Tentacle Death Trip

by Jordan Krall

  “What do you want? You said it yourself you don’t have any toys. You want some? I got some. Got a Rubik’s Cube, some board games, some Boglins. I don’t have kids, but well, maybe someday. I might have to build one myself.” He laughed. “Maybe you want some food, some meat, some magazines, girls. Shit, I got a lot.”

  “Well, I don’t have much to trade,” Samson said.

  “What? Maybe you’re not interested in all that, fine. But I got cars, man. Real cars, not toys. I saw you didn’t drive here. You had a hitch a ride from some trucker. So maybe you need a car.”

  Samson shook his head and looked around. The cement paintings were overwhelming. It was just scene after scene of elaborate violence and inenarrable sex involving obscure shapes and horrified faces. Train wrecks, flesh pistols, car crashes, marital discord, and joyful assassinations. He thought he saw some paintings of dwarves in a jungle…holding guns in front of a spaceship.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” the young man’s voice broke Samson’s concentration.

  “What?”

  “You looked messed up, man. You need something? You a Zoner? You need drugs or something? I can get you some.”

  “No, no drugs,” Samson said. He blinked a few times, looked over at the cement paintings, but did not see the dwarves again. “What’s this about a car?”

  “I got lots of cars, man. Lots of them,” he said. “I just need a guy to help me do some work. Nothing major, just putting together some machines. It’s going to take me a while if I do it by myself and all these people in town are too preoccupied with all this cement shit. If they’re not staring at those pictures, they’re reading old Tom Clancy novels. So I need all the help I can get. You in?”

  Samson thought about it. The offer wasn’t uncommon. Oftentimes people in towns would hire outsiders to help them with tasks no one else would assist with. It was usually back-breaking work rewarded by a rare but near worthless token of payment like a bag of jewelry, a paperback book, or a can of creamed corn.

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  “Great.” The young man brought Samson to a large yard enclosed by large cement slabs. A dilapidated Victorian house stood in the yard in the midst of a dozen cars, all freshly waxed and weaponized.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, rebuilt them all myself.” The young man winked. “Well, maybe with a little help.”

  “So all I got to do is help you with something?”

  “Oh yeah, you help me with something and when we’re done, all you got to do is look at all the cars,” the young man said, waving his hand at the cars. “Then…..choose.”

  It took Samson close to six hours to help the man with the work which was mind-boggling to him. Though he followed the man’s directions carefully, he had no clue as to what the task actually was. There was moving of machine parts, old manuals, plastic tubing, glass domes of all sizes, metal pipes, cans of liquid and unidentifiable junk. Samson felt like he was in a haze. He could hear the man’s directions and could feel his body follow those directions but he felt there was another part of him that was simply daydreaming. While hauling the equipment, Samson’s peripheral vision was clouded by dull light.

  Once they were done, the young man patted Samson on the back and said, “You’ve been a big help. Thanks.”

  Without any question, Samson walked over to a car that was in the middle of the yard. It was so appealing, it made Samson feel ashamed for not having noticed it earlier. It had obviously been custom made but it looked almost biological in its construction. He said, “That one.”

  The young man laughed. “Well then, I guess our trade is over.” He brought Samson over to the car and explained the various intricacies of operating that specific vehicle. There was a lot to take in considering it had been equipped with custom weapons.

  Afterwards, Samson took the keys and thanked the man. Then he said, “Hey, I never got your name. I’m Samson.”

  The young man looked up into the sky, his bright blue eyes turning dark and said, “I’m Simon Revair.”

  II.

  While making their way out of the Zone of Dead Roads, Samson taught Paulo how to use a gun.

  The boy learned quickly and that was a good thing. Samson mentally kicked himself for not doing it earlier. The race was only going to get tougher and he might need an extra set of hands even if those hands were young ones wielding a deadly weapon.

  “I think you’ve got it, kid. Now just don’t point the thing at me, okay?” Samson laughed.

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t worry, I don’t think we’re going to be seeing many more of those Zoners. We’re almost to Atlantic City. We’re going to see a whole different type of creepy people.”

  “Who?”

  “Spectators.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “The audience. The people who are watching us right now.” Samson pointed at the cameras attached to obsolete the obsolete telephone poles along the side of the road. Some were also placed on billboards, buildings, and trees.

  “People are…..watching us?”

  “Yeah, kid. All this we’ve been doing, it’s entertainment for them.” Samson had briefly told Paulo about the race before but it looked like the boy didn’t grasp the full concept of it, that they were involved in a blood sport, a death race. If they reached Atlantic City and were the losers of the race, there was a good possibility the audience would tear them apart simply because they had failed to win. Ironically, if they were the winners, they might possible be torn apart out from the rabid, bloodthirsty fanfare. And Mr. Silver would love every second of it.

  “Are we winning?” Paulo said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I just hope we make it there alive.” Samson regretted saying it as soon as it came out of his mouth. He saw Paulo wince.

  “Me, too,” the boy said, turning to the window.

  They drove down the highway that connected Atlantic City to the rest of New Jersey. Though the highway itself wasn’t inhabited, it was home to various mutated animals who sought haven in the potholes.

  On the horizon, Samson saw Atlantic City, neon-bright even in the daytime. The buildings were crooked post-nuclear fingers, a few almost tipping over into its neighbor. They were former casino hotels, a thing of the pre-war past, and a reminder of carefree vices that had been indulged in. On the tops of the buildings there were huge yellow flags waving slowly in the wind. To Samson they looked like huge, heavy slices of golden flesh.

  As they drove closer, zig-zagging around the potholes and scurrying two-headed rabbits, Samson and Paulo both gasped at the sight of something coming into their field of vision. Though it was blocked by the casinos, the object gave off a striking, dark green glow that overshadowed everything around it.

  Samson’s bowels churned. He took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car coast around the potholes.

  “What is that?” Paulo said.

  “R’lyeh,” Samson said. “It’s R’lyeh.”

  III.

  Five Years Ago

  Samson now had a car. He had a purpose. He was going to get his son back.

  Despite there being no real long distance communication, word traveled fast through post-war America. Stories were told and rumors were spread from trade bus to caravan to wasteland towns.

  For two years Samson asked around about a biker named Tomato and received bits and pieces of information. Some bits conflicted with others but what he did find out was that there was a guy named Tomato Joe who led a group of bikers and the last time anyone saw him, he was headed to north Jersey.

  As soon as Samson heard this from three different people, he drove his car through New Jersey, stopping only to gather more information on Tomato Joe. At this point Samson had been preparing himself with a strict fitness regimen consisting of push-ups, sit-ups, and weight-lifting with whatever heavy objects he could find: small boulders, engine blocks, tires. Though never much of a fighter before, he practiced punching into sand, glass, and asphalt. He
hit himself in the face as well. The pain didn’t matter. He wanted to make himself immune to it.

  Eventually Samson met a man named Marsh who operated a small trading post in what used to be the city of New Providence. Marsh was dark and wrinkled, so much so that at first Samson thought the man was wearing a mask.

  “You hear of a biker named Tomato Joe?” he had asked Marsh.

  The man squinted, the wrinkles on his face turning into a map of ancient despair. His throat gargled. “Tomato Joe, you say?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You a friend of his?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Marsh nodded. “Good. He’s a piece of shit.”

  “I know.”

  “Last I heard he went over to Jersey City. Don’t know if he’s still there but that’s what I heard.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Saw him a while ago. Why?”

  “Did he have anyone with him?”

  “Just those goddamn bikers of his.”

  “No, I mean….other people.”

  Marsh looked up at the sky and then at Samson. “You trying to say he took someone?”

  Samson nodded. “Yeah. Do you remember if he had anyone with him like…a kid?”

  Marsh said, “Couldn’t really tell you either way. Maybe he did, I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time. He always does that sort of thing, takes people, sells ‘em. I know he’s been in business with Silver for a while.”

  “Silver.”

  “Yep,” Marsh said. “Now, you gonna buy something or what?”

  Samson had appeased the man and bought a few cans of provisions. Then he sped off to Jersey City in search of Tomato Joe.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wow! This race is surprising even me and I’ve seen a lot of shit, lemme tell you!

  Mama Hell is now in…..well, I’d like to think she’s in heaven, right? I mean, she was a good, God-fearing woman. But she sure as hell got the brunt of Drac’s “pure road hell brutality” and sure made a mess in Lord Bing Bong’s place.

  And speaking of Lord Bing Bong, did everyone see him get gut-fucked by Drac’s tentacle? Shit, I haven’t seen a death like that since Dixon Myers got gutted by Chainsaw Cook. Now that was a mess! So Drac wins the special prize and we’ll all find out what that is when he reaches Atlantic City.

  But who’s going to win this electrifying death race, eh? I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine!

  *

  I.

  Drac thought he was in first place until he saw the exhaust from Samson’s car about a half mile ahead.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, half-heartedly. He was, in fact, quite glad he was facing Samson in the last leg of the race. There was something about the man that made Drac know he was a worthy competitor, someone deserving of his respect.

  He sped up, navigating around the potholes and the freakish animals that ran across the road, almost daring him to turn them into radioactive road kill. He put down the top of his convertible and locked the gas pedal down. He stood on the driver’s seat, crouching down just enough to be able to steer the car with one hand. With the other he held his giant, white gun.

  Then Drac saw R’lyeh.

  He nearly fell out of the car. The ancient city, rising up from behind the casino hotels, struck fear into him.

  But he had to keep driving.

  With a high-pitched scream, Drac Dunwich cocked his gun and steered around the potholes towards Samson’s car.

  II.

  One Year Ago

  Jersey City was a shitty place before the war so there wasn’t much of a contrast when Samson drove into town. Dilapidated housing and burnt out urban areas made up much of the landscape. In the center was the Northern Compound but that was off limits to everyone unless they had specific permission to enter from the gangster warlord himself Mr. Silver.

  Samson wasn’t interested in Silver, though. He was looking for Tomato Joe.

  Most people living in Jersey City were heavily into drugs. That wasn’t strange. The war had turned the country upside down and those who already had unstable lives found themselves pushed into any form of escape.

  He drove slowly through the streets, looking for any sign of Tomato’s biker gang. The sound of a motorcycle sounded in the distance and he stopped the car and rolled down the window to listen.

  Yeah, it was a motorcycle engine. But then: a click and a voice.

  “Get outta the fuckin car, asshole,” it said, a high-pitched whisper.

  Samson turned his head to the left and saw a guy in a reverse mohawk standing there with a small revolver pointed at him. He was really just a kid, couldn’t be no more than sixteen, seventeen years old. Samson shook his head slightly. It was a shame.

  “Just back up, kid,” he said. “I’ve got no business with you.”

  The punk nodded quickly, causing the numerous metal rings on his face to jingle. His lips quivered and drool leaked out of a hole in his chin. “Oh yeah? Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  The punk cocked the revolver.

  “Well, maybe I got business with you, old man.”

  Samson didn’t want to do it but it seemed like the only option. “Just walk the fuck away.”

  From behind a car, another voice shouted, “What’s taking so long, Trash?”

  The punk with the revolver turned his head, just a little bit, and said, “Shut the hell up, Ogre!”

  Samson saw his chance and while Trash had turned his attention to his friend, he grabbed his own gun and shot the punk in the chest. He started the car and stepped on the gas. In the rearview mirror he saw the guy named Ogre kneeling by his bleeding comrade and shaking his fist at Samson.

  The motorcycle sound had multiplied. Samson rounded a corner, almost running down a junkie waving a red and black flag.

  Then he saw them. “Bingo.”

  The motorcycle gang was coming right for him. Samson recognized a few of them. How could he forget? They all wore the same patches as Tomato Joe’s gang. Bullwhips were wrapped around their necks.

  He put the gas pedal to the floor and sped up towards the gang, swerving to the right, and knocking into them. Two of the bikers flew off their vehicles and onto the sidewalk while two others drove straight into a storefront.

  Samson didn’t see Tomato Joe but he sure was going to find out where the guy was. He turned his car around and got out of it, holding his gun in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. The nearest biker to him was lying on the ground with a broken leg. One of his ribs was jutting out of his white t-shirt.

  Samson walked up to him and hit him across the face with the bat. “Bowsman.”

  The biker screamed. “What the fuck, man!”

  “You don’t remember me?” Samson said. “I remember you…Bowsman.”

  The other biker was reaching for something. Samson shot him in the face. He looked back down at Bowsman and lifted the bat.

  Bowsman said, “What the fuck you doing, man?”

  “Where’s my son?”

  “Who?”

  “My son.” Samson hit him in the chest, the wooden bat making contact with the exposed rib.

  The biker screamed. “Shit, man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “What about Tomato Joe? Where is he?”

  “Fuck you, man!”

  Another hit to the rib.

  “Where is he?”

  “Okay, fuck, man. He’s at Goehrig’s.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Down the road, man. Place that says ‘bakery’ on it.” Bowsman grimaced and rolled over, his rib scraping against the sidewalk, sending chills up Samson’s spine.

  “Does he still have a boy with him?”

  “Man, you’re crazy.”

  Samson put his gun in his waistband and held the baseball bat with two hands. He swung it at Bowsman’s shoulder, dislocating it. “Fine, I’m crazy.”

  From behind him, Samson could hear the other t
wo bikers climbing out of the storefront rubble. He grabbed his gun and swung it in their direction. “Just stay where you are, assholes.”

  They nodded. Their heads were cut and they were bleeding profusely.

  Samson got into his car and put it in reverse, backing up a half a block. Then he sped up onto the sidewalk and ran over Bowsman.

  He drove up the road and found the building that said Goehrig’s Bakery. The windows were boarded up and the front of it was spray-painted with graffiti: Free the Noid, Frankie Booth waz hair, SNIPERZ says Sit Still, Jack’s Back, Eat Bonkerz.

  There was a motorcycle parked in front. Samson parked next to it and got out of the car, his gun in one hand and the baseball bat in the other.

  He opened the front door and walked into darkness.

  A quiet and exhausted voice said, “Bowsman, that you?”

  Samson stood still. “Nope, not Bowsman.”

  “Mayo?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ingmar?”

  “Guess again.”

  “Who the fuck then?”

  Samson walked towards the voice, through a hallway, and into a large kitchen. There he was: Tomato Joe. He was sitting at a table in front of a giant oven. The man was skinny, shirtless, and a plunging a needle into his arm.

  “You don’t look like much,” Samson said.

  “Fuck are you?”

  “I guess you don’t remember.”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Bowsman didn’t remember either,” Samson said, stepping closer so Tomato Joe could get a better look. “So I ran him over with my car.”

  “Listen, asshole, get the fuck out of here.” He looked down at the syringe and emptied the contents into his vein.

  The baseball bat slammed down on his forearm, cracking it. Blood and drugs splattered the table. Tomato screamed.

  “Where’s my son?” Samson said, lifting the bat and slamming it into Tomato Joe’s chest, knocking him backward to the floor.

  Samson stood over him, pointing the gun at Tomato’s face.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What son?”

  “My son. You took him. I was driving with my family on the road and you pulled us over. You took him away. Where did you take him?”