by Jay Nichols
* * *
"THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS GONNA GET IT!!!
Hector slammed on the brakes and held his breath while his gut swallowed up the steering wheel.
With the Jeep at a standstill, he looked around to get his bearings. Surrounding him were the black sawtooth outlines of trees, and in front of him a stretch of paved road vanishing. Believe it or not, this was a good thing. It meant he hadn’t strayed too far from civilization.
"Where am I?"
This was the second time he’d asked himself that question. The first time, he had learned the answer by backtracking until coming to a street sign. But even then it hadn’t been a street he’d recognized. For all he knew, he was in Montgomery. So he had driven further ahead until the dirt path he was on spat him onto an I-65 feeder road, which took him back to Main Street. Turned out he had been in Riley all along.
This time, however, he was pretty sure he was in Greenville. He had blacked out during the drive over. Sometimes he did that when enraged, or drunk. The fact that he had no memory of driving there didn’t disprove the clues staring him right in his face.
One thing’s for sure: I ain’t drunk. I haven’t even touched the bottle in that bag yet.
His throat was raw from screaming. He had no idea how long he had been doing it, but if he had to guess, he’d probably say ever since seeing Russell’s cowardly little headlights in front of Mike’s house.
"I HATE YOU RUSTY!! OWWWWW!!!!"
Hector swallowed, but it did nothing to alleviate the agony. He played with the idea of taking a swig of Beam, but he knew better than that. Whisky would only make it worse. What he really needed was water.
Okay. No more screaming.
He shifted the Wrangler’s gears and drove in reverse until he reached the end of the tree-lined street. The sign at the corner was green instead of the usual blue and said Pollard Ave.
See. I knew I was in Greenville.
Then, turning and cruising another empty street, Hector took the time to wonder where everybody could be.
Are they asleep? It can’t be that late. When I left for Mike’s house, it was nine thirty-five. What time is it now?
He looked at the Wrangler’s clock, but it was obviously wrong.
It ain’t no twelve oh five. No way.
Hector entered downtown Greenville, coming up quickly on Keller’s General Store. The lights inside were off, but Hansel’s wire discount bin was still visible through the display window. The street lamps provided enough illumination for Hector to notice a board game pressed against the side of the bin and the handlebars from a kid’s bike jutting over the top like rabbit ears.
One time Rusty found a bag of baby teeth in that stupid bin. He bought it too! Crazy bastard.
Then the store was gone.
Hector drove Greenville’s version of Main Street until it spurred and melded with Highway 71. He ran the stop sign and veered right. He had business to attend to in Riley, and while his visit to Greenville had been a nice—though unexpected—detour, it was time to get back home.
Rusty had teeth that needed knocking out. And Mike…
Mike’s gonna get it even worse.
Back on dark, lonely Highway 71, Hector punched the gas until the red needle touched 98. He forwent the worry of hitting other cars. Traffic was rare on the road during the day, let alone at 12:23 in the morning.
It ain’t no twelve twenty-three. The clock is busted, or not set, or whatever. It’s impossible because I left my house at nine thirty-five. I remember.
But it felt like it could be 12:23 in the morning, and since Hector had lost all sense of time upon blacking out (from rage, not alcohol), he didn’t think he should be examining too closely what he clearly didn’t have a firm grip on. All he knew for certain was that the air possessed the damp, sweet smell of a late summer early morning. He could peg that scent anywhere, being the pro that he was at staying up to those wee, silent hours of the night. Usually, though, he filtered those odors through a sieve of booze-addled synapses, thus dampening their ripeness.
[It’s a very ripe season.]
Hector stomped on the brake pedal for what seemed the billionth time that night and skidded across the two lane highway.
When the vehicle came to a stop, he craned his neck around to search for the asshole who had spoken in his ear.
No one was there.
Terror crept into his guts, squeezing them in a vice grip.
Oh no…Hector thought. Not you again…
All at once, the singsong chorus shook his head:
[CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES!!!]
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Hector screamed until his voice cracked. Then, banging his head repeatedly against the headrest: "STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP!!"
But the choir didn’t heed his command.
"I don’t have rabies. I’m getting shots," he said, pushing his hands against the sides of his head, making his skull flex. "Go away. Please."
The choir shifted up an octave, then another, and another, all the time increasing in volume, until their chant squealed like an airplane’s engine, or a dentist’s drill. Added together, the whine of their innumerable voices slowly bored a single filamentous hole through the center of Hector’s skull, into his brain. He felt all of the slow, tortuous pierce, and when something cold and metal began sliding into the aperture, he convulsed and shrieked and spat aerosolized spittle against the windshield.
What are you doing to me?!! What is that thing?!!
[CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES…]
Stop it!!! Please God!!! Make it stop!!!
The voices fell silent, and the anguish in his head lifted away. The next sounds he heard were the chirps of crickets followed by the low, faraway hoot of an owl. He opened his eyes and tentatively looked around.
He was still in the Jeep, and it was still nighttime. But now, pressed against the windows like undercooked spaghetti, were the waxy stalks of overgrown summer grass.
"How the—“
He broke off, his throat pleading for relief from the abuse of speech. The rest of the question he asked in his mind.
—hell did I get here?
He had no idea, but he knew where "here" was.
I’m in that same field, aren’t I?
Crickets.
But how did I get here? Last thing I remember was stopping for some reason, but I stopped on the road. I know I did. But what the hell was I doing on Highway 71 in the first place. Shit, I must be going crazy.
[You are crazy.]
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
[And you’re going to die if you don’t listen to me.]
Hector screamed some more, but eventually he stopped.
Then he listened.