And Steve, who didn’t give a shit—he’d made seventy bucks the night before, selling weed in the park—said, "Jerry’s so stupid he actually buys into that crack of dawn bullshit. He's out there sweating his ass off when anybody with half a brain would know enough to stay in the basement and chill out. He's too stupid to go to college, no matter how much he saves, so what he's doing, we call it On the Job Training."
That got the never-ending fight going again. During those days, it didn’t take much. All of their interactions were lightly scabbed; the slightest brush from either of them set it bleeding and smarting again.
Looking back, he felt stupid. He shouldn’t have tipped his hand like that. All it did was fuel the fighting, and all wrapped up in the center of his attack on Jerry, of course, was an implied attack on his mom, who had always worked her ass off for low wages. So he felt a little bad, too. All that stuff he'd thought about Jimmy was true enough—the kid was stupid—but he shouldn't have jabbed his mom.
Still, he reminded himself now, it was easy enough, reliving incidents in isolation, to feel like a grade-A asshole, but it was important to remember that this all happened in some pretty heavy context. This all happened in a house infected with chronic bitterness, where his mom, who hated the life she’d made for herself, nevertheless crammed her silver-lined, Horatio Alger bullshit down Steve’s throat day in and day out. And that, the other side of the coin, still hung in the sky of his memory like a bad moon. He could never package his childhood memories all neatly and sweetly. For Steve, childhood memories were often murky and seldom carried any sort of didactic message. They delivered no earth-shattering revelations, few nuggets of wisdom. In them, situations, actions, and relationships all seemed to blend right and wrong. These memories paired stubborn pride and regret in equal portions, and never reconfigured into a connect-the-dots ascension of morality.
Mostly.
There was one memory, however, that haunted Steve, and it was all regret, all self-loathing. It was the memory of Banjo. For as long as he’d lived, he’d never told a single soul.
This all happened the summer he first moved into the basement. One day late in the summer, his mother came home, called him out of the basement, and got on his ass about some antifreeze pooled in the driveway. Okay, he'd said, okay…and he’d blown her off. She'd gone back to work, and he'd gone back to his games, and later on, much later on, when he was coming home from Dom’s house, he'd seen the dog. Dead.
It was the neighbors' dog, Banjo, this Welsh Corgi dog that looked like a burrito on stumpy little legs. Banjo had lived right next door, with Walt and Louise. Walt and Louise loved that dog.
Once, when Steve was younger, he'd been forced to go around and fundraise, selling peanuts or candy or popcorn or something. He’d gone door-to-door, giving his pitch, and ended up on Walt and Louise’s doorstep. They didn't have any kids. But they had Banjo. He was yellow. They had this framed picture on the wall, with a little light and everything. This was a full-size portrait, framed and matted and everything, and that light made it all formal, even somber, like a shrine, like Banjo was dead already. He wasn't, though. He was down by their ankles, all mellow and wagging his tail while they said no thanks.
It’s weird, how little we know about our neighbors. He’d lived right next door to those two all those years, and what did he know about them? That she had weird hair, and he liked to drink and fish; that they both had some kind of speech impediment or something; and of course, that they had a stubby dog named Banjo that was actually kind of cool; he never barked at you or anything, even if you were coming home late, four o'clock in the morning, the night before you were going to catch a load of shit from your mom about some pebble-brained asshole mowing yards down the block. But that was it, that was all he knew about them. Most of all, he knew they loved that dog.
And then, suddenly, it was dead. Dead at the bottom of Steve’s driveway. Dead because Steve hadn’t bothered to do what his mom had told him to do earlier that same day…clean up the antifreeze. Steve’s guts turned to water. Then they froze. Thawed. Froze again. Thawed. He walked down the drive and stood over the dog. Banjo was dead, all right. He was stiff. His eyes were open but dull and glazed. Steve’s guts froze again. Banjo had been sick there, and the stuff that had come out of his stomach was foamy and bright green.
Steve didn't know what to do. He stood there, staring at the dog, thinking about how much trouble he'd be in and how sad it was about the dog, and how upset the neighbors were going to be. It didn't matter that he didn't know them or that they were kind of weird or anything. He felt horrible. They loved this dead dog more than Steve loved—well, more than he’d ever loved anything, he guessed—and because of him, it was dead.
It was one more fuck-up in a long tradition of fuck-ups, and far from the last. It would be nice to say that it taught him his lesson, and in retrospect, it had. Steve had never again left anti-freeze sit on the driveway. But in reality, he continued fucking up all through high school, shit, right up to the present moment. Totaling cars, getting picked up on pot charges, underage drinking, then there was the whole thing with the Molotov cocktails he'd been throwing under the bridge, down by the railroad tracks and the river. It was safe and all, nothing to burn, but then one night, he came home, and his mom flipped. She was starting to cry, but mainly she was pissed off, frustrated, whatever, and she was saying, "Why do you smell like gasoline? Why does my son come home at three in the morning, smelling like gasoline?" Bad night.
But the king of all bad nights was the night of the Banjo thing.
Standing over the dog, he filled with dread. There was no bringing Banjo back, no matter what. He looked across the yard. Walt and Louise’s house sat small and green and plain, the house of a childless couple who’s favorite thing in the world was…No. He’d shut off that line. He felt bad, but feeling bad wouldn’t bring the dog back to life. Nothing would. So what good would it be, Steve going to the gallows? He had to cover this up, had to get Banjo out of sight before anybody came home.
Luckily, his mother was still at work, and Tim was down the block, playing with all his sport-o buddies. Steve bent down, reached for the dog, and pulled away. He didn’t want to touch it. But he had to hurry. He went to the garage, got a shovel and the big piece of burlap they used for trapping and dragging leaves in the fall, went back out, and levered the stiff dog onto the cloth. He kept pushing with the shovel—Banjo really was stiff, no flop in him, and it was hard to get him over—until the dog lay at the center of the sheeting, which Steve folded in half and draped overtop the corpse. Then, bunching the loose end in one hand, he dragged the dog away from the driveway as he’d dragged so many piles of leaves, across the yard, through the high, brushy grass at the back of the lot, and spilled the load over the embankment into the creek. It wasn’t a big creek, but it did have water in it then, thank goodness, because late in the summer, it usually ran dry, and he used the water to help him move Banjo downstream another couple hundred yards, where he hid dog, burlap, and shovel within a jam of debris that had gathered beneath the exposed roots of an old creek-side sycamore during the previous spring melt.
Hurrying home, he hosed down the driveway and then, hating the drag mark he’d left across the back yard, he mowed the grass. The grass was high and damp, and when he’d finished, emerald liquid drooled from beneath the mower deck, and he’d been staring at this, thinking of the foam he’d rinsed from the drive, when Walt had pulled in next door, given his standard sleepwalker’s wave, and disappeared into the little green house.
Steve hurried inside, and that night, his mother had taken his brother and him out for ice cream, she’d been so pleased that he not only cleaned up the antifreeze but also rinsed the drive and mowed the lawn. Steve, mowing without being asked? Her son was growing up.
They never found the dog. Steve snuck out again that night, but instead of hanging around the park, dealing weed and trying to get with girls, he’d run a solo mission. Flashlight? Check. Sho
vel? Check. Dead dog? Check. He’d floated Banjo further downstream, creeped as hell, truth be told, half afraid the dead dog was going to drown him in the dark pool beneath the sycamore roots, and buried it in the field behind the abandoned paper mill. For a long time, posters of Banjo hung all over town, and every time Steve saw them, he remembered the dog, the foam, his guts freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing, but they’d never caught him, never even suspected him. Still, he’d carried the remorse all this time, would always carry it, and every now and then, something—a jug of antifreeze, a corgi shitting in some yard as Steve passed, a foamy pistachio pudding at a family reunion—would bring Banjo back to him, dead and stiff and staring, and Steve would feel like shit all over again.
And now, staring at the green shit foaming from the kid’s mouth, Steve shuddered, thinking, Is Banjo behind all this? Are all these people dying because I didn’t clean up the antifreeze?
"Steve?" It was Cat, calling him back to reality. She’d stopped in front of him, and he almost slammed into her. He’d smoked too much weed. He’d taken too many hits, too deep, too long, and now, with his life on the line, his brain was taking him on a little stroll down memory lane. Chill. Get your shit together, Steve.
Cat pointed. "Look."
"What?" he said. And a wild, irrational fear leapt up in him: Banjo was going to come hitching out of the shadows…
"Over there, on the ground," she said. "Is that a moped?"
Chapter 11
Jimmy and his fellow bartender Brent took the back door out of the bar and into the kitchen, hoping to escape the madness of the Cougar’s Den and meaning to warn everyone in the adjoining Cougar Café restaurant, but just past the walk-in coolers and freezers, Jimmy stopped, teeth bared. The kitchen was smoky, filled with the stench of burning meat and hair.
A waitress, the new blonde, was draped across the grill, sizzling, her clothes and hair burning low.
Jimmy’s stomach did a slow roll.
Behind him, Brett said, "Shit, it’s happening in here, too."
"On your toes," Jimmy said, and grabbed a long steel ladle off the counter. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was the best thing in reach.
One of the busboys—Jimmy recognized his face but had never known his name—ran around the steam table holding what looked like a tablecloth to his arm. Jimmy saw red there, blood.
"Get away!" the busboy shouted.
Dutch, the big chef who sipped away every shift, staying one step from blitzed, stalked the busboy, a bloody cleaver gripped in one meaty hand. He stepped over the corpse of a waitress—Shit, was that Ginny?—and dragged the cleaver across the stainless steel counter.
"Get away!" The busboy repeated. Something in him had snapped, surrendered to the terror, taken him back a dozen or so years mentally, turning his plea childlike, almost comical: "Get awaaay-uh!"
This is fucking crazy, Jimmy thought.
"Come on, bro," Brent said. "We gotta go. Those assholes are coming in behind us."
Jimmy heard them now, too, heard them coming in from the bar, heard the blast of the music as doors opened, heard whooping crazies coming this way.
Big, crazy-ass Dutch lifted his cleaver and started trotting, laughing as he chased the busboy, still oblivious to Jimmy and Brent.
"Move," Brent said.
Then, just as Dutch did see them, grinning, his teeth green—What the hell was up with that?—Lenny, the stubby stoner who washed dishes and kept Jimmy in clean pitchers and glasses, stepped out of the alcove and sprayed Dutch in the face with a heavy jet of steaming water.
Dutch roared and turned into the spray, head back, tall white hat flying away, and lumbered toward Lenny, slicing the air with his cleaver.
Jimmy rushed him.
Dutch forced his way into the alcove, and Jimmy heard a meaty thwack, a scream, and then a louder thud as Dutch spilled onto the wet tiles. Lenny slipped free, his shoulder streaming blood, and sprinted out of the kitchen. He pounded out the door and into the restaurant, affording Jimmy with a flash of the chaos taking place on that side.
Dutch slipped, trying to regain his feet. The handle of a recently washed knife jutted from his crotch. A bad joke about Dutch "having wood" tumbled topsy-turvy through Jimmy’s head, but he let it go in favor of driving a sneaker into the big lunatic’s face. Dutch flopped over, flailing his arms and spitting green.
The busboy was nowhere in sight.
"Look out, Jimmy!" Brent cried, and Jimmy heard a bottle shatter. Loonies boiled into the room. Brent jumped backward, and the crazies streamed past, oblivious of him and Jimmy and Dutch, who was up again, stooping for his cleaver. They rushed along the other side of the steam table, howling through the kitchen and into the café beyond. More would come. And Jimmy was very much afraid they wouldn’t be so oblivious to Brent and him.
Dutch staggered toward him. He looked rough as hell, his checked chef’s pants soaked in blood, the big knife handle still poking out in want of a lame joke. He drew closer, raising the cleaver.
Jimmy dropped one foot back, holding the ladle out in front of him like a fencing foil. Shit. What the hell am I doing?
Something big and bright flew over him and smacked into Dutch’s forehead. It fell to the tiles with a clatter—a bread rack, Jimmy saw—and the cook followed it down. Then Brent was over him, stomping and stomping.
Jimmy joined in. It was horrible. He drove his heel into Dutch’s gut and ribs while Brent worked the head. The big guy bellowed and rolled, but he was hurt too badly to do much. Closing his eyes, Jimmy kicked down on the knife handle. He felt it shove inward then slipped on the bloody floor and dropped onto his ass. Brent backed off, breathing hard. Dutch twitched and was still.
"Look out," Brent said as Jimmy stood. "Someone’s coming in from the restaurant."
Jimmy tensed as a pair came through the doors. In front, a man with reddish hair scanned the kitchen, saw the bartenders, and lurched to a stop. Behind him, a tall dark-haired woman let out a short shriek.
"They’re okay," Jimmy said. "No green." What had really decided him, though, was the wife. Her face showed such raw terror she had to be sane.
"Are you normal?" the red-haired guy asked, and when Jimmy and Brent said they were, he demanded to know just what the hell was going on here.
His guess was as good as theirs, they assured him. They went down the narrow hallway that led past the manager’s office and to an inconspicuous, windowless door that opened onto Short Ridge and the center of town.
"Take a look," Brent said.
Jimmy cracked the door, bringing a slice of the outside world into view. A second later, a girl spilled onto the pavement in front of him, stood up laughing, and ran on. In that brief moment, Jimmy saw skinned knees, a bloody shirt, and something dark and flowing clamped in her mouth. Was that hair? Did that girl have someone’s scalp in her teeth?
She was gone.
Jimmy closed the door. "It’s no better outside."
"Let’s hide, then," Brent said.
"Let’s do something," the red-haired guy said.
"What about Tom’s office?" Jimmy said, and pushed a door on the adjacent wall. Tom was the blond-haired weasel that ran the bar and restaurant, a prissy over-demanding prick who drove Jimmy out of his mind. Opening the door, Jimmy saw that he didn’t have to worry about Tom anymore. The manager lay atop his desk, arms and legs spread out like he was sunbathing. His chest was torn open.
Standing nearer, crying, was Erika, one of the waitresses Jimmy had been trying to bang over the last couple of months. She had her back turned, but it was Erika, all right. He’d spent enough time staring at this same view—long, silky black hair, perfect ass in thin black stretch pants, and the tight yellow waitress tee, stretched over a rack to die for and a back that always seemed just a little arched.
"Erika."
She cried out and spun.
Jimmy took a step back.
Erika was covered in blood. Black streaks ran from her eyes. She held a b
loody knife. Seeing Jimmy, a smile spread across her face.
Jimmy raised his hands. He didn’t want to hurt her.
"Jimmy," she said, and dropped the knife. He shuddered with relief, for he was sure now: the crazies did not talk, and she came into his arms, sobbing. "I think…Tom’s dead…I think I…he was crazy."
Jimmy rubbed her back. "It’s okay, doll. Look, we have to hide." Here? Looking over at Tom’s corpse, he thought, Fuck that noise.
They rejoined the others. Brent hurried past the guy and the woman and glanced once more into the kitchen. He motioned them on, and they followed. Jimmy didn’t like the sounds he heard coming from the bar or the restaurant, louder than ever, and the smell of the waitress on the grill almost made him puke. Brent opened the large silver door to the walk-in cooler.
The red-haired guy and his wife slipped inside. Erika paused, wide-eyed, in the doorway. "We’ll be trapped."
"In," Brent said, pushing her along. "There’s nowhere else to go."
Jimmy agreed, but God, did he hate to go in there. Erika was right. With all these psychos on the loose, the last thing he wanted to do was back into a corner, but what other choice was there?
So in they went. Erika held out her hand. Jimmy took it and pulled her into him, where she shook but did not cry. Talk about irony. He chuckled to himself. He’d been trying to get his arms around this girl for months, and now he did, but shit, this wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned.
Brent closed the door, and everything went dark. The hum of the air conditioner muffled the sounds from outside.
At first, the cold air was refreshing. Then it just got cold. Erika pressed against him, shivering harder.
Something scraped in the darkness…the red-haired guy’s lighter. He held it near his face, which looked unnaturally gaunt in the light of the flame. He was older, a parent, an alumni, maybe both.
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