Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet

by Adam Howe

  16.

  The camper cratered onto the rocks, the hood crumpling like a tin can, the windshield shattering on impact. A hailstorm of broken glass tore through the cab, studding my arms as I raised them to shield my eyes. The impact pitched me forwards in my seat. My seat belt bit sharply into my chest, snatching the air from my lungs. My neck whiplashed, my forehead thumping the steering wheel.

  Not wearing his seat belt, Salisbury thudded against the dash like a crash test dummy. The gun was wrenched away from my armpit.

  Then the camper rocked forwards and crashed onto its roof and the world turned topsy-turvy. Lester’s shrouded corpse was hurled about the camper like a scarecrow in a hurricane. The bait buckets spilled like cans of paint, decorating the camper like a demented Jackson Pollack.

  Pinned to my seat by my belt, I dangled upside-down, watching helplessly as Salisbury peeled himself from the upturned roof. How the hell he’d survived the crash, I didn’t know; maybe he was right, God really did love a skunk aper.

  Then I saw with horror he was still clutching the elephant gun.

  “Goddamn you, Levine …”

  Racked with pain, furious he was losing his quarry, Salisbury raised the barrels towards me—and then a high-pressure spray of water tore through the camper and punched out the rear window and he was blasted outside like a Wet N’ Wild ride. So too was Lester; I saw him in his sleeping bag, being swept away downriver like a sea burial.

  The camper was flooding fast, bait buckets bobbing in the water like putrid fishing lures. I sucked a deep breath before the fast-rising water enveloped my head. Then I fumbled to unfasten my— My seatbelt was jammed! I couldn’t release the lock. Panicking, I thrashed and flailed against my restraints like a condemned con riding Old Sparky, screaming bubbles in the icy water. A startled fish swam past me. For a moment we locked eyes, before it darted away. Then I saw Salisbury’s slouch hat floating by. I snatched the hat, tore one of the cougar’s fangs from the hatband, and used its sharp edge to saw frantically through the belt strapped across my chest. My lungs burned for air, gray clouded the edge of my vision … and then the fraying strap broke away from my chest and I floated free from my seat. With a last effort, I propelled myself through the broken windshield, kicking upwards, clawing towards the sunlight, exploding to the surface and sucking in great gulps of air.

  The upturned camper sank amid a seething froth of bubbles, until only the tires were visible. Flotsam popped to the surface around me. Clinging to a rock to avoid being swept away downriver, I searched for Salisbury but couldn’t see him anywhere. Drowned, I hoped. Peering up at the bridge, I was amazed to see it was still standing. A gaping hole in the midsection had collapsed where the Minnie Winnie had torn right through it. The foot-ends jutted like gangplanks on either embankment. I couldn’t see Eliza above me.

  Paddling to shore, I dragged myself hand-over-hand onto the bank, slithering through the mud like some strange creature in the process of evolution. I slumped in exhaustion against the sheer rock wall, trying to catch my breath. It was hard to believe I’d survived. Staring at the wreckage of the sunken camper was like an out-of-body experience. I felt dog-tired all of a sudden. All I wanted was to curl up on the bank and take a long nap. My head lolled, my eyelids drooped. Then I heard a scratching sound above me.

  Raising my head, I saw a length of rope snaking down the rock face, until it coiled in the mud beside me. “Eliza …” I said. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Didn’t you see me wink ‘Jump’?” Eliza called from above.

  Then she said, “Tie the rope around your waist, Mr. Levine!”

  She was flattering me if she thought she could pull my ass up. Even at my fighting weight, I’d fought at light heavy—and that was many beers ago. But I tied the rope around my waist and told Eliza to anchor the other end around a tree that would take my weight in the likely event that I slipped and fell. I was searching the rock face for handholds to begin scaling the cliff—when the rope snapped taut and I was hoisted off my feet and began being winched up the wall.

  The girl had freakish strength.

  It was only when I reached the top of the cliff that I realized she’d had help. Rough hands dragged me onto the precipice and rolled me onto my back. Then a familiar smiling face loomed over me—and I wondered if maybe I’d died in the camper wreck after all, died and gone straight to hell.

  17.

  The last time I’d seen him, he’d been on his hands and knees, scrabbling for his rotten teeth on the floor of The Henhouse. Now he was sporting a pair of Gary Busey-big dentures that didn’t quite fit his mouth. “Oh, I prayed to God I’d run into you again,” Smiley said. Before I could react, he booted me in the guts. As I hacked for breath, he grabbed hold of my shirt, dragged me to my feet, and jammed the barrel of an AK-47 under my jaw. “Remember me, motherfucker?”

  “I never forget a pretty smile.”

  Clearly sensitive about his new teeth, he tried to close his lips around his whopping dentures, and couldn’t quite manage it. “Laugh it up while you still can, asshole. Cuz I aim to return the favor with a fucking claw hammer.”

  I glanced at Eliza. Another Damn Dirty Ape—Blubberguts—had his beefy arms wrapped around her. He was kneading her breasts like he was trying to coax music from them, but the only sounds it produced were Eliza’s moans of disgust.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Levine. They just came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop ‘em.”

  “You okay?”

  She nodded sadly.

  Smiley patted me on the shoulder. “She’s fine, Palooka.”

  Blubberguts haw-haw-hawed as he honked her breasts. “She’s real fine.”

  As Eliza squirmed in Blubberguts’s grip, my eyes darted to the sawed-off shotgun with the pistol grip the big man wore in a leather bucket holster on his thigh.

  I bunched my fists by my sides. “If you hurt her,” I said, “so help me, I’ll—”

  Smiley ground the barrel of the AK-47 into the underside of my jaw. “You’ll do what exactly?” Sneering, he said, “Trust me, Palooka—pretty soon you’re gonna be too busy wishing you was dead to even think about playing hero.” He glanced at the broken bridge; peered down over the cliff edge at the camper submerged in the river below. “Now what the fuck are y’all doing out here?”

  I was wondering the same thing about them. I’d thought the skunk ape had devoured and excreted the bikers. But I figured what the hell and just went ahead and told him. “Hunting skunk ape.”

  Blubberguts haw-haw-hawed. “Hunting skunk ape, he says.”

  Smiley gave a snort of amusement. “Find any?”

  “Just the Damn Dirty kind.”

  Smiley snatched a knife from a hip sheath and cut the rope from around my waist. Gripping my shoulder, he spun me around, and jammed the barrel of the AK against my spine. “Get walking.” He encouraged me with a kick in the ass.

  As I staggered forwards, I said to Eliza, “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Smiley said, “He’s lying to you, princess.”

  They marched us into the woods, Smiley with the barrel of the Widow-maker glued to my spine, Eliza saddled over Blubberguts’s shoulders. Conversation was limited to “Keep walking, asshole,” punctuated with a shove or a kick in the ass and a haw-haw-haw from Blubberguts. I glanced once again at Blubberguts’s sawed-off, but wasn’t convinced I could snatch it from his thigh holster before Smiley gunned me down, so I just kept walking, trying to stay out of range of those kicks in the ass.

  * * *

  After hiking for some time, we broke through the brush and emerged into an overgrown farmyard. A derelict farmhouse and a scattering of tumbledown outbuildings loomed before us. The rusted hulks of junk farming equipment lurked in the tall grass and weeds. I remembered the place from a recent conversation with Eliza. This was Herb Planter’s old farm—where the fugitive Melvin Stott had come to sate his mongoloid lust on Herb’s hogs. The place had fallen to rot and ruin since then. The only people w
ho came here now were local kids: Drinking beer, smoking weed, honing their graffiti skills, and boosting the teenage pregnancy stats. A fleet of five motorcycles leaned on kickstands outside the porch. A sidecar was fitted to the bike on the end. I couldn’t see the rest of the bikers anywhere; the other Damn Dirty Apes must have been inside the house.

  A sharp chemical smell choked the air. “Mmm-hmm …” I said. “Just like momma used to make.” Things were starting to make sense. The Damn Dirty Apes were cooking crystal meth out here. They must have heard the Minnie Winnie wreck. Smiley and Blubberguts had been sent to scout the commotion.

  Smiley gave me a shove towards the house. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and attempted to whistle, but with his dentures, could only achieve a sloppy sputtering sound. He glared at me, daring me to crack wise.

  “We got company!” he hollered at the house.

  The Damn Dirty Apes emerged from the house. Shitface and Baby Doll were wearing gas masks, and the same MC vests they’d worn that night at The Henhouse. Chains—rusted neck chains, Old Dixie do-rag, and a six-shooter holstered gunfighter-style on his hip—was last to appear. He peeled the gasmask from his face and let it hang around his neck like a fetish collar.

  “Ain’t that the knucklehead from the titty bar?” he said when he saw me.

  I played it cool and said, “Sup.”

  Smiley forced me to my knees.

  Blubberguts dropped Eliza down in the dirt beside me.

  Chains finished ogling Eliza and then returned his attention to me.

  “The fuck’re you doing out here, boy?”

  Smiley couldn’t wait to share the joke. “Hunting skunk ape.”

  The Apes laughed their asses off.

  Chains grinned at me. “That true, boy? You hunting skunk ape?”

  Stalling for time, praying God would see me in my time of need, and divinely intervene, I told Chains and the rest of the Apes the whole sorry story.

  It was a big hit with the Apes. They were all howling with laughter; even Smiley was almost in tears, covering his mouth to stifle his laughter and stop his dentures popping out. By the time I was done, I was cackling along with them. Saying it out loud, I had to admit the whole thing sounded fucking crazy. Like I’d smoked the whole batch of what they were cooking up inside.

  Still chuckling, I said, “So you see, whatever you guys are doing out here, it’s none of our business. And what happened at The Henhouse—well, you already got your licks in. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all water under the bridge—”

  “Like hell it is,” said Smiley, his dentures clacking like maracas.

  “You can just let us go, and we’ll be on our way,” I said. “We won’t say a word to anyone.”

  Chains scratched his stubble like he was seriously considering it.

  Then he said, “Or we could just fucking kill you?”

  My shoulders slumped. “There’s that, I suppose.” I cut an anxious glance at Eliza. “At least let the girl go.” Reggie Levine: Chivalrous to the bitter end.

  “Let her go?” Chains cackled. “Shit, son—we been cooking all week. Reckon we deserve us a ree-ward for all our hard work.” He played to the Apes. “What d’you say, fellas?” I guessed that included Baby Doll. “Soon as we cook up this last batch we take Blondie here for a train ride.” The Apes howled like lusty wolves.

  Eliza looked at me pleadingly.

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Eliza …”

  She slumped forwards in the dirt, raking her hands in the earth.

  “What about this asshole?” Smiley said.

  He prodded me in the back of the skull with his AK.

  Before Chains could answer, I jerked my head to the side, and the barrel of Smiley’s AK slid past my shoulder. I grabbed the barrel and yanked it, pulling Smiley down towards me as I sprang to my feet and slammed the back of my skull into his chin. His dentures shattered with a sound like Fast Eddie Felson breaking pool balls and he crumpled to the ground. Clutching the AK by the barrel, I swung it like a club against Blubberguts’s skull. The stock impacted with a meaty thud, jarring the gun from my hands. The big man avalanched down on top of Smiley. There was no time for me to retrieve the AK. Eliza flung double fistfuls of dirt into the faces of Chains, Shitface, and Baby Doll, and as they staggered back, blinded, choking on dust, I grabbed Eliza’s wrist and we ran.

  As we jinked through the maze of junk farming equipment, someone fired a gun, and the shot pinged off a tractor with a flash of sparks.

  “Don’t shoot!” Chains cried. “You’ll blow us all sky-high!”

  I dragged Eliza towards the barn. We scrambled inside and slammed the door and bolted it shut with a horizontal bar. Seconds later, the Apes started hammering and hurling themselves against it, the door shuddering violently under the assault. Then Smiley must have found an axe from somewhere. He started hacking at the door like Jack Nicholson doing his “Here’s Johnny!” number. Smiley glared at me through the splintered slats, his lips bloodied and torn by his shattered dentures. “Muggerfugger! Goo broge by teeb! Again!” He continued hacking his way through the door. It wasn’t going to hold for much longer.

  I looked around wildly for a weapon. Just cobwebs and straw—unless the Apes were arachnophobic, or suffered from hay fever, we were shit out of luck. The barn was too dingy for me to see much of anything else. On either side of us were livestock stalls. At the end of the barn, a rickety ladder led up to the hayloft. I started dragging Eliza towards the ladder—when in doubt, climb—but she dug in her heels and refused to move. “Mr. Levine!” She gripped my hand till the knuckles popped. “That smell …” I was about to tell her that the funky odor was the least of our problems, when I recognized the stench, and I glanced into the livestock stall from which it was wafting.

  Huddled in the gloomy stall, curled in a fetal ball, was Ned, still wearing his Boogaloo Baboon costume. If simians have a hell, Boogaloo called it home. His blood-matted fur was ripped out in mangy patches. His tail had been yanked off at the root. The once proud red-cushion ass of the baboon costume was torn out to reveal Ned’s skinny butt, which looked in even worse condition than the costume, his buttocks scratched and caked with blood.

  “Ned?” I gasped.

  What the hell had the Apes been doing to the poor bastard?

  Boogaloo flinched at the sound of my voice; Ned whimpered inside the baboon mask. “Please …” he rasped. “Please, no more …”

  “Ned, it’s me.” I crouched down beside him. “It’s Reggie.”

  Grunting with effort, Ned raised the heavy baboon mask off the ground. A hole had been gouged through it. A glazed eye peered out at me. It reminded me of the photos I’d seen of Vietnam vets returning from a tour of duty. The thousand-yard stare.

  “Reggie?” Like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining things. “Is … is it really you?”

  And then he started to sob, a pitiful broken sound.

  “It’s okay, Ned,” I said. “You’re gonna be okay.” Not strictly true—not with the Apes breaking down the barn door—but at least now Ned wouldn’t die alone.

  “Oh, thank God—” Ned bawled, clutching at me. “I thought … I thought that thing was gonna hump me to death.”

  I frowned.

  “What thing?”

  That’s when the skunk ape dropped down from the hayloft.

  18.

  It landed with a heavy thud behind Eliza and me. With a terrified shriek, Ned scuttled to the far end of the stall and curled himself into a protective ball. I whirled towards the beast, shielding Eliza behind me. I had time to think: For a skunk ape, the damn thing looked a lot like an orangutan—And then it snatched my head in a huge leathery paw, Eliza’s in the other, and smashed our skulls together like cymbals, and down I went like a TV with the plug pulled.

  When I came to, I was flat on my back in the yard outside the farmhouse. Eliza was sprawled in the dirt beside me, out-cold. A nasty-looking lump, where the skunk ape had cracked our skulls
together, protruded through her hair like a pink anthill.

  I forced myself to sit—regretted it instantly—clutching my head as if afraid it would crumble to dust in my hands. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I saw the barn door clapping open and shut in the breeze, and a rutted trail in the dirt where the skunk ape must have dragged us from the barn to the farmhouse.

  Except it wasn’t a skunk ape.

  It was an orangutan—just as I’d thought before it put me to sleep— wearing calf-length cargo shorts, and a biker vest with the Motorcycle Club’s patch on the back. His shoulder was bandaged, the gauze sodden with blood, where he must have been wounded by the shrapnel of splinters when the elephant gun cored the tree. The first thing that struck me was the stench—it staggered me back like a physical blow—the ape reeked like a Grizzly had excreted a whole colony of skunks before wiping its ass on his fur. A halo of flies buzzed drunkenly above his head. He was an ugly brute, too. Maybe even harsher on the eye than Baby Doll. His face was hashtagged with battle scars, the skin leathery and cracked like an old cowboy’s saddle, or Charles Bronson in one of the later Death Wish pictures. His filthy fur was tangled into ruddy brown dreadlocks. The whiskers around his muzzle were salted gray like a silvery Fu Manchu mustache. His dull amber eyes seemed only slightly less human than the rest of the Damn Dirty Apes. And they were sizing me up in a way that made my balls shrink to the size of chickpeas, as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fight me or fuck me. I could scarcely imagine the living hell poor Ned must have endured as this monster had its way with him.