The Skin Show

by Kristopher Rufty

  The dirt road was just where Jerry said it would be. There was a small dip as the bike left the blacktop. The rubber tires crunched over the gravel. Thick trees on each side choked out the moonlight. It was nearly impossible to see, so Miles stopped to give his eyes time to adjust to the heavy darkness all around.

  Behind him, the truck groaned as it began to roll. Miles had never felt more alone. He would have looked back to watch the truck go, but didn’t want to risk the truck’s bright lights ruining his night vision.

  He began pedaling, taking Jerry’s advice about not wasting any time.

  The trees curved over the road above him in a dome of spindly naked limbs. Streaks of moonlight pierced through the tight gaps like ghostly daggers. There were no sounds of wildlife, which Miles chalked up to the late fall temperatures. Still, he thought he’d have heard something other than rusted squeals of the chain on his bike, the whirring of his pedals.

  He leaned into a curve, continuing forward. It seemed brighter in this part. As he continued to pedal, the brightness grew at a rapid rate. Then he heard tires on gravel, the hum of an engine. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a pair of headlights behind him through his bangs flapping in his eyes.

  Miles screamed when they honked their horn. He pedaled to the side, meaning to allot them room to pass. He hadn’t expected the ditch to be so deep. The road vanished from under him. The front tire struck the slope as the ground started to rise.

  And, he was thrown from the bike.

  Miles wasn’t sure how long he was out cold, or if he ever was. When he stood up, his head felt swimmy. His ears sounded clogged, as if he’d been under water. He looked down at his bike and groaned. It was busted. The front spokes were bent, bowing outward like thin metal noodles. The chain hung in two halves around the sprocket.

  Ruined.

  “Dammit,” muttered Miles. With no adults around, he had no qualms with cursing.

  He would have sulked over his damaged bike longer, but the faint sounds of a party arrested his attention. He tilted his ear toward the noise. Definitely a party. He could distinguish laughter, blaring music, hoots and hollers like you’d hear at a ball game.

  I’m close.

  Crawling out of the ditch, his knees rubbed dew-damp weeds. He ignored the scratchy, sticky feeling as he got back to the road. He brushed off his pants, only smearing the clumpy bits of grass across his knees. He checked for more traffic, and didn’t spot any.

  Standing in the middle of the narrow dirt road, Miles took a deep breath. He held it in as long as he could before letting it slowly out. It made the inside of his chest feel stretchy and sore. Then he started walking. The toes of his shoes scuffed short abrasions in the dirt, kicking up small puffs of dust on his way.

  The subtle noise grew louder, trees thinning, the spaces between them spreading. The road ended at a clearing: a large flat space, like a landing strip that carried on ahead. There was no parking lot, just a small field full of cars, motorcycles, and a couple eighteen wheelers. Miles wondered how they’d gotten back here without tearing most of the woods down in the process.

  On the far side of the parking area was the building. A small, one level place, it looked as if it had been assembled by contractors that didn’t know what they were doing. The walls appeared to be aluminum sheets, like those on an old tin shed. He could see bars of pink light between the gaps of sections. The roof was flat, as if the ceiling had been laid across and never secured to the rest. It sat at a slight angle, crooked. The sign above the front edge of the roof announced: The Skin Show—the three words flashed neon green, then pink, dissolving to green once again. A porch ran the length of the front, wooden railing and posts on top that connected to the roof.

  He saw a couple of men hanging around out there. Their skin looked sunburnt in the pink hues. He could see a small piece of white outside the porch, going one way and another. It looked like a T-shirt or a white towel on a clothesline how it wavered here and there.

  Miles started moving, keeping to the far left, hoping there was enough shadow here to camouflage him. With the dark clothes he had on, and being where the light didn’t quite reach, he hoped he would be okay.

  Stopping beside an old clunker of a car, he ducked down, keeping his head just above the door so he could see through the windows. Although the glass was coated in dust, he could see just fine. It looked as if no one had noticed him, so he quickly got moving again.

  He had no plan other than getting closer to the people, so he could see if his dad was among them. If he saw Dad, he would go talk to him, no matter what. He was pretty sure his dad would drive him home, probably cussing him the entire way. Miles could deal with that. But, if Dad wasn’t here, that meant he would be walking all the way home because he wouldn’t ask any of these people for a ride. He doubted they’d be as nice as Jerry.

  Nice? He bailed on you.

  At least he’d brought Miles this far.

  He approached a line of motorcycles, all leaning to one side. The moonlight reflected little gleams on their gas tanks. Crouching, Miles faced the front of the building again. He was much closer than he’d intended to be.

  He could see the club sign clearly, the neon colors changing the tint of his skin with each dissolve. Below the name were two more words in black blocky letters: Live Acts.

  Though Miles read the sign, he hardly paid the words any attention. His focus had been nabbed by the girl in front of the building. She stood in the graveled area running in front of the porch like a narrow footpath. Her slender, yet tight arms were slick from sweat and gleamed in a glossy sheen under the oil lamps hanging from the beams. The lanterns made the girl’s sleek skin glow.

  Her coal-black hair draped her shoulders, sprigs daubing in her face. She had on a white tank top that was so thin it was nearly clear. Miles realized the white smear he’d spotted earlier had been her shirt. Way back there, he couldn’t see much, but being this close he could see her black bra underneath, the small points of her nipples prodding it like nails. The shirt was glued to her flat stomach, her navel a round dot in her midsection. Shin-high boots didn’t quite reach the purple socks tapping the bottoms of her knees. Her thighs were bare and milky up to the stringy tips of her denim cut-offs.

  Miles felt himself getting hard. He squirmed, trying to relieve himself of the pressure between his legs. He could hardly breathe as he watched her wiggle her hips from side to side, her breasts jiggled while she shouted: “Welcome to The Skin Show! The show’s already begun! Come inside and partake in the sin!”

  Her voice made Miles want to see. He wondered if there was an age limit.

  Don’t be an idiot. Of course there is.

  Before, he couldn’t care less what went on here, but now…he had to know. His anger for his dad began to dispel to understanding. If this place was full of girls who looked like her, he could understand why his dad never wanted to come home.

  Stop!

  The voice of reason which usually ruled his mind was a croaky whine deep in his skull. It hardly registered to Miles, but it had been brash enough to remind him why he’d come here. Shaking his head, he looked to the front again and gasped.

  The girl’s gaze was aimed in Mile’s direction.

  His heart lurched in his chest. It knocked the wind out of his lungs through his mouth in one quick gust. No way was she actually looking at him. There must be something happening behind him, something else that had her attention. He glanced over his shoulder to double check and all he found were more parked vehicles. There was a big oak tree with lazy limbs hanging low to the ground further back.

  Then he turned back to the girl and saw her stare hadn’t wavered. The corner of her mouth had curled up into a halfway smile. She put her hands on her hips, jutting one out to the side with a foot planted in front of her. She gave her hip a little shake.

  Miles swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Is she doing that for me?

  The girl nodded.

  The back
of his neck felt like someone was poking it with an icy fork.

  She raised a fist, fingers up. Then she beckoned him to come over with a curling index finger.

  Miles’s hard on pushed painfully against the front of his pants. He trembled. He wanted to go to her, but couldn’t move. Wouldn’t move. Whatever she wanted him over there for couldn’t be good. He couldn’t help feeling like she was playing a trick, setting him up for something awful.

  Miles shook his head.

  Her sly demeanor turned to a scowling frown. She turned sideways and used that same wriggling finger to signal someone else. When Miles saw who she’d called, his boner deflated, pulling his penis so close to his body he thought it might be trying to burrow itself inside of him.

  A nine foot tall monster that was a medley of swirly colors joined her. Its teeth were two giant rows of dagger-like chompers. A pair of red eyes, the size of raisins, sunk back into its cone-shaped skull. Spikes jutted from its back like gleaming crystals, starting at the nape of its neck and trailing down to its lower back. Its fingers were long and thin, glowing talons on the tips. Whenever it moved, colors amended under the shell of its skin like a fiber-optic Christmas tree.

  The girl started talking as the rainbow giant lowered its head closer. She looked like a child next to it, but Miles figured the illusion was actually just a guy standing on stilts, his body hidden under convincing makeup and costuming.

  What if it’s not?

  Somehow, Miles knew it wasn’t trickery. What he was seeing was real.

  The girl pointed. The creature’s head slowly turned to where her finger was directed.

  And Miles realized the finger was indicating him.

  The creature stepped in his direction. Miles fell back as if he’d been kicked under the chin, screaming. The creature’s heavy feet sounded like punches as it neared. Miles looked around, saw no one who could help, nothing he could defend himself with. So he did the only thing he knew to do.

  He ran.

  Miles kicked his feet; they skidded across the gravel until finding purchase. Then he was moving, heading for the oak tree. If he could get behind it, he’d be far enough away from the lights, and maybe the creature couldn’t see him in the dark. He’d stay in the woods, running until he found the road again.

  He was almost at the oak’s leafless branches when he felt a giant hand cuff down on his shoulder. It gripped, lifted. Screaming, Miles looked down at his kicking feet leaving the ground. He whacked at the monstrous hand holding him. It felt wet and slimy and hard, like a cantaloupe coated in honey.

  “Please! Let me go! Please!”

  He felt hot, foul breath on his neck. It had the rotten egg odor of smoke bombs. Warm dots of spittle dripped on him, sliding down his shirt. The creature was about to take a bite. He could sense its giant mouth drawing nearer.

  Commotion distracted the creature. Its mouth pulled away. Turning, it held onto Miles, and he rotated with it. Together, they faced The Skin Show. People were running around up there. A few screams registered.

  Then the windows burst in fiery flashes. A wall exploded, throwing metal shards into the fleeing customers. Miles saw the brunt of the blast lift guys and throw them several yards. Flames reached through the busted windows, licking the panes.

  The creature roared in his ear, deafening him.

  Another explosion rocked the building, trembled the ground below them. Miles felt himself going backwards. He landed on top of the creature and rolled off. A sound of screeching metal and the building collapsed on top of itself, burying the remaining people scattering around it like ants.

  Miles got to his knees, ready to run, but the creature’s hand latched him by the ankle. Against the scratchy pain in his throat, Miles screamed again as he was hoisted into the air. Hanging by the one foot, his head glimpsed wet grass as he swung this way and that. He continued to rise until his face was nearly on the same level as the creature’s twisted scowl.

  “Put the boy down.”

  Miles stopped screaming. The creature stopped growling. As the creature turned to face the man who had spoken, Miles had no choice but to, again, turn with him. He could feel the blood rushing down into his head, making his skull feel twice as heavy.

  “Now,” the voice added.

  Miles was disappointed when he saw the man wasn’t Jerry. His regret quickly faded when he saw the man had a shotgun. Dressed in all black, even his hands sporting black leather gloves, the only part of his body that wasn’t dark was the face. He had a matching hat that looked like the kind sheriffs wore, and a heavy coat with the collars flipped up. The small section of face visible between the attire belonged to a white man with a face raked in scars. One eye bulging out from the lumpy scar tissue was solid white, round like a golf ball. There were hints of gray hair, lightly flapping in the breeze around the ears.

  The creature looked at Miles, then back to the man, as if trying to decide whether to do what the man had demanded, or just simply kill Miles.

  The ratchet-like clap of the shotgun being cocked made Miles flinch. “Last chance,” said the man.

  The pressure on Miles’s foot went away as the creature released him. He dropped. Quickly, Miles tucked his head, landing hard on his shoulder. Had he landed with all his weight on his head, he’d have broken his neck.

  Before he could look up, he heard the creature roar. An earsplitting burst of the shotgun brought Mile’s arms up and hugging his head. A moment of silence, then the creature landed on its back next to Miles. A huge crater was now where the top half of its oddly-shaped skull had been.

  Huffing for air, Miles looked up. A gloved hand was extended to him.

  “Are you all right?”

  The voice sounded muffled, like the man had asked him with his hand pressed over his mouth. Miles continued to stare at the mangled face, unable to speak.

  “Hey, snap out of it.”

  Miles blinked, shook his head.

  “There you are,” said the man. “Are you all right?”

  “I-I-I…I think so.”

  “Can you walk?”

  Miles nodded, his arms still hugging the top of his head like a helmet.

  “Good. Take my hand.”

  Miles reached up, grabbing the leather-bound hand. It was cool and slick in his grip. The man helped Miles to his feet. He brushed off Miles’s back.

  “What…happened…?” asked Miles, looking around through eyes that had trouble focusing.

  “I blasted the place. We’ve got to get moving. I didn’t get them all. They’ll be coming for us.”

  “Wha…?”

  “Let’s go.”

  The old man moved at a rapid pace that was surprising to Miles. He kept up, but barely. Any moment, Miles expected another one of those creatures to pop up, but none did.

  As they hurried up the dirt road, stopping at an old black muscle car, a tumult of inhuman shrieks lit up the night.

  “Shit,” snapped the man.

  He unlocked the passenger door, then opened it. “Get in, quick. They’re coming!”

  Miles jumped into the car, reached across the seat, and unlocked the other door. It yanked open before Miles had even pulled his hand back.

  “Hold this!” shouted the man, passing him the shotgun.

  The weapon was a like a heavy metal branch in his lap. It was slightly warm from recent use.

  “Buckle up!”

  Miles did. The man crammed the key into the ignition and twisted it. For a moment, Miles was convinced the car wouldn’t start. It’d be like in the movies Miles stayed up late to watch. Just as you thought the good guys were going to get away, a failing car kept them in harm’s way.

  The roar of the engine silenced Miles’s fear. They sped away, leaving The Skin Show burning and collapsing in the distance with those awful wails reverberating through the night.

  Chapter One

  Andy Raab had just squirted strawberry syrup into a glass of milk and was about to stir it with a spoon when he heard fa
int scuffling at his back door. Being a small house, his compact kitchen was located next to the living room, within earshot of both the front and back doors.

  He wondered if a raccoon had wandered up on the back deck. He’d sat two trash bags outside the door, promising himself he’d carry them to the can in the morning. Wouldn’t be the first time raccoons had gotten into the trash.

  Someone knocked, loud enough to be heard, yet politely discreet.

  Who the hell?

  Checking the clock on the microwave, he saw it was almost one in the morning. There was never a good reason for a late night visit, unless it was a booty call and, sadly, Andy hadn’t had one of those in almost a year. Sure, he’d gotten laid plenty of times, but being thirty-five, he thought himself too old for a late night quickie.

  But, if I open the door to one of my oldies wanting some fun…

  Hell yes, he’d go for it.

  Andy headed for the back door: a double glass set with multiple panes. Usually doors like this opened onto nice patios. But, his only opened to a roofed deck with loose boards that needed replacing.

  The switch for the outside light was beside the door. He flicked it on. He could see the small shape of a woman through the blinds hanging over the glass. Something was familiar in its stance: shoulders slightly slumped, head low as if suggesting lack of confidence.

  He twisted the deadbolt back, then the lock on the knob, and opened the door. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in with the humid June breeze.

  Nicole.

  “Did I wake you up?” she asked.

  Nicole stood outside, wearing a pair of plaid lounging shorts and a black tank top that was a little loose. The seam hung low, showing the slants of her breasts and the tight valley between them. No bra. Her hair was a little mussed, hanging over her shoulders. The tips looked tousled together, as if she’d been sleeping, climbed out of bed, and came right over.