There were more.
He saw them forming in the shadows at the far end of the barn. Two...then three...then four pairs of floating yellow eyes. Pete's soul quickly exited out his asshole.
Outside, he heard the once kind voice of Marshal Williams.
"Alright Pete, we're starting the countdown. You've got until zero to give yourself up!"
10....9...
The coyote devil beasts from hell slowly started towards him. They were simply playing with him now. His pistol had gone impotent, offering only the measly click click click sound of an empty chamber. Out of options, he tossed the gun at them.
8...7...
This seemed only to piss the demon dogs off.
They charged.
6...
He took off for the door. He didn't know why. He had nothing waiting for him on the other side, only to the bullets of the law. Even if he did survive the gunfire, he most certainly would be sent straight to the gallows.
5....4...
The beasts were right behind. Their heat singing the back of his shirt. Their eyes mixing into his blood.
3...
He dropped against the door, bracing himself for the worst of it. They were upon him now. Their teeth peeling off his skin-the sheer force of their jaws splintering his bones. The blackness of hell covered the world.
2...
Pete Larson opened his eyes. Everything was still in its place, the barn, the blood, and the shining sun. Andy Mathers was still a dead mess on the ground.
Pete was pressed tight against the splintered door. The coyotes from hell were gone, vanished. He ran a sweaty hand across his eyes, clearing them just to make sure.
The relief he felt at that moment would prove to be nothing more than a cruel joke. Williams was still standing outside with his men. He was still counting.
1...
He found the revolver somehow placed back into his hand. With slippery fingers, he snapped open the chamber. Those two lonely bullets remained.
Pete could've spent his last moments pondering the meaning of his existence. He could've realized with deep sadness that the world was changing all around him. He could've shouted out some profound monologue about how in this new age of civilization there would be no room for souls like him.
But, Pete didn't do any of those things. He simply clicked the chamber shut, and steadied himself for what was about to unfold.
Two left, better make them count.
0...alright Pete, you're fucked now!
The cue given, Pete opened the door.
Cocaine Time Machine
This is a story about Rachel.
I believe it was a Thursday night when we began our discussion on time travel.
More like it was just her chattering about some nonsense while I bore witness to it all. But, to say I was simply an innocent bystander would be a lie.
Yes, it had to have been a Thursday, because she always insisted on being naked on Thursdays.
It was like her to make declarations like that. We'd be smack dab in the middle of an eightball and she'd just up and screech something like, "Goddamnit, Ted these clothes just don't feel right anymore!"
And then, there would be Rachel, buck ass naked and dropping back on the couch, praising Jesus. To her her pussy was nothing more than a scarf or a pair of old socks. It was comfortable ,unkept, and she exposed it with no more taboo than lighting one of her cigarettes.
There it was on Thursdays. Honestly, it was only on Thursdays that I knew she was a true blonde.
If I was to say I protested that too would be a lie.
So, yes , it was a Thursday night with Rachel in her ragged birthday suit, pacing the stained carpet, carrying on a heated debate about time travel. She strutted about like a tweaked out ostrich-her pouched tits shaking with the proper punctuation of her sentences.
"You see, there's this theory...this theory that we're nothing but..but tiny tiny sub atomic particles" Rachel's head was always down during these debates, her arms swinging freely. "We're made up of them."
She'd occasionally stop to see if I was still there. It wouldn't matter to her if I was or not, but she needed the simple reassurance that she was not rambling on to herself.
Which she was.
I could've been sucked through the mouth of an unholy vortex that opened up through the oversized shit brown pompazon chair on which I always sat. She wouldn't of been aware of it for hours...days.
"The kicker- the KICKER -" she hopped in front of me- bush and all-her face on fire." The kicker is that the ENTIRE UNIVERSE is ALSO made up of these same particles!"
She dropped to the floor, out of breath-her rib cage fluttering underneath a thin layer of pale skin.
She began drawing a diagram in the air with her trembling fingers.
"If there was a way we could just MOVE those goddamn particles from one place to the next we'd be able to go ANYWHERE!" She was squinting with dangerous intent at the ceiling-looking for God amongst the water stains perhaps "If you squint REALLY hard you can actually SEE them. They're like little itty bitty dots.
"That’s just a lack of oxygen to your brain." I said and cracked open a beer to help wash down my high that was kicking in a bit too quickly for the current circumstances.
"You're such a skeptic."
It seemed I was always ruining her fun.
All I know is after that night I never went back over to Rachel's on Thursdays.
Except for that one last time. But I'm not ready to talk about all of that right now. I'll get there when I'm good and ready -later.
Sex with Rachel was never anything really important, to her anyway. It was more like eating a sandwich. It was something she took from you when she needed it, and then discarded once she was done. If she was hungry she ate the sandwich. If she was thirsty she would drink a glass of wine. If she was bored she'd smoke a joint and paint something. If she was feeling lonely she'd spread her legs. Everything filled some sort of void in Rachel or she had no use for it -you follow?
Her half squeezed tubes of acrylic paints, a pack of Camels on the floor, her wall length collection of records, your penis-they were all objects for her to utilize. I never knew where it came from or where it was heading. I just knew when it went down.
Sex with Rachel always happened on Fridays. I'll admit that my attendance was rather sporadic on Fridays. Fridays were vicious around Rachel. They frightened me. I tried to keep my distance on Fridays. Sometimes she'd call me up and I'd dig up any excuse I could think of to stay away. The apartment always needed cleaned. The Buick was always in the shop. It seemed like I was always getting called into work on Fridays.
Always on Friday.
Rachel was a real mess on those days. Even the times I'd show up early, she'd already be four lines and a fifth of vodka ahead of the world. This always made her more violent-that's the word for it, violent. If she wasn't crying, she was cleaning. If by cleaning, you mean tossing shit around in every direction and cursing the universe. I'd try turning invisible by hiding in the kitchen, chainsmoking, and waiting for the storm that was Rachel to simmer down.
She'd always find me sooner or later because her cleaning fits always ended up with her pacing laps around that too small for her apartment. With each lap she'd change outfits. Then, when she'd find one that seemed appropriate enough for her mood she'd plop down at the knife marked table across from me.
Rachel always had a smile on her face. It was never a healthy smile, but it was always there nonetheless.
"Let's go out!" She'd proclaim, stealing one of my smokes.
And on the handful of Fridays that I spent with Rachel we'd almost always go out. If it wasn't the strip mall dive bar within walking distance from her place it would be some overpriced club downtown. I always ended up losing her without fail. A few hours in and she would embark on her own adventures. If , by adventures you mean running off with the first hormonally charged broken soul that happened to be even more self medicated than she was
.
And me? I'd drive back home through the city alone...
But this is not a story about Friday nights. This is a story about the rather short period of time spent between just Rachel and I. More importantly, this is a story about time travel.
I'm getting to that. Give me a minute.
The act, it never took on much beauty-Sex, that is, not time travel. However, I'm sure Rachel's takes on both were similar. There we would be, in the act. Or, more accurately, there I'd be. Rachel was never there. Her body would be below me. Her vagina would also be there as an active participant. But never Rachel. Her eyes would be frosted over, her smile projected somewhere out in the stars.
She was drawing diagrams in the air-trying to move those subatomic particles around from point to point. After a couple of times I just moved on to closing my eyes during the whole mechanical moment. If she could busy herself with making intergalactic maps at least I could draw up some animated schoolgirl fantasies behind my eyes.
And she allowed me to do so. The biological sensations were small sacrifices for her to make in the grand scheme of things. The master plan had nothing to do with me. It never did.
Since this is my telling of the story of Rachel, and subsequently us, I feel free enough to admit that it used to get to me. There were moments when it burned me up. Now, not so much. But, back then all I could do was swallow it down with a shot of whatever and a smoke under the twitching glow of the Christmas lights that lined the walls of her apartment.
All I had to do was hold out long enough for her to come around.
But that was just it, Rachel never did come around. Rachel did everything on her own messy time in her own messy way. Such things included, but were not limited to, substance abuse, sex, and time travel.
By the time my story starts to wrap up, it was fall. It had to be. I remember because of the way the yellow streetlights mixed with the chilled grey air oozing in through the flat slit windows of her basement apartment. You could step outside and just disappear. Such a fear was fathomable when you were full of drugs and lying next to Rachel.
Rachel kept the lights off both during and after the act. It was something I just accepted. I had to. The universe was Rachel's-darkness and all.
"Guess what, Ted." She spoke carefully, as if her secret would kill me. "I did it."
"Did what?" I knew the word orgasm would never enter our conversations-ever.
She sat up, lighting a smoke. She took her precious time before speaking again.
She could draw anything out if she wanted to.
"I did it. I traveled through time."
Everybody has that senile second Uncle that tends to invade every family gathering. You know, that one guy that shits his pants and starts barking about nazis ,and niggers, and the end of the world. Everybody tolerates him because they have to, because he's somehow related to somebody in the room and he's just cute in that crazy kind of way.
That's usually how I dealt with Rachel, when I wasn't in love with her of course.
"Haven't I told you this already?"
That was Rachel being the half drunk standup comedian telling knock knock jokes to the Rotary club.
She hadn't told me already. Even if she had, she was going to tell it to me all over again.
"It was yesterday. I was taking a shower."
The ugly yellow light trapped inside her wide pupils convinced me she was telling the truth. When you're swimming as far offshore as Rachel was, truth becomes a relevant object floating on the waves around your neck.
"God, I had probably been in there a good hour or so, just letting the water run cold. You ever just stand in a shower so long you forget how much time has gone by?"
"Sure."
Everybody has done that at least once in their lives -take a long shower, I mean, not travel time.
"I had my eyes closed. I was just standing there, listening to all the sounds and feeling the water against my skin. It felt good-relaxing. You know how shitty that shower is-can't drain worth a shit. So, by now the water was up past my ankles. It felt like I was standing in some soggy grass in the middle of a rainstorm."
She nervously tugged at the gawdy clear plastic cocktail ring protruding from her right index finger, causing the light to flicker around the darkness.
"Then, I opened my eyes and I really was standing there in a field in the fucking rain!"
She brought her face into mine, close enough to steal a kiss, but she didn't. Rachel never kissed anyone. She was like a prostitute in that sense. She was like a prostitute in many senses.
"I'm not kidding Ted! You have to believe me on this one!"
I did, if only because the urgency in her voice.
"I was standing on the side of a road out in the country somewhere. The sun was shining, but it was raining cats and monkeys. The whole scene was insane!"
Rachel closed her eyes, disappearing in the blackness. When she returned it was through her voice only. It was shaken at best.
"And then this car comes down the curvy road towards me. I can see that it's a bright lime green Pacer...a fucking Pacer. It was so odd looking. At first, I wasn't sure what time period I had tripped to. It could've been the future for how alien that car looked."
She laughed. It was the last time I'd hear her laugh.
"But , as it gets closer to me it starts to feel very 'familiar'. I see the broken headlight, the cracked windshield, and suddenly realize it's my father's Pacer! I shit you not, Ted. It was the same car dad drove me around town in when I was just a kid. It's funny how you can't remember your social security number or where you left your house keys, but you can remember the interior of your first car. The way the sun bent through that cracked windshield...the way it smelt of cigarettes and stale leather...."
Rachel was wandering once again.
I had the feeling she was making this up as she went along. I kept up right beside her, because you never wanted to witness the scene she'd make whenever you cut her short. You just didn't.
"...But the car, it was new. All the rust and smoke that I remember hadn't set in yet."
Her details were starting to turn my stomach.
"So the car stops right in front of me, and my old man gets out. But he's not so 'old'. He looks like he did back then. He's half Burt Reynolds half Richard Dreyfuss wearing his thick dorky glasses and wool lined jean jacket. Damn Ted, when I see him I want to cry, because...."
He'd been dead for two years. The Cancer had taken him the summer before I had met Rachel.
"But I don't cry. He just opens the door, and I crawl inside."
Her eyes opened, and Rachel was with me again. She was preparing for the finish of her story. I was planning my escape. On this particular night I did not have the strength nor the patience to carry her.
"Then we're driving the country roads. Just the two of us...just daddy and his little girl. I can't hear what he's saying. That's the weird part. I can feel the warm sunshine. I can smell the leather. I can tell that he's very happy to have me in the car with him. But I can't hear anything he's saying. It probably has something to do with the way the particles transfer through space. I need to research it more."
I could hear her fumbling through the darkness for something. There was the sound of her fingers scraping through wads of paper, empty glass bottles, and broken art supplies, but she produced nothing solid.
"I am aware that he's taking me home to see mom. I'm so excited to see her when she was my age. She was beautiful you know, once."
I know she was. Rachel had shown me all the pictures. Her mother could've passed for her only with more hair and less cocaine.
"We pull up in front of the house...the same house I first remember as a child. He gets out and walks over to open my door for me. Dad always was a gentleman."
Rachel's strength started to leave her. She's was going to get messy any second now.
"But he can't get the door opened. It's stuck or something. He's fighting with it, but it won't bu
dge! I feel the water again, it's coming in through the cracks in the windows! It's coming up through the floorboards! The car is filling with fucking rain! I'm going to drown in that car!"
Her breath became short. Her words were stuck in her throat.
She flagged down another cigarette.
When she finally got around to speaking again, her voice was weak.
"Then, there I was, back in the stupid shower. The water was freezing!"
I almost felt brave enough to suggest that it had all just been a dream, but Rachel had already thought of that.
"I have proof Ted, PROOF! It's around here somewhere."
She burst into the tornado she always became during moments like these- crawling about the litter-lined carpet, tearing up clumps of dirty laundry, and flinging papers about the living room. Of course, she didn't turn on the lights nor did I recommend the idea. It was best to let her act out these moments however she wanted to.
It always ended up the same way -Rachel in a sobbing drenched pile on my lap. I would hold her until everything stopped. Then I would leave her apartment , heavy with conflict.
It would be easy to pass Rachel off as crazy. The girl was certifiably nuts. That was a given. But there was still this part of you that felt sympathy for the girl. The girl had done nothing wrong during her brief life, yet somehow whatever force it was that controlled the universe had decided to punish her. God...subatomic particles...fate..whatever , was playing a cruel joke on Rachel. She had been marked, and it was all she could do to self medicate herself close to normal.
That night was the last night I ever spent with Rachel.
No, I suppose technically it was the second to last night I'd spend with her.
Now, I guess I'm ready to tell you about the last time.
It's a funny thing how the narrator of a story disappears as soon as the book is put down. Maybe that's why I've been dragging out this story for as long as I have. I have some deep down desire to live. I want to fight against the ending of it. That's the curse of the one who tells the story-we know how it ends.
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