by Jeb Bohn
“I have hobbies.”
“Alcoholism isn’t a hobby, Herman.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Of course you do, you’re a contrarian. You say you want justice but you don’t. You could put out everything you know: Wright, Schultz, the testing done at Skywood, everything. You had police security, which you’ve likely now turned into apathy. That’s all you had to do, then actual justice could run its course.”
“Yeah, we tried that, remember? What did it accomplish? The bastards at the top are free and you’re dead. Doing it the right way doesn’t work, it never has.”
“Too bad you never think things through and plan accordingly. Case in point: you need gas and you’re in the middle of nowhere.”
The needle was indeed dancing in the red. Herman silently seethed, watching the signs along I-44. Besides the few travelers he saw and the highway, there were few indicators of civilization. After a tense few minutes a sign appeared indicating an exit where he could fuel up. With his eyes flicking between the gas gauge and the road, he eased the car onto the deceleration lane.
All that was visible was a dark expanse. There was no town, no businesses, no traffic. His unease increased when he neared the top of the exit and saw a sign indicating the direction and distance of gas station: 12 miles. He could risk the gas station being closed or get back on the interstate and pray. His train of thought was broken by headlights appearing in the mirror. Herman set off to rejoin the freeway only to be blocked by a traffic island, forcing him onto the secondary road.
Flustered, his foot came off the clutch and the car stalled. The vehicle that was behind him went around, narrowly missing Herman’s fender before continuing down the road.
“Forget how to operate this heap?”
“Jesus, you still here?”
“Hell, maybe I never was.”
Herman exhaled sharply through his nose, his head bobbing slowly, before firing the engine up again and setting off in the direction of the service station. Six uneventful miles passed with Herman’s eyes fixed on the fuel indicator when taillights drew his attention. A dark-colored SUV sat idling on the narrow shoulder, causing him to veer into the oncoming lane to avoid a collision. Checking his mirror, he eased back into the northbound lane and continued his course. Thirty-seconds later, the SUV pulled onto the roadway and began following Herman, maintaining a quarter-mile gap.
A scantily lit street welcomed him to a town whose name he didn’t know. Buildings, which were in various states of decay, lined his path. The dearth of activity raised his level of concern, each block he traveled burned precious fuel. A sign indicated that a gas station was three-tenths of a mile away. He dutifully followed, relieved when he saw the illuminated canopy and two islands of pumps. Herman brought his car to a stop alongside the pump nearest to the store, opening his door to the stale air of a dying town.
The smell of gas, oil, and desperation was matched in intensity by the glaring neon. Nauseating wasn’t the right word; the combination was an industrial-strength sanity eraser. He removed his wallet before noticing that the 80s-era pump had no card reader. Pulling his jacket closed, Herman crossed the blacktop and headed towards the store. He could hear arguing as he approached the door and would have skipped the stop if not for his dire situation. Opening the door, he briefly wondered if running dry in the middle of nowhere might not be a better option.
A man was leaning on the counter, ranting, his arms flailing. His shirt, once white, had long ago given itself over to stains ranging from sweat to urine. It was the kind of shirt that you could smell at a hundred paces. Spit was flying from his toothless maw as he painted the air with invectives. A little bell on the door jingled as Herman entered, negating the chance of a quiet transaction.
The crazed man’s eyes seized on Herman. “Shit.”
In the brief moment that the junkie’s attention was diverted, the clerk raised a shotgun from under the counter and pressed it against the man’s neck. “Get outta here, Bobby, or so help me God I’ll pepper your sorry ass.” The disheveled man shuffled past Herman and out the door, grumbling under his breath. Once outside, he faded into the shadows. “Sorry about that. What can I do ya for?”
“Coffee?”
The man nodded towards the far wall of the store. Herman made his way over, pleasantly surprised by the display considering the state of the place. He grabbed the largest cup he could find, filled it, and returned to the register. “I’ll take this, thirty bucks on that first pump, and two packs of Camels.” He paused, glancing at the door. “That a regular occurrence around here?”
“Bobby?” The man’s eyes were wide, his blood still brimming with adrenaline. “Town shithead. He’s harmless, just a beggar and an asshole. I called the fuzz as soon as I saw him outside. Say, you might wanna stick around in here until they get here. Forty-one forty-four.”
Herman handed over a fifty, his forehead creased. “But, you said he was harmless?”
The cashier simply locked on Herman with those wired eyes.
“Okay. Well, I’d best be off, I’ve got miles to cover. You keep that change and have just a wonderful evening. Best of luck with the whole Bobby situation.”
The clerk muttered something as Herman walked out in the direction of his car. He meditated on his thoughts as the pump ticked away the gallons, the chill eating through his jacket. Maybe the ghost was right. Maybe Walt was too. He was tired, worn down to a nub and dug into the dirt. He wasn’t a hard-edged fighter or a skilled assassin: he was a maladjusted hack, slowly sinking into the soft midsection of life.
To hell with it; I’ll go home and I’ll write. I’ll publish everything I’ve got, which, thanks to that little stop at Skywood, is substantial. Some of it will stick; some of it won’t, but that’s the way it goes. Hopefully I can persuade Rosewood to keep someone on the house, just in case. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there is a little piece of hope left in all this.
Only going home wasn’t an option. They had Amanda. Herman might not be able to save her but he couldn’t turn tail and run when she needed help. For the first time since leaving Virginia, he wondered her captor wanted to draw him in. He could understand them going after her since her father had set the company’s downfall in motion. That was easy. Why they would use her to lure him was another story.
The pump clicked off, dragging Herman out of his own mind. He scraped his palm across his cheek, reaching for his coffee and clutching only air. “The hell?” He looked from the roof of his car to the top of the pump and down to the curb. Cigarette butts, beer cans, and trash but no coffee. Inside the store, the clerk was sporting a derisive expression and pointing towards the counter. There, in all its glory, sat Herman’s coffee.
“Don’t suppose you want to bring that out here?” The clerk replied by cupping a hand around his ear. “What the hell am I doing?” Amused, Herman walked back towards the door. He had made it halfway when movement from his right caught his attention and stopped him in his tracks.
“Hey, man, got a few bucks?”
It was Bobby the meth head. Outstanding.
“Afraid not, spent the last of it on gas, smokes, and coffee.”
“What coffee?”
“Exactly.”
Herman took a half-step when Bobby stepped in front of him. “C’mon man, gimme something.”
“Nah, I’m good. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Listen, asshole, I see that fancy, foreign car. I know you’ve got something good. Make with it.”
He had pushed himself to within six inches of Herman’s face. A putrid mix of body odor, rotting teeth, and urine filled his nostrils. The aroma was equal parts nauseating and infuriating. He wore a smirk, exposing teeth which gave the impression that he had been chugging used motor oil.
“Okay, fuckface, let’s make something clear: I’m not giving you anything. Get the fuck out of my way so I can get my goddamned coffee. Best of luck scoring some meth or crack or whatever the fuck it is you’re a
fter.” He made another attempt to get around the man, wondering where in the hell the store clerk was. As he stepped forward, a foot wedged in between his own and sent him tumbling to the ground. A warm, wet fluid splattered on the back of his neck.
That son of a bitch spat on me.
He turned over, right leg poised to deliver a shot to the groin. Instead of a black-toothed grin, Herman saw Bobby clutching the ruins of his face. Everything on the left side below the eye was shredded; blood oozed between his fingers. He dropped to his knees, the last remnants of life pouring onto the asphalt. This acted as a curtain dropping, giving Herman full view of a black SUV parked at the curb some fifty feet back. The barrel of a rifle extended out of the rear window, moving ever so slowly down towards his position.
Herman rolled to his right, striking his elbow against the stoop as the door swung open. The clerk stepped out just as a bullet glanced off of the concrete. “Get back inside, you goon!” Herman contorted his body until he was around the corner, along the side where the now-deceased Bobby had been lurking in the shadows. He had worked his way onto his knees when a door was thrown open, striking him in the head. It was the clerk.
“Get the hell up.” Herman was trying to speak as the man hefted him up off of the ground.
“Where?”
The clerk, eyes wider than before, pointed up and whistled.
“Yeah, why not?” Herman followed him up a rusty ladder, impressed by the man’s speed. They reached the roof in time to see a police cruiser skid to a stop before its lone occupant emerged, gun drawn. “One cop?”
“Yeah, Reg. He’s got a rapport with Bobby, I suppose you could say. Deals with him all the time.” The man grunted, laying with his torso propped against a vent, shotgun aimed at the top of the ladder.
“Look, man, you have to warn him. You gotta get him out of here. He’s expecting a junkie, not a hit squad.”
“Shit, he’s a veteran.” He spoke with the misplaced confidence of a man who had never really seen much of anything. Despite seeing the town meth head get shot, he seemed to be treating everything like an episode of COPS.
“Yeah, and those guys are trained killers.”
“He can handle his own.”
“He’s walking into a slaughterhouse!”
The clerk clenched his teeth. “How ‘bout you shut the fuck up before you tip ‘em off to where we’re hiding?”
Herman knelt against edge of the roof as he watched the situation unfold. The cop called out, his head swiveling from the truck to the back of the store. There was movement from the backseat of the SUV and Herman’s imagination kicked into action. He envisioned the sniper lining the cop up, his head whipping back as a bloody mist filled the air. He needed to create a distraction, preferably one that wouldn’t get him killed.
As he turned to assess his options his knee struck a pile of empty beer bottles. After spending ten-seconds on deep contemplation, he grabbed one by its neck and hurled it towards the truck. Either by the hand of God or by blind luck, the timing was perfect. The officer rotated, taking a step to the side just as a shot was fired from the rifle. The bullet sparked off of the asphalt and into the brick wall of an abandoned building. The cop lunged back towards his car, taking cover behind the door as more shots came his way.
Three men emerged from the SUV, moving in unison towards the policeman. The driver remained in his position and, while the window was too dark to tell for sure, Herman was sure that the man was staring directly at him. He was so transfixed that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the clerk fired off two rounds. The aggressors turned in one smooth motion, facing the store and ignoring their erstwhile prey. The cop took advantage of the distraction, opening fire and reducing one of the thugs to a twitching heap.
The clerk, realizing the short range his shotgun provided, took aim at the driver’s window and pulled the trigger. The door opened, revealing a man in a bloodied suit who raised a pistol towards the roof before collapsing. By Herman’s math that was two out of four. He took advantage of the three-way firefight, scurrying down the ladder and bracing for a shot that didn’t come.
The rough surface of the brick wall tore at his coat as he inhaled and craned his neck around the corner. There were dancing shadows and muzzle flashes but no visible gunmen. He crept towards his car, casting a forlorn glance at the cup of coffee he had left on the counter. Once he had the engine started, Herman pulled to the stop sign and rolled the passenger-side window down.
“Hey, asshole!”
One of the men from the SUV turned and raised a pistol towards the car.
“Shit.” He came off the clutch, nearly stalling, before launching down the road that led back to the interstate. The car accelerated from sixty to seventy as he wondered just how in the hell they had found him. He slowed when he saw the three sets of approaching headlights—all belonging to Highway Patrol cruisers. As their taillights shrank into the night, Herman pulled onto the shoulder, gritting his teeth as the right side wheels bumped over the six inch drop.
Grabbing the handgun from his glovebox came instinctually; it was clear that safety was relative and not guaranteed. As he stepped out into the cool evening, he ran his hand underneath the bumpers and wheel wells until he found what he was looking for: a GPS tracker. “Son of a bitch.” Clutching the device tightly, he drew back and threw it into a field. The urge to shoot the damned thing arose and was beaten back, but only just.
With the warmth of the car’s cabin folding in on him, Herman glanced at the passenger seat—No Ray. With the fate of his friend playing on a loop in his mind, he squeezed and pulled the steering wheel until there was an audible crack. The anger had returned and with it rode a thirst for payback. These asshole had taken enough; their time in the sun was over. His chest heaving, he turned the rearview mirror, glaring into his own eyes.
Things were coming to a head and he had no intention of turning back.
If he was going to die, so be it.
The Stage
“Wake up, Sam.”
Wright opened his eyes to a light that cut through his clouded vision—as things came into focus, he saw that it was a dome light. Vibrations were coursing through his body. The smell of exhaust wafted through the air, mixing with hydrogen sulfide. He ran a hand up to his jaw, wincing as every nerve sprung to life at once. It was swollen and the sour taste of stale blood filled his mouth. “Where are we?”
Schultz leaned in wearing a sneer that chilled Sam. There was no humanity in his face, no remorse. He was out for blood and the look on his face said that he wouldn’t stop until he got it.
“Take a look.”
Sam cowered, trying to draw his feet in and make himself as small as possible. Angered, Schultz grabbed him by his coat and pulled Sam out with such ferocity that his head struck the roof of the SUV. Fresh bolts of pain shot through his injured jaw. “Greg, stop, you don’t have to do this.”
Schultz pulled him in until they were face to face. The sneer broke momentarily as he began to sniff. He pushed Sam to the side and looked back into the vehicle. “God damnit.” Turning back, he grabbed Sam by the back of the neck and squeezed, guiding his captive back inside and pressing his face into a wet spot on the carpet. “You pissed in my car, Sam. Sam, you pissed in my car. Why? Why would you do that?”
“I’m scared.”
The malice went out of Schultz’s face and Sam thought that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. “I’m sorry, Greg.”
“Eh, I don’t care, the damned thing isn’t long for this world. No worries.” He lit a cigarette and smacked Sam’s foot. “Get out.”
“Since when do you smoke?”
“Two hundred and seventeen days ago. That was one day after my wife and children burned to death. A month later, dental records confirmed it was them. By then, I already had a team in place. Hell, with the number of enemies QNI has made over the years, that was easy.”
“Look, I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“I nev
er liked cigarettes, thought they were disgusting. Funny thing is, when everything went down, I took right to it. Y’know, I’ve heard that for every cigarette you smoke you lose between seven to eleven minutes off of your life expectancy. You ever hear that, Sam?”
“Jesus Christ, did you hear what I said?”
Schultz took a long drag before flicking the rest away. “I did. I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t make any difference to me who was directly involved, I’m burning it all down.”
“What about you? What about everything you did?”
“Sam, I am in the midst of my atonement. Now, step out of the truck and into your tomb, Mr. Wright.”
Sam emerged into a large garage, squinting against the harsh lighting and trying to discern where he was.
“Don’t recognize your handiwork?” Schultz sniffed in an exaggerated manner, using his hands to direct air towards his face. “That is the Salton Sea. This is your new state of the art facility; built to appease your ego and destined to serve as your tombstone. Cigarette?”
Sam stepped forward, taking a smoke and leaning towards his captor. “There’s one thing you forgot.”
Schultz regarded him with a mix of antipathy and curiosity. “Pray tell?”
“You have a light?”
Schultz laughed, extending a lighter. “That was my great oversight?”
A smile touched Sam’s eyes as he lit the cigarette. “No.” He took a drag, exhaling through his nose. “You forgot to close the garage door.” With that, he twisted the lit end into Schultz’s eye and slammed a heel down on top of the reeling man’s foot. Sam followed by raising a knee into Schultz’s crotch before running out through the open door. The strong odor of sulphur clung to the saliva in his mouth and the mucous in his nose. His legs became wobbly as nausea began to overcome him.
Fighting his unsteady base, Sam made it as far as the perimeter fence and began feeling his way towards the gate. With each step came less control over his extremities; they weren’t simply not cooperating, they were actively working against him. He managed to press the button to open the gate and attempted to leave. More accurately, his brain told his legs to walk out. Instead, he turned around and began walking back towards the garage. He tried to resist but succeeded only in bringing on a headache and a nosebleed.