Depraved 2

by Bryan Smith

  Sienna zipped up her backpack and walked out of the bedroom, not bothering with any last goodbyes to Arlene or Bradley. She would miss them, but the pang of loss was mild. There were more dead things—and soon-to-be-dead-things—waiting for her down the road a piece.

  15.

  James Rowe knew he should never have listened to his old pal Harley Birdsong. Harley was a piercer at the tattoo shop in Jackson, TN, where they both worked. When it came to his job, Harley was a real pro. He hardly ever called anyone a fucking moron for asking to have their sexual organs pierced, for instance, and he never received any serious complaints about the work he did agree to perform. The problem was that outside of the work environment he was almost always stoned out of his goddamned gourd.

  And today had been no exception. James, Harley, and their pal Bubba “Big Train” Enwright had been on their way back from the big tattoo and horror festival in Knoxville when the 70’s era Mustang James had inherited from his crazy uncle Jack “Rabbit” Rowe started having engine problems.

  When the sputtering started, it was mild enough for James to hope they could make it as far as Nashville before having to stop. He abandoned that hope when the sputtering intensified and the banging commenced. They were out in the middle of that long stretch of not much between Chattanooga and Nashville when smoke started to seep out from under the hood. His plan at that point had been to pull over on the interstate and call AAA. He was on the verge of doing just that when Harley piped up with his fateful goddamn suggestion.

  After a dim sense of what was happening penetrated his brain, Harley took a look around and swore he knew exactly where they were, claiming that the next exit up would take them to a little town where his cousin Ace Woodhoe had an auto body shop. He further insisted Ace would take better care of them and have them back on the road way faster than any lame-ass AAA motherfucker.

  James sighed.

  I should have fucking known better than to listen to that assclown.

  They were stranded roadside, all right, but they weren’t on the interstate. Instead they were stopped at the side of a narrow rural road. James had the Mustang’s hood up and had been staring at the engine for some fifteen minutes. During that time, no other vehicles had come along. James wasn’t sure, but he thought it was possible they had discovered the fabled “middle of nowhere” people were always talking about. There was no real point to his poking around the engine. He wasn’t a damn mechanic. But the bad judgment he’d shown in trusting Harley had him frustrated and he’d needed an excuse to step out of the car for a while.

  This shit is going to seriously set me back, I just know it.

  Flush with cash from the successful convention stint, James was bummed out by the prospect of squandering the bonus income on car repairs. That was how life always went, it seemed. Just when it felt like you were getting ahead of the game a little, some damn crisis or other would come along to bring you right back to square one. A more superstitious man might attribute this tendency to some malevolent balancing force in the universe, one that had a special hard-on for keeping hard-working middle class people in their place while doing nothing to check the gluttons of greed on Wall Street. But James didn’t believe in things like that. What he did believe in was bad luck and stupidity. And when you made a habit of hanging around brain-damage cases like Harley and Big Train, those things had a funny way of following you around. His strong desire to hold onto a chunk of the convention cash caused him to take the ill-advised gamble on Harley’s ability to lead them to this Ace person’s shop.

  He really should have known better. Harley meant well, but the past was rife with evidence of how easily the guy could get confused. For instance, there was the time they’d gone looking for the War Memorial Auditorium in Nashville to see their favorite band Blitzkid. James and his friends lived in Jackson and were prone to getting lost when they visited the Music City. It happened yet again on this occasion. The Internet directions they’d printed out ahead of time turned out to be wrong and they were left scrambling to find the venue with showtime drawing near. Out of nowhere, Harley insisted he knew how to get to where they wanted to go. Running out of options, James decided to trust his pal. Harley did kind of deliver on his promise, guiding them to a sidewalk plaque commemorating Civil War dead. The sidewalk overlooked an empty field. But it was a kind of war memorial.

  James couldn’t help snickering at the memory in spite of his deep state of consternation. It had been much the same this time. After leaving the interstate, they traveled a series of winding back roads Harley thought he recognized. When it became clear he had no idea where they actually were, James asked his friend some additional questions and determined that Ace Woodhoe’s auto body shop must be on the other side of Nashville.

  Classic, James thought. Fucking classic.

  As he stood there and stared at the Mustang’s smoking engine, James felt his aggravation begin to dwindle. He couldn’t cast all the blame on his stoner friends. Hell, he loved weed as much as the next guy. But he was almost always able to keep his shit together. His friends, unfortunately, didn’t have that ability. They were oblivious almost all the time. Even now they were smoking up in the car. The sweet, cloyingly pungent odor of chronic was wafting out of the Mustang’s open windows, making it a good thing this road was so lightly traveled. A cop stopping to check on them now would be kind of a drag.

  And just as this thought flitted through his mind, James’s ears began to detect the rumble of an approaching engine. Mindful of the illicit activity taking place in his car, he made no move to step into the street and wave the driver of the other vehicle over. Instead he kept his head down and stared at the engine some more. Once the other car was gone, he would get a fix on his location with his new smartphone and call AAA, as he should have done in the first damn place.

  The rumble of the approaching engine grew louder and throatier as it came closer. The noise was too big to be produced by anything other than a big truck. He was unsurprised when he caught a glimpse of a heavy duty Ford roaring by them. What did surprise James was the loud squelch of rubber on asphalt when the truck’s driver abruptly stomped on the brake some dozen yards or so up the road.

  James turned away from the Mustang’s open hood and frowned at the big truck idling in the middle of the road. It was a white behemoth with tinted windows. The cab’s rear window was plastered with some decals beloved by white trash types, including the standard one of the comic strip character peeing. Only in this case Calvin was peeing on the president’s name.

  James’s frown became a grimace.

  Please go away.

  He couldn’t say why exactly, but he had a bad feeling about this truck.

  ***

  Floyd glowered at Cletus. The sudden stop had caused him to clench the can of Miller Lite he was holding hard enough to crush it. Now his face and shirt were wet with beer. It wasn’t just the mess that bothered him. Floyd was a man who hated wasting beer. It was a goddamn crime against nature.

  “The fuck you do that for, asshole?”

  Cletus, his gaze riveted to the rearview mirror, was oblivious to his friend’s indignation. “You see that dude’s tattoos?”

  “Tattoos? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Cletus jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guy we passed back there. Looks like the dude from The Illustrated Man.”

  “From the what?”

  “The Illustrated Man. It’s a book by Ray Bradbury.”

  Floyd looked confused. “Since when do you read?”

  Cletus shrugged. “Used to all the time. Then I had that brain surgery when I was a kid and lost interest.”

  Floyd tossed the crushed can into the back and retrieved a fresh one from the carton by his feet. He popped the tab and took a big slug of brew. Then he belched and thumped his chest with the base of a fist. “Hold on. Brain surgery? What, like a lobotomy?”

  Cletus looked uncomfortable, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as he s
hifted in his seat. “It was some kind of experimental shit. That was back when I was living in that weird mansion in Maine.”

  Floyd looked askance at his friend. “What?”

  Cletus shook his head. “I don’t like to think about them days. Makes me feel funny.”

  Floyd gaped at him. “You’re pulling my leg, right? Gotta be. You grew up here just like me. I know you did.”

  Cletus put the truck in reverse and stepped on the gas pedal, causing the truck to zoom backward. He braked again a moment later. “You don’t know everything you think you know, pardner.”

  He set the brake and reached for the door handle.

  Floyd had more beer on his face and another crushed can in his hand. He squinted at Cletus as suds dripped from his eyebrows. “Hold up a minute.” He glanced at the mirror on his side and saw a blond-haired guy standing by an apparently broken-down Mustang. The man did indeed have quite the impressive profusion of ink on much of his visible flesh, but so what? “Look, man, forget about this illustrated motherfucker. We gotta get to Hopkins Bend and track down Delmont.”

  “It can wait.”

  Floyd snorted. “Yeah, you tell that to Jodi Lynn. Lady has a different view of things.”

  “Fuck it. Bitch can eat my crusty crack.”

  Cletus opened his door and began to step out of the truck.

  Floyd grabbed him by the arm and said, “You’re just gonna jaw with this dude for a minute about his ink, right? We ain’t got time for fun and games.”

  Cletus grinned. “Shit, there’s always time for fun and games. I’ve wanted some new tattoos for a while.”

  He got out of the truck and threw the door shut before Floyd could say anything else.

  Floyd groaned and got out, too.

  ***

  James let the Mustang’s hood fall shut with a resounding metallic thunk and got back in the car. Harley and Big Train—oblivious as ever—were cracking up over some lame sex joke as he situated himself behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition, praying for a miracle. But no miracle was forthcoming. The engine just made that same pathetic grinding noise again. He tried it again anyway as the big truck sped backward and braked to a hard stop next to the Mustang. Still no luck.

  James banged a fist against the steering wheel.

  Shit!

  He twisted in his seat and reached into the back to snap his fingers in Big Train’s face. The rotund but amiable giant blinked and grinned in that slow, perpetually amused way of his. There were still crumbs in his thick beard from the McDonald’s combo meal he’d wolfed down hours earlier. The guy was strong as an ox, but James knew he was too far gone to be any good in a fight. There was, however, another way he might yet save their asses.

  James snapped his fingers again. “Hey! Retard!”

  The big man’s red-rimmed eyes registered mild offense, but his grin never faltered. “What up, James Earl Jones?”

  Big Train and Harley broke up laughing.

  James rolled his eyes. “That makes no sense. There’s no reason that’s funny.”

  Scrawny Harley slapped one of his narrow thighs and cackled. “It makes perfect sense! James Earl Jones, motherfucker!”

  James could say something logical like, ‘Listen, guys, James Earl Jones is a large black actor whereas I am a white tattoo artist. So, like, whence the hilarity?’

  But logic didn’t begin to enter the equation with these guys. And he had no time for the usual drawn-out process of trying to get them to understand even simple concepts.

  So he drilled a punch into the center of Big Train’s face. The blow was delivered with every ounce of force he could muster, but it barely moved the man’s enormous, pumpkin-shaped head. Big Train, did, however, go cross-eyed for a moment as blood began to leak from his left nostril. He touched his nose and frowned at the blood on his fingers.

  “What the fuck, bro?” he asked, sounding more hurt than angry.

  “I need your gun, Big Train. Please tell me you brought it this time.”

  Train frowned. “The Magnum?”

  “Of course the goddamn Magnum! How many fucking guns do you have?”

  Train scratched at his beard, a deep furrow appearing in the middle of his massive brow as he struggled to concentrate. “Well…there’s the Magnum, sure, but there’s also the Sig Sauer I inherited from my grandfather. Oh, and last month I bought a Desert Eagle.”

  The thunk of a door slamming shut made James flinch. He glanced out the window and saw two burly rednecks getting out of the truck. The driver climbed into the back of the truck and hunched down, leaving only the top of his head visible. It was possible the man was looking for some tools to help them fix the Mustang, but intuition told James otherwise.

  Big Train had finally taken note of their company. “Those fellas here to help us?”

  James shook his head. “I really don’t think so. Did you bring any of this arsenal with you, Train?”

  “Just the Magnum. Why?”

  “Because I think we’re gonna need it.”

  James ripped the keys from the Mustang’s ignition and got out of the car, moving fast to avoid thinking about what he was doing. As he hurried around to the trunk, the tall, bearded guy who’d emerged from the passenger side of the Ford gave him a disconcerting dull-eyed stare. There was an insolent twist to his thin lips. The men still hadn’t made any overtly hostile moves, but this one’s expression squashed any lingering doubt James had that he might be overreacting.

  He fumbled with the keys when he reached the trunk and barely avoided dropping them. His hands were shaking so hard he feared he wouldn’t be able to get the trunk open, but he finally did get the key pinched firmly between thumb and forefinger and managed to insert it in the lock. He was lifting the lid when he heard booted feet land on heavily on asphalt, signaling that the other man had hopped out of the truck bed.

  James gasped and dropped the keys inside the trunk. He tried hard to set aside his mounting terror and focus on locating Train’s bag. The trunk was loaded down with boxes and bags, some of them containing James’s own tattooing equipment and others swag from the convention. The other bags were all duffels of varying sizes and colors. The raggedy green one belonged to Harley. The motherfucker had been toting it around for years, maybe for decades.

  James grabbed a zipper tab and tore open the green bag, hitting pay dirt after tossing several of Train’s unfolded dirty garments over his shoulder. The Magnum was wedged beneath a stack of horror magazines and comics. James grabbed the gun by the grip and yanked it out, raising it as he backed away from the trunk.

  His heart lurched and he almost dropped the gun. “Oh, shit.”

  The bearded guy had an axe.

  The other one was wielding a chainsaw. It was one of the really big ones with an extra-long blade, the kind normally only used by lumberjacks. In this guy’s hands it looked like a toothpick.

  The bearded one chuckled. “‘Oh, shit’ is right, boy. You ready to die?”

  James thumbed back the Magnum’s hammer. “You fellas best get in your truck and head on out of here. We don’t want any trouble.”

  The one with the chainsaw laughed. “You hear that, Floyd? He don’t want no trouble.”

  Floyd spat in the street. “That’s too bad. I reckon he found himself some, anyway.”

  The Mustang’s suspension squeaked as the driver’s side door came open and Train climbed out of the car. Despite the now openly threatening demeanors of Floyd and his friend with the chainsaw, the expression on Train’s face showed only mild concern. This wasn’t surprising. The man’s incongruous fondness for firearms aside, he was the closest thing to a real pacifist James had ever known, always playing the diplomat any time there was strife between his friends. These guys didn’t know that, however, and most people weren’t inclined to antagonize a guy the size of Train. But that was another way the usual rules were out the window in this situation. Big as Train was, these guys were even bigger.

  James appreci
ated his friend having his back, but the guy was too stoned to tangle with these inbred giants. Not that Train had any clue fighting would be necessary. As always, he felt there was some misunderstanding and that whatever the dispute was could be resolved by talking things out in a chill way.

  Train approached Floyd and extended a hand to shake. “What’s going on, fellas? They call me Big Train.”

  Floyd shifted his grip on the axe handle, raised it high over his head, and swung it down with all his might. The blade chopped through Train’s wrist, separating his hand from his arm with stunning ease. Train stared in numb stupefaction for a moment as blood jetted from the stump in a bright red arc, spattering the front of Floyd’s flannel shirt. Then he started screaming as he fell back against the Mustang’s door, bumping it shut. The next swing of the axe punched through his neck and took his head off his shoulders. More blood jumped into the air as Train’s head went tumbling across the roof of the Mustang and tumbled to the ground on the other side. Train’s body began to slide to the ground.

  Chainsaw Guy laughed at James’s horrified expression. “That was some shit, huh? Guess what? You’re next, bitch.”

  James was in shock, which was not surprising in light of what he’d just witnessed. He was shaking harder than ever and the gun was trying to slip from his grip. But now the anger was coming. One of his best friends was dead, murdered in front of his eyes for no reason at all. And he was done acting like a bitch.

  James shook his head. “No, you’re next, motherfucker.”

  He squeezed the Magnum’s trigger and the hammer snapped down.

  Nothing happened.

  James frowned and squeezed the trigger again.

  Again, nothing happened. Instead of the expected large-caliber bang followed by holes opening in the flesh of his adversaries, there was just that ineffectual little click each time. And now the big rednecks were laughing so heartily you’d think they’d never seen anything so funny.