“I’m the gatekeeper,” he says, “I let you through five years ago. Don’t think I didn’t know it was you.” And now, another part of Freddy shines through—from before he was lost, when he still had a little hope and could find a way back to charted waters. It’s swallowed up right away, though, an ephemeral illusion, as his lips keep moving. “Good shit, though, top quality. The Bull. Didn’t know they still had it around here. Sure, I was told that they did, but have I ever seen it? No, no, no—not until this very day. Someone could bust a couple of veins doing lines of this stuff. Not healthy, not healthy at all. Good for the mornings, though. Hey, that’s what I’ll call it—Good Morning. Hello!” He karate chops the air for emphasis. “Boom, smacks you right out of bed and into living. No time for sleep! Sleep is for the dead! Got to keep moving—hey now, that’s a great motto, think I’ll start saying that…”
His voice trails off as we exit the little shack and get in the truck. In all his jacked up excitement, it’s doubtful Freddy even realizes we’re gone. With that stuff, he’s stoked enough to entertain himself for hours and not feel a pang of loneliness.
The car trip back is scored by bad country music and the bumps of the road. Kristine’s eyes are focused on the horizon. Whatever she came here for, it starts—and ends, maybe—in Riverton. Phone clutched to her chest, dots hidden, I can’t see if we’re heading into the lion’s den.
I roll past Greater Riverton Bank & Trust, which, aside from the requisite police tape, is abandoned. A quick glance in the rear-view confirms that, indeed, our tail is still clear.
I go on further, down Main Street, and she motions to pull off at the diner. That seems all right to me, since it’s about the only decent place in town. It’s still open, 24 hours, just as always.
We don’t go inside.
There’s a row of desolate structures across the street—far more depressing than empty space.
“Take this, kid.” She hands me a gun, and for the first time I notice she has two holsters. Kid. That’s what my father used to call me, which seems like a lifetime removed from this ridiculous film reel that’s become my existence.
“Where do you even keep that?” I’d love to know; no hiding spots in an outfit like that.
“There might be some people in there,” she says, “bad people.” Treats me like an idiot. “I want them dead.” Like they’re deer that have run amok and ruined the local ecosystem.
“Damn, that feels a little cold.”
“It doesn’t feel bad, either.”
I wish I could rev the truck’s big Detroit engine on out of here, escape into the stars that flicker like nightlights.
From the doorway, this factory looks like a labyrinth. But that’s the way things have been and shall continue to be—a big jumbled mess where everything overlaps. I stand in the doorway, paralyzed by my mind’s philosophical meanderings.
“We allowed in here?” Not that this has stopped us before.
“Just visiting,” she says, and it’s true, we’re all just visitors in this strange life. So I breathe deep, and then I step into the dark.
18
The Old Warehouse
Mothballs—the entire place smells like it’s made of them. The windows are grimy and the floor is coated in rat shit, bones and decades of dirt. It’s enough to make me wish I’d brought a gas mask.
“This doesn’t seem safe,” I say, coughing from the debris kicked up by Kristine’s boots, “I feel sick.” She gives me this look like I’m a dumbass for saying anything. So I shut my mouth, follow her up the stairs, into a room that looks even worse than the entrance.
The second floor is decorated in slasher movie set pieces—rusty machinery, a layer of dust thick enough to weigh and a single broken window covered in sun-aged tape.
“Up,” she says, and I’m only too glad to oblige, soon disappointed to discover that this level is the same as the others, sans any windows at all. An empty cage sits in the middle of the room. I don’t want to know what it’s for.
There must be cameras or some silent alarm, because I hear the entry door creak open, the groan of the rusty hinges loud enough to come all the way up the stairs.
“Hold them off,” Kristine says, “I’ll get us out of here.” That’d be a hell of a trick. I always wanted to find out what the Alamo was like.
Two pistols and some corroded machinery is all I have to work with; I doubt it’ll hold for long. The idea of shooting another person again, even the Syndicate’s goons, makes me shake, enough to wish for a cigarette. I’m bound to be rusty; in the movies, smokes always turn the average guy into a dead-eye marksman.
That thought don’t last too long, though, because now they’re coming up, two, three, four of them, maybe more, soles scraping against the lengthy series of steps. I fire, eyes peeking out over the conveyor belt, a shower of sparks spraying from the errant bullet’s resting place. Curses flood the air. I shoot again, this time hitting flesh.
“Fuck,” and it’s a scream so shrill that it seems his voice should break altogether, never work again. And then that’s it, no other sounds besides my breathing and whatever Kristine is doing to expedite our exit. I stand up and see the man, face down, stiff, right there on the stairs. A couple shots ricochet off the fixtures above, breaking the temporary ceasefire, and I duck behind the belt again.
“We got more coming,” one of them yells, “you might as well come out now!”
I blind fire down the stairs and somehow nick someone. I kind of regret it, because he starts wailing like a newborn.
“Shut up, idiot, I can’t hear where he’s at,” his associate says, but the wounded guy is having none of it, just carries on about his shoulder, how it’s torn apart, and it’s his dart throwing arm—which I think is a little strange, in terms of his priorities. A single gunshot, then morbid silence. “Pull the pin, man, and smoke the bastard out,” I hear, which is my cue to move. A little metal ball clings and clangs around, settling next to me.
I dive out and roll, awkward as a newborn colt—if they tried to roll, anyway—towards Kristine. Knocked off my feet by the blast, I scramble towards the moonlight slicing through the smoky haze, illuminating a room that hasn’t seen light in years. Just below us is another rooftop.
Kristine shoves me towards the opening, like a sheepdog nipping at the heels of a wayward lamb, and then leaps out the makeshift window. I’m about to spring for it when I see a guy at the top of the stairs, turned towards me, right out in the open with nowhere to go.
Blood slashes through the dirty air, and he staggers to the dusty ground. Footsteps stop down below; word’s gotten out that I’m a crackshot, a modern Jesse James. The power supply. It’s on a table in the corner, and I swear I can see it shining in the murky light. It looks like any standard issue nano-lithium battery, but when I pick it up, I can feel it moving, like it’s alive.
This thing’s got some kick.
“Call in the airstrike,” someone says, and I know what that means. A minute, maybe less. I hurry towards the opening and peer out. No sign of Kristine. I damn near miss the roof when I jump. The drop isn’t but six feet, but I’ve never been much of an action hero. I find her crouching on the roof behind some machinery, stealth-like.
“Where to now?” Above, I can hear the sound of the strike coming down. Napalm scorches the sky, a beam of fire, and like that, the warehouse is a pyre. We’re still close enough that it’s hot, licks at our flesh like a hungry wolf.
“We keep moving,” Kristine says, and we start running, out here naked, the only hiding spot an old condenser clean on the roof’s opposite end. Beyond that, another drop. I can see my truck, and the diner, placid and undisturbed, seems forever away. No shots or pursuers follow us.
There’s a tarp on the adjacent roof. Kristine lifts it up, like I should get under it.
“They’re going to come looking for us.”
> “You got two of them, maybe three. They’re not too eager to find us.” The sound of sirens floats through the air. Never thought I’d be glad about that, but right now, that’s a good thing.
“So why not make a break for it while they’re pussyfooting around?”
“We stay here,” she says, “we’re headed to the diner.” And that’s it: it’ll be like camping, just with the Syndicate and smoldering buildings afoot instead of bears.
The sun is beginning to rise when Kristine decides it’s time to get down. We heard the men drive off long ago. The town’s lone fire engine wailed in, and about the whole damn police force is combing the warehouse.
She doesn’t use the drainpipe to shimmy down, just hops and lands like a cat, almost upright. It doesn’t look so bad, so I follow suit. My legs hurt, explode on impact, and damn if I’m not sure I blew out all the ligaments and bones. But the pain stops after a bit, and I can walk. It isn’t that far to the diner anyway.
“Just stay here for a second,” I say, “let me talk to Janice.”
“Guns,” she says, and I hand them over.
“Take it. Please.” I forgot how much I hated the damn things. I seem to get caught with them a lot, though.
“Three minutes and I’m coming in.” But Kristine stays near the truck.
I enter Sissy’s and sit down at my usual spot. Janice emerges from the kitchen a few moments later. “You find him,” she asks, and I shake my head, which makes her face fall a little. “Where’s your new friend?”
“Outside. Listen, I think there’s something bad going on in this town.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t sound surprised. Nor is she perturbed by the fire nearby. Sissy’s isn’t even closed; that’s service. Before Janice can say anything else, our conversation is interrupted by the jangle of bells.
“I couldn’t wait,” Kristine says, shrugging as she sits down next to me, “it just looked like too much fun in here.”
“You,” Janice says, “you know something about Isaac.”
“Not for you, unless you’re going to help me.”
“The police. I’ll tell them.”
“That’s cute. You want the police to come here? Around you?”
Janice flushes. “I, I…”
“I think it’s time for everyone else to leave,” Kristine says, smiling in an I got you now bitch way, “okay?” She taps a fork against a dirty glass, like this is a toast at a dinner party. “Everyone, may I have your attention please?” The rest of the diners stop eating and turn around. “Thank you. Consider this notice that Sissy’s will be closing for the day. There’s been a fire, and it’s not safe around here. Asbestos and hazards and all.” The room fills with nervous grumbles. “No? No one’s leaving? Well, you need to get the hell out.” Her silver pistol is by her side.
A chorus of bells accompany the people as they rush to get away from this crazy stranger.
“Some of those people have been coming here for years,” Janice says when the last of them are gone.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kristine says, “maybe they’d like to be part of this. It was rude of me not to ask.”
“I’m still wondering what we’re doing here,” I say.
“Your friend here has a little bit to tell us. Isn’t that right sweetie?”
“I run a diner, I work hard—”
“I’m sure you do. But tell me, what’s it like, working with that prick Isaac? That’s why you came back here five years ago, isn’t it? Because it sure couldn’t be for this.” Kristine waves the gun around at the diner.
“Come on now, Kristine, she’s straight as an arrow.” I look at Janice, worry spreading across her pretty face.
“Listen to him,” Janice says, “I’m just a girl who moved here and regrets it every day.”
“You’re going to tell me where I can find that son of a bitch, and I’m going to kill him.” Kristine points the gun right at Janice’s head, hammer cocked, finger on the trigger.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, stepping back from the counter, “put that away.” I wish I’d kept my damn gun.
“I didn’t tell you about her, did I?” Kristine’s laugh is harsh, staccato. “I should tell you sometime, Damien.”
“Now seems like a good time.”
“I think it’s just best if you leave.”
“You can’t kill her, she’s my brother’s—”
She turns the gun towards me. “Or I kill you too.”
The bells sing a lonesome song when I step outside. I watch them talk, and then Kristine hits Janice square in the face and shoves her against the locked door.
I reach into my pocket, but Kristine has the truck’s keys. I start running up the street, just me and the quick-rising sun. I pass by the bank, taped off and still buzzing with some activity, and it seems like it takes forever to fade from my peripheral vision and out of sight. Maybe it never will.
Further up the street there’s a ratty motel that’s been around since forever. Almost all the lights have burnt out on the sign, so only the v and the y work. This is where you hunker down when you’ve become a shadow of a man. I enter the visitor’s office.
“I need your gun,” I say to the overweight, under-shaven blob of a man working the desk.
“Hell no,” he says, “no way I’m doing that.” He reaches down and pumps the shotgun. Twice in a few days I have to deal with this. Unbelievable. “You best get on out of here.”
“I’ll give you all of this for it.” I dump a wad of crumpled bills on the counter, what’s left from the other night’s El Dorado excursion.
“Goddamn, I can smell those from here,” and yeah, it’s true, fresh bank notes—even those covered in the scent of shame—have the distinct aroma of hope and promise, like they can buy you something new, “that’s well over a grand you got.”
“Take it or tell me to piss off.”
He ponders it for a little bit. This much cash is something he ain’t gonna see again.
“Don’t go on and get yourself in no trouble now,” he says, but that’s a lie he tells himself to feel better—the only thing that can come from this transaction is heartbreak and sorrow.
I walk out, shotgun by my side, the dirty push-bar on the door smudging my hands. Plan uncertain, I begin to head back towards Sissy’s, but the familiar flash of red and blue forces me to duck behind an SUV in the motel’s lot. I peer through the tinted glass, everything awash in alternating hues as Henderson steps out of the cruiser. He’s alone.
The fat guy at the desk rushes out the door, because this is damn good excitement in a daily life that consists of porn and online poker. I lean around the rear fender to catch the conversation.
“Hey, you seen this fella around? Been causing some trouble around town.” Henderson shoves a photo into the desk man’s gut.
“Nope,” the man says, “ain’t been through here.”
“Anyone strange been coming around here?” Henderson asks, but what he means is crazy unusual, because this place doesn’t do normal.
“More than a few, I’d say,” the desk guy says.
“What about a tall guy? Dark denim, collared white shirt. Looks kind of like the ugly bastard in the picture.”
“Well, I’d say a couple people fit that description.” Not cooperating. He just saw me.
“He was wearing nice clothes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” This guy has to understand he runs a fleabag motel for grifters and lowlifes; no one’s considering it for five star travel guide ratings. I see Henderson snatch the picture back and scribble something on it.
“Look, you goddamn zero, if you see this guy’s boozy mug around here, give me a call. I don’t think your clientele will appreciate daily visits.” And then he puts his hat back on and drives back towards the station.
Drama complete, I dart from beh
ind the car and race to the diner.
19
Broken Promises
Door stained crimson, glass shattered by stray bullets and rockabilly on the juke—this is how I find Sissy’s when I return. Some thug and Henderson are almost face-to-face, right next to the door, still as ice, insides melting out onto the linoleum. He’s got his eyes closed, hand still wrapped around the grip of his gun, shell casings by his side.
With a crackle and hum, the tune fades out, the box’s neon tubes flashing to indicate that it’s ready for another spin. Jeans bloodied, I wonder how it all came to this.
I check Henderson’s pockets, tug out a black book. The body still feels warm, enough that I expect his breath to breeze through my hair. It doesn’t. I check the bathrooms. Empty; Janice is gone, along with Kristine. I pat down Henderson’s pockets once more and open the front door.
“Police! Put the gun down and lock your hands over your head.” It’s Richards. Bastards snuck up on me, no lights, all incognito.
I shut the door and dart out the back. No one’s covering it—Riverton’s finest, once more—and I start a flat out sprint towards Jasper’s. I’m spurred on by the footsteps behind me. Stop, stop, they cry, but I don’t heed the calls. Maybe they’ll shoot, maybe they won’t. It doesn’t matter. The sky’s morning light is starting to flicker into focus above.
The minutes pass by, quicker than I’d expect, and it still seems like I can just run forever, even though I haven’t jogged a minute in about my entire damn existence. I can’t shake my pursuers, but the footsteps start to fade. I know they won’t catch me right now; in a moment, sure, but not this one.
Right now, I’m free.
I leap up Monk’s stairs and crash through the door. He’s sitting there on the couch, dazed out of his mind, head drooped low. I throw the deadbolt behind me and scream.
“Hey buddy, I’m in trouble and I don’t know what to do…” But I trail off when I come closer, can see what’s going on. A bullet to the head, blood pooled down on the carpet, thrown all over the curtains like a killer’s avant-garde painting.
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