Hellrider

by JG Faherty

  Lives once so fertile now all but lost

  No hope for life

  No hope for today

  This ghost town stands

  Overwhelmed by decay

  ‘Ghost Town,’ by Charred Walls of the Damned

  * * *

  Highway burns beneath chromed heat

  Devil riding in the seat

  Charred asphalt lies for miles behind

  Evidence of Satan’s ride

  Hell is coming down the road

  Bring death for eons foretold

  Hell Rider!

  Coming for you.

  ‘Hellrider,’ by Demon Dogs

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eddie opened his eyes to a world of pure white. For one brief instant he thought maybe he’d finally left all the sorrow and pain behind, gone on to someplace better. Then his other senses kicked in as well.

  Sound. The droning of a distant airplane engine. A barking dog. The squeak of bed springs.

  Touch. The cool softness of cotton sheets on bare skin. The comforting – yet somehow wrong – squoosh of a pillow beneath his head.

  Smell. A mélange of good and bad. Faint hints of bacon and meatloaf and grease and fresh corn on the cob, odors that told him immediately he was in his own house. But there were other scents as well, identifiable but not familiar. Sweat. A man-odor, but not his own. Dirty socks, but not his feet.

  He sat up and his body almost tumbled off the bed when it moved faster than he expected.

  Across the room, a woman in a bright yellow bikini stared at him from a movie poster advertising American Pie 10: Back to the Beach.

  Recognition finally kicked in. I’m in Carson’s room. He looked down, saw a skinny, hairless, summer-tanned chest. And I’m still inside him.

  Memories of the previous night crawled out of the darkness and into the light of consciousness. Getting dizzy and passing out at the Pizza House. Waking up on the floor, with Kellie Jones and someone else looking down at him. Telling her he was all right, he just wanted to go home and lie down, he’d call her tomorrow. Sneaking in through the window so he wouldn’t have to talk to his mother.

  He’d never expected to remain in his brother’s body.

  Sandy.

  Her face appeared in his thoughts, eyes bulging, neck lolling to the side.

  I killed her. Oh, goddamn, I killed her. Guilt stabbed at his chest. I didn’t intend...I just wanted to hurt her a little, piss Hank off in the process. Payback for what they did to me.

  Now she’s dead, and it’s my fault.

  Or was it?

  There’d been that sense of losing control in Butch’s body. First with the waitress and then when he’d been holding Sandy. It just happened. Like it was something Jethro had wanted to do. Or would do in that situation.

  Butch’s arm tightening on Sandy’s neck. The snap of the bones.

  He’d known just how to do it, how much pressure to use. Did that mean Butch had killed someone before? The more he thought about it, the more Eddie believed it possible. Butch’s family lived outside of town, generations of swampers who still jacked deer for food and made their own moonshine, wicked strong shit that could melt the paint off a car. Even the youngest among them knew how to hunt and trap. Who knew what kind of trouble they got into out there?

  That has to be it. I’m no murderer. The Hell Riders don’t count. They have it coming.

  Sandy, I’m sorry. And he meant it. At the same time, it worried him that he didn’t feel worse. Guilty, yes, but no real sense of loss. No sorrow that Sandy Powell was gone forever.

  She deserved it.

  Which wasn’t true. She’d done him wrong, but she hadn’t been part of his murder.

  How do you know? Maybe she was there.

  Eddie frowned. Even if she hadn’t been at the garage when it happened, she’d still played a part in his death just by letting Hank do it. After all, she had to have known what Hank was up to. She was sleeping with him, for fuck’s sake. She could’ve told someone. Gone to the police.

  Instead of him getting roasted like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  She’s just as responsible as Hank and the other assholes.

  So fuck her. She did deserve it.

  Feeling better, his remorse already a distant memory, Eddie sat up. Then groaned as a violent ache ran through his stomach, accompanied by a loud gurgling sound. God, I’m starving! He’d forgotten what it was like to feel hungry, how crazy good the craving for food could be. His mouth and tongue grew wet at the thought of eating and he bounded out of bed, still dressed in his pants from the night before.

  Carson won’t mind me using his body a little more, just long enough to enjoy a real meal again.

  Or would he? How did he know what Carson was feeling, what any of them felt when he hijacked their bodies? Was it painful? Did they just go to sleep? Could they see and hear everything, like an unwilling captive in front of a TV screen? Carson might be cursing him right now for what he’d done, was still doing.

  How much of a person remains while I’m inside them?

  Eddie paused before opening the bedroom door. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt his brother, or put him in danger of any kind. And, until he vacated the body and then waited to see what happened after, something he hadn’t done with Jethro or Butch, he really had no idea of what the effects of his forced entry were.

  I should get out right now.

  “Carson? Are you up?”

  Mom. He glanced at the bedside clock. Almost nine. Time for her breakfast and medicine. A different kind of pain blossomed in his chest, a desire to see his mother again. Talk to her. Another thing the Hell Riders had stolen from him.

  Sorry, little bro. I know it’s selfish, but I need to do this. Don’t hate me.

  “Be right there, Mom.”

  * * *

  Eddie put the last dish back in the cabinet, biting his lip to keep from crying. Sound carried too well in the trailer and he didn’t want his mother to hear.

  Being in his mother’s presence again had been harder than he expected. He’d almost broken down when he entered her room. Everything had hit him at once, overwhelming him. The sour smells of dirty sheets, unwashed hair, and stale food, combined with the faint, lingering whispers of her perfume and body wash. And on top of that something worse, something indefinable, an odor that was kind of like the sick breath people got when they had a cold or flu, but darker, as if he could smell the very illness that was slowly robbing her of her life.

  Her voice had been different, too. A little weaker, a little raspier. But clearer at the same time. He’d understood then that in his ghost or spirit state, the sounds of the real world were slightly muffled. Hearing his mother through Carson’s young ears – free from the damage years of exposure to motorcycle engines and heavy metal music had done to his own – made him want to just sit by her side and listen to her talk for hours.

  But he couldn’t. It would be too out of character. It was one thing to sit and chat or watch TV on those rare occasions when she joined them in the living room, and they could all pretend everything was fine. The bedroom was different. Neither of Sally Ryder’s boys had ever been able to spend too much time in their mother’s impending death room. They did their duties, made some small talk, and after ten or fifteen minutes took advantage of any opening – her being tired, school work, chores – to make a graceful exit.

  This time, though, Eddie’d made sure to stay longer, savoring each word, each touch of her hand, the feel of her soft sheets under his palms. He looked around the room, burning every detail into his memory. It might be the last time he ever got to be with her, alive and in person. Hijacking Carson’s body wasn’t something he wanted to do again. It was one thing to take over his enemies. But not someone he cared about.

  So he’d stayed in the room even after sh
e finished her breakfast and he polished off the peanut butter sandwich he’d made for himself, holding her hand and telling her how nice a time he’d had with Kellie Jones. When she’d asked him about the murder – it was all over the news by that time – he’d brushed it off, saying he and Kellie had already left the restaurant by the time the trouble happened. A white lie, one he hoped Carson would never have to explain. Only when her eyes started to close and she’d said she needed a nap did he finally leave.

  “Goodbye, Ma,” he’d whispered, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Love you.” Something he’d never had the chance to say the night he’d been killed.

  And that was the moment when things got to be too much. All his feelings – guilt, anger, sorrow, loneliness – came storming in, riding a wave of teenage hormones like a champion surfer hitting the barrel of a lifetime. He’d hurried down the hall to the kitchen, eager to get as far away as possible before he lost control.

  Then he’d sat down at the table and cried like a damn girl.

  Now, with the dishes done and nothing holding him back, Eddie went to Carson’s room and lay on the bed. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on Diablo.

  This time the separation came gentle and easy. He slipped out of Carson’s body as smoothly as taking off a jacket. In less than a second he stood next to Diablo again, a Diablo he could see and feel as strongly as if it were real. Only this Diablo had eyes that turned and looked at him, eager to be up and away. He imagined himself pushing the bike up the driveway, like the old days, so he wouldn’t wake his mother. Except now the bike weighed next to nothing, and he felt more energized than ever before.

  When he finally climbed on and kicked Diablo to life, the bike roared like a true beast from hell, flames spouting from nose and tail pipes, reddish-yellow eyes fixed on the open road ahead.

  Snug in his seat, he took off toward the bright morning sun, Diablo’s stereo blasting heavy metal that suited his dark mood perfectly.

  Suffering on poisoned ground

  Suffering in this ghost town

  Dark clouds from above, bring darkness and doom

  Effortlessly shattering, what lies in its course

  A deafening roar, it feels no remorse

  * * *

  Up and down Cypress Flats Road, the sudden boom of thunder rattled windows and sent knick-knacks and potted plants tumbling to floors.

  In her bed, Sally Ryder woke with a start and sat up so quickly she pulled the oxygen cannula from her nose. She’d been dreaming that both of her boys were back with her, each of them holding one of her hands.

  And then the sound of Eddie’s motorcycle had shattered her dreams, like it had on so many other occasions when he’d thought he’d been far away enough that they wouldn’t hear it.

  It took several moments for her heartbeat to calm down, desperate moments during which she struggled and wheezed for air until she had her oxygen line in place again.

  When she finally lay back on her pillows, tears dampened both her cheeks and she continued crying long after she fell asleep again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Carson Ryder woke to the sound of thunder. He’d been dreaming of Eddie. They’d eaten breakfast together and then Eddie’d taken off on Diablo, heavy metal music blasting in counterpart to the bike’s roaring engine. As sleep gave way to awareness, the sound of the motorcycle blended perfectly into the heat thunder rumbling overhead.

  A brief moment of disorientation greeted him when he opened his yes. Nothing in his room looked right, even though he recognized all of it. As if he was the one out of place rather than the objects surrounding him. He sat up and the world took a sickening spin. With a groan, he gripped the bed so he wouldn’t topple over.

  What the hell happened?

  The last thing he remembered was being at Hell Creek Pizza. There’d been a commotion in the back room and people had screamed. Kellie’d tried to pull him away, and then there’d been a gunshot. After that….

  Nothing.

  Did I hit my head? He ran his fingers through his hair and across his face. Nothing hurt. His stomach churned and gurgled, and he fought the urge to throw up as another bout of bed spins hit him. His stomach felt stuffed and the vile aftertaste of peanut butter coated his mouth. That alone was enough to make him queasy. He hated peanut butter. It looked and smelled like something you’d find in a baby’s diaper. It used to drive him crazy when Eddie would eat it for breakfast.

  Like in my dream.

  Along with his nausea, his head ached as well. A hangover? He’d never done more than taste a beer, certainly never been drunk, but he’d heard Eddie describe the after-effects often enough. But where – and why – would he and Kellie have been drinking?

  Had he come down with a bad case of the flu? Possible, except since when did the flu make you lose your memory?

  None of it made sense, just like waking up in the same clothes he’d worn the day before didn’t make sense.

  Kellie. I’ll call her. Maybe she knows what happened.

  Hoping he hadn’t actually drunk alcohol and done something stupid, Carson fumbled through his pockets until he located his cell phone.

  * * *

  “God. I can’t believe I don’t remember any of that.” Carson slumped on the couch, a glass of Mr. Pibb cradled between his hands. Kellie sat across from him in Eddie’s old armchair. She’d sounded frantic when he’d called, said she’d been worried about him all night. When he’d told her he felt too sick to leave the house, she’d shown up ten minutes later, sweating and out of breath from riding her bicycle in the sweltering heat.

  “Maybe you bumped your head when you fainted,” she said, helping herself to one of the cookies he’d put out. Oreos and soda. Not fancy, but there’d been nothing else in the kitchen.

  “My head does hurt, but now it’s just a regular headache, like when you watch too much TV.” He rubbed the back of his head. “No bumps or anything.”

  “You should see a doctor,” Kellie insisted, as she’d been doing since she arrived.

  “See a doctor for what?”

  Carson looked up at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Ma, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  “Nonsense.” His mother shuffled into the room, pulling her oxygen tank along on its rolling frame, and lowered herself onto the loveseat. Just the effort of walking down the hall had her wheezing, and it took several seconds before she could speak again.

  “Why do you need to see a doctor?”

  “I don’t,” Carson said, before Kellie could state the real reason. “I woke up feeling kind of crappy today and Kellie thinks it might be the flu or something. Probably just a bug.”

  “You don’t feel well?” His mother gave him a funny look. “It must have hit fast. You were fine when you brought me breakfast this morning.”

  “I was? I did?” For the third time in a day that was barely past noon, Carson felt like he’d fallen through the looking glass into Wonderland.

  “Yes. In fact, you were very talkative. You even watched some TV with me while we ate. You should have told me you were sick.”

  A phantom taste of peanut butter, oily and salty-sweet, passed through Carson’s mouth. “Uh, Ma? What did I eat? Do you remember?”

  Sally Ryder took a few breaths before answering. “Let me think. I believe it was toast. Toast and peanut butter.”

  A hole opened in Carson’s stomach, dark and cold and filled with things he didn’t want to think about. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Maybe the peanut butter was too heavy so early in the morning. That might be why my stomach hurts.”

  His mother gave a laugh that turned into a series of hacking, wheezing coughs. Carson bit his lip and waited, accustomed to her attacks but hating them nonetheless. Kellie feigned interest in her cookie.

  When she recovered, Sally shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “The wa
y you eat, I can’t imagine anything bothering your stomach. Do you want me to get you something for it?”

  Carson shook his head. The last thing he wanted was his mother wasting what little energy she had on him. “No, I’m fine with the soda. You should get back in bed. I’ll bring you your lunch in a few minutes. How does ham and cheese sound?”

  “Okay.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and then smiled at Kellie. “Nice to see you again, Kellie. Tell Johnny Ray I said hello.”

  “I will, Mrs. Ryder. Feel, um, better.”

  After Sally Ryder left the room, Kellie stood up. “I better get going.”

  “No.” Carson motioned for her to sit. “There’s something I have to talk to you about. Just hang out while I fix her lunch, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Sure. It sounds like it’s something important.”

  He nodded. Outside, thunder rumbled, raising goosebumps along his arms.

  “Yeah. Like maybe life or death.”

  * * *

  It had taken three sound barrier-breaking trips around town, urging Diablo faster each time, for Eddie to take the edge off the tremendous energy boiling inside him after exiting Carson’s body. Each turn, each rev of Diablo’s engine, sent wicked thunder rolling across the flat swamplands of the Everglades and rattled the windows of Hell Creek’s houses and buildings. Eddie soared too high, high in the sky, high as a fucking plane, man, to see the expressions of the people down below, but he laughed at the commotion he imagined his actions were causing. Children cowering in their rooms. Pedestrians turning their faces upward. Dogs howling in fright. Never in his life had he felt such power, and he was motherfucking loving it. And it seemed like it happened each time he possessed someone. After Jethro and Butch, he’d definitely felt stronger.

  After Carson, he felt like a fucking god!

  You can’t keep it up. What about Carson?

  That calmed him a bit, dampened the crazy forces racing through his being. He’d been having so much fun he’d forgotten his promise to himself.

  Gotta make sure the kid’s okay.

  He shot across town to the trailer park, and then, with Diablo’s engine rumbling as softly as possible, lowered himself until he had a clear view into Carson’s room. He caught the last few sentences of his brother’s call to Kellie, enough to ease his conscience. No problems except some memory loss and feeling tired? He could live with that. Carson would be fine in a little while. Hell, Eddie’d had hangovers that were worse, both before and after his death.