Highways to Hell

by Bryan Smith

  DEADITE PRESS

  205 NE BRYANT

  PORTLAND, OR 97211

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  ISBN: 1-936383-68-3

  All stories © 2011 by Bryan Smith

  Cover art copyright © 2011 Suzzan Blac

  www.SUZZANB.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  CONTENTS

  About the Stories

  Living Dead Bitch

  Slugger

  Pizza Face

  Remorse

  Jarhead

  Sustenance

  Killers on the Road

  Brain Worms Crave Soul Food

  Rattlehead

  Truth

  Left for Dead

  Walk Among Us

  Hell Ain’t a Bad Place to Be

  What you have in your hands here is the first comprehensive collection of my short fiction. It may very well be the last such collection, or at least the last for a very long time. This is because I have only intermittently written short fiction in the years since I started writing professionally. When I was writing my novels for Dorchester Publishing (Boo! Hiss! Boycott!), I was also working a full-time job and it was all I could do to carve out enough free time to write those things. The few times I wrote short stories during those years was because someone willing to pay me to do so asked. Examples would include the stories that bookend this collection, “Living Dead Bitch” and “Hell Ain’t A Bad Place To Be.”

  In the case of the former, my friend Kent Gowran had a short-lived website devoted to publishing fiction inspired by Troma films and other trash cinema favorites. He was willing to pay the going professional rate, so I was happy to come up with something for him. As a bonus, “Living Dead Bitch” was a genuinely fun story to write, so much so that it could have been much longer. That’s a potential complication I run into with virtually every short piece I attempt these days. They all want to be bigger and longer as I get into writing them, to become novellas or full-fledged novels. I guess it’s fair to say that over time the novel has become the form with which I am most comfortable. In some cases, I just say ‘fuck it’ and let it happen, as happened with a zombie story I started recently with the intent of including it as an original fiction piece in this collection. It’s on its way to being a novel now and that feels right for that particular piece. With “Living Dead Bitch”, I forced myself to rein in that tendency and finish it as a short story (though I reserve the right to revisit the material one day and turn it into something bigger).

  As for “Hell Ain’t A Bad Place To Be”, that story was written at the request of the artist known as GAK for inclusion in the Infernally Yours Edward Lee tribute anthology. At more than 8,000 words, it’s a longish story, maybe a couple thousand words shy of novelette length. I’ve been a devoted Edward Lee fan since his novel Coven was released in mass market paperback by Diamond in 1991, and so it was an honor to be invited to participate in the tribute project. I enjoyed getting to play around a bit in Edward Lee’s world and I think the story reflects my enthusiasm for the project. Of course, the title is lifted from the AC/DC song of the same name. As a teenager, AC/DC was my favorite band. They were loud, snotty, obnoxious, and drunk…everything you want in a rock and roll band (or at least that was the case in the days before rock and roll got all pussified and politically correct on us). The title of this collection obviously is also derived from one of their songs. Now they’re a bunch of fabulously rich old men who record and tour now and then when they feel like it, rather than sneering punks, but I still love them. So it was fun to insert original AC/DC singer Bon Scott in the story as a singer with a regular nightclub gig in hell.

  Another story in the collection, “Pizza Face”, is notable for being my first professional-level sale. In January 2003, it was accepted for inclusion in the perennially forthcoming Richard Laymon tribute anthology In Laymon’s Terms. Amazingly, as of this writing, it’s looking as if In Laymon’s Terms is finally about to be published. Advance reader copies are circulating and contributors are being asked to supply updated mailing information. Nonetheless, the story’s appearance in this collection will likely still beat In Laymon’s Terms to the marketplace. I have mixed feelings about that. It belongs in this collection, no doubt. But the belated publication of the piece will be bittersweet. When the story was accepted in early ‘03, my father was still alive. By the time In Laymon’s Terms is released (summer of 2011, most likely), he’ll be eight years gone from this world.

  “Pizza Face” was specifically written as a Richard Laymon-style story for obvious reasons. It features some of the late writer’s best known trademarks, such as bloody violence, fascination with certain aspects of the female anatomy, and outlandish situations. I’ve been a Laymon fan since 1982, when I read his novel The Woods Are Dark. If you’ve read virtually any of my books, his lingering influence on my work should be clear.

  Although “Pizza Face” technically counts as my first professional sale, due to the fact that Cemetery Dance will actually publish the thing soon, that distinction nearly went to another story in this collection. “Slugger” has never appeared anywhere in any form, either in print or online. However, in 1990 it was accepted by New Blood Magazine editor Chris Lacher at the then professional rate of three cents a word. For those too young to remember, Lacher had cultivated quite the bad boy reputation in the small press horror world. In a way, he was kind of the Brian Keene of his time. He didn’t mince words and was known to offend people from time to time. Back then I was convinced he would be one of the genre’s next “rock stars”, in the vein of John Skipp or Craig Spector. So I was thrilled when New Blood accepted the story. It felt like a big deal and I believed I was finally making some real progress in my quest toward “making it” as a writer. True to my luck back then, however, New Blood never published another issue and the story, of course, did not appear. It is presented here exactly as it was written in 1990. I have not attempted to polish or update it. I’m sure “Slugger” could use some polish, but I’m not interested in reworking a story I wrote so long ago. It is presented here primarily for historical purposes, or perhaps even for a bit of closure. It is what it is. Maybe you’ll enjoy it, maybe you won’t—I’m just glad it’s finally in print.

  The story called “Rattlehead” is a story from the mid-90’s that appeared in a now-defunct webzine called Dream Forge. In gathering material for this collection, I came across the original manuscript for the tale and opted to include it. It’s not a bad story and, I think, deserves a place in print. It certainly shows some growth from the “Slugger” era, and I recall the online response being quite positive.

  Several other stories in the collection date from 2001 and 2002, and are more polished by far than either “Rattlehead” or “Slugger”. Some of these stories appeared online at the Horrorfind website (when the fiction section was edited by Brian Keene), and others appeared in my 2003 chapbook Under The Skin, another Undaunted Press publication. I remain mostly pleased with most of these stories. They were written well after I’d emerged from my developmental period and display a surer hand than that wielded by the 25-year-old who penned “Slugger”. The stories I’m referring to here include “Remorse”, “Jarhead”, “Sustenance”, “Brain Worms Crave Soul Food”, “Truth”, and “Left For Dead (Moon Child Ascending)”.

  Careful readers will note that a number of these earlier stories do not contain quite as much gore or over-the-top violence a
s the books for which I’ve become best known. A lot of that is related to being a young, unknown writer. I wanted to sell these stories, and back then I didn’t know how much of the really crazy stuff I had in my head I could use. After I sold that first mass market novel, my confidence soared and I became unafraid to let the more twisted side of imagination take me wherever it wanted. However, while some of the older stories may not be as wild or as fucked-up as what you’d find in Depraved or The Killing Kind, I think they are entertaining stories most of you will dig.

  One of the more recent stories, “Killers on the Road”, was actually written as a bonus feature that appeared on the Dorchester website around the time The Killing Kind was released in paperback. It features characters from that novel, who bump into characters from my earlier novel, The Freakshow, with predictably bloody results. It’s a fun little story, and this marks its first print appearance.

  So, that about wraps it up. At the rate I write short stories, the next collection will probably be another decade from now. That’s if there ever is another one. And though novels have become my preferred form, I am grateful to Deadite Press and, in particular, to editor Jeff Burk, for making this possible. This book was Jeff’s idea, and I might never have seriously entertained the notion of a collection otherwise.

  So if you don’t like the book, blame him (better Jeff than me).

  If you do like it, buy the man a beer.

  PART ONE: RIDING THE LONG BLACK SERPENT

  The two-lane stretch of twisting rural blacktop looked distorted through the Chevelle’s windshield, not quite real, like something half-remembered from a dream, a rippling dark ribbon the night sometimes seemed to just swallow whole. Or maybe not. But the notion prompted a more disturbing possibility. Maybe the road wasn’t really a road at all. Maybe it was the long, unfurled concrete tongue of some great, unknowable beast, and the Chevelle was headed straight into its yawning, tunnel-sized mouth.

  Or maybe, thought Rick Prather, I’m just really, really, drunk.

  As he thought this, Rick’s chin dropped toward his chest.

  Out like a light.

  For one second.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four...

  Rick’s head jerked up as he came awake with a gasp. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and gave them a quick, hard massage. Then he blinked them open again and saw a pretty array of dancing, swirling colors. He stared at them for a moment and decided he could also be experiencing some sort of delayed effect from the lysergic acid he’d taken the night before. Yeah. Goddamn. He sort of felt like he was in a trippy early 70’s music video. Black Sabbath doing “Paranoid” on some forgotten TV show, the visuals all wavy and swirly.

  He blinked his eyes again and let his head wobble to the left. “Dude, I’m sort of fucked up over here.”

  Danny Spillane didn’t hear him say this. And it wasn’t because the Chevelle’s radio was blaring “The 19th Most Powerful Woman In Rock” by the Supersuckers. Nope, Danny was slumped over in his seat, temple pressed to the driver’s side window, mouth hanging slack, drool rolling down his chin.

  Rick stared at his friend for a long, uncomprehending moment.

  At last, a troubling notion occurred to him, slipping through the substance-induced fog engulfing his brain like a silent and insidiously patient Jack the Ripper moving through early morning White Chapel mist.

  Danny was sort of passed out.

  Rick stared at him a while longer.

  Yeah. Passed out like a motherfucker.

  Rick’s eyes went wide with alarm. “We’re gonna crash!”

  He seized his friend’s shoulder and gave him a hard shaking. “Wake up!”

  Danny groaned in his sleep, but remained insensible. He pushed at Rick feebly and said something that sounded like, “Lemme ‘lone.”

  Rick dialed the radio’s volume down and summoned a scream from the bottom of his lungs, invested it with enough desperate, gibbering horror to shame a convention of scream queens, and let that bitch loose. It went off like a bomb in the Chevelle’s interior, a concussive, echoing explosion of sound that seemed to go on forever. The sound bounced and ricocheted in the closed space, sent razor-sharp shards of aural debris spinning through the air.

  Danny woke up.

  Looked at him.

  Frowned.

  And said, “Dude? What the fuck?”

  Rick was beside himself with panic. He rocked in his seat and thrust a finger at the Chevelle’s windshield. “Get your eyes on the fucking road, motherfucker! Can’t you see we’re gonna fucking crash!?”

  Danny straightened in his seat with a maddening degree of care and deliberation. He leaned forward and squinted at the dark road, propping his elbows on the steering wheel. His face was expressionless for a long moment. Or maybe not quite expressionless. He looked confused. Then the corners of his mouth began to tilt upward.

  He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and began to laugh.

  A surge of molten rage rendered Rick almost fully sober for the space of maybe three or four seconds. “WHAT!? STOP LAUGHING, YOU DERANGED PYSCHO MOTHERFUCKER!!”

  Danny fell back against his seat, his body convulsing with laughter.

  I’m gonna have to strangle him, Rick thought. Take the wheel myself and save our sorry asses.

  Danny wiped tears from his eyes and managed to say two words between peels of maniacal laughter. “We’re...stopped...”

  Rick scowled at him. “What? No...that’s...” Rick forced his gaze away from his delirious friend and peered through the windshield at the road. Huh. The view beyond the curved glass did evoke a certain...stillness. He cranked the window on his side down and stuck his head outside. He stared at the unmoving landscape of towering trees beyond the road’s shoulder. It was a warm night. The soft breeze felt good on his flushed face. The terror-induced tension deserted him at once, and he again felt the mellow embrace of too much alcohol.

  He settled back in his seat and stared straight ahead. “We’re stopped.”

  “No shit.”

  They both started laughing then.

  It went on for a while.

  Rick slapped his thighs and coughed, choking on too much mirth.

  Danny leaned over the steering wheel, squinted again. “We’re sort of in the middle of the fucking road. Our lives have turned into a fucking Cheech and Chong movie.”

  Rick hiccuped. “Better that than fucking Scarface or...I dunno...fucking Drugstore Cowboy. That’d be some grim motherfucking shit. Um...we should move.”

  “Yeah.”

  The laughter bubbled out of them again, went on for another indefinable period.

  Then Rick said, “But seriously...”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need a kickstart.”

  Danny was nodding by now. “Set us up.”

  Rick opened the Chevelle’s glove box and sorted through the profusion of pill bottles and plastic baggies. Too many of them contained various strains of ganja, all of them super high quality, but not what they needed right now. He began to despair, thinking maybe they were out of what he was looking for. He began to panic again, but then he spied it, a nearly depleted baggie of white powder hiding beneath a much thicker, plastic-wrapped wad of green Indica bud. He snagged the bag of Bolivian Marching Powder from the glove box, fished a tiny spoon from the tray under the radio, and did a quick bump. He then passed the baggie to Danny, who did the same. They passed the baggie back and forth until the quantity of coke it contained had been severely reduced.

  By then they were feeling much, much more alert.

  Rick looked at his friend.

  “Dude.”

  “Okay.”

  Danny started the car, put it in gear, and began to drive.

  Rick was feeling a lot better now. He sat back, scrunched down in his seat a bit, and folded his hands over his early-stage potbelly. He stared at the dark road, deciding it no longer looked like the unfurled tongue of some great, unknowab
le beast. What kind of lunatic notion was that, anyway? That was the kind of thing crazy people thought, the kind of radioactive rumination that would leak through the cracks of a diseased mind. He pictured a legion of Day-Glo miniature skeletons scuttling through the crooks and eddies of his gray matter, planting seeds of insanity, and shuddered. It was padded room thinking. Straitjacket insight. Any rational person could see the black stretch of backwoods highway looked much more like the back of some monstrous hell snake. The asphalt did sort of remind him of scales more than concrete.

  Ride the snake...

  Rick shuddered again.

  “I sort of want to hear The Doors.”

  Danny shrugged. “No Doors on the Zune.” The musical portion of the evening’s entertainment was courtesy of Danny’s Zune. The MP3 player was connected to an adapter in the Chevelle’s tape deck, and contained nearly 80 GB of Danny Spillane’s favorite tunage. Everything worth hearing was on the goddamn thing. Motorhead, the Ramones, AC/DC. The Who, the Stones, Led Zeppelin. The Sex Pistols, Deep Purple, and Frank Sinatra. Bob Marley and Frank Zappa. The Pixies and Big Black. A shitload of Johnny Cash. Danny’s taste was pretty damn eclectic.

  So...

  “I can’t believe you don’t have any Doors on the fucking Zune.”

  “Well, I don’t have any Doors on the fucking Zune.”

  Rick shook his head. “Fuck.”

  A moment passed. The only sounds were the hiss of tires on asphalt and the clamor of conflicting weird impulses and theories in his head. Decidedly non-mainstream notions about the first moon landing and the assassinations of Marilyn Monroe and Paul Wellstone. Except that these didn’t produce actual audible sounds. Or did they? Hold on now. Wait. Nope. That was all in his head. Jesus, that was freaky. He thought maybe he should snort some more coke. No. He wanted to get mellow again.