Dead Mann Walking

26

The white-gravel blur beneath me turned to an asphalt blur. We were out on the street. Hit a few potholes, but by the time we reached the southbound highway, headed back to town, the ride smoothed out. Midday, the road was pretty empty, and Turgeon had a need for speed, passing whatever cars there were. If anyone spotted me, by the time they gave me a second glance, I’d be gone.

I’d seen the clinging-under-the-car thing in a couple of monster movies, the unsuspecting driver taking someone along for a ride. I’d always thought it was ridiculous, but the underbelly of the Humvee put more than a half foot between my ass and the road. It wasn’t too bad a ride. I’d been through worse on packed buses. As long as Baby-head didn’t drive off-road, or over a tall rock, I didn’t have much to worry about.

Or so I thought. The catalytic converter was warm when the ride started. After twenty minutes, it was oozing heat like a desert sun, the rest of the exhaust system happy to bake along with it. Once my suit dried, and it was drying fast, I could catch like a pile of leaves. Turgeon would see me then, all right, through his rearview mirror as I rolled along behind him, in flames.

I maneuvered around like a giant upside-down tarantula, desperate to find a cooler spot. Unable to find one, I headed to the passenger side, put the heel of my shoe on the running board, and found a handhold near the bottom of the rear door. I was exposed, wind whipping my hair and clothes, but at least I was in his blind spot.

The side mirror was lopsided, like he didn’t use it. It gave me a good view of myself. With the crap from the pool drying all over me, I looked like a half-full Hefty Cinch Sak caught on the car. I tilted my head, trying to get a peek at the driver. I had to twist into a funny position, but it worked.

There he was, watching the road like a good boy. His lips were moving. I figured he was on the phone, giving Green that activation code, and the names of whichever employees were stupid enough to betray him. But the minutes ticked by and he kept talking. I didn’t think he and Green had a close phone relationship, so that meant it was something else. Every sentence or two he glanced over at the passenger seat, like he was talking to a little person sitting there. I raised my head, angling for a better look.

The passenger seat was still out of view, but I spotted something in the back and didn’t like it at all. It was the duffel bag, the one from the warehouse, the one that looked stuffed with bowling balls. It was carefully strapped in with belts and shoulder straps.

And it was squirming.

My fears about what was inside thickened in the back of my throat. I looked again, hoping I’d see that the things inside were just settling, obeying gravity. But no, it looked more like they were jockeying for position. Trying to get comfortable.

I couldn’t think about that. Not now. The old electric syrup was already bubbling, tingling inside me. I blinked and looked ahead. Bad move. I realized that the shoulder strap for the passenger seat was down, wrapped around whatever Turgeon was chatting with.

Now I was freaking. Muscles twitching, dizzy, images flashing, the works.

I lowered myself so I couldn’t see anything. I tried to calm down, focus on the case. I thought about catching him, saving Nell. It’d work for a minute, then slip away. I had to distract myself, keep busy. How the fuck was I going to do that while clinging to a car doing seventy mph? There was nothing but the road and the mirror.

I had to take another look. I had to know. I peered inside. Turgeon was still talking, but now he looked unhappy, alternately hurt and annoyed. Then, steering with one hand, he leaned over and lifted what was on the passenger seat.

I knew what it was. Of course I did, but, God help me, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know a damn thing.

Not a little person. A head, nothing else, still living, still thinking. Just the head.

I thought about ducking, at least, or closing my eyes, but I didn’t move fast enough. As he twisted and held it toward the back, I saw it: the head, the fucking head, just the head, only the head.

I snapped my own head down. I closed my eyes, but still saw it. It’d been a fraction of a second, but that was all it took. The image had burned into me, clearer and more colorful than the cover of an old EC horror comic. He hadn’t used the chopper on this one; the neck was unevenly cut, victim of a sloppy ax job. There were thick veins hanging down like tendrils, flaps of gray flesh.

The face was older, old enough to be the psycho’s father. It may have been handsome once. It had a strong, angular structure, the jaw long and bony, the chin a jutting V. The lower lips were partly gone, tear marks in their place, leaving the clenched teeth visible, still whole. The eyes were open, the mouth moving.

I shivered like a kid under a blanket. Now I couldn’t even pretend the duffel bag wasn’t full of them, the souvenirs, the relics, the daddies. And Turgeon meant for me to be one of them.

The syrup bubbled, rolled, grew, pressed against my insides so hard it felt like my flesh would pop and tear. And then, though I could’ve held on until doomsday, I let go.

I bounced. I rolled. The pain was enough to keep me in my body, snap me out of it, but not completely. A car screeched as it swerved to avoid hitting me. A horn blared.

But Turgeon hadn’t seen. He was too busy with his friends.