The Nightrunners - Joe R. Lansdale.wps

by phuc

  "Completely."

  "Good. Real good."

  "Jimmy, we don't want to live in any crummy house with this bunch of assholes that are making you an asshole, now do we?"

  Jimmy didn't quite grit his teeth. "I guess not."

  "Can you climb through this window?"

  Silence. He looked at her strangely.

  "Are you deaf? Can you climb through this window? Answer me that, can an asshole like yourself climb through this window?"

  "I can do that."

  "You want to climb through?"

  "You say so, yeah."

  She stood up, pulled her shirt over her head. Unfastened her bra. Her breasts small, dark and firm bounced free.

  Jimmy got through that window in record time.

  She had her pants off now, her underwear.

  Then they were in bed and he was pounding her for all he was worth, and she was getting about as much pleasure out of it as the bag down at the gym that the prizefighters train on, when suddenly the bedroom door opened and the light came on and her mother shrieked, grabbed the old teddy bear off Angela's dresser and began pounding Jimmy briskly about the head and ears.

  Jimmy rolled off the bed, scooped up his clothes and like a seal leaping off a rock, dove through the window and out into the night.

  Still clutching the stuffed bear, Angela's mother turned on her, breathing like an asthmatic hippo.

  "Know what, Momma?" Angela said. "You won't have to check this time. Take my word for it. The cherry's gone, nothing left now but the box it came in."

  Angela got the whipping of her life; beat half to death by an elderly, outraged, Puerto Rican mother with a teddy bear for a club. If it hadn't hurt so bad, it might have been funny.

  When her mother finally quit there was nothing left of the bear but a floppy brown rag of cloth. Its cotton guts lay strewn from one end of the room to the other.

  "Get out of my house," her mother yelled, "you're no daughter of mine."

  "Works for me," Angela said.

  She got dressed even as her mother sat on the edge of the bed, occasionally screaming, "Get out, whore!"

  She grabbed some extra clothes, the money they had saved, and went out to look for Jimmy.

  That was the falling of shit-brick number one.

  Brick number two fell when she found Jimmy. They didn't get married right away ("soon," Jimmy kept saying), but they did rent an apartment in the sleazy section of the city. And the "friends" he had told her about, the guys from The House, as it was called, came to live with them—at least two of them.

  She thought: Now isn't this the shits? I get kicked out of the house with my mother thinking I'm the local amusement ride, and two assholes I never wanted to live with, never wanted to meet, have moved in with me.

  There was a positive side. Jimmy told her that there had originally been four assholes.

  Thank the Blessed Virgin for small favors.

  But the two guys scared her, made her flesh creep around her bones. There was that wild laughing one who was always sniffing glue, "doing the bag" he called it. And then there was Stone, never speaking, just watching with razor-blade eyes that stripped away her clothes and ripped her flesh.

  She wanted Jimmy to make them leave, but he wouldn't,

  Or it seemed that way at first. After a time she realized it wasn't that he didn't want them to leave, but, like her, he was afraid of them. Their "friendship" had shed its skin to reveal something considerably less tasteful—a kind of cancer that dominated him.

  Then came the third shit-brick: Brian Black-wood.

  After that, the bricks began to fall like rain.

  So, here they were, with Brian and his two crazy pals, parked in the woods, stopping for a while before they . . .

  God, she didn't want to think about it.

  The things she and Jimmy had seen them do.

  The way they killed in cold blood. The way they had ...

  No. She would not think back on it. She could not.

  But she did. The candy bars and cold drinks she had eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner turned to acid and she felt weak. She bent forward and vomited.

  When her stomach was empty, she dry-heaved, and after an eternity the spasms stopped.

  By the Blessed Virgin, was there no way out of this?

  She and Jimmy were caught in a nightmare.

  She fastened her pants, adjusted her shirt.

  What in God's name were they going to do? There had to be a way out - besides . .

  . that way. The way Brian would offer them.

  She looked back at the car. Brian's white face was still visible.

  She couldn't see Jimmy or the others, the shadows in the car were too thick.

  But Brian's face was as visible as the full moon on a clear summer night. And when the lightning flashed, it seemed unreal, like some sort of leather mask.

  She considered running, but felt if she did they would take it out on Jimmy.

  No, she had to go back.

  She pushed out of the wet brush and walked back to the car, watching Brian's face all the way.

  God, that face, that pasty-white face, looking out of the car at the night.

  SIX

  October 30, 2:14 A.M.

  The goblins were back; nightmare riders galloping hell-bent for leather through a dismal brainstorm of painful memories. Faces livid with scars, eyes dangling on stalks against cheeks with grey-green complexions.

  Becky awoke, balls of sweat the size of BBs ran off her face and breasts, gathered in her pubic thatch. Her nightgown clung to her. Her hair was damp.

  She rolled from beneath the covers, careful not to awaken Monty who slept (and she envied this) like a petrified tree. Head in hands, she sat on the edge of the bed and wished she smoked.

  After a moment, she got up, found her way to the dark living room. She went to the window, moved the curtains aside, looked out at the lake.

  The rain had dried up and left the night-land polished. The lake was calm, glistening with the moon's silver; an almost full moon. Normally, she would have found beauty in it, but not tonight; it reminded her of a dead, bleached eye.

  A gentle wind brewed up, came down through the pines, sighed loud enough for her to hear, pushed lightly through the lake and rolled it; shook the windowpane with a noise like dry, rattling bones.

  It passed on.

  It was cold in the house. Becky shivered. It was as if the scythe of the Reaper had passed over the cabin and spared them, but touched them with its chill.

  An image came to her of the scythe swinging back. But the thought did not hold.

  She turned her eyes back to the lake, to the short wooden dock sticking out into the water like a dark tongue—like Clyde's tongue when the shirt strips had done their work.

  Beads of moisture condensed on the glass, flowed down in mercurylike globs . . .

  the color of blood.

  The glass went smoky-dark, like an obsidian mirror. The bloody drops stood out against it in bold relief, oozed down the glass slowly...

  And then there were the eyes. Huge eyes; like infernal jack-o'-lantern eyes.

  And there was a sound; a growling noise like a hungry night beast.

  And this beast with the glowing eyes and growling stomach was moving fast toward her, and there were things in its head, things behind the jack-o'-lantern—eyes.

  No, it was not a beast, not glowing eyes. It was . . .

  Nothing now.

  No beads of blood.

  No beast or thing that looked like a beast.

  Just the wind out there with the pines, the water and the boiled-egg moon.

  Becky sagged, stumbled away from the window. She put a hand on the arm of the couch, kept herself from toppling. Her nightgown was damper if than ever; shaped around her breasts and pulled up between her legs like a clutching hand— Clyde's hand.

  God, don't think that. He's dead. He's not some kind of boogeyman.

  Or is he? she thought s
uddenly.

  She sat down on the couch and shivered. The room was freezing. She was damp, and there was the icy touch of fear about her.

  Get a grip on yourself, old girl. You're starting to go Flip City.

  Starting?

  After a moment she padded to the kitchen, drank a glass of water.

  Goblins, she thought. Why goblins? Why the eyes? The growling?

  All of that couldn't have been a dream. No way. It was too graphic, too intense.

  Or maybe she was just going Flip City.

  No. No, goddamnit, she wasn't flipping. The psychiatrist was full of shit. It was some sort of premonition. A warning. She could feel it in her She tried to make sense of it all, but it was an impossible task.

  Finally she gave it up and went back to bed.

  But she slept badly.

  SEVEN

  October 30, 3:01 A.M.

  The others slept for a while. He had promised them rest, all through the night and the next night. It was a long time to wait, and the waiting made his hands itch, but by now they were hunted. If they lay low for the rest of the day and most of tomorrow, things would probably loosen up. The law would most likely think they had made the Louisiana border, and would go looking for them there. That would give them some slack. Then he could make his move. Oh yeah, he was clever. It made him smile to think about it. Of course, he had help. He had Clyde inside his head.

  But this waiting . . . Man, he was tired of that. He opened the car door and got out.

  It was chilly, but not quite cold. The night had cleared and the moon was highly visible. It was so near full it looked that way at first glance. In a couple of days it would be completely filled out. Doing what he had to do beneath a full moon seemed like a good idea. He looked around him.

  Driving into this pasture, parking on the far side under these trees had been a stroke of genius (he couldn't remember if he had thought of it, or if Clyde had). How were the cops going to check all the pastures in this area? There were hundreds. The odds of them checking this particular one were one in a million. Even by air they couldn't see beneath these trees. It was a perfect spot for the time being.

  "What's that?" he said softly. He cocked his head, listened, said, "Yeah, yeah, I know, Clyde. Soon. Real soon."

  EIGHT

  October 30, 8:23 A.M.

  In the morning, the first thing they did was make instant coffee and unpack the box of stale doughnuts they had brought along. When they had eaten, Montgomery said:

  "I'm going to drive into Minnanette for some stuff. Want to go?"

  Becky smiled. The dreams were less haunting in the daylight, but their chill lingered on.

  "No. I'm going to stay here and read my magazines. I brought a whole herd of the buggers."

  Montgomery laughed. "All right, you can round up your herd of magazines while I'm gone. But let's make a list of things we need before I go. Anything special?"

  "Let's see."

  Becky found a pen and paper. They made a list, talking items back and forth, discarding some, seconding others.

  "Sure you can find Minnanette?" Becky asked. "Dean said to hit the blacktop,, drive ten miles and don't blink." "Sounds like Dean."

  They kissed at the door. Montgomery thought it was a lot like kissing a dry sponge.

  He went out to the Rabbit, backed it around, looked at the cabin in his rearview mirror.

  Becky was already inside. "Swell place," he said, and drove out of there. When he finished off mile ten, the first thing he saw was a gas station. Or rather a gas station and store combination. There was a big sign above the door that read "Pop's."

  Montgomery drove on past to inspect the town. Or was the proper word community?

  Either sounded like a polite euphemism for the place.

  But it was nice. Somehow seemed like a refuge. A small town where time moved slowly and nothing special ever happened.

  Then maybe it just seemed like that because he was away from Becky for awhile; away from those caged-animal eyes.

  He passed a laundromat with a sign that read "Minnanette Washateria." There was also a post office, a cubicle-sized bank and a sprinkling of stores. Not far from the road were a few houses. Blacktop and clay roads branched off in every direction, probably leading their way past what made up the population of Minnanette, which, according to Dean, was about five hundred, That figure seemed large to Montgomery, but then again, it wouldn't take much of a town to service five hundred people, and from this point, it wasn't too outrageously far to Livingston or Lufkin, and one or both of those places would be where all the serious shopping was done.

  He drove a ways and found what served as a school. It was incredibly small, and probably housed all grades.

  A little farther on there was only the forest on either side of the road. The tour of Minnanette was complete.

  He turned around and drove back to Pop's. That seemed to be the hot spot.

  A pickup had parked in front of the gas pumps, and an old man in greasy grey coveralls was putting gas in it when Montgomery pulled up and got out.

  For the first time he really noticed the freshness of the air. Galveston always smelled like some giant was airing out a pair of stale underwear in front of a huge fan.

  The old man in coveralls turned around and looked at Montgomery. His eyes roaming up and down, tagging him "stranger."

  Montgomery nodded at him.

  "Right with ya," the old man said.

  "No hurry."

  A lean brown arm came out of the truck window, handed the old man (Pop?) a wad of bills.

  "Get you some change," the old man said. "Right back."

  "Okay," a woman said.

  Montgomery liked the voice. Lots of country twang with an underlying touch of velvet.

  Kind of woman who'd drink her whisky straight and roll up with a man and fuck like a snake.

  Sex. That was certainly on his mind a lot.

  And why not?

  There you go again he told himself. Such a fine, understanding husband you are.

  But he still walked around where he could see into the truck.

  The woman's face was nice. Large-boned, but attractive. Damned attractive. She didn't wear makeup. Her hair was shoulder-length and brown. She turned to look at Montgomery. Her eyes were large, like a doe's. She smiled at him, a sexy, out of the corner of her mouth smile, Or maybe that was just the way his brain was receiving it.

  Probably just friendly, nothing more. She winked.

  No, sir, more than friendly.

  Montgomery grinned. She was blatant, but effective. And he liked it. Somehow, Becky's inability to accept him sexually made him feel castrated. This looked like a woman who could hang a new set of balls for him.

  ". . . never had no balls, Monty. That's what's wrong with you . . ." His father's voice intruded on his memory. Mad. Very mad because of what he had let Billy Sylvester do to his little brother. It hadn't bothered him so much then, but now that he was grown (taller?), it ate at him. Maybe his old man was right all along. No balls. That was his problem.

  To hell with the old man.

  He winked back.

  She blushed.

  That was surprising. Country shy and aggressive too. A weird combination.

  Or maybe, he thought with sudden embarrassment, she had merely had something in her eye and he thought she had winked. And he, the big lover, had just made a fool out of himself.

  Pop came back with the change. "All right, Marjorie ..."

  He couldn't see her face now, just Pop's back, his grey head.

  ". . . nine dollars and fifteen cents change."

  "Thanks, Pop," she said.

  "All right. Come back now."

  She pulled out of the driveway and Montgomery watched her go, wondering if he had just made an ass of himself. But then again, it didn't matter. He'd never see her again.

  "Now, what can I do for you, young feller?"

  Young feller? Just like in the movies, thought Montgomery
.

  "Need a few things from the store. Little gas, I guess?"

  "Little gas'll cost you a lot. Stuffs high as hell. Some folks blame me. Hell, I ain't got nothing to do with it. Do I look like a goddamned Arab to you? I sell it cheap as I can.

  Any cheaper and I don't make a dime."

  "No."

  "No what?"

  "No, you don't look like a goddamned Arab to me."

  Pop laughed. "Sorry. Just get tired of all this gas shit, you know?"

  "Yeah."

  "You want to pull your car up to the pump? Uh, how much?"

  "Fill it."

  Montgomery parked the car by the pumps, went inside. The store seemed frozen in a time warp. Merchandise was everywhere. Dangling from nails. Cramped and stacked in corners. Nothing was neatly aisled or arranged. Most everything was covered with a thin skin of dust. A large number of items were derelicts of a distant and simpler time: hair, oil was in abundance—all brands, some of which were now defunct—and there was toothpaste so old it had probably soured in the tube, and a cardboard comb display with a logo in the under left-hand corner that read: "5 Cents, Look Your Best!" Only three combs were missing out of a dozen.

  "Got some old stuff here, Pop ... All right if I call you Pop?"

  The old man was just coming in the door, wiping his hands on a rag. "What's that?" he said.

  "I said you have some old stuff here. It is all right if I call you Pop?"

  "Sure, call me most anything, long as you call me for dinner. Car didn't need much, by the way."

  "Volkswagens are good on gas."

  "Well, nothing personal, but I wouldn't own one of them foreign sonofabitches,"

  Montgomery smiled. "I said you got some old stuff here."

  "Sure do, some of it twenty years old or better." Pop moved behind a dusty glass counter, sat down on a stool. Montgomery walked over to look at what was beneath the glass.

  There were plastic fishing flies—most of them sun-faded—

  and nestled uncharacteristically among the flies was a giant peanut pattie that looked old enough to have been whipped up from the peanut crop of '48.

  "You a fisherman?" Pop asked.

  "Yes, thought I'd get a bit of line time in today or tomorrow, in fact."

  "Here." Pop reached under the counter, brought out one of the flies. "Try this.

  They don't make them anymore, some reason or another, but they sure used to bring in the fish. I still got one and I'm still catching fish on it. Here, take it, you can have it."