by Damon Novak
Beside CVS was a home for the developmentally disabled, and I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of madhouse existed inside there.
Part of me asked the question, what if they’re immune? What if the innocence of not being in control of your own actions exempted them from this bug?
Then I mentally slapped myself. I ain’t that smart and should never start thinkin’ above my pay grade.
We drove on. In a few more seconds, it became clear. The neighborhood, once past the few run-down residential homes, was a satellite of the Fort Walton Beach Medical Center. There were drug treatment centers, physical therapy businesses, and every other associated medical facility imaginable.
Now I was real glad the movin’ horde had picked up stragglers. It gave us what appeared to be a clear path from here.
“God, seeing a hospital,” said Georgie. “Makes me feel guilty I can’t help these people.”
I reached down and patted her leg. “Maybe you’ll help ‘em by learnin’ more about what changed ‘em. Give it time.”
She nodded and said, “Turn here, I think.”
She was right. I turned and drove past a neuroscience center and some other specialty medical offices. Once that stuff was history, the neighborhood returned to run-down homes and dilapidated trailers, surrounded by junk cars.
We saw the occasional deadhead stumblin’ along, clearly havin’ missed the earlier parade, but by the time they turned to see us, we were already gone.
We finally got past all the trailers and reached the T-intersection where Hospital Drive hit Lewis Turner Boulevard, and I saw a tattered sign standin’ in the parkin’ lot of the gun shop. It professed its website to be rangerfirearms.com, and below that, the letters spelled out, “CCP ASSES AVAILABLE.”
Clearly a few letters had blown off at some point.
“Too small to have a gun range. Your existin’ skills’ll have to do,” I said.
“I’m good enough,” she said. “Let’s get this over with. I’m ready to be back on that boat.”
We pulled right up alongside the door that faced Hospital Drive and I cut the engine. We both got out, each carryin’ only our handguns.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I feel fine,” I said. “Let’s get some ammo.”
I walked up to the single door with bars across the window and tried it.
Locked.
“Damn,” I said. “Oh, shit.” I pointed to the sign, which couldn’t have been any bigger. It read ENTER IN FRONT, with an arrow pointin’ toward the big boulevard.
Georgie shook her head and took off. I followed, but as she rounded the corner, she stopped so suddenly, I ran into her back. “Whoa!” I said. “What –”
I didn’t need to finish my sentence. We both stared at the thing, our mouths hangin’ open.
The gator had to have been a 9-footer. It stood there, just outside the door to the firearms and mercantile store, its mouth open, and some sort of metal contraption curved around its neck and part of its head.
It didn’t respond to us, but that didn’t make me feel any better about gettin’ closer. “What the fuck?” I asked.
“I second that. Think the owner’s inside?”
“Not sure of the point otherwise,” I said. “I’m gonna get closer.”
“Cole,” she said, her voice tinged with apprehension. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
“Right now, nobody owns shit,” I said. “Unless that thing is owned by the proprietor of this store, we got as much right as anyone else to stock up.”
When I walked, Georgie came with me. We got to within ten feet or so. It wasn’t tied up or chained that I could see.
My gun in hand I stayed back, but looked it over more carefully, now that my shock had worn off and I could take a moment. Whoever had built the armor plate over the gator’s natural armor had taken time to do it. It looked like metal, but it had been painted almost an army green that blended with the gator’s natural colorin’.
The harness – ‘cause that’s what it was, pretty much – had been custom bent and welded, sittin’ atop its neck and head, with some sort of hinges, just six inches or so behind its eyes. A loop had been welded on top, where a chain was connected.
The chain was bunched up beside it, not secured or bein’ held by anyone. There was a metal plate blockin’ the creature’s vision, too, and I saw it had somethin’ to do with the hinged piece.
The main piece seemed to perfectly conform to the gator’s shape, and it curved underneath the big bastard and appeared to be connected with somethin’. A cotter pin, maybe, runnin’ through a hasp.
The piece had been finished off with dozens of what appeared to be razor-sharp spikes, givin’ the gator the look of a prehistoric dinosaur of sorts. Either that or an 80s punk chick wearin’ a collar.
Its mouth was unnaturally wide open, like those we’d seen walkin’.
The door behind it pushed open and we both jerked our guns up fast. Before the person came into view, we heard, “You ain’t plannin’ on killin’ Chester here, are ya?”
I looked up to see the owner of the voice. He was a skinny white dude with long, straggly blond hair. He stumbled out the door of Ranger Firearms & Mercantile, wearin’ overalls over his shirtless chest.
He was smokin’ a cigarette as he held a four-foot-long rod with the tip bent into a hook. The man reached down and hooked it through a plate over the gator’s eyes. Then he bent down and picked up a length of chain, wrappin around his fist.
I shook my head. Little did I know, this wasn’t the worst it would get.
Ω
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I glanced at Georgie and held my arms up, one hand open palm out, the other with my gun pointin’ skyward. “Never considered hurtin’ your gator, friend.”
“I pull this and let go this chain and you’re toast. Even if you shoot it, friend, you won’t kill it,” he sneered.
“You don’t know what I know about gators,” I said. “I’m Cole Baxter and this is Georgina Lake.”
“I don’t give a rat’s patootie who ya are,” he said. “Neither does Chester and neither does Billie Jo.”
I looked around. “Who’s Billie Jo?”
The door pushed open fast and wide, knockin’ into the man who was tauntin’ us. He lost his balance and took a small jump off the porch, landin’ in the gravel to the right of the open door.
Now that he was on the ground, I could see he was maybe five-feet-five-inches tall. Goddamned Napoleon complexes. I hate that shit, and never saw the point. I guess that’s because I’m well over six feet tall.
“Garland, who you talkin’ to?” the girl asked, then lifted her head to look me square in the eyes. “Oh,” she said. “I see. Who are you, sweetie?” Her voice had gone sultry. She looked directly at me. She never looked at or acknowledged Georgina at all.
Georgie stepped forward, holsterin’ her gun. “Like he told your friend, he’s Cole Baxter, and I’m Georgina Lake. Garland, Billie Jo, we came here to get some ammunition. I’m sure there’s plenty to go around.”
When the gun fired and the dirt from the parkin’ lot blew toward us, pepperin’ our legs and arms with rock fragments and dirt, I realized I didn’t even notice she’d been holdin’ a gun.
When I actually looked down and saw the gun, I was amazed I’d missed it. It was some kinda long-barreled revolver. She never raised her hand to fire it at us, which was somehow worse than if she had. Just pointin’ it in our general direction, she could’ve hit either one of us in the leg, messin’ us up good.
Billie Jo laughed hard, but now her eyes were on us, and the gun was raised.
I raised both my hands toward her, palms out. “The other store’s gone, or we’d head back there. We don’t wanna cause any trouble.”
“You’re here, ain’t ya?” she sneered.
The woman was probably twenty-four or twenty-five, thin with flamin’ red hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a white tank top with the word
BITCH emblazoned on it in some kinda sequins, and I could readily tell she didn’t have a bra on.
Her shorts were the color of an orange Dreamsicle, and they were real short. Ass cheeks hangin’ out, kinda short. Her shoes were bright blue high-tops.
To be fair and perfectly honest, she was cute, but her bangs were cut real short and straight across her forehead, and that was my first indication of a nutso chick. That’s why I’ve always called ‘em crazy bangs.
“Gimme that rod, Garland,” she said, chewing what had to be a huge wad of gum. Her southern accent was easily as strong as Garland’s, even through the mouthful.
The man gave it to her after a brief hesitation. She hooked the end through the receivin’ hole on the eye plate.
“I pull this, and Chester sees you. I think he can get to you faster than you can find the sweet spot to kill him.”
Lookin’ at the contraption on the gator’s head, I knew she was right. It looked like whoever’d designed the armor plate had left a wedge of metal that extended down between the gator’s eyes. Even if the plate that blinded it was pivoted up – like she was threatenin’ to do – I wouldn’t be able to put a bullet under the plate.
“You’re right. Y’all got the upper hand. What I’m strugglin’ with right now is why you’d sic your gator on us at all. We’re not here to mess with anyone. Just need some ammo. Like I said, the gun shop farther south’s burned out.” I pointed toward the Gulf of Mexico.
“Where y’all headin’ anyways?” Garland asked.
“Don’t matter where they’re headin’ ‘cause they ain’t goin’ nowhere once I pull this rod.” Billie Jo smiled at us and smacked her gum. Just as I was about to make an appeal to her, she yanked the steel rod.
The blinders pivoted up and that gator was up on its legs full height, and pullin’ hard toward us.
We both staggered back about three steps as Garland two-fisted the chain, leanin’ back and holdin’ onto the porch railin’
“Billie Jo, put it back down!” he shouted.
The gator pulled to the end of the eight-foot chain now, its feet in the gravel and kickin’ plenty of it behind it as it struggled against its restraint. We moved back some more.
“You’re no fun!” she said, takin’ two steps forward and pushin’ the rod forward. The blinders dropped back into place and she unhooked the rod as the alligator settled back down.
I wanted to kill this crazy bitch for that bullshit stunt, but the gun still dangled at the end of her hand and somethin’ in her eyes warned me to play nice. At least for the moment. I’d be keepin’ my eye on her, though, that was for damn sure. This self-proclaimed bitch was totally off her rocker.
I steeled my nerves and acted like her little stunt hadn’t rankled me. In fact, I was playin’ the cool cucumber, even though I was sweatin’ like a pickle just out of the jar.
“Thanks,” I said, walkin’ forward, my hand extended toward Garland. He walked toward us, his hand out to meet mine.
I shook it, and immediately observed his grip was like a wilted celery stalk. “Nice to meet you, Garland.”
I squeezed extra hard, like my grip was a goddamned juicer. I let go after three pumps.
“What did you say your names are?” he asked, shakin’ his hand as he tried to get the blood back in it.
“I’m Cole and this here’s Georgina. She’s a surgeon, and I used to run Baxter’s Airboat Tours & Gator Park.”
Georgina stepped forward, holdin’ out her hand to Garland. To his credit, Garland shook it, but not before glancin’ back at Billie Jo, who still had her hand off the gator’s blinder rod.
“Nice to meet you,” said Georgie.
Billie Jo jumped off the side of the porch, and I figured it was to avoid bein’ anywhere near Chester’s gapin’ mouthful of teeth. She bounced toward us.
When she reached us, she stood beside Garland, looked Georgie up and down, then said, “You are sure pretty.” Her words and her tone didn’t match one bit.
“Thank you,” said Georgina, holdin’ out her hand to Billie Jo.
“No, I’m a hugger,” said Billie Jo, movin’ in and wrappin’ her long arms around Georgina. She put her mouth beside Georgie’s ear and whispered somethin’ I couldn’t hear.
“It’s deodorant,” said Georgina, with a strange look on her face. Then she added, “And no, of course not. I’m with Cole.”
“I see why,” said Billie Jo, once more lookin’ me up and down, from head to toe. “He’s a big boy, and handsome.”
“Where y’all from?” I asked.
“Come here from Destin.”
“You friends before?” I asked.
“Me and Billie Jo here? Nope. Met her while I was wranglin’ Chester here.”
“Where’d you get him at?” I asked.
“Fudpuckers,” he said. “Heard of it?”
I had. Fudpuckers was the highly advanced version of Baxter’s, with full shows, a pettin’ zoo, restaurant, airboat tours and pictures with gators. I’d seen their tee shirts for years.
“Yeah, they have a couple of the albinos,” I said.
“Too small, or that’s what I’d have,” said Garland. They was all changed, all crazy-like. Tossed a big beach towel at one and settled it right down. Once I figured out they go quiet when you cover their eyes, I got this idea. I’m a welder/fabricator by trade.”
“May I?” I asked, pointin’ at Chester.
As Billie Jo smacked her gum, fingered her gun, and stared at Georgina, Garland said, “Sure, have a gander.”
I glanced back at Georgie, who smiled and nodded. She said, “Billie Jo, what kind of ammunition is left inside?”
“It was locked and barred before we got here,” she said. “So, lots. We ain’t worked a deal out with you yet, though.”
I checked out of that conversation and joined Garland beside Chester. When I got right up beside the gator, I saw how clean and perfect the welds were. The quality was clear even under the coat of paint.
I knelt down, and he joined me. “Damned nice job, man,” I said. “I can weld, but my skills are mainly limited to motors of all kinds. I tend to stick the rods and make ugly work.”
“Amateur mistake, easy to learn past,” said Garland. “Built this one for protection. People see a man with a gator on a leash, and they tend to take an earlier turn outta my way.”
“Y’all headed anywhere in particular?” I asked.
Garland shook his head. He had six piercins’ in his left ear and another ten or so in his right. A stud ran through his nose and another in his chin, and in each eyebrow he had four silver bars, or pins, or whatever the hell they call ‘em.
It was all topped off by a scraggly mustache that didn’t quite connect to his billygoat chin beard. I forced myself not to study the overall picture or stare at the individual parts.
“Not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “We’re just havin’ fun, takin’ all the free shit. Never been a time I could afford anything I wanted, even workin’ hard. Hell, I’ve already wrecked a Lamborghini, a Porsche, and a Vette since I hooked up with Billie Jo. Just for fun!”
I laughed, but inside I was cursin’ my luck. I wanted to get the shit and get out, but Garland and Billie Jo stood in our way. I wouldn’t have cared so much if they’d seemed rational, but I felt like I was dealin’ with the main characters from that movie, Natural Born Killers.
“Look, Garland. We’re usin’ a boat to get as far west as we can. Right now, there are seven of us, and we’re headin’ for Lebanon, Kansas.”
“Where the fuckin’ towelheads live?”
I had to fight an eye roll. “No, Kansas. It’s called Lebanon, but it’s here in the USA.”
“Got room for us?”
The goddamned question I prayed he didn’t ask. I decided to try and play his woman against him. “Hold on,” I said.
Walking over to where Georgina and Billie Jo stood talking, I prepared my reverse psychology.
“Billie Jo,” I said, “you and Ga
rland should come with us. We’re headin’ to Kansas to prepare for a fight with the Indian.”
“A fight?” asked the young woman, her voice rising two octaves. “What Indian?”
“Hell, I wanna kill me some injuns!” cackled Garland.
Dang. I didn’t expect either of ‘em to look so excited, and now I felt like a jackass. Georgina caught my eye and furrowed her brow.
“Climbing Fox Wattana,” I almost sighed. “He claims he started this shit with the black rain, a curse or somethin’. Anyway, I understand if you don’t wanna come. We’re puttin’ together an army and it’s gonna be hard work –”
“Hell, yes we’ll come,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind hangin’ out with you gorgeous hunk of man meat. Shoot, maybe I’ll just take a turn with ya, Garland won’t mind.” She eyed me up and down, and just a bit sideways. I felt like turnin’ around, ‘cause her eyes were square on my crotch.
“Did I make it clear that we’re together?” asked Georgina, her eyes flashing at Billie Jo. “Plus, there are several other people with us who need to decide whether it’s alright. I know Cole means well, but they all have a say, so I’d recommend being on your best behavior if we get that far.”
I gritted my teeth at that, but kinda turned away so Georgie wouldn’t think I was judgin’ her. She said what I was thinkin’.
Billy Jo took a deep breath and let out a long, moanin’ sigh. When she finally mumbled, “Come on inside. They got tons of stuff,” I was relieved, big time. Until she followed with, “This is my only behavior, girly. Real.”
I saw Georgie wanted to counter that, but wisely, she said nothin’ in return. She saw just how unstable the girl was as well. Her jaw muscles were workin’ though, because she was grindin’ her teeth.
“Don’t mind Chester,” said Garland, as we mounted the porch behind the gator.
I looked down again, analyzin’ the design. “Why doesn’t he go after y’all when you take off the blinders?”