~ * ~
"Sir?"
Tony felt a hand lightly jarring him. He looked up. An attractive woman--a flight attendant--stood over him. She had blond hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant smile white with teeth.
"I'm very sorry to wake you sir. We're circling Logan and I need you to fasten your seat belt."
Tony looked down, bleary eyed, still half asleep. He fastened his belt. The flight attendant thanked him and walked through the curtains to check on the other passengers.
He looked to the lavatory door, and like a bell, the pounding returned. He still had to go.
Then, he remembered.
Gremlins.
It had to be a dream. He sat up in his seat, at once agitated. Think, think, was it a dream? It had to be...
He unbuckled and rose from his seat, prepared to give in and use the lavatory when the door to the cockpit opened and the Captain emerged. He was white as a ghost. He forced a smile in Tony's direction, and rushed into the bathroom ahead of Tony, shutting the door behind. A click of the latch inside was heard, and the OCCUPIED light illuminated.
Tony had not smiled back. He instead diverted his gaze to the floor, to his shoes.
His bloody shoes.
Sweat poured forth from his brow in panic, and as if a metal fork were being scraped across a chalky blackboard, he cringed as he heard the muffled sound of vomiting emanating from behind the sterile white of the lavatory door.
Gila Way
The great demon known as Summer threatened to eat twenty-nine year old Jerry Smith alive. It held him tight in its grasp, simmered him to a virtual boil and gave no hint of letting go until he was fully cooked, both physically and mentally.
Jerry pressed harder on the gas, pushed ninety. Sweat streaked urgently down the sides of his face as if to keep pace with the speed of the car. Heart pounding, he pressed against the wheel, his grip vice-tight, muscles and teeth tensed as the beaten Nova roared like a great ancient monster, tearing down the highway, the wind whipping through its open windows as if trapped in the clutches of a heat-filled tornado.
He rocked his eyes back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror. Ahead I-15 intersected the sea of sand like a great black vein. Behind it vanished into a shimmering mirage that went seventy-three miles straight back to Vegas. He bit his chapped lips, watching carefully as the ghostly wave of heat shifted like a magician’s handkerchief, revealing nothing but sand, asphalt, and cacti. No sign of them, no sign of Tony and Vito.
Without a sprinkle of forewarning a torrent of sand swooped in and slashed the windshield like an angry swarm of locusts. Innumerable grains reflected the shimmer of absorbed sunlight floating on the glass surface, creating a giant burst of sharp luminescence. Jerry shuttered his eyes, painfully blinded.
THUD THUD.
The Nova’s shocks bounced. Panic seized him, heart pounding in his chest. He shrieked, slammed the brakes. The car skidded, tires screeching, burning rubber across the sweltering blacktop. He turned into the skid, doing his damnedness to regain control, but the car careened, shimmied as the steering wheel shook in his hands like a jackhammer. The stench of scorched rubber rose in the air as he finally opened his dazed eyes and glimpsed into the rearview mirror.
In the distance, a large, tire-mauled lizard rolled end over end down the road like a hot dog slipping from its bun, tumbling to a dead stop a hundred yards away.
The Nova’s tires found their grip and Jerry felt the tension at once begin to escape through his gasps. He eased the car to about thirty-five and remembered the ride to Vegas. There had been a bloodbath of Gila monsters, one at least every mile sprawled in an impossible position at roadside. He hadn’t thought at the time he would be donating his share.
He pressed back down on the gas.
The Nova’s engine sputtered.
He startled up, a painful lump forming in his throat. He pounded the gas, banged the wheel. Now is not a good time to start messing with me! The car tried to resuscitate itself, surged, slowed, surged, slowed, like a city bus in traffic, but refused returning to getaway velocity. There was a startling gun-shot bang! Steam seeped from the edges of the hood. The engine made a chortling sound as if amused at Jerry’s predicament, then exhaled one last wheeze before cutting out. Jerry Smith, almost lost in tears, sat stupefied, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as the Nova rolled another fifty yards to a dead stop.
He sat motionless, forehead pressed against the wheel, in instant denial that his precious steel baby just died like a dinosaur on the verge of extinction. He wrestled with the ignition, pleaded with it to start. It offered a couple of coughs, then went mute.
Immense frustration cut into his body. He leaped from the car, feeling homicidal, banging the roof, the trunk, the hood, gushing a barrage of obscenities that no one could hear.
Soon fatigue suppressed his tirade. He’d been awake for thirty-six hours, and up until a few minutes ago wanted nothing more than to find a dark hole to crawl into and hide from the rest of the world. Now, as the bloated sun stared down on him with poisonous eyes, he scanned the barren landscape, praying for a sign of life, a soul savior to rescue him from the infinite sea of sand.
He tried to swallow but the lump in his throat blocked his effort. The sun beat its maddened rays against his chest, hot sand blew in his face. He questioned whether he would see another day.
He squinted back down the highway, searching for an answer.
There was someone in the road a hundred yards away.
Dressed in tatters, the odd figure picked up the trodden lizard and held it to the sun-scorched sky, as if in prayer. The stranger glanced in Jerry’s direction then scuttled off the side of the road into the wind-whirled desert, cradling the dead lizard close.
Jerry yelled, waving his arms crazily, the gravel on the black asphalt gritting harshly under his sneakers as he jogged forward. The stranger took one last glance at him then vanished into the cloak of the mirage. Jerry stopped, kicked up a cloud of dust, his mind taken up with frustration. “Go on and make yourself a God-damned wallet, freak!”
He plodded back to the car, wondering if he’d been eclipsed with a supernatural something that brought on all his bad fortune. Three days ago, after months of thought and hankering desire, he left Louise in the middle of the night with all their money in tow--almost fifteen hundred dollars--trading in the Hell-bound trailer park in Steamboat for a few days in Vegas. Obsessed with wild fantasies of striking it rich, he became convinced of his game plan--blackjack first, then craps--and had tried to assure her that it was their only God-given chance to eliminate their problems and flee the park. All his efforts were in vain of course, caused countless arguments, heartache, and headaches, and resulted in his taking the trip alone.
...blackjack first, then craps...
He immediately hit the tables when he got there, fared pretty darn well to start, turning the fifteen hundred into four grand within the first three hours. He felt that if he could just keep the streak going he’d end up back in Steamboat with a hefty bundle.
But his cockiness and drunkenness did him in, and he frittered all but sixty eight bucks of it away in the next three hours.
Horribly depressed, he found a room at a dive on the edge of the strip called the Tree-Tree Inn. He was having a drink at the bar, wondering if sixty eight bucks was enough dough to drink himself to death, when a gentleman in an expensive suit and thick gold chain introduced himself as Tony and invited him to play a friendly game of poker in the back room. What have I got to lose...?
In two hours Jerry Smith built up a debt of nearly thirteen thousand.
Tony and his partner Vito both had their backs turned when Jerry made a break for it. He was three feet from the front door before the goons realized he was bailing, and by the time they made it out after him, Jerry successfully mingled with the tourists en route to his car, parked a half mile away by the Crazy Horse Lounge. He was immediately on I-15 breaking speed limits.
D
id I really see someone in the road, or was it an hallucination?
After an ineffective try with the car again, he got out, shielded his eyes and looked back down the road. The sun made Jerry feel soft: his brain felt like a hot water bottle, his insides all heavy and curdled. He continued gazing into the mirage, seeking his fate.
There were no answers. Only a smudge of gore from the roadkill.
If I really did see someone, then there’s gotta be a town nearby...
He prayed that there was, otherwise that great demon Summer would definitely eat Jerry Smith alive.
~ * ~
The sign came into sight a mile past where his car had turned to dust:
GILA WAY
One Mile
Secured to a rusted metal post, the rotting wood sign stood in solitude like a scarecrow left years behind to guard an abandoned field. Judging from its sad condition, Jerry feared the town of Gila Way would be similarly forsaken, a ghost town.
He grasped his temples, tried to suppress an approaching headache. His very survival was on the table now, a fifty-fifty shot in hand. If Gila Way no longer existed, then Jerry would lose the game of his life.
~ * ~
Tony and Vito raced along I-15 in Tony’s bright red Corvette at a cool ninety miles an hour. Red and yellow lights from the dash lit up Tony’s seething expression. The big Italian was sickened, his rage blooming like a dozen red roses. He wanted nothing more than to strangle the dirtbag Jerry from Steamboat who had him driving around the desert like some lost tourist. Who’d have thought the putz would have the balls to lam it on his way to the john? He glanced over at Vito, who was busy digging for gold in his nose.
“Hey Tony, ya really think dis guy was stoopid enough to take dis road?” Vito asked, examining a booger parked on the end of his finger. “There ain’t nothin’ out here.”
Like the inside of your skull... Tony reached into his blazer pocket, pulled out a grainy black and white video surveillance shot of Jerry at the poker table. Kid had a big smile on his face. It was probably taken before he lost all his money. He tossed the photo on the dashboard. “Only one way back to Steamboat.”
“Oh...” said Vito, flicking the booger to the floor.
Tony shook his head with disgust, put an Alice In Chains CD in, good and loud so he wouldn’t be able to hear Vito talking. When the Creator made Vito, he no doubt omitted his brains and directed all efforts towards the manufacture of his muscles.
Tony figured that when they eventually got a hold of Jerry from Steamboat, Vito would get to use them.
~ * ~
Like a sickened Clint Eastwood in The Unforgiven, Jerry stood at the edge of the town, all hunched over, his shadow stretched long and crooked by the setting sun.
It wasn’t much, but it was here, and he couldn’t be more thankful. It sat at the end of a dirt and gravel road that tapered a quarter mile off the highway. A battered sign, like the first, welcomed him: “Gila Way”.
The town appeared to be only one street that extended on for about a half mile, buildings running along each side like those in an Old West community, maybe two dozen in all. A few people gathered out in front of a saloon.
Jerry staggered to the first building on the right, a small weathered structure with a wrap-around porch and wooden steps that led to a rusty screened door, slightly ajar. Wooden posts that at one time must have supported guardrails encircled the porch, standing at various angles like the remaining teeth in the mouth of an old dying man. Like the door, the two front windows were also screened, allowing the arid desert air to flow freely through.
Alongside the steps a six foot painted statue of a lizard stood on its hind legs, arms outstretched, rows of teeth smiling wide. A sign hanging from its neck read: Gila Way Souvenir Shop. Come In, Were Open! Another smaller sign chained around the statue’s belly bragged: Gila drinks, Gila snacks!
He stepped up the creaky stairs, pulled open the screen door. It screeched like a lizard and Jerry was eerily reminded of his roadkill incident two miles back down the highway.
Inside, the shop could have passed for a lizard museum. If you could fit a picture of a lizard on it, then it was here. Key chains, mugs, pictures, postcards, tee-shirts, cluttered on tables and shelves. Pictures hung from the walls, mobiles from the ceiling. There was barely enough room for Jerry to walk to the counter where a man glanced up to greet him.
The man looked as though he had spent his whole life baking in the desert sun, stringy, bony, leather-skinned, thousands of lines adorning his face. His head was unnaturally wider at the top and thinner at the chin, and to Jerry he kind of looked like a lizard. He cradled a small gray lizard in his arms--about a foot long, nose to tail--and stroked it gently with his free hand. The lizard responded with a yawn.
“Looks like you could use something cold to drink.” His words were as dry and as gritty as the windblown sand scraping the rusted screens in the windows of the shop.
“More than ever.” The words practically stuck in his throat.
The man stopped petting the lizard, reached behind and opened a cooler. He pulled a bottle of Cola.
Jerry drank half the bottle in one breath; it was good and cold, and it made him feel better. Looking around, he asked, “What’s the scoop with all the lizards?” He picked up a plastic replica, gave it a once over and placed it back.
“Oh...not lizards. Gila monsters. This must be your first visit.” The man smiled wide and every aspect of his misshapened head and wrinkled face seemed to change, as though it were constructed of jelly.
Now why in God’s name would anyone want to come back? “Yes,” he said politely. “First time.”
“Well then welcome to Gila Way.”
Jerry smiled, walked around. “Aren’t Gila monsters poisonous?”
“Only if they bite’cha!” The man let out a laugh that was almost a hiss, then held his pet up and kissed it on the lips. “You wouldn’t bite me now, would ya’?”
Jerry chugged the rest of his soda, placed the bottle on the counter. The whole scenario seemed dreamlike, the merchant, his pet, all the lizard faces peering down at him from the plethora of trinkets. It made him feel...paranoid, panicky. He suddenly wanted to hightail it out of there but immediately told himself not to overreact. He simply needed some rest. “Is there a hotel?”
“Just down the road.” The man stopped stroking his lizard and pointed out the window behind the counter.
Jerry bought another cola and turned to leave.
“Ya might want to pick yisself up a souvenir...while you’re here that is,” the man added.
Jerry stopped, scanned the shop again. All the lizard faces spooked him. “I think I’ll get you on the way out.”
The man smiled. “Well, alrighty then. See you on the way out.”
Jerry forced a wave goodbye and went to find the hotel.
~ * ~
“Look at that,” Vito said, pointing a fat finger.
An abandoned car. Tony eased the Corvette to a stop and the two of them got out. Sweat dotted their foreheads as the desert rudely welcomed them from the car’s cool interior.
Tony knelt down at the Nova’s front bumper. Footprints headed forward alongside the highway.
“Looks like someone walked away,” Vito offered.
Brilliant, Einstein. Standing, Tony said, “There’s no way he could survive in this heat for too long.” He squinted, looked around. Lots of nothing. “Let’s drive.”
“Bring his thumbs back as souvenirs!” Vito yelled, giving Tony two thumbs up and a dumb, open-mouthed smile. He looked like a cross between Al Capone and the Fonz.
Tony closed his eyes, shook his head as they returned to the Corvette.
“Hey...” Vito said, pointing. “Look...” Tony turned. Squatting on top of Jerry’s abandoned Nova was a Gila, about three feet long, its tail draped down over the open driver’s side window. Tony grinned, plucked the .44 neatly hidden away in his pants.
One shot and the Gila was soup.
He blew on the barrel of the gun, tucked it away. “C’mon, it’s getting dark. Let’s go get him.”
They sped off, leaving the setting sun behind.
~ * ~
Night had assumed its identity over the desert. Darkness congealed into clouds that pressed in from the west and settled beneath the moon and stars like a blanket of cold stone, hiding Jerry’s elongated shadow as he walked down the sandy street.
When Jerry Smith was young, he would sit at the window of his room in his parent’s home, gazing at the night sky. The stars and moon, shining brightly in the night, would remind him that there was indeed another world beyond Caplowe, Colorado, a world where the possibilities were infinite and where a young man from a small mountain home might be anything he wished to be, especially if he had the commitment to pursue his dreams.
When he left home ten years ago for Los Angeles, he pursued his dream to be an actor, paid his way through all the auditions by working nights and weekends as a cashier in a supermarket. It was there he met Louise Parker, and fell in love. She was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, upbeat, sincere, had a natural gift for friendliness. Jerry’s pursuit in the acting field evaporated as his passionate quest for her grew, and by the time they started dating, it was a notion of the past.
They moved in together, stayed in a tired old flat for three years. The times were memorable, but were also demanding, and they quickly grew tired of the hustle and bustle lifestyle of Los Angeles. They both agreed that they were better suited for a quieter life in the mountains. They picked up and moved to Colorado, the dream to build a home and family as diamond-bright on their minds as the stars in the sky.
But their visions of a happy life together fell far short of standard. Louise started drinking, and Jerry’s unerring knack for failure followed him around from job to job. They had agreed to save what they could, at least enough to help them escape the trashy trailer park they ended up living in for six years, but Jerry was impatient, couldn’t wait, and woke up feeling lucky three days ago.
Demons, Freaks & Other Abnormalities Page 7