by Eric Miller
“That they are,” his dad said, and they pulled up the on-ramp and headed south on the highway, toward Memphis. There were tons of trucks and cars, with long, dark shadows, and strips of orange light stretching in every direction—a more comforting sight than either of them could imagine.
Hal Bodner is the author of the Bram Stoker Award-nominated short story Hot Tub, as well as the best-selling gay vampire novel Bite Club and the lupine sequel The Trouble With Hairy. Hal has also written a few erotic paranormal romances—which he refers to as “supernatural smut,” most notably In Flesh and Stone and For Love of the Dead. While his salacious imagination is unbounded, he much prefers his comedic roots and is currently pecking away at a series of bitterly humorous gay superhero novels. Those readers who enjoy his work can send him adoring fan mail at [email protected].
PURSUIT
Hal Bodner
CLEVER, VERY CLEVER. Whoever they were, they were exceedingly clever. But I am cleverer still. Less than half an hour out of town, I spotted them. A gray car, maybe dark blue. Twilight made it hard to tell and as the evening deepened, it became more difficult.
I carefully wove in and out of traffic so as not to alert them that they had been “made” as the detective novels phrase it. A white SUV moved to within kissing distance of my rear bumper and, for a moment, I thought they had managed to switch vehicles without my observing and were closing in on me. But it turned out to be some harried soccer mom with a carload of kids. I’m not saying that it was beyond the realm of possibility that one of the children was involved. But I’ve found that the people following me do not generally advertise their presence by hanging out of car windows and throwing chewed pieces of gum at my windshield.
Enlisting the aid of children was not, however, inconceivable. How many times had I gotten the distinct impression that someone had been rooting through my garbage, looking for evidence against me? Oftentimes, as I was about to toss in a plastic bag filled with chicken bones or carrot parings from the previous night’s dinner, I noticed that the contents of the cans had been rearranged. The children playing in the vacant lot next door to my building were the only possible culprits, taunting me to challenge them with their nasty jeers and their pointed fingers. But it was better, far better, to let them believe I was unaware of their surveillance.
Misdirection has always served me far better than confrontation. Those who would entrap me are many and, though I am adept at outwitting them, I am only one person.
I stayed on the freeway for as long as I could emotionally handle it. For safety’s sake, I needed to get to the desert as quickly as possible. As much as I hated driving at night, I couldn’t very well have hitched a ride with a friend or asked a neighbor to drive me. This had nothing to do with any shyness on my part, or reluctance to impose, but rather because I have few friends and I don’t know any of my neighbors, nor do I care to. Familiarity leads to nosiness and thence to curiosity and, ultimately, disaster. I’ve learned to cherish my privacy.
My anxiety kept building toward a point where I knew I would not be able to stand it any longer. The knowledge that I was being pursued, the feeling of them closing in on me, the thought of what might happen if I were to be caught: All of it was becoming too much for me to bear. My thoughts revolved in endless spirals of disaster. Cyclic thinking is the term the mental health professionals use and, though I tried, I could not seem to break the pattern.
That feeling of impending dread grew more immediate. I imagined that all of the air was being siphoned out of the car, leaving only a vacuum behind. Though I knew the notion was ridiculous, I started gasping for breath and soon found myself in danger of hyperventilating. It was an iron test of will to force myself to take slow, deep breaths and relax. Otherwise, I knew I might pass out at the wheel and at this stage of the game, after all the precautions I’d taken, getting caught because of something as mundane and stupid as a traffic accident would be one of the universe’s more perverse jokes.
Even after I calmed down, the unease was ever-present. I dimly recalled a baby-faced psychiatrist asking me, in a smarmy superior-than-thou voice, if I had considered the possibility of mild paranoia. Was he real, or only a dream? Was all the effort I took to avoid getting caught naught but needless self-torture? Whether the man was truly flesh and blood or merely a phantom of my mind, did it even matter? In both cases, he was still an idiot.
I was far too clever for the doctors, far more intelligent than the police, far more canny than the nameless and faceless people who persisted in following me, who continually observed my every move and hoped I would slip up, who persecuted me for no other reason than for their own amusement. They were inexorable but, so long as I kept up the facade and continued to evade them when they drew too near, I would be fine.
With that more positive thought in mind, I forcibly drew my focus back to the immediate tasks at hand.
To further calm my nerves, I took a lesson from what little I knew about alcoholics. Instead of living one day at a time as the adage dictates, I tried measuring my life in individual moments, at least for the duration of this trip. Surprisingly, it worked. Even better, the physics of my journey helped; so long as I remained traveling at the speed limit, I could count on every minute of travel bringing me roughly a mile closer to my destination. It was strangely comforting, the consistent decrease in the amount of time remaining before I would arrive, and I took solace in it. But I had to be careful not to grow too complacent in predictability; it would be dangerous to allow myself to be lulled into any kind of self-hypnosis.
I fought the urge to go faster. Being pulled over for speeding would be catastrophic. I had spent far too long keeping my head down and studiously refraining from drawing attention to myself, hoping it would be sufficient camouflage. My one and only slip up was due to a rash, impulsive moment that never would have happened had I not been under such tremendous stress. Though I still think it was perfectly reasonable for me to assume that the man who lived down the street was installing cameras so that law enforcement could spy on me, I should have realized that it was approaching Christmas and taken into consideration that he might simply be hanging holiday lights.
Fortunately, he suffered no injuries other than a few scrapes and a twisted ankle, and agreed to a suspended sentence so long as I agreed to get “help.” I made a fine show of sincerely regretting my misguided actions and, when the court mandated that I undergo therapy, I meekly agreed. I even managed to create the impression that I was enthusiastic about people probing my mind, if not downright grateful for it. It was altogether a brilliant job of fakery as the only thing I truly regretted was making a mistake that not only got me caught, but which put me “on the radar” of the authorities, so to speak.
Resolving to make the proverbial lemonade from lemons, I decided to use the analysis to my benefit if at all possible. After all, I had never before considered that enlisting the aid of a professional might help me better deal with my fears. Not that I agreed for one minute with any of the doctor’s suggestions, rendered with a patently false sympathy, that perhaps I had a tendency to overreact. The duplicitous quack pretended to be my friend, but I could see the truth in his eyes. He never believed for one instant that I was, indeed, a target of those who would harm me.
Am I mentally disturbed? Perhaps. The fact that I cannot recall if all of the doctors I have supposedly seen were completely real or just figments of my imagination seems to suggest that I cannot always rely on my own faculties. Yet, I take solace in the fact that few people could withstand the kind of persecution I’ve been subjected to these past few years without a small screw or two coming loose.
It never helped that I was never able to describe who was after me with any specificity. Obviously, they are minions of law enforcement. They are constantly there, usually hidden just out of sight, watching me. They enjoy inflicting their petty torments, creating that stifling sense that they are about to pounce, relishing my fear at the knowledge that should they ever
decide to move in for the proverbial kill and manage to catch me at an awkward moment, I am doomed.
Two more vehicles joined the grey-or-blue car. A brown sedan cleverly slid into the chase from an onramp while a van masquerading as a plumber’s truck crept up from somewhere in our wake. The sedan pulled up close behind me and started honking its horn. To any observers, it would have looked like the driver was merely impatient to pass. I knew better. The three cars were trying to hem me in, to herd me like a stray sheep being driven to the slaughtering pen.
But I am no sheep.
When I could endure the tension no longer, and without any warning, I yanked the wheel to the right and cut across the van’s path, taking some small satisfaction at the squeal of brakes behind me. My wheels jolted over the shoulder and the entire car shuddered as it raced across the grassy embankment before my tires made contact with the macadam of the ramp. I had cleverly waited until my little cadre of oppressors and I had almost completely passed the off ramp before making my move. The ruse was successful. Unable to back up on the freeway, they drove on, no doubt cursing the ingenuity with which they had been foiled.
For the moment, at least, I was free from pursuit. But I had a nagging suspicion that my liberty would not last very long. I needed to seek shelter of a kind and to hide my car, at least for enough time to allow my trail to grow cold.
Conveniently located at the base of the ramp was one of those intentionally rustic restaurants, designed in accordance with some misguided person’s idea of what buildings must have looked like in the Wild West. Railroad ties lined the parking lot. Two huge wagon wheels framed the path leading to the front door and added to the sense of preciousness. A wraparound porch, complete with a line of rocking chairs which seemed woven from heavy reeds, was testament to the architect’s apparent fixation with the O.K. Corral.
I made certain to park in the narrow space between two 18-wheelers. If anyone happened to be driving along the freeway trying to find me, the bulky trucks would make it almost impossible for them to catch a glimpse of my car. Once I was sufficiently hidden, I switched off the ignition and sat for a few moments trying to catch my breath and regain my composure. When my head no longer felt like it was going to explode, I got out of the car and made my way up the wooden steps to the faux-saloon doors leading into the little coffee shop. As kitschy as the place was, it was as good a spot as any for me to wait things out and hope that my pursuers would overshoot their mark.
Less than thirty seconds after I was inside the building, I was overcome by an attack of the shakes. I don’t know why. Maybe it was a reaction to being in a state of relative safety, after having spent the past few hours exposed on the open highway. No matter how illusory my haven might be, at least it had four stout walls, even if they were designed to look like Lincoln Logs, and it helped lessen that horrible sense of agoraphobia that sometimes plagued me. In retrospect, I guess that I had been poised on the edge of multiple adrenalin rushes for so long that the sudden absence of immediate danger just took the stuffing out of me, as one of my aunts used to say. In any case, I started to tremble and my bladder clamored that it was about to burst. Fearful that I was going to wet myself, I bolted past the counter and down the aisle between the booths toward the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms can usually be found.
I barely got my trousers down in time. Not only did I have to pee worse than I could ever remember, my bowels let loose as well. I sat on the toilet, still shaking, while my insides emptied out. After I finished my business and was washing up, my guts knotted for no discernable reason and I rushed back into the stall, retching and evacuating from the other end. When I was reasonably certain that there could not possibly be anything left inside me, I washed my hands and face thoroughly and rinsed the taste of bile from my mouth. I was covered in cold sweat and considered dunking my head under the faucet as well. But there were no paper towels in the restroom, only one of those cloth roll-towel machines on the wall. Walking back through the restaurant with a sopping wet head of hair was a surefire way to draw exactly the kind of attention I wanted to avoid, so I contented myself with blotting up the excess perspiration by jamming a wad of toilet paper under each of my armpits.
The waitress looked at me queerly when I took a stool at the counter. I don’t know why as my order was unremarkable, just a cup of tea and some whole wheat toast. Though I certainly did not need the caffeine, I always feel a trifle guilty walking into a business only to use the bathroom without making a purchase. People sometimes remember when that happens, whereas if you order something, however small, you become just another customer. Besides, my insides were still churning and I hoped the toast would help settle my stomach.
Nevertheless, something prompted her to give me that dubious look and it certainly wasn’t anything I’d done. For a moment, I felt the surge of panic again but I was able to repress it with the rationale that, perhaps, she was just the naturally suspicious type. After all, it was far too much of a coincidence even for my leaps of logic to think that she was an undercover cop who happened to recognize me. On the other hand, stranger things have happened and I resolved to stay on the alert.
Luckily, there was a large mirror behind the counter which extended the entire length of the wall. It would allow me a fairly good view of what was going on behind me as I ate. By leaning forward only slightly, I had a good line of sight to the front entrance as well. Without intending to do so, I had picked an excellent vantage point. If there was anything about my position to criticize at all, it was that any diners sitting the booths at each of the far ends would have their backs to me and I would not be able to see their faces. I could live with that handicap.
While I waited for my order, I had time to think, time to resent the dice that Life had thrown for me. What had I ever done to deserve this kind of persecution? I ask myself that question a dozen times every day. I’ve always sought to do the right thing, the things that must be done and sometimes even the things that other people hadn’t the courage or conviction to do. I take terrible burdens upon myself, burdens I could easily refuse to shoulder if I were just an ordinary person like most of the ordinary and boring people in the world. But I’m different. I’m one of those rare people with a sense of responsibility. I know why I’ve been placed on this Earth and, for that, I risk being branded a criminal.
My order arrived accompanied by another odd look from the waitress. I began to suspect that she might not be as pedestrian as she seemed. It strained credulity that my pursuers could possess precognitive powers that told them the exact moment that I would decide to take evasive measures on the freeway; there was virtually no way they could have anticipated that I would end up in this particular diner. Their network of operations would have to be far larger than I had ever suspected for them to have installed one of their agents in every eating establishment and rest stop along this stretch of the road. No, if I allowed small events like getting the fish-eye from a random waitress to propel me into a realm where I began to believe that the people who were following me possessed bizarre supernatural abilities, I would be the architect of my own insanity.
Meticulously, I buttered my toast, taking solace from the mundane activity, enjoying the sense of accomplishment when I successfully managed to spread both pats of butter so that each of them fully covered a slice on its own without any nasty dry areas left over. I had just taken my first bite when a reflection in the mirror caught my attention.
My mouth froze in mid-chew. I must have looked ridiculous with my jaw hanging slackly to display half-eaten, saliva-moistened toast for all the world to see. Frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed the waitress for giving me funny looks had she happened to glance my way at that very moment! But she was occupied at the far end of the counter. A long moment later, I mustered the self-composure to finish chewing and swallow. I dropped the remains of my toast onto the plate uneaten. Any appetite that I might have had was gone.
Naturally, it was the boy who first caught my attent
ion. No, not a boy. A youth. In his late teens or very early twenties. An adult, but not by much. Hopeful and innocent, easily misled. With the pure heart and empty head of youth, according to an expression I’d once heard one of my grade school teachers use. It was a very dangerous state to be in, especially when there was a predator nearby. They were attracted to naiveté like jackals to a corpse.
Possibly as a result of some innate gift, I’ve always been attuned to these sorts of things and so I recognized the situation instantly. Odd how just moments before I had been feeling almost resentful of my calling. A mere look at this youth reminded me of how important my duties were, how vital it was that I banish all doubts that what I do is right, no matter how many forces might be allied against me.
One look at the young man’s face was enough for me to realize that he was terrified even though he was doing his best not to show it. He fiddled with the silverware, studiously avoiding looking at the face of his dining companion. Instead his eyes flicked toward the exit, back and forth, measuring. It was clear that he despaired of ever reaching it should he attempt to try. My heart broke at his imagined plight and I ached to reassure him that help was on the way. But the time was nowhere near ripe.
For the moment, I could only sit and observe, silently willing my sympathy might reach him over the empty space between us even though I knew that such communication was possible only in fantasy stories. The emotions of his plight were contagious to someone like me. I had no way of fending off the waves of bleakness and hopelessness that invaded my soul. I had only my experience at such things to enable me to cope with them, to avoid being crushed by the feelings he was projecting.
My heart reached out for him, an athletic lad with biceps and shoulders straining the dingy white T-shirt he wore. His hair was longish, the mottled yellow of roses just on the verge of turning brown. Fear-induced sweat caused strands of it to mold to the back of his neck and plastered a small lock to his forehead. I could not quite see the color of his eyes but I imagined they might be green, gold-speckled verdigris.