Gods and Monsters: Unclean Spirits (20 page)

She should be back at the hospital. With her son. Everything that happened has been a delusion. Alison is sure of that, now. She’s suffered a... what’s it called? A psychotic break. A couple days where she and reality are broken apart like a boat drifting away from the dock, but now she’s feeling like it’s time to drop anchor, throw rope, go back to shore.

What was she thinking? Out here on this crazy trip. Following the words of... some tiny little madman? Probably some homeless guy, wandering in off the street. Spins for her a tale and shoves an address in her hand...

She pulls the address out again. Just to see if it’s real.

It’s real. The paper slip crinkled. The edges sharp enough to cut.

The address: 5456 E. Atlas. Russell, Kansas. No zipcode.

The GPS knew where to take her. Twenty-some hour trip west.

Until the car died. Until the part was back-ordered. Until here: the motel. Or hotel. Or whatever it is that marks the difference between the two.

She picks up the remote control, thinks to turn it on, doesn’t. Tosses it back on the pillow, where it kicks up dust. Wonderful. Another good reason not to sleep.

“I need a cigarette,” she says to nobody.

Hasn’t smoked since before Barney was born.

Hasn’t been away from Barney since then, either.

Her heart twists in her chest like a fish on the line.

C
IGARETTE MACHINE.
S
HE
didn’t even know they still had those, but they do, at least here at the Red Roof Inn just outside Dayton, Ohio. She puts her money in—
so
much money, smoking is more expensive now than ever—and a pack of Parliaments drops into the tray with a clunk and a bang.

She taps the pack against the heel of her hand.

Pulls a cigarette out with trembling fingers.

In between her lips. The taste—old, familiar, shameful, wonderful.

She pats her pockets, an old habit that will now go unfulfilled.

Lighter. She doesn’t have a lighter.

Hasn’t carried a lighter in years.

Crap crap crap.

And it’s again that the seawall that protects her crumbles down and she thinks to turn around, sit on the curb, and cry. Because she’s spent up. Run ragged.
E for Empty
.

But then a hand taps her gently on the shoulder.

She turns, and finds that the hand is holding a Zippo lighter.

And the hand is attached to a tall, lanky man. Dusky skinned. Latino, maybe, or Native American. Long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail. Nose like a falcon’s beak.

The thumb strikes a flame.

Hesitantly, Alison lets him light the cigarette. Her lungs fill with nicotine. Smoothest poison on the planet. It brings a sudden bloom of clarity as the stress retreats once more out to sea.

“You look like you needed that,” he says. Mouth a flat line, but eyes smiling.

“I did. I do.” Again, her manners. “Thank you.”

“A pleasure. You traveling?”

“No. Well. Yes, in the sense that we’re all traveling. But right now... stuck here.”

“We all get stuck sometimes.”

“I guess. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating.”

He leans back against a post. Pulls out his own smoke—a small cigarillo. Swisher Sweets, cherry-tip. Fire at the end, a plume of pungent, scented smoke as he takes it in, puffs it out. Watching her like a fox the whole time.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

She thinks,
where I was headed and where I am headed aren’t necessarily the same thing.
And so her answer is: “Home. Pennsylvania. Philly-area.”

“Thought you might’ve been heading West.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Why?”

“You just have that look. The West has power the East does not. It has a... gravity. That’s why men and women have been compelled to go that direction. They begin in the East and move to the West. You can see it in the sun—the way it’s pulled across the sky, born in the East, dragged to the West, until it slides behind the horizon and”—he blows a trio of smoke rings—“then it’s gone. Light to dark. Life and death. East to West. You looked like someone making that trip.”

She takes another drag. Then a step back. The little hairs on her arms and neck tingle and stand. “Thanks for the light. I better be going.”

“To Philadelphia.”

“To my room. I’m stuck.”

“You don’t have to be stuck.”

She takes another step backward.

Just as he takes a step forward.

“I don’t... know...”

He pulls a key fob from his shirt pocket, jangles the keys. “I’ve a horse to ride just over there.” She doesn’t know what he means—a horse?—but then she sees a cherry-red Mustang at the end of the row. “If you’re up for the trip.”

“I don’t know you.”

“What does that matter? I don’t know you either. Nobody knows anybody.” He laughs around the little cigar. “We barely even know ourselves.”

“I have things in my room.”

“You have your purse here.”

“I have luggage.”

“Luggage is just baggage. I say we get rid of all baggage.”

Another drag. Each puff keeping her from freaking out and bolting like a spooked nag. “I have maps.”

“We don’t need maps. I know where we’re going.”

She swallows. “Do you?”

“We’re going to Kansas.”

That’s it. Done. No way. She hears herself gasp, and before he can say anything else, she’s turning tail, flicking the cigarette to the ground, and hurrying away. Back toward the lobby entrance, hand fishing around her pocket for the room key—

The doors ahead of her open. Double doors. Automatic.

And the man with the cigarillo steps out of them.

He was behind her.

Now he’s ahead of her.

Again he dangles the keys.

“Last chance. I’m told you need a ride.”

She folds her arms in a defensive posture. Feeling suddenly cold, too.

He continues: “Life is a series of choices, Alison. We don’t change our lives by making safe choices; we change our lives by making the crazy choices. By taking risks. By throwing ourselves off cliffs. Learn to love the fall. Fall with me. Drive with me. To Kansas. If not for you, then for your son.”

His hand jerks. The keys fling toward her and she catches them in her cupped hands—her palms sting from the hit.

Again he tilts his head toward the parking lot. “I’ll let you drive. Let’s go.”

Alison makes her choice.

Her teeth bite the inside of her cheek as she follows after the man, wreathed in serpents of cherry-touched cigar smoke.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Circle Of Beasts

C
ASON BLEEDS.
H
E
had to duck a swipe from the lion-head in the Cannibal Corpse t-shirt, and as he did, a lobster claw snipped the skin at his elbow, and now blood runs down to his wrist, his hand, his fingers.

Supergirl shrieks—the raucous caw of a crow whose meal was interrupted—and he hears a flutter of feathers and then she’s in front of him. Mouth open—toothless, gums hard like a beak, and she snaps at the air in front of him—

And then it’s on. Cason reacts. His head whips forward, connects with her nose, feels a crunch that isn’t altogether human, like the feel of a beach shell under a bare foot—she squawks, blood squirting in twin streams, arms pinwheeling as she backs away. It’s a dirty move, the headbutt. Would never fly in the octagon.

But this isn’t that.

Nobody sanctioned this fight; and it’s seven on one, a fight Cason can’t win. His only goal here is to break a hole in the seven and to run.

If that means fighting dirty, then so be it.

Shorn Scalp rakes the air with his raptor claws, but Cason sidesteps it, brings a knee up into baldie’s gut, then fishhooks his mouth with a hard finger and drags him along like a whipped puppy. Just as Blaze-Orange comes at Cason with the clacking lobster hands, he whips Shorn Scalp at him—the two bowl into one another and hit the ground.

A snort in his ear—

Op Ivy is there. A kick to Cason’s knee. He takes it—it’s a shitty kick, kid doesn’t know how to fight. Cason jams the sole of his boot into Op Ivy’s own leg, and the kid howls in guttural rage—but before the tusked freak can drop, Cason has a fistful of the kid’s hair (another no-no in the ring) and brings his head up just in time to catch a swing of Cannibal Corpse’s rebar.

Op Ivy’s tusks shatter. His mouth is blood. Cason throws him away like an empty food wrapper—

Cannibal Corpse cares little for his pal; he steps over Op Ivy’s writhing frame and swings the rebar again. And again. Each time, Cason steps just out of range.

He smells the lion’s breath. Rank. Like hot, raw meat.

Then—

Hands from behind.

The sound of an insect’s mouth chittering.

The scent of raw meat, not from the front now, but from behind.

Shirtless and Hello Kitty.

They grab under his arms, hold him tight as lion-head raises the rebar like it’s fucking Excalibur—

Cason stomps a foot. Not sure who’s, but fuck it, doesn’t matter—then he twists, gets under someone, lifts someone across his shoulders just as the rebar cracks down across that someone’s back. Turns out, it’s Shirtless—his mandibles part and sing a wretched insect song, the screams of cicadas in a forest fire, the hum of a thousand locust wings descending on this dark earth—

The sound gets into his head. Drilling deep. He flips Shirtless, drops him—

He stands, staggers back—

The tiger’s maw snaps the air behind him. He jerks—

Lurches forward—

Catches the rebar across the shoulder—

Then the back—

Cason falls, chin hitting the earth. Teeth biting his tongue. Greasy copper on his mouth, lips wet with his own blood. Hands find him, flip him over like he’s nothing. Shirtless the Bug-Man pins him. Mouth-parts twitching with excitement—

Lobster claws get under Bug-Man’s skinny arms, throw him aside—

Here comes Blaze-Orange—kid cackling, eyes bright with a flash nothing short of total psychosis. Cason throws a punch, but the kid tilts left, lets it miss him, uses his claw to capture the wrist—

Cason feels the serrated edge bite flesh. Feels it start to close. The pain is white hot, an electric bolt running to the tips of his fingers and down to his elbows—

He screams—

But then Lobster Boy is gone. Thrown aside.

A roar parts the air.

Cannibal Corpse replaces him. Standing, not pinning.

He pokes Cason hard in the breastbone with the rebar.

“You’re not gonna see the Storm Lord,” he growls. “Like Gandalf said in that movie:
You Shall Not Pass
.”

All the freaks chuckle. Start quoting lines from the movie.

Hello Kitty, her tiger’s growl: “Fat hobbit.”

Shorn Scalp: “One does not simply walk into Mordor.”

Op Ivy, through broken teeth and shattered mouth: “
Preshussss
.”

Then they start kicking him. And beating him with fists. A fist knocks the air out of him, a boot connects with his head, the rebar against his leg—

T
HE PANIC OF
a beat-down, revealed:

The body on full-alert. The pain of the assault. The senses light up like a paparazzi parade watching the celebrity du jour doing the walk of shame—the anguished darkness cut by constant flashbulbs, pop, pop, pop. Everything is fear and trauma, mind and body a squirrel with its back broken. Wants to stand, run, flee, fly, but the only option is to lay there and take it, because the body doesn’t move fast enough, the body isn’t strong enough, the attackers are too many.

Soon the pain becomes dull—the edge of the blade chipped and rounded as it hacks away, as dull as the roar of rain hammering on the factory roof, and it isn’t long before the body starts to shut down. Disconnect from it all. The mind retreating deeper inside the shell as the shell is destroyed, conscious thoughts fleeing like rats pouring off a sinking ship.

Eventually the trauma is complete. The mind hides. The body is just meat.

But that’s not what happens to Cason Cole.

Just as the mind starts to pull away—as the fists rain down, as the kicks get harder and faster—the darkness inside him blooms with a curtain of red fire. He hears the crackle of brush, the thunder of earth beneath crushing hooves. He feels a pair of searing charcoal briquettes at his brow and his heart comes alive, screaming like the primate house at the Philadelphia Zoo—the smell of the forest fills him, his mind a maze, his body a weapon.

On his hands and knees—