauled off someplace, and you weren't the only guy there. At the same time."
"No -" And the color drains out of his face. "Oh. Shit. Oh shit, shit -"
"Hey. Hey, easy."
"What have I done?"
I grab his arm. "You... acted. Just went with your gut. You tried to do good. I respect that."
He looks out the window for a few seconds, then back at me. "Shit."
"Now let's see if we can't come up with a way to shake the fucker... out here in the sticks." He sighs, and nods. I get myself another smoke, and so does he. "Any short cuts you know about?"
"Huh?"
"Any turnoffs that actually go somewhere? Don't dead-end -"
"No," he says. "I scouted 'em out, during the day. Brought my brothers along." He looks out the rear window. "We had guns. Torches -"
"Okay. So it's straight ahead, or turn around. Any towns this way?"
"Small ones... Closed up by now."
"Cops?"
He thinks hard. "I don't think so. I'm not sure. Back to the gas station."
I smoke, checking the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Of course. It'll be a surprise. "We'd have to slow down, turn around... and your car's sittin' there. Could be staked out."
"Dammit," he says.
"Yeah."
We don't say nothin' for a long minute.
Well, I'm out of ideas. "Chuck. You... uh... you from around here?"
"Nope."
Then, "On the run?"
"Uh-huh." He nods. "Let me save ya some time. Around thirty-five times. Since I was fourteen. I'm thirty-six now. The longest was about twenty months -"
"I can't... I..."
I look at him. "Hey, that's my shit. You're not g-"
"Twice," he says miserably. "The first one went on for a month. Whole fuckin' month."
I don't say anything.
"And last time. Just shy of a year."
"How old are you?"
He hesitates. "Eighteen."
I stare at him. "A year? Second time down?" He just nods. "Ow. Well... We ain't licked yet."
"Yeah," he says mechanically, tugging hard on his smoke. I punch him on the arm and nod.
But I don't like this road. Way too quiet. We haven't passed a car since we tore out of the gas station. Not that it's ever worked before - flagging somebody down, sayin' call the cops, there's an invisible tickler after me - but there's a first time for everything.
Almost on cue, the dash goes dark.
Then the truck stalls. No headlights.
"What happened?," he shouts.
"That," I say sadly, "was the battery cable."
He stares at me. "No. Aw, no."
I just swallow hard, and ease over into the gravel.
"How the hell did it... get under there?"
"Simple," I say. "Crawled up the drivetrain. Bumper, to frame, to radiator. Old trucks ain't all sealed up, underneath."
Dead as a doornail. I turn the key a few times anyway.
"No horn."
"Uh-huh."
"No. I mean, that's why they didn't... drain the gas out, or something."
I look at him, and can't help but grin. "Well... you're right. That's good thinking. You know what sucks, though?"
"What?"
"The horn don't work anyhow."
He looks at me for a few seconds. "Oh, man..."
"I know."
We both look out the windows. Nothing to see. There never is.
"I did have one cut the fuel line once," I say.
"So what - do we sit here? Wait for 'em?" He grimaces, but I know what he means. Make a break for it, or not?
That's a tough one. If it can only snag one of us, he's probably the one. Then again, he should be harder to catch.
Blake pounds his head on the dash, slowly. Thud, thud, thud, thud.
"Don't do that," I say, looking behind. Yup. In the moonlight, I see the corner of a box behind me - and sure enough, there's the rope laying in the truck bed. Already cut, I think. All prepped for quick tying.
Enough for two.
"This sucks," I say to myself.
"Uh-huh." He sighs. "Got anything to drink?"
"Water bottle. Behind the seat."
He turns around and digs for it. "That's not what I meant..."
"You are new at this." But I regret saying it out loud.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?"
I roll my eyes. "One of us... is probably gonna be drunk before the hour's up. Or both of us."
"Oh. Yeah." Nothing more to say to that, not really.
We split what's left of the water.
"One more for the road?," he says, pointing at the pack.
"Shee-it," I say, getting one out and handing 'em over. But he's right. Condemned guys, getting a last cigarette.
Part of me is surprised it's holding off. Pop the air vents open, snake the rope in. Surprise. But that cuts out the thrill of the chase. Flush the prey, and chase it until it drops...
I look at the fuckin' rope, a yard away from us.
Our chances, just sitting in here, safely, 'til somebody comes by - somebody who'll stop to help, or call a cop... and not get picked off themselves - well, shit.
Maybe one of us can get away. I hope so.
Hope it's him. And I hope it's me.
And - no doubt - he's sittin' over there, thinking the same thing.
"Okay, dude," I announce, "Here's how it goes. One of us gets out and starts running. The other one locks the door."
He struggles with that. "That's the best you can do?"
" 'fraid so."
"Well. Shit."
We sit there and watch the windows.
"Who runs?," he says.
But I've figured the odds already. "I do."
"N - you sure?"
"No." I put the pack in my pocket. "It could already be inside, here. If it wanted to. So no place is safe, exactly... and remember, it was after me first -"
"C'mon."
"Fuck it." I zip up my jacket. "Look, I was fucked anyway, if you hadn't come along. These assholes, once they get their mind set on somebody..." I shrug, and put my hand on the door handle. I don't know how well the logic holds together, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances. My heart's beating like a jackhammer.
"Are you sure?"
I look at him. On impulse, I get my smokes back out and toss 'em his way. "Good to meet ya, kid."
He shuts his eyes. "Run fast."
"You know it." I take a deep breath...
And pop out. Slam the door, skidding on gravel. Sprinting, in engineer boots. Not getting away as fast as I'd like. All that smokin'. Three packs a day. Great idea.
I head back the way we came. Any second now - hands clamping on my arms. Or grabbing my hair. Hey, scumbag. C'mere...
Not yet. I'm panting like a dog, but I plug along. Crickets are trying to outscream each other, like I need more stress right n-
That's when it occurs to me. This ain't right. Way too easy. I turn...
Look at my truck, about a hundred yards back.
And then it moves.
Bouncing. Rocking side-to-side. Through the rear window, I can just make out a shadow. Blake. Slamming against the driver-side door. Then gone.
I start to run back... and stop. What the hell do I - Can I do anything, here? Even get away?
The truck bounces a few more times. I stand there and pant, scared silly. Trying to come up with another explanation for what I just saw. Maybe... he's having a seizure. Epileptic, already. But that would've been discovered by the fuckers, long before they tatted him up like th-
The headlights come on.
And the engine turns over.
I still can't see him. No silhouette, behind the wheel. Is he down? Flat on the seat? Tied -
That thought gets me moving. Not much chance I can help him, except as a decoy. Fuck. More likely it'll stash him and come back for me anyway. Plenty of time. If it had just cut the damn power a minute or two earlier... I'd head for the gas station and get help, though the odds are really lousy I'd make it. If it wants me - too - I'm dead meat.
Even less chance I can make it to the truck before it peels out, but I run as best I can. It don't even need my truck anymore, now. But maybe I can fuck up the plan, buy us a little time... Torch the truck? Shit. I got nothin' on me, except my Zippo. Stab the tire. Right on the sidewall. I start to get my knife out -
And the truck shifts. The backup lights come on.
The pedal gets punched. Fishtailing a little, as it backs up. Why is it doing that? I didn't see anything in the way, in front, where I pulled over -
I watch it, just standing there. And then I catch on.
"Holy shit," I yell, backing up and turning. Haul ass -
And I stop in my tracks. "Oof -" My legs keep going another step.
My chest... Something tight. I claw at it. Rope.
Pulling -
Up.
My feet dangle. Rope all the way around, tight under my shoulder blades. Twisting, I get my knife case open, start to pull it out - and a hand slaps my arm hard. I go for it again, touching it - my knife! Enemy of rope - and this time the fingers clamp onto my wrist. A thumb pressing hard on the tendons. It hurts. But I reach one more time anyway, growling through the pain -
Look up, and see my truck... coming right at me.
I pop up. A couple more yards, straight up. One rope, under my arms. Tight enough so I can't slip out. And, I notice, as I'm flopping around - not too tight. Fucker. Can't damage these armpits, oh hell no.
It's got both wrists now. Pulling 'em behind -
Brakes, squeaking. Tires skidding through the gravel. I'm well over the truck bed now. Blake's yelling, thrashing around.
Rope springs up. Gets my right ankle on the first try...
About a dozen hands get my boots tied together. So smooth, it's depressing. Reef my arms back higher, and rope 'em... and then a couple lengths behind, between the other knots.
I drop, slowly, back by the tailgate. After a couple of gear-grinding tries the truck shifts into first.
We follow the road for maybe a half-mile. And turn...
Through tree branches - oh. A trail, through the bushes. I look back. See the branches bounce back down, pretty well hiding the driveway. Of course.
It rolls along more slowly. There's a trail. Probably an old driveway.
Which means - dammit - an old, forgotten house.
And sure enough. There it is.
From the outside, it looks like a good wind would knock it down. But they usually pick 'em better than that. Keep the camouflage and build themselves a nice, new cell inside. I know the type. Seen enough of 'em -
The truck stalls.
I hear the door open, and see Blake float out. Then I get picked up...
We get carried through the front door. Down a hallway, into the back of the house.
Where the bed is.
And the stocks.
I end up on my back. Limbs spread out. Tied. My boots are off...
Blake fights hard, but the stocks close up anyway. And lock.
His sneakers fall off. First one, then the other.
My socks. His socks.
We look at each other, straining wholeheartedly. I wish I could think of something encouraging to say -
And a whole shitload of feathers drift out of a dark corner.
Splitting up...
And it's on.
They nuke me for a few minutes. Blake, too, from what I notice. I'm... kinda busy.
Slower, then. Checking me out. Neck, between my toes. All over.
Sometimes, I catch myself listening.
Blake's chuckling hard. Nonstop.
But so am I.
After, oh, maybe a half-hour... the feathers pull off.
Again, I think - that was way too easy. It makes no sense. That's no first-night boogie.
I'm breathing harder... but Blake, he's still squirming around.
Which of us does it like best?
Another shape. Coming over.
"You were right," Blake rasps.
It's a square bottle. Black. Big, square bottle.
Blake gets the first few shots. Then me.
There's something going on here, and I gotta figure it out. Something weird, even for one of these bastards.
My Zippo is dug out and fired up - and a cigar heads for my mouth.
But he don't get one. This is not a good sign. For one of us. That's it - favoring one over the other. Trouble is, I can't tell which...
About ten minutes later, he's having trouble sitting up straight. I'm not that far gone. Or I'm more used to it -
Shit. Hands. Fingers wiggling slowly.
Dropping.
It takes the kid longer to see 'em, and focus.
"Naaaaaallllw! Chuck! No! Aw, I can't - I can't..."
Then they start in on my feet, so I don't get to answer. Except to roar.
Then he's squealing...
They're leather gloves. That don't make sense either -
Oil. Of course. I arch hard, and howl. Snap at the ropes. Wrestle with 'em.
Energetic fingers.
Playing for keeps.
Moving from my feet... to my belly.
Correction - both at once.
I sound deranged. It's figured out my heels already. The sides of my heels - fuck, fuck...
And on up my sides.
They stay there a long time, leaning in.
Under my shirt. No protection. All my jacket is doing is making me sweat even more.
When they climb into my armpits, I piss my pants.
No voice left. Hooting anyway.
Still on my neck, and my nipples - and I feel a greasy hand somewhere else. I slam back, out of reflex.
The hands don't even lose their grip. Cock, balls.
I can't hold still. The kid - he can see this. I'm getting off... eventually... and he's -
Moaning? I blink until I can see, and look over.
Blake's grinding. Real slow rhythm. Unmistakable. His hands clench and unclench. It's obvious he's getting off too.
At least four gloves are tickling his feet. More in his armpits. His nipples.
I shake my head and laugh. No, no. Stop. Dammit, no. But I don't sound like somebody who can be taken seriously, even to me. Not laughing like this. I sound like... a drunk biker who's havin' himself a good time here. Great fuckin' time.
If that's what they wanna hear... and see... why the hell would they quit, anytime soon?
And much later, I come. And it's intense. My shoulders are worn out from it... from trying to push.
Catch my breath, while it plays with my knees. Slow, maddening.
And then it fuckin' races up and down my sides. Post-climax, I'm even more of a basket case. Insanely ticklish - and I mean, insane...
And at some point I hear Blake. He's laughing real hard. I can tell from the way he's breathing.
A long, long time later, it starts pumping me again. Oh no -
Yes.
It's keeping me distracted. Feathers too, now. Quick.
Everywhere.
Squirting - finally!
A minute, maybe two, to rest up for the attack.
And it's... unbelievable.
Endless.
I wake up. It's almost dawn.
I'm sitting. Propped against the wall. Hands tied behind me.
Blake's sitting nearby. Slumped over.
He's wearing my jacket. No shirt. I've got his on -
Wait. He's also wearing my boots. His sneakers are too big for me. The laces are tied. I'm still in my own jeans. Which is good, but maybe wouldn't matter 'cause we both smell like a latrine.
We're dressed, anyway. But are we leaving now?
I seriously doubt it. Nice, remote setup -
A pack floats over. And a match.
I watch him sleep. At first I want my jacket, but then I start to wonder. I can see tats on his chest, but can't quite make 'em out. Wind, rushing around. Flames... and I think those are feathers.
He makes me think of an early nab of mine. The leather jacket, no shirt, and the tats - tied like this. Yeah, it's sorta like that old rest home. Summer of my senior year...
After a couple smokes, he starts to groan.
Bottles. Water for me -
JD for him. Two, three shots. Then, water...
And now a cigar. One. It's for Blake.
He looks at it, and takes a light without giving 'em any resistance. Looks at me.
I shrug. He shakes his head slowly, and puffs.
We're both pulled up to our feet. Walked to the front door. Too easy. I never get off this easy -
A glove zips in front of us. We stop, out of reflex. It hangs there. We look at each other...
It dives -
On me. Belly. I collapse, but other hands hold me up.
Ribs, pits, back to my belly. I squirm and throw my head back, roaring away.
It pulls off. Starts for Blake -
Points at him. He shakes his head.
The glove cruises to my face. Lays its index finger down, vertically, over my lips.
Sssssshhh. Points to Blake again. Then me -
Points at the door.
Me. Door.
A pause...
Blake.
Sssssshhh. Followed by a finger drawn across my neck.
I nod. Got it - hit the road, don't tell anybody he's still here. Or else.
They push me. Make me walk outside.
I look, over my shoulder. Blake's just inside the doorway. I think he's crying.
Sticking my chin out, I try to nod real big. Hang in there.
He squirms, and drops the cigar. Like he's trying to get away - oh. Of course. Gloves. On his sides... under my jacket.
I get pushed in the truck. As my hands are untied, a pack of smokes gets pushed between my fingers. Lucky Strikes. I get 'em open and bite one. My lighter is pressed into my hand. Then the truck starts up...
Rubbing my wrists, I take another drag and shift into reverse, check behind real quick... and basically stare at Blake as I back out.
Yeah, he's getting tickled. Held upright, and forced to watch me leave... while fingers make him laugh. He gets to go, but you don't. Watch the old guy clear on out now. Then we're gonna haul you back in and have us some real fun.
That's the last time I see him.
I make it past the trees, and back onto the road. Still nobody.
Throwing it into neutral, I light another smoke. And sit there, trying to come up with a plan. Of course I'm gonna get help. But it must have known that...
That's yet another thing that just don't add up, here. I shift into reverse -
My left hand falls off the steering wheel. Pressure clamping over it.
Rope. Knotting.
"Ah," I say to myself, as it finally clicks.
I spring back, just as hands get a good grip on my other wrist.
The truck scoots back, and I watch the wheel turn -
Angling back. When the brakes lock, the nose is pointing... south. Wrong way. No...
Rope, quickly circling my right wrist. Both hands are pulled over my head. At about the same time, my feet slam together. Fighting don't keep the loops from knotting down there, either.
The clutch pedal goes down, and the shift handle slams up, finding first.
Spraying gravel...
Down about a mile. To a turnoff.
From that point the truck creeps along, about as slow as it can idle. It takes three more cigarettes - which are lit for me, my Zippo snapping open impatiently, since my hands are tied behind my head...
Past a few scraggly trees, I look ahead, and gulp. Seeing another roof. That's where I'm headed.
And I've been paying attention. As we creep up to it, I look hard out the passenger-side window. There - to the east. Very small, from here. Blake's place. The house I was in twenty minutes ago. Get me back here, keep the truck quiet... and the poor fucker'll never know. Thinkin' I got off easy - when he can think at all - and I'm actually locked up in the nearest house, gettin' the business too. The window, in that room, faces this way. If he wasn't laughing his ass off, he might have heard the truck - but I know better than that.
The truck pulls around behind and dies. I'm hauled out. Fields on all sides, no sign of the fuckin' road.
As they drag me through the back door, I remember the look on his face. Squirming, laughing... and that expression, as he watched me drive off.
Faster, now. Rushed into a smaller room. Dark -
Door slamming. A match flares.
A glimpse of leather. Hanging from the ceiling.
The fire leaps. It's a candle.
Now this is a cell. Long-timer. And Blake thought he got the worst of it...
I see cuffs, hanging from a ceiling rack. A bench.
Thick stocks. Padded. Dark vinyl. Lots of studs -
And here, of course, the bed. Thick mattress. Cuffs hanging alongside. Many cuffs.
A cigar comes to me. Unlit. It's jammed between my teeth.
Then I hear the door lock.
Gloves - rising from the far side of the bed. Four, eight, twelve. They're shiny.
Rubbery.
Oiled black latex.
22jul01