Bait Dog: An Atlanta Burns Novel

by Wendig, Chuck

  So tonight, she’s having a party.

  That’s what kids do. They have parties when the parents are gone. They trash the house. They smoke and drink. They have sex in the parents’ bedroom. Atlanta’s never done any of that and she figures it’s high time to start.

  She envisions one of those parties where it’s wall-to-wall people, where the bass is booming and some cheerleader slut is doing body shots out on the back porch, where somehow the couch ends up on the lawn and by midnight the dang thing is on fire—burning bright, bringing the cops, woop-woop.

  Thing is, Atlanta is Atlanta, which is to say she doesn’t have a helluva lot of friends, and so the “party” ends up being six people and her sitting around a small campfire, drinking peach schnapps and Yuengling beer. Oh, and one dog—Whitey snoozes at her feet. Sometimes on his back, showing his balls to the moon.

  (Not exactly in fighting shape, this one.)

  She invited Jenny. But no go. Jenny said she “doesn’t really like people anymore.” Which is a shame, though in the dark of her mind, Atlanta’s not so sure she’s wrong.

  Well, whatever. Party’s on.

  Guillermo holds up a baggie. By the orange firelight it almost looks like a bag of little candies, and at first she thinks that’s what it is because he announces, “Yo, I brought trail mix if anybody wants any.” Everyone gives him a look because that seems awfully pedestrian but it’s then he adds: “Not sure what’s in here. Got Vikes. Oxy. Perks. Ehhh.” He shakes the bag, peers into it. “Maybe some Vitamin R?”

  Eddie Peters makes a “hmm” sound, and he hops off the folding chair and sets his beer down, then goes and lets Guy pour a pile of pills into his palm. With a finger he starts poking through. He holds up a little blue pill that looks like home plate at a baseball game. “Is this Viagra?”

  Guy squints at it. “Think so, yo.”

  “I so do not need a three-hour erection.” Eddie puts that one back, then fishes out what looks like a little lemon-flavored Pez block and pops it in his mouth. He dry-swallows and giggles. “The definition of irony: perks do not make you feel perky.”

  Then he sits back, plucks his beer as if he’s plucking a flower from the earth, then takes a swig.

  Shane leans over, whispers in Atlanta’s ear. “Should I try drugs?”

  “What?” she asks, loud, maybe too loud. She lowers her voice. “Uh, no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” The thought of Shane ramped up on Ritalin or gone goofy on Percocet is not an image she cares to parse. He’s already on a drug called Vitamin Shane. She snaps her fingers at Chomp-Chomp, who passes her the schnapps bottle, which she in turn passes to Shane. “Here, just drink this instead.”

  He takes a drink, and when his mouth pulls away, the bottle makes a hollow ploomp sound. “Oh. That’s good.”

  Suddenly, Kyle Clemons thrusts his head into the conversation. Literally. He pushes his head out like a turtle and inserts it into their tete-a-tete. “Hey. You guys watching Sherlock?”

  Shane’s whole face lights up like an arcade machine struck by lightning. “Oh my god. Dude! The end of season two where you think Sherlock is—“

  Atlanta clamps her hand over Shane’s mouth. “Kyle. Can I have a word with Shane for one hot minute?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

  She forcibly turns Shane’s head back so he meets her nose-to-nose. “You don’t need to be doing drugs and you don’t need to be talking to Kyle right now.”

  “But I like Kyle.”

  “Do you think Kyle’s pretty?” she asks.

  Shane makes a face like he just ate a spider. “What? No.”

  “And do you think Damita over there is pretty?” she asks, pointing to Damita Martinez, who sits over there, talking to Eddie. She’s got a pretty face, if maybe a little too much makeup, and she’s got hips that go on for miles in those jeans of hers. “Well?”

  “I… do.”

  “Then you should go over and talk to her.”

  Shane suddenly narrows his eyes. “Is this because we’re both Venezuelan?”

  “No, it’s because she’s the only other girl here besides me and you need to get laid.” His eyes go wide. “Dang, fine, if not laid then third base. Or second. Or at least batting practice outside the dugout.”

  Before Shane can say anything else Atlanta calls over to Damita. “Hey, Damita. C’mere.”

  Eddie shoots her a look and says, “Rude,” but then he starts laughing and she figures it’s okay. Damita hops up and shakes that big booty over.

  “Hey, girl,” Damita says.

  “Damita, you ever meet my friend, Shane?”

  Damita extends a hand with nails painted pink like bubble-gum, each rimmed with a ridge of crusty silver glitter. Shane takes it delicately and, like a gentleman, kisses her hand. Atlanta notices his own hand is trembling.

  Atlanta says, “I met Shane a few months ago—“

  But then Shane interrupts, and blurts out in one rapid-fire question, “Hey-do-you-ever-watch-that-show-Sherlock-it’s-on-PBS-but-it-comes-from-the-Beeb-uh-the-BBC-and-it’s-pretty-awesome-so?”

  And there pops the balloon. Except it’s not even a dramatic pop—more like the knot comes undone and the balloon flutters and flubbers around the room, gassy hiss as the air leaves and the balloon dies.

  Damita says, “I freakin’ love that show! Moriarty is nuts.”

  Which is not what Atlanta expects to hear. Suddenly the balloon is buoyant and bobbing once more.

  “Well, okay, then,” Atlanta says, offering a smile that’s both amused and bemused. She hops up, pats the chair. “Damita, you can take my seat.” The girl sits. And suddenly Damita and Shane are talking about Sherlock Holmes and Atlanta just forced herself out of the convo.

  People are weird, she thinks. Everybody’s someone different than you suspect. You think you have them figured out but then they do something or like a thing and it throws you from the horse you thought you were riding. Guy likes country décor. Damita likes Sherlock Holmes. Chris liked comic books (though now he doesn’t like much of anything, does he).

  Chris.

  Chris.

  He should be here.

  I miss you.

  The gravity of sadness pulls at her insides. Deep breath. For a moment all the voices of everyone around her fall to background noise—a bubbling murmur, a hiss of static on a broken radio, and all she really hears is the snap-crackle-pop of the logs on the fire and then next thing she knows she’s standing next to Guy.

  “Gimme something from inside that baggy,” she says.

  “Yo. You sure? You got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  He hesitates. “Atlanta, maybe it’s not such a good idea—“

  “I said gimme something. Something to keep me going. I don’t want to sleep tonight. Got any Adderall?”

  “Nah, but the Ritalin will do you right.”

  She holds out her hand. He fishes out a classic capsule—tan on one half, white on the other—and gives it to her. Into the mouth and then she rescues the vodka from Chomp-Chomp’s feet and—

  Down the hatch. She feels it crawl down her esophagus, sliding on the breathy vodka burn.

  “I’m gonna go inside, get some chips,” she says. The dog starts to get up and she says, “You sleep. Big day tomorrow, Whitey.”

  Whitey’s cement block head thumps against the earth and he commences snoozing.

  * * *

  The kitchen is dark. She doesn’t bother turning on the light. She doesn’t even try to find a bag of chips. Instead Atlanta just plants her hands on the counter and stares at the window which is a square of darkness brighter than all the darkness around her. Speckled stars sit in the sky above. The Cat Lady’s house is a distant square with pinpricks of golden light—it’s midnight and the old woman is awake. She’s always awake, that one.

  Atlanta drums her fingers on the counter. The “Vitamin R” hasn’t taken hold yet. She wants it to because
she’s tired, and tired means sleep and sleep means erasing eight hours from her life—and when tomorrow comes…

  Well.

  Tomorrow’s going to be a bad day. No way to change that. The fights are horrible. Sometimes just before she falls asleep she hears the cries of those dogs in pain or sees their blood splashing on the ground, pouring from a chewed-up half-crushed muzzle. It’s a bad place full of bad people. She’ll be wading into murky waters thick with moccasins and copperheads, all hungry for a taste.

  Still. If everything goes to plan—and the plan is so simple it’s fool-proof—then the bad day will at least end on a good note. It won’t fix everything. But it’ll go a long way toward doing what needs doing.

  She’s lost in the thought of it when she hears the scuff of a shoe behind her.

  Atlanta doesn’t move fast enough.

  She turns—

  A shadow standing there. Reaching for her.

  She starts to cry out—

  A mouth finds hers. Lips. Teeth against her teeth. Schnapps breath.

  Her skin crawls. Her brain screams. She shoves the person back hard. Cries out. Kicks. Connects with his gut.

  Chomp-Chomp oofs and doubles over.

  She sees it’s him, she cries out in frustration and rage and shoves him again.

  “Ow,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Shit!” she says, breathless. Skin still feeling like every inch is swarming with ticks. “You stupid asshole.”

  “I swear I’m sorry.”

  She rubs her face. “The hell were you thinking? Don’t you know who I am? You think cornering me in a dark kitchen would be a good idea? I hate to be touched, Steven. Hate it. Because it makes me think of—“ She can’t finish the statement. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Whatever. Suddenly she feels a blanket of shame settle over her. Hot and smothering. She hates this. Makes her feel weak and woozy. Like she’s a victim—or worse, like she wants to be a victim, like this is the costume she wears. It’s real. It’s not fake. It’s no costume. But that doesn’t change how she feels. Steven keeps apologizing but she can’t even hear him.

  Her body resists. Every part of her wants to run the other way. Feels like she’s stepping toward the ledge of a building and is about to step off. As she reaches for Steven, vertigo overwhelms her but she pushes past it.

  She pulls him close and kisses him back.

  Again their teeth clash. Lips mash. Her tongue finds his and it’s like he doesn’t know if this is really happening—but then his body settles into it and he leans closer. It’s awful and wonderful at the same time. A thousand synapses fire in her head like a missile battery—voosh voosh voosh voosh—and she has no idea how she can feel liberated and imprisoned in all the same moment. Maybe it’s the Ritalin. Maybe it’s just the memories. Maybe it’s what’s coming tomorrow and her defiance of that. But this is happening.

  It happens for a while. One minute, then two, then five. Then ten.

  Eventually she pulls away, face red, lips chafed.

  “Guh,” Steven says.

  “Yeah,” she answers. She feels like a sparking wire jumping on the ground.

  “I thought…”

  “Don’t talk,” she says. “Let me talk. I don’t like you—wait! No, I mean, I don’t like you like that. You’re just—you and me—we can’t. And I don’t want anybody right now. But this was good. This was nice. I needed this. I still feel like—I mean, I think I want to throw up? In a good way. In a real good way.”

  Steven blinks. Like he doesn’t know what to do with what she just said.

  Instead she just kisses him on the cheek and says, “Thanks.”

  Then she hurries back outside.

  * * *

  The night accelerates toward morning like a hard-driving truck with wonky headlights.

  Atlanta drinks.

  The Ritalin sets her up; the alcohol knocks her down.

  Whitey chases her as she chases fireflies into and out of the corn.

  She talks about how she doesn’t understand comic books with Kyle, and Kyle tells her she’s just not reading the right ones, the ones about girls and women doing kick-ass girl-and-women things.

  She goes to the house to bring back chips for real this time and then Steven’s gone but Shane and Damita are making out—Damita’s got her big booty in his lap and she’s taller than he is so it makes Atlanta have to stifle a giggle jag as the two of them mix spit and clash tongues.

  At 1AM she teaches Eddie to shoot.

  At 2AM Eddie teaches her how to pirouette—he’s a dancer, you see, trained in ballet and apparently quite good (though being drunk and high, fast and slow, clear and confused, does not make Atlanta a discerning fan as yet). They spin together and laugh and at one point he whispers to her how he misses Chris and though they never dated they would’ve been good together.

  By 3AM Steven still hasn’t come back and so she and Guy do some shooting as Eddie dances behind them and Damita and Shane go off into the house. Guy’s got a little .22 target pistol—a Ruger—and they set up cans and bottles and some of Mama’s magazines and they shoot in the dark and sometimes hear the rewarding krish of a bottle breaking or the metallic clung of a can jumping off a fence-rail and hitting the ground.

  At 3:30AM, Atlanta thinks she sees Chris standing there in the corn. Watching her and waving. But it’s just a shadow, a trick of the moonlight playing, and then he’s gone because he was never really there.

  At 4AM, Atlanta passes out in one of the patio chairs.

  * * *

  “It’s time.”

  Guy wakes her.

  She blinks. Her mouth tastes like fireplace ash. Wisps of smoke drift from the logs in the fire. Her skin crawls.

  Atlanta lurches over the side of the patio chair and pukes. The chair has shit for balance, though, and as she throws up the chair tilts left and she damn near falls in her own sick, just barely managing to roll out of the way.

  Her head pounds. And spins. A hackey-sack kicked in the air again and again.

  Her hand presses on the ground. Atlanta steadies herself. Nudges an empty schnapps bottle out of the way.

  Guy helps her up. Whitey sits back and watches.

  “You look like a hairball that dog coughed up, yo,” he says as she gets her balance under her feet.

  “I figure you’re bein’ generous,” she gurgles.

  “Let’s go with dogshit, then.”

  “That’s more like it.” Her lips smack together. The corners of her mouths feel dry and crusty. “It’s time?”

  “It’s time.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have had all that vodka. Or the schnapps. Or the Ritalin.”

  Guy laughs. “I been there, girl, I been there.”

  “I gotta go pee,” she says.

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  * * *

  Her bladder is like a water balloon about to pop. She tries to make a beeline for the bathroom but suddenly there’s Shane jumping up like a gopher at his hole. Big grin on his face. Mouth smeared with old lipstick. Damita’s. His eyes might as well be goggly and on springs.

  “Damita’s great,” he says, his voice dreamy and lost.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, skirting past him. He trails after her.

  “I got to touch her boobs,” he says.

  “I’m real excited for you.”

  “It’s all thanks to you.”

  “You and her boobs are very welcome. I gotta pee. And maybe throw up again.”

  His face scrunches up. “Oh, yeah, you don’t look so hot.”

  “Please move.”

  “Sorry.”

  Inside the bathroom, she pees like she’s trying to put out a house-fire.

  At least she doesn’t puke again.

  * * *

  She pukes again on the way. Guy yells at her not to get any on the car, and so she hangs out the open window—a window that no longer exists thanks to Winky with his John Deere hat and his pistol
—and somehow manages to miss the side of the prodigiously banged up Scion.

  For a few minutes, she feels better again. Barfing is funny that way, she thinks. You never want to do it, and you try so hard not to do it, doing whatever you can to keep it from happening, all the while feeling like a stack of dishes ready to topple. But then you do it and it’s horrible for those 30 seconds, and afterwards you feel cleaned out, freshened up, like all you need to conquer the day is a splash of water and a capful of mouthwash.