The District Manager (28 page)

The interstate vanishes from view as we creep behind a vast connected train that sits on the main track. The headlights of passing cars are obscured by an endless line of graffiti-scarred boxcars. They are known only by their phasing hum.

It’s going to be impossible to find the one we’re looking for.

“Little goddamned vandals,” Rusty snipes, referring to the spray painted boxcars.

They have all kinds of strange sayings: ‘Troll Slayer’ and ‘Meat Pig.’ There’s a peace sign here, a pentagram there.

“You mean the graffiti?”

“Goddamned right. Fuckin’ vandals.”

“I think they’ve got serious talent. Misguided maybe, but talented.”

“Jesus,” he retorts, staring at me in disbelief.

Independent containers litter the yard along with every other kind of railcar imaginable: cars with automobiles atop, tankers, mineral carts.

Finding the one we’re searching for is not going to be easy: the one with Brenna, Will, and her mom.

We find ourselves in a maze.

Rusty pauses. After a few moments of looking, he turns around. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“You do?”

My phone vibrates from my back pocket.

Unknown#:
YOU ARE CLOSE. TAKE SHARP LEFT AT FRESH CAR. NO MARKINGS.

I show the cell screen to Rusty.

“Jesus, they’re watching us,” he whispers.

“How?”

He subtly points to what could be construed as a camera, which is high above us on one of the towering lamps. “Guess the railyard’s on the payroll too.”

“What should we do?”
I’m feeling sick.

“Keep going. We’ve come this far. Can’t turn back now.” He spins around on the gravel and begins methodically stalking forward with deliberation.

It appears: the boxcar with no markings. We take a left. A line of railcars sits in a bow on a curved track marked by a sign reading ‘F.’

“The flowered car!” I announce with muted bravado.

As we approach, the design comes into focus. It’s an old orange rusted car with pink and yellow flowers spray painted all over it— like a little girl did it.
Sick.

The door to the car is open. Only darkness is visible from where we stand in a sort of alleyway between the rail and the yard.

“Mr. Mason!” a voice echoes from within.

“Will?” I shout, confused.

Rusty hits my arm and shushes me with a stern index finger.

“Mr. Mason?” the voice repeats.

“Mason?” Brenna’s voice follows.

I break into a desperate charge towards the car. The voices repeat and repeat.

“It’s a trap!” Rusty shouts as I draw on the darkness inside the open door.

“Brenna! Will?” I plead into the metal echo chamber.

Rusty shines his flashlight into the void. The light reveals a small device sitting on the floor. “It’s a fuckin’ digital recorder, like something you’d get at Radio Shack! This is a trap! Let’s get the hell outta here…now, Mas…!”

Rusty hasn’t yet completed the second syllable of my Christian name when our ears are deafened by gunfire.

Rusty staggers.

I fire the .38 in what I think is the origin of the gunman. Rusty is grabbing his side. Grabbing his shirt, I drag him between two cars. ‘I’m gut shot, kid,” he says in clenched teethed agony. “Where the hell did that shot come from?” As the final word of his question bounces between the two metal cars, another slug strikes his shoulder.

“Whoa, where the fuck did that come from?” I ask, waving my revolver chaotically about.

“That was meant for you, Mason,” he answers, staring at the dark spot on his hand.

“What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Rusty!”

“Calm down…can you roll me under the car? Get under yerself.”

We’re both squashed under a rectangular box crate that sits atop a flatbed trailer. I squirm loose from my shirt. Rusty is panting in torment as I try to help patch the blood expanding from his middle. The gravel is like a bed of nails on my naked side.

“You see anything…any legs moving out from underneath this thing?” Rusty asks.

I roll from side to side the best I can. “Nothing. Not for lack of light, that’s for sure.”

“That’s why they led us here: hidden and well lit. What a fool I am,” he adds.

“You’re not a fool, Rusty. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

“That’s only because you’ve spent your life around educators and politicians, kid.”

There’s a silence that’s hard to describe. It’s not an awkward silence, but a friendly silence between two friends who share an inside joke. “Sorry, Mason…didn’t mean to call you ‘kid,’” he comments, weakly.

“It’s cool. I am a kid. You were right all along. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“You’re one of the good guys, Mason.”

“Well, this good guy doesn’t know what to do.”

A slight bustling is heard above us, just to our left. Something plops from the metal parts underneath the trailer. It’s a snake so fucking big it has to be a rat snake!

“Holy fuck!” I shout.

“What is it? Keep your voice down.”

“I think it’s a rat snake.”

“A rat snake? Those are aggressive,” he notifies me as the enormous snake coils and takes a swipe at my bare shoulder. But the teeth aren’t much and just barely break the skin. By now I’ve dealt with a lot worse. I bat the creature away with the nose of my .38.

A bullet breaks the tension as it ricochets off the bottom of the trailer and the concrete.

I roll onto my stomach and take a shot at the flying feet I spy. An, “uggh” is audible. I can make out a limping figure scurrying for the shadows.

“You git’em?” Rusty asks, his body is shaking.

“I think so.”

“Okay, Mason, it’s fourth and fifty, fifteen seconds on the clock, it’s now or never. I ain’t gonna make it, but you still can.”

“What are you saying?”

“I want you to pull me out from under here. Take off towards the Pontiac. I’ll unload my clip into all these goddamned lights. You just keep running!”

“No, I can’t leave you here, Rusty.”

“Now…” he’s interrupted by a fit of coughing. “Now…you sound like some bad movie, Mason. Sure you can leave me. I’m done, son. If I think I can make it I’ll give it a try—but don’t you wait for me. Here are the keys.”

“Rusty,” I plead as I scoop up the contents from his pocket.

“It’s been an honor fightin’ alongside ya, kid. You probably don’t want to hear this, but I think you’d make a damn good cop.”

A crunch of footsteps can be heard.

“Alright, time to move…let’s go!”

I have no choice.

Rusty jerks up just enough to start scooting forward. I push myself out from underneath the car with several powerful motions.

“Grab my ankles—pull me out—NOW!” he demands. Only half his body visible.

Rusty lifts up from his premature grave and starts firing above with tenacious rapidity.

I take off as he ordered, but not before I grab his checkered fedora from off the ground.

“Call Curlee, that’s an order!” he shouts into the violence.

Darkness claims section after section with each successive pop.

I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my life because I’m running
for
my life.

I turn back in one last expression of allegiance. I see nothing but the blank blur of the yard’s contents; the fence of cars on the fading track.

A hail of separate gunfire crackles like distant firecrackers.

Rusty has met his end.

I make it to the Pontiac. I’m jostling the car keys, trying to find the right one to open it. I hear something but then nothing.
I’ve got to get out of here!

I make it inside the car. The engine fires up like Grendel.

It’s October and I’m sweating profusely.

When I collapse back into the fine leather of the driver’s seat I feel a thousand stings jagged across my back. I switch on the above light and lift up from the seat. Behind me, I see splotches of sweat-diluted blood cry their way down the fine upholstery. I put the car in reverse, brake hard, and then abruptly into drive.

I have no idea where it is that I’m even going. Some miles down the road I pull into a Walmart. It’s late and the place is nearly empty. I’m not wearing a shirt and expect to be told to leave; forget the fact that my chest, stomach and back are covered with blood. I follow the restroom signs and they lead me to the back of the store.

The wasps in my stomach are starting to stake their claim again. I sit down on the toilet in one of the bathroom stalls and stare at the grey-flecked paint of the stall door. My stomach is in so many knots I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go the bathroom again.

I just sit and think…

I can’t believe Rusty is dead. He saved my life–again. I realize that I don’t really know anything about him. His wife’s name is Sally, I think. He never spoke of any children or anything like that… wait…I think he did mention a daughter. For all his dictatorialness he was really kind of a quiet man
…
didn’t talk about himself much at all. He hated texting and selfies, I know that much. I have his car, basically the coolest thing on wheels in these parts. He was so colorful…colorful in a way that people simply aren’t anymore. Like the coaches on the sidelines today, they all look like they stepped out of the same corporate mega-sports store—no personality. No Bums, Landrys, Royals, or Bears. Just the same thing over and over again. I guess he knew his time had come and gone.

I need to call Curlee…I know…but I need rest. I’m so tired. Brenna is probably dead. Did I get her killed?

I walk out of the stall. I splash water on my face and dampen some paper towels. I look like I’ve been attacked by a werewolf. I probably need to get some alcohol, not to drink but to spot my wounds with.
I think I’ll stick with the latter…or is it the former…I can’t think straight at this point.

I yank a cheap shirt off the rack and grab a six pack of beer. The checkout girls loiter about me as I use the automated checkout. But they don’t say anything even when they approve the purchase of the booze.

The night is cool and damp. The air feels good against my wounds. But I’m a little chilly in my half naked state and pull the t-shirt over my head. I don’t know where to go, but I need to sleep. I have to detune. I don’t think I can keep going.

I can go back to the ranch house, maybe the goons don’t know about it. But Rusty did. Probably not a good idea.

There’s the apartment. I can get my car back. I feel awkward in Rusty’s car. Keith won’t be there, so if anyone shows up to waste me it’ll just be me. If they show up at the ranch, then it’ll be weeks before they find the body. I think I’ll chance the apartment.

Now I understand fully how Rusty felt, living in secret. No wonder he rebelled. I feel sorry for his wife. She must really love him.

I woke up in my own bed both consoled and horrified. I had another dream about Ann. But this one was different from the others.

I was standing in a pecan orchard. Why? I have no idea. It was early fall and the leaves were changing. I felt a breeze on my face. Then Ann emerged—I think from behind one of the trees—or maybe she just appeared…I don’t know. In all my other dreams of her she appeared to me naked, but this time she was wearing a white flowing gown as she came and stood before me in her bare feet.

“Do you need shoes?” I asked, “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, Mason, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m setting you free.”

She pointed behind me and I turned in that direction.

An open gate… no fence…just an open gate.

When I turned back around, only her gown remained. It cascaded to the ground.

I went to touch it…

…it turns to medical gauze.

I shudder as I recall the dream. The clotted gashes that cover my torso reluctantly pull at my skin. Specs of blood dot the bed sheets. Droplets, too thick to tumble, appear on my chest and stomach.
I need to shower and patch up somehow.

I get up and drag myself into the bathroom. I step into the steaming shower. The water soothes my sore muscles, but causes my wounds to seep.

Miraculously, I find a roll of medical gauze and white tape in a drawer below the bathroom sink.
I don’t remember buying this stuff.
I did bring some medicinal supplies with me from the cabin.
I guess she’s still looking after me from the grave.
I patch myself up as best as I am able. I try to wrap my mid-section in gauze, which is difficult. I have the roll in one hand and struggle with the other to keep the wrap in place. I stop and stare at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. I don’t resemble the person I was before.

Regret, anxiety, remorse, and guilt flood over me. I have aged decades in just one year. Any wisdom I have found is only cause for sadness. I do not have time for reflection.