One of the Dobermans stood above me grinning from ear to pointed ear. I was pinned between the cold ground and steaming canine breath. From the corner of my eye I could see that I was thrown from the train car right at a doorway of the abandoned station. The door was hanging off to my side revealing a long, narrow and dark hallway that looked eerily like a coffin.
My eyes flicked back to the dog. It was like staring Death in the face, only Death would not smell that rank. The devilish pointed ears loomed up behind the face like dark watchtowers, always twitching and searching. She just glared at me, waiting for me to flinch so she could dive into my flesh. Her teeth proved that was all she wanted. She cared not for the commands of the large man yelling from the train car. She smiled at me, a horrible mocking grin with upturned jowls and sparkling pearly-whites. She knew I would move sooner or later and if I did not I knew she would eventually lose patience.
My mind raced and stumbled over my very limited options. But her eyes could read me. They were like little black telescopes piercing my soul searching for my next thought or plan. She had me beat, capitalized on my every mistake that I made against man or beast, criminal or gambler. Nothing short of a miracle or a shotgun would save me now. She seemed to be growing in anticipation for I saw a fire burst in her black eyes. Or was it just the reflection of my hat?
That was it, my hat. She was focused on it. I took a chance and pulled my hand slowly out from underneath my aching body. I slid it up my side to my head. She never lost the red flicker in her eyes. I got to my neck never losing eye contact with her. Everything paused for a moment. My hand paused, the saliva stopped dripping, the flame in her eyes stopped flickering.
We gazed, passionately, into each other’s eyes.
I snapped my hand to my head and flicked the hat high into the air. The Doberman reacted instantly. Her head flew towards the hat followed by a lunging heavy black body. This was the first glimpse I got of the sinewy muscles coated with a glossy black sheen. She lunged over me and loomed high in the air like one of the four horsemen riding in for judgment.
I was not ready to be judged. I slid my body from underneath her and scrambled to my feet as the dog sliced into the hat in midair. My feet slipped on the dog drool when I began to run through the doorway into the dark hallway.
I expected to be snatched up by the Doberman just like my hat but instead nothing happened. I grew enough courage to glance over my shoulder as I ran. The Doberman still tore at the red hat, shredding it to pieces. I rejoiced and picked up my pace. I glanced back again and the sliver of joy that had welled up inside me quickly shattered at the sight of the second Doberman tearing out from behind her counterpart who still ripped at the red hat.
I ran harder, my lungs exploding in my chest. She bore down on me, closer and closer. I could barely see in front of me down the long dark hallway. The concrete floor rolled away as I fled into shadows, always hearing the constant rapid tapping of dog nails on the hard ground. The same hot breath was burning the back of my legs. All I could do now was run and hope for an exit but ahead of me was only more darkness. I begged my feet to run, to run and not trip. This dog seemed more intent on taking me out. She had a clear plan and I had no more red hats.
When I strained my ears I could hear sinister, mocking laughter from far behind me at the hallway entrance. That same voice growled, “We always win, pal. We aren’t gamblers because there isn’t a chance in hell that we’re going to lose. When they find you, if you can still talk, remember to tell them that this train don’t carry no gamblers.” His laughter became an echoing cackle. Instead of fading it grew sharper and surrounded me. My feet were not even touching the floor but rather they treaded water. I swam through the shadows, drowning in the hot dog breath and a loud, ear-piercing screech.
Chapter 17
My face slapped against the cold window as I lashed out the hand supporting my head. I swatted at the dream Doberman and punched the air in self-defense. My eyes were still closed because I couldn’t look death in the face.
A cool burst of air rustled my hair and dried the drool that stuck me to the window.
“Screw you asshole!” Shoddy yelled out the open window and gave the horn another long beep.
The train, the dogs, the voices vanished. I was awake, resting in an awkward position behind the passenger’s seat.
Once Shoddy shut the window and the torrents of icy night air stopped swirling around the backseat, I opened my eyes—no sense in trying to fall back to sleep.
It was still pitch black outside the car. Shoddy was still driving. Emily and Lindsey were still fast asleep.
I sat upright and wiped the saliva off my cheek and then off the window, but managed to only smudge it around the tinted pane.
Shoddy noticed me sit up.
“Sorry, Shaw, a huge trailer truck just cut into the fast lane so I had to beep at him. I didn’t mean to swear that loud.”
“What? Oh, forget about it,” I yawned. The little green glowing numbers on the clock were the only things that changed since before I fell asleep. I had slept for almost four hours; it was now deep into the wee hours of the morning. The sun would rise relatively soon. A tickle of excitement momentarily bristled the hairs on the back of my neck.
While I meandered into full consciousness, I attempted to understand fragments of leftover dream that loitered around in my head. Something about a red hat and a dog? The images didn’t stay long and soon the addictive alter ego my brain had created from the fragments of Rapid Eye Movement, disappeared completely.
A professor once told my class to write down our dreams, claiming they were a snapshot of the soul and would provide inspiration for some very interesting fictional writing. That was an English professor. A psychology professor said dreams are a series of patchy memories firing after environmental cues during waking hours brought them to the front of our mental queue. I liked the English professor’s rationalization better.
“I can drive again if you want,” I said to Shoddy. “As long as you find me a twenty-four Dunkin Donuts. My head is killing me, I think I need caffeine.”
“Shaw, buddy, you just smacked your head off the window. I doubt caffeine is going to help with that. Plus, we’re in the South. They don’t have Dunks down here.”
He was right. A college student’s schedule revolved around alcohol to put them to sleep and coffee to wake them up. When one of those goes missing, homeostasis can go awry. If I had to do without Dunks, so be it. I’d find a boost elsewhere.
“Damn,” I groaned. “Well, get off at the next exit. We’ll find something.”
“No problem,” he assured me and turned back to singing along with the music. It was a different CD than the one I fell asleep to. It was one of Emily’s CD mixes. Her taste was usually quite eclectic. This disc was filled with country music. I wasn’t a huge fan and I knew Shoddy wasn’t either. I wondered if maybe he was brushing up on his Emily facts, perhaps to beef up his pillow talk.
I let it go. I recognized the song and without realizing it, I started singing under my breath.
“Spent the night in Carolina, got up early out of bed. Bought a Red Bull and a road map and an old Stones cassette. Setting my sights south bound, no reason or rhyme. Threw up a prayer just lookin’, just lookin’ for a sign.”
“You know this song?” Shoddy asked condescendingly.
“Yeah, Lindsey plays it all the time. It’s basically about some guy in a cowboy hat driving around thinking about life. Typical country music themes.”
“That’s wonderful, Shaw. I didn’t really need a book report on the song but thanks. I can move on with my life now,” he said without attempting to hide his sarcasm.
At least twenty minutes rolled by before we saw a sign for the next exit. The gas station at this exit was much more readily accessible than the last one. We pulled right in to a brightly lit franchise.
I got out to fill the gas tank. This pump had a very easy to find credit card swipe.
�
�What do you want inside?” Shoddy said.
“I don’t know, whatever will keep me awake. Those Red Bulls you had earlier looked like the right idea.”
“Got it,” he said and ran into the convenience store. The gas pump handle kicked out. Shoddy returned with a coffee and some water, a few candy bars and a six-pack of Red Bull.
We flip-flopped positions again and he jumped into my vacated backseat, cracked a joke about the spittle-covered window and settled into his i-Pod and a Snickers.
It took a minute to readjust the seat settings and mirrors. I checked the passengers once more before pulling back onto the deserted interstate. Emily was drooling on herself, probably took some of the same sleeping pills as Shoddy with much more adverse effects. Shoddy was reading a book, lost in some random sentence. Lindsey hadn’t moved, even when we stopped at the station.
I was somewhat alone with my thoughts.
On an impulse I flicked Emily’s CD back to the country music track I woke up to. I wanted to listen to that song again.
I turned the volume up a notch. I didn’t sing along this time around. Rather, I paid attention. I took in the lyrics mostly, and the simple, almost regretful guitar backbone. It went down easy and warm, calming my body and weakening my still pounding headache. I let the music fill me up.
I cracked open a Red Bull. After three long slugs I crushed the empty can with my right hand and reached blindly behind me, aiming to drop it on the floor under Shoddy’s feet. My hand whacked his knee. He made no sound.
I dropped the can and checked the rearview mirror. The book teetered on his knee, held open by one finger, acting the fulcrum on its spine. His head drooped forward, eyes shut, mouth closed. I prayed his dreams be more magnanimous than my own; that he would not suffer the same broken sleep that I had endured. Perhaps whatever internal spirit controlled and conjured his unconscious, relished in benevolence and would guide him away from nightmare, towards delight. I wished it for him, but Shoddy had his own demons, his own pursuing dogs to evade. Somehow I knew, far away in the shadows of his mind, he too was running from some monster; some vicious beast grinning a wide and sharp grin brimming with cockiness over the certainty of the kill.
In the rearview mirror I watched Shoddy’s chest start heaving faster and faster. He twitched and his leg jutted out, smacking the back of Lindsey’s seat. His body shook then relaxed. His head tilted to the right and rested against the window. His breathing steadied.
Don’t lose your grip, Marcus. Just keep running.
I returned to my own demons. Back out through the windshield the highway blended with the sky into a single, consuming void that I willingly approached one-quarter mile at a time.
Inside the Explorer was quiet except for the country song filling in the background. I was totally alone with the road accompanied by nothing, save the music and the memories.
Chapter 18
Duncan Barker was born on January 1, the first baby of the New Year in the small town of Wilmington, Massachusetts. Duncan’s parents lavished him with love and praise, instilling confidence and charisma: until his sister, Sarah was born six years later.
He was the apple of their eye. Sarah was born and he instantly rotted. The girl had physical talent, something Duncan never dreamed of. He was more of a talker, a people person. If the Barker family existed in ancient Rome, Duncan would be in the Senate while his sister was a fierce warrior. The warriors were always more exciting. The warriors got all the attention.
In her youth, Duncan’s parents groomed Sarah to be a champion figure skater. She practiced before school and early on weekends. Duncan became an afterthought. He had no particularly outstanding skill for them to nurture.
Duncan got to high school and Sarah was winning competitions. Duncan graduated high school and Olympic coaches scouted Sarah. Duncan left the region for college without fanfare and Sarah enjoyed regional fame. Duncan was swallowed up by deep-rooted jealousy.
I met Duncan late in high school, in the midst of his green-eyed emergence. At our private school filled with well-off suburbanites, Duncan and I were rare, middle-class kids. My father was an electrician, mother worked at a doctor’s office. Duncan’s father did something with insurance, his mother a homemaker. Nobody was starving but needless to say that the European vacations and yacht club memberships were not as frequent as some of our classmates’. The Haves and Have-nots scorned each other through perfect, whitened, toothy smiles.
Most of the guys I played with on the hockey team were of the same economic bracket. The rich kids rowed, fenced and played baseball. Normally I wouldn’t have ever even noticed this disparity, except the Haves were boastful and many enjoyed showing off their family’s socioeconomic superiority. The school of course didn’t mind because many Haves were also legacy students. Their fathers and uncles, successful alumni, donated generously to the school in various fashions. Therefore, the BMWs and tricked-out Land Rovers filled the student parking lot closest to the main buildings. The Haves couldn’t walk too far to class in the morning, or else their name-brand neckties could fray and their Italian leather shoes could scuff. The Haves materialized segregation.
Duncan and I parked with the other Have-nots down a hill in an unpaved lot surrounded by looming oak trees that pelted our cars with acorns in the spring and icicles in the winter.
The disparity was obvious but it wasn’t appalling; it wasn’t Montague and Capulet. The school dress code did its best to keep us all equal and for the most part it worked. However, it merely said khaki pants, button down shirt and tie not what brand or from what country. Those details were lost on the administration but not on the horde of impressionable and devious teenagers they watched over.
Despite it all, most students I knew never really cared. The Haves were OK guys, just not particularly warm to anyone, especially someone who drove a used sky blue Buick like I did.
Duncan was the one person who cared the most. What irritated him was the fact that he would never fit in with those rich kids. He didn’t have a BMW, he didn’t even have a sky-blue Buick; he didn’t have his own car. He didn’t have any name brand ties; he barely knew how to tie a knot in the ones he did own (he kept them perpetually tied and hanging on his bedroom doorknob). His dad wasn’t an important alumnus of the school or donating member of the Board of Trustees.
Simply put, Duncan had no identity. He was an average student with no extracurricular activities. He was known as his almost-famous sister’s older brother. He wasn’t a hockey player, he didn’t play any other sports, he wasn’t an honor’s student, he wasn’t part of a club or team or choir or band or group. Duncan was too lazy to be noticed but he wanted desperately to be seen, heard, accepted and loved. This all bothered Duncan.
So Duncan invented an identity. He had a knack for insults, which created a sort of class clown aura around his person. He was quick to mock someone for giving a wrong answer in class, wearing a pink shirt or having an attractive sister—the type of wayward affronts typical of high school boys. It wasn’t uncommon to hear his high-pitched voice squeal something at lunch, followed by a cackle that echoed off the high walled cathedral cafeteria ceiling. But with Duncan, it was too late in high school and his sense of humor was too obnoxious for anyone to label him as laugh-out-loud hilarious. Many students, and teachers for that matter, found it strange and irritating. Most people shrugged him off.
Duncan was never really anybody that anybody worried about. He was eventually disregarded as a sad attention seeker. Before I knew his name, I knew him as, “that kid,”—that sort of annoying kid that never knew how to keep his mouth shut. I actually didn’t know anyone that knew him as anything else.
I met Duncan in my senior Spanish class, the only class we ever had together. I needed to fulfill a foreign language credit and since the advanced class conflicted with Advanced Placement English, I took the lower level Spanish.
Within the first few weeks we were assigned a group project in class. Three students had to make
up a skit, any theme we wanted, incorporate some words chosen by the teacher and act it out in Spanish for the class. Duncan and I were put in the same group, I half-groaned when I noticed “that kid” was in my group. Had he not been so adamant about his idea for the skit, I probably would have continued ignoring him.
“What are the words she wants us to use?” Duncan asked me, in English. He turned his desk around to face mine, his back to the blackboard. The third student in our group pulled a chair up next to us.
I was astounded he didn’t know what the words were. The teacher wrote them on the blackboard. I wondered why he didn’t just turn and look for himself.
“Well, one of them is ‘rock’, and ‘crack,’ which makes sense,” I responded, eventually. Then, looking over his shoulder, I read the list of words to him.
“OK, I got a great idea,” he said, and proceeded to map out our skit without waiting for approval or input. He wanted to do a drug deal in front of the class, using the word for ‘rock’ with the word for ‘crack’ as our drug of choice. I was skeptical, perhaps a little annoyed but I didn’t care enough to argue with “that kid” over a three-minute skit. So with help from the third student, I translated the whole scene.
I admitted after we got our grade that the skit was funny, simply because it was not about an airport or a school or a supermarket, like all the others. Duncan sold it. He didn’t really know the Spanish words but he pretended like he did, not skipping a beat when he butchered a sentence about what it felt like to be high. I thought our teacher would find it risqué, but being the jovial senorita she was, she laughed along. I don’t think she actually knew about the illegal substance connotation for ‘crack,’ and Duncan assured her, in English, that it was not anything dangerous or taboo.
Before she could critique the content, pronunciation or translation Duncan gave her an explanation, in English. He almost convinced her that we had just acted out a scene worthy of the Bible; she clapped, laughed and gave us an A.
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