Lot Lizards

by Ray Garton

  He shook his head. "Just do it. And, um...take care of A.J. and the kids. Take good care of them. And tell A.J...." Tell her what? he thought. Why tell her anything? "...tell her how sorry I am."

  "Look, Bill, maybe there's something we can do, somebody who can help you take care of this and get bet—"

  "Just go."

  Doug nodded slowly, opened the door and got out. He stood outside for a moment, watching Bill.

  "Hurry, dammit!"

  The door slammed and Bill heard Doug's footsteps crunching over the snow. He watched him head back to the crowd in the parking lot. An off-key, muddled rendition of "The Old Rugged Cross" came from one corner of the parking lot, sung by unsteady, frightened voices. To the right of the building, he could see part of the truck lot and, even with bleary eyes, he could see several still bodies sprawled on the snowy ground here and there. Then his eyes turned to the gas island, to the pumps standing like mechanical guards beneath the white steel canopy, lined up with their curved chrome fingers stuck in their ears.

  It might not work. The power was out, which lessened his chances. But there were three cars still parked by the pumps, cars that had no doubt been there filling up when the power went off and had been left there so the drivers could finish the job when it came back on. If it failed, there was always the diesel island. Whether it worked or not, he had to try. After all...

  You're dying already...

  CHAPTER 20

  As Doug neared the crowd in front of the truck stop, he was overcome with exhaustion. He felt as if he'd lived a whole month—a very bad one—in just one night, and although she was crying and chewing her lip, her arms around the girls, both of whom were also crying, it was comforting to see Adelle's face. He opened his arms to her and she fell into them, sobbing.

  "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure, but...well, he's..." He chuckled without humor, unable to believe what he was saying, "...he's one of them. One of those things. And he's...very sick. I guess. Hell, I don't know. Jon says he's been dead for a year."

  Adelle closed her eyes and turned away, her lips thinning as she held back more tears.

  "Sorry, honey. He's resting right now." He reached out and massaged her shoulders, frowning. It hurt him to see Adelle so moved and upset by Bill's condition. It was immature and petty, he knew; they had, after all, been married and had three children together. But seeing her emotion for her ex-husband— the man of whom she'd said so many bitter things since Doug had been with her—unsettled something in him, made him feel insecure. Shaking his head abruptly, trying to dismiss his feelings, he embraced her again, held her in silence for a moment. He turned to Jon, who stood a few feet away, watching his dad's truck, eyes red and swollen, lips quivering. "You okay, Jon?" He nodded.

  "We wanna see him!" Cece cried.

  Doug hunched down and stroked her face. "You can't see him, sweetheart. Not right now. He's very sick and he just needs to rest. Maybe later." But he knew that wasn't going to happen. Not if he could help it. He kissed Adelle and moved toward the noisy crowd. They were cold and frightened and still unsure of what they'd been through. He lifted his arms and called, "Um, excuse me, folks. Could I have your attention?"

  Heads turned to him slowly, a few at a time, and he repeated himself, then said, "Um, we don't think those... those, uh, things will be coming out after sunrise, and it's almost light now. But until then, it's probably a good idea to move away from the building. If we could all just move over here by the street? The freeway should be open soon and maybe we'll get some help in here. I think if we just—"

  An engine roared to life.

  "He's starting his truck!" Jon shouted.

  Doug spun around and saw the lights on Bill's Kenworth come on, saw Bill turn to them, just staring through his sunglasses for a while.

  "What the hell's he doing?" Doug muttered.

  The crowd fell silent and everyone watched the blue tractor across the street.

  "He can't drive," Jon said. "Not as sick as he is. Mom, somebody's gotta stop him." He started toward the street, but Doug grabbed his arm.

  "Uh-uh. Just sit tight."

  The engine idled for a while.

  The sky grew lighter.

  The snow continued to fall.

  Then the tractor moved. It drove forward slowly then veered left as if to make a U-turn. But it didn't. It kept going straight. The grill clattered as it tore through the hedges surrounding the parking lot and took out part of the truck stops old wooden roadside sign.

  Voices rose, some in anger, some in fear.

  Doug's mouth became dry very suddenly. "Son of a bitch," he breathed.

  The Kenworth's horn wailed once, twice, a third time as it picked up speed, nicking the back end of a small pick-up that was sloppily parked; the pick-up spun away from it and the horn didn't stop this time, just kept wailing, screaming.

  Doug turned to see where the truck was headed and he didn't wait a heartbeat to scream, "Run! Everybody run! Into the street! Now!" He swept Cece up under one arm and pushed Adelle ahead of him; she dragged Dara at her side.

  But Jon just stood and watched, his jaw slack.

  "Dammit, Jonny, come on!" Doug shouted.

  The others ran, some fell and crawled until they regained their footing; a few were trampled before they got back up. Screams rose in the quiet snowy dawn as...

  ...Jonny backed up, slowly at first, his eyes following the Kenworth in which his prize triceratops dangled in the window. He kept his eye on his dad's window, watching as his head bobbed while the tractor gained speed. He backed up faster, breaking into an awkward jog as it neared the gas island, heading straight for the first row of pumps. There was a split second, just an instant, when Jon saw his dad's head turn to look out the window; the sunglasses were crooked on his face and his mouth was a gaping black hole framing a silent scream.

  Then Jon ran, crying and screaming.

  And hell came out of the pavement.

  The explosion made a deafening gushing sound and its impact carried Jon several feet, throwing him into the shrubs, where he struggled to stand and continue running. He didn't want to look back, didn't want to see his father's fate.

  But he had to.

  On his feet again, he turned around and continued running backward, his feet sliding dangerously over the icy pavement.

  The biggest, angriest flames Jon had ever seen were engulfing Dad's Kenworth and shooting into the sky. Black smoke billowed up to meet the clouds. The canopy that had covered the pumps fell through the air gracefully, almost as if it were falling in slow motion, and landed on several cars in the lot with a thunderous crash.

  There was another smaller explosion, this one from under the main building, half of which disappeared sending missiles of rubble into the air. Even across the street, Jon could feel the heat enough to make his skin tingle and his eyes burn and water.

  The diesel island went next and another steel canopy was lifted on a wave of fire and came down on a row of trucks parked in the truck lot.

  The others who had fled the building had scattered in every direction and almost all of them had hit the ground, either for protection or from the concussion of the explosion; some of them were in the street, others in the bushes or sprawled in a snowbank. Their cries and screams and panicked babbling served as music for the fire's ballet.

  But Jon couldn't speak or make a sound. He just stood in the middle of the street, in one spot, and turned very slowly around and around as bits of pavement and metal and charred wood rained from the sky, and no matter where he looked, no matter what he saw, the most vivid image in his eyes was that of his father's decaying face, sunglasses askew, screaming soundlessly as he drove to his death.

  Through their tears, some of the people had, once again, begun to sing a hymn as they gathered together across the street: "Blessed Assurance."

  Jon's mother rushed to him, embraced him and kissed him again and again, whispering his name. Still holding
him close, she led him across the street to where Dara and Cece pressed their faces into Doug's side, sobbing and trying to keep warm.

  The five of them stood close as another sound rose above the cries and roar of the flames. It sounded, at first, like a strong gust of wind sighing through tall pines. Gradually, the scattered crowd calmed a bit, tense perhaps, afraid of what might be coming next. Heads turned from right to left, looking for the source of the sound, which was joined by another, and a third. The sounds grew louder, clashing with the hymn singers, whose voices faltered and finally stopped as all eyes turned toward the mountain of fire that had once been the Sierra Gold Pan Truck Stop.

  They were screams. ..unearthly, agonizing screams rising from the blaze, only to fade away again until all that was left was the roar of the fire...

  EPILOGUE

  Amy sat up suddenly, her sticky eyes fluttering several times before opening completely. All she knew upon waking was that she was ravenous. Her body ached for a feeding; her head throbbed and her joints were stiff. Worst of all, she had no idea where she was or what was tangling her legs together. She reached down and pulled it away to find that it was a frayed green canvas. It smelled damp and moldy. In fact, everything around her smelled damp and moldy.

  She looked around at old wooden walls on which hung two rakes, a shovel, a hoe and an axe. When she tried to stand, her back bumped into something and she glanced over her shoulder at a neatly stacked pile of firewood.

  And something else.

  Something attached to her back. She tried to stand but dizziness plopped her back down on the creaky wooden floor. Even after the dizziness passed, she could not keep her balance and dropped on her ass two more times. She tried to reach behind her to see what was weighing her down, but she noticed that her clothes were hanging from her body in tatters and she froze.

  Groaning, she closed her eyes and put her head in her palms, sliding her fingers into her wet, matted hair.

  The last thing she remembered was rushing from the truck stop basement with Kevin to his truck in the parking lot. No... no, there was more...

  They left the truck stop to go...where? Kevin's place, yes, that was it. He was going to get a few things, put his camper shell on his pick-up and, as soon as the weather improved a little, they were going to hit the road.

  Driving through the snow: that was the last thing she remembered. Or was there something else...

  The pain. Yes, the pain that had struck her like a snake. Flames had scorched the inside of her skull; thinking back on it now, she could imagine her brain boiling like water in a kettle left too long on a stove. She vaguely remembered how frightened Kevin was as he struggled to keep the pick-up on the road. At first, she'd thought it was because she was putting distance between herself and the Queen; she'd tried it before, always with painful results. But the pain she'd had in Kevin's pick-up had been worse than anything she'd ever experienced, and when it continued to grow worse, she'd realized it was being caused by something else, something much more permanent than the distance between herself and the Queen.

  She remembered what that pain had driven her to do, too. Smacking her lips, she could still detect the bitter, stale taste of Kevin's blood on her tongue. She tried to feel remorse—he'd been a nice enough boy, so eager to help her, to be with her— but she couldn't; it simply wasn't there. In fact, when she went deep inside herself looking for that remorse, she realized that something else was missing, too.

  The Queen.

  She'd always been there; Amy had never been without the Queen's presence since she'd been bled. But now she was gone.

  The psychic tie that had always connected her to that creature in the trailer had been cut.

  A smile moved slowly across Amy's face and she whispered in the dark, "She's dead."

  She was free. She didn't have to run anymore.

  Amy leaned over to the wall and looked through a crack between two of the wooden slats. It was dark outside. The day was gone. She'd escaped sunrise in time.

  With an enthusiasm she couldn't remember feeling since she was a child, Amy stood again, remained upright for a few moments, then began to sway backward. She slapped her hands onto the wall and held herself up. Reaching her left arm over her shoulder, she touched her fingertips to something. It was attached to her back just above her shoulder blade.

  There was one on the other side, too.

  She shook her shoulders, hoping to dislodge the objects from her back. There was a hushed rustling sound behind her, a stirring of the cold air around her, but the weight on her back remained. Frowning, Amy looked down at herself, surveying the damage to her clothes. And then, even in the darkness, she saw it.

  A fine layer of dark hair over her entire body. She ran her hand over her breasts in disbelief, but held the hand out before her when she noticed how long her nails had become. How long and black.

  "Oh, my God," she said aloud, and her voice was different. Slightly muffled. Her mouth felt funny...full. She touched her face and—

  —her mouth was swollen, sticking out from her face, almost like...like a muzzle.

  "Oh, my God," she said again, her voice a whine now. It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes and, now that she was fully awake, she realized that her entire body felt different... and that the things on her back would not come off. They would never come off.

  Not me...not me...I'll never become like that....not me...

  Clumsily, Amy spread her new wings.

  Her stomach twisted and she leaned over, as if to vomit, then dropped to her knees, her face in her hands, and sobbed.

  Not me...not me...

  She swallowed her tears when she heard a sound outside.

  A door opening.

  Stomping feet.

  A girl's voice, early teens, maybe younger: "I'm doing it now, Dad, I am getting the wood! Jeez!"

  The door slammed and footsteps crunched through the snow as the voice mumbled indignantly: "...always following orders...like bein' in the fucking Army, for cryin' out...do this, do that...good ol' Kunta Kinte, that's me, yes massah, no massah..."

  Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch... louder, closer...

  Amy's crying stopped and was forgotten in seconds. She could smell the girl, she could feel her pulse already, feel it in her bones.

  She stood, moved to the door of the wood shed and spread her wings again.

  There was no time to hate herself now, no time to mourn her condition.

  There was her hunger to appease...there was blood to drink...

  ...there were places to go...

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1991 by Ray Garton

  Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media

  ISBN 978-1-4976-2749-9

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

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