Empire Of Salt (9 page)

The head made a hollow squishing sound, and blood oozed out of the left ear as the bowl rolled to a stop in front of the stove, none the worse for wear. The dog suddenly stopped barking.

Abigail took a step back.

And was glad she did, for the man lunged forward, hands encircling the spot where her legs had just been. She let out a little scream, terror blossoming inside her.

The creature on the floor, for it was no longer human to her, gazed at her through unholy yellow eyes. Saliva that reminded her of the frothy green pollution lining the edge of the sea fell from its lips and down its chin.

She lifted the broken broom handle. Its sharp, broken end could easily pierce those eyes. Then it began wheezing louder, the sound coming faster and faster, until the sound filled the trailer. It lunged forward, pulling itself farther into the house.

Abigail lost all sense of courage. She turned and ran to the back of the trailer. Thank god Trudie was close behind because if she hadn't come, Abigail was doubtful she'd have gone back for her precious poodle.

She hit the door to her bedroom, running as fast as her legs could carry her. It slammed open, then shut. It was on a spring hinge and more substantial than the rest of the trailer. Her Roger - before he'd died, God rest his soul - had spent a small fortune disaster-proofing the bedroom. Not in case of hurricane, tornado, earthquake, or anything like that; Roger's greatest fear had been illegal aliens surging across the Mexican Border. So he'd built a room lined with metal, a door made of steel, and put enough weapons inside of it to obliterate Kansas.

Just as Abigail snapped the lock into place she heard a wrenching sound followed by an explosion of wood. Then the wheezing came toward the bedroom like a muffled freight train, accompanied by the pounding of the creature's feet.

It hit the door with a clang and began to beat upon it.

Abigail found a 45 caliber pistol and crawled onto the bed. She clawed for her husband's pillow which she'd kept in the bed ever since he'd passed and hugged it to her chest. Trudie followed and curled up in her lap. She eyed the door, her tail hugging her belly, too afraid to bark. Abigail was afraid to move.

And she'd stay that way a very long time.

Another hour of skulking through the heat found Natasha and Derrick at the opposite corner of the town from the restaurant. Veronica had had to run home, remembering that she'd promised to help her Auntie with cleaning. As much as she hated cleaning, she loved her Auntie more, so she'd bid the Olivers farewell and run home.

After Veronica had left, Natasha realized that she didn't know where the girl lived. How could she find her later if she had no idea where to start looking?

But that was the least of her worries. The heat was beating down, and she stood in the middle of the street, staring blankly in all directions. The prospect of looking for home seemed overwhelming. The heat sapped her energy to the point where putting one foot in front of the other was the best she could do.

"So what do you think?" she asked Derrick.

"I think we need to find an ice cream truck and take it home."

Derrick grinned. "What'd I give for a Bombpop."

"No kidding. Or a Creamsicle. Even a shaved ice would be great right about now."

Derrick looked up and down the street. "What are the odds that there'd be an ice cream truck around here?"

"Same odds there'd be a pizza delivery truck or a Chinese restaurant."

"Or a Burger King," Derrick chimed in.

"God, can you imagine if we had a joint that sold chicken wings? And with some serious hot sauce like Plasma Heat or Volcano Hot like back in Willow Grove at Tonelli's?"

Derrick sighed. "One can only dream."

"Hey, I haven't seen him before."

Natasha pointed to man in a golf cart zipping up the road. As he passed, he nodded, but didn't offer a wave, a word, or even a smile. He looked old, a Veterans of Foreign Wars hat perched on his head. The golf cart was painted in camouflage and had a large basket on the back to carry things, which was currently empty. They watched as he headed towards the entrance to the town.

"Did you see his hands?" Derrick asked.

Natasha shook her head. "What about them?"

"I swear he didn't have any."

Natasha made a face, dubious.

Derrick nodded vigorously. "I swear, sis. He didn't have hands at all. He had little hooks." Derrick made his fingers into the shape of hooks, mimicking driving.

"Derrick," Natasha hissed. "Don't make fun of him."

"I'm not. I thought it was cool is all."

Natasha started down the street, pushing one foot in front of the other, back the way they'd come.

"Wait up. Where you going?" Derrick asked.

"Back to the restuarant. It's too hot out here. The heat's frying your brain."

"My brain?"

"Or what's left of it."

Derrick mock-laughed then ran to catch up to his sister.

Natasha suddenly stopped, and Derrick almost knocked her down.

"What is it?"

"Over there." She pointed through a gap between two trailers.

"Looks like a statue."

"I swear to god it moved."

"Now whose brain is frying?"

"No, really." She began walking towards the statue, but Derrick grabbed her from behind. "Let me go!"

"What if it's one of those monsters?" he said, his voice like a spooky movie star.

Natasha laughed hoarsely. "Yeah. Like there are any monsters. That old drunk Kristov doesn't know what he's talking about." She tried to shrug off his grip.

"Oh shit!" Derrick whispered.

She turned back to the statue. The head seemed to be moving, as if it were looking for something. The statue took off, moving towards something behind the trailers. It ran spastically, lurching from side-to-side. Then it was gone, hidden by distance and trailers.

As hot as it was, goosebumps danced along Natasha's arms. That she had no idea what it was made it worse. It could be anything.

She laughed once, still staring at the place where the statue had stood.

G
ertie let Maude know that although the rest of them had decided to leave the hundred degree heat and wait to see if the boy would turn up, Abel Beachy had refused to quit, even in the face of Sheriff Will's argument.

"If he was out here we would have found him by now," he'd said. "Chances are the print was a red herring and your boy is doing what all boys do, going through all these empty homes we got here in Bombay Beach, looking for something cool."

Patrick had overheard Gertie tell Maude that the leader of the Amish clan had shaken his head and taken off down the beach, searching for any sign of his son.

Sheriff Will had left, responding to an accident between a station wagon and a combine on Highway 111. He'd said he'd be back and and that he felt certain that the boy would turn up before dinner time.

Patrick continued drinking throughout the afternoon, even when Auntie Lin made a comment about it. He told her about the pacifier and what it stood for, which kept her from saying anything else. So while he sat beside Frank getting the sit-down-drunk's-tour of the town, Auntie Lin, Natasha and Derrick were shown the ins and outs of the restaurant business.

Patrick learned about the town locals as each one came in for something to eat or read. The Amish family stayed out, but Andy the Scientist and Jose the Laborer spent considerable time that afternoon sitting at a table by the front window, drinking iced teas through straws. Patrick learned about the Duvall Brothers - Jose Mara and Rico - who'd come from Miami to harvest salt to sell to the Chinese. They were the town's largest employer, sometimes hiring a staggering five or six people. He met Kim Johnson, a laid-back woman with tattoos covering her body, who had moved here from the mountains of Montana to save souls and return them to Christ's embrace. He met Carrie Loughnane, a voluptuous woman with flaming red hair. She'd once been a cheerleader from Costa Mesa but an upwardly mobile crack salesman had turned her onto his product, gotten her hooked, and now she had seven children all by different fathers, health problems, and ran the town's only Laundromat. Her favorite comment when asked why she'd reopened the old Laundromat was that "Even in Hell people deserve to have clean clothes."

His kids came in wanting to lay down and rest awhile. He'd tossed them the keys, with orders to unpack the car and get things situated in their new home.

About three in the afternoon, Kristov Constantinescu, the Romanian Frank had told him about, came in dressed in clothes like a neon lounge singer. He had puffed-up black hair and sideburns like Elvis. He'd brought an empty hand truck with him, and when he left it was stacked with eight cases of National Bohemian Beer. Patrick thought that strange, especially since he knew it was one of the local beers his cousin in southern Maryland loved to drink. How Kristov got it all the way out here was a mystery. Patrick tried to catch Kristov's attention as he was headed out the door so he could ask him, but all he got was a hasty "
Thankyouverymuch
."

At about three thirty in the afternoon Patrick realized he was sauced. He managed to get Maude's attention, but when he opened his mouth it wouldn't work properly. She worked out what he wanted and began making him a plate of fried fish and fries.

Patrick saw Auntie Lin shaking her head at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew he was going to hear about it when he sobered. He turned his attention back to his glass. Who cared what they thought anyway?

When the food arrived it was sizzling hot. He heaped malt vinegar and ketchup over the top and stuffed it down as fast as he could. Then he chased it with a glass of water, hoping to dilute the beer already in his system. But it had no effect other than to make him even thirstier.

Auntie Lin reminded him that he'd wanted to tour his father's trailer. Patrick wanted to go, but he knew he wasn't ready for it. He needed some time to get used to the idea that he'd be living there before he actually moved in. He was pretty sure that the first time he went in, he wanted to do it alone. So he said as much to Auntie Lin, and, of course, she didn't understand, figuring that he wanted to drink cheap beer instead of viewing the place his father had called home. She couldn't be more wrong.

When she finally left him alone he ordered another beer, then thought better of it and ordered one for Frank, Jose and Andy as well. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well have company.

Auntie Lin came back about two hours later to tell Patrick that she and the kids had unpacked the car. The kids filed in after her to get something to eat.

He tried to thank her, but Patrick's mouth had stopped working long ago.

"I drink you handled that well," Frank said.

Patrick circled his head.

"What's gonna be the encore?"

Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was "futh," a lowly cousin to the curse word that he'd tried to say.

He turned to look at Frank and they both cracked up.

Suddenly the night was split by the sound of a shotgun going off -

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Patrick tried to jump to his feet but fell off his chair instead. He pulled himself to a sitting position and, from his spot on the floor, watched Natasha and Derrick and a host of locals run outside to see what was going on. He should have joined them.