“Loud and clear,” I say.
“Loud and clear, that’s good.”
Logan’s head is still shaking no and he sniffs another couple of times. Something is off and I am starting to feel uncomfortable. It’s good to see he is so eager to help, but why does he have a gun tucked under his seat? Why is he so fidgety and high-strung?
“So Chuck, I have to ask, and forgive me if you take offense now, but are you queer?” He looks at me and nervously chews his lip.
Is this a baited question? Is he some queer-hating murderer? Well, who cares, what’s he gonna do, kill me? “No, I’m not a queer.”
“That’s too bad.” He rests his gun hand on my left leg and I am about to use my killing hand to remove it when he returns it to the steering wheel. “I’m queer as fuck. That’s why I stopped; for some action, you know? But don’t get me wrong, just because I prefer men don’t mean I can’t kick some child-snatching motherfucker’s head in. Don’t be nervous now, I’m going to get your son back.”
Crude, yes, but there is an honest gleam in his eyes and the vibe in the air evens out. “Thanks,” I say and he smiles as he shoves the gun back down under his seat.
“For safe keeping.” Logan continues to feel around under the seat and this time comes up with a thumb-sized vial filled with white-yellow powder. He extends it toward me and says, “Wings?”
“No thanks.”
He shrugs, “Don’t mind if I do.” And with one expert hand he has the vial uncapped and up his nose.
I don’t do drugs for fear they will get me sick or too high or whatever it is they do and I am glad I don’t because chances are this isn’t the first time Logan has shoved that vial up his nose. The idea of taking it and shoving it up my nose after it has been up his makes me cringe.
Logan sniffs and shakes his head and shouts, “Like a bat out of hell, my friend. I cannot wait!”
Me either. I am struck by a funny thought and I look down at my tight-fitting shirt. “It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”
“Say what?” Sniffle, sniff, sniff.
“The reason you thought I was queer.”
“Maybe. It’s a queer shirt if I ever seen one.”
“It’s Eddie’s, the boy, um my son’s mother’s shirt.”
“Your wife?”
“No.” I think about Eddie and go gloomy.
“You just keep positive. That minivan can’t do over a hundred, I guaran-fuckin’-tee it. Basic math says we’re bound to catch it. Where you from?”
“Walnut Creek.”
“Holy shit. The epicenter, man.”
“What?”
“The epidemic, man. That little city is up in arms. All these people started dying up there. The shit spread like wildfire and then it started popping up in San Fran. I’m getting as far away as I can from any major city. I’m gonna lay low somewhere in the Midwest. You must be getting away too? Hot shit, look at us, the only sane men in all of California. I was worried the roads were gonna be jammed in all directions. People are too fucking proud, man. When words like epidemic and virus start popping up, you can count me out. Where were you headed?”
“I was just taking Eddie to Vegas.”
“You’re taking your boy to Vegas?” His eyes go wide with disbelief.
I nod and stare out the window. No taillights for as far as the eye can see.
Logan shakes his head violently. “You don’t want to do that, man. If I were you, I’d stay out of any cities for a while. I’d stay away from large groups of people. This is probably some government shit. Chemical warfare or something most likely. You know about chemical warfare, man?” Sniff, sniffle, sniff, sniff.
I shake my head and Logan begins to tell me all about it. I pretend to listen and think about Eddie. He’s tough, what’s more, he’s smart. He’ll figure a way out. He’ll outsmart whoever has him. He’ll escape.
“…and there’s no escape. You hear that, Chuck? There is no escape.”
“There never is,” I mumble, unaware of what we are talking about.
“That’s right, there never is. You know why? Because they put it in the food! They hit us right where it hurts. They know what’s up. They know if they take out the food source, they take us…” and on and on and on, sniff, sniff, sniffle.
An hour and a head full of Logan’s speed-fueled conspiracy theories later, there’s still no minivan. We cruise the casino parking lots at the state line. Logan slumps down low in his seat and slits his eyes in spy mode. Searching, combing every inch of asphalt, we come up empty and then blow through the forty-minute drive to Vegas in just under twenty minutes. About ten miles shy of the city, Logan pulls off the freeway into a virtually deserted rest stop. A few dark cars litter the dark parking lot.
“You see that?” He gestures into the distance. A skyline of mountains glows, backlit by the brilliant illumination of the city beyond. “Vegas is just over that ridge. I can’t go down there. I was hopin’ we’d catch your boy by now, but the bastards must have gotten a bigger lead on us than I figured. Either that or they pulled off somewhere along the way. It fucking blows because I want to help you out, but I really can’t go down there, not now. My head feels mushy from the crank.” He digs under his seat and retrieves the gun. “With this, I would kick some major asshole-age. Down there in that crazed mess I won’t be able to keep it together. Paranoia, you know?” He looks around for emphasis.
“It’s okay,” I say and open the door.
“Hey!” Logan reaches past me, grabs my arm (your twenty-four hours starts now) and then pulls the door closed. “I’m not gonna fucking abandon you! Hell no. Shit, let’s double back and look real careful. Do you think they pulled off somewhere?”
“I don’t know.” And I really don’t. It’s getting late and I don’t see how I am going to find Eddie by dawn or ever. I don’t see how combing the dark, dark desert is going to yield results. Vegas is just as much of a long shot, but it makes more sense to keep moving forward.
Logan talks quietly. “I don’t want to choke your chain. We kept our eyes peeled the whole way here. As much as I want to believe backtracking will help, it probably won’t.” The volume returns. “But don’t fucking give up! Your boy is kicking the bastard’s teeth in and running. I know it. I bet you he’s down there, maybe at the police station or something. Shit, get out!”
“What?”
“Get out of the car!” Logan jumps out. I do the same and he motions for me to come around. “Get in!”
“What?”
“Take the car! Find your boy and put a hot fucking bullet in those bastards who took ’im.” Logan hands me the gun. I hesitate, but he shakes it at me and I grab it. “Cap those motherfuckers! Get in!”
I jump into the driver’s seat.
Logan holds the door and leans in a little. “I ain’t gonna lie to you, the gun and the car aren’t mine, they’re hotter than diarrhea, so it’s probably not the best idea to go rolling up to a police station. Just be careful and remember, whatever happens always have faith. Situations like yours really floor me, they really throw everything into perspective and make my stupid problems seem weak, but they also remind me that for every kid snatching fuckwad there’s a hundred decent folks like you and me. There are millions of us.” Sniff, sniff. He looks around nervously.
“Are you going to be all right out here?” I ask.
“Don’t trip, I’ll find my way, steal another car, whatever.” With a broad sweep of his arm he points to the public restroom that sits in the center of the rest stop and starts backing toward it. “Hell, I just might get a little action after all.” He grins.
I force out an awkward smile, wave, shut my door and glance in the rearview mirror. Dim lights flicker through the dirty windows that line the top of the restroom and I think I can see shadows twisting and twining, perversely welcoming Logan’s arrival.
A dirty shiver scales my spine and I feel a little nauseated. I start the car and pull away, perplexed by decent people and their odd pr
opensity for indecency.
* * *
The whole way into Vegas my eyes hunt desperately for minivans. No luck. Not even a few stomach-dropping could-have-beens.
Whatever happened to the minivan anyway?
Didn’t there used to be tons of them on the road?
Shouldn’t my eyes be bugging out of my head, filled to the optic brim with potential targets?
The ever-changing fad. Each one of us lives through these sick patterned bouts of alternating momentary contentment and vast unfulfillment. To think, mere hours ago I was excited. I was somewhat content and now I am lower than low. I am lost. I am futilely hunting a dead child. I am futilely tracking my friend.
I exit the freeway and get myself stuck in the bumper-to-bumper grindfest that is the Las Vegas Strip. There are people every which way, miles of creeping cars and sidewalk orgies of happy-headed consumers moving in huge shoulder-to-shoulder herds. I think cows. I think sheep. I think ants. I think this is one of the most disgusting displays of human ethos and need I have ever seen.
What are they doing?
And why do they want to be here crammed as tight as sardines?
My hand does an electric jig and the black rose eats the back of my brain. My vision tunnels and spins and I am no longer driving, I am in a pit, walls of flesh, eyes peering from hidden crevices, arms extending, flailing like cilia. I raise my hands high above my head and pray to nothing for an exit. The flesh walls rumble and shift and spit a small body at my feet. It’s Eddie. He is curled into the fetal position, head buried between his legs, covered in membranous slime and gooey death.
Dropping to my knees I hover over him. I want to touch him. I want to help him. Knowing better, I keep my hands at my sides and ball them into useless fists.
“Eddie?” I whisper.
Nothing.
“Eddie?” A little louder.
No movement.
“Eddie?” Louder.
Careful, I reach out, get my fingers around his small shoulder, and pull. His little body, light as a feather, rolls toward me. His little lips quiver and his eyelids flutter between fully open and completely closed. I pull my hand away lightning quick but it’s too late and a pillar of smoke pours from the hand-sized wound emblazoned into his shoulder. His mouth widens into a huge O, but no sound comes out. It doesn’t matter. The scream is more than evident, pounding and pulsing and heart bursting, within the confines of his glistening eyes. But it is only there for a second before those little genius eyeballs go yellow and shrivel. The cutest kid face in the world, even cuter than Gary Coleman’s at age five, follows suit, graying, then going raisin, then crumbling to chunky dust.
I scream. Out loud. Loudly.
In a flash of red I am back, wall of flesh to dream dust, and the insides of Logan’s Porsche, or whomever he stole it from, feels like a coffin. I gasp for air. The uber-traffic is at a complete standstill. Stuck. Buried. The seat, the steering wheel, the dashboard with expensive, glowing glitterati, entomb me, burn hell into my head and render the world an opaque mess. I pull on the too-chrome door latch, kick open the too-slick door and stumble out into the street. Immediately, an army of horns sound off—drunken catcalls, human idiocy.
“Fuck off!” I shout. “Fuck you, you motherfuckin’ motherfuckers!” (Thanks, Lump). Running full force, I put my hands out in front of me, splay my fingers wide and plunge like a demon into the bolstering sidewalk throng.
Chapter Eleven
Revolution
The surging sidewalk crowd regards me much the same way the standard “oh my, look, the poor freak is having a seizure” crowd: gawking, faux compassion and extreme distaste. There are variations of course. The deeper rungs of the throng barely notice, but the first wave, those moving along the curb, actually exhibit fright at my car-leaping charge. Their raised eyebrows and surprised mouths are kind of fun to watch. Here I am barreling at them full-speed and all they can do is recoil, draw into themselves and look absolutely horrified. This must be how a charging bull feels. It’s quite exhilarating.
Once they realize I am unarmed, probably just drunk and out of control, they relax and collectively fall into mental line with their entrenched peers. Keep moving, ignore, do all you can to avoid direct eye or bodily contact. Unfortunately, when dealing with a collective, some sort of direct contact is inevitable and as the happy-headed visitors of Las Vegas’ ever-crowded sidewalks try to shift and shuffle and allow a careening wild man like myself wide passage, many are touched and slammed and brushed. Eyes narrow, sneerers sneer, insults and barbs and a whole mess of Watch-it’s fill the seedy air. If only they could see the madness unfolding in my head. Their reactions would be a little more severe to say the least.
Each touch, each brush, each full-on slam, explodes waves of red in my mind’s eye. For a second I am out of body, out of mind, floating high above the Vegas strip. Here but not really here. The sidewalks flood, rivers of blood, and I can see myself plunging into the crowd. Each time my skin comes in contact with another’s, a little electric charge sparks. The spark then proceeds to jump from body to body. From my sky-bound vantage point the sparks are legion and the people-lined boulevards of Las Vegas, Nevada, are alight with the infected and dying. Each person I touch inadvertently, or purposefully, touches another person and that person touches yet another person and on and on. The tracing sparks light up the night sky and shine even brighter than the commercial glow of the Vegas pleasure domes. It’s a safe bet that by tomorrow at this time Vegas will be burning.
Back in the flesh, my brain a full-blooming black rose and my eyes whirling pools of nothing, I fall to the concrete and roll onto my back. The crowd keeps right on moving, unaware of their death sentences, disallowing themselves to be inconvenienced by the human writhing at their feet. A small group does stop, as they always do, and encircles me. They look down and whisper and shout things like “Call 911!” A few young men in their early twenties, too cool for school, snicker and laugh and purposefully spill beer from their 300 oz. ultra booze bomber promotional casino nightmare collector’s cup onto Eddie’s mom’s sweatpants. I squirm and they laugh even louder. My left hand twitches and the base of my skull hums like a vibrator.
Before I know it, my hand has wrapped itself around the ankle of one of the beer spillers and is beginning to burn through his athletic tube sock. He shouts and tries to kick free, but like with Lumpy the hand is locked. His friends join in, kicking me and shouting for me to let the fuck go, but I can’t and even if I could probably wouldn’t want to. Oh no, I am enjoying this far too much.
The crowd ruffles and murmurs and a few strong men jump into action. The hand has eaten away the sock fabric and has fused with the skin in a bubbling, seeping mess. The beer spiller goes rigid and starts a standing seizure. White light creeps out from between my closed fingers and my vice-locked palm. I am being beaten to a pulp at all angles, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not really here. My brain has opened like a cavernous sinkhole and I am falling. Always falling. But this time there are hundreds upon thousands falling with me.
Mr. Beer Spiller doubles over and his face goes gaunt. His eyeballs shrivel and blast forth twin arcs of mealy yellow fluid. Eddie’s mom’s sweatpants are doused for the second time this evening. With a little shudder and an audible death rattle, the man goes over and sprawls rigidly next to me. The beatings stop and I am let alone for a second as the crowd gathers around the dead man. I am catapulted out of my skull yet again and watch overhead as a wave of dead sparks erupt from the dead man and blanket the area for miles around.
Back inside, I picture the photos of the Walnut Creek crime scene and the five dead apart from Lumpy and Paunch. I think about Vegas alight with death. I think, This is going to be huge.
Sirens blare and lights flash and I jump to my feet. The crowd responds by gasping and struggling to keep away. I notice a huge number of sickly, sour expressions. About a third of them are doubled over in pain, waving off concerned loved ones. How long did it ta
ke the five at the Walnut Creek crime scene to die? Didn’t Annabelle say something like fifteen minutes? Didn’t Annabelle say something about Lumpy’s body storing death like a fatalistic battery, like a conduit of infection?
This city block is about to become a graveyard.
Cops yell coptalk nonsense through squad car speakers and I take that as my cue to run. Out of fear, the crowd parts and lets me pass, but not without a few shouts of stop him and he’s getting away and the like. I even hear the coptalk nonsense shout in metallized speaker speak for me to stop, but fuck all that, I’m getting while the getting is good.
Weaving in and out of the teeming Vegas swarms I have no trouble escaping and blending. A few miles up the strip, in front of the Bellagio, I ask an old bald guy for the time. “Two a.m.” He looks up from his watch and frowns my way. “Time for you to be getting home and cleaned up.”
I’m about to touch the rude old fuck or at least tell him to screw off when I realize he’s right. In Eddie’s mom’s clothing, bloodstained and beer stained and eyeball stained and filthy and sweaty and beyond grimy, I do need to get cleaned up.
“Thanks,” I tell him sincerely. He waves me off and waddles away shaking his frail, hairless head.
Eddie will be dead in something like four hours. I can’t give up on him, but I don’t know what to do or where to go. The cops are surely looking for me. Sirens blare continually as the city tries to make sense of what happened a few miles back. As long as the overexposed dying keep dropping every fifteen minutes or so, I should have a little time, but it won’t be long before they bring in some fresh cops who have at least twenty-four hours.
I spend the next hour carefully walking the streets, scanning for a suitable car to jack. At the Excalibur (I had to stop and check it out on account of T.H. White’s The Once and Future King) I kill another hour cleaning up in the bathroom and then looking around. The vibe in the air is a strange one. Word of the chaos erupting down the strip has obviously spread, but lucky for me the intensity of the bedlam is so great that there is an inability to establish order or garner information or form any ideas about what is going on. Readying to leave the casino, I notice a lone overcoat, black and lined with silky material, draped over the back of a slot machine chair. I look about and without really thinking I quickly snatch it up. The hairs rise on the back of my neck in suspect expectation and I go flush. Nothing.
I Will Rise Page 16