For a second this confused me.
Then I saw whose face it was staring back at us from behind the windshield.
I groaned.
It was Burrito Stalker.
He leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. ‘Get in!’
Frankie and I shared a glance.
Did I think about it? Sure. A strange man offering me a ride in his flash car? That was some stranger-danger shit right there. I mean what was I, an asshole?
Of course, on the other hand, the guy had just saved our lives—even if, granted, in the most ridiculous fashion possible. Really, it would have been rude to refuse. And hey, on the bright side, he might even have some candy.
Just remember, if he tries to put anything in your butthole, just say no.
Clenching our butt-cheeks tight, we crossed the alley and hesitantly climbed in.
The Impala took off at once.
Burrito Stalker turned to me. He was sweating and his face looked waxy, though I didn’t think too much of it—not then, at least.
‘Are you hurt?’ he said.
He began to pat me down—
Stranger-danger!
—but I swatted his hands away. ‘No, I’m—would you stop that? I said I’m fine.’
He stopped pawing at me and turned his attention back to the road. ‘Good. That’s good.’
From the backseat, Frankie said, ‘Yeah, I’m, uh... fine, too.’
I turned back to Burrito Stalker. ‘You want to tell us what the hell just happened back there? Who were those guys? And whilst you’re at it, who the hell are you? Why do you keep stalking me?’ Not that I was complaining, of course, but it was still pretty creepy.
‘I told you already. It’s complicated.’
‘So uncomplicate it. What’s your deal?’ I blinked as realisation slowly dawned. ‘Wait—you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? That’s why you warned me, isn’t it? The other day?’
Silence for a moment. Just the revving of the Impala’s engine and the gentle beating of snow on the windshield before us.
Finally, he sighed. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The Council—’ He shook his head, as if he’d already said too much. ‘Let’s just get to A’doy—he’ll know what to do.’
I began to ask him exactly what the fuck that meant, when—
‘There’s just one problem, though.’ He turned to me. ‘You’ll have to drive.’
I blinked. ‘Why will I have to—?’
He pulled his hand away from his trench coat, affording me a glimpse of the ragged hole that had suddenly appeared in it, singed around the edge like a cigarette burn.
The dots connected.
‘Wait—are you shot?!’
As if in answer, Burrito Stalker suddenly slumped forward over the steering wheel, hands by his sides and limp as a partially deflated sex doll.
HOOOOOOOOONK!
‘Jesus!’
I fought for the wheel as the Impala suddenly weaved from left to right, wheels spraying snow-sludge, the Chevy ricocheting off of parked car after parked car like a goddamn pinball, each impact sending my heart shooting into my mouth and yet more diarrhea out of every available orifice.
Frankie and I working together, we finally managed to pry Burrito Stalker from the wheel.
I guided us to a shaky stop and simply sat there a moment, trembling and breathing hard, listening to the snow beating down on the Impala’s hood, more shit in my pants than a senior at an old-people’s home on curry night.
Yep. Almost died again. Fucking Fridays, man.
After a while, Frankie said, ‘Well. That was unexpected.’
‘Help me!’ I said.
We grabbed an arm each and hoisted Burrito Stalker around to the backseat.
As we were laying him down, his eyelids fluttered. Christ, he looked awful. ‘Must... get... to A’doy...’
Before I could ask exactly what an “A’doy” was, he suddenly grabbed my hand. For a moment I thought we were about to shake, which would have been inappropriate, given our current predicament—that, and I still hadn’t learned how to from last time. It would have been a whole thing.
When he released my hand, I was surprised to find there was now a piece of paper in it.
I frowned. ‘What’s this?’
But he was gone. Well... not gone-gone. He wasn’t dead or anything. I mean asleep or passed out or whatever.
I looked at the scrap of paper in my hand.
It was a map—though not like any map I had ever seen before. There were weird markings and what I thought were supposed to be numbers on it. Some of the roads I recognised, most I didn’t. Like a road atlas where the manufacturers, having not heard of Google, couldn’t be bothered to check out every single road, so simply decided to make them up instead.
At the top of the map was a name, a glaring red ring drawn around it.
TWO CRESTS.
Frankie hovered over my shoulder. ‘Now, I’m not much of a betting man, Dan, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say that’s where this “A’doy” character is.’ Before I could reply, he suddenly launched himself at the front seat. ‘Shotgun!’
I stared down at the tattered scrap of paper in my hand.
Here we go again…
NINE
WE DROVE THE IMPALA west out of the city, following the directions said Burrito Stalker had given us as the Impala’s wipers worked frantically to cope with the sudden influx of snow. It was really coming down. Whilst admittedly still not the blizzard we’d been promised, if things continued on the way they were, I knew it wouldn’t be long. And I thought a snow-induced standstill on the highway would be the last thing we needed.
Every half hour or so Frankie would lean round and check on Burrito Stalker (if that was even his real name)—by which I mean he would simply lean into the back and poke repeatedly at the guy’s face until he begged him to please stop doing that.
It wasn’t until a good three hours or so had passed that we finally reached the turnoff for Two Crests.
Acting on a whim, I pulled over onto the hard shoulder and switched off the ignition.
I stared through the windshield at it.
Just a sign, like any other you’ve probably seen a million times before, now speckled with a combination of sleet and snow.
Now, I was not a well-traveled person by any definition of the term, but I had journeyed many times past this particular stretch of the I-64—on holidays, visiting relatives as a kid and whatever—and not once did I recall ever seeing a turnoff for a “Two Crests”. Not that that meant anything, of course; I could have just missed it. I’m just saying, it was weird, is all.
‘Hey, pass me that other map, will you?’ I said, nodding at the glovebox. ‘The, uh... normal one.’
Frankie reached into the glove box and handed it to me.
I placed them side-by-side. ‘Look,’ I said, pointing at the maps in my lap. ‘This town—according to this map, it shouldn’t be here.’
Frankie gasped. ‘A ghost town...’ He thought it over. ‘Or, you know, it’s just not been incorporated yet. I mean people build new towns all the time, right? Maybe the map’s just outdated or whatever.’
A fair point. Still, there was something about all this that just didn’t feel right. I mean, sure, the fact we were on our way to a place we had never been before, to meet with a man of whose intentions we had not the faintest idea, could have had something to do with it. Then there was the fact we had a trench-coat-wearing burrito man bleeding to death on the backseat, too.
But for whatever reason—call it ESP or woman’s intuition or whatever—I didn’t think that was it.
And yet, bad feeling aside, we had no choice. Boot and her gang now had the Novamite, and if what Albino Man had said was true, that meant we had very little time before the world and everybody in it went the way of the dinosaurs—and by that I don’t mean they got their own theme park.
I nodded at the rear-view. ‘How’s our new frie
nd doing?’
Frankie looked round, did the whole pokey-thing again.
A low groan from the backseat.
He turned back. ‘No good, Dan. I’m afraid he’s gone.’ He reached back and gently patted his leg. ‘Good night, sweet prince. Do not go gently into that good night.’
Another irritated groan, louder this time.
Groaning myself, I climbed out of the Impala and quickly trudged my way round towards the back, gusts of snow-laden wind whipping my hair back from my face like I’d just jumped out of an airplane.
I should probably mention at this point I have no experience whatsoever tending to a gunshot wound. Like most people, the extent of my first aid abilities is resigned to band-aids, back rubbing, and the occasional soothing word or two of encouragement.
Still, there were certain things I expected going in, having watched many movies in my short, insignificant life—the least of which was blood; though, oddly, as I pulled back the material of Burrito Stalker’s trench coat, I couldn’t see any. Like, not at all. Not a single drop.
Looking back now, this is probably the part where I should have begun to suspect something fishy was afoot—and surely would have, had I been a smarter man.
But, like I said—I wasn’t a doctor. And I had been driving for a long time. I’m telling you, my brain was frazzled.
So instead of jumping up and running a thousand miles in the opposite direction, as I rightly ought to have done, I simply said, ‘Huh,’ and continued pulling back clothing.
I pulled back his shirt, noting another charred ring like the one on his jacket, no doubt from where the bullet had passed through, still not overly concerned—
I paused.
There was no blood.
I could see the entry wound the bullet had made as it had passed through his abdomen—a little mark of punctured flesh, like a finger-hole punched into a ball of dough.
But no blood.
Again, this is the part where I really should have sensed something peculiar going on, but I didn’t.
I know, I know—I’m an asshole. I’m a dick; but I was very tired. And I had been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours, hadn’t I? Look, you weren’t there, okay?
I stared at the wound, a frown creasing my brow, confused into a state of near paralysis like a YouTube video refusing to buffer. I don’t think I even breathed, just continued to stare down at the little dough-hole like a robot whose primary CPU had just gone and blown a major fuse.
It wasn’t until, turning finally to look into the back seat, my eyes had instinctively settled on Burrito Stalker’s, and the obvious had suddenly become apparent.
It was like being electrocuted again.
I threw myself backwards out the door, yelping in surprise and flailing out with my arms.
I landed with a thump on the snow, my head bumping against the central reservation—though I hardly felt it, wouldn’t have cared even if I had.
I stared back through the open rear door, my mouth hanging so far ajar you could have parked a fucking plane in there.
Burrito Stalker’s eyes.
They were glowing.
I pounced to my feet like the ground was made of larva. ‘JESUS CHRIST!’
‘What? What’s wrong?’ said Frankie, climbing out the passenger side after me. He shot a look back into the Impala at Burrito Stalker and gasped. ‘Wait—you’re a Phony?!’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, man, what a twist. I did not see that coming. You see that coming, Dan? That’s some Shyamalan-shit right there. I’m so surprised. Seriously, I am numb with shock right now.’
‘Frankie!’
‘Oh—right!’ He sprung into a fighting pose, or whatever the equivalent was when you had cabbage for brains.
He turned to Burrito Stalker. ‘Okay, asshole—prepare for a dick-pounding!’ He kicked his legs like he had stepped in something nasty and began punching wildly at the air. I became aware of cars passing us on the highway, slower than usual, and not, I knew, because of the snow. ‘I’m gonna go to town on that dick!’
‘Uh, Frankie...’
‘I’m gonna be all over that thing!’ he continued. ‘Seriously, when I’m done with that dick, you’re not gonna be able to walk for a week!’
Burrito Stalker stepped awkwardly out onto the snow, one hand pressed against his side, the other outstretched and pleading. He didn’t look overly like an evil, body-snatching jelly-slug. But then, they never did, did they?
‘I... can explain...’
‘EXPLAIN THIS—!’ said Frankie, who then attempted to kick Burrito Stalker, but slipped on the snow and hit his head on the ground instead.
The sound of snoring immediately filled the air.
I groaned.
OH GODDAMNIT.
I turned my attention back to Burrito Stalker, who I saw was now about as pale as the snow he walked on. Like a mannequin come to life, only one I would not ever want to have sex with, like in that one movie that one time. Whatever that was called.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I can explain everything, just... get me to A’doy—’
Before he could say anymore, he suddenly hit the deck.
Sighing, I walked over to Frankie and kicked him. ‘Hey. Wake up. Wake up, you asshole.’
Frankie’s eyes fluttered, then slowly opened.
‘Did... did we win?’ He turned his head, spotted Burrito Stalker lying facedown in the snow.
A moment later, he was on his feet. ‘Ye-ah! You see what you get? Huh? Didn’t I tell you not to mess with me? Like a Jedi master, son!’ He reached down and snatched up a clump of snow, momentarily balling it up in his hands before reaching back his arm and launching it at Burrito Stalker’s back, who took it without protest—mostly because he was still unconscious.
When the fever had passed, I said, ‘So—what the hell are we going to do with this guy? Got any ideas?’
Frankie slowly tilted his gaze back down towards the ground—
‘That’s not pelting him with snow,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Leave him here? I mean, shit, he is a Phony, after all.’
This was true. Whatever else may have been going on here, the guy was definitely a Phony.
I shook my head. ‘Still, he did save us. And besides, if he wanted to kill us, don’t you think he’d have done so already? He’s had plenty of chances. And yet—here we are.’
‘So that’s a no on leaving him? Just so we’re clear.’
I stared down at Burrito Stalker’s unmoving body, the snow-angel he had unwittingly made—that was actually not too shabby, now that I looked at it.
I didn’t think I’d ever been more confused. I didn’t know what this guy being a Phony meant, or how that figured into our plans. Probably nothing good, if our luck so far was any indication. But we had driven a long way, and despite myself, I had to admit, I was kind of intrigued. And besides, it wasn’t like we had any better ideas.
‘Let’s just throw him in the trunk,’ I said.
Frankie nodded. ‘Good plan.’
And so we threw him in the trunk and carried on towards our destination, unaware that by the time we came to leave, the world and everything we knew about it would never again be the same.
***
If there’s one thing that cannot be argued with, it’s that the world is full of rabbit holes—both literally, and metaphorically. Like little Alice herself will no doubt tell you, the world is rarely what it seems. You think you know the world, your place in it, until one day you suddenly find yourself the guest of honour at a tea party hosted by a borderline-psychopath, being riddled at by a narcoleptic mouse. And like little Alice will no doubt also tell you, once you’ve cracked the shell on that egg, there’s no putting this Humpty Dumpty back together again.
We continued on down the barren stretch of country lane, our odd carriage leaving twin grooves in the snow behind us.
I had begun to get a bad feeling. Sure, part of it was no doubt due to the unusual nature of our visit to this parti
cular part of the good ol’ US of A, or whatever the fuck was waiting for us up ahead.
But it was other things, too.
Firstly, the radio died—which was not that peculiar in and of itself, given the state of the weather and all, and that it was my radio; however, it had worked fine thus far, and I saw no reason why it should have suddenly stopped working now.
The second thing I noticed was that it had stopped snowing. And I don’t mean like it had slowed down; I mean it had literally stopped. And considering the storm that was supposedly due to hit us any minute, this struck me as particularly odd.
Weirdest of all, however, was the town itself—which looked to have been transported here from somewhere over in Canada or something.
Mostly just one road. A straight-shot through town, unoriginally called Main Street. A procession of bland, flat-faced buildings flanking it on either side, with the occasional road or two to break up the monotony. A snow-capped mountain stood just behind it, seeming to loom right over the town itself—something I thought was especially odd, seeing as we didn’t really have any mountains out this way. Didn’t have any at all, in fact.
Then, of course, there were the people themselves.
Now, specifically what it was that was so odd about them, I wasn’t sure. I mean, they all looked normal enough—at least, for the most part. They didn’t have two heads or anything. I would have mentioned that by now. Still, there was something about the way they all smiled that seemed a little, well... off. Like they were all just faking it, or something. Too-wide eyes above plastered-on smiles. It was creepy as hell.
And, for whatever reason, I got the feeling it was all for our benefit.
‘Are you seeing these guys?’ said Frankie, having turned to look out the window. ‘I’m getting a real Stepford Wives-vibe here, Dan.’
We rolled to a stop outside a generic-looking diner called Wallie’s and quickly switched off the ignition.
We stared through the windshield.
‘So—what now?’ said Frankie.
I thought it over. I had no idea who this A’doy was, or where he might be—or shit, what he even looked like. And seeing as we hadn’t been given a specific address or means with which to contact the guy, it wasn’t like we could simply roll up to his front door or whatever—which, really, was enough incentive to just turn the Impala around and blow right out of this creepy, pretend town as fast as the Impala’s engine could manage—treacherous roads or no.
Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything Page 12