The Skin Show

by Kristopher Rufty

  She looked at the creature. Saw it stumbling backward, its back striking the wall. Then the creature slid down, leaving smeary black trails on the wallpaper. Legs stretched out, its feet bowed limply to each side.

  The swarming colors fluttered a few times before fading out entirely, leaving behind a hollow shell of gray. The skin began to crack. Starting like a small hairline rend, it quickly spider-webbed across its body.

  Then shattered.

  “Get to the car!” shouted Hoffman, trying to get up. His voice was muffled through her hands over her ears and the constant buzzing inside them.

  Surprisingly, Karen found herself at the door in a flash. She looked to her left, to the rooms. Another creature was outside Hoffman’s door, and Alexia was walking away from it, heading toward Karen, her hair flowing out to the side from a heavy breeze.

  She stood in Karen’s way of the car.

  Tempted to run for the road, Karen knew she wouldn’t get very far.

  She screamed. There was nowhere she could go.

  Then she felt hands grab her, spinning her around. Alexia’s face was within an inch of hers. Alexia kissed her on the mouth, squishing Karen’s lips as she rolled her head side to side. Karen bucked and writhed to break the tight grip holding her. She couldn’t. Although the hands only held her shoulders, she couldn’t get free. Then she was twirled around, Alexia’s arms wrapping around her body in an inverted hug, strong and tight, making it hard to breathe.

  “Get the old man!” ordered Alexia.

  The imp was already on its way into the room with the soda machine.

  Karen started traveling in reverse. The parking lot snatched the slippers off her feet. Her bare heels scraped the asphalt as she was tugged backward. The chomp of metal came from her left. Aiming her eyes in that direction, she saw Vern bashing Hoffman’s car with a giant crowbar. The weapon looked to be half the length of him. His flabby face was pink and sweaty as he brought the crowbar high above his head with both hands. He slammed it down on the hood, caving in the black metal.

  This was the first time Karen had seen it in the daylight. An older model muscle car. She wasn’t sure what kind, but it was the kind of car she imagined any guy would like.

  Vern smashed it again, caving the hood in even more .

  Alexia shrieked, “Stop fucking with that damn car and find the boy!”

  Huffing, Vern held the crowbar at his pudgy waist, the curved end sticking straight up. He shook his head. “He won’t get far!” He hurried around the front of Hoffman’s car, his black tie flapping back like a drooling tongue. He revved the crowbar back and jabbed the pointed tip into the tire’s sidewall. The crowbar recoiled back, throwing the overweight Drew Carey lookalike onto his ass.

  The tire remained fine.

  Karen laughed overly loud, making sure Alexia heard it.

  “You dumbass!” shouted Alexia. “If you wreck the car, how do you plan on moving it?!”

  Vern grimaced. Obviously he had no clue what the hell he was doing.

  Alexia’s hands moved down to Karen’s waist and heaved her sideways. Karen’s hip hit something firm. The impact threw her legs out from under her, and she fell hard onto her side. She felt dingy carpet on her face. More hands groped her, yanking her back.

  Darkness above her. She fought to roll over, managing to get on her side. She saw an opening of bright light in front of her and realized it was an open sliding door.

  She was in a van. From the boxy look of it, she guessed it was an old work van.

  Alexia hoisted herself up into the van and plopped down next to Karen. Leaning over Karen’s shoulders, she dug her elbows into Karen’s upper back. The pointed jags, tilling deeply, hurt.

  Hoffman crashed through the window beside the office, and fell out of sight, the car blocking Karen’s view. A moment later, the imp stalked out from the room. Walking hunched over, its elongated arms draping by its knees.

  Hoffman had been thrown through the glass. She hoped the collision hadn’t killed him.

  Why isn’t anyone coming to help us?

  Looking around, seeing the hotel was nothing but a speck of buildings on an empty road, she realized no one was near enough to help.

  By the time the creature scooped up Hoffman and hung him over its shoulder, Vern had gotten to his knees. Wincing, he held an arm close to his stomach. “You’re going to pay for that window! I’m not covering it for your idiotic monster’s carelessness!”

  “You’ll be well compensated for you obedience, don’t you worry. Just make sure you bring that car and put it with the others.”

  “Have I ever let you down before?”

  Alexia shook her head. “Never!”

  Vern’s already flustered face turned a darker shade of red.

  “But don’t you dare show your face at The Skin Show unless you have the boy with you.”

  “But…what if I can’t find him?”

  “You’ll have to answer to Victoria for that.”

  The red drained from Vern’s cheeks. Even from this distance, Karen could see him gulp.

  The creature lugged Hoffman’s limp body to the van and tossed him inside without any effort. He landed on the other side of Karen. The imp climbed into the van, and Alexia tugged the door closed.

  Alexia leaned over Karen, blocking her point of view. “I believe you know my friend here.” She patted the imp on the back. “I believe at one time, you called him Danny.”

  “Wha…?” She looked at the monstrous face, the foaming jaws and pointy teeth. That was Danny?

  It ran its serpentine tongue across its lips.

  And, Karen screamed.

  Laughing, Alexia moved to the front, sitting in the passenger seat.

  The van’s tires squealed as they fought for purchase on the asphalt. Catching, the van shot off. The Danny-imp crouched in the back with Karen, glowing like a colorful statue. He was steeled in that position, as if a switch had been turned to off. On her elbows, Karen crawled over to where Hoffman lay on his back. She put her hands on his chest, dropping her ear down on his right pectoral. She felt the steady thump of his heart through his shirt. A gush of relief flowed through her.

  Karen knew her high spirits would only last until they arrived at The Skin Show. She prayed he would have a plan because she was starting to slip away, wild panic seizing her like a shark’s mouth and trudging her down to the oily-black depths of her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Vern slammed the trunk lid, shrouding Miles in darkness. But, he wasn’t scared. He was happy to be in here because he knew where everything was located. The hidden guns, the knife, the secret compartment where Hoffman kept additional ammo—even the machete unseen underneath the spare tire under the carpet flap he was lying on.

  Miles had a small, secretive arsenal within reach.

  He heard the engine rumble as it came alive. His body shifted to one side when the car backed out of the parking space. It braked, filling the cramped space with a malicious red tint from the light shields, rocking Miles, nearly making him roll over. He landed on his stomach once the car sped forward.

  The wheels made whirring noises on the blacktop.

  Vern, the pink-faced hotel manager, had only bound Miles’s hands, leaving his feet free. And, he’d used bungee cable to do the job. Easy for Miles to get out of.

  During the commotion, Miles had climbed out of the bathroom window and hidden in the bushes, not even taking the time to put on his shoes. He’d wanted to help when he saw Karen being dragged into the van, but remembered Hoffman demanding he not interfere if anything went wrong. And plenty had gone wrong. But, still he’d hesitated. Evaluating their situation, he’d figured it would be smarter to back up Hoffman first. Together, they would have a better chance of rescuing Karen.

  When he saw Hoffman being carried into the van, his stomach dropped. He’d looked dead, dangling limply over the creature’s shoulder, arms bouncing with each heavy step the beast took. It was like a scene out of every
monster movie Miles had ever seen.

  My monster movie.

  His real-life monster movie.

  He’d heard Vern’s orders. He was supposed to bring Miles back to The Skin Show. Miles’s original plan had been to run. He had no idea where he’d go, but as long as it was away from the motel, he was happy with it.

  Thinking about Hoffman being taken, most likely to be tortured, Miles couldn’t leave. And, his second plan had come to him quickly.

  Let Vern catch him. That eliminated a lot of his problems. He needed a weapon and the ones that weren’t in the bag in the motel room were hidden throughout the car. He’d simply allowed himself to be captured since Vern was supposed to bring Hoffman’s car with Miles back to the club. Later, he could take Vern by surprise and leave him somewhere. Then he would go and help Hoffman.

  After Vern had turned the vacancy sign to show No Vacancy, he’d escorted Miles to Hoffman’s Chevelle. Miles had noticed the damage on the hood and had wondered how it happened.

  He’d figured Vern would make him ride up front so he could keep his eyes on him. Thankfully, Vern was as stupid as Miles had figured him to be, and put him in the trunk instead.

  Now he needed to get out of these restraints.

  Lying on his side, Miles squirmed, bringing his bunched hands under his butt. He continued wiggling until they moved beyond his back pockets and reached the backs of his thighs. He took a short break to catch his breath, then slid the tops of his legs into the bend of his legs. What was making it such hard work was the lack of room he had to move. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He blinked his eyes to free them of the burning salty drips.

  The hardest part came next: bringing his hands under his feet and over so they were in front of him. It took some time, but he managed to do it. The cord snagged on the tips of his shoes. Jiggling his feet got it loose.

  Raising his tied hands to his mouth, he bit down on the bungee underneath the spiral grip of the hook. It reminded him of chewing on his rubber snake toy when he was a kid. He could hear Mom yelling at him to stop or he might choke while he leaned his head back, tugging the hook with him. The hook raised up, pulling away from the coiled cord. He opened his mouth. The released end shot back, twirled around his wrists, and lashed his face, leaving a kiss of fire on his chin. The pain made him dizzy, and very mad.

  Cussing, he shoved his nose into the bundled cord, pushing the curved tip around his wrists until he felt some slack. He moved his hands back and forth, freeing them.

  He took turns rubbing the tight stings out of his wrists. Knowing he couldn’t spend time making them feel better, he let them throb. The nearest compartment was under the flap behind the backseat. Hoffman had said he’d added it himself by cutting a hole into the carpet with a box cutter and inserting a casing into the opening.

  A pistol should be in there.

  Miles folded his body into a ball, squirming his way around until the top of his head pointed at the backseat. Then he rolled onto his stomach. Elbows out on each side of him, he reached up and pushed the flap, pinning it under his right arm. The silver of the gun’s steal, buried in shadow, seemed to glow. Seeing its twinkle brought tears to his eyes. What he saw in the brick-sized chasm was encouragement and a much-needed boost of bravery.

  When the gun was in his hand, he felt unstoppable. It was strange, and a little daunting, how much having a gun changed his attitude.

  Miles got on his left side. Using his left hand, he gently pushed against the backseat. Being a bench seat on the other side, the back padding was a solid stall across the back of the car. He felt the back rest move inward a little. Pausing, he waited to make sure Vern hadn’t noticed. If he had, he wasn’t letting on.

  Miles took a deep breath, then pushed a little further. Light dropped in, hitting Miles’s eyes. He quickly looked away, squinting. Little splotches danced in front of him in a variety of bright colors against the dark of the trunk.

  He turned his attention back to the matter in front of him. His skin felt crawly and though he was drenched in sweat from the struggle to free himself, he was shivering. The sweat sliding down his sides felt like the arctic tips of ice cubes. Heart drumming, his stomach felt each beat like a punch.

  You need to do this. Push the stupid seat down and crawl through. Hurry!

  After a short pause, he pushed, widening the space above him, bringing in more light. The noises of the car became much louder as they were sucked through. He hoped there wasn’t a noticeable shift in pressure inside the car. And, he didn’t know why he was even worried about that. Would there be any kind of change? He had no idea, and that worried him. What if there was suddenly a subtle whistle from behind Vern that brought his eyes to the rearview mirror? Surely he’d see the half-opened seat and know Miles was the reason behind it.

  And that’s why you need to move your ass!

  That barking order had come from the voice of his father. Sounded like every Saturday morning during his summer break when it was time to mow the yard.

  Miles pushed the seatback down with extreme care, holding his breath. There were soft squeaks of the hinges as it lowered, but he doubted Vern could hear it from the front. Hopefully he couldn’t see it.

  The back of the seat touched down on the bench. Miles lay part way out of the trunk, arms in front of him, gun in his right hand. He blinked more sweat out of his eyes, gazed to the driver’s seat, and wanted to sigh with relief.

  In the rearview mirror Miles could see Vern’s eyes. And, they were trained on the road, not leering into the backseat.

  The cool air of the A/C blowing from the vents licked his sweaty skin with chilly refreshment. He noticed goosebumps breaking out across his arms. The soothing temperature made him want to lay there for a while longer. He knew he couldn’t, so he slithered forward.

  Reaching the end of the seat, he dangled his left arm over the edge. Placed his hand flat on the floor. Felt small slivers of debris jabbing his palm: tiny pebbles, some dirt, and flakes of broken leaves. He took the pressure off his hand as he cautiously scooted crossways on the seatback, bringing his legs out and around. The back area of the cab was spacious, so Miles had some room to operate without worry of bumping Vern’s seat.

  As long as he could do this quickly, without making any noise, he should be set.

  The tires dropped into a pothole, bouncing the car. The seatback sprung upward like a diving board, launching Miles into the air.

  Everything happened in seconds, but to Miles time seemed to stand still: Glancing at the rearview mirror and seeing Vern’s bloodshot eyes sneering back at him, the seatback snatching back like a triggered mousetrap, landing on the backseat, hand flinching, finger squeezing the trigger unexpectedly, the recoil when the gun went off, the wet burst of brown goo and blood and skull fragments spattering the ceiling from the bullet traveling at an angle through the head restraint and through the back of Vern’s skull and out the top. And the fresh hole that appeared in the ceiling as the bullet made its exit from the car.

  Then the car was spinning, tires squalling, pinning Miles to the floorboard. He felt the back tires lose traction a moment before the rampant spiral came to an immediate jarring halt.

  Then Miles felt his back depart the floorboard.

  The rear windshield came to meet him very fast.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Luckily, the tires didn’t appear to be in the ditch. And, none of them had popped, either. As long as the engine still worked, the car should be able to go.

  Miles scanned the road ahead. No cars in sight. Behind him was empty as well. Spinning around, Miles started to lose his balance. His vision swam in a blur as if he was gazing at Hoffman’s Chevelle from underwater. A dull throb in his skull nearly made him sit down on the gravel on the road’s shoulder. He waited for everything to clear, then hurried back to the car.

  He squatted down and felt behind the left rear tire’s wheel well. It didn’t take him long to find the hidden tool box. Pulling it down, he set it o
n the ground and opened the lid. There was a small socket set inside, and some various tools that Miles had no need for right now. What he wanted was inside the small manila envelope taped to the lid. He yanked it off. The tape dangled from each side like clear wings. He put the tip of the envelope between his teeth and jerked the envelope away. A line of paper stayed in his mouth. He spit out the top of the envelope and upturned the contents into his opened hand.

  The spare key operated the doors, ignition, and trunk. And, the trunk was what he wanted to open. He could have gone in through the backseat again, but that would take too much time. Plus knowing Vern’s body was still inside made him weary to get close to it. Not yet. Not until he had to.

  Walking around to the back, his bare feet stepped on sharp objects. Although they stung, he didn’t stop to examine the damage. He arrived at the trunk and slid the key into the lock. Twisting, the lid popped open. He raised it up. Sunlight poured into the compartment. He saw Hoffman’s other leather satchel right away. He hadn’t felt the spare bag when he’d been inside, but he hadn’t been looking for it, either.

  He reached into the netted pocket on the side, felt around the bottles of oil and various engine fluids until his fingers brushed something cool. Knowing it was what he wanted, he took the flashlight out of the pocket. He clicked it on. A nickel-sized disc of light raked across the carpet. It was dim and faded from the brightness of the sun. Satisfied, he sat it down, and pulled the heavy duffel bag closer to the lip of the trunk.

  Inside he found a blanket, more guns, and clothes for both Hoffman and Miles. Just as he’d assumed, his old shoes were at the bottom. Hoffman had promised he wouldn’t throw them away unless Miles wanted him to. It was the last thing his mom had bought for him, a black pair of Converse All-Stars. To Miles, these shoes were everything. Other than the picture he’d held onto, it was all that physically linked him to his parents.