The old woman’s laugh echoed in his head. Had she slipped him something? She’d gotten spit in his mouth. Maybe it’d been laced?
He ran back to the room hoping the spiders and scorpions were gone. They were still crawling over his dirty underwear on the floor.
The old bitch had done something. For the next few hours he tried to figure out exactly what. He called George, but there was no answer and his voicemail was full. Vic paced as Becky’s eyes seemed to follow him around the room. Finally, he deleted her profile and videos.
Still, he felt her judging from somewhere.
He threw on his jeans and a shirt, and grabbed the gun under the sweaters in the closet. He got in his Porsche, drove to the alley across the street from where he’d dropped off Becky. It was dark except for the light in the girl’s house. He didn’t bother locking the car, the .357 tucked in his belt, the baggy shirt hiding it. He stopped in front of the white picket fence and stared at the snarling pit bull on the opposite side.
The old woman’s gravelly voice jolted Vic. She stood on the porch staring at him through dark cataract sunglasses. “You came,” she said, sounding pleased.
Vic realized he hadn’t thought about what to say. He felt silly and exposed out here on the street. “It doesn’t look like he likes me.”
“Oh, he will. At least the taste of you.”
The old woman loved seeing him squirm. But he couldn’t show his true emotions. He had to be smart. Diplomatic. If that didn’t work, there was always the gun.
“I need to see your granddaughter.”
“I have no granddaughter.”
“The young girl that works with you. She introduced us. That’s why you came over.”
“That’s not why I came over.”
“I want to apologize.” It actually felt good to say that, but the look of disgust on the old woman’s face made Vic want to shrivel up and disappear.
“You don’t even know her real name, but you suddenly feel the need to apologize. Why?”
The girl’s name came back to him. “Gabby, her name’s Gabby.”
“Gabrielle.”
“I already took her off my website. I destroyed the recording.”
“How thoughtful.” The old woman spat on the ground.
“I can pay you. She deserves that. Five grand?”
“That’s the filthy money you made off of all those poor girls. Using them like they were trash.”
“I didn’t use them. I gave them …”
“You lied to them.”
“I’m sorry if you think I … Can I please talk to her?”
The old woman shook her head. “She didn’t come down for breakfast one morning. I went to her room and saw the computer was on. There was a movie playing on the screen. I watched ten seconds of the filth and turned it off. I heard the water running. Gabrielle was in bathroom. The bath water was so red I couldn’t see her legs. She died as the sun came through the window.”
Vic placed his hand on the fence. He felt sick. The pit bull growled and leapt for his hand, snagging his knuckle. Vic jumped back. “I’m so sorry.”
“And you’ll remain sorry for the rest of your life.”
There was no reasoning with her. The pit bull rammed itself against the fence. The beast was going to break through.
Vic whipped out the gun as a black mist surrounded the woman. It flew at Vic, swirling around the gun until it pointed back at his own face. He felt his finger tensing. There was nothing he could do.
The old lady said, “There will be no end.” The gun fired.
Vic lifted his head from the piss-stained pillow in the abandoned house he’d been squatting in. It’d been a solid six hours since his last death, his seventy-sixth in a row. The taste of hydrochloric acid sat on his tongue as Vic slipped out of bed and headed straight for the recording equipment piled on the moving box. Vic played the footage from last night and turned on the small monitor.
On the screen, Vic moved around the dark room then fell asleep on the bed. He fast-forwarded a few minutes and slowed it to when he rose to check the oncoming dawn. When his recorded self turned to the door, no one else could be seen on the video, but his body was miraculously lifted into the air and slammed onto the bed.
There was no need to relive the experience. Vic turned everything off and headed into the bathroom. He grabbed the bottle of Listerine, filled his mouth, and gargled. He made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. He was only twenty-four, but the dark bags under his eyes were getting bigger and blacker every day. His full head of dark brown hair had gone bone white and started falling out. He’d considered dying it and getting Rogaine, but what was the point? A few more dawns like this, and it’d all be gone.
Maybe that was part of the curse. To end up looking like that damned woman. All he needed now were the liver spots.
Vic spat the mouthwash out and grabbed his toothbrush. If the Listerine couldn’t kill the taste of the acid, he doubted the toothpaste would help, but he gave it a shot. The sight of his emaciated arm moving back and forth made him break down and weep. He was falling apart.
He’d lost over fifty pounds since the curse. With his withered frame, he would never again seduce a female, but that was the last thing he wanted now. He just wanted this to end. How nice it would be to fall back to sleep like a normal person and wake with the sun pouring through the window. He used to sleep in every morning. Now he was lucky to get a couple hours of fitful rest each night.
Vic threw on his jeans, put on the blue tank top that used to showcase his biceps, but now only exposed his atrophied arms. Death did not exist. Not for him. Whether it was the doctor and his henchmen or by his own hand, the permanence of death couldn’t happen. He’d tried everything. Slitting his wrist. Jumping off skyscrapers. Bridges. He’d driven his car off a cliff and eaten more bullets than he could remember. Sleeping pills didn’t work either, always wearing off at first light.
Vic had fled west in an attempt to escape the dawn, but the bastards had followed and flooded his throat with a steady flow of viscous oil. They lit it on fire in Illinois. They forced razor blades through his trachea in Albuquerque. Then the doctor took a chainsaw to his chest in Wyoming. There were the Dobermans in Cheyenne. Being ripped apart by dogs had been the worst.
He’d lost everything within the first month: his house, his bank account, every one of his so-called friends after he shut down the website. He traveled the country seeking out the girls he’d betrayed. Some forgave him; most did not.
It didn’t matter where he was. Each dawn he died. Usually he was alone, but a few times there were spectators. He avoided crowded places because the doctor never left witnesses. Good Samaritans, thinking he was having a grand mal were torched and gutted. So Vic stayed in the darkness. He ate whatever scraps he found in dumpsters, drank his belly full of cheap wine, hoping to numb the pain, but the doctor would leech his blood until he was sober enough to feel the blade. Vic prayed for natural causes to eventually strip him of his strength, prayed the doctor would one day grow tired and find someone new, but each morning he’d rise and see that wretched sun.
This was his life and it would never end.
Wrong Side Tavern
Paulson logged off the computer and shut down the Amtrak’s controls, what Hank would’ve been doing if it hadn’t been for that damn van. The grisly accident outside San Diego had delayed his run by more than two hours. Overtime was always a pleasant addition to his engineer’s salary, but the long day had taken its toll on him and he was ready to get home.
Hank waited until all the passengers were gone before he stepped off the train. A few of his porters nodded their good nights and Hank headed for the escalator instead of the employee parking lot. His truck was in the shop, and he lived within walking distance of the station. It would’ve been easy to grab a cab, but Hank wasn’t in a hurry now that he was off the train. Plus, he could use the exercise and, with any luck, the midnight air would clear his mind. The wreck was stil
l heavy in his thoughts. The woman’s head poking through the windshield. It’d been the van’s fault. It had slammed right into her Camry, and knocked her car through the crossing gates. Hank couldn’t have stopped in time.
Hank looked up and down the block, not quite sure which way to go. He’d never used the pedestrian exit or actually walked home. The blinking yellow traffic light, barely visible through the fog, had to be First Street. All he had to do was cross the tracks, go left at the light, and then walk another six or seven blocks. He’d be home in half an hour.
Three teenagers wearing blue bandannas were hanging out at the corner. Hank didn’t know if he should nod, make eye contact, greet them, or just keep his eyes down. They kept staring at him, letting him know he had no business being out on their street. Hank opted for studying the sidewalk and the broken glass before turning left at the corner, his hard soles clicking on the concrete. His footfalls weren’t the only ones though. The teenagers’ footsteps echoed close behind him.
Hank walked a bit faster, fighting the temptation to turn around and ask why they were following him. Did he disrespect them by not looking at them, or was he simply an easy target? Why the hell hadn’t he called a cab?
They matched his speed. Hank crossed the deserted street, didn’t bother to look both ways. Two sets of footsteps crossed with him. The third thug stayed on the other side, walked directly across from Hank, who could see him out of the corner of his eye. Hank took both hands out of his pockets in case he had to defend himself and accelerated his stride. He flinched when one of the guys behind him cleared his throat.
“I just love this speed-walking shit. Great way to stay in shape, huh, Deuce?”
“Nah, Player, it just gets me all sweaty,” the other said in a deep voice. “And when I get sweaty, I get pissed.”
The intimidation tactic was working, but Hank wasn’t about to give up his wallet just yet. Despite his pounding chest and burning legs, Hank kept up the pace. He searched both sides of the street for any sign of life, tried to remember passing any gas stations or liquor stores whenever he drove through this rundown stretch of town. Whether it was his nerves or Deuce and his partner talking behind him, Hank couldn’t recall anything being open this late. The only lights ahead of him were traffic signals.
If Hank tried to run, he’d guarantee a beating, or maybe worse. He only had a hundred or so dollars in his wallet, which he would gladly part with if they would leave him alone, but now that’d he’d led them this far, Hank didn’t think they’d just walk away.
A small neon sign flickered up ahead. Wrong Side Tavern. Hank had never noticed it before. Below the sign was a flashing arrow pointing down the alley. Hank figured he could call a taxi or cops from inside the establishment, if he could make it to the entrance.
“Where you headed, white boy?” Deuce called. “You don’t want to head down there.”
Hank kept walking, prayed he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake and trapped himself in a dead end. Another glow was coming from halfway down the dark alley. Not caring what the thugs thought of him, Hank took off running toward the flashing neon.
The sound of his slapping shoes and thundering heart blocked out all other noise as Hank raced past dumpers and inky puddles. His lungs were on fire when he reached the entrance. Hank grabbed hold of the handle and yanked the door open. Much lighter than it looked, it flew open and out of his hand, banged against the wall. Hank caught the door on the rebound and slammed it shut behind him.
Gripping the handle, he braced for a tug-of-war, but no one tried to pull back. There weren’t any noises in the alley either. But people in the bar were talking, probably wondering what kind of drug he was tripping on.
Hank let go of the handle and headed for the counter, accidentally bumped a man on crutches. The man, missing a leg, continued toward the back of the dimly lit bar, mumbled something about Hank needing to watch where he was going.
Hank walked toward the bar, unable to remember ever being in a place so grim and depressing. Still, it was better than being mugged or even killed. He studied the empty tables with their dingy white tablecloths. The joint wasn’t dirty, but it had a bad feel to it, unlike any other dive bar he’d been inside. The patrons slouching in the booths that lined both walls weren’t here to watch a game or pick up chicks. Their dejected faces told him they came to this bar for one reason. To forget.
“Would you mind calling me a cab?” Hank asked the burly bartender with thick glasses. His right arm was missing just below the shoulder. Hank didn’t mean to flinch.
“That was quick. What is it?” The bartender sniffed at his armpit. “Do I offend?”
“Oh, no.” Hank looked to the grimy window, unable to see anything in the alley. “I just had one hell of a day.”
The bartender said he understood and picked up the phone. “One at the Wrong Side.” After a pause he thanked them and hung up. “They’re on the way. Care for a drink while you’re waiting?”
Although he’d promised himself he was done with that, at least on a work night, Hank said, “Why the hell not? Gimmie that stout.” He had a lot on his mind: the thugs outside, the paperwork he’d have to face in the following weeks, even though he couldn’t have avoided the wreck. If anyone in the bar deserved a drink, it was him.
Hank took a seat on a stool and noticed that a track ran the length of the counter. He pointed at the rails and asked, “So who’s on the wrong side, you or me?”
Only having one arm didn’t slow the bartender. He set the mug between two rail ties and sent it sliding to Hank. “I’m afraid it’s everyone who sets foot in this place.”
Hank raised his drink and took a long swig. “That’s not very uplifting.”
“Yeah, but it is a catchy name, don’t you think?”
Hank nodded and took another drink. He tried to sound nonchalant when he asked, “Is there a back door to this place? Maybe somewhere else the cab can pick me up?”
“Nope, there’s no back door.” He motioned toward the entrance with his stump. “That’s the only way in or out. Why you ask?”
“I’d hate for the cabbie not to find this place.”
“No worries. They’ll come down the alley right up to the door.” The man scratched his stubbly black beard and studied Hank, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Let me guess. Someone follow you?”
“Yeah.”
“Three black guys?”
“How’d you know?”
“If they keep scaring people into here, I’m gonna have to start tipping them. You’re lucky though. I’ve heard about a couple of people who didn’t make it in here. I won’t say it was them for sure, but it wasn’t pretty, and Deuce is known to be good with his blade.”
Hank tried not to look at the stump. “They ever mess with you?”
“No one ever messes with us. That’s why we like this place. It’s almost like we don’t exist.”
Hank looked around the sparsely populated bar. “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t part of running a bar wanting people to come in? You know, attract more business?”
“The thing is that ever since my accident, money hasn’t meant a thing to me.”
“That must be nice.” Hank finished his beer and checked his watch. “Did they happen to say how long it would be?”
“They always say twenty minutes.”
“Are they ever on time?”
“Might as well make yourself comfortable. Looks like you could use another drink.”
Hank set his empty glass between the rails and slid it toward the bartender. It tipped over and shattered against the tie. “Ah, shit, I’m sorry,” Hank said. The already quiet bar was now completely silent. He tried to help pick up the large pieces of glass, but the bartender waved him off.
“Don’t sweat it.” The bartender held up a fresh mug and asked, “Another one?”
Hank nodded and the man filled the mug, set it between the rail ties and slid it across the counter. Hank picked up his drink. “You make
it look easy. I didn’t think I threw it that hard.”
The bartender leaned forward and whispered, “Glass gotta be full.”
Hank emptied his second round in three healthy gulps and handed it back. “Maybe one more.”
The bartender poured another glass. “Hell of a day, huh?”
“Hell of a year is more like it.”
“Work?”
Hank nodded, tried to block the images from earlier in the day.
The bartender slid the mug over. “Whatcha do?”
“I’m an engineer.”
“What kind? Mechanical?”
“Actually, I’m a train operator.”
“Dude, it was a joke. Take a look around.” He pointed out the railroad signs plastered on the walls, the crossing signal next to the bathrooms, the various train paintings hanging from thick iron spikes jammed into the walls. “I know what an engineer is.”
“Sorry, my head’s somewhere else.” Hank took another drink.
The bartender told him not to worry about it and then excused himself to serve the wino in a wool hat at the far end of the bar. Hank looked at the large painting above the shelves of booze. He shuddered and set down his drink, afraid he might drop it.
What kind of sick bastard would think the depiction of a train derailment was appropriate to display anywhere, especially in a place like this. Body parts scattered on the ground, some lying underneath the overturned engine car. Hank closed his eyes to block it out, but the death and destruction from the painting evoked images of today’s accident, swirled together in a crimson collage.
It didn’t matter if the thugs were outside waiting for him. Hank slid off his stool, threw a twenty on the counter, and turned for the door. A beautiful brunette sat at the nearest table, her bright red blouse and matching beret a sharp contrast to the white tablecloth.
Hank turned back to the bar, scooped up his money, and downed the rest of his beer. When the bartender returned, Hank asked who the woman was.
Twisted Reunion Page 2