The old man nodded and held out his hand. A slight grin was on his face, as if he was amused by the younger man but refused to admit it. “Name’s Mark.”
Harold held out his hand and introduced himself. “Harold Kray. Normally, I would jump at a chance to throw down with you, old man.” He wiped his sweaty forehead. “But it’s too fucking hot to fight. It’s too fucking hot to do anything. What kind of preacher uses the word goddamn in a sentence? Ain’t that some kind of sin?”
“I ain’t no goddamn preacher,” the old man answered again, pronouncing the word as “got-dam”.
“Oh.”
The old man nodded and stared down the blistering highway. Harold followed his gaze, marveling at the way the heat shimmered and danced over the scorching blacktop. The blazing desert stretched off into the horizon for what seemed like eternity. The bus was already thirty minutes late. He imagined that the tires had probably melted right into the road.
Behind the two men was a single diner, the windows so covered with dirt and dust that anyone brave enough to venture inside was astonished that it was actually open. A long-dead gasoline pump sat in front of the building, a genuine relic from the Fifties. The calming guitar of the Kansas song “Dust in the Wind” could be heard drifting through the sweltering air.
Harold frowned and stared back at the diner. “How many times she gonna play that damn song? Jesus H. Christ!”
“Jukebox is broken,” Mark said, watching a lone tumbleweed roll by. “It only plays two songs. You should be glad it keeps playin’ that one.”
“Why? What’s the other?”
“‘Seasons in the Sun’.”
“I’d listen to this song all damn day rather than hear that one.”
“Me too.”
“This song is depressing, though,” Harold said, lighting up a cigarette.
“It don’t bother me none. I used to live with a woman that sang commercial jingles every five minutes. Had a voice like a farm animal bein’ slaughtered. Once a man is around somethin’ like that for a few years, he’ll listen to anythin’.”
Harold grinned, smoke trailing through his coffee-stained teeth. “Even that rap music?”
“Hell, son. I’d get up and do a jig to that rap music, even in this weather, before I would listen to that woman sing again.”
“She still around?”
“Hell no,” Mark said, staring up at the cloudless blue sky, eyes lost in his own old memories. “She up and died.” He turned back over to Harold and smirked. “She died yesterday. That’s why I’m gettin’ out of this shithole town.”
“You live in this town? No wonder your skin looks like a used cowboy boot. If your wife died, how come you ain’t sad?”
The old man pulled out a flask of whiskey from a canteen holder strapped to his side and brought it to his chapped lips, taking a long swig as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I reckon I’m as sad as I’m gonna get. That miserable bitch lived way too long.” He held out the flask.
Harold took the flask and drank hungrily. “Marriage makes a man miserable,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I never did meet a man who was happy once he was married. I never bothered to settle down, but if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be in a place like this. I feel more at home in the city—which is why I’m heading down to New York.”
“I’d rather live here than go to that dung pile.”
Harold looked at the old man sideways. “Lots of women in New York. Women that are sure to put some twang in your step, old timer.”
“I’m all done with women. Twang is still in my step, too.”
Harold got up from the bench and stretched. “I’m gonna go back inside and get that woman to make me something to eat. You best holler if I don’t hear that bus.”
The old man nodded. “Just don’t order the chili dog special no matter what Bonnie says to you.” He leaned to the side and farted so loudly that Harold actually winced. “If you do, you’ll be sorry.”
Harold walked past the old gas pump, stepping over the rotting carcass of a dead snake. The song was still playing and he wondered if the woman would actually let him unplug the damn thing. It was beyond him how someone could listen to the same song all day anyway. Frowning, he pushed the door open and stepped inside just as the jukebox was starting yet again.
Harold stood frozen before the door, his body rigid in shock, his eyes wide on his sweaty face. The smell blasted into him, throwing him backward—a heady mixture of cooking food and death. The jukebox was splattered with blood, as were the walls. A massive pot of chili simmered on the stove behind the counter.
The old man was lying face up on the floor, his throat cut open so wide that Harold could see the bone glistening in the fluorescent lighting.
Bonnie’s corpse was on top of the counter—her skirt pulled up to her face. Blood ran from between her legs and onto the wood. One white arm dangled off to the side, blood dripping from the tips of her fingers. A fly landed on her thigh and crawled around before buzzing away. The song continued to play, providing a stark contrast to the grisly site.
Harold stepped backward and opened the door, blinking as the brilliant sunlight blasted into his face. His stomach felt like it was spinning and he clutched it tightly, fighting back vomit.
The old man was still sitting on the bench, drinking quietly from his flask.
“Mark, you best get your ass over here and look at this!” Harold shrieked, his voice high.
The old man turned around. “Why’s that?”
“Someone murdered the people in there!”
Mark stood up and ambled over to where Harold stood. “Say what? Someone killed Bonnie?”
“Yeah … but it gets fucking worse than that. You got a twin brother?”
Mark glanced nervously at the closed glass door. The dust made it impossible to see beyond. “No, I don’t. Why you ask that?”
“Because you’re dead in there, too. Or at least someone who looks just fucking like you.”
“Son, I never was a man who told jokes like this. They just annoy me.”
“Old man, I’m telling you the truth. Why would I make something up like this? Look for yourself.”
Mark nodded and wiped his sweaty forehead with the crook of his arm. “This best not be no damn joke.” He took a few steps and pushed on the glass door. He held the door open for a few seconds, his shoulders rising up and down rapidly as he took in the gruesome scene. Stepping backward, he let the door close, a rush of rancid air drifting into their faces.
“That old man on the floor looks like you,” Harold said.
“That old man on the floor is me,” Mark said, licking his bleeding lips. His sweat-covered face was as white as the clouds in the blistering sky above. “I been wearin’ these same boots for almost eight years. That thing on the floor has these same boots on.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
The jukebox finally switched over and began to play “Seasons in the Sun”.
“I don’t know, son. We best go inside and find out.”
Harold followed Mark back into the diner reluctantly, looking as if he would flee at the first sign of rapid movement. Mark stepped carefully over his own corpse and pulled the plug on the jukebox, cutting off Terry Jacks in mid-sentence.
“Is that body on the floor really you?” Harold asked, staring down at the corpse apprehensively.
Mark leaned down and pulled the sleeve of the tee shirt up. A badly drawn tattoo of a woman with a half-face of skull could be seen fading on the corpse’s dark skin. “It’s me all right.”
“Mark, you want to tell me how the hell that’s possible?”
“No clue in hell, son.”
“There ain’t no house near this place for miles, is there?”
“Nope. Just the shack I called home. Ain’t no one livin’ there now. Ain’t another house round here for at least ten miles or so.”
“Did you see anybody go inside?”
“Nope.”
Harold turned away from the old man’s bloody corpse and pretended he did not hear the blood dripping from Bonnie’s fingertips. “It don’t make any sense at all. Shit like this simply cannot fucking happen.”
Mark turned away from his own body and looked over at Harold. “I bet your corpse is around here somewhere, too.”
Harold’s eyes widened. “What the hell you talking about?”
“Well, things ain’t right obviously. We didn’t see anyone go in here. Back in the sixties, I used to watch this show called The Twilight Zone. Shit like this used to happen all the time. Used to read a shitload of sci-fi paperbacks too. An author by the name of Richard Matheson used to write this kind of thing. Gave me headaches and nightmares back then.”
“You trying to tell me we somehow got ourselves into the Twilight Zone?” Harold asked, grinning despite the carnage around him. “That’s pretty fucking rich.”
“I ain’t sayin’ what happened. I don’t have a clue. I’m just sayin’ this sort of thing always happened on that show. I’m bettin’ that there is some sort of time thing goin’ on.”
Harold just stared at the old man as if he had just sprouted wings and started flying around the room.
“Look, I know it doesn’t seem to make any sense, son. Do you have a better theory?”
Harold just shook his head back and forth like a zombie.
“Anyway, if I’m right, these corpses come from the future. I mean the future like an hour or so. That’s the only way that this makes any sense.”
Harold bent over the old man’s corpse and pulled out the flask of whiskey. He took a deep swallow. “Okay … so let’s just say what you say is true. How come my corpse ain’t here?” He leaned over the counter, being careful not to touch any of the blood that was now congealing in a thick puddle. “It ain’t back there, either.”
The old man removed his own whiskey flask and stole a drink. “Well, that’s the mystery. There is a couple of things that could be happenin’, I guess.”
“I’m almost afraid to hear this.”
The old man lifted up his pant leg and removed a small antique pistol he had strapped to his leg. “First off, you best grab the pistol off of my corpse down there. It’s a piece of shit and only fires one shot, but it’ll have to do. Either the killer may still be around … or he’s comin’.”
Harold’s eyes bugged out and he looked nervously at the front door. “How the hell is the killer coming? These people are already dead.”
“Because these corpses are from the future. Which means—”
“That we’re going to fucking die.”
“Well, you may not die. I don’t see your corpse anywhere. That’s the other thing I was gonna say. See that freezer back there? It’s one of them walk-in jobs. Your corpse may be in there.”
“The killer might be in there, too.”
“That’s true, son. Unless …”
“Unless what, old man? This ain’t the time for no fucking dramatic pauses.”
“Unless … you’re the killer.”
“Well, I know that ain’t a possibility. I may have thrown down in many a fight in my life—but I ain’t no damn killer.”
“Let’s look in the freezer.”
They stood before the freezer as if the door would explode open at any second. Mark stuck his ear to the door but heard nothing but the steady hum of the generator.
Mark stepped back. “Okay, you pull it open and I’ll shoot anything that might come running out.”
Harold reached out nervously, his hand trembling before it reached the handle. He pushed down and pulled the door open, jumping to the side in case Mark had to fire.
Mark nodded, looking up and down. “Well, that solves that. You certainly ain’t the killer.”
Harold peeked into the freezer. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Harold’s headless corpse was sitting against the wall, hands on his side. Blood was splattered on all the silver walls, indicating that the murder had taken place inside. The head was over in the corner, lying on its side, eyes facing the wall, steam drifting from its neck.
Mark closed the door, his eyes betraying just how terrified he was. “Okay, that means the killer ain’t here yet.”
“We’re gonna die, ain’t we? You said this is our future selves. That means were gonna fucking die.”
“Not necessarily, Harold,” Mark said, locking the front door. “Calm your ass down.”
Harold snickered and ran his hand through his sweat soaked hair. “Let me get this straight. Our fucking corpses are laying around this place. You’ve been saying they are from the future. We’ve somehow walked into some other fucking Twilight Zone dimension and you are telling me to CALM MY ASS DOWN?”
“Getting all riled up like that ain’t gonna help us, is it? It may even be what got our asses killed in the first place. We may not die. We can make it.”
“Mark, you said you think these corpses are us from the future. That means we die in the future. We’re fucked. We’re gonna get murdered.”
“We may be able to change things since we know we’re goin’ to die.”
“The killer should be here soon, then. We gotta try and kill him before he kills us.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
“The corpses are gone,” Mark said, his voice soft.
Harold gaped around, his head jerking back and forth. Both the floor and the counter were clean. The blood had completely vanished, as had the bodies.
They heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, a low rumbling that shook the floor underneath their feet. Harold ran to the window and wiped away some of the dirt, his face to the glass. “The bus is coming, old man! The bus is fucking coming! We can just get on there and get the hell out of here!”
“I wouldn’t go runnin’ out there just yet, son. The murderer could be on that bus.”
Harold was still staring out the window, his hands around his eyes as he peered through the grimy glass. “What … the … fuck.”
“What’s going on, Harold?” Mark asked, his mind not yet registering the fact that he could literally see through the back of Harold’s head as if he were transparent and made of glass.
“Mark, there’s two guys sitting on the bench out there. Let me rephrase that. We are sitting on the bench out there.”
Mark tried to open the door and his hand went right through the glass. He looked at his arm in numb fascination, watching in shock as he seemed to be fading away. “Oh my God, they don’t know. They don’t know they are going to die.”
Harold turned to face the old man. “Fuck! What the hell is happening to you! You look like a ghost, old man!”
“Things are goin’ back to normal. That’s us out there and they … we don’t know we’re goin’ to die.” Mark realized that Harold could not hear anything he was saying, his voice had degenerated into nothing more than a whisper.
The jukebox clicked on and “Dust in the Wind” resumed its perpetual melody.
The two men stared at each other as they faded. Their eyes hung in space for a few moments, twinkling in the air before dwindling away into nothing but specks of dust in the sunlight. Bonnie looked up from where she was wiping the counter, thinking for a brief second that she had seen old man Mark standing before the door. She smiled and resumed her work.
The bus stopped before the bench and a cloud of dust enveloped Mark and Harold. The door opened and the driver stepped outside, his black boot heels clicking softly onto the scorching blacktop.
“The engine is overheating,” the driver said, offering a friendly smile as he scratched his well-trimmed goatee. He pushed his gigantic cowboy hat up with his thumb. “We’re gonna have to let the bus rest for at least an hour. That’s why I’m late—we broke down a few miles back.” He stared at the two men on the bench. “I’ll tell you boys what. Lunch is on me while we wait—won’t cost me anything, I’ll simply bill my boss.”
Harold frowned. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, man! We’re already l
ate! Now you want to make us wait longer?”
The bus driver made his grin wider, his eyes dancing with an odd shimmer. “I truly apologize, my friend. Like I said, we can leave as soon as the engine cools a little. Let me buy you a big lunch to make up for the wait. Deal?”
Mark immediately did not like the man, but told himself he had little choice but to wait until they could leave. He stood up reluctantly and gave the man a friendly nod. “I guess a lunch before we hit the road won’t hurt.” He slapped the man on the back and walked toward the diner. “Just stay away from the chili dogs.”
Harold and Mark walked toward the restaurant, neither of them noticing the six-inch knife that the bus driver was fingering behind his back, both oblivious to what their other selves had seen. If they had checked the bus, they would have seen the murdered passengers within—including the real bus driver’s severed head in the middle of the aisle.
Bonnie, Mark, and Harold were dead less than ten minutes later.
Killing Brando
Johnny handed the bartender his credit card and sent Nero a gloating smile. “I love these things, can’t go wrong with ’em.”
“Yeah, but then you go in debt,” Nero said, downing the rest of his beer. He patted his round belly and burped, staring at his curly brown hair in the bar mirror.
Johnny laughed, rubbing his thick Elvis-like sideburns with his thumb. “You don’t have one because of your woman. She won’t let you have one. You are such a bitch.”
“I don’t need one,” Nero said feebly, staring at the last of the beer bubbles in his mug. Sharon wouldn’t let him have one, though. It was annoying. He watched Johnny’s face and sighed, wondering why he always had had the old degradation bomb dropped on him every time they got together for a beer.
“Oh my God, you are such a bitch. Sharon owns you. You remind of me of one of Max Hardcore’s women. Can’t even have a simple fucking credit card.”
“Who the hell is Max Hardcore?”
“He’s a porn star. Gets all savage with the women, degrades them, you know? Real controversial shit. Anal, oral, the whole fucking enchilada. He gives it to them with true zeal.”
“So he does it with zest?” Nero asked.
Body Counting Page 5