Succubi

“Bust his fuckin’ haid!” the blonde screamed.

Duke laughed out loud. “These two pansies? They couldn’t fight their way out of kindergarten class. During naptime.”

Flag shirt rushed.

Duke was pretty good with his technique—it was almost magic. In a split second the bag of Twinkies and Ho Ho’s fell, and Duke’s hand was filled with the big Webley revolver.

The three rednecks froze.

“Wah wah we don’t want no trouble, man,” Smurf shirt stammered.

“Yeah, man,” offered Flag shirt. “We was just funnin’.”

No no no no no, Erik thought.

“Funnin’,” Duke iterated. “Well, I’m just funnin’ too. How’s this for some fun?”

Duke shot Flag shirt square in the head, which instantaneously burst. The report concussed like a cannon shot. Brain pulp slopped on the Qwik Stop window, besmirching a sign: “Briardale Cola! Six for $1.69!”

The girl broke. She’d managed to flee all of about a yard and a half when the second round went off. The Webley’s rudely large .455 slug caught her at the base of the spine, picked her up, and dropped her. Without the support of intact vertebrae, she lay on the pavement, folded in half.

Duke seemed pleased by the effect. “Poor sweet thang,” he mocked in southern drawl. “Looks lak she done blowed her last egg suck dog, shore ’nough, huh, Jim Bob buddy ol’ boy?”

Smurf shirt shivered, splaying his hands. “Look, man, I got money an’ all. Nice truck there too. Take it. Just don’t kill me.”

“Well, that’s mighty generous of you,” Duke responded. “Answer me a question first, okay?”

“Sure, man.”

“Do you have balls?”

Smurf shirt looked cruxed. “Huh?”

“Do you have balls?” Duke repeated more slowly.

“Well, yeah…shore.”

Duke fired the Webley into the guy’s crotch. “Not anymore!” he celebrated. Smurf-shirt collapsed, bellowing and clutching his groin, which now gushed blood quite liberally. Duke laughed all the way back into the store. The clerk was picking up the phone. “Shag my balls!” came the familiar prefix. Another round went off. The clerk’s head exploded.

“Damn if I ain’t good!” he railed when he came back outside. “You see that shot!” he said to Erik. But Erik lowered his head to the wheel, lamenting. Duke fired another round into Smurf-shirt’s head, to finish him off. Then he did the moon walk, guffawing, over to the blonde, who still twitched folded in half. He shot her in the face.

“Goddamn it, Duke!” Erik yelled out the window. “You said you wouldn’t kill anybody this time!”

“I didn’t,” Duke defended himself. “I didn’t kill anybody. I killed everybody!” Then he threw back his head and laughed.

Erik’s hands felt clammy on the shotgun. It felt hot in his lap. Duke took his time extracting the wallets from the pockets of jeans which now clothed dead men. Then he picked up the bag and came back to the van.

“Relax,” he said. “No one left to tell the tale.” But then he opened the passenger door. His gaze locked down on the shotgun, which Erik raised to chest level.

“Why, you cocksucking fairy faggot turncoat motherf—”

Ba BAM!

The 12 gauge spray socked into Duke’s chest. The massive muzzle flash lit the van like lightning. Duke flew back and landed flat on his back. Erik racked another round and fired again into Duke’s torso. Then again, and again.

“Sorry, Duke,” he muttered.

Then he drove off and headed down the dark road.

Erik was a fairly intelligent person. He was also more observant than most. Tonight, though, his vigilance slipped. Earlier he’d noted that the box they’d taken from the Luntville police car contained road flares, ammunition, and sundry supplies. It had also contained a Second Chance brand bulletproof vest.

Erik didn’t notice that the vest was now missing.

—

Chapter 13

The sign blazed tackily in blue neon: Crossroads. The writer in Martin mused over the name’s allegorical possibilities. Dust eddied up from the wood floor’s seams; the door creaked closed behind him. Yes, here was a real “slice of life” sort of bar: a dump. Its frowziness—its rough wood slat walls, old linoleum floor, and wear worn pool table—its overall vacuus spiritum—piqued him. This was not exactly the bar at the Hyatt Regency.

But a beer would go good now, as long as it was a decent beer.

Martin walked up. Only three other patrons graced these eloquent confines, roughened working class types, dusty from a day in the fields. No women could be found. An ancient black-and white TV sported a ball game with the sound low. Martin was glad to see that the Yankees were showing the Orioles it was a long way back to Baltimore.

He waited at the bar. No one seemed to notice him. An inveterate beer snob, he doubted that the Crossroads stocked anything more refined than Carling. The giant barkeep was ignoring him, sipping a mug of draft as he watched the game.

“Excuse me,” Martin interjected.

The keep frowned, and without taking his eyes off the game, said, “You want somethin’?”

An odd reply. “Well, yeah. I’d like a beer.”

“No beer tonight,” the keep replied. “Just blew the last keg.”

Talk about the bum’s rush, Martin thought. “What’s that you and those guys are drinking? Kickapoo Joy Juice?”

“Yeah, home. That’s what it is.”

“Fine. I’ll take one.”

“Sorry. Just ran out of that too.”

Just leave, Martin thought. That would be the wise thing to do. But when he wanted a beer, he wanted a beer. Why were these guys giving him the business? “What is this? I gotta dress black tie to get served in this pit?”

Now the keep looked at him. He set down his beer and came over.

The three other guys at the bar stood up.

“Listen, home, and listen good. You want trouble, you’ll get more’n you can handle.”

“I don’t want trouble,” Martin groaned. “I just want a beer.”

“We don’t serve to outsiders here. If ya don’t live in Lockwood, ya don’t drink at the ’Roads.”

“This has been one pleasant visit,” Martin said. “You guys want to kick my ass because I walk into a bar and order a beer. If I want to fill my car at the gas station, they gonna kick my ass too?”

The keep gave him a high look. “You’re visiting Lockwood, huh? And just who might you be visiting?”

“The Slaviks,” Martin began, but then he thought, To hell with it. He got up to leave.

“Hold up there, buddy,” one of the guys at the bar said.

And the keep: “You’re that writer fella. Gonna marry Ann, Josh and Kath Slavik’s girl.”

“That’s right,” Martin told him. “How the hell do you know—”

“Come on back, home,” the keep invited. “Just that we’ve had some trouble with outsiders. This here’s Wally Bitner, Bill Eberhart, and Dave Kromer.”

Martin didn’t quite know how to gauge this sudden change of attitude. What the hell’s going on? “I’m Martin—”

“Martin White, that right?” Dave Kromer said.