by Brian Hodge
It seemed that while I had been growing up, Morty had been acting like we always had when we were kids. Most of my friends at work were married and had families and I was kind of looking forward to settling down. Most of all, I was getting too old for this shit.
Morty seemed satisfied that I understood his point and replaced the Magnum back into his pants. There was no going back, either. Morty’s spur of the moment thrill was probably being played on every station. Where we were going could only be better. Maybe when we reached North Carolina, I’d find a way to settle him down.
“You know what steams me about the whole thing?” he asked.
I rewarded him with a shrug.
“What steams me,” he continued, “is that after all the robbing and money and shooting and car chasing, I forgot the beer.”
A sheepish smile slowly crept up the length of his face. One of those special smiles only shared between best friends. This was his way of apologizing. He looked over at me and burst out in deep throaty laughter. It was contagious. Pretty soon I joined him, but one side of my brain was trying to tell me something.
I hadn’t been in the Cherokee National Forest since I was a kid. My father and I used to go fishing and rafting down the rivers. Even in those happier days, the woods were remote enough that if a car were to break down we wouldn’t have been found for hours, if not days.
I was consulting a map from the glove box and trying to find a back road through the mountains. The police would be looking for us pretty soon and it would be suicide to stay on the highway. I plotted a way and gestured for Morty to make the turn. It was an unimproved road, but should be easy to make in the dryness of the summer. It wasn’t long, however, before we encountered a fence blocking our way and stretching off into the trees on either side of the road. What a fence was doing in the middle of nowhere, I had no idea.
Morty seemed to agree. He looked at it as if it was a girl with three heads.
“What do you make of this?”
“It looks like a fence,” I responded only realizing the stupidity of my words a few seconds after I spoke.
We looked at the chain mesh and antique lock wondering who would have put up a fence. Well, I was wondering that. Evidently, Morty was wondering whether the car could make it through without sustaining much damage, because a split second later we were at full power and heading towards it.
We crashed through with a squeal of protesting metal and the fence soon folded up and lay on the ground behind us. Morty let up on the accelerator and the car coasted around a turn. About twenty wooden shacks lined both sides of the road. Several people paused momentarily to glance in our direction, then continued on their way.
Morty slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. The people were dressed in an odd assortment of mismatched, bright colorful clothing. Not a single outfit looked like it had even seen the inside of a K-Mart—definitely homemade.
Morty glanced my way and I looked back at him. After we were tired of that, we looked at the road again. The experience was like walking into a twisted Wild West movie where all the townspeople dressed like hippies.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I unbuckled, opened the door and stepped onto the street. Red clay dust eddied around my black work boots coating them in a fine powder. I stretched the kinks out of my shoulders and glanced back in the car. Morty patted the Magnum in his lap and grinned.
An ancient woman sat behind a wooden table covered with a delectable assortment of fruit. She was perched on a rickety stool, her raison eyes almost lost in the wrinkled confines of her face.
“Ma’am,” I said, inclining my head slightly.
She picked up an impossibly large red apple, rubbed it on the hem of her blue and white dress several times and presented it to me with a smile.
I took it from her liver-spotted hands and examined it suspiciously. After assuring myself it was truly an apple, I took an enormous bite. A burst of intense taste filled my mouth and I chewed quickly. She saw my appreciation, smiled and leaned back on her stool.
Morty and I sat around a large bonfire at the entrance to a cave that the villagers used for cold storage and meetings. The rough walls, coated with a thin layer of light green moss, provided an eerie luminescence.
Brother John, a rather tall emaciated man, had invited us to sup with him, his family and a good portion of the village. Morty was a bit reticent, but once I had given him a taste of the apple, he grumbled and parked the car at the edge of the small village.
An immense communal pot rested on a slab of gray slate, heated by the wood from the fire beneath it. In addition to the fresh vegetables, tiny pieces of moss floated on the bubbly surface. I was on my second bowl. The moss was slightly tangy, reminding me of the grapefruits I used to eat in the mornings.
“This stuff is fucking great,” said Morty.
Morty always had a problem in mixed company.
“The soil is very good, here,” replied the Brother.
“Don’t you eat any meat?” I asked, remembering the farm animals I’d seen on the way in. I couldn’t help but imagine how a good steak would go with these vegetables.
“We live off the land. We don’t abuse it,” he said. “On rare occasions, we do have some fish.”
“It was lucky we arrived before dinner,” I said. “We..er..accidentally left our cooler on the kitchen table. Didn’t discover we had left it until right before we met.” I tried to catch Morty’s eye. “Isn’t that right, Morty?”
Morty nodded and helped himself to another bowl. I could see his eyes scanning the people around the fire.
“Brother, that’s religious, ain’t it?” I asked.
“We belong to the Church of Divine Determination,” said Brother John. “I lead the people in their prayers.”
“Are you Christian, Muslim, what?”
Brother John considered me for a moment with his calm hollow eyes. “We’re Christians, of course. But I’m afraid that the mainstream church doesn’t readily agree to that concept.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “Let us just say they don’t approve of us.”
The spoon halted midway between the bowl and my mouth. I wondered if we were entirely safe. Visions of flesh-eating religious nuts and Sam Raimi zombies lurched through my brain. I glanced at Morty who had cocked his head to one side, listening. Good, he was paying attention. If there was going to be trouble, having Morty on your side was as good as a howitzer.
“What do you mean they don’t approve?” I asked, trying not to sound interested.
“We believe,” Brother John began with a reassuring smile, “that God has set us on a predetermined path. There is nothing that man can do to change it. This belief isn’t appreciated by most. People like to believe they have control of their lives.” He laughed and was joined by several of the villagers sitting within earshot.
“So the future is already settled?” I asked.
“Just so,” replied Brother John. He sated proudly at the people around the fire. Where he made eye contact, he received warm reverent smiles in return.
Morty leaned in. “What about when something bad happens? Like when someone gets sick? Or if someone dies?”
“Of course, when someone gets sick, or if any one of our animals die, we’re saddened. Emotion is a human trait. It’s what sets us apart from the animals. It’s also, however, one of the imperfections we’re striving to eradicate. We realize deep down, that God has a purpose for these things. It is not for us to challenge those purposes with human emotion.”
“What about when someone you know dies, like a relative? What then?” persisted Morty.
I was happy to see he had almost returned to his old self. I was looking forward to having a little more sanity in our lives.
Brother John fixed Morty with a smile. “Like I said, we would feel sad. But you must realize, there are no accidents. If someone dies, it is God’s will. We all belong to a greater purpose. Our time here on earth is but a way station, a place for us to pause and co
ntemplate God.”
“What if someone is murdered?”
Suddenly, I wished that Morty would change the subject.
“Just the same,” said Brother John. “If someone is murdered, it’s part of God’s plan. The murderer is merely a tool of the Lord used to carry out the plan.”
“Isn’t that kind of unreasonable,” I asked. I really wanted to say, are you fucking out of your mind? But my momma raised me to a modicum of politeness.
“You must realize, friend,” he said, “human freedom has nothing to do with reason. Reason is an invention of man, therefore it cannot apply to God.”
Morty studied Brother John with veiled eyes. I finished my bowl and set it down. All this talk about religion was making my skin crawl. I was about to stand up, proclaim our thanks and bid everyone good-bye, when Morty continued.
“Sounds okay to me,” he finally said, voice tight and reasonable. “Why don’t those fuckers in the mainstream like you, then?”
It sounds okay? What the hell was he thinking? It sounds okay?
“They’re afraid, rightfully so, I might add, that our beliefs would lead to universal anarchy. If everyone believed in our truths there would be no problem. It is those few who would try and take advantage of these beliefs that make it a problem.”
Morty placed his wooden bowl on the ground like it was the finest porcelain. He stood up slowly and dusted off his pants. His eyes gleamed as he gave me The Look. I groaned inwardly. I knew The Look. He was going to do something stupid. I wanted to scream out and tell him to stop. Tell him to leave it alone. Tell him we needed to be on our way.
“What do you mean take advantage?” I asked, trying to get the Brother’s attention and dissuade Morty from doing something stupid at the same time.
On cue, Morty stepped casually over to Brother John, pulled out his Magnum Baby and placed it snug against the Brother’s forehead. The Brother merely stared gently back at his would be murderer.
“Follow thy path,” said the Brother.
The thundering blast startled everyone. As the Brother toppled backward, Morty spun around and began tracking the smoking barrel back and forth across the crowd.
“Okay you sicko hippie dumbfucks, who else wants to dance with Magnum Baby? She’ll set you upon God’s path just fine.” He yelled. His mad eyes glittered in the firelight. The eerie green luminescence basked the side of his face with an unearthly glow.
Several people jumped up in confusion and stared at the prone figure of the Brother. After a few tense moments, however, they sat down and resumed eating.
Morty winked gleefully at me and shoved the gun back into his pants. He swaggered, kicked the dead Brother’s legs out of the way and sat down.
“Just as I thought,” he said getting himself another bowl of stew.
He was certifiable. I couldn’t believe this psychopath was my best friend.
“Morty,” I asked slowly, struggling to control my voice. “What the Hell did you just do, Morty? Are you on crack?” I knew that my eyes were about as wide as they could get.
He smiled like a patient parent. “You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it, do you, Dan?” He gestured at the people around the fire with his spoon. “I’m the wolf and they’re the sheep. Their only shepherd is a God that doesn’t exist. This place is a freaking amusement park. You can do whatever you want. Murder, rape, whatever. You know why? Cause it’s God’s will. And cause it’s God’s will, none of these religious motherfuckers will do anything to stop me!”
“Morty,” I said trying to reason with him. I wanted to reach out and grab him by his thin neck and shake him until he either understood or it snapped. “Not everyone wants to murder and rape.”
He shook his head. “Don’t give me that holier than thou crap. You’re as big a criminal as me. The only difference is that I’m a doer. You’re not a doer, Daniel. You never have been. You’re a watcher. You’re just along for the ride.” Morty paused and stood up. He held his arms wide as if to embrace the world. “And here at Morty’s Appalachian Amusement Park, we got many kinds of rides.”
He jumped up and stalked over to a scrawny young man, barely out of his teens. Morty reached down and picked him up, one hand on the legs and one balancing the chest. The young man went slack, refusing to struggle. He lay at the mercy of my psychotic friend.
“We got the Oh My God I’m On Fire Ride,” Morty said as he threw the young man into the fire. The young man’s screams shook me and I felt myself jump. I watched as hair and the clothes caught fire. Almost too soon, the skin began to sizzle and pop. With wide happy eyes, Morty watched the man burn from the other side of the fire.
I sprang forward to see if I could help the boy, but I was too late. His clothes were already engulfed in flames. I grabbed a smoking ankle and heaved him free. The sickly sweet odor of burned flesh invaded my senses and I felt the stew begin an upward climb. I bit it back and rushed toward the communal pot. His clothes were still on fire. His face was a charred and blistered mass. Scorched bone protruded in several places. I reached out with my bare hands and grabbed the scalding pot. I bit back a scream, but somehow held on and poured the remains of the stew over the still burning body of the young man. It was only when I smelled the burns on my own hands, that my stomach turned traitor. Then the stench of burned flesh mixed with the vegetable stew reached into my gut and jerked out my dinner.
Morty cackled, shook his head and moved to his next victim. He began kicking a middle-aged woman in the mouth. The people sitting next to her watched like it was only a made-for-TV movie instead of their friend being kicked to death in bright Technicolor reality. Whenever Morty’s blood-smeared boot connected with the poor woman’s face, a squishy thud echoed in the now silent cave.
“Or if you’re afraid of fire, Dan,” continued Morty, “You can try the Watch Them Get Kicked In The Face Ride.”
His laugh was shrill and rising to an impossibly high pitch.
I had to stop him. My hands were beginning to ache as the adrenaline left my blood and the pain from my burns set in. I glanced down and saw that the skin had begun to peel back in places and felt woozy. I needed medical attention badly.
Morty stepped over to the next person and screamed, “Hey Old Man, you can’t stop me, can you? It’s God’s will isn’t it?”
The man returned Morty’s stare with a look of calm compassion, ignoring the strings of Morty’s spittle that dripped from his nose. Morty lunged twice, trying to get a reaction. He grunted and barked and laughed, but his target remained impassive.
It was at that moment that I knew Morty had to be stopped. These people didn’t deserve him. No one deserved him. My mother’s words returned to me from the many years and miles where I stood on the deck of our house overlooking the beautiful blue and green waters of Chicamauga Reservoir: One day, that boy is gonna snap. When that day comes, you make sure you’re a thousand miles away, ya hear?’
Morty howled in anger at the old man’s resolute immobility. “You feel sorry for me, Old Man? How come you feel sorry for me? I’ve been chosen by God. Don’t feel sorry for me, feel sorry for yourself.” Morty reached around and snapped the old man’s brittle neck in one swift movement.
“Hey, Dan,” Morty said, making sure I was watching, “you missed the ride. Pay attention, boy. Queue up and have another one.” Morty craned his head to the ceiling and howled, “Tickets please. Keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times.”
I couldn’t take it any longer. He had to be stopped. I launched myself across the small space separating us. He must have seen the intentions in my eyes and drew his gun. I sped up as the gun came level with my body. Morty raised it a few inches higher and crashed it down on my head. I felt an intense brief pain before I sank into darkness.
When I cracked my eyelids and let a little light in, I discovered I wasn’t dead. It hurt too fucking much to be dead. My skull pounded. My hands felt like they were still burning. I opened my eyes a little wider and saw the fire in fron
t of me. Through the swirling smoke I could just make out glittering stars.
“How ya doing, sleepy head?” asked a voice from behind me. “I didn’t think you were going to wake up. Thought I might have hit you a little too hard. Sorry about that.”
I rolled over, grunting at the pain. Morty reclined on a log, drinking from an earthenware jug.
“When I was looking for bandages, I found the Brother’s stash. Must keep it for communion. And you know what? These folks made some pretty good stuff.” He breathed heavily and smiled at me as he took a long deep draught. Green liquid seeped from the imperfect seal of his mouth and slid down his chin.
“Looks like they make it from this green stuff on the walls. Never heard of Moss Brandy before, but it sure hits the spot.”
I peeked at my hands and saw that they’d been bandaged. Morty reached over and grabbed an overturned cup. He shook the dirt out and, holding the jug in the crook of an arm, poured it half full. He knelt down beside me and gently cradled my head in his left arm.
“Here, try some of this. It’ll make you feel better.” He put the cup to my lips and poured liquid fire down my throat.
The cobwebs disappeared in a storm of electric agony. I remembered the mayhem. I remembered the madness. I remembered the murders.
Or had I?
I shook off his hand and peered around, afraid of what I might see. And there they were— bodies piled against the back wall of the cave like so much cordwood. I struggled to my feet, but before I could make it, dizziness grabbed me and threw me back to the ground where I embraced the darkness.
I felt someone gently stroking my hands. I opened my eyes and squinted at the brightness. I was surprised to find the aching in my hands had all but disappeared. The old woman, who had given me the apple, applied some kind of greasy substance to my burns. It felt cool and soothing. When she saw that I was awake, she smiled gently.
“There, there, young man. Just hold still and let old Grandma take care of these nasty burns.” Her voice was soft and sweet, belying her age.
When she finished, I glanced towards the back wall where the bodies had been piled. Every one of them was gone. I tried to picture the old woman moving them, but couldn’t.