Highways to Hell

by Smith, Bryan

  Fuck that shit.

  New Ray stepped into a blow from an aluminum baseball bat. The end of the bat clipped the tip of his chin, caused him to stagger back into the shack.

  Rat followed him.

  “You’re a stupid fucker, Raymond.”

  Ray gave his head a hard shake.

  Focus.

  He back away from his slowly advancing adversary. The guy had surprised him, granted, and he was armed and relatively dangerous. Chalk up two minor points for the opposition. But Rat was still damaged goods. He had a weapon, but he didn’t have the strength to wield it effectively. The one blow he’d manage to deliver thus far had been no more painful than a bee sting.

  “I can’t believe how unutterably dumb you are, Raymond.” Blood was still seeping from the gash above Rat’s eye. “You didn’t think this through. You wanna off somebody, never make the mistake of acting on impulse. That’s the downfall of a lot of would-be killers.”

  “Yeah?”

  Keep him talking.

  “You’d know that shit if you read True Detective. You’d know not to let your emotions dictate your actions. You’ve already fucked up about a thousand different ways.”

  Rattlehead still loved to talk.

  Maybe for once he had something to say worth hearing.

  “How have I fucked up, Sloan?”

  Rat rolled his bleary eyes. “You’ve left a motherfucker of an evidence trail. There’s blood all over the front seat. Blood on the windshield. And that’s just the physical evidence. Think about all the people we met last night. We’re talking dozens of witnesses. There’s everybody back home—hell, I can think of at least a half dozen people who know we went to Nashville together.”

  Ray thought about it.

  A knot of tension formed in his gut.

  Christ!

  He had been so sure he was doing everything right. But there were so many things he hadn’t considered at all. He needed some kind of cover story. Some—

  Shit!

  Rat lunged at him

  Ray sidestepped the blow, snatched the bat away from Rat, and waited until his attacker turned around. This part of it went exactly as he’d envisioned it. The bat thumped the side of Rat’s head, and he fell to the ground.

  Rat was quiet again.

  Everything became clear again.

  Ray went back to the car, where he found the keys still lodged in the trunk lock. He put the bat in the trunk and replaced the keys in the ignition. Then he returned to the shack, got a good grip on Rat’s wrists, and dragged him back to the car. After successfully completing the heavy lifting part of the job, Ray started the car, put it in reverse, and allowed it to drift back to the foot of the pier.

  He had a simple plan—put the car in neutral, guide it to the end of the pier, and bail out at the last moment. Let the lake swallow the evidence. There was a good possibility it would eventually be discovered, but he should be able to concoct a believable cover story before that happened. There would be time enough to think that part of it through once this thing was done.

  So do it.

  He tapped the gas pedal, and the car began to crawl along the creaky pier. He moved the gearshift to neutral, grasped the door handle with one shaky hand, and listened to his heart slam as the Civic picked up speed.

  “This is brilliant, Raymond.” Rat was conscious again. “How’re you getting back?”

  Ray frowned.

  Goddammit.

  His hand hovered over the gearshift.

  The fuck is wrong with my brain today?

  Rat was giggling. “I’ll grant you this, Raymond, you’re reliable—just when I figured you can’t get any dumber, you go and prove me wrong. Never fails. Hell, you’re not even considering the motherload of bad karma you’re accumulating.”

  Karma?

  Ray scowled. “That’s hippie bullshit.”

  So he bailed out. He had been about to stop the car and attempt to come up with a new strategy, but Rat had opened his huge fucking mouth one time too many. The car hit the water nose first, sank a few feet, the tipped over onto its roof. Ray caught a glimpse of Rat through the sliver of window still visible above the waterline; he wasn’t trying to get out. Maybe he’d finally succumbed to the damage done by the blows he’d sustained.

  He hoped not.

  Rat should suffer some more.

  A lot more.

  Ray endured several terrifying minutes during which he became convinced the car wasn’t going to sink. The thing just bobbed along there like a child’s toy floating in a bathtub. Then a muffled thud was followed by the vehicle’s shockingly rapid submission. Air bubbles suddenly dotted the water’s murky surface.

  Had Rat kicked out a window?

  Ray groaned.

  Moron.

  That’s what Rat would say.

  Shoulda rolled down the window.

  He waited until the air bubbles disappeared, then he turned away from Rat’s final resting place and began to walk away. A sense of exhilaration pumped extra adrenaline into his system, made him giddy.

  I did it!

  So he had.

  But the thrill of accomplishment began to ebb almost immediately. There were too many things to think about now, too many potential complications he would have to recognize and confront. Unpleasant scenarios of apprehension and punishment assailed him. He imagined a prosecutor telling a jury about the thousand different ways he’d fucked up. By the time he reached the road, he was rehearsing what he would say when the appeals ran out and the prison chaplain asked him if he had any last words.

  Yeah, I did the world a goddamn favor.

  He’d walked a half mile due east without encountering a single soul when a Chevy pickup appeared in the distance. He smoothed back his dirty hair, stuck out a thumb, and hope he didn’t look like a psycho.

  The Chevy slowed as it neared him. A big redneck bubba was behind the wheel. Seated next to him was his identical twin. Well, they look like twins. Visions of Ned Beatty in Deliverance flashed through Ray’s mind.

  But they didn’t stop.

  Ray figured that was a good thing. They did, however, toss half-empty cans of Old Milwaukee at him.

  This was a bad thing.

  The front of his new shirt was soaked with cheap beer and redneck saliva.

  He didn’t know which was worse.

  Ray decided he was going to kill the poor fucker who eventually picked him up.

  What the hell?

  He saw things this way.

  Rat was right.

  He had done every goddamn thing completely fucking wrong, and he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away with it. And he knew of no good reason to stick around and face the consequences. There was a simple way out. Kill some schmuck, take his car, and head out to the highway. Change the plates, get a new look, and disappear somewhere. Maybe make a new life on the coast.

  Hell, he could do anything.

  He was so immersed in his fantasies that he wasn’t aware of the cruiser creeping up on him until it was too late. He froze when he saw the familiar blue and white markings.

  “Oh, shit.”

  A big cop built like a pro linebacker got out of the car, instructed Ray to assume the position, and drew his gun when Ray didn’t immediately obey.

  “ASSUME THE GODDAMN POSITION!”

  Ray leaned against the car, endured a maddeningly thorough frisk, and weighed the pros and cons of trying to kill an armed man built like a T-Rex.

  He decided against it.

  When the cop was satisfied Ray wasn’t packing, he put him in the back of the cruiser. Then he got behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and drove away.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  The cop chuckled.

  Ray tried to sound calm. “I don’t think this is standard police procedure. Aren’t you supposed to—”

  “Shut the fuck up.” The cop’s stern voice reminded Ray of his high school principal. “I don’t like jabberjaws.”

&
nbsp; Ray grunted.

  Neither do I.

  They rode in silence for a while. Then the cop made a left turn down a narrow gravel road. Ray knew the road—he’d made the same turn less than an hour ago.

  We’re going to the boat dock.

  Ray figured this was the part of the movie where the hero made his mad dash to freedom. Things looked grim, and it was up to Mel Stallone to save the freakin’ day.

  Ray reached for the door handle.

  One problem.

  There wasn’t a door handle.

  Ray groaned.

  Fuckin’ cop car.

  The cruiser came to a stop next to the former bait shop. The cop got out of the car, opened the rear door for Ray, and instructed him to get the hell out.

  Ray did as he was told.

  “W-why did you bring me here?”

  The cop grinned.

  Ray was sure some unseen witness—a meddlesome lurker in the nearby woods—had reported his crime to the cops. Why else would he have been brought here? Then again, maybe this had nothing to do with Rat’s murder.

  This prospect was somehow more frightening. The cop’s next words cranked his fear up yet another notch.

  “I get bored.”

  Then he unsheathed his nightstick, prodded Ray with it, and directed him toward the shack.

  “Get in there, bitch.”

  Ray trembled.

  Bitch?

  When they were inside the shack, the cop told him to walk to the center of the room, then turn around and get on his knees. Ray did as he was told. He had no choice, he could only hope he possessed the strength to endure whatever foul thing the cop had in mind.

  The cop grinned. “How do you like my pad?”

  “Ummm…”

  Maniac Cop laughed. “This is a dull damn job boy. I’d go crazy if I didn’t have my little home away from home.”

  “Ummm…”

  The cop unzipped his fly.

  Ray’s heart sank.

  He had been hoping for a beating.

  “I think you know the drill, boy.”

  Ray guessed he did.

  “You don’t wanna disappoint me.”

  Ray did his best.

  When it was over, the cop took him back outside. “We’re gonna walk down to the pier.” The nightstick poked his back. “You hear me?”

  Ray nodded.

  They kept going when they reached the pier. The cop kept poking him with the nightstick. Ray kept thinking about what Rat had said about accumulating bad karma. What a major goddamn understatement.

  This was a karma neutron bomb.

  The cop told him to stop when they reached the end of the pier. Ray supposed he would’ve kept on going if he hadn’t been told otherwise.

  Not that it mattered.

  Hell, the water almost looked inviting.

  The cop sheathed his nightstick, unholstered his gun, and said, “Any last words?”

  Ray thought about it. “Nah. Fuck it.”

  The cop shot him once in the back.

  It hurt like a son of a bitch.

  The blast propelled him off the pier, and he was momentarily airborne. Then the water was rushing to meet him, and he accepted the bracing cold slap of its embrace with equal degrees of fear and acceptance.

  He sank.

  He saw a lot of scary things on the way down.

  Body parts.

  Bones.

  Rattlehead.

  His old friend had almost managed to escape from the sinking car. His left foot was caught in the crumpled steering wheel. The rest of his body floated outside the ruined vehicle, arms outstretched, head lolling to the side, He looked like an underwater scarecrow.

  Ray saw these things too clearly.

  He shouldn’t be able to see at all down here.

  Then he understood.

  He was already dead.

  He studied his dead friend’s face more closely.

  The bastard was smiling crookedly, an all too familiar taunt. Welcome to hell, genius, the smile seemed to say. Guess you fucked up again. What a freakin’ surprise.

  Ray could hear the implied words echoing in his head, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Water that tasted like an odd mix of semen and cheap beer flooded his dead lungs. He dug his nails into his scalp, shredding dead flesh and releasing a steady stream of blood that drifted upward into the distant light. But the flesh began to heal almost instantly, and he knew this fevered attempt to free his tortured brain from its moorings was doomed.

  Like me, Ray thought.

  Doomed to taste cheap beer and cum forever. Doomed to never hear again anything but Rattlehead’s mocking words and strangely satisfied laughter. But a simple truth bothered Ray more than any of these tortures—even in death, even here in hell, nothing much has fucking changed.

  Except that Rat’s laughter was growing even louder.

  This is a dream. No question this horrid thing isn’t happening. Kyle Miller is aware of this on an intellectual level. But his dream life has achieved such an advanced state of lucidity that the gruesome imagery often seems more real than the world of his waking life.

  In the dream, he is in a stranger’s apartment. A skinny blonde girl in her early twenties is tied to the headboard of a king-sized bed. There’s a rag stuffed in her mouth and a strip of duct tape covers it.

  There is a knife in Kyle’s right hand.

  A big, gleaming knife with a nasty-sharp blade.

  The dream Kyle climbs onto the bed and begins the slow process of flaying every inch of flesh from the girl’s body. It is what he always does with his dream victims. There is no sexual component to this obsession. At least there is no bodily evidence of arousal.

  He does not rape his victims. Instead, the need that drives him to do these vile things is more esoteric.

  He needs to see what his victims look like without their flesh.

  Needs to bear witness to the truth beneath the flesh.

  When he thinks about this in his waking life, the idea strikes him as simultaneously repulsive and absurd. There is no great “truth” to be exposed by skinning innocent people alive. But the dream Kyle exists only to do this thing. He sees himself as a servant of truth. Flesh is a façade, a barrier to knowledge and understanding. When the flesh is gone, he learns.

  He grows stronger and more powerful.

  The exposed organs and sinew speak to him in a language only a being as uniquely informed as Kyle can interpret. He has become so skillful at extracting truth that his subjects are often still alive after the last strip of flesh has been peeled away.

  This is what he strives to achieve, anything else is failure.

  Kyle the observer, the real Kyle, suspects the dream Kyle’s ideal isn’t achievable in the real world. But in this dream, Kyle the seeker, the dream Kyle, observes the flayed girl’s inner workings until he senses her body is about to give up the fight. He gleans what knowledge he can from this observation. Then he uses the knife to free her still-beating heart from the chest cavity.

  The taste of it in his mouth is sublime.

  Then he wakes up.

  Kyle’s eyes snapped open, blinking at the early morning semi-gloom filling the room. The clock on his nightstand gave the time as 5:41 a.m., which was a little more than a quarter hour before the alarm was set to trigger him out of sleep.

  Carol, his wife of twelve years, slept soundly next to him. In a little over fifteen minutes, the alarm would snap her awake and she would lurch out of bed to go wake up the kids and start getting them ready for school.

  Kyle’s eyes misted with tears even as he smiled at the image. He loved them all dearly and would lay down his life for them without hesitation. They were everything to him. There were times when he wished something would happen to take him away from them, something beyond his control life like a heart attack or a freak auto accident. A suicide would negate much of the insurance, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving his family with less than what they deserved.r />
  Still, he wished he could die.

  For their sakes.

  He was a monster. His very existence endangered them.

  The murder dreams had plagued him for years, since the early part of his college career. Before he met Carol. And long before Joshua and little Angela had come along to brighten up his life. The dreams had become more frequent over the last several months, and he’d been having them nightly for weeks.

  The increased frequency of the dreams was bad enough, but the dreams were longer now, more vivid and more detailed. Feature films instead of short, grainy loops. The skinny blonde from the latest had seemed as real to him as his wife.

  He was spooked by the sudden conviction that the dream girl existed, that she was walking around somewhere out there in the flesh and blood world, just waiting for the day when Kyle Miller would shrug off his inhibitions and come to her in the night to slice away all that lovely, tanned skin.

  I’ve got to end this, he thought.

  Got to find a way out of this madness.

  But how?

  Death via some external means seemed the best option. It would eliminate him as a threat to both his family and society at large. If suicide was out as an option, he could pay someone to kill him. Have it done so it looked like the byproduct of a crime, a robbery gone wrong, something like that.

  He saw the potential complications immediately. For one thing, he had no idea how to go about setting something like that up. He didn’t know the sort of people who would kill a man for money. And the prospect of finding a suitably shady character to do the deed seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

  So strike another option.

  The next most obvious solution made his heart ache and filled him with dread. He glanced again at his wife. He knew she loved him and the children. She was happy. She had a home, a family, a husband with a job that afforded them a comfortable lifestyle.

  She would be devastated and mystified if he filed for divorce.

  So Kyle set that idea aside, too. For the moment. He would hold it in reserve as a last resort, an escape hatch he could utilize if his mental health took a dramatic turn for the worse—or if he ultimately failed to come up with a viable alternate solution.