Steady Trouble

by Mike McCrary

  “Patty?” I say.

  She cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. Waiting for it.

  “I’m going to politely decline your offer.”

  “Shocker.”

  “And if you don’t go the hell away, I’m going to hurt you and your dipshit boy.”

  “That must have sounded badass in your head, sweetheart. Sorry, my mistake, you’re a princess, right? Sad to say that once that bullshit left your frightened little mouth? The moment it hit the air and became real? It became a joke.”

  Malik moves toward me. I pull the trigger, nothing happens. It’s not loaded. I was wrong. Guess all the bullets are in the bag on my shoulder.

  “Fucking amateur,” snickers Patty.

  It’s embarrassing, to be sure. Malik is moving faster toward me now with nothing to fear. He pulls his gun. I drop the gun and let the bag fall in a single motion, then jump toward him, splitting the distance between us. As my feet touch the hardwood floor I plant my bat into Malik’s face.

  There’s a crunch with a hollow donk.

  Like a massive finger just thumped a chicken-fried watermelon.

  Malik’s legs fold from under him. Blood spits. He wilts to the floor in a heap of dumbass. I think of giving him another whack for good measure, but stop myself. I look up to Patty. She stands there, still as can be. Motionless. It’s her face that tells the story. Bulging eyes with moisture building up in the corners. Her teeth are gnashed as she sucks in and out.

  In and out.

  I step back while keeping my eyes on her. Bending down, I pick up the bag, slide the strap over my shoulder then slip the gun back into the front of my jeans. Patty is still between me and the door. Malik isn’t moving. Blood pooling from his face, he’s laid out directly in the middle, between me and Patty.

  “Sorry about your boy. This doesn’t have to go like this. This can stop.”

  Patty rushes toward her son. I naively think she’s going to help her hurt child. No. She’s going for his gun. With the weight of the bag I’m saddled, can’t get there before her. I move as fast as I can.

  She slides on her knees to his body, pulling the gun from his fingers and points it as me. I manage to get my bat around enough to hit her hand as she fires. The shot whizzes past, blowing out the window behind me. The blast was loud as hell, leaving an echo coupled with a shatter of glass.

  Won’t go unnoticed.

  Patty swings the gun around again toward me. This time I kick her hand up. Another blast, this time into the ceiling. Plaster falls. Dust mushrooms. I slam the bat down on her hand. Her gun drops to the floor. Patty springs up, uses her body like a missile firing into me. My shoes slip in Malik’s blood, feet kick out from under me as I fall backward to the floor with Patty on top of me.

  She grabs my face and slams my head to the floor. The world goes into a blur. Then comes back online. She’s crazed, spit flying from her lips, her face red as the devil. She releases wild, guttural sounds from her mouth, sounds like they came straight out of hell. Anger nonsense. Like speaking in tongues. This woman wants to kill me with her bare hands. So enraged she’s forgotten English.

  She pulls my head back again for another whack.

  I shove my arms inside of hers and spread them as hard as I can, busting up the lock she has on my face. Grabbing her ears I slam my forehead to her nose, sending her back. I can feel the wetness of her blood just below my hairline.

  Malik fires up from his place on the floor.

  His face is a mangled mess of flesh, bone and slop. He roars, diving hard at me. I bring my bat back around with all my bodyweight, landing another whack to his face. I don’t see it land because the follow-through has landed me face-first on the floor, nose to the hardwood, spun around by my bat strike. But this time the sound was like I just slapped a raw slab of meat out of the ballpark.

  I pull myself up as fast as I can, the bag still over my shoulder. Check my jeans, making sure the gun is still there. Patty and Malik are on the floor. Gotta get the hell out of here.

  Racing to the door, I’m met by the girl from the front desk.

  Standing in the hall, out of breath, she asks, “Everything ok—”

  Blam. The girl’s body spins to the floor as red mist plumes out from the back of her head. Patty squeezed off a shot from on her back. She takes a wild, swinging aim at me.

  I bolt out the door with all I’ve got.

  Another shot fires. A chunk of the door behind me explodes.

  The elevator is at the far end of the long, straight hall. Looks like it’s a thousand miles away. I pump my legs hard, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, the buzzing in my head and the ringing that’s wrecking my ears. Whipping my head around I keep checking behind me, knowing damn well Patty will be taking a shot at me any second. I’m a fish in a barrel. Boxed in. A fellow beneficiary trapped in a hallway, running for her life.

  The first bullets rips past my ear and pops out a fistful of wall up ahead of me. A man holding a cat steps out from his door, confused-concerned look stuck on his face. I land a forearm into him pushing him back into the relative safety of his condo. Another bullets plunks into the hardwood at my feet. I’m not far from the elevator doors. Be nice if they would open for me.

  Can feel Patty rampaging down the hall behind me.

  I hear her steps storming.

  I can taste my own blood.

  I see white globs forming in my field of vision.

  I hit the elevator doors at full speed. Slapping the down button, I peel off to take cover behind a corner wall. Her heels click closer and closer. I look over to the elevator. If I was standing next to it I’d be pushing the button over and over again. I peek around the corner. She’s wobbling toward me with gun raised. A blast blows a chunk of wall into my face as I spin back for cover, rubbing the debris from my eyes.

  Ding.

  The elevator doors open.

  I spring from my cover, flying toward the open doors. As I pour in I fall to the floor tumbling, letting the bag fall then stabbing the L button with my finger as hard as I can.

  Patty flies in, gun in hand. I launch myself from the floor into her, plowing my shoulder into her tit job. We slam into the walls, bouncing back and forth.

  The doors close.

  I manage to get my bat around, jamming it under her chin with my hands on either side of the bat, pinning her neck to the mirror. Her pearls bounce. Her teeth grind. Her eyes burn hate. She wiggles the gun around, taking a wild shot into the ceiling. The light above explodes, showering us in glass and plastic. The noise from the blast is deafening in this box. Ringing in my ears is even more intense now.

  She headbutts me.

  Falling back, my sinuses release a mix of snot and blood. My eyes blur from the flood of tears roaring. She lands a jab to my eye. A fist to my jaw. A heel to my stomach. I fold. As if I suddenly have no control over my body. Limbs rendered unless. My legs completely disobey my commands as they go full-on noodle, everything folding beneath me.

  While on my knees, Patty jams her gun to my forehead. I slap it away just as she fires and the bullet shatters the mirror behind me.

  The doors open.

  Patty turns to look out into the lobby. I hear sirens screaming our way from outside. I kick my foot out, landing it on her kneecap, and bounce to my feet as she drops down, leaving her feet. She whips her head up toward me and I crack her in the face with my bat, putting her completely down to the floor.

  The sirens are really close now. Can see the red and blue lights fire off outside of the windows that wrap around the lobby floor.

  I scramble, grab my bag, grab her gun and then haul ass the hell out of the elevator, through the lobby and toward the burning red EXIT sign leading to the back.

  Every part of me hurts like hell, but I’m so happy to be among the living.

  So happy I’m a surviving beneficiary.

  Chapter 18

  Fumbling around the bag, I hunt hard for those car keys from the table.

 
; Moving up and down the rows of cars in the parking garage with my hand stuck deep in the bag, I search with my head turning left and right. Barely miss running into bumpers and concrete columns as I try to track down the red 911. Can’t be too many older Porches in the this parking lot. Can there?

  Screeching tires and sirens wail outside the garage.

  Need to hurry up this little search of mine.

  I stuff my bat and Patty’s gun into the bag, realizing I’ve been running around the garage with them in my hands. Not a great idea. The bat handle sticks out the side a bit, but it’ll do. I climb the stairs up to level two. Legs are very angry with me. They’re screaming at me. Hell, my whole body hates me at this point. Pushing through the steel door I hit level two.

  My heart pounds inside my chest.

  My eyes dart in every direction.

  My red Porsche 911 is parked just outside the stairs.

  I’m stopped in my tracks. Can’t help but think of the picture I have of me and my dad. I have this silly hope I’ll remember something about him when I actually get in the car. This silly little hope something will click in my head. That I’ll remember something real and not something from a picture. Not something I pieced together or mixed with something imagined from something I found in my parents’ house. Not another story I created based on evidence.

  Can’t help but notice there are no license plates. Only one of those paper ones taped in the window. They bought this thing recently. Opening the door I toss the bag in the passenger side. Don’t know for sure if I’ll need easy access to anything in the bag. On the floorboard are multiple sets of metal Texas license plates. Six to be exact.

  That Gordo.

  The black leather shines. Smells like it’s been cleaned recently. You could eat off the dash. Sliding the keys into the ignition, I stop and take a breath. Close my eyes. Come on, spark a little something in the busted brain.

  I hope.

  I hope.

  Nothing.

  I fire up the engine and it sounds like a mechanized symphony. It literally purrs. This is the sound that plays in the elevators in my version of heaven. While I don’t remember a damn thing, I do feel oddly connected to my dad at the moment. I get it. I understand his attachment to these machines. The car, this car, is fucking awesome. I catch a glimpse of my wide smile in the rearview mirror. Haven’t seen that in a while. Nobody has.

  Need to stop that shit and focus.

  I watch my smile leave.

  There’s more than likely a team of cops blanketing the condo tower right now, and it’s only a matter of time before they hit the garage and close off the streets. I try not to think about any security cameras in the building. Were there any in the lobby, the hallways, the elevator—probably so. Not to mention, a classic red Porsche 911 is not the most inconspicuous car on the planet.

  Big thanks, Gordo.

  I don’t care. This car is the balls, and for a moment I forget I’m public enemy numero uno as far as the McCluskeys are concerned.

  Pushing in the clutch, I slide this beast into R and back out of the parking space. It’s like butter. I slip into first, release the clutch and press the gas. The car lurches a little, been awhile since I drove stick, but I get it evened out pretty quick. My fingers grip the wheel, getting this baby under control. I want to punch it and see what she can do. Easy now. Not the time test out the old girl. In time, I tell myself. In time. Keeping my speed low, I serpentine my way out of the garage.

  To my right, down the street, is a full-on, balls-to-the-wall crime scene.

  I go left.

  I whisper the address I memorized of a woman named Lizzy.

  Chapter 19

  My fingers are cramping from typing.

  That’s not true. I’m just tired and need a break from thoughts. I heard you need to stand up and walk around after sitting for too long. Something about how sitting is the new smoking as far as your health is concerned.

  Also need to take a break from the typing. I’m getting it down and that makes me happy, but I have this deep fear I won’t be able to finish the thing. Meaning, I’m afraid a kill squad will wander in here and slit my throat and thus leave an unfinished project to litter the universe.

  At this point, I’ve lost track of who’s dead, who’s alive, who’s with whom and who the hell I am anymore. A twig snaps outside. I kick the chair back and grab the Beretta with one hand and the meat cleaver in the other. Looking out the window, whipping my head scanning, I don’t see anything. Then I see two squirrels running and playing like crazed little bastards in the front yard.

  They race side by side, then stop suddenly, then start again, stopping only to roll around, one on top of the other. Furry children playing in my yard. I watch them for a while, mesmerized by the simplicity of their joy. Their lives on this rock of ours.

  So jealous.

  I put the cleaver back on the table, but tuck the gun in my jeans as I grab an ice-cold Dr. Pepper.

  Need to check up on the baby pigs.

  I pick up an iPad and step out of the house onto the porch. There’s some drops of blood here and there, faint spray, but nothing crazy. I give the front of the house a quick once-over, making sure there aren’t any major wounds from the previous battle. The place looks good. Can see a tooth just beyond the porch. One of the squirrels snatches it up in its tiny claws. Running my finger along my teeth I check to make sure it isn’t one of mine. No, we’re clear.

  Off the side of the house is a half-wood, half-metal siding shed my dad used to use. I don’t remember him in there, of course, but I’ve constructed memories through pictures and things. It’s where he used to work on his cars, his little Porsche hobby. It was his one indulgence, I’ve been told. Not a golfer or a huge sports guy or even a big drinker, but he loved working with cars. Had to keep his mind and hands busy, I guess. There’s a half-finished, rusty, black 944 still in there. The tools still rest on a mat on the hood where he left them last. I leave it all there, untouched. Some form of monument, I suppose. Don’t really think about why I haven’t touched it. It might be I’m simply a lazy-ass, but I’d guess it’s more than that.

  I take a seat in the porch swing and begin to rock back and forth. Nothing more soothing on this planet than sipping an ice-cold Dr. Pepper while swinging on a porch swing. No noise around me except for the soft wind and the occasional creak of the swing chains. I could WD-40 the chains, but that would cause it to lose some of its charm. Life out here isn’t about perfection. It’s about calm, comforting, simple living. Which it usually is, save for the recent bloodshed.

  I slide a finger to unlock the iPad.

  Fumbling around, I find the story I’ve been following. For me it’s become an odd obsession of sorts in the last few days. There’s this disease, virus I think, that’s hitting the pork industry, and its farmers are feeling the pinch. What’s troubling me is that it’s attacking only baby pigs and it’s killing them quickly. Scientist don’t know exactly how to cure it, but it’s becoming a problem. The young die off, so then you are only left with the older pigs and so there is no way to keep the circle of life thing going. It’s the reverse of what the universe intended. Fucks up the order of things. Not to mention, baby pigs are cute as shit and it makes me sad to think about baby anything dying.

  Scanning around, I see there’s no real updates other than it’s still going on and nobody knows what to do other than wait and keep fighting.

  I know the feeling.

  I swing and sip my DP, watching the world go by.

  I decide to keep my gun in my hand. I’ve learned the hard way this thing of mine can get weird in no time flat and I’d rather not go down without ruining a few people’s day. Come too damn far to let that happen. If I am going to bite the big one, might as well be here at this house. It’s a family tradition of sorts. Not a great one, but it’s the only one I know about. I’ve gotten way too comfortable with guns. To the point I feel better with one in my hand than without. This is not healthy, I
know it, but neither is anything that’s happened since New York.

  I’ve come to grips with the fact that my life will never be the same. I know that until my fellow beneficiaries and their dickhole buddies are dead, this how my life will be. Eyes wide open with gun in hand. Not to mention, there’s a car coming down my long driveway. Kicking up dirt into circular whirlwinds behind the tires and spitting gravel in every direction. Can only see an outline of the driver. Doesn’t mean there’s not more of them in there.

  I crush my DP can then head inside for my meat cleaver.

  Chapter 20

  Lizzy’s place is a modest house in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  One-story job on a plot of land with not much around it but trees, grass and some neglected sections of barbwire fence. I saw a couple of similar places on my way here. Most of them looked to be farms or ranches of some kind, but there’s a lot of land between them. So much so you might not see another human being for days. Reminds me a little of my parents’ place.

  Only this is far creepier.

  I’d traveled a few miles north outside of Austin, exited I-35 past Georgetown and made an odd turn off onto some farm roads along with a few dirt roads. The place looks like it could be a farm, but there is no sign of livestock or any crops to speak of. Unless weeds and odd yard art count as agriculture these days. Stepping out from the Porsche and walking up the rock driveway, I take in all that is the House of Lizzy.

  The roof is metal with a pink peace sign spray painted toward the left half and a large red hand with a middle finger extended painted on the right. There’s gargoyles placed on the corners of the roof as well. They appear to have some kind of red jewels or something for eyes. Light hits them right, it’s a little freaky. The front yard looks like a playground for a crazy person.

  In front of me stands a naked female mannequin with missile-shaped boobs, green nips and a Richard Nixon mask pulled over its head. Stuck in the ground is a tombstone that has RIP Jesus carved into the face of it. There’s a rusted, purple hood of a car planted into the ground providing shade for a lawn chair that has a faded image of Hank Williams Jr. plastered on the seat. There’s also a cardboard cutout of Burt Reynolds from Smokey and the Bandit and gold shell casings scattered on the ground.