by Zoey Parker
“So now what?” Cain asked, following her. “We swap stories? Play board games? Watch shitty TV in silence like an old married couple? What kind of senseless bullshit am I going to be forced to endure for the rest of the day until the fucking pills knock me out again?”
“You're lucky to have those pills,” Missy said, depositing the bags of clothes on the living room floor. “Frankly, I'd kill for a couple of them, just to soothe the headache I get from listening to you bitch all the time. And as for board games, well, that wouldn't be such a bad way to pass the time, except it doesn't look like you've got any around here. But if you ask me nicely, I can pick some up, 'cause I'm heading back out to hit the store for some essentials. I'd have gotten them on the way back, but I missed your chipper attitude and wanted to bask in it for a few more minutes first.”
“I can't believe you fucked with my bike,” Cain said, stunned.
“Believe it, babe,” Missy shot back. “Hunter told me to keep you from hurting yourself, and even though it's not exactly my dream job, a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Now, what board games do you like? You don't strike me as a Monopoly kind of guy. Candyland? No, I'll bet you're into Risk, right?”
“Go take a flying fuck at the moon,” Cain snapped.
“Golly, I don't think I've ever played that one,” Missy answered. “Was that Parker Brothers or Milton Bradley? Anyway, I'll be back in an hour. Try not to do anything to fuck yourself up before then. Or do. Whatever. The sooner this gig ends for me, the better.”
As Cain stood and fumed, Missy walked back out through the garage. He heard her car start up and watched her pull away, hating her freedom to come and go as she pleased while he was confined. He'd never felt so trapped, not even during his prison stretch, not even when they'd thrown him into the Hole for weeks at a time.
Being a prisoner behind iron bars and concrete walls wasn't so bad. People could get used to it, even learn to make the most of it if they tried.
But being a prisoner of one's own body was miserable.
And inescapable.
Chapter 18
Missy
As Missy drove to the Shop-N-Stop, she sang along with the radio at the top of her lungs, hoping to drown out the maddening frustration echoing in her head.
When a song about first loves and first kisses came on, she couldn't help thinking about her first boyfriend, Milo. They'd taken half their classes together during freshman year of high school, and after a couple of weeks exchanging glances and passing notes, Missy had walked up to him and asked him point-blank if he wanted to be her boyfriend.
They'd dated for about three months, during which time Milo had talked a blue streak about his dream of becoming a famous writer. She'd nodded encouragingly, unable to share her own aspirations because, well, she didn't have any. If Milo noticed this curious silence on her part, he'd never given any sign. With him, it was often hard to get a word in anyway, and that suited Missy just fine.
He'd been extremely sweet to her, probably because no girl had ever paid attention to him before. He bought her flowers and held her hand whenever they walked anywhere together, and even though his kisses were sloppy and inexperienced, they were always earnest and sincere. Hunter had teased her about dating a nerd, but she didn't care.
She'd never considered what kind of future there might be with Milo. She'd been content to just go with the flow, and to encourage his fumbling hands to explore her body when they were alone in the woods outside of town. She didn't mind. It felt nice, and she enjoyed sharing the secret with him.
One night, his parents were out of town and he invited her to his house. When she got there, he held up a wrapped condom with a trembling hand—he'd found it in his father's sock drawer. He'd asked her whether this was what she really wanted at least four times, and when he was finally satisfied that she meant it, they had lost their virginity to each other in Milo's small bed surrounded by his posters of superheroes and scenes from fantasy novels. It had hurt a bit, but it had also felt like a tremendous relief to get her first time over with. They'd managed to find two more occasions to have sex before the thing that happened on Valentine's Day.
Milo—and his mom, the driver—had come to pick Missy up and take her on a special Valentine's date to the Brandy & Beef Bistro, one of the fancier restaurants in Micanaw. He was wearing a suit and a goofy grin, and he'd brought her a long-stemmed red rose. Hunter snickered and said Milo looked like a queer ventriloquist dummy, but their mother had chided him and insisted on getting a picture of the happy couple before they went out.
As Missy's mother was trying to figure out her new digital camera, their father burst in with a bloody towel pressed to his arm. He'd been stabbed by a member of a rival club, and he cursed a blue streak, loudly listing every gory act he would visit upon his attacker as Missy's mother cleaned and dressed the wound.
Milo turned pale green and asked to be excused.
After that, whenever they were in class together, Milo refused to look in Missy's direction and never spoke another word to her.
Missy had learned two valuable lessons from her first foray into sex and dating. The first was that nice guys could be very useful short-term accessories—they gave her plenty of gifts and affection when she wanted attention, they gave her space when she wanted to be left alone, and what they lacked in raw sexual intensity, they made up for with eagerness to please. The second was that once they were exposed to even a fraction of the outlaw lifestyle she and Hunter were part of, they never stayed around too long.
Again, that suited her. She never found herself looking for anything more serious with someone than a month or two here and there. And she knew that Hunter was quietly relieved by this, since it kept her around to take care of him. He sometimes wistfully fantasized out loud about how nice it would be if Missy settled down with one of the Eagles, and she knew that was just because he wanted to make sure she never fell in love with some square and ditched the whole scene to become a happy homemaker with a picket fence.
Missy pulled into the parking lot of the Shop-N-Stop and got out, walking through the automatic doors into the massive store. Clothes, shoes, food, toys, appliances, auto parts, garden stuff—this place had it all at dirt-cheap prices, catering largely to the trailer park-dwelling residents of Micanaw.
She grabbed a shopping cart and wheeled it through the aisles. First she went to the toy section, grabbing a deck of cards and inspecting the board games. She found the perfect one, chuckled to herself, and put it in the cart.
Next, she went to the food section and plucked several basics from the shelves. She didn't know what Cain liked or disliked, but since he didn't seem inclined toward civilized discourse so she could find out, she figured it was his tough shit if she brought back something he hated. He could always gnaw on the fossilized pork chop if her cooking wasn't good enough for him.
I'm damn sure not spending a week over there with just instant coffee either, she thought, pulling a freeze-dried brick of French roast off the shelf along with some sugar and evaporated milk. I'd rather drink mud from under an outhouse than choke down another mug of that shit.
While pushing the cart up and down the aisles, Missy saw a section for camping equipment. Her shoulders and neck were still stiff from spending the previous night on the unforgiving floor, and she thought about what to do to make sure this night wouldn't be as uncomfortable.
I can't believe he doesn't have a bed, she thought. Who the hell doesn't have a bed in their house? Even if they don't use it themselves?
She looked over a few sleeping bags, then settled on an inflatable mattress with an electric air-blower. She also picked up a cheap blanket and a small, squishy pillow for good measure.
Missy picked up a fresh bottle of dish soap, a package of sponges, and some other cleaning supplies, then ventured over to the electronics section to look at the burner phones. She figured Cain would need a new cell for Hunter to reach him, especially if she'd be making these supply runs on
a regular basis.
As Missy wheeled her cart over to the appliance section to look at coffee makers, she noticed that someone was following her. He was a hugely obese Latino with a vast expanse of white t-shirt covering his belly and a red bandanna tied around his head. His flabby arms were covered with prison tattoos.
And he was staring daggers at her.
Jesus, she thought. This is the guy they send to stalk me? Do they think I'm fucking blind or something? He's impossible to miss.
Missy took her cart to the check-out line, keeping an eye on the man following her. He kept a short distance between them, not bothering to conceal himself or pretend he was there for any reason except to eye-fuck her. She felt a shudder down her spine as she placed her items on the counter for the clerk to ring up. When everything had been bagged, she paid with a couple of twenties and went out through the automatic doors, glancing behind her every few steps. As she did, she reached into her pocket for her keys, fanning their jagged points out between her knuckles to be used as a weapon.
Her stalker had bypassed the check-out line and was walking after her. His hand was in his pocket, and she knew that he might have a gun there.
Missy had left the knife and shotgun at Cain's place, but her revolver was strapped to her ankle. With a sinking feeling, she realized the man following her could easily pull his piece and gun her down right there in the parking lot before she'd even have time to hitch the cuff of her pants leg up, let alone grab her pistol.
When she reached her car, Missy opened the back door, tossed the bags in, slammed the door again, and turned to look the fat man squarely in the eye. “What the fuck is your problem, huh?” she yelled at him.
The man smiled, and his eyes flicked over to something over Missy's shoulder.
Missy's eyes widened and she spun around, realizing—too late—that she'd been had. It was a classic surveillance move: Make sure the fake “stalker” is so obvious and impossible to ignore that the prey focuses on him entirely, allowing the real predators to get close without being noticed.
And she'd fallen for it.
Two men emerged from behind Missy's car, grabbing her roughly by the arms before she had time to lift them in defense. “You're comin' with us, puta,” one of them purred, his foul breath making her eyes water.
“The fuck I am,” Missy hissed, bringing her boot up to kick him squarely in the balls. The man doubled over with a pained whoof, releasing her arm. She raised her freed hand and raked her keys across the second attacker's face, drawing blood. He howled and let go of her, his hand pressing against the ragged holes in his cheek.
“You bitch!” he shrieked.
Missy ran over to the driver's side and unlocked the car, throwing herself into the seat. She slammed the door just as the first attacker reached out to grab her again, and his hand was smashed in the door. He let out a high-pitched wail, falling to his knees and trying to pull his hand free.
Missy turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse just as a huge shadow fell over her. She looked back through the rear window and saw the fat man standing directly behind the car, glowering at her.
“Get out,” he commanded, crossing his arms.
“Get a salad,” she spat back, slamming her boot down on the gas pedal.
The car leaped backward, ramming into the fat man's midsection. He was knocked backward, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
Missy pulled the car forward, then shifted gears again and backed it into the sprawled body, running over part of it with a heavy thump. There was a wet breaking sound underneath her like a melon being crushed, and she had a feeling she'd rolled right over the man's skull.
She put the car in drive again and started to head for the entrance to the parking lot, realizing that a small crowd of shoppers were staring at her. Some were shooting the scene with their camera phones, while others looked like they might be dialing the police.
This'll be fun to explain to Hemmick, she thought. Wonder whether this means I'll end up buying him a Blu-Ray player, a sound system, or both.
As the car moved forward, Missy heard a strange scraping noise next to her door. She looked over and saw that the attacker's hand was still crushed in the door, and he was being pulled along, whimpering and gibbering in Spanish with tears in his eyes.
She opened the door to release the mangled hand, then slammed it shut again and drove away as fast as she could.
Chapter 19
Cain
Cain sat on the couch again, realizing that he was already growing to despise the feeling of its flattened, threadbare cushions under his ass. As he'd told Missy before, he'd rarely spent his nights in this house, preferring to get his meals from drive-throughs and grab a few hours' sleep here and there in the back room of the Knife. He vowed that once he was healed up, he wouldn't come back to this shitty place for at least a month.
He flicked on the TV, watching a daytime courtroom show where the fussy, middle-aged female judge was wagging her finger at a man for intentionally ruining his neighbor's lawn over some property dispute.
He flipped to another channel, and another, until he'd cycled all the way back around to the courtroom show again.
“Fuck these shows,” he muttered, swallowing a handful of pills, “and fuck everyone on them.” He felt the tablets dissolving in his stomach and spreading out through his veins, working their magic on each part of his body until the pain dissipated and he felt like he was floating in a pool of warm water.
He'd hated this feeling the first few times he'd taken the meds. The feeling of being under the influence of heavy chemicals was largely new to him. He hadn't liked the sensation that his brain was experiencing the world through a thick veil of cotton, and that everything was steadily drifting away from his ability to touch or control it.
But now he was starting to appreciate it, and even look forward to the times when he was supposed to take his medicine.
That's a bad sign, buckaroo, he thought sleepily, slumping back against the couch.
He felt like he was falling in slow motion into a bottomless well. And would his faithful dog stand in his parents' kitchen, barking and barking until they guessed where he was? He hoped so. He doubted they'd come to rescue him, though, since his father was dead and he hadn't seen his mother in...
A sound from the kitchen made Cain raise his head and open his eyes. He felt a brief stab of panic, then remembered that Missy had a key and started to nod off again. It was just Missy, that's all. In a minute or two, he'd hear the sound of shopping bags on the kitchen counter and hear her calling out to him, and he could relax and return to his nap.
Except that Missy had a key to the front door. Which had a different lock than the door from the kitchen to the garage.
For that matter, how had she gotten into the garage from the outside without the remote, anyway?
Cain raised his head again and shook it, trying to clear out the cobwebs. He knew that he was probably in grave danger, but his body somehow seemed incapable of responding to that. The usual tang of adrenaline he'd tasted in previous fight-or-flight moments was gone, replaced by the cottonmouth caused by the pills and the feeling that his limbs were filled with wet cement.
I gotta call Hunter, half of his brain said.
You can't, dickhead, the other half reminded him. You smashed your phone, remember?
He heard careful footsteps coming down the hall, and the creak of a floorboard.
The gun. His knew that his gun was still on the table in front of him, even though when he cast his eyes over to it, it seemed like it was a hundred miles away. Part of his mind screamed at him to reach for it and defend himself, while the other part sluggishly insisted that he didn't need to, that everything would be okay even if he was right and there was someone here to kill him, that he just had to relax and let it all work out on its own.
A human-shaped shadow appeared on the wall next to the hallway.
Fuck it, Cain thought, leaning forward and
extending his arm toward the table. He could see the hand at the end of his wrist, and he could see the gun, but every time he tried to connect the two, they seemed to go in opposite directions instead of meeting in the middle. His eyelids were dragging themselves downward steadily and he felt as though the floor was reaching out to pull him down.
Cain fell forward, jostling the table to one side and knocking the gun off of it. As his chest hit the floor with a brief tinge of absent agony, he felt a nearby gunshot smack his ears like a pair of huge hands, and saw a bullet bury itself in a wooden board right next to his face.
That was enough to wake him up.
Cain's hand flailed toward his gun, finding the handle. His entire field of vision was filled with a silver-white mist, as though he were inside of a cloud. He rolled over onto his back and pulled the trigger, firing blindly at the intruder until he heard the click of empty chambers.