by Todd Russell
He could see it in the darkness outside.
Kyle Roberts waited with a circus clown's colorful expression.
CHAPTER 21
That night while others slept, Butch Smith, the one that Jumping Bat Jackson called Red Man, kneeled on the beach, lit the Pipe Of The Gods, and entered the highway of death.
He was lost somewhere in his mind driving a black pickup that blended with the night. The road ahead was paved with cold macadam, the air electric and a full, bloody moon smiled above.
Butch turned on the radio and the Chief said, "Welcome, my son. It has been several years since your last visit."
Butch watched the still road. "You still seek your wife and child, my son?"
Butch nodded, tears welling in his eyes.
"You are close. There is one last test."
Butch leaned forward.
"The crossing of two roads," the Chief said.
Somewhere in the vast darkness, laughter began.
"I will not turn back until I've found them."
"Thirteen years since I last heard from you, my son."
"I haven't needed to call upon you for the test. I haven't been ready."
"And now you are?"
"These two I am hunting? Are they my test?"
No answer.
"If they're not, I know the consequences."
"Then you are ready to cross the road." His father took a long, deep breath. He had been a chain smoker and his breathing was loud and raspy. "Very well, cross the road, and find your answer."
A row of fiery-red serpents with gigantic fangs appeared in the headlights' glow. The snakes stirred and slithered in unison, guarding the crossing.
FEAR IS THE FIRST STEP. . .
Butch stepped on the accelerator, watched the needle soar to one-hundred, one-ten, one-fifteen. . . FEAR. . .FEAR. . .FEAR. . .
Laughter grew louder in the darkness, a hysterical mocking.
(AH, HA, HA, HAHAHAHAHA!)
The snakes' forked tongues darted out and flickered together. A loud hissing joined the maniacal laughter. Butch's hands began to sweat and fingers trembled.
No. . .NO. . .NO!
FEAR. AH!HA!HA!HA!HA HA HA FEAR!HA!HA!HA! HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Butch covered the brake, but didn't push, didn't push, DIDN'T PUSH!
He plowed into the snakes at one-hundred-fifty miles per hour, screaming at the top of his lungs.
FEAR!FEAR!FEAR!HISSSS!FEAR!FEAR!
He scrambled for the brake and pushed it so hard it almost went through the floor.
The snakes disappeared.
Darkness became an island with a beach where he kneeled.
Ha heard his father's voice once more, echoing through his brain: "You know the second road to be crossed."
He knew. After fear comes murder. And Butch Smith had crossed that road twelve times before. He only needed to cross it twice more.
CHAPTER 22
A band by the name of Bobby and the Crawlers was playing.
Jessica was sitting in a dimly-lit tavern. A small, red candle burned in the middle of the table. Other people, sitting at similar tables, also waited for the show to begin but couldn't make out their faces. She peered closer, closer and saw, from the neck up, they didn't have human heads. They were eggheads.
The spotlight was on a mike stand, center stage. Another egghead figure shambled out from behind the silver, glittering curtain.
No, not egg-headed, Richard. Dressed in his out-of-place rags, torn jeans, blue prison shirt riddled with holes.
Emcee Richard grabbed the microphone, "Put your hands together folks, they've traveled through miles of dirt and earth: BOBBY AND THE CRAWLERS!"
Incessant applause. She looked down and saw her hands clapping. She wasn't clapping, they were clapping themselves. She tried to stop them and couldn't.
Her eyes were pulled back to the stage. The silver curtain slid open. Three more perfect eggheads, one held a shiny red bass; another boasted a battle-axe shaped electric guitar the last sat down amidst a ton of drums.
They started playing eerie, distorted music. Another figure came on stage. Not an egg-head. It was the genteel man who looked like T.C from Magnum PI. Only he was a mean version of T.C.
Bobby.
Jessica tried to leave her seat but something kept her from moving. She tried to scream but instead it came out as—
(a blubbering catcall)
"OH, BOBBY!"
I'm in a nightmare. All I have to do is wake up. WAKE UP.
Bobby stepped into the spotlight, his dirt-and-blood-caked face with penetrating white eyes stared through her.
Wake up! Somebody turn on the goddamn lights.
Bobby started singing a song solely dedicated to Jessica. The lyrics coming from the nothingness of a ghoulish hole in his head:
"Gonna skin ya, skin ya baby,
Right down, to your bones
GOnna t-t-touch ya, with my snake tongue
Be the best you've ever known."
(NO. PLEASE)
. . .and so the chorus went.—
"Mirror-ahge, mirror-ahge,
Don't you know you killed me?"
. . .and all the eggs-heads cracked in unison. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
. . .and spewing from each head came thousands of tiny, wriggling black bugs.
Noooooooo!
The words to Mirror-ahge:
"Baby, take my hand. . ."
On a sparkling dinner plate on the table Jessica saw Edward's crushed hand crawling toward her.
* * *
Screaming.
It was still night and Richard leaned over her with his hand on her mouth.
She pushed his hand away. "It was terrible. . .Richard. . .terrible."
She struggled to her feet, choking away the tears. It was only a nightmare. Richard couldn't see her cracking like this bad, he'd be positively convinced she'd lost it.
"The bugs, Edward's hand, Bobby . . ."
"It's ok, Jessica. The shipwreck and Bobby are enough to give anybody nightmares. We all have bad dreams here."
Yes, but there's a big difference between bad dreams and nightmares. She nodded, comparing his birds carrying him off to the dark island to her Bobby & The Crawlers egghead tavern. No contest, Bobby's crew wins.
Richard pointed up at the sky. The blue-white light of dawn had appeared. "It's good that you woke when you did. I was just about to wake you anyway."
"Did you get any sleep at all?"
"Maybe a wink or two."
"When are you going to sleep?" She felt bummed depriving him of sleep. She should have stayed awake. He needed to be strong and alert, not tired.
"When we're safe, I'll sleep."
"It's not full light yet, why don't you get a little slee—"
"No, we must get moving. Our hunters will be coming soon."
"What's this secret you have that might help us?"
"I will show you in a little while." He flashed a half-hearted smile. "No faith?"
"I can't help it," she replied. "Ever since I came here my fear has grown and faith has dwindled."
He leaned in and paused, his face hovering near hers. It was a natural reaction for her to lean in too. And then they both pulled back, caught in an awkward moment.
He tugged her arm. "Come on. We've got a long day ahead."
Jessica remembered those words coming from someone else's mouth. They were, she realized, the exact words Edward had used the morning they left in the yacht from San Francisco.
* * *
The east side of the island had more foliage and rocks. There were swampy sections as well. It seemed with each passing half-mile the scenery changed, opening even more dense foliage. The temperature felt colder the further east they traveled. The rocks were like the mandibles of a huge savage beast, hungrily waiting to lock upon her flesh.
Kyle Roberts' camp was surrounded by a jungle-like section of the island. No beach or ocean in sight. Once in the area she better understood why Ky
le Roberts seemed to be the only person who thrived on being imprisoned here and why Richard chose to claim the west side instead. It wasn't a prison in the woods to Roberts, it was home.
Richard told her that they were circling Roberts' camp and going north of it. She was hopeful whatever he had to show her would give them some upper hand.
They passed the camp without incident, never getting close enough to see how the east side island convicts lived. He led her to the northeast beach where they stopped for a brief break. The sun began to rise.
"I don't like this side of the island," Jessica said. "Even in the daylight it feels wrong."
"Yeah, circling and crossing back are the only way we're going to stay ahead of them."
She felt her heart sinking. "Do you have some hiding spot for us over here?"
"There are some caves not far from here that I haven't explored in awhile that might offer us cover for a bit."
She watched the tide roll slowly in on a beach which looked like the southwest beach. She wondered for a moment what would have happened if she'd drifted here instead.
The thought, like her Bobby nightmare, was disturbing. The beach used to be a serene place. Somewhere she could come and enjoy the soft ebb and flow of the tide rolling in. Today, here, the beach reminded her that the ocean served as the fence surrounding the island prison.
She looked into Richard's eyes. He eyes held some hope. Fear dominated the air, thick like a blanket. Richard may have come to the island prepared, but he was still a frightened young man. Instead of growing up in a normal prison or being executed, he'd been given the chance to reach his full adult potential here. Alone until she shipwrecked and became his sole companion.
She looked at him and wondered who was frightened more.
She was about to say something when she heard it.
There were gruff voices coming from the ravine behind them.
* * *
Jumping Bat Jackson couldn't believe his eyes. Here it was daylight, when the arena should have been vacant, and Forenza and his partner were waiting in the ring. Forenza had never entered the ring last night and now, first thing in the morning, he was ready for the re-match. Bring it on. Bat had waited too long for the rematch.
"Grab the ring girl, Red Man," Bat Jackson cried to his tag-team partner. This was no boxing match, no place for girls walking around carrying numbered signs. There were no rounds to count except the number one. Getting her yanked from the ring would leave only Forenza and him. Like it had been before in Madison Square Garden.
And then Bat realized she was not a ring girl. She had no sign. She's Forenza's tag-team partner.
Forenza and his tag-team partner—
(A woman, how pitiful. Forenza didn't even have the balls to put a man at his side!)
—tried to leave the ring. This was no co-op sport. Let the girls wrestle the girls, preferably in tight bikinis in mud.
Red man was too fast. He leaped out and grabbed the woman with huge red hands that reminded Bat of lobster claws. He pinned her to the canvas. She would not be interrupting the re-match.
No referee to stop them here.
No one would stop them.
"Forenza, you Mexican worm!" Bat pointed. "You think you got me ejected from the ring forever, but here we are again."
Forenza, forever unsportsmanlike, drew a knife.
"Put down that knife. You know they're against the rules."
"S-stay away from me," Forenza's eyes widened.
His tag-team partner, the woman screamed for the referee. Sorry, Bat's partner had a hold on her, and had agreed to let Bat take it to Forenza. Bat must finish Fearless Forenza for good, before they dealt his tag-team partner her fate.
The wrestling commissioner, Mr. Roberts, wanted her. Forenza waved the buck knife. "Let her go or I'll gut you."
"You make me laugh, Forenza," Jumping Bat Jackson moved closer, watching Forenza's every move. "Fearless one, huh? You called me a dumb nigger from the south, remember?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, my name isn't—"
"Oh, so now you forget? Forgetful Forenza?"
"My name is Richard Templin you crazy bastard. RICHARD TEMPLIN. You are Bat Jackson. Your partner is Butch Smith."
The red man Forenza called Butch Smith chuckled.
"I don't care what your real name is when we are in the ring. This is our stage. We don't use our real names here." Jumping Bat moved even closer, circling within five feet. The knife held by Forenza still played at the air. Danger.
"Let her go." Anger filled Forenza's eyes and his face tightened. Forenza was ready to war over his tag-team partner taken to the canvas.
It's time to go to work, thought Bat, time to finish him.
"Ring the bell, Red Man," Bat Jackson said.
The wind blew and tide waves crashed in the distance.
The eyes of Forenza stared at Jumping Bat like camera eyes.
"Ding-a-ling!"
"Now you're mine, Fearless Forenza, mine, mine, mine," Bat howled and rushed Forenza.
They had thought they could keep Jumping Bat Jackson nestled safely away, banned from the ring, the spectators and mania. Yes, they could keep him from coming to it.
But they could not keep it from coming to him.
CHAPTER 23
Jessica wrongly believed she'd smelled life's worst stenches. First the island: the overpowering fish-salt scent. Secondly there was Richard, who by no fault of his own, smelled of daily bathing in the island's foul scent. She tried to get used to his body odor because she'd now had one of her own. Thirdly, there was 'the bathroom' and the day after day, night after night build up of human excrement trapped in a five foot square.
And then there was the smell of Butch Smith pinning her to the ground.
As Smith trapped her body in the sand, his rotten breath poisoned the surrounding air. His body odor, one best described as uniquely disturbing, brought what little she'd eaten out of the pit of her stomach.
But she didn't puke, not yet. The vomit rested in her throat, gagging her, making her wonder if tasting her vomit wasn't worse than Smith's odor.
Smith enjoyed watching the other man rush Richard. Jessica tried to struggle free but her captor's strength overwhelmed her.
She was trapped. If only she could free herself enough to knee her captor in the groin.
Bat Jackson dodged Richard's knife swipes and knocked the knife from his hand, tossing it several feet away. Richard backed away, hands balled in fists. Jackson grabbed him, picked his body up in the air and slammed him back-first to the ground. Richard wheezed from the wind getting knocked out of him.
"Richard!" Jessica reached out with a pinned arm. Smith's laugh got louder.
"How do you like that real body slam, FORENZA?" Jackson shouted a name that didn't belong to Richard.
Body slam? Jessica realized that the man's delusion was quite real to him. Bat Jackson believed they were in a wrestling rematch.
Forenza. She remembered the story.
She thought she'd seen the hulking Bat Jackson somewhere before. At one time in a place that now seemed far away, Bat Jackson the wrestler had been big news. Her ex-husband Ron had been a huge wrestling fan and Edward enjoyed watching too. He was Jumping Bat Jackson, a professional wrestler who had gone on a crazy, murderous spree, pounding out multiple human lives with his bare hands.
Forenza was the wrestler Jumping Bat Jackson had crippled before the killing started. Jumping Bat Jackson's final wrestling match.
But they must not have found him to be crazy, just like Bobby and Kyle Roberts. Otherwise he wouldn't be here fighting Richard, he'd be locked far away in a mental institution.
And today Bat Jackson, vengeful psychotic, believed he was in the ring again with the man he'd wrestled. She shuddered, fully realizing the caliber of killers that were chasing after them.
As Jessica kept struggling, and tried to think of something to do, the show went on.
And if there had been a rin
gside announcer, there would have been no question that Jumping Bat Jackson was beating his opponent.
* * *
Jackson grabbed Richard like a plaything, lifting him above his head and pounded him into the sand.
Another body slam. Intense piercing knives of pain shot through his body.
Jackson grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet. "Am I still dumb, Forenza?" Jackson pounded his chest with a fist. "AM I?"
Every man has one vulnerable area.
Jackson grabbed Richard's aching arms. Jackson's fingers spoke pain and Richards muscles and bones listened.
Every man. Richard's his head was spinning like a top, EVERY MAN.
Jackson brought him closer, squeezing his body together.
If you ever get into a fight that you know you'll lose, a voice called to Richard, a pleasant, parental voice almost forgotten: it's ok to lose dirty.
Squeezing harder, squeezing, squeezing.
It's ok to lose dirty.
And so Richard did, bringing his foot up from the sand with as much strength as he could muster, he kicked Jumping Bat Jackson in the balls.
Squeezing. . .not squeezing. . .letting go. . .letting go. . .letting go.
Jackson's eyes bulged. He staggered slowly back, his hands went to his scrotum like burned hands to cold water. "Cheap shot, foul. . .foul," Jackson's high-pitched moan filled the area.
Richard saw his chance and went for the knife.
* * *
"No!" Butch Smith yelled as he released Jessica and climbed to his feet. He ripped through the sand, unsheathing his knife.
This puny little man could not interfere with his highway of death. Templin was supposed to die.
Butch was ten feet away and closed in on his target.
From the corner of Smith's eyes, he saw Jessica roll over and grab her knife. "Richard, look out!"