Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3)

by Patrick Logan

  Gregory swore and slapped the side of his neck. When he pulled his hand away and inspected it, there was a thick black smear in the center of his palm.

  “Damn parasites,” Gregory muttered, smearing the deer fly’s corpse on his jeans.

  Tyler looked at the man and nodded in approval.

  “Pretty impressive, Mr. Gr—”

  Again Tyler was interrupted, but this time it was not a curse and a slap that drew his attention, but the sound of an explosion that ripped through the cabin.

  3.

  The car swerved to the left, but Gregory quickly righted the vehicle and pulled it onto the soft shoulder, all the while stomping madly with his left foot in an attempt to put out the flames.

  “Kent!” he yelled, jamming the car into park even before it was fully stopped. “Grab the water!”

  Kent shoved the sleeping bag to one side, rummaged through the fishing poles and tackleboxes, and grabbed the four-gallon plastic jug from behind his father’s seat.

  “Here!” he shouted, almost throwing the plastic bottle into the front seat. The smell of burning plastic filled his nose and mouth, and he coughed.

  Tyler was already halfway out of the vehicle, but he paused to reach back inside and grab the bottle from Kent. He quickly unscrewed the cap and then passed it to Gregory, who was still stomping furiously, with both feet now, at the small flames that continued to lick the pedals from somewhere beneath the dash.

  Kent pulled the door open and exited the car, taking big gulps of air, trying to force the caustic smell from his throat.

  By the time he made it around the car to his father’s side, the fire was already out. The three of them stood there by the side of the road, only a couple of feet from the car, their eyes fixed on the still bubbling driver side floor mat.

  “Huh,” Gregory grunted after nearly a minute of silence, his eyes locked on the warped plastic that slowly began to flatten as it cooled.

  Another few moments passed, none of them sure what to say next; Gregory’s grunt fairly accurately expressed their collective feelings. Clearly, they were all a little embarrassed at how they had overreacted to the small fire.

  “What happened?” Tyler asked at long last as he jammed his hands into his jean pockets.

  Gregory shrugged.

  “Dunno.”

  “Electrical?”

  “Probably the catalytic converter,” Gregory offered, his tone strangely nonchalant. “Been having trouble with some gunk buildup in there lately.”

  Tyler nodded.

  More silence.

  As the caustic smoke cleared from the passenger seat, Kent stared intently into the car, attempting to assess the extent of the damage.

  A melted floor mat, warped plastic on the inside of the door, and some of the underside of the driver’s seat had turned black, the leather cracked and split; all in all, it really wasn’t that serious.

  “Well it sounded bad,” he offered with a shrug.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, but when he went to brush it away, he missed and nearly poked himself in the eye with a trembling finger.

  “I think it was the converter,” Gregory repeated, more to himself this time than to either of the boys. He sighed, and then added, “Only one way to find out.”

  With that, Gregory reached into the car and pulled the hood release latch on the lefthand side of the steering wheel. Then he grabbed the nearly empty jug of water from the damp ground and brought it to his lips, gulping loudly. Water spilled down his chin, which he promptly wiped away with the back of his arm.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  * * *

  Gregory had been right; it was the catalytic converter that had started the fire. Although he went to great lengths to explain what had happened, how it had become clogged, then how it must have burst a rivet and fuel had leaked onto the casing—blah, blah, blah—Kent blocked most of this out; unlike his father, he had little interest in cars, aside from their obvious convenience. Tyler, on the other hand, appeared rapt, hanging on his every word.

  “Can we drive without it?” Kent asked hesitantly, unsure of whether or not this was a completely moronic question.

  Gregory turned to face his son. Kent half expected to see one of his father’s patented sidelong smirks—the infamous Griddle ‘C’mon now’ expression—but instead, the man’s handsome features were soft and almost flaccid.

  “You ever been on a Harley?” he asked, scratching at the stubble on his cheek.

  Kent made a face; of course he hadn’t been on a bike—and his dad knew that.

  “I have,” Tyler answered.

  Gregory nodded as if to say, I knew you had, and Kent’s expression became a frown.

  “Well, you’re gonna experience what it sounds like, at least,” Gregory finished.

  The man let go of the hood and it closed loudly. As he made his way back to the open driver’s side door, he traced a finger across the hood and over the front wheel well.

  “And yes,” he added, “we can drive without it.”

  4.

  “You got what I need, girl,” Kent belted from the backseat. He had to nearly scream for his voice to be heard over the raw rumble of the engine. “Girl, you got what I need!”

  Gregory bobbed his head with the tune, then ran the backs of his fingers up the air vent, making a thrrup sound. He followed this up by strumming his fingers on the dash: brrd.

  “Yeah,” Kent continued, “you got what I need, girl!”

  Thrrup, brrd brrd brrd.

  The sounds melted into the engine’s barks, generating an oddly robotic cacophony.

  Tyler laughed and shook his head.

  “You guys don’t even know the words!”

  Kent responded by singing the next verse even louder.

  When the song finally ended, Tyler shook his head again and turned his sweat-covered face to the backseat.

  “You guys,” he said, then mouthed are fucked to his friend.

  Now it was Kent’s turn to laugh.

  “C’mon, Tyler, you can’t tell me you don’t like that tune,” Gregory said.

  Tyler turned back to the front seat.

  “No way.”

  Gregory turned to him, eyeing his Metallica T-shirt.

  “What, only heavy metal for you?” Gregory asked with a smirk.

  “Yeah.”

  “I bet you don’t even know any of their songs.”

  “Who? Metallica?”

  Gregory nodded.

  “Sure do! Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets—”

  Gregory didn’t let him finish.

  “You are too young to know Metallica.”

  Tyler rolled his eyes.

  “You know, when I was your age, I used to go to all the Metallica concerts—back before they started to go all pop.”

  Tyler scoffed.

  “Pop? You were just singing Britney Spears!” he accused.

  Kent laughed again.

  “Not Britney Spears,” Gregory corrected the boy.

  “Whatever, same shit.”

  “Gotta like ‘em all,” Gregory added, as he reached forward and turned down the radio.

  They drove without speaking for the next little while, their molars rattling from the engine noise. Eventually, the road before them transitioned from a deep black tarmac to a faded grey, then to one consisting of more dirt and rocks than asphalt.

  Kent continued to pull the shirt away from his body every few minutes, now more in an effort to cool himself than to alleviate the uncomfortable feeling of it clinging to his body. After Gregory had removed the catalytic converter, not only did the car sound like a 747 taking off, but for some reason the AC unit had stopped working as well; the only thing coming out of the air vents were small bursts of lukewarm air, like the final gasps of a wheezing old man.

  “Engine is getting too hot,” Greg said, more to himself than to anyone else. His eyes flicked to the temperature gauge on the dash, watching as the needle trembled
closer to the orange ‘H’ than he felt comfortable.

  “Hey, Kent, you okay back there? Cool enough for you?”

  Kent wiped the sweat from his brow and plucked at his T-shirt again.

  “Want the windows open, or is the AC enough?”

  AC? What AC?

  The reflective lenses of his dad’s sunglasses flicked up to the rearview mirror.

  “Kent?”

  But before Kent had an opportunity to answer, Tyler cut in.

  “Let’s get some air circulating through this beast.”

  “Good idea,” Gregory replied, rolling down his window. “Don’t want it to overheat.”

  Opening the windows didn’t help much; the air that blasted Kent in the face was hot and laced with the smell of sweat from the car’s front seat passengers. To make it worse, the noisy wind added to the obnoxious rumbling from the engine, making it difficult for him to hear any of the conversation up front. He leaned forward, pressing his cheek against the side of Tyler’s hot leather seat, trying to remain part of the conversation.

  “Speaking of music, did you bring your guitar, Mr. Griddle?”

  Gregory smiled.

  “You bet I did.”

  “Awesome.”

  Tyler reached forward and turned the radio back up, just as the song ended and the DJ’s voice broke the airwaves.

  “And now for your throwback tune at noon,” the DJ said. “We have something special for you today… something from way, waaaaay back. A little—boom boom boom—something heavy for you on this sweltering summer day; a little Metallica.”

  Tyler’s eyes went wide.

  “Ah snap!” he exclaimed. “What are the odds?”

  Gregory laughed and nodded his head. Then he ran his fingers up the air vent again.

  Thrrup, brrd brrd brrd.

  5.

  The sun was still high in the sky and the temperature hovering around one hundred when they finally reached the campsite.

  Gregory turned off the car—which sighed and then shuddered with the relief of having its boiling engine shut down—and peeled himself off the leather seat. Tyler groaned and stretched his legs.

  “You’ve got a great car, Mr. Griddle, but—no offense—your AC suckkkks.”

  “What can I say? It’s an oldie but a goody—just like Metallica.”

  Tyler waved a hand in front of his face.

  “Stinks, too,” he added.

  Tyler exited the car and then yanked the seat forward. It took Kent four tries before he managed to haul himself out.

  The three of them stood beside the ’72 Chevelle for a few moments, stretching away the stiffness that had built up over the long, hot ride. Although the sun continued to beat down on them relentlessly, the fresh air blowing off the lake behind them offered a minor reprieve from the sweltering interior of the classic car.

  Kent stared at the dark wisps of smoke coming from somewhere beneath the car, and a caustic smell wafted up to him, but neither Gregory nor Tyler seemed alarmed. Kent shrugged and took a step backward, trying to maximize his exposure to the lake breeze at his back.

  “All right, boys, you unload while I go see where the rest of them are.”

  Gregory turned to Kent and his son nodded.

  “Sure,” Kent replied, wiping sweat from his forehead and plucking at his shirt again. The white fabric was almost completely grey now, and it hugged his body like a second skin.

  “Get your game faces on, boys, the fish are waiting.”

  * * *

  “Hey, check this out,” Tyler said, reaching into his small bag.

  The boy was sprawled out on the cool grass while Kent was sitting defiantly on his obstinate sleeping bag. The large oak tree that arced over their heads offered them some relief from the sun, but even with the lake breeze, the air was still hot and stifling. Tyler pulled himself to a seated position and withdrew a clear glass bottle out of his bag.

  Kent eyed the bottle suspiciously.

  “Vodka,” Tyler informed him, smiling broadly.

  He passed the bottle to Kent. Then he brought his cigarette to his lips and took another drag.

  Kent held the bottle up to the sun.

  “It’s half full,” he said as he sloshed the liquid from side to side.

  Tyler smiled again. The scar on his cheek was slick and glistening with sweat, giving him a slightly sinister appearance.

  “I know,” he chuckled, “took it from my ma.”

  Kent raised an eyebrow.

  “She’s not gonna notice?”

  “Fuck no.” He took another drag. “She’s usually so hopped up on pain pills that I doubt she’ll even notice I’m gone.”

  Kent smiled.

  “Sweet.”

  “Boys? You still alive back there?”

  It was Gregory.

  “Shit.”

  Kent frantically passed the bottle back to Tyler, who tucked it into his bag. He quickly zipped the bag closed, then flicked his cigarette away.

  “Back here, Dad,” Kent shouted, pulling himself to his feet.

  Gregory walked toward them, followed by a tall, thin man wearing a Tilley hat pulled low and sporting a beige fishing vest. He looked like a poor man’s Italo Labignan. Picking up the rear was a young, muscular boy wearing a matching Tilley hat.

  “Sergio!” Kent and Tyler exclaimed in unison.

  “Yeah, buddy!”

  Sergio hurried over to his friends and bumped fists with Kent.

  “’Bout time you got here,” Sergio said with a smile. “What’s up, Tyler?”

  “Chillin’.”

  “Welcome, boys!” Sergio’s father shouted enthusiastically.

  Now safely protected from the hot sun by the large oak tree, the man reached up and used two thin fingers to push the Tilley hat back from his eyes.

  “Hey, Mr. Salvados,” Kent replied.

  Nick Salvados raised his prominent nose to the sky and sniffed loudly. Then he turned his gaze to the dark blue ’72 Chevelle.

  “What happened to your baby?” he asked.

  Gregory’s face suddenly grew stern.

  “Catalytic converter popped,” he said, but then his smile returned. “Had a nice little foot-warming effect.”

  Gregory raised his leg, showing off the undulating rubber sole that had been warped from the fire.

  Nick smiled.

  “Excitement already, eh, boys?”

  Tyler nodded.

  “No shortage of excitement on this trip, that’s for sure,” the boy said with a grin.

  “She’ll be fine,” Gregory added, slapping Nick on the back. “And look who else I found!” he exclaimed, stepping around Nick.

  On cue, a portly kid of no more than fifteen stepped out from behind Nick Salvados’ shadow. He was pudgy around the middle, with a round face to match. The boy’s blond hair was trimmed straight across his bangs, and sweat glued the thin strands to his forehead like the tines of a garden rake. Although he had only appeared a few seconds ago, he had already twice pulled at his jean shorts and tight polo shirt. In a word, the boy looked uncomfortable, a fact that was reflected in his awkward smirk.

  “Fucking Baird,” Tyler whispered out of the corner of his mouth, averting his eyes.

  Although he had barely mouthed the words, evidently they were just loud enough for Gregory to hear. Kent’s dad turned sideways so that he was only visible to Sergio, Kent, and Tyler, and he whispered back, “Be nice.”

  Tyler rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  Baird’s father came next, a striking contrast to his son: tall and muscular, with a shock of dark brown hair. He had the beginnings of a beard, a five o’clock shadow that had appropriately appeared at just about five o’clock.

  “And this is Baird’s dad, Reggie,” Gregory continued.

  Tyler couldn’t hold back his shock.

  “You have to be kidding me,” he muttered. Then he turned to Kent, eyebrows raised. “Fucking mailman?” he whispered, this time making sure that only Kent
could hear.

  Kent laughed, and his father, although he couldn’t have possibly overheard this time, gave him a stern look.

  Baird’s father offered his son an encouraging push on the small of his back, and the chubby kid stumbled forward a few steps.

  “Go on,” Reggie urged.

  “Hey, guys,” Baird finally mumbled, eyes downcast.

  It was Sergio who answered.

  “’Sup, Baird.”

  Gregory Griddle, face still stern, gave his son an aggressive nod, and Kent reluctantly spoke up.

  “’Sup.”

  Tyler followed next with something that might have been “Hello”, or could have just as easily been “Fuck you”.

  Kent watched as Sergio’s dad gave Reggie a big hug, and his own father followed suit.

  “Nice to see you, big fella,” Gregory said with a smile. “You ready to catch some Muskies?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Boat ready?”

  Nick pushed his Tilley hat further up his forehead, revealing a dark, almost black widow’s peak, and shook his head.

  “Can’t go out tonight, unfortunately—owner said there was a problem with the boat’s starter.”

  Gregory frowned.

  “Said it’s gonna be up and running in the morning, though. Mechanic is going get out here in an hour or so—make sure we can go bright and early in the AM.”

  Reggie checked his watch quickly.

  “Almost five thirty anyway,” he informed the group. “All the fish are sleeping by now, right, Baird?”

  Baird looked shocked that he was called upon, and he stopped toe-digging and looked up. Tyler rolled his eyes so dramatically that Kent could have sworn he heard his ocular muscles strain.

  “C’mon, Baird, tell the boys what you told me about fish in the car on the way up.”

  Baird hesitated, but after another encouraging nod from his father he finally spoke up. His voice didn’t seem to match his round body—it was high and tight, as if he were eleven and not fifteen.

  “Fish are cold-blooded,” he said slowly, “meaning that they don’t regulate their body temperature like mammals.”

  When Baird noticed that all eyes were on him, his gaze returned to the bare earth by his feet.