Miles left the trunk open as he walked back to the driver’s door. Sharp things poked his feet. He opened the door. Vern was slumped against the seatbelt. His head hung low, the strap tight against his throat. The jagged cavity in the top corner of his skull was pulpy with gore and oozing a substance that looked like wet dog food. More disgusting matter had spattered the roof and dashboard. Grimacing, Miles reached across Vern. He fumbled for the seatbelt clasp. His finger found the switch, so he pushed it down. The seatbelt snapped back, releasing Vern’s body. His forehead smacked against the horn, honking it once, spilling more chunks from the bullet’s exit hole. Then his body fell sideways, landing halfway out of the car.
Miles gripped him under the arms. Keeping his eyes aimed at the road behind him, he pulled. Vern was heavy, very heavy. He could hardly move him. He felt the sticky lick of Vern’s wounded head on his stomach. After a couple minutes of strenuous tugging, Miles had only gotten Vern to move an inch, if that.
Standing over Vern, hands on his hips and panting, he felt sweat running down his body. His hair was drenched. This wasn’t going to work. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t strong enough. Not this way. He had another idea, though. He ran around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. On his rump, he put both feet against Vern’s ass.
And, shoved.
Teeth grinding, jaw clenched, he shoved.
Vern started to slide. Growling, Miles shoved harder. Finally, Vern dropped out of the car. There was a juicy thud when his head landed on the road. Miles grimaced.
The job wasn’t completely over. His legs were still inside, feet against the pedals. After catching his breath, Miles got on his knees. He reached across the seat and lifted one of Vern’s legs. He pushed it out of the car. Then he did the other. Vern lay on the road between the car and door. Miles wouldn’t be able to shut it with him there, so he’d wait until the car was far away from Vern before closing it. He didn’t want to see the visual to the awful crunching sound of Vern’s head on the asphalt.
Miles dropped down in the seat, winded. His mouth was so dry and his lips felt rubbery and numb. He didn’t think he’d ever sweat so much. He wanted water, but knew there wasn’t any around, and that seemed to make his body ache. Refreshment would have to wait. He made himself get moving.
Back at the trunk, he checked his body for blood. There was a ruddy path going down the middle of his shirt and the crotch of his pants. Even his thighs had patterns of red sprinklings.
Digging through the bag, Miles found a pair of pants, some holey socks, but no shirts that would fit him. He settled for one of Hoffman’s black T-shirts. He quickly changed his pants. The pair he had on, he tossed inside the trunk. Sitting on the edge of the trunk, he pulled the socks on, then squeezed his feet into the Chuck Taylors. They felt a little tight, but would work just fine. He’d grown quite a bit the past year, though he hadn’t noticed until now. Standing up, he pulled Hoffman’s T-shirt over his head, sticking his arms through the holes. It hung on him, loose and baggy, but not as much as he’d thought it might. The shirt felt only a size or two too big. Maybe another year from now he could borrow Hoffman’s clothes.
If he’s not already dead.
The thought stopped Miles. Made his legs stilted and heavy. So far, he’d done a good job of not allowing thoughts like that to fester. That one had slipped out. Hopefully it would be the last.
No, he’s not dead. He’s alive. They wouldn’t kill him. Not right away.
But, they were probably torturing him.
Miles smacked the side of his head, hoping to knock such unneeded thoughts away.
Now that he was dressed, he dumped out the duffel bag. He put the guns back in, then took the other stashed weapons—the machete, two more pistols, some grenades—and put them inside as well. He gathered all the additional ammunition that he could find, adding it with the rest.
With the bag’s strap on his shoulder, the bag hanging by his knee, he slammed the trunk. Then he walked around the passenger side of the car, and got in. Leaving the bag in the floorboard, he climbed across the seat, and sat down behind the wheel.
Then he saw he’d forgotten to close the passenger door behind him.
“Shit!”
He lay on his side, stretching for the handle. His fingers grazed the rubber padding a couple times before catching hold. He pulled it hard and the door banged shut. The muscles around his ribs started to sting and throb with dull aches. Hopefully he hadn’t pulled something by doing that.
Leaning up, Miles grabbed the steering wheel and reached for the pedals with his feet. They didn’t come close to touching. Reaching between his legs, he found the lever for the seat adjustment. He pulled it up. The seat flew back, jolting him when it caught. He tried again, this time planting his feet and pushing forward. He got the seat where he needed it so he could reach the steering wheel and floor pedals.
Though he’d never driven the car before, he could probably do it. He’d studied Hoffman’s actions while he drove. The engine had manual transmission, and Miles knew you had to push down on the clutch to change gears. Mimic an H, he’d remembered Hoffman saying once in regards to the gearshift.
Reading the white lettering on top of the knob, he saw how the numbers were in order like an H, starting with the 1 in the upper left position.
“Okay,” he muttered. “I can do this.” He held his breath as he put his foot on the clutch and pushed it to the floorboard. It was hard keeping the pedal pinned down. It wanted to spring back up. His leg began to tremble from the pressure it took to keep it there.
He pulled the gear down, then up and to the left. When it could no longer go any higher, he assumed that was first gear.
Miles’s lungs felt like they were on fire from holding his breath. He knew he couldn’t release it until he heard the engine. Turning the key, the familiar roar of Hoffman’s car was like a welcomed embrace. Air blasted out of Miles in a relieved gust.
“Okay. Now, gently release the clutch…”
He tried easing the pedal up, but the force threw his foot off. The car bounced a couple times and shut off.
“Damn!”
Miles slammed a fist down on the seat. He repeated the process to the same outcome. Cussing again, he pounded the seat harder.
Three tries later, he managed to hold the clutch in place while he gave it a little gas. The car lurched forward. Miles quickly gave it some more gas, moved a little farther, and stamped the brake in a wild flash of panic.
Sitting motionless, he realized there had been no reason to stop the car.
“Dammit, Miles, stop it!” he shouted at himself.
The door swayed back and inward, sliding over Vern and blocking Miles’s view of him. Holding the door with one hand, he steered the wheel to the right with the other. Somehow, he successfully managed to get the car on the road. Far enough from Vern, he slammed the door. Then he gave it some more gas.
He was moving.
Miles howled a triumphant wail. Then he noticed the engine sounded as if it was holding a grumbling note and his cheer dithered. The motor sounded as if it might explode from the awful hum. It took him a second to realize the gear needed to be shifted. So, he took his foot off the gas, heard the engine noise drop, pushed down the clutch, and tugged the gear down to 2. He put his foot back on the gas and let up the clutch. The car knocked a couple times before smoothing out.
When Miles saw his speed rise on the speedometer, he howled again.
The sun would be setting before long. Much of the day was already away from him. He wanted to get to The Skin Show before sundown. Hopefully he could make it.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Miles handled long stretches of road better than the curves. Whenever he had to drop down to a lower gear, the car made awful grinding noises, and the gearshift resisted him. He hated to think what he was doing to the transmission.
But, even with the abuse, the Chevelle got him where he needed to go. He saw
the bend in the road up ahead, and the dirt road to the right that would take him to The Skin Show. The ivy-infested wildlife sign was barely visible in the dwindling light of dusk. The sky looked as if it was burning under the lava-streaked clouds. A full moon glowed to the left, a pale circle in a sky of fire. There were little winks of stars spaced around the moon like tiny holes in a screen. Soon they would be all across the sky, washing the ground in an ashen glow.
The gears groaned as Miles jiggled the shift into second gear. Easing the car off the main road, there was a soft bump as the tires touched down on the bumpy gravel of the dirt road.
Miles needed the headlights with the trees shielding him from what remained of daylight. But, he wasn’t going to cut them on. Somebody would surely see the bright bulbs traveling through the woods like a pair of specter eyes.
He moved slowly, keeping the car steady in second gear. He was confident he could remember where they’d hidden the car during their other surveillances.
“Probably right up here,” he muttered. The quiet volume of his voice sounded like a shout in the stillness of the car.
Actually, everything about his movements seemed overly loud: the crackle of rocks under the tires, the soft rumble of the engine.
He knew why his sounds seemed intensified.
There was nothing to buffer them. Being a densely wooded area, there were no sounds of nature. The insects, wildlife, rodents and reptiles, had all either moved on or died off. Hoffman had told Miles before that this was a nymph calling card. Their evil poisoned anything it touched.
“Please be all right, Hoffman…”
Miles saw the small gap in the trees to his right. He almost drove right past it. Braking, he kept the clutch pinned down as he gingerly shifted down. Then he eased the car off the road. Remembering how he’d almost been run over last year, he made sure the car was well off the road. Cars would be going up and down this road for the next couple hours, until The Skin Show reached its limit for the night.
He shut the car off. Finding the treadle for the parking brake with the toe of his shoe, he pushed it down to engage it. He removed the keys, grabbed the duffel bag from the floor, and climbed out of the car. Outside, the air was still thick and heavy with the day’s heat. It smothered him. Though he hadn’t thought he had any sweat left in him, he felt more starting to immediately bead across his brow. He dropped the keys in his pants pocket, and carefully shut the door. When he heard the soft click, he stopped. He fingered a gap between the door and frame. He hadn’t gotten the door all the way shut, but he decided to leave it as it was.
He looked up at the dark sky. Stars were scattered like twinkling confetti across the black tarp of the sky. Anytime now, the show would begin.
Miles patted his pocket to be sure he’d put the keys there. He felt their bumpy shape through the pocket. Heard their soft jingle. He couldn’t lose these since he’d already forgotten where he’d left the spare.
Probably sticking out of the trunk’s lock.
He quickly walked back there, and poked at the lock. Instead of the small slit of the keyhole, he felt something hard and jutting. Shaking his head, he pulled the key out of the trunk.
Almost screwed up there, big time.
He could just imagine Hoffman’s reaction when they got back to the car only to find it had been stolen because he’d left the key stabbed into the lock.
“Smooth move,” he whispered.
He slipped the extra key into his back pocket. With the bag’s heavy pull on his shoulder, he started walking up the center of the road. His shoes made soft squelching sounds, like treading through a thin blanket of snow. The lack of background noise was unsettling. Something about the silence, and how claustrophobic the tightly pressed trees made him feel, tried to kick Miles off balance. It felt like he had water in his ears. Every step he took seemed amplified and explosive. Any moment he expected to be caught trying to sneak his way closer.
Then the sudden blast of heavy metal music in the distance caused him to holler. Crouching, he put his forearm against his mouth. Damn his jumpiness. Hopefully nobody was close enough to hear him shout.
Then he heard other shouts and hoots. People cheering.
As the song ripped into high speed, Miles stood up. He walked to the edge of the clearing. A lot full of cars was before him, beyond that was The Skin Show, and even further were countless acres of woodland. The building was lit up in a variety of neon colors. He saw the buzzing sign: The in yellow, Skin in pink, and Show in green.
Stop wasting time. You’ll stand here all night if you don’t hurry up!
Miles ran, bending at the waist. He ducked in the center of a cluster of cars that looked as if they’d been there for a very long time. He sat the bag down, and crawled forward. Looking through a gap between cars, he saw there was already a decent-sized crowd gathered out front. The greeter was out there, patrolling all the idiots wanting to get inside.
I want to get inside.
He did, but for reasons not like theirs.
But, he couldn’t just walk right up to the door. There would be imps lurking, probably some other nymphs like the greeter. He’d be nabbed before his hand touched the door knob. What good would that do if he was captured trying to be the big hero?
He realized how much tonight was like last year. Only this time he wasn’t here to confront his father. This was for Hoffman and Karen. Hoffman had helped him a lot this last year, had taken him in. Miles was going to return the favor.
He would not let Hoffman down.
Miles decided against sneaking through the woods and circling around the backside of the club. No matter how softly he moved, he was bound to make a lot of racket crunching through timbers. Even with the loud music, someone would eventually hear him.
The only other option was crossing the parking lot.
Out in the open, even if he was obscured by the cars.
What choice did he really have? At least this way he wouldn’t have to worry about stepping on branches and brittle leaves that would shout his location to anyone within earshot. Thinking about it, he realized he had no other options. It was crossing the parking lot or nothing.
So, that was what he did. Moving stiffly and tensed, he made his way across the parking lot. Zigzagging around cars, the grass whispering under his shoes. He kept the bag snug against his thigh to stop the guns from clinking and rattling.
A line of cars was to the right, diagonal from the building. He rushed for those. His shoulders were hiked up to his jaw, and he held his breath to keep from panting. He reached the cars and ducked down, not releasing the bag. Letting the air out through his nose, he strained to keep his breaths short and quiet. It made him a little dizzy and caused a pinch in his chest, but he got his breathing under control.
He spotted a beam of lights raking across the cars, peering brightness through the dust-caked windows. More people were arriving. The rumble of engines revved and then died. Car doors bumped.
He couldn’t stay in one place for too long, but this row of cars offered great cover. But, it also blocked his view of The Skin Show. That was okay for now, because he planned to sneak down the line and hang a left. That should bring him out to the edge of the club, right by the entrance, although he had no idea what to do at that point.
He started moving again, about to head around the side of a Mustang when his eyes were met by the backside of an imp. Miles opened his mouth to scream, but held it in. He quickly ducked back behind the car’s rear-end.
Damn! I didn’t see it! I didn’t see it!
But, it hadn’t seen him, either.
Unless, it was leading him into a trap by pretending it hadn’t noticed him.
No, he was certain it didn’t know he was here. The imp would already have him if it had seen him.
That meant Miles still had surprise on his side.
But, he wouldn’t be able to get around the creature, not without being heard or spotted. Even going back the way he’d come was too much
of a risk. Miles would have to kill it here.
Great…
Miles sank to a crouch. He set the bag on the ground in front of him without making a sound. How was he going to do this? Kill this thing in total silence? There might be more out of sight. If he managed to take this one out, he could be attacked from all directions.
And, again, what choice did he have?
The machete.
Miles nearly gasped, remembering he’d packed the machete. It was in the bag, probably tilted on top of the guns, in its sheath.
He listened for any sounds. Heard nothing but the low gargles of the creature’s soft breathing. Pinching the zipper’s tab, he slowly dragged it down. It made soft clacking sounds as it moved along the teeth. After he had a large enough opening to reach his hands through, he stopped. Listened. All seemed okay. No imps pouncing him yet.
Both hands in the bag, he felt the soft nylon casing. He ran his finger up the length of the blade, clamped the plastic protector on the tip, and carefully raised the machete. As he did, he kept a grip on the tip, simultaneously removing the machete from its sheath and the bag.
The silver blade glinted in the phosphorescent light.
It was a heavy weapon that felt even heavier now. He needed both hands to hold it. Standing up, his legs felt strained and jittery from crouching for so long. They itched and tingled as blood flowed easily through them once again.
Leaving the bag on the ground, he slipped back to the edge of the car. The creature, just on the other side, was close enough to tap on the back. He needed to dispatch it in one whack. There wouldn’t be a second chance to do it quietly.
This moment was like every action movie he’d ever seen where the hero was quietly infiltrating the enemy’s hideout, taking out henchmen one by one. Miles felt a smile trying to form on his face.
Be the hero…
“Psst…” whispered Miles.
The imp whirled around. Its minuscule eyes gleamed red when it spotted Miles, mouth stretching open as it started to bend over.
The Skin Show Page 23