As Blake and the man’s paths crossed, the man tipped an imaginary hat and smiled. Blake stopped dead in his tracks, a hinky vibe derailing his progress, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. As the man carried on with his odd pantomime, pointer finger extending as a gun barrel—bang, bang. Blake thought the lightning infused hair enhanced a mental suggestion that sparks danced off his fingertips.
The man slowed and turned, still walking, though backwards. He was no longer smiling.
Jane Teagarden crossed her arms as the scene played out. Though she was desperate to get whatever information she could in order to find her brother, she looked unnerved by the presence of the man.
Blake and the man both stopped, gauging each other, a tango between lion and hyena. The man’s eyes dug into Blake’s—he could feel the glower burn through the back of his skull. His belly spiked as well, as if filled with battery acid. Blake catalogued it all, everything about this “Ano-anomaly” in this small, desolate, comically nostalgic town in the middle of a heat-blasted stretch of nothing.
The man tilted his head down with purpose, reaching up for that imaginary hat again, tipping it before turning and swiftly making way to his car, a rental car of the same make as Blake’s—Dodge—though painted white as a sheeted ghost.
How appropriate.
By the time Jane made it to Blake, they were both watching the man drive off, rubber left as a reminder of his urgency.
“What was that all about? Who was that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, but sense…”
They both turned toward the room he’d exited. Number 10.
“Is Marlon there?”
“No way of knowing until we make the trek across the parking lot and knock.”
“Yes,” Jane said, gripping Blake’s bicep, which he did not mind at all. In most cases throughout his life, he’d ventured into bad situations alone. But with this one and the slippery manner in which it was all taking shape, company was welcome. He may have wanted her to remain in the car while the man with the lightning white hair was around, but now that he was gone—a glance down the road confirmed as much—her presence seemed necessary.
In some ways, it was. After all, it was her brother they were looking for. Yet Blake sensed within himself something that tilted the scales in a rarely experienced way. The world seemed to slow down. The rotation of the earth paused as unease burrowed within. Unease and even a nugget of fear.
Bad juju for sure.
No matter their urgency, time being an imperative and not something portioned out in dollops, it took them almost five minutes to make the door, their halting steps and curious pauses making it feel more like a game of hopscotch in Hell.
At the door, the matter of a key was rendered inconsequential. Jane knocked lightly; no response. Blake jiggled the doorknob, then ran his large fingers over splintered wood. Scaled the frame, nudged it firmly. The upper hinge was set in splintered wood.
“The door is not locked. It’s set in place,” he said. Jane nodded as Blake pushed it in. He was careful to grip it firmly so it wouldn’t fall and draw unwanted attention as he had no idea what, if anything, they would find in the room.
As he held the door, his nostrils flared at the bad smell. Excrement, urine, perhaps even scorched flesh, and the corrosive underbelly that distended from it all: Death.
“I don’t think you should enter, Jane,” he said, but with the door occupying his hands, he couldn’t stop her from slinking her lean body around his. He was quick to clumsily set the door into the frame.
“Oh, my god,” she said, turning from the bed where a woman’s body lay. If the eye-watering stench wasn’t enough of an indication the unnatural position of her body made it completely clear that she was dead. Jane buried her face in his shoulder. An appropriate reaction to seeing a dead body. He was repulsed as well, no matter the years and many deaths he had witnessed, been participant in, or run across as result of the job.
“It’s not Marlon, let’s go,” she said, both hands clenching his black trench coat, not wanting to pull her face from the security of darkness and see, smell, or acknowledge what slumped on the bed.
…a rare moment of security, something he’d faltered at so long ago…
(“Daddy…” washed away before she had the opportunity to say, “Help me.”)
“It may not be Marlon,” Blake said, “But I sense it…I sense she has something to do with Marlon.”
Jane leaned back, still holding on to him. “What makes you think she has anything to do with Marlon?”
Her question fell into the mire of unanswered questions every case collects. Blake moved her gently aside and circled the bed. He took a white handkerchief threaded with monogrammed black letters—T.P.B., Terrance Patton Blake, Patton for General Patton, a real man’s hero to his life-long military father—from the breast pocket of his black shirt, and pressed it to his nose, his mouth.
Jane buried her face in the sleeve of her blouse as she watched him.
Blake reached up toward the dead woman’s tilted askew face, the head at an odd angle. Something was wrong, something…
“Oh, dear god,” he said, abruptly backing away. What he saw staggered him to the point of dizziness. He’d be fifty years old in a month. He’d dealt with the frailty and misfortunes of life and death in one form or another since he was a teenager, but he’d never seen anything like this.
The woman’s face, her whole head, the flesh and bones—all of it—had been reshaped into a facsimile of a question mark. A question mark!
“Blake. Blake! What…?”
His composure went on reserve, came back as it always did, as it had to, no matter how his vision felt violated
He turned and took in the brown paper bag, the slightly ajar drawer. A Gideon’s bible.
A sensation.
“We should go. We should just go,” Jane said, backing toward the broken door, bumping it, then moving away from it, as if feeling trapped.
“Wait,” he said, shuffling to his left, not looking toward the woman any more, never again. Except in nightmares, where her mangled face would lurch out of the sleeping abyss, waking him to the shock of reality. All of the bad experiences and worse deaths tailored their attack to when he was weakest, which might explain why he rarely slept deep enough to dream anymore. (All dreams led to Claire, anyway…) He knelt down, not knowing why, but something drew him downward. Something whispered to him. Not a whisper of words, but one of knowing.
As abruptly as he’d backed away from the woman, he shot back up, standing tall, shadows shifting off the wall, inspired by his presence.
Or was it something else?
“Look,” Jane said, as a snapshot shadow played out on the carpet. An undefined thing, with an improbable foundation.
Blake did not need her direction to look. He was right next to it, the shadow only there within his shadow, yet its movement separate from his, its shuddering not aligned with his firm stance.
What mad conference of reality and fantasy was being held in his presence? Was he finally losing his mind, too many blunt instrument concussions rendering him a hallucinating lunatic?
He knew it had something to do with Marlon. What? There was no way any of this would make much sense, what with the green limousine being a surreal starting point.
“Explanations are futile. I cannot tell you exactly how I know, but I know Marlon was here. That shadow. This woman—”
“I cannot imagine Marlon killed her,” Jane said, her eyes glossy, polished silver. Still related to gray, but with a glimmer of something more.
“No. No, I don’t think he did. That man with the lightning white hair may have. Either way, he’s got information that could lead us to Marlon. It’s fair to reckon his presence here was with purpose. We need to know the purpose. We need to find him and ask a few questions.”
“How can you be so sure? Perhaps he’s just a white collar murderer, slumming on his way from one business convention to anothe
r, or home to his oblivious wife, his two point five children, a Dalmatian, white picket fence…”
Blake shook his head. He knew. He knew.
“Explanation is futile. I just know. He may very well be a white collar murderer. But he also knows something, has something to do with Marlon.”
“And he’s gone. Long gone.”
“The car was a rental. Perhaps…”
“Perhaps it would be best to head back to the airport.”
“To inquire about him.”
Jane glanced in the direction of the bed.
“Nothing we can do here, and we don’t want to stall our quest. Best we make a hasty exit and be on our way,” Blake said.
“Dear God,” she said, turning her face from the taffy-pulled atrocity that used to be human, a woman.
“I don’t think God has anything to do with what went down here,” Blake said, as they maneuvered the door out of their way, and slipped through. They rushed to the car and sped away to the airport.
Seeking answers…but expecting only to find more questions…
Chapter 14 Teagarden
Violence. Most people in your world pray it passes them by, or they purposely avoid confrontation that might lead to its appearance.
While traveling in the dark frontier, the possibility of violence is always present. It is a possibility in your world as well, but here, every situation, no matter the levity or lackadaisical trance woven into the drug experience, is rife with the whip-snap shifting of…let’s call it tonality, dear sister.
Something felt in the bones, inspiring adrenaline to rampage in the body, seek retribution for the intrusion, inflict a reaction wrought in flesh and muscle. At any moment, in any situation, it looms as a jackal, ready to pounce.
I’m not speaking of the cookie-cutter, cartoon violence displayed on movies and TV. Something experienced at a distance. Not the kind that inspires a vicarious thrill, followed by laughter and safety when the lights go up in a movie theater. Not the kind our parents’ coveted, bringing them wealth, this third member of their bloodshed ménage à trois.
I’m talking about the type of violence that is pure in intent. Has only one motive: a means to an end. Purity so intense it embellishes life. A primal urge meant to be tapped, not ignored and avoided. A reminder of where we came from and what it takes to continue to move forward, free of society’s clipped-wing approval. Violence should be embraced.
So many in your world live to avoid its veracity. Cross the street and turn away. Crumble within and pray to God. Skulk home with their tail between their legs, justify cowardice with the lie of safety. Safe from bodily harm, when psychologically, the damage has been done by not entering the arena. It needles, it gnaws. You may think it wrong. When our primal origin revels in the occasional expression of sweat and blood, an expression of our true selves, wired into the limbic system. It may push us closer to death, the extremity of some experiences, but it is to be cherished.
That said, I’d never killed anybody until today. It was necessary for my quest, attainment of the next leg of the Centipede, but also a matter of vigilante justice.
Back when Grimes informed me of what Riding the Centipede entailed, as well as my status as the next chosen one, he divulged this information while we were at the junk yard he owned. A few of the ubiquitous junky stragglers were shuffling like zombies through the pot-holed mufflers, mangled car frames, and greasy rags. The ones lower on the totem pole than me. The lost souls.
One such strip of beef jerky was named Simon, a real tweaker. Always prying into everyone’s business and wanting some of whatever one’s business was. Always on the take, on the hunt, for whatever drug-fueled shenanigans he could get into. He circled like a scavenging vulture; his life spent forking through everybody else’s leftovers. A taste of this, a taste of that. I’m sure you know the type, dear sister, even in your world.
I’d seen him a few other times, usually in Grimes’ presence. He was annoying but easy to ignore. A few harsh words and he crawled into his shell of slime, smiling and chewing on a wiper blade or whatever was available. But this time, we volleyed harsh words; he ignored them and shouted something about, “I’ma gon get ta that green limousine afor you does.”
It was instantaneous, as most violence is. Without warning. Necessary.
Without compunction, I pounded him to within a breath of his extinction.
Grimes just watched. He knew the rules of the dark frontier and all worlds, really.
As an exclamation point and final warning, I tossed Simon down the few steps leading out of the business shack, a wooden box held together with snot and a prayer.
“I see you anywhere along my path, I will kill you without looking back, fucker. You get my drift?”
Heard him moaning as I stepped over his pretzel-twisted body. Watched Grimes pick him up and already, even in pain, blood pooling on his ratty layers of clothing, Simon laughed.
“Whatcha got fer me?”
“Certainly not your integrity, shit stain,” Grimes said, as always the perfect comeback for every situation.
He wished me luck with a nod and a look in his eyes that might have been envy, but was tamped down because he knew how things worked in the dark frontier.
I may look like easy prey, but living in the dark frontier toughens you up. Or it kills you. It’s all a matter of choice: take action without hesitation or wait around to die. In the dark frontier every breath might be your last and you truly must accept this as your philosophy.
I am reminded of this continually. The time for necessary violence is inherent in every situation.
I wake in an aquarium, listless, floating to the surface. Brightly lit fishes of various colors and sizes circle around my groggy head. They swim along walls with patterns their passage does not define. I attain the surface, no life jacket on hand, only the ability to wave my arms. The water evaporates. A black mist and just the fish flying around the room. A small room.
A child’s room.
I glance down to see a night light, the cover rotating. Fish dipped in every color of the rainbow.
To my right, eye level to me as I boost myself up on my knees, a bed. Star Wars sheets decorated with Luke Skywalker, Chewbacca, Han Solo and that princess, the one Carrie Fisher played—what was her name?—in animated form. And the child, a boy of perhaps ten. Perhaps. Sleeping, but not peacefully. A turbulent ocean plays out across his face. Beneath heavy eyelids, the orbs dart about, a hectic mamba with Morpheus in the lead. Morpheus in a sinister mood.
What am I supposed to do now? Everything feels wrong here. A child? Will a child have my next rig, be the proprietor of my next leg of the Centipede?
I lean forward and whisper, “Wake up.” I do this again when there is no response. As my hand nears him, about to nudge him with all the delicacy I can muster, a voice behind causes me to almost leap out of my skin.
“He’s not the one with what you want. Please do not wake him.” The voice is soft in a way that would seem appropriate for the child. Perhaps it is this child’s voice, but not spoken from his mouth.
Before turning, I sense the speaker’s heat pour over me as a shroud made of lava. What I see is shocking even to me who’s seen many bizarre things along the rails of the dark frontier. I tumble backward. I bump the bed hard. The boy continues to sleep.
“Careful.” It crouches in the shadows, flesh glistening, defining its shape and girth in the abstract. It tenses, wary, tentative, and aware of my surprise as fish flash across it, dipping into crevices as if caressing stones. Saliva drips from yellow and black fangs, the tips along the teeth to each side ground flat, and grinding now—I hear them: bumblebees buzzing.
“We’ve not much time,” it says, this monstrosity swathed in muscle that even in the darkness, even spattered with the colorful fish, is of a bruised hue that makes my stomach clench. The smell of something alive yet rotted through and through enhances my desire to faint. Yet I hold on, back against the bed, uncertain of whether
I should listen to this nauseating creature or wake the boy and get to the truth. I notice in my coiled repose, my body feels different. I’m different than I was on my last leg of the Centipede. Transformation is definitely in progress. I am different, yet the dim, shifting lights in this room don’t allow me to see anything beyond fragments.
Perhaps the monster is a product of this lighting and is simply another person as I am, hunched in the nook between door and dresser.
Perhaps the boy is a slug dreaming of a shell, protection.
No matter what, this leg, as I expect all legs of my journey will be, is sure to bring surprises.
A noise outside the door, another door slamming, causes the creature to stiffen. It reaches over to the nightlight, lifts the rotating cover off and the light brightens a section of the wall.
The revelation, filling in the blanks, forces me to shut my eyes. I need a moment to blot it away. When I open them again, I realize the creature wears no skin. The inner workings are on full display: muscles and shit and the arterial path the shit follows, veins, actual arteries; and scaly, spring-like things that weave within the anatomy, holding it together. Like some kind of living stitches in constant flux.
I have never witnessed such an orgy of obscenity.
Even with all I have seen, this creature takes the cake and frosts it with a liquid mixture of diarrhea and what smells like hot oil. With the light shining on it, the stench becomes intolerable. I mask my face with my hands, but it is futile. The stench simply burrows into my pores.
Am I to bargain with monsters now? Does it matter? No. I have a purpose here. Time to get to it. To move beyond my dread and get to it.
“The Centipede. Do you have what I need?”
“Of course we do. Why else would you be here?” The soft voice wavers. Plucked feathers seeking the history of their genesis, the ability to fly.
“Then what do you want from me?”
“We need you to kill the one who abuses.”
Riding the Centipede Page 10