by Alan Spencer
She was suffering a bout of double vision. Blood leaked down her throat and spilled down her lips. Her own blood wasn’t satisfying, but instead the opposite; it harbored the taste of bitter vinegar. She stewed in a hot broth of hatred and revulsion for the man's doubt in Ruden. “He left his family, his friends, everything, just to save us. He’s working so hard for you." She was crying now. “He loves us all so much...”
“He’s failed us, Lenora! Guess what? After all this time, we’re still dying off. Our problems aren't solved."
“He loves us...”
Hands tightening around her throat, an ever constricting hold, he shouted next, “He’s useless to us, you ignorant b—!”
Blinding lights—spotlight bright—covered them. She slipped from his killing chokehold by kicking Mike between the legs. He faltered to his side, cupping his testicles.
A friendly voice came to her aide. “What was he doing to you? My God, you’re bleeding!”
The person helped her up.
Before the man realized she was the same person who broke his taillight, the man’s chest exploded out of his sternum in sharp shards. Warmth spattered her face in thick globs, and she lapped up the deliciousness. When the corpse toppled on top of her, she embraced him, even though the twitching body reeked of malt liquor and a cheap cigar. She reached through the decimated sternum to his bullet-ravaged heart to chew, suck, and swallow it piece-by-piece.
She refrained from feeding when the end of the shotgun was nudged against her forehead. The double barrels were sizzling hot. She winced, forced to take the pain. Mike stared down at her and enjoyed the woman he imagined fucking to no end in the private chambers of his mind for many years after spitting the special blood down his throat.
He made one final offer. “Stay with me, and I won’t take your life.”
Fresh from a heavy dose of warm blood, Lenora’s vision cut up through the barrel. The gun was empty. Before he caught on to her observation, she pushed the barrel from her forehead and rolled backwards. Rising up to her feet, she extended her arm out straight. Sticking two fingers out as if to clutch a bowling ball, she performed her favorite killing move. Forward momentum on her side, her fingers gouged through his eyes, and with another surge of power, she punched him in the throat so hard, she could lift his head off with an upward thrust of her fingers.
She spiked his head onto the pavement, and before the headless body could fall, she lapped up the jugular fountain that ejected from the open arteries.
Dragging both bodies into the field and using her hands to pry them open like the body of a chicken, she derived every ounce of blood possible before falling on her back, filled to capacity.
Lenora closed her eyes and fell under a nap spell. Ten minutes later, she was woken by a familiar voice that penetrated her mind. Recognizing the voice, she was up again. Racing back out onto the road, Lenora started up the dead driver’s truck and was on her way to completing the trip to Smithville, Kansas.
11
“Um, anybody here? Hello?” Caleb had been standing at the front desk of "The Sunshine Motel" for several minutes without a response. He rang the bell, wanting to ask if there was another ice machine since the one outside his room didn’t function. A woman finally stepped out of the backroom, her steps labored and drunken. She wore a Atlanta Braves hat. Tufts of her frizzy black hair jutted from the sides in large puffs. A red smudge glimmered at the edge of her lips.
She wiped the end of her lip clean. “I got cherry pie on my face. You caught me eating dinner. Sorry for the wait. My name’s Jenny.”
“Is the ice machine busted?” He drove to the point. “It’s not working.”
“The desk clerk didn’t give you an ice key, huh?” She sauntered to the back room and handed him a triangle-shaped plastic key. “People around her take ice that aren’t staying at the motel, so the boss decided to put a lock on it. Sorry ‘bout that. Ridiculous, right? People stealing ice."
“Thank you." He accepted the key and smiled graciously. “Problem solved. Damn them ice stealers.”
It was eight o’clock and one hour made the difference between over bright sun to cavern dark sky. There was no moon watching over Smithville, not even starlight. Crickets and cicadas chirped full blast. Tonight had true bonfire conditions, he thought.
After meeting Shannon today, his work would be easy. She was hard up for cash, and she knew the locals well enough to tap the best information. Chippie Douglas was the first major break, the eccentric and war ready solider. He could do many reports based off the man alone. She also mentioned he had a large gun collection. He wished to take pictures inside the man’s home, but he doubted he could pull it off. He kept the notion tucked carefully in the back of his mind, though.
He unlocked the door to his room and glanced at the Mazda with the license plate: ASKIKR.
N-ice vanity plate.
He secured the door behind him, drawing the bolt. Caleb dropped the ice machine key on the round table and decided to stock up on ice later. He peeled off his suit and clothes. He walked naked into the shower armed with the complementary bar of soap and plastic shampoo; both smelled of a mix between lilacs and urinal cakes. The motel was the average Midwest lodging. It wasn’t Holiday Inn or Best Western, but it got the job done: HBO, air-conditioning, shower, full-sized bed, and rates less than sixty dollars a night.
Caleb rinsed clean and stood under the shower’s warm spray. His thoughts strayed to his conversation with Shannon. She was shocked to learn he hadn’t been laid in nearly two years. That’s life on the road. Shannon thinks she can handle my job, good for her. Women can probably find action easier than me.
His new friend was attractive despite the promiscuous air surrounding her. The short skirt, the long legs, the smooth thighs, and the buxom chest, he was hard without meaning for it to happen. He undid the cap of complementary lotion—and for some reason his room received two as if they knew he was a traveling man in need of masturbation supplies—and stroked himself off.
“I really need to get laid." He caught the shower’s spray in his mouth. Like every finish, the responsible section of his brain contradicted him. You can’t sleep with somebody you don’t know. You’re not a casual sex man. Besides, Shannon’s used and abused. Tainted love. Watch your Twinkie; it's in serious danger.
He toweled dry and changed into a pair of jeans and a black windbreaker. Caleb downloaded the pictures of Johnny Appleseed’s body—Mr. Plastic Skeleton—and the photos of the glass factory. He removed forty dollars cash and inserted it into his wallet. It was nine-thirty now, and Shannon was probably wondering if he was showing up to the bonfire. He was tired enough to flake out, but interested enough in meeting other locals to overcome the fatigue.
Caleb walked to the vending machine outside his room and chose a can of orange soda. After slugging it down, "Wilson’s Spirits," a ramshackle shed, beckoned him next door. Inside, he purchased a twenty-four pack of long-neck domestic beer and a Styrofoam cooler with a bag of ice. The cashier was a big burly man wearing a jean jacket embroidered with patches of the confederate flag at each breast. The man’s five o'clock shadow was a brindle medley of white, gray, and black. An eye patch covered his right eye, the other bloodshot and frozen on him. He sucked on the end of an unlit cigar.
The name badge on his pocket read: Darrel.
“Ain’t seen you ‘round here.”
He smiled nervously. “I’m passing through. I go state to state meeting people. I write for a magazine and report unusual stories. Do you have one?”
Darrel thought it over, sucking the cigar once. “Sure do.”
He closed his eye. Drawn out silence followed. He looked around the store; nobody else was present. Confused by the man keeping his eye closed, he reached for the bagged items on the counter when Darrel warned him, “I can see you.”
His good eye was still closed.
Caleb hadn’t made a sound when he reached for the bag. “How did you know I was reaching for my st
uff?”
The cashier opened his eye and winked. “I’ll show you.”
Between a bottle of high end whisky and a case of cigars, the man produced a mason jar. Inside of it, formaldehyde sloshed within and an eyeball was disturbed among unidentifiable black flecks. “This is my good eye. I can still see through it, though it’s cloudy.”
Darrel’s eyes aren’t the only appendage he feels after removal. His leg was taken from the stump, and he claims he felt it when the crematorium incinerated it. When he loses blood, he feels it sink between the fibers of the carpet or wash down the drain. The unusual man has made a special connection with his body. Even when he eliminates, he feels it flushed down the networks of sewers. “It’s a burden,” Darrel claims, “but I guess I don’t know life otherwise.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you lose your eye?”
The cashier laughed, almost losing the cigar. “I do construction on the side. Me and Jacob Klinger were firing nail guns at shit. When we're too drunk to fuck, we do bad things. Nail struck a stone, ricocheted, and it hit my eye just right it had to be removed. The doctor offered to let me keep the eye. I thought they only did that with tonsils.”
Smithville doctor offers keepsakes post-surgery. Dr. Freddy Johnson allows children to keep tonsils, sentimental mothers to save their placenta, and amputees to collect their limbs. Brent Hadley shakes his amputated arm from his porch to wave at those passing through. Julie Stolberg rattles her kidney stones in a jar at anybody who asks to see them. Jack Ramey’s collection of tumors stirs lively conversations at the local tavern.
He stopped himself from digging too deep into Darrel's business and said, "I thank you for the supplies and the story.” He waved bye and opened the door to leave. “Take care.”
“You do the same." Darrel asked before the door could close, "Will I be in one of your magazines?”
“Who knows? Read “The Weekly Spectacle Digest” and find out.”
Outside, he filled the foam cooler with ice and beer. It was nearing ten thirty, he read on his watch. He drove to the trailer park ready to encounter Smithville’s night life.
12
Lenora steered the truck down the lonely back road. She’d been driving for several hours straight, and she still didn’t trust herself. Had she imagined Ruden speaking to her? Was she hearing things? And now Ruden spoke to her again, this time adamantly:
Find the Sunshine Motel. It’s time we live like gods and goddesses. I’m real, Lenora, I swear to you.
The sign on the road displayed a large pictorial of a sun with cartoon arms and legs: COME STAY AT THE SUNSHINE MOTEL. CHEAP RATES. AIR CONDITIONED. HBO. ICE MACHINE.
Her lover’s voice entered her mind again. I’ve sensed your suffering. Now, it’s time for the pay off. Pleasures will surround you. Don’t give up on me just yet. I did this for you. For all of us. I’ll be there at the hotel soon, I promise. I’ve found the solution to our problems.
She absorbed the kind words and assurances, what was well deserved. Tears pooled in her eyes, his words heavy with meaning and release.
Arriving at the motel, the parking lot was cast in darkness; nobody was around to see her arrive. She removed five twenties from her wallet and entered the front area. The middle-aged man at the front was reading a Dean Koontz paperback. He wore a yellow shirt that said in red letters “KW’s Chicken Shack.”
“Hello there,” he greeted her, looking at her stocking mask curiously though keeping his questions to himself. “I’m Hank. You caught me snoozin’.” He wiped at his eyes, perking himself up. “I’m actually filling in for someone for an hour. A boyfriend emergency.” He chuckled. “Women, go figure. The lunatic’s drunk again and can’t unlock the front door. Funny, huh? Oh well, that’s what you get for owning your own business and paying minimum wage.”
She skipped the small talk. “How much for a night’s stay?”
“Are you from out of town?”
He eyed her too long. The stocking mask. The trench coat. She feared he’d reach under the counter and whip out a baseball bat or shotgun, or worse, call the police.
Well, I do look like a winter mercenary in the dead heat of summer.
“I’m passing through,” she lied, hoping she could satisfy his concerns. “I’m on my way to Iowa, but I couldn’t drive a moment longer. I’m exhausted.” She pointed at her mask. “Don’t mind my stocking mask. I’m not about to rob you.” Lenora lowered her voice, adding a touch of sadness to her words. “I have a rare skin disease, and I’m not ready for people to see me yet, you know?”
“Say no more. It’s none of my business. I wish you the best with your ordeal. I had a sis—”
She cut him off, “How much for the night?”
He had to think a moment. “Um...will you be staying only one night?”
“One night, yes.”
“Then it’ll be fifty...another forty if you want to stay the next night as well. That’s the best rate you’ll get in town. You’ll be a winner winner chicken dinner.”
She read his shirt again. He must have a friend in the chicken business. “You bet.” Lenora handed him the cash. “Thanks.”
Satisfied with the money and breaking the change, Hank gave her a key two rooms down from Caleb’s.
13
Shannon couldn’t be located at the motor home park even though Caleb knew she was somewhere in the near vicinity. It was obvious where the party was, and he followed the people who lugged coolers of beer, lawn chairs, and sleeping bags to south of the mobile home park. He walked down a hill, crossed a bridge over a creek, and finally came to an open field. Children gallivanted with gold and silver sparklers, drawing their names in the air in bold burning letters. Teenagers hid in the nearby woods lighting M-80’s and sneaking cigarettes and beer they’d stolen from their parents. Another set of teenagers built a projectile cannon from plastic tubing. He watched as one shoved a potato into it and then sprayed hair-spray into it, and with a match, the cannon went: POOT! The potato shot into the air and disappeared into the horizon.
The bonfire up ahead was created on a bare dirt circle. Tree branches were stacked head-high, the orange tendrils arching fifteen feet tall and crackling with energy. He walked to the outskirts of the heat and set his cooler down. Fifty or more people were lazed out on top of blankets or curled up in sleeping bags. A boom box nearby blasted Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.”
He searched the crowd and still couldn’t find Shannon.
A hand patted his back, and whether the touch was playful or not, Caleb couldn’t tell until he turned around. Travis greeted him with a stoic face. He wore a blue and black flannel top and blue jeans. He smoked a joint, his eyes squinty. “Dude, you came." He stifled a cough with the back of his hand. “Shannon’s been looking for ya. You might’ve missed your chance.” His eyes went big. “She’s been necking with Roger Luger; everybody calls him "Loogie.” Anyway, Loogie’s had his greasy hands all over her. Man, my sister can drink, and when’s she’s drunk, she’s easy. Bitch downed a six pack of camel piss, three shots of rum, and she’s already smoked an entire joint to herself.”
Travis offered him a sample of his joint, a smoldering roach. “Here.”
Ralph parted the space between them, appearing out of nowhere. He ate a hoagie exploding with pastrami and ham in one hand and clutched a twenty four ounce tall boy in the other. “Smoke that if you like embalming fluid. Asshole here soaks each of them in the shit. Travis here will get you hooked to cash in.”
“Shut up, old man. They’re better that way. I smoke them all the time.” He demonstrated by taking an extra long toke. “It’s the same as huffing gasoline and just as harmless.” He shrugged his shoulders. “At least I’m not a toothless meth-head.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Ralph agreed, “but I like Caleb. He’s good in my book. He showed up. Shannon will be happy you’re here. She’s talked about you all night; can’t get that girl to shut up once she’s had a few drinks—a regular filibu
ster.”
Travis finished the roach and flicked it into the fire, hooting, “Yeah, she showed up, but she’s spreading her legs for Loogie. I caught them going back to his mobile home. They were splitting a bottle of whiskey between them.”
Caleb opened the cooler, and reaching in, he therapeutically twisted the tab of a longneck beer for himself, and then he announced to everyone, “Hey, if anyone wants a beer, help yourself.”
Random strangers showed up to take a bottle until the cooler was only melted ice, the supply lasting thirty seconds. Caleb consoled the loss, “Well, that was fast."
Ralph took a huge bite from his sandwich and mayonnaise stuck onto his chin. He pointed at all of them. “Moochers, all of yuh."
“Hey, he offered.” Travis’s eyes affixed to him crooked and messed up on the corpse-weed. Then he wrapped his arm around his shoulders in a sideways bro-hug. “Admit it, you want Shannon’s pussy.”
His breath stank of reefer so strong, Caleb could taste it.
“You don’t care if Loogie’s run her through, right? Most guys don’t because she’s hot. I’m giving you a hard time because you were late. She was ready for you an hour ago, and well, Loogie swept in and drank her off of her feet.”
He restrained the tension from his voice. “Shannon’s a friend. I’m not after her that way. She has every right to be with whoever she wants.”