The Nightcrawler

by Mick Ridgewell

  Scott decided the time had come to put an end to this shit. He got out of the car slamming the door. The door made no sound. There should have been a bang audible from a quarter mile but Scott didn’t hear it from inches away. Through the open window George still boomed.

  Scott looked to the front of the car. The bum was gone. Scott stood staring at the exact spot yet there was nobody there. In fact, there was no sign of anything. No weeds, trees or fences were visible to mark the roadside. No roadside that he could see. No cars or trucks approached in either direction. He saw no moon and no stars in the sky. Just the Charger. If it weren’t for the solid ground beneath his feet Scott could have been convinced he was floating in space. Then the smell, that terrible, unmistakable smell hit him. The same rank odor that repulsed him in front of C.S. and T. Squinting into the blackness, he began to pan around. He was alone. The air was neither hot or cold, it wasn’t anything. It didn’t move or feel dry or humid. Goose bumps began to rise at the nape of his neck and suddenly he was glad the bum had disappeared.

  Scott turned to get back in the car and there he was. As ugly and noxious as any creature had ever been and he was standing inches away. Scott felt a scream of terror escape from his throat just before his throat collapsed in a spasm of fright. He staggered back and fell landing hard on his ass, the flesh of his hands were scraped from their impact on the rough surface of the pavement as they sprung back to brace his fall.

  The foul smelling vagrant advanced and Scott pistoned his legs in retreat until he pressed against the front tire of the car. Standing directly over him, the bum reached out and pointed his finger like a gun the same way he did in Detroit. He just stood over Scott pointing that make-believe revolver. Scott sat against the car trembling, unaware that he had wet his pants.

  “Who the fuck are you?” His voice was shaky but otherwise loud and clear. “Let’s say you just call me the Nightcrawler. Okay, Scott?” Then something began to extend from the pointed finger, almost like the digit was elongating toward Scott. It stretched about a foot, and as thin as bootlace. Extending until it fell off in Scott’s wet lap.

  Not wanting to look but unable to stop himself, Scott saw a huge earth worm squirming around on his wet lap. Scott brushed the nightcrawler off his pants and noticed the wet fabric. He wanted to cry like a baby but he held it back. Then the clicking sound rose above George Thorogood. Scott looked up just in time to see the Nightcrawler collapse into a pile of worms that buried him to his waist. He scrambled away from the writhing mass screaming; this time he heard his own scream.

  The darkness was gone. He was sitting in the passenger seat and Ashley was driving. The sky was an angry charcoal color and lightning was dancing violently across the horizon. Ashley turned to him and said in a Darth Vader sounding mechanical voice, “Welcome back.” She smiled, showing sickeningly black teeth. Then she started to laugh loudly and eerily and worms began to spew out of her mouth, filling the car.

  He woke himself with a wail, pressed against the passenger side door. He stared at Ashley, his eyes wide and filled with terror and confusion. He woke from the blackness of the dream to the early evening twilight. Startled by his scream, Ashley swerved toward the edge of the pavement. The right front tire caught the gravel shoulder and she lost control. The loose gravel on the road’s edge pulled the car over and she began to fight the Charger’s desire to fishtail into the ditch. Scott managed to overcome the nightmare, his gaze darted from Ashley to the terrain ahead, and then back to Ashley. He began to bark instructions “slow down, get back on the road…” She ignored him and with the skill of a NASCAR champion, she managed to regain control then gently applied the brakes, coming to a stop in the deep grass just beyond the gravel. The menacing sky temporarily blotted out by the dust cloud kicked up by the tires.

  “Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?” Scott’s voice was shaky and sweat beaded on his face.

  “Well first thing, what did you go screaming for? You scared the shit out of me. And second, if you’re going to sleep and make me do all the driving then shut the hell up when I’m trying to regain control, you asshole.” She paused for a moment, then beamed with devilish mischief and added, “Like, was that a wicked cool ride or what?”

  He calmed down knowing everything she said was bang on. “Cool ride. We could have been killed.” The smirk on her face had overcome him and they both burst into spasms of laughter.

  “We all gotta go sometime, Scottie,” she said through the guffaws as though she had just ridden the best amusement ride in the country. “That musta been some dream. You were moanin’ and groanin’ then you screamed something. I couldn’t make it out but it sounded like you were getting murdered or something. Scared the crap outta me. Can’t imagine what you were going through.”

  She released the brake pedal and guided the dusty car back onto the road. The surrounding landscape seemed featureless; the color was bleached out of the grass by a midsummer drought. They drove past a billboard inviting travelers to stop in on Ronald McDonald just ten miles ahead.

  “A Big Mac and fries sounds good, Scottie.”

  Scott jumped a bit at the sudden break in the silence. “It’s Scott, and I guess that’d be fine.” He resumed his blank gaze at the storm that seemed to be rushing at them like a charging bull though neither Scott nor Ashley had given it much concern. He was embarrassed. He had woken in fear. First, it was fear of the events in the dream. Then he began to think he was losing his mind, which scared him more than any dream or stalking vagrant.

  He couldn’t remember being this scared since he was six and wandered away from his dad at the fishing expo in Toledo. He had meandered around amongst hundreds of people, crying to himself. His daddy didn’t like cry babies and Scott didn’t want his daddy to not like him, so he wouldn’t cry. No sir, Scottie Randall wasn’t going to cry. He just walked around looking down so nobody could see the tears in his eyes. Six years old, scared to death, but he was not going to let anyone see him cry, especially not Daddy.

  Little Scottie heard someone shout his name through the din of the crowd. When he looked in the direction of the voice he saw his dad standing on the bow of a bass boat waving. Across the sea of men in denim and plaid, Scottie saw his father standing on that boat waving to his little boy. Scottie ran to that boat and his dad pulled him up and held him tight.

  “I didn’t cry, Daddy,” he said. Then the well opened and he sobbed uncontrollably for what felt like hours. When he stopped, he looked up at his daddy, “I didn’t mean to cry, Daddy. Do you still like me?” That was when he noticed that his dad had tears on his own cheeks.

  “Daddy, why are you crying?”

  His dad pulled him close again and told him he would always like him. Now here he was, a grown man at the peak of his professional life, scared shitless and wishing he had his daddy and thinking, ”I didn’t cry, Daddy.”

  A crack of thunder brought his attention back to the here and now. That was when they saw it. A huge funnel had descended from the black clouds. The sky all around had turned an ominous shade of green. Golf ball sized hailstones pelted down on the Charger. Scott and Ashley cranked the windows up as fast as they could, but both took hits from the ice cold projectiles. The noise in the car was thunderous, like being trapped inside a kettle drum during a percussion solo.

  Ahead there was an overpass, barely visible through the rain that rushed in torrents horizontally at them. Parked near the embankment, a Chevy Suburban rocked violently in the wind. Ashley guided the Charger to a stop behind the Suburban.

  “Come on,” she yelled.

  They both struggled to get the doors open. The wind was pushing against the doors like sails on a schooner. Scott managed to get out and ran around to help Ashley. Just as he rounded the front of the car, a gust hit her door hard knocking her to the ground. The same gust blew Scott over and he landed hard on one knee. The gale was beginning to barrel roll Ashley away from the shelter of the overpass and into the open. Scott crawled toward he
r, the wet pavement abrasive on his hands and knees. He managed to grab her by the wrists, stopping her from rolling away. They helped each other crawl past the Charger and the Suburban.

  The green sky was now blotted out by deep blackness. It was as though Satan himself had stolen the sun from the sky. The frequent flashes of lightning were the only break from the unnatural dark. A warp speed parade of paper cups, cigarette packs, old newspapers and a host of other discarded waste whizzed past them as they slowly made their way on hands and knees to the overpass they hoped would provide shelter. Parked under the bridge just in front of the Suburban was a red Caravan and in front of that an old Winnebago. Next to the Caravan, a concrete pillar rose to the underside of the bridge. Scott motioned Ashley to it. They wrapped their arms tightly around a support pillar. Ashley sat directly against the pillar and Scott behind her, his arms around her and the upright. Their backs were to the wind, oblivious to what might be coming their way.

  When the twister reached the bridge it sent debris through the tunnel-like enclosure at seventy, maybe eighty miles per hour, or could it have been one-fifty. Scott watched the objects fly by at blinding speed while Ashley buried her face against his arm.

  The debris was not all paper. He could make out some of the items that whizzed by careening off the bridge supports and the vehicles. He saw tree limbs, hubcaps and all manner of unidentifiable objects flying by in a blur. A destination sign reading, “Salina 75 Miles” wedged into the windshield of the Caravan for a moment and then continued through the van and came out of the rear window slightly altered. Now it read “lina 75 mil”. The sound of the rushing wind was a high constant roar unlike anything Scott had ever heard or would ever forget.

  A metallic scraping sound caused Scott and Ashley to turn in horror as the Winnebago’s front wheels lifted off the ground and began grazing the roof of the tunnel. The RV began moving slowly toward the upright they clung to. If they let go, they’d be swept away by the wind. If they stayed put they would surely be crushed by the runaway camper. The roof of the Winnebago struck the underside of the bridge again, breaking off chunks of concrete, which were hurled through the air like Nolan Ryan fastballs, disintegrating the windshield of the Suburban. Without a windshield, the SUV became a two-ton kite. It left the ground and disappeared into the dark sky. The RV crashed back to the ground and stayed there wounded, but no longer threatening. The roar of the rushing air through the underpass was relentless and horrific. Scott and Ashley were soaked to the skin and shivered from cold and fear.

  As fast as the tornado whipped through the tunnel, it was gone. The subsequent silence was both welcome and eerie. The monster had passed. Scott hadn’t released his grip on the pillar. He sat relieved and collected himself.

  Then he said, “That was a close call, eh kiddo?”

  When he looked at Ashley her head was slumped on her left shoulder. The shivering he’d felt was his alone, Ashley felt cold and lifeless against his chest. A stream of blood coursed down the side of her face and dripped to her shoulder where it collected in the fabric of her shirt. Scott lowered her to the ground and looked for the source of the bleeding. She had a large gash on the side of her head. Struck by debris or maybe a piece of the bridge broke off by the motor-home. He looked up and saw people shuffling down from a small wedge-shaped enclosure at the top of the embankment beneath the overpass. They had to be the owners of the camper, the van and the SUV. They had all crawled up, crammed against the underside of the bridge hoping for shelter from the monster. They were cautiously making their way down.

  Scott yelled at them, panic evident in his eyes.

  “She’s hurt. We need help.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beth turned into the parking lot of the ballpark at just after 4:30, the Challenger’s rear end fishtailing in the loose gravel, kicking up a billowing cloud of white dust that drifted over the infield reducing visibility to zero. When the dust finally cleared, Roger and Beth were already sitting on the hood of the car.

  Jackson Walker made his way through the dust. He was standing ten feet from the car, when the cloud drifted off. “God damn, Bethy. D’you know what time it is? Where you been?”

  “Daddy, you know what that idiot Ray is like. He wouldn’t give us a uniform without putting a nickname on the back. It took him twenty minutes because he spelled Vermont wrong twice.”

  “Well, as long as you’re here. You can get dressed over there, kid. Let’s see what you got.”

  Roger picked up the new leather bag at his feet and went to the dugout. He was very impressed with the stadium. When he agreed to this gig he pictured himself playing with Shoeless Joe Jackson in a ballpark cut out of a corn field. This field was anything but. The infield was green and plush. The base paths were smooth and chalked to perfection. The expanse of the outfield was a sea of green that didn’t fit in with the mid-summer burnt yellow of the surrounding landscape. Inside the dugouts the walls were freshly painted and there was a set of stairs leading down a tunnel to the locker room. Roger stopped at the top of the steps and turned to look at the scene just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage.

  “Well kid, you gonna play or watch?”

  “Sorry, Jack. I’ll be right out”

  When Roger got back to the dugout, the whole team was standing at the on-deck circle looking at him.

  “So.” Jack said. “What position do you play, kid?”

  “I usually play middle infield but I’ll go where ever you need me.”

  “Give him Billy’s spot at short, Daddy,” Beth chimed in with a giggle.

  “Bethy, you hush now. Kid you can start in Davey’s spot out in left.

  “Daddy, shouldn’t we see if this guy can play before we pencil him in?” Billy said. He was talking to Jack but he was looking at Beth.

  Roger walked over to Billy and offered his hand. “Hi Billy. Roger Morris. I tell you what. I’ll go out to left and you hit five fly balls out to me. If you make it to first more than once, I’ll sit on the bench or up in the stands with Beth, if that’s what you’d like. And by the way, your fly is down.”

  “Hot damn, he’s a pistol,” Jack chirped.

  Before Billy could zip up and respond Roger was trotting out to left and settled into the middle of left field. Billy dug into the batter’s box and turned his attention to the team still gathered around the on-deck circle.

  “Well Jimmy, get out there and pitch me some.”

  Jimmy was about thirty with dark hair and eyes and a friendly face. On his back in capital letters was CAT. Roger thought of all the men in uniform on the field Jimmy looked less like a cat than anyone. He was stout with a slight belly hanging over his belt and his legs were as thick as telephone poles.

  Jimmy looked out at Roger standing casually all alone in the outfield. “You ready out there?” Jimmy called in a squeaky little voice that didn’t seem to fit his appearance. Roger just waved his glove at Jimmy and settled his hands on his knees in a semi crouched position.

  Jimmy looped the first pitch to the plate and Billy fouled it back to the fence then walked back to retrieve the ball. He tossed it at the crowd announcing, “Jeb, how ’bout doing some catching here.”

  Jack told him if he hit the ball in the other direction he wouldn’t need a catcher.

  Jeb, a muscular kid about eighteen grabbed a ball and threw it to the mound. Jimmy looped another in and Billy launched a shot directly at Roger but deep. Roger turned on his heel but that one caught him by surprise and bounced off the left field fence. Roger picked up the ball and threw it feebly back to Jimmy who had to walk over and pick it up on the base-path between second and third.

  Roger resumed his position and Billy launched another one to the same spot. This time Roger was ready and pulled it down with his back to the infield. He made two more running catches. One was a diving grab that would have impressed the outfield coaches at Yankee Stadium.

  The last fly ball was a gork that may or may not have made it over the head of the short s
top. Billy was trotting toward first base glancing over at Jack with a superior look on his face. He had just beaten the smartass. Roger on the other hand charged the ball with unequalled determination. He caught the ball on one hop and fired it at first base. The ball sailed across first on a rope. It crossed the center of the bag two steps before Billy’s foot touched down.

  Roger joined Billy and the team at first where Billy was getting ribbed by the team for lollygagging his way up the base line. Billy offered his hand to Roger and welcomed him to the team.

  By the time Roger’s fielding clinic had ended, the Double-D boys had started to trickle in. Dan Mandville was the first to greet Billy and the rest.

  “You ready for another lickin’ this year, Walker?”

  Dan was tall and thin. He was a fairly good looking guy in a down on the farm sort of way and spoke with just a hint of hick. “How you doin’, Beth? You wanna sit on the winner’s side like last year or are you gonna hang with your brother’s losers?”

  Beth flashed him a hand gesture that she would normally not use in the presence of her daddy, then walked over and sat beside Bobbie and Nora who had already taken seats in the first row behind the Three-B’s dugout.

  Billy passed possession of the field to Double-D and his team took seats. The Double-D’s began taking batting practice. Roger stared at them with every swing, studying the way they moved and where they hit the ball. Then he noticed that his teammates were chatting and heckling. Not wanting to step on anybody’s toes he quietly made his way over to Billy and suggested he try to get his guys to study the hitting patterns of the other team, since they appeared to be so willing to show everything they had. By the time Billy had made his way across the bench the heckling was replaced with whispers and finger pointing with each crack of the bat.