by Mike McCrary
Even better, it didn’t go off during all that flipping and shit.
Small blessings.
I crawl out, slow and easy. I don’t feel great, but everything seems to still be attached. My head is bleeding, along with some scratches here and there. Knees are sore as hell, but nothing seems broken. Hurts, but not serious. I’m learning the difference between pain and injury. Of course, I could be in the middle of heavy internal bleeding and don’t know it. Bleeding out from the inside. Slow life leak. Need to stop with the crime books, really messing with my head.
I grab some grass and pull myself forward while pushing as quietly as I can with my legs. I’m in the bottom part of a ditch and can see the road is just above me. I need to climb up some so I can see over. Glancing back, I see it. I shouldn’t have looked back. You can never look back.
My Porsche. My beautiful Porsche.
It’s busted all to hell.
Look what they did to my boy.
This pisses me off more than anything. I’ll heal, but that car may never get put back together again. Sons of bitches. I feel myself getting angry.
Glob angry.
I bite my lip and push myself up, getting so I’m on all fours with my gun in my hand. Somebody is out there, I know it. I can feel them. Least I was right about one thing—somebody from the McCluskey gang was waiting for me, just not in the house. These fuckers were waiting for me on the road just outside the house. They are good, this asshole family of mine.
Is Mama McCluskey out there?
Fucking hope so. Ready to be done with this shit here.
Hey, Mama, come give us a kiss.
Looking around, I recognize where I am. I know this land. I’m about three, four hundred or so yards from the house. I can see the turnoff. The long dirt driveway that leads up to the house. Hell, I can almost make out the roof from where I am.
Seems like it’s a million miles from where I’m standing now.
Well, from where I’m bloodied up and hunched over a like dog.
Need to make a call here.
Do I try to make a run for it to the house?
Do I wait here for these assholes to show up?
Do I shoot myself and be done with it?
Kidding on the last one. Just needed to run through all the options. My brain needs to check all the boxes. Problem is, I don’t know how many of those assholes there are or, more importantly, where they are. Also, as far as the run to the house thing, not sure my legs are going to do any of that. No way to really know what kind of condition my body is in after that little tumble in the car.
Love for these assholes to pop their heads out. What’s really bothering me here with this situation is the fact I’m not terrified. I feel perfectly calm.
Why?
Why am I not curled up in a ball crying my eyes out like a normal person would be right now? I’ve always been Steady Teddy, but this is different. Am I getting used to this life in danger bit? I don’t want to be. Is it the thing that’s broken in my brain? The thing that won’t let me sleep, that won’t let me remember, that goes glob from time to time? Is it possible that’s also the thing that controls fear?
I doubt it.
Doubt I’m that lucky.
Pretty sure I’m compartmentalizing and I’ll fall apart later when it’s more convenient and appropriate. In the shower. In the shower I’ll curl up, letting the warm water wash over me, and I’ll sob like a child. Yup, I’ll come undone in the shower after I’m done killing whoever is out there.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
Like the sound of that bullshit.
Chapter 42
A rock gets kicked.
Did they just make a mistake, give up their spot?
I whip left then right, nothing. No sight of anything or anyone. This road gets little to no traffic, which is good. The last thing I want is a whole mess out here on the road. Need to keep this under wraps as much as possible.
Another sound. Like a footstep in some gravel.
Still can’t see anybody.
I ready my gun. I read the side. My Beretta. For some reason I wanted to know the name again. My breathing has picked up. I work to slow it down. I move slightly backward, getting myself behind the car. Working myself around so now I’m crouched down but on my feet. Knees crack. Thighs burn. I keep my head turning left to right, scanning the land.
Then.
I hear it behind me.
There’s several of them.
Running like hell.
All raging toward me like mad dogs released from a cage. Coming in fast, almost on me. I spin around in time to get a shot off, tagging one of the big ones in the head. Then the other big one gets close enough to breathe on me, but that’s it. I put two into him before he can get a paw on me.
Red mist poofs. Body drops.
The last one, the little fucker, slams into me hard.
Plants a shoulder into my face, bouncing my head off the side of the car. Feel my head dent the metal panel then spring back, the metal popping out after my exit.
“Fucking bitch,” he screams while punching his little fists of fury to my face. I slap my hands at his short, thick arms, trying to slow down the waves of bee stings he’s putting on me. I’m able to push him back. Swinging my noodle-arm around I get my gun level on him.
Little fucker rams into me again. Another shoulder to the face.
Head bounces off the side of the car.
My gun drops.
I shove him back as I fall forward, back to being on all fours. He steps back, pulling a gun from his shoulder holster. With what I’ve got left I jump at him as he gets a shot off. Bullet whizzes past me. I hear the clunk of it hitting my car. I land into him and we roll onto the dirt. I’m on top, got him pinned down. He drops his gun. I rain down punch after punch on his little head.
White blobs form.
Feel it start in my stomach.
“No,” I say.
Blobs taking over my sight. I can barely see what I’m punching.
“No!” I scream as loud as I can.
Blobs start to break, separate like clouds after a storm. I punch harder and harder. My sight is clear. My stomach calm. I’m beating it. I’m beating back the globs.
I’m beating him.
I chuckle.
I get knocked on my ass. The little fucker found a stick and slammed it broadside to my head. I’m down on my side watching him scramble. Like I’m watching a movie. Fuzzy head has me feeling like I’m not part of this world. Not part of what is happening in the here and now. My head is growing thick as hell, but I know it’s not me this time. It’s the beating I’m taking off this little fucker that’s messing with my head.
He’s up on his feet.
Gotta snap out of this and rip through the haze. Get clear. I turn, seeing my gun. He’s looking for his. Mine is over by the car. I crawl, fast as I can. My head pounds. Dust flies. My sight is a blur of reality. I hear him shuffle his feet in the dirt.
He’s going after his.
“I’m going to fucking kill you, bitch,” he screams as his voice get farther and farther from me.
I try to say something back, something cool and snappy, but my marble mouth can’t get anything out. At least nothing very intimidating.
My hand reaches it. I grip my gun and spin around firing without bothering to aim. I miss wide. Little fucker is up on his feet with his gun. He points it my way. I point mine and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.
His blast plunks the Porsche behind me.
I see his body take my bullets one after the other.
I watch him spin twice then fall to the dirt.
I cry. Uncontrollably.
I was wrong. Didn’t make it to the shower.
I’ll come undone right here and now, if you don’t mind.
Part 4
“There is no such thing as fun for the whole family.” -- Jerry Seinfeld
Chapter 43
I ran, best I could, over to the house an
d fired up the ancient truck my Dad used to use to tow around his Porsche projects.
Gotta say, I never thought I’d have one of my own.
The old girl drives like a tugboat stuck on dry land, but it’ll get the job done. I park it near the Porsche and hop out. The chains hit the road with a clank as I push them out of the truck bed one by one. Thank God this thing still runs. I figure I need to get this shit off the road as fast as I can. This road is less traveled, but if someone sees this sight of twisted metal, bodies and blood it’s bound to raise a question or two.
I unload the Porsche as fast as I can. The bags, the money, the weapons all get stuffed in the truck cab. The bodies are going to be a challenge. I’m able to heave the little fucker up into the truck bed, but the other bigger fellas are just not going to happen.
Being the resourceful girl that I am, I drag the bigger bodies into the Porsche. It’s a struggle but I’m able to get them in there. It’s not pretty. They’re bleeding all over the interior, but they are in there, portable and at least off the road.
Next, the Porsche.
I manage to get the chains around what’s left of the front suspension. There’s an opening that looks like it’s still holding strong near one of the tires. I think I can get the chains around it and secure it back to the truck. It’ll have to be dragged on its roof, but the damage is done and I’m only going a few hundred yards. It kills me to do it, but I’m out of great options here.
Those assholes.
Before I take off I look around, kicking dirt to cover the bloody spots that I can find. I also take some time to pick up the shell casings I can easily see. Looking up at the sky, there’s some fairly strong-looking thunderheads up there. Texas weather should do an okay job of cleaning up this little crime scene for me, but I’d rather not leave it all up to the gods of weather.
I climb into the truck and fire her up.
I think of Skinny Drake.
He’d think this was cool. He’s a mess. I miss my brother.
The Porsche makes a horrible noise as it’s being dragged behind. Scraping metal on asphalt is not all that pleasant. Once we cross the road and hit the dirt things improve greatly. Through the rearview mirror I watch the Porsche bounce and rumble down what passes for a road out here in the country.
As I make the turn as slowly as I can, I see the house. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. This is first time I’ve been here since I heard.
Since I heard the truth.
The truth as Gordo tells it.
For a second I try to come up with a reason why Gordo would lie. I try to convince myself this is all a lie. How none of this is really happening and that everything will go back to the way it was. How I can go back to my life as a bartender. A negotiator of the night. A princess. I know it’s not going to. The rest of my time on this rock is forever altered and I’m not going back. Not ever. Oh well, sometimes a girl needs her mental breaks. Her fantasies.
Especially after she’s killed three people.
I throw the truck into park and sit at the front of the house, just looking at it. My mind running through what it knows. Trying to piece together in my head the scene from years ago based on what I’ve heard from others. I’ve got new info now. Now it’s a new scene, but still it remains a scene I lived but don’t know at all.
The door was replaced years ago. Now I know Jonathan and Mama McCluskey broke it down. I don’t even know what it looked like before, other than in pictures. A faded red. They broke down that faded red door and rushed in. From what the police tell me, Mom, Dad and I were on the couch watching TV when they killed them. They meaning Jonathan and Mama McCluskey. They beat my parents to death while I watched.
So I hear.
I don’t remember.
Thank God for small favors I suppose.
I get out of the truck and head to the shed on the other side of the house. I leave it running, like to keep the air going; it’s hot as hell this time of year. Opening the shed I grab a shovel and axe then head back over to the truck.
Now I know that Mama McCluskey went off on me, almost killed me too, but Jonathan, my biological, sperm-donating shitbag, stopped her. Not before she beat the childhood out of me. He didn’t, however, stop her, or himself, from killing my parents.
No, that he did not do.
Now, he’s old and crazy and he thinks giving me some money and setting me up on a gladiator-style war with his shitty other family will make things okay somehow.
He is crazy.
He is wrong.
I will never be okay.
But I will find a way to get better.
Better starts with killing them all.
Better starts by putting these bodies I’ve got stuffed in the Porsche into the ground. I toss the axe and shovel into the back, making sure they land on the little fucker, and climb back into the truck.
Cutting the wheel hard, I drive the truck with the Porsche in tow toward the fields. I know a spot. Softer land makes for easier digging, and I’m not into working too hard on these sons of bitches.
Chapter 44
Before I start up with the burying, I think I should get some water from the house.
It’s so damn hot and I’d rather not pass out from the heat while burying the bodies. That would not look good. I’d have a lot of explaining to do when I came to at the hospital.
Walking into the house, the rush of A/C is a welcome hello. I stand under a vent, letting it work its cool, comforting fingers all over me. Eyes closed, facing a blasting air vent during a Texas summer is one of the purest forms of heaven there is. I lean forward and brace myself by holding the back of a chair at the kitchen table. I let my shoulders relax. Let my mind unravel a bit and try to think of nothing. This is a nice break. A much needed sliver of bliss.
I barely hear the door open.
Snapping from my bliss break, I spin around to see the little fucker standing inside with the door wide open.
“Shut the damn door. You’re letting the cold air out,” I bark at him while letting one hand drift over to the chair.
He stands there sucking in and out, seeping wounds peppering his body. He’s also holding a gun. He also hasn’t shut the damn door. My eyes scan quickly, looking for something I can use to kill this guy with. There’s nothing out in the open, but if I can get to the kitchen there’s a butcher block of knives and shit that could be handy.
He raises the gun.
I don’t have great options here, but I go with what I’ve got. I spin hard right, whipping the chair around with me like a shot put, letting it fly with all I’ve got, send it hurtling through the air at the little fucker.
He’s forced to use his hands to deflect it before he can get shot off. As the chair hits him I blaze toward the kitchen, hitting the counter like a raging bull. On instinct, I feel the little fucker regroup and take aim. I yank the meat cleaver free then drop low.
The window bursts above me as the little fucker takes his shot. I spring off the floor at him like an animal with my cleaver in hand. My first swipe lands to the wrist of his gun hand with a thunk. Sticks.
The gun hits the floor.
He screams.
As I hold the handle of the cleaver I look into his eyes. He’s truly afraid. All of his bullshit bravado is gone. He’s been shot a couple of times and now his hand is half off. He’ll bleed out soon. He knows it. I know it. I think about taking the cleaver and hacking him over and over again. I don’t want to. There’s this crazy moment of wanting to help him. Wishing I hadn’t done this to him.
He kicks me in the pussy.
As I pull back the cleaver comes free.
I slam it into his forehead.
Chapter 45
I’d love a shower.
Fighting a little pussy-kicking fucker and burying bodies in the Texas sun is no joke. Showering is not in my future, however. I’m too paranoid now. I can just see me washing my hair, letting the warm water rinse away the sins of the day, while an army of asshol
es comes pouring into the house and cuts me to shreds in the shower.
Not a strong idea.
No, I need to be ready at all times.
That much is clear.
Which is why I’m sitting on this porch armed, while reading about those little piggies with tears in my eyes. I’m on high alert and there’s this car tearing ass toward the house.
I jump off the swing with bat in hand and walk into the house, closing the door behind me. I lock it. Not sure that’s going to do shit, but I do it anyway. Can’t hurt.
Slipping the Beretta behind my back, I set the bat down next to the door. With my head always turned toward the windows at the front of the house, I backpedal, letting my fingers feel their way. Need to find my girl. Need to find my shotgun. Haven’t gotten to use it yet and it looked pretty when I brought it in from the busted-to-hell Porsche.
My new guest parks out front.
I stuff shells into my pockets.
The car doors open.
I give my girl a pump, move toward the front of the house and take cover at the side of the door. I’ve got a good angle, but it could be better. Can always be better. Don’t have time for better. Whoever’s out there is here and they ain’t waiting for an invite. Peeking through the curtains, I see two men step out from the car.
I can’t fucking believe it.
Skinny Drake and Gordo shield their eyes from the sun.
I exhale.
I think about shooting them both.
Chapter 46
I almost tear the door off the hinges.
Storming from the door I boom, “What in the fucking hell?” I feel my legs charging hard at them, my shotgun still firmly in hand.
“Hey,” says Skinny Drake.