Bad Parts

by Brandon McNulty

  Cold air blew in. It brought subfreezing mercy. Her lungs drank their fill, but the burning persisted.

  Now she needed Snare to release her ribs and bail her out.

  According to the dashboard clock, sunset had arrived. The western sky, however, held a glint of light trapped within its snowy dome. Any second now the deadline would pass.

  Heart rapping, she hoisted her left arm onto the dash.

  Her wrist remained empty.

  She checked the western sky again. The pale glint faded into graying darkness. Going, going, gone. Like a home run Jake might someday smack out of a major league ballpark. Hopefully he got the eyes in time. Judging by the moans coming from the trunk, Lauren had certainly lost hers.

  “C’mon, Snare,” Ash muttered. “C’mon, you bitch. Give me my hand already.”

  A strange whoosh cut through the outside air. Not blizzard gusts—something else. Like the sound of a plane flying low. A puff of vibrant blue fog appeared. It hazed across the highway, spreading rapidly and blanketing the trooper she’d whacked with her front fender.

  That fog, the color—it wasn’t natural.

  And it was rushing toward her.

  Ash shut the driver’s window, but not in time. Fog leaked into the Subaru, swirling before her eyes like smoke. Where the hell did this come from? Did Snare send this? She held her breath, afraid what the shit might do to her lungs. Despite her roaring ribs, she leaned back, away from the shifting cloud. Her left arm slid off the dash, and when it did, her wrist touched the fog.

  For a moment her flesh seared.

  She bit back a scream.

  Then, at the base of her wrist, came a pinching sensation. At first mild, it expanded, painfully, like knives tunneling through her forearm. Her wrist shook, ready to pop beyond her control. She grabbed for it.

  Something pierced the flesh.

  A white, bloody nub.

  Then another. And another.

  Five nubs.

  Five bones.

  Five actual, physical fingers.

  They each stretched half an inch and stopped short. Desperate, Ash shook her arm through the fog. Hoping to speed up the process, she lowered the window and welcomed in fresh haze. Her sprouting bones formed knuckles, then fingertips. Muscle filled the gaps. Tendons took control. Skin gift-wrapped the entire package.

  Last to arrive were the fingernails. The fog dabbed them into place like the final touches on an artist’s masterpiece.

  And there it was.

  Her new hand.

  It trembled before her, fresh and cool and real.

  Along with the hand came the same euphoric high that had accompanied her rib trade. This time, however, the intensity rocked her like a thousand orgasms. Impossible sensations spilled from her brain and poured through her body. She laughed and cried hysterically. The world around her spun sweetly. When she bent her fingers, she dared to bend reality.

  Her hand was back.

  And so was she.

  64

  Trent woke to a cold, nasty shock. Moments ago, he’d been having the perfect dream. All discomfort had flushed from his leg muscles, replaced with a delicious, fuzzy high. It reminded him of the morphine they’d given him at the hospital years back. Except morphine didn’t feel this good. Nothing did.

  Then, unsurprisingly, like all great things, the dream ended.

  He sat up, startled and disoriented. A fishy odor clogged his nose. Watery clicks filled his ears. He wasn’t in bed, but rather in the creek. And his leg was freezing.

  Gripping the muddy bank behind him, he tugged himself backward. His leg slid from cold water to cold air. The snowy breeze burned his soaked flesh, and he grabbed a towel lying beside an LED lantern. Some weird blue fog wafted around him, but he was too busy wrapping his leg to care.

  Then he noticed the weirdest thing. When he applied pressure to his calf, it felt okay. Felt tolerable.

  He set the towel aside and pulled the lantern closer, illuminating his leg. He gasped. Though the scars remained, they covered the healthy bulge of his calf. Alongside it, his shin ran straight. All the other meat and muscle rested neatly under his flesh.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  “D-Dad?” Jake said. “You okay?”

  Jake stood chest-deep in the water, gazing at Trent with wide, excited eyes. For the first time in their lives, they looked upon each other and saw healthy, unbroken beings.

  Heavy with emotion, Trent crawled into the icy water. His nose ran, his throat ached. His knees touched the soggy bottom as he threw his arms around Jake and hugged tight.

  His son’s little hands clutched his back. “Love you, Dad.”

  “You too, champ.” The cozy embrace left him tingling all over. The warm feeling should’ve lasted forever. They deserved it. But the frosty wind had other ideas. “Damn, it’s cold. Let’s get dried off.”

  Trent slid his hands under Jake’s armpits. He tried hoisting his son, but his back muscles strained. He tugged left and right until his shoulders ached, but no matter how hard he pulled, he couldn’t rip Jake from the water.

  “I’m stuck!” Jake twisted at the waist. “My feet!”

  “Your feet?”

  “Get me out! It’s freezing!”

  Trent reached into the frigid water, flinching at its icy bite. He grabbed Jake’s shoe. It was stuck to the creek bed as if welded there. He untied the laces and pulled on Jake’s ankle, with the same useless result.

  Jake was stuck.

  Heart slamming against his sternum, Trent checked around for anything that might help. All he saw were towels, the lantern, and Jake’s bat. Great, I’m on my own.

  “Let him go, Snare!” Trent glared down at his reflection. “You want somebody, take me. Not him.”

  Suddenly Jake cried out. He fell backward, landing with a wide-armed splash. He went under and stayed under.

  “No!” Trent splashed after him. He clawed at the mucky bottom and finally caught Jake around the waist. His efforts to wrestle his son loose accomplished nothing.

  Beneath the surface Jake puffed his cheeks.

  “Keep holding your breath!” Trent shouted.

  Something tickled Trent’s face. It breezed between his lips into his throat. His tongue moved beyond his control.

  “Hi, Trent.”

  Trent slapped a hand across his mouth. Those words—he hadn’t spoken them. Not by choice. Then he remembered what Ash had reported about her chats with Snare.

  “Please, Snare,” Trent said. “Let him go.”

  Beneath the water, bubbles floated from Jake’s sealed lips.

  “I’ll do anything!” Trent pleaded. “Just let him breathe.”

  The surface stirred. Trent watched it cyclone downward, creating an air pocket around Jake’s head. Water miraculously flowed around the opening without spilling through. Trent thought he was seeing things—wishful illusions, like his reflection.

  Then Jake gasped.

  “Dad!” Jake’s cheeks were pink with cold. He coughed as silty debris swept across his neck. “Help!”

  “Let him go!” Trent reached underwater, shoving silt away. “Snare, please!”

  “Leave my waters.”

  Trent backed out to the bank. Frigid air chewed through his sopping clothes. Shivering, he danced in place.

  “I’m out. Now let him go. Please.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Fine, whatever. Just let him go.”

  “After the favor.”

  “For God’s sake, let him out! He’s soaking wet. He’ll freeze to death unless—”

  Before Trent could finish, the moisture clinging to his body rushed down his legs and puddled at his feet. Somehow his skin and clothes were dry. Completely dry.

  In the creek, the air pocket whooshed, flinging water away.

  “Champ?” Trent called to his submerged son. “You okay?”

  “Y-yeah. It’s weird. My whole body feels dry.” His shaky words were followed by nervous shallow breath
s. “Dad, I’m scared.”

  Trent glared at his reflection. “What’s the favor?”

  “There are two empty water jugs hidden in the thicket nearby,” Snare said. “Fill them with bend water and take them to Mick Lapinski.”

  “To Mick? What for?”

  The mist left his lips.

  65

  Something stank like death. Cold, soggy death. The stench hit Ash like an elbow to the nose, triggering her gag reflex and disrupting the euphoric trance she’d been enjoying since her hand had reappeared. Reality wrestled her. Gutted her. She dropped flat against the steering wheel, twitching as fire reclaimed her ribs and torched her new hand.

  This isn’t right. Snare had promised her a new hand and the freedom to leave the zone. Both at once. That was the deal. Yet Ash’s burning parts suggested she couldn’t leave. The cynical portion of her mind insisted she’d been double-crossed, but there could be another explanation. Maybe the burning was inevitable within the zone. Maybe it would stop once she exited the area.

  Awful big maybe, though. She couldn’t risk exiting just yet. Not before she got the green light from Snare.

  With great strain, Ash pushed herself upright, away from the wheel. Heat squeezed her ribs like a fiery fist. Too much, too much. She collapsed against the wheel again, and the horn uttered a weak honk.

  Time passed. The stench worsened. Her stomach spun while she tried to determine the source of the odor. It had to be nearby. The heater was blasting, but she didn’t think it was the engine. The stench was more roadkill than motor oil. Toward the bottom of her windshield was a bullet hole surrounded by web-like cracks. The odor was strongest there. Whatever produced it was outside. Not the fog, which smelled like dirty rain, but something else.

  Lauren moaned in the trunk. She sounded more inconsolable by the second. No telling what effects this whole trip had on her. Worse yet, the state trooper hadn’t moved since Ash whacked him with her front bumper. Whether he survived or not, she’d be facing a felony or thirty.

  Ash needed to get moving. Return home. But she also needed an excuse for her law-breaking rampage. Some logical, acceptable reason for everything she’d done. A legit emergency. She supposed her sister-in-law’s vanishing eyes counted as such. Now she just needed to bullshit the nearest hospital staff.

  “Lauren,” she called, “I need your help.”

  The woman’s moans intensified.

  Ash checked over her shoulder and noticed something strange. Beyond her rear window, snow fell, but the sky itself hung clear. Fogless. Yet ahead of her and along the side windows, the blue haze twisted. The cutoff point for the fog seemed to be the trunk—right where the zone ended. Ash wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  One thing she did know was that she couldn’t endure the burning pain much longer.

  Grimacing, she put the car in drive. It rumbled over snow, the steering wheel wobbling in her sweaty, now two-handed grasp. Once they were moving, Lauren’s moans abruptly stopped. Ash considered that a good sign.

  Keeping to the shoulder, she rolled past the motionless trooper. With the fog obscuring him, she couldn’t tell what was wrong. If her ribs weren’t killing her, she would’ve dragged him to the guardrail, away from traffic.

  Speaking of traffic, where the hell was it? Nobody had driven her way in some time. That bothered her. The fog had only appeared minutes ago, too soon to scare off every driver from 81-North. She supposed the blizzard itself had dissuaded drivers from the highway. That, or perhaps everyone had to attend family dinners.

  Family.

  In all the chaos and excitement, she’d forgotten about Dad being taken hostage. If Werner was heading north, he might be close.

  She had to stop him.

  She headed south in a northbound lane, her high beams and four-ways on. If an oncoming eighteen-wheeler approached, the driver would see her. Hopefully. If not, maybe it’d strike her head-on and quiet her screaming ribs.

  Soon, she reassured herself. Soon the blaze inside my chest will fade. The outside stench, too. I’ll breathe easy, sit up straight, and find Dad. Soon.

  Further down the highway, headlights glowed. Two yellow eyes within the fog.

  Fuck. Her first instinct was to switch lanes, but with numb arms and slick palms, she opted to stay put. She peeled her left hand off the wheel and beeped the horn. The action caused her to flinch like she’d touched a hot stove. She chewed her lower lip and pressed again, harder this time, so the horn blared a clear warning.

  The other driver didn’t react.

  She slammed the horn again.

  Still nothing.

  The oncoming headlights grew brighter.

  She stomped the brake. The Subaru skidded. She tapped the brake, pumping till the car slowed. This was one sick game of chicken. The driver should’ve reacted. Should’ve switched lanes. Why hadn’t he?

  Then she realized the car wasn’t oncoming. It was stopped. Stuck against the guardrail.

  She exhaled.

  As she approached, she kept her distance. Driving past, she expected an angry honk but got nothing.

  Another few hundred feet out, more headlights glowed. Two cars this time. Both had slammed the guardrail. Despite the fog, it was odd to encounter three consecutive accidents. After all, this was Pennsylvania, not Pensacola. People here were no strangers to slick winter roads.

  Her ribs shed heat as she reached a straightaway. She lifted her chin and peered down the highway. More headlights glowed pale in the distance. Something was off. They were all aimed in different directions.

  Another accident—a major one. Ash saw what must’ve been a dozen cars scattered between the highway shoulders. Lights flickered and alarms honked, some in sync, like instruments in an orchestra. But she didn’t see a single cop car or ambulance. Even though it was a holiday, surely emergency crews were on call. What was taking them so long? And what about the people inside these wrecks—why hadn’t anybody climbed out?

  Braking, she grabbed her phone from the floor. Dialed 911.

  The phone didn’t connect. All she heard was watery static. Perplexed, she checked the screen. A service unavailable message flashed.

  She pocketed her phone and continued toward the line of wrecks.

  Straight ahead, a vehicle was flipped on its side. Her high beams gleamed off the white roof. As she moved closer, the shape of the vehicle became clear. A van.

  But not just any van. Her van.

  Then it dawned on her. Cheeto must’ve driven north to help her father. Even though Cheeto was disgusted with her, he’d motored up the highway to help. And on bad tires, no less. She couldn’t believe it. She hoped he was okay. He had to be okay. If he was hurt, suffering so much as a scrape, she’d never forgive herself.

  She pulled over to the shoulder and got out. The moment her feet hit the ground, her ribcage crackled with heat. She toughed out the burn and sprinted toward the van. Snow pecked her cheeks. Wind pierced her like a thousand arrowheads. The road underfoot was slippery, but she kept running until she reached the front of the van.

  “Cheeto!”

  The engine was still running. Half-melted snow covered the now-vertical windshield. She couldn’t see inside. Couldn’t see him. She needed him to be okay. No serious damage, nothing permanent. Even if he had to spend tomorrow in the hospital instead of onstage, she’d take it. She needed him safe and smiling.

  Since the van lay on its passenger side, there were only two accessible entry points: the driver side door, which was now above her head, and the rear doors. Ash rushed around back and used her spare key to unlock them. The moment she lifted the handle, the door snapped open, dumping out an avalanche of guitars amps, gear cases, and demo CDs. Everything crashed at her feet while a horrible stench emerged—the same one from back at the zone’s edge. Why did that smell keep following her? It made no sense.

  “Cheeto!” Her voice echoed through the van. “Can you hear me?”

  Fallen instrument cases and storage racks blo
cked her path to the front. She had no time to remove them one by one, nor the patience. Instead, she grabbed an amp and set it outside as a footstool. She boosted herself up onto the driver side exterior and crawled across snow-covered steel toward the front window. Worst-case scenarios played through her mind. Had he bashed his head, busted an ankle, or—nightmare of ironic nightmares—damaged his vocal chords?

  “Please,” she whispered. “Be okay.”

  Inch-thick snow blanketed the driver window. With her sleeve she wiped the glass until she could see inside. Cheeto hung from his seatbelt sideways, his hairy head suspended facedown toward the passenger side.

  “Cheets!” She slapped the window, trying to wake him.

  No response.

  She yanked the door handle. It popped, but the heavy door refused to lift more than an inch. After straining her shoulders, she reached down and brushed off more snow. Once clean, the door wasn’t so heavy. With a single focused heave, she flung the door open.

  Then wished she hadn’t.

  66

  No. It can’t be.

  The body that hung from the driver’s seat couldn’t be Cheeto.

  Not with a face like that. As she turned his head toward her, she couldn’t believe what she saw. A hideous gash sliced his forehead. Blood soaked his falling orange hair and dripped onto the passenger window in a series of sickening plops. Milky scars covered his eyes, and his nose was bent like an ugly purple fishhook. But worst of all was his chin. It hung bloated and disfigured, with gore lumping beneath a swollen hole along his jaw.

  The sight, coupled with the potent stench, made her want to vomit.

  “No… Cheeto, no…”

  The longer she looked, the more she doubted her sanity. She couldn’t reconcile what she saw with the facts. Even though the van had flipped on its side, damage to the interior was minimal—little more than a crunched ceiling and a cracked windshield. She didn’t see anything that could’ve slashed his forehead or caused such gruesome damage to his chin. At worst, he should’ve suffered some bruises, nothing more.