Graveslinger

by Darren Compton

  With only two fingers and a paper towel, Rutger reached down and picked up the Taurus by the tip of the barrel. He watched the pathetic man on the floor for a moment before leaving the bathroom.

  The waitress had been waiting outside, curious. “He in there?”

  “Asleep, but still in there.” He held up the Taurus, still by the barrel and paper towel, as if it were a dirty diaper. “Got a plastic bag or freezer bag?”

  “Yeah!” She stepped behind the counter and got a plastic bag. She returned to Rutger and held it open.

  He dropped it in. “Set this back behind the counter and give it to the cops when they arrive.”

  Rutger walked toward the front doors and glanced over just in time as the big 18-wheeler rig pulling out of the parking lot in a hurry. “Well, I guess they weren’t too good of friends.”

  “I’ll give the police a description of the truck. Not too many roads out here, they should catch up quick.”

  “Good. I’m certain there’s all sorts of goodies they’ll find in there.” Then he looked away toward a 2000 titanium-white Jeep Wrangler with a black canvas top. In the passenger seat sat Fiya, with her head hanging low.

  Rutger didn’t say anything as he opened the diner doors, exposing himself to the excessive heat.

  The waitress followed him. “You’re not gonna stick around and talk to the police?”

  Rutger’s mouth went flat, and he turned around to her. He could faintly hear the sirens in the background. “She’s not going to want to talk to the cops. I don’t want to talk to the cops. It sounds weird, but we’re in sort of like … a witness-protection program, as in we were not here. They’ve got the guy in there. Get their little party wagon truck, and they’ll find everything else they need, I’m sure of it.”

  True or not, the excuse rang too suspicious for her own ears. Narrowing her eyes at him, the waitress asked, “Did you steal that poor girl from her mom?”

  He shook his head, annoyed that she would even ask that. The sirens were getting closer and louder. “Steal? No. No stealing.”

  As he turned to begin walking toward his Jeep, he reached for his wallet and took out a few $100 bills. Knowing the waitress was following him, he turned around and handed her the cash. “Sorry about the mess in the bathroom. This is for the trouble.”

  “You’re not going to bribe me! You’re just as bad as the guy in the restroom! You had me so convinced earlier but now I’m on to you! She’s so little you fucking creep!” She stormed past him and ran awkwardly in her heels to the Jeep. She tapped on the passenger side window to get Fiya’s attention.

  As if woken from a daze, Fiya turned to look at the waitress and then rolled the window down a crack. The blood had begun to clot on her face. Her eyes, however, had flooded with salty tears stinging the gash in her cheek. She only noticed the stinging sensation after giving the waitress her attention.

  Seeing her up close, the waitress nearly forgot what she was going to say, but catching Rutger in the corner of her eye jogged her memory. “Did that man kidnap you?” The waitress pointed to Rutger, who merely walked up to the driver’s side of the Jeep, massaging his knuckles.

  Fiya glanced over to Rutger for barely half a second, and then met the waitress’s eyes again. She shook her head, confused.

  At the front door of the diner, a large man - even bigger than Rutger - in a sweaty white shirt with grease stains appeared, wiping his hands with a dishrag. He kept his distance but paid very close attention.

  The waitress didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure, honey? You can tell me. The cops are on their way, and this can be all over.”

  Fiya stared at her for a moment, almost as if the waitress spoke in another language, and then opened the glovebox. Inside contained a manilla folder. She slapped the contents against the window.

  The waitress quickly read the document over, and her face became even more confused.

  Seeing this confusion, Fiya decided to go further to clear things up. “It’s a legal court document signed by a judge of guardianship, you idiot. Again, no, he did not kidnap me. The asshole in the restroom tried to.” She put the form back into the folder, followed by putting the folder back in the glovebox so she could use it again the next time someone accused Rutger of kidnapping.

  The waitress’s mouth hung open with slack-jawed bewilderment, and her eyes met Rutger. When he opened his door, she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have accused you of that.”

  “No, you shouldn't have, but I get it a lot. The joy of sexism on the opposite side. That’s why I keep that copy with us.” He got into his seat and slammed the door shut. He rolled down the window as the waitress walked around to his side.

  She found him still holding out the hundred-dollar bills. “We can’t stay, and she’s too scared to talk to the police. Tell them we went north.”

  The waitress took the cash and nodded. She backed away from the Jeep. “Take care of her.”

  “I am,” he said coldly.

  After a few silent miles down the road, headed east toward Arizona, Fiya finally spoke. “People suck.”

  Rutger handed Fiya a wet-nap to help clean the blood from her face. “Yes, they do.”

  They drove for more than an hour on a long desolate southbound road with nothing but rocky brown dirt around them and Big Bear Mountain shrinking in the distance. Rutger aimed to connect to the 10 freeway and turn east. When he glanced at her, with a few remaining flakes of dried, smeared blood on her cheek, he winced.

  The ride had been quiet for a long time, and Rutger was getting anxious. He held back from asking the dumbest question he could think of: Are you okay? Of course, she wasn’t. He couldn’t even think of a joke to try and lighten the mood, as it would’ve been inappropriate. Trying to put himself in her shoes didn’t seem to work, either, as nothing like that came close to happening to him. He’d only heard about things like this happening but was never confronted with it. The worst he had growing up was bouncing around from foster home to foster home, finding one drunk foster dad, one abusive foster mother, and another couple using the system to milk the government to fund their meth habit. None of the above seemed to feel like they came close to what she just experienced in the bathroom.

  Then he said, “We can stop at the nearest place to get you cleaned up. There should be something at Desert Center at the 10 freeway.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry, I should’ve been watching those guys more closely.” Of course, he knew not all truckers were like that, but letting his guard down just once is all the bad guys really need. Trying to take the girl at gunpoint seemed like a rookie move to him, as he was under the impression that drugging one’s prey was the most common form of abduction.

  Thinking about the terrible event, he squeezed the steering wheel as if it were the Leather-Jacket-Man’s throat.

  Fiya remained silent with her forehead pressed against the side window. She watched a series of dark grey and brown sharp hills go by. Some of the blood from her cheek had left a light residue on the window, which she intended to clean up at the next stop.

  When they reached Desert Center, they couldn’t find a spot for her to get cleaned up, so they got onto the 10 and drove all the way to Wiley Well’s Riverside County rest stop. The dry dirt had gotten lighter the closer to Arizona they drove. The surrounding area had scraggly bushes that would soon die and become tumbleweeds. Snaggletooth mountains and hills cut the skyline, with patches of dry brown bushes. Rutger always thought this terrain was hideous but enjoyed the ride because it made him more appreciative of coming home. At least Arizona had more reds in the landscape, that was more visually appealing to him. Here, nothing but ugly shades of light brown everywhere.

  Upon seeing more truckers with their mammoth diesels parked at the rest stop, Rutger took no chances escorting Fiya into the women’s restroom and stood by the door to watch her at the sink while she cleaned her face.

  She remained quiet, and it pained him t
o think that watching her like this was punishment for her. By pure luck, other women didn’t come into the restroom while he stood watch, saving him from yet another awkward, accusing scenario.

  As they went back to his Jeep, Rutger kept his eyes on all the truckers at the rest stop. None appeared to look in their direction, and a small fire within him hoped he’d see the truck that fled Roy’s Cafe. No such luck.

  On the road, Fiya didn’t speak again until noon came around. They were well into Arizona by then, just getting into Tucson. She said softly, “In-N-Out.”

  Smiling, Rutger said, “Ya know, originally I was craving a burrito, but now that you mention it, In-N-Out sounds like a damn fine idea. I’m glad you ignored that McDonald’s sign.”

  “I like pickles. In-N-Out has the best pickles. They’re the exact opposite of McDonald’s. They’re cold, thick, and crispy. And they give you a lot when you ask for them.”

  “No argument from me.” He never even paid attention to their pickles until she brought them up.

  They went off the freeway to get in line for In-N-Out, and 27 minutes later, they got their food. Fiya got two double-double cheeseburgers with extra pickles and no special sauce, while Rutger went only for one double-double and a side of animal fries, which disgusted Fiya. All toppings possible, but most of all that special sauce, smothering over a container of fries. To her, it looked like someone vomited all over their fries and that killed her appetite, but Rutger knew the looks were deceiving.

  His intent was to eat on the road, but just as they left Tucson, an idea popped in Rutger’s head, realizing they were near someplace. Something he knew that allowed him to project his frustrations and anger in what he considered a healthy way. It wasn’t on the itinerary and would mean they definitely wouldn’t get to El Paso before his head was ready to hit a pillow, but his gut told him they should do it. He exited the freeway, headed straight south.

  “Where we goin’?” she asked, looking around like a paranoid meerkat in her seat. “I thought the 10 went all the way into Texas?”

  “It does, but we’re gonna take a little detour.” He took a few more turns, headed further into the desert roads until he slowed and turned into a gated road surrounded by small trees that were little more than big bushes. The gate was open, and Rutger drove through too fast for Fiya to read a small white sign posted on the side of the gate.

  His voice caught her attention. His tone soft, yet firm. Comforting. “I’m not going to pretend to know exactly what you went through this morning. I can listen, I can empathize, but I know I wouldn’t be able to relate. I do know you’re angry as hell. You wanted to kill that man, didn’t you?”

  There was a long pause before Fiya nodded. She was afraid to answer honestly, knowing murder is awful, and really didn’t want Rutger to think she was horrible for even considering it.

  “I wanted to, too,” he continued. “I wish all shitters like that would just line up on a 100-acre lawn and lie down, so I can run a mower over them. But that’s just fantasy and that’s okay to think that way. We’re not murderers. We may exterminate monsters and creatures of the night, things that are supposed to be dead, but unless it’s specifically in self-defense and there is no other option, people are off-limits. We’re not murderers. Do you get this?”

  She took a bite into her second double-double and nodded.

  “Good. I’ve got a substitute for ya. If you’re on a hunt for some beast, you can project your issues and hate. Do you know what that ‘projecting’ means?”

  She shook her head, chewing.

  “You know what an overhead projector is, right?” When she nodded, he continued. “Well, metaphorically, it’s like that, but with your emotions. You take them, and you project them on something else. Like, say the face of that guy in the bathroom, you can put it on a ghoul’s face, and you will feel better unleashing your fury on it. But right now, it’s too risky for a little rookie, and the option to do so isn’t always available. So insteaddddd …” he drew out the last syllable as he parked the Jeep and pointed to an off-white facility in front of them. “Pimo Shooting Range. I’ve been here a couple times before, but here, you can vent your anger on paper and dirt without the risk of hurting yourself or others. It’s good practice. Come on.” He got out of his Jeep, leaving his food in the center console, untouched.

  Fiya hopped out, taking the rest of her double-double with her. Unlike Rutger, she didn’t like eating cold fast-food. He was like a dog: he seemed to eat anything. He once drank spoiled chocolate milk because pouring it down the sink seemed like a waste, and he didn’t even get nauseated.

  The office men got a kick out of Rutger bringing his little girl to the shootin’ range. They even threw in ten large silhouette target sheets for free just for her.

  Rutger brought his own firearms. He kept a pair of Colt revolvers stored in his Jeep, but he took only one of them with him into the range. Since he didn’t have enough on him to spare, he purchased ammo to burn.

  They had a secluded section to shoot at the targets, with a canopy that provided shade from the scorching sun.

  First, Rutger emptied his Colt at the target, describing exactly what he was doing, including the use of both hands on the grip. “This is very important because there will be a kick, and two hands will be better than one to soak it up. Especially in your case.”

  He thought she looked funny with the oversized earmuffs on her head and was tempted to make a remark, but quickly saw that she didn’t appear very enthused about the experience, so he decided not to.

  After reloading the Colt, Rutger said, “Okay, I’m gonna fire another six, and then have you try. Pay attention to exactly what I’m doing.” He aimed with razor precision, and after a breath, he fired all six shots.

  Fiya flinched at every single one of them. The throat of the silhouette target shredded from the clustering.

  Then he emptied the cylinder again to reload. “Ready?”

  Fiya cautiously stared at the Colt as he handed it to her, grip first. It seemed gigantic in her hands, and she was startled by how heavy it was, almost dropping it.

  “Yeah, it’s got a little bit of weight to it, but you’ll get used to it.”

  She pointed the revolver while trying to find the most comfortable way to grip the hand canon. She wasn’t even sure which hand was supposed to be the trigger hand and which was for support. She copied Rutger’s right-hand trigger grip, and it felt incredibly uncomfortable, so she shifted to her left hand and then used her right hand to cup. “Like this?”

  “Is it comfortable for you?”

  “Sí.”

  “You got it. Now make sure you’ve got a firm stance. Anchor your heels, just like that.” He watched her hold her aim, struggling to keep up the weight of the Colt, heavy in her hands, much heavier than she remembered the first time she held a gun many years ago. “When you’re ready, take a deep, slow breath. Then exhale just a little bit and pause. When you pause, pull that trigger.”

  Doing as instructed, Fiya took a long, deep breath, and as she exhaled, she paused and squeezed. She closed her eyes as she felt the explosion vibrate through both arms, almost knocking her off balance. Her breathing rhythm became erratic as she lowered the Colt and looked back up at Rutger, who monitored her target with a pair of binoculars. A kick-up of dirt blew away in the wind beyond the paper target. “A swing and a miss,” he said. He lowered the binoculars and met her gaze. “Next time don’t close your eyes. And picture that asshole from the bathroom instead of just the target.”

  Fiya took another deep breath that sounded more like a sigh to Rutger. She repeated her stance, made sure she had a comfortable grip on the Colt, and aimed.

  At first, the generic silhouette was nothing more than black ink on paper, but soon she saw the man in the leather jacket, pointing that little Taurus back at her, with that big, bad wolf smile of his. Rage boiled within her, and her eyes narrowed. She repeated the deep breath, and as she paused, she squeezed the trigger without
shutting her eyes.

  The Colt let out another thunderous bang. She suddenly realized it was easier to keep her eyes open while shooting than it was while sneezing.

  Rutger studied the target and saw a little torn hole in the paper, clipping the shoulder of the silhouette. “A lot better that time. You at least hit the target.” He lowered the binoculars again. “Ready for another?”

  Rubbing her elbows, she gave Rutger a shrug.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You hit it. That’s good. With enough practice, you could even be a real gunslinger. But since we primarily deal with slaying the undead … Graveslinger! Putting those bastards back in the graves where they belong, one bullet at a time.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. She wanted to get excited about it as he was, but the fire just wasn’t there. She did think the nickname sounded cool, though, even if it carried the feel of a dad-joke pun.

  Rutger sighed. “Well, just one more, okay?” Then we’ll get back on the road.”

  She nodded again and repositioned herself, this time a little faster than before. Her arms already felt tired, like she just got done doing 100 push-ups. She aimed, picturing the man in the leather jacket again, who winked back at her. As she took a deep breath and pulled the trigger, the man in the leather jacket morphed into her father. Not her father infected with Ghoul Fever, but her father happy, healthy, looking back and reaching out to her, before a bullet tore through the paper about where the chin would be.

  As Rutger congratulated her on another swell shot, she placed the Colt on the counter in front of them and removed the silencing earmuffs. “Can we go now?”

  The white Jeep Wrangler grunted up an old dirt road in central Texas, somewhere between Austin and San Antonio. They eventually made it to El Paso, about an hour past schedule, thanks to the Pimo Shooting Range detour. Fiya still didn’t speak much for the bulk of Arizona or New Mexico; when they got to El Paso for the night, she slipped in some minor commentary about where they were eating. Rutger felt it would be slow, but she would eventually come back to her usual self, and he wasn’t going to push her.