The Warden, Samuel Cain, scribbled notes on his daily work list when Andy entered the break room. He put a check by Andy’s name on the schedule and went back to adjusting the assignments.
The other five crew bosses were in various stages of their morning ritual—reading the paper, eating cereal, and shooting the bull around the coffee pot.
“Hey, fellers, got any fresh coffee?” Andy asked.
The party of three opened their ranks and allowed Andy to join the discussion.
“Sure, man, come get you some,” Larry said, as he stepped out of the way.
Jim picked up his story from where he left off, “Like I was saying, my brother-in-law comes to see me on the jobsite to collect on a bet. I took Yarshinka over Cummings in the tennis match—”
“I hate that we have to resort to bet on prissy-ass tennis matches. Give me the good old days where we could bet on football and horse racing,” Greg interrupted.
“Yeah, like I was saying, my brother-in-law came to collect his hundred bucks while we were repaving Camelot Subdivision. Now, he’s an EMT, and he always has some story about car crashes and scraping bodies off the side of the road, and hauling them to the hospital. He brags he has seen so much blood and guts that he has an iron system, and nothing can gross him out.
“So, I got to thinking, and when he came by, I asked him if he wanted to go double or nothing on a bet. Well, that man would bet on tails if you gave him two to one odds on a double-headed quarter. I bet him I could make him toss his cookies in less than a minute, double or nothing.
“He laughed in my face, and asked me if I was stupid or something. But he said he was willing to take more of my money, and we shook on it.
“Ol’ Nine-nine-six was shoveling up some asphalt that had leaked down into a ditch. I told him to go over in the yard and scoop up a pile of dog shit I spotted. Now, Nine-nine-six is about as bad as it gets on the intelligence level. Heck, he’s borderline incineration from month to month. Anyways, that dog shit was real fresh. Kinda had a green tint to it. I had Nine-nine-six scoop it up and bring it over by us.
“My brother-in-law says, ‘Dog shit? That’s supposed to make me hurl?’ And then laughs his ass off.
“I said, ‘Start your watch,’ and told Nine-nine-six to eat it.
“He grabbed a handful of that steaming pile of shit—some of it oozed between his fingers—and shoved it in his mouth.
“Well, ol’ iron system brother-in-law starts dry heaving and loses the color in his face. He was fighting back from puking like a mo-fo. After about thirty seconds though, he started pulling it back together.
“I didn’t have much time left. So I told Nine-nine-six to smile. Well, he opened his mouth wider than a horse licking peanut butter off its gums. Except Nine-nine-six showed a mouth of rotting teeth with dog shit smeared all over them.
“I had to jump back so brother-in-law wouldn’t up-chuck on my boots!”
Jim’s audience of three roared in laughter.
“I guess you could say it was his shit eatin’ grin that won yer bet,” Andy said.
The men gregariously howled once again.
“Gentleman,” Cain said. “Excuse me, gentleman. It’s getting to be about that time.”
The four men left their moment of mirth and joined the other two crew bosses over by Cain.
“Sherman and Edwards, back to Highway seventy-three extension. Calloway and Hooper, pot holes on Airline Boulevard. Fillmore and Wells, back to Interstate six ten.
“Okay, men, let’s get ’em up and move ’em out,” Cain said.
As Andy walked past, Cain placed a hand on his shoulder. “Andy, you’ll have a new addition to your crew today, to replace,” he flipped through his papers until he found the number, “Z-five-six-nine-three-four-two.”
“Yeah, ol’ George. I sure do miss George. He reminded me of George Burns. That’s why I called him George. If you stuck a cigar in his mouth, he looked just like him. I giggled every time I thought about it,” Andy said.
“Okay, moving along. You’ll have a very special member of the Non-Dead added to your crew. He’s the brother of Rick Poundstone, as in Congressman Rick Poundstone.”
“Congressman? Whoa,” Andy said.
“His name is Byron. He has completed his basic training and is ready for the workforce. I’m not telling you to treat him special. But I think it would be in your, and our, best interest to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. We wouldn’t want the Congressman to crawl up in our business over here.”
“I hear what you’re saying. Orders received loud and clear, sir,” Andy said, giving a salute.
“Knock it off, Andy. This one finished his training in record time. Keep him busy. They tell me he starts walking in circles if you don’t give him enough work to do.”
“Don’t you worry none. I’ll keep him busier than a one-legged man in a butt kickin’ contest,” Andy said, and then walked away.
*
Andy was two steps from the barrack’s door when morning reveille blasted over the intercom. Each day, promptly at 7 a.m., music woke the Non-Dead from their nightly slumber.
He entered the 20′x40′ room and turned on the overhead lights. “Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. Time to rise and shine—yer on the government’s dime. Work a little, work a lot, it all pays the same.” He began each morning with the same wakeup call, despite the fact there were no women at that Institution. The music too, was always the same, “Another Day” by the Beatles. Andy didn’t like the song. Andy didn’t like the Beatles. The Non-Dead performed best sticking to a routine.
Ten cots lined one side of the room and directly opposite mirrored another ten. The rest of the room was devoid of furniture.
The Non-Dead promptly rolled out of bed in all their naked glory and began removing the linens from their individual cots. Sub Z’s shed bits of dead skin during their sleep time, more so than members of the Living. Each would be responsible for making their bed before lights out at the end of the day.
Andy led his crew out the barracks over to the laundry room where each deposited the linens in a large bin. Then, they continued down the hall to the showers.
Once arriving, Andy turned the power on what was essentially a moving sidewalk. It ran the length of the room, between rows of showerheads to either side in the front, and past a series of blowers to the rear. In the morning, a mixture of ATP bathed the Non-Dead for the daily supply of life-giving nutrients. After a long day of work, the showers switched to a mixture of soap and water to scrub them clean.
Andy took a step onto the conveyer and rode it to the end where he pushed another button. “Okay, soup’s on! Fallllllll in!”
A green light flashed once by the shower’s entrance. The first Non-Dead stepped on the rubber mat, bringing him through an atomized spray of ATP solution. The green light flashed again, and the next followed. The sequence continued until each member had received a fine coating of ATP, followed by the gentle flow of warm air from the blowers.
Next Andy led them to the dressing room. Each donned the traditional dark-blue jumpsuit of the Sub Z labor force. Every front pocket contained a daily ration of rawhide sticks. Chewing, or gumming (depending on the health of the teeth), rawhide helped the Non-Dead keep their focus throughout the workday.
Andy waited outside by the bus with the checklist in hand. As each of his crew filed in, a mark went by his number, along with a welcoming by the nickname Andy had given him. “Let’s keep the line moving. Tater Tot, pick it up, boy, and get in. Booger, Chester, Brad Pitt, Abdul, Pie Face, Snake Eyes, Slim Jim, Butterbean, T-bone . . . .”
Byron Poundstone stepped up next in line. “Hold on a minute there, newbie. Hmmm, Byron . . . Byrooone . . . By-ron-i . . . Byroni . . . Byroni macaroni . . . .” None of the names he conjured grabbed his fancy.
Andy then toyed with Byron’s assigned ID number, Z222360. “Two two . . . Tu Tu . . . Too Tee . . . Tooty. Hey, I kinda like Tooty. From now on, big guy, when I call Tooty, that’s
you. You come a-running when I call for you.”
“Okay,” Byron said, and entered the bus.
With all the crew present and accounted for, Andy climbed onto the bus, and took the driver’ seat. In the first seat on the opposite side, Byron sat and stared out the window.
Andy shook his head and threw his hands in the air. “For the love of—what the heck are you doing in the front, boy? Didn’t they teach you in basic when you enter the bus you go to the next empty seat in the rear and sit yer ass down? I know they didn’t teach you to take the first seat you come to. I thought they told me you’s a smart one?”
“They let me sit in front sometimes when they took me places. I like to look out the front window,” Byron said.
“Well, that ain’t the way we do it here. And it ain’t the way I run the show.” Andy cranked the engine. Radio station 107 KREA filled the cab with a classic country hit. “Tell you what. You’re new, and we’s running late. Enjoy the view, ’cause yer ass will be in the back where it belongs for the ride home.”
Byron turned his head away from Andy, searching outside the window like he was looking to see something familiar.
As Andy drove out the Institution and down the highway, he noticed Byron tapping his foot to the beat of the song—something he had never seen a Sub Z do before.
Chapter 15
The rider pressed his chest against the gas tank of his motorcycle as he leaned into the curve. He traveled in excess of eighty miles an hour. Such speed would have been foolish if he had never traveled the route before. He knew the road so well he joked to himself that he could probably ride it with his eyes closed.
The cloak of night shrouded his escape from the pressures of daily life. The hunger for freedom had grown into a ravenous monster ready to devour any obstacle that dared to step in his way.
The weight of his responsibilities muddled his mind and pulled at his body, till sometimes he felt the urge to climb on his motorcycle, and ride without a destination in mind. He would keep riding and not stop until he was sure his life was too far away to ever catch up with him again.
He would never realize that dream. His purpose in life was too great for him to act so selfishly. His obligations were to God Himself. Though his spirit was willing, he was only a mortal man, and found that his flesh was weak. Tonight, he would reward himself for his self-denials. He needed inner release to give himself a boost of power that would be enough to tide him over the next week.
The time was close to midnight. The highway was a black void cutting through trees that stood on either side as dark sentinels guarding the road. Garland was a small town, one of the farthest from Dallas that still had electrical service. The available power fueled the cheap hotels, convenience stores, and bars. The area had evolved into a refuge for biker gangs, illegal aliens, or any drifter sort.
Garland operated under the law of the Old West: Every man armed, and every man knew pulling a gun to start trouble would aim several more guns back at him. The strategy proved successful, drawing the reprobates of society to Garland like flies to dead meat.
The State Police laid a heavy hand outside the town limits to ensure its disease didn’t spread. The residents understood to keep to themselves or risked rule by the boot of the law.
The glow from the business district in the distance grew larger. The handmade sign, ‘Welcome to Devil’s Bone,’ placed in front of the Garland welcoming sign, was nothing more than a blur as his engine screamed past. The rider let off the throttle to slow from his speed of one hundred ten miles an hour as his first stop sped into view.
The engine whined down in pitch as the rider steered into a dimly lit fuel and food store named Hit the Spot. He came to a stop in front of the bagged ice freezer, killed the engine, and flexed the stress from the long ride out of his arms and hands.
The smell of gas fumes, spoiled milk, and puke from the dumpster on the side of the building permeated the air as he lifted his visor. The gold plated Colt .45 rested in its pancake holster in the small of his back, ready for action.
The rider dismounted and walked toward the front door. Two underage boys sipping from twenty-four-ounce beers gave him a wary stare as he ambled by, still wearing his metallic red full-face helmet.
A blackish-red cockroach with its antenna curiously searching the surroundings perched on the door handle. The rider carefully maneuvered his right hand over by its front legs. After checking out the leather-clad bridge, the roach crawled onto the back of a finger.
The two teens curiously looked at one another. One wrinkled his nose.
The roach climbed across the hand, over each knuckle, until it rounded the little finger. The rider turned his palm upward and held the roach toward the teens. “What do you think I should name it?”
The teen who had wrinkled his nose, said, “Why?”
“I like to name my pets. Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t know. How can you tell?”
Pinching the roach gently between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted his helmet with his other hand, brought the roach up to his lips, and kissed it. “It’s a girl.” The rider stepped forward and shoved the roach toward the teen’s face. “Your turn. She likes you.”
Beer sloshed over his T-shirt as he jumped in retreat. “You crazy? Get that thing away.”
“How about you two pricks get the fuck out of here before I make you eat it?”
The two left in a slow trot down the oil and antifreeze stained parking lot, past a dim streetlight—occasionally glancing back along the way—until they were out of sight.
The rider reached in his pocket, pulled out a clear plastic container, and held it to the light. The roach trapped inside was dead. “Well, my new friend, looks like the previous tenant has seen better days.”
He opened the lid and emptied the dead insect to the ground, carefully scooped the live roach in the mouth of the container, and resealed the lid. “Welcome to your new home.”
A small Hispanic man worked behind the counter. His hand plunged underneath the counter as the rider entered the store.
A typical response, as people had a tendency to become unnerved when he didn’t remove his helmet.
He ignored the clerk and headed for the liquor shelf.
His fingers traced a row of bottles until it stopped on a half-pint of Jack Daniel’s. A weathered old man in an Army jacket heated food in a microwave and glowered at him when he picked up the whiskey.
The rider moved back to the store’s front and put the bottle on the counter. “This is it for me.”
The clerk’s hand remained hidden. He narrowed his stare as if waiting for a reason to pull out his weapon and start blasting.
The rider slowly moved his right hand to the front of his jacket and unzipped a pocket, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. After he placed the money down, he picked up the whiskey. “Keep the change.”
The awful smell hit his nostrils again as he exited the store. The parking lot was empty. He opened the bottle, with his back to the door, and lifted his helmet high enough to put it to his lips, poured it down, and felt its fire hit the back of his throat.
The aromatic-sweet, caramel color liquid instantly quenched his craving for alcohol. It had been a few days since his last drink. The bite of the spirits followed down to his stomach and back up his nose as he gulped the bitter medicine.
He gasped for air as he yanked the empty bottle from his lips, letting the helmet drop around his face again. The rider felt the warmth of the alcohol rise within, bringing more distance from the tribulations of life.
A trash can with an ashtray on top filled with smashed cigarette butts gave him a craving for a smoke, when he tossed the bottle into the opening on the side. Smoking would be too burdensome a task while trying to keep his identity hidden.
The rider reached in the ashtray and picked out a half-smoked cigarette. Lifting it to his nose, he breathed in long and deep. He called upon all his willpower not to lift his helmet an
d light it. The cigarette dropped back into the ashtray. A puff of gray dust rose when it hit.
The wanton lust to debase himself was nearly overwhelming. He fought the urge to get on his knees and lick the ashes. To taste their bitterness on his tongue. To breathe it into his lungs.
The rider broke the spell of his temptation and focused on the night’s mission.
He mounted his cycle and kicked the engine to life. His next destination was only a short distance down the road.
*
The rider pulled to the rear of the building where overhead the strip club’s sign shined brightly in white neon outlined in red. A neon blue chubby bear, wearing only a necktie, moved his legs in a dance while lifting the top of his hat. The Dancing Bare was the most popular club in Devil’s Bone.
The rider parked between a shiny new North American Motors luxury SUV and a dilapidated white Toyota Matrix made before The Dark Times. Muffled sounds of high-energy music from the 1980s emanated from the building as he trekked toward it.
He removed his gloves and entered using one of numerous keys from a ring attached to his belt. The volume of the music increased as he walked down the narrow hallway, past a number of closed doors, and finally to a plush office filled with large dark wooden furniture.
A topless, small-breasted girl barely over legal age—if that old—ran past him. He lowered his hand down to his crotch and bumped into her with the front of his body as she wrestled to unhook an earring.
“Hey,” the rider said.
She turned to him and exhaled an exaggerated huff.
“Tell Normie that Rex is here to see him.”
She rolled her eyes and moved to the side. Rex stepped into the office and raised the back of his hand to smell her musk.
*
Normie Cantrell sat on a stool with his back to the bar watching his talent perform on stage. A Churchill-sized cigar stuck in one side of his mouth while he blew smoke out the other. Two younger men on either side towered over him, arms folded—ready to stop any trouble before it began.
Resurrection X Page 9