Lot Lizards

by Ray Garton

  His truck idled as he waited for those ahead to move into the parking lot of the Sierra Gold Pan. Once in the lot, he drove slowly up and down the aisles. Unlike the others around him, he was not looking for an empty slot; he knew he wouldn't find one. He was looking for something else.

  A black Peterbilt.

  He knew it had to be there somewhere; the pass into Oregon was closed and no one was going past Yreka for a while.

  It had to be there. He'd been looking for too long, following it too far to hit another dead end now.

  Up ahead and to the right, he spotted it and eased to a stop: CARSEY BROS. TRUCKING. And just beyond it, he saw what he had been afraid to hope for: another truck identical to the first.

  He'd heard about the second black truck about a week ago. He'd been asking around about the Carsey Bros, at a truck stop near Bakersfield; a young man on the gas island told him that not one but two trucks fitting his description had been through a couple days before.

  So there were two. And he'd found them both.

  They stood dormant in the lot, dark and silent.

  He looked around and saw a few truckers wandering through the snow, all men and none of them familiar. No pretty young girls with big eyes and milk-white skin.

  They were near by, though. Somewhere. Either hunting or feeding.

  But with two trucks, there would be twice as many. And he was all alone.

  Bill Ketter drove his truck out of the lot to look for a place to park...

  Outside, Jon scanned the parking lot for the girl, but she was nowhere in sight. He walked along the front of the restaurant, hurrying by the window where his mother and sisters were seated and went around the corner. All he found were several cars illegally parked in a fire lane.

  Maybe she was looking in the window at someone else, he thought. But he knew that wasn't true; she'd looked directly at him, smiled at him, beckoned him outside.

  She'd looked about his age, maybe a little unhealthy, but... there was something about her... something exciting... something in her eyes that made him forget about his dad... that made him want nothing more than to rush outside and meet her.

  Now he felt like a dork.

  Cold as he was, he didn't feel like going back in yet; it was nice being alone for a while. He walked to a row of shrubbery, now covered with sheets of snow, that separated the front parking lot from the truck lot's exit and stepped up on the concrete edge of the divider. In the distance, where the road curved away, the windows of the house still glowed like stationary fireflies, but the small figure that had stood in the upper story had not returned. Somehow, that made him feel even worse.

  Jon fished in his pocket and found a few stray quarters. Maybe there was an unoccupied video game or pinball machine in the arcade room. He turned and started back toward the front entrance when he heard the growl of a truck's engine beyond the row of shrubs. He stopped and looked back as the truck eased by, stopping at the edge of the road for a moment.

  Jon frowned.

  It was a Ken worth. A blue Kenworth tractor with no trailer.

  He went back to the divider, hopped up on the edge and pulled two of the shrubs apart for a better look, knocking clumps of snow to the ground.

  As the tractor pulled onto the road, Jon glimpsed the broad silver stripe that ran along the side of the cab and his breath caught sharply in his throat.

  He pushed through the shrubs and hurried toward the truck lot's exit as the Kenworth crossed the road and pulled into a vacant spot on the shoulder.

  Jon stood across from the tractor and watched, jaw slack, as the lights went off and the engine stopped. There was movement in the cab. Soft light came suddenly from behind the seats: the sleeper.

  Moving cautiously, Jon started across the road, eyes locked on the driver's window. He stood beside the truck and listened.

  Faint sounds of movement, but nothing more.

  Jon's insides seemed to tremble with anticipation. There was no doubt it was exactly like his dad's Kenworth. But was it his Kenworth? He could find out.

  Grabbing the handle beside the door, Jon stepped up on the running board carefully, quietly, and peered in the window.

  It was there: the green rubber triceratops Dad had bought him on their trip. Jon had insisted Dad hang it from the truck's rearview mirror and it had been there ever since.

  "Dad," Jon whispered through a smile, opening the door quickly and repeating it, louder: "Dad! Hey, Dad!"

  There was a cough from the sleeper, a wet sputtering sound and a shuffle of sudden movement. "Who's—what the hell's—" Someone stumbled down between the seats and turned.

  A man.

  His hair was mussed and spiky. His long face was white. And a dark thick liquid was smeared around his mouth and dribbled from his chin.

  This man could not be Jon's father. But he was.

  Jon fell out of the cab, screaming...

  CHAPTER 5

  Shawna Lake could lie still no longer. She listened for Mrs. Tipton coming back upstairs with her hot cider and, when she heard nothing, swept her covers aside, got out of bed and went back to the window.

  The night was coated with sparkling sugar; flakes of it danced in the wind. But Shawna's enchantment was not evident on her face. In the frosty windowpane, her reflection was superimposed on the night like the face of a ghost. Her skin was grey and splotchy as tarnished steel; once chubby cheeks now sank inward and blond hair that had fallen to the middle of her back was now an inch or so long with bare patches where the hair had not yet grown back from the effects of the chemotherapy. On top of all that, she wore an intense frown.

  Something was terribly wrong but Shawna did not know what; that was the reason for her frown.

  While she enjoyed watching the snow from her bedroom window, she did not watch it now. She looked, instead, at the truck stop in the distance where her mother was working at the moment. She imagined Mom in the restaurant rushing from table to table in the uniform that they both thought was so silly. It usually did not bother Shawna when Mom left for work at night because Shawna knew how badly they needed money. But tonight it did bother her. Because tonight, something was terribly wrong.

  The road was flanked by parked trucks, some with lights shining, others dark, like giant metal beasts napping for a while. One of the darkened trucks—a short funny looking one with no trailer behind it—was parked beneath a street light and Shawna saw someone climb up on it, open the door and lean inside.

  A moment later, the person on the side of the truck fell backward onto the road and began to crawl, face up, away from the truck.

  Shawna gave a tiny gasp as she clutched the curtain, then a startled little squeak when Mrs. Tipton said, "Here's your cider, hon—oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. You okay?"

  "There's something wrong."

  "What?"

  "Something's...just wrong."

  Mrs. Tipton put the steaming mug on the nightstand and sat on the bed, motioning for Shawna to join her. "What’s wrong, honey? Do you feel bad? Are you in pain?"

  "No, not me. There's somebody down there." Shawna turned to the window again and pointed.

  "Well, of course there is. There are lots of people down there." Mrs. Tipton walked over to Shawna's side and put an arm around her.

  "No, look. Down there. See? Someone fell off of that truck." She watched as another figure stepped down from the truck and approached the one on the ground, which was still crawling backward frantically. "And now that one there is—"

  "Oh, you just come away from there, sweetheart," Mrs. Tipton said, turning her from the window and leading her to bed. "You don't need to watch all the goings on down there. Those truckers, sometimes they just forget how to behave in public and they start picking on each other. It's nothing you need to see. Besides, that window's cold. You should snuggle into bed where it's warm." She went back to the window and pulled the shade down, then tucked Shawna into bed, pulling the covers up around her chin. "Would you like some
music? I can turn the radio on."

  "Okay," she said softly. But her eyes were still on the shaded window, her imagination still down on the road in front of the truck stop.

  Mrs. Tipton turned the dial on the radio beside Shawna's bed until she found some gentle, soothing music, then leaned over Shawna and smiled. She was a round woman with hair the color of wood smoke, sparkling eyes surrounded by little crinkles and false teeth that shifted and clicked when she smiled.

  "Now," Mrs. Tipton whispered, stroking Shawna's cheek, "you think some nice thoughts and you'll have some nice dreams."

  Shawna tried to smile as she nodded and Mrs. Tipton kissed her on the forehead. She left the bedroom door half open and Shawna could hear the stairs creak as she went back down to watch television.

  But Shawna could not think pleasant thoughts and she didn't expect to be asleep very soon. Because something was still terribly wrong...

  "Jon!" Bill hissed as he watched his son fall out of the cab and scurry over the slushy pavement like a crab. His insides shriveled when he saw the look of undiluted horror on the boy's face and heard his scream dissolve into a frightened whimper.

  His feeding had been interrupted and he was still trembling all over, but he jumped down and rushed to Jon's side. "Jon, it's okay, Jon, really, if s—"

  "Nuh-no, no, s-stay away, you're, you're...just...stay away." Jon stopped crawling and lay on the road staring up with wide, terrified eyes. The terror drained from them slowly, just a bit at a time, as he stared at Bill, and he finally whispered, "Duh...Dad?"

  "Yeah, Jon." Bill hunkered down beside him, suddenly overwhelmed with affection, with the feeling of loss that had gnawed at him for a year now like an impossibly unappeasable hunger...but this time the feeling was magnified tenfold. He clutched Jon's shoulders and lifted the boy into his arms, holding him close, squeezing him so tightly that Jon grunted as he returned his father's hug.

  After a long moment, Bill pulled back and looked at his son, his handsome son who looked so much more mature, so much older than he had a year ago.

  "Oh, God," Bill whispered. "God. Jon, you're... you look so good, boy. You look..."

  Still visibly shaken, Jon touched his own lips, frowning, and asked, "What...what’s the stuff on your mouth?"

  "Oh, shit." Bill wiped his mouth quickly and stood. "Look, Jon, just wait here a second, okay? Just...don't go away." He went back into the cab and climbed into the sleeper. His icebox was open, filled with clear plastic bags that contained his sustenance. He'd stolen them last night from a closed and darkened blood bank in Redding before parking for the night at the 76 Truck Plaza. One of the bags was open and half empty. He stared at it a moment, then licked the hand he'd used to wipe his mouth, closing his eyes and exhaling tremulously. He glanced over his shoulder; the boy had not followed him into the cab.

  A little more. Just a little more...

  Kneeling on the bed, he took the open bag in a quavering hand and put his mouth over the opening, tilting it back.

  After the second thick gulp, he fell sideways, leaning against the wall as he was overcome by the brief weakness that always accompanied a feeding. It was a weakness that came from the inside, the weakness of ecstasy, of orgasm. But it was not as strong this way...feeding from an ice cold plastic bag... alone...

  It was always much stronger—intoxicating, mind altering—when it was warm and fresh, drawn straight from a living, breathing, struggling body.

  Bill had only fed that way once and had not been able to bring himself to do it again. Not yet.

  Even so, as he swallowed the last of it, he became aware of his erection, of the not unpleasant throbbing in his head and the tingling sensation that ran over his body in a wave, as if he were being covered, naked, by a blanket of feathers.

  He wadded the plastic bag in a weak fist as he waited, breathing deeply, for it all to pass.

  Afterward, he regained his composure, wiped his mouth and went back out to see his son.

  Jon was staring up at the open door, waiting. He spoke hesitantly: "You don't...um, you don't...look so good, Dad. Are you okay? Are you—" He swallowed, licked his lips. "— um, are you sick?"

  Bill looked at him for a long time, wondering how this could happen, how the boy could be here on this night. Were A.J. and the girls here, too? They had to be; Jon certainly didn't drive himself. After a moment, all of that became less important...

  Jon was still growing, but he would be tall and his shoulders would be broad when the growing was done. Bill saw himself in the boy. The girls had gotten their mother's red hair and fair skin, but Jon had inherited Bill's face and eyes, his thick brown hair and olive complexion.

  Leaning out of the cab, Bill extended his hand and said, "Come on up, Jon. We've got a lot to talk about."

  CHAPTER 6

  They smelled. Both of them.

  Jenny wrinkled her nose when they stepped in front of her, making her stumble to a halt.

  "We'd like a table," the fattest one said.

  "Well...you're supposed to be on the list, you know," she said. "There's a wait."

  Jenny was relieved when Debbie, the hostess, stepped up and said, "Can I help you?"

  "We'd like a table," the fat, smelly man repeated.

  "Well, you'll have to wait. We're pretty full, in case you didn't notice."

  "How long?" the man asked.

  "Maybe an hour. Maybe more."

  The man looked at his partner, not as fat but just as smelly, and both of them smirked as they turned and walked away.

  Debbie looked at Jenny and said quietly, "Some day I'm gonna come in here with a gun."

  Jenny nodded with a sympathetic smile, then hurried to her original destination: a newly occupied table. She took the order without really listening, writing it down automatically on her pad like a robot, then turning to take it to the cook. Someone touched her shoulder and she turned.

  "You gotta phone call," Debbie said, hurrying back to the register.

  Jenny turned in the order, then went to the front and picked up the receiver behind the register. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Jen, it's me. Grace."

  Jenny's stomach lurched. "Is something wrong?"

  "No-no-no. It's just that Shawna's...well, you told me to call if anything was unusual and... well..."

  She clutched the receiver with both hands. "What, Grace?"

  "Shawna can't seem to go to sleep. She keeps saying... well, she keeps saying something's wrong."

  "What?"

  "She doesn't say. Well, she doesn't know, I guess. She just keeps saying that something's wrong. I just took a cup of cider up to her, but she's still...she's disturbed. I don't think she's going to go to sleep. I just thought I should call. You know. I thought I'd ask you what to do."

  Jenny closed her eyes a moment to think. Shawna had had trouble sleeping in the past, but never for a reason, never because something was "wrong." When she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring over the counter at the fat smelly men who had demanded a table just a few minutes ago.

  The first one smiled at her, his fat cracked lips framing darkened teeth that were clamped together on the end of a stubby cigar; the other chewed on a wooden match. Between them stood a petite girl, maybe in her teens, pretty but pale and very thin, with blond buzz-cut hair that showed off the three delicate silver earrings that dangled from each ear.

  "Is she there, Grace?" Jenny asked, looking away from the customers.

  "She's in her room, but she's not asleep yet. I just heard her roll up the shade on her window. She just won't stay away from that window. She saw a couple of truckers fighting down on the road earlier and I think that upset her."

  "Well...go ahead and put her on, let me talk to her."

  "Okay, hold on."

  The line fell silent and Jenny looked at the young blond girl again. She was talking to Debbie, staring intensely into her eyes, leaning close as if what she had to say was a terrible secret.

  Debbie stood with her
head tilted forward, lips parted and jaw slack, back straight and stiff, which was odd for her because she was usually smiling and always relaxed, sometimes so relaxed she looked rather slumped.

  When Jenny looked at the man with the match in his mouth, he winked at her and she turned away quickly, looking at Debbie again, who nodded and said flatly, "Sure, right away."

  Debbie turned, scanned the restaurant, then motioned for them to follow her as she headed for a table where a man, woman and little boy were just standing to leave. But the girl did not follow; she turned to the man with the cigar, who nodded at her, as if in thanks. Then he said, "Watch yerself out there," and shouldered by her. The girl left the restaurant while the two men followed Debbie to the cluttered table, which she began to clear off without waiting for the busboy.

  Jenny frowned. The only time she'd ever seen Debbie seat anyone out of turn on such a busy night was a little while earlier when that family had walked in soaking wet and bleeding from cuts and scratches after walking up the freeway from their wrecked car; usually, she was very careful to uphold the restaurant's first come first serve policy so as not to upset those customers left waiting for a table. And Debbie never cleared off a table without snapping at the busboy for not getting to it first. But now she took away the dirty dishes, wiped the table with a rag and poured coffee for the men, gave them menus, then hurried past the register and ducked into the restroom.

  "Hi, Mom," Shawna said.

  "Hello, Pumpkin. How're you?"

  "Fine."

  "That's not what Mrs. Tipton says. She says something's bothering you."

  "Well..."

  "What is it, honey?"

  "I don't...really know."

  "You're not sick?"

  "Uh-uh. I just...I don't know. Are...you okay, Mom?"

  "Of course I am, honey. Why, did you think maybe I wasn't?"

  "I just...wasn't sure. That's all. I'm fine, though."