Authors: Bill Leviathan
I did my best to cover my tracks on the way out there, however good that would be in the end. I got lucky and found a waterproof container in the storage unit to bury it in. Let’s hope I could find my way back there when I needed it. I like to think the memory of Paul and me bonding out here in the woods would be something I’d remember forever, but God knows what my leaky sieve of a brain would be able to retain. The damage I had already caused through alcohol abuse was only likely to get worse with the way things in my life were going. I was pretty sure I had found the two trees we hung our hammocks between after I had built my first fire. I buried it right between them.
With that taken care of, it was time to head off to Christine. The only things I brought with me were a single pair of underwear, socks, and a shirt. I hoped Christine enjoyed the smell of my filth. I didn’t foresee us having many opportunities to bathe. It was all her idea, though, so she only had herself to blame if she didn’t like it. I saw her car now at the 7-11 as I approached. This was it, the beginning of my time as man on the run with nothing to lose.
“You ready to go, Pete?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Know where we’re heading?”
“No. Let’s go.”
It was midday on a quiet afternoon. Only a few patrons sat around the bar, typical for that time of day. The patrons minded their own business, no one spoke to one another. Most were spread out throughout the bar, sitting alone, nursing the drinks that sat in front of them. Two sat at a table next to each other, yet still they were in complete silence as they stared down at their drinks. The one employee stood behind the bar. He slowly and calmly wiped glasses clean and his bided his time, waiting for the next order.
In walked a man, tall, muscular, with long scraggly hair. His combat boots hit the floor with a dull thud that echoed through the quiet bar with each step. His leather jacket screeched as it stretched as his shoulders rocked back in worth with a menacing swagger. He scanned across the bar, his face a blank slate until he ejected brown saliva out of his mouth onto the floor. He approached the bar, and took a seat on a stool between two other patrons. The stool wobbled beneath his weight, uneven on its four legs. The man let out a displeased grunt, looked around him, pulled the hat off the patron to his right, and placed it under the uneven stool leg. The patron opened his mouth to protest, but when he was met with the man’s scowl, he thought it better to pretend he never had a hat. With the stool now balanced, and the patron demoralized, the man turned away, the scowl melting away to an expressionless stare. He tapped his thick, heavy fingers on the bar to get the attention of the bartender, who cautiously made his way toward the man.
“Would you like to order something, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Whiskey,” the man replied.
The bartender poured a whiskey into a tumbler, and placed it in front of the man. The man stared at the glass, and did not move. He turned his gaze back to the bartender and said, “In a pint glass, please.”
“Uh, ok,” the bartender said, initially not quite sure what to make of the request. The bartender then poured the contents of the tumbler into a pint glass, and placed it in front of the man.
“No, fill the pint glass with whiskey,” the man growled back at the bartender.
With a confused and concerned look on his face, the bartender did as requested. He filled the pint glass to the brim with whiskey. The man grabbed the glass, looked at the bartender without a single sign of appreciation, and gulped down the drink. Within a second the whiskey was gone. Not a single drop escaped the man’s mouth. The man set the glass back down, completely empty, without flinching from the searing burn of the cheap alcohol that flowed down his throat into his stomach. After a minute, the man looked to the bartender and said, “Another.”
The other patrons of the bar had taken notice. They all stared at the man with their jaws agape. An older patron with white hair stood up from his stool, and said, “Just who the hell are you, mister?”
The man turned toward to the older patron. “What’s it to you?”
“N-nothing mister. I’ve just never seen a main drink liquor like that. What you just did would kill an ordinary man.”
“I’m looking for a man named Pete. Do you know him?”
“N-no, I don’t think I do, mister.”
“Then you’re useless to me.” The man turned back to his drink, finishing it in much the same manner as the previous one. Once finished, he stood up from his stool, and re-scanned the bar area to take in any changes from when he first sat down. He took it all in at a sloth’s pace, and moved toward the two patrons sitting together at a table in the corner. As he approached them, their gazes moved from him to their drinks, hoping desperately that he intended to head to the bathroom behind them, and not to their table. The man stopped, standing perpendicular to their table. The grinding of his teeth was the only sound audible in the bar.
“You,” the man said to the two patrons.
Both of them looked at each other, unsure of what to do in response. One of them, a young man whose face was covered in pimples and the scraggy shambles of an attempted beard, tried to speak up.
“Are, are you talking to us, sir?” The young man tried to gulp down the fear in his voice when he finished speaking.
“Yes, I’m talking to you, boy. Do you know where Pete is?”
“I-I d-don’t know who Pete is, sir, I swear.”
“You’re lying to me, boy. I know who you are, now tell me where Pete is.” The man clinched both his fists so tightly the cracking of his knuckles sounded off like gunshots through the bar.
“I-I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anybody by the name of P-Pete.”
The man grabbed the beer bottle sitting in front of the patron by the neck, smashed it against the table, and jammed it into the young man’s throat. “Are you going to tell me where Pete is now, boy?” The only sound the young man could make was the gargled noise of blood gushing out of his mouth, and then pouring down over his chin. The man then violently yanked the broken bottle out of his throat, blood sprayed out in all directions. As the young slumped down in his seat, the blood pulsated out of his throat, less and less flowed out with every pulse. Many of the other patrons started to vomit. The older patron fainted, busting open a gash on his head as he hits the floor.
The patron who sat across from the deceased young man, now covered in the other’s blood, tried to speak up. He only managed to mutter out a few sounds, incomprehensible to anyone who listened.
“Speak up, sonny, I couldn’t hear you,” the man barked in response.
“I-I k-know where P-Pete went.”
The man grabbed him by the chin. His hand engulfed the other young man’s meager jawline. The man squeezed the jaw. The sound of teeth popping out of their sockets was audible to everyone else in the bar. “Where to?” the man asked.
The young man could do nothing but wail in pain. He feebly tried to respond while his jaw was still clenched in the hands of the man towering over him. After a few pitiful cries, the man lessened his grip on the young man’s jaw. After the numbing shock kicked in the young man was finally able to said, “He left with some red headed woman, in a black Camaro. I don’t know where exactly they’re going, just that they headed off out of town eastward. That’s all I know, I swear it.”
“That’s all I need. Now tell me your name.” Responded the man.
“K-Kevin.”
Kevin whimpered while still in the hands of the man. He hoped it was all over after his divulgence of information. Kevin closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face. He let out one word, “Please.”
The man then lifted Kevin off his feet, and tossed him across the room as though he was nothing more than a child’s toy. Kevin’s body crashed into a wooden support beam in the middle of the bar. The support beam bowed and splintered, a rapturous cracking sound echoed through the bar. No one was quite sure if it was made by the beam breaking or by Kevin’s back. The man walked over to Kevin’s body, as Kevin was howling in pain but unable to move. The man picked him up again. He received no resistance from Kevin save for his feeble cries for help. The man punched Kevin in the right side of his face, which appeared to collapse inward. Kevin’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, blood now dripped freely from the wounds on his face. The man dropped the body on the ground, at first appearing bored with what was in front of him. With a sudden movement he kicked at Kevin’s body, causing it to slide across the floor toward the door. The man then grabbed the table nearest to him, and hurled it at a patron sitting at the bar. The patron was facing the man, and the table struck him in the forehead, causing it to snap back with such force his neck appeared to be bent at a 90 degree angle. The patron fell down from his chair, limp and lifeless, flesh removed from his face and forehead where the table struck him.
Finally stirred to action, the bartender rushed toward the phone. He dialed 9-1-1 in haste, as the man made his way around the bar at the calm speed of an approaching glacier. His gait didn’t accurately reflect the expression of the man. His eyes were burning red with rage. Veins popped out in his forehead, neck, and arms. Foam frothed at the edges of his mouth. As he made his way toward the bartender, the man began to smash and destroy everything in sight. Shelves snapped in half from his blows, broken bottles of liquor were strewn about the bar floor. The bartender heard the voice of the operator on the other end of the line and immediately blurted out, “Help! Quick! At The Sink Hole, there’s a mad man here ravaging everything. He’s killed three men. He’s killing everyone in sight, with foam dripping from his mouth like some sort of mad dog!”
The bartender dropped the phone. The man was now a mere two feet from him. The voice of the operator trailed off “Hello? Sir? Are you still there? Help is on the way. Please stay on the line for assistance.” The bartender pressed his back against the wall. The man inched closer and closer, until his chest was almost against the bartender’s face.
“P-Please, not me, I-I didn’t have anything to do with those kids, honest! Just let me be. I-I’ll call back the cops and say it was a false alarm. I’ll get them to turn back around. Just p-please don’t hurt me,” the bartender pleaded.
The man crouched down so he could look at the bartender at eye level. The man cocked his head to the side, and gave a sinister smile. The bartender whimpered and shook, pleading with the man. “Oh no, please. Oh, God, please have mercy on me.” The man lunged forward, driving the top of his forehead into the bartender’s mouth. As the man pulled away, the bartender's broken teeth fell from where they had been implanted in the man's forehead. The bartender wailed in agony as he fell to the floor. After the man landed a few blows to the bartender’s head with his fists, the bartender fell silent. The bartender’s skull was caved inwards. So broken it was as malleable as a newborn baby’s.
With no more living occupants remaining, the man started to pile the wooden tables, chairs, and stools behind the bar. On a top shelf, there still remained a few unbroken bottles of liquor. The man reached up and grabbed them, emptying the contents onto the pile of broken bar furniture. He stepped away from the pile, and started collecting the broken and bloodied bodies from around the bar. He carried them over to the pile, and poured whatever alcohol remained onto the bodies. He then reached into his pocket, and pulled out a box of cigarettes and a book of matches. Lighting one match, the man used it to light his cigarette, and then the book of matches. After he took a drag from his cigarette, the man tossed the lit book of matches onto the pile. Everything shot up in flames. The man stood there for a minute, appearing to take in and admire what he had just done. The fire spread out from the pile to the rest of the bar, the bodies beginning to take flame. The flames had spread to the bar, the walls, and up toward the ceiling. The man made his exit from the building, satisfied with what he had left behind.
As the man approached his motorcycle outside, the fire had engulfed the entire bar. Flames were shooting out the windows. The wood of the building creaked, and then cracked and gave way to the fire. The man kick-started the engine of the motorcycle. The sound of the collapsing building behind him drowned out the thunderous roar of his bike. By the time the man eased his way onto the road, the bar had fallen to a burning shamble. A piece of the metal roof slide forward, fell over and knocked into the bar’s sign. The roof had knocked loose one of the chains that suspended the sign from its signpost. 'The Sink Hole' now swung back and forth. The man headed east, down the road, hoping to find the man he came looking for.
One unfortunate thing about trying to make a getaway in Christine’s car, an old black Chevy Camaro, was that it wasn’t the best when it came to gas mileage. Couple that with a relatively small gas tank, and we were making stops quite frequently. The thing wasn’t in the best shape either. I wasn’t sure where she got it from, but the previous owner must have been laughing all the way to the bank after that sale. When it rained, I found out that the windshield wipers didn’t work. First gear didn’t exist, which was sometimes fun, but lead to some very inappropriate, screeching starts. And when I tried my hand at driving the beast, it lead to some very comical starts. Anything in the car that was meant to hold some sort of liquid, either under the hood or in the cab, leaked. The one good thing about the car was the noise. Oh God, that noise. A roaring thunder that sent shivers down your spine. Even the slightest bit of acceleration unleashed a thunder clap that would have made Thor green with envy. That may be part of the reason we had been getting such poor gas mileage. We took any excuse we could get to push the gas pedal down to the floor.
There wasn’t a plan in terms of where we were driving to. First, Christine had us heading east without any other thought put into the destination. I suggested we start making a zigzag pattern across the country to the east coast. We had went through the Dakotas to Minnesota, then all the way down south to Arkansas, then back north again to Illinois. The final leg of our trip was to be from Indiana east to somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic States. Most of the time was spent in silence, save for the sound of the engine. Outside of cities, there wasn’t much in terms of radio stations. I can’t say I had too much I wanted to say to Christine. The only reason I had ever met her was because she was trying to con me into handing over Paul's documents, and that was the only reason I was out here on the road to begin with. If she never showed up into town, I would have been sitting at the bar at The Sink Hole, quietly enjoying a nice glass of what they tried to pass off as beer there. Instead, I was stuck in a physically uncomfortable car with a person who made me socially uncomfortable. I wasn’t quite ready to trust her, and I kept my mouth shut to avoid accidentally divulging too much information about myself or my past. If I didn’t say anything at all, I wouldn’t say anything that I would regret later. A practice I should have taken up earlier in life.
I had considered trying to interrogate her, to see what I could figure out about her, and maybe make a determination of trust. I had plenty of time to start, but I just kept finding myself being far too lazy to initiate. I don’t think anyone had ever described the state of Indiana as a place of interest, and I couldn’t imagine the rest of our trip through Appalachia making any one’s list either. I could have tried and pass the time asking a few questions. Maybe I could find out something interesting and juicy, like her favorite position after a few drinks. Good material for the next time I was in a public bathroom.
“So, Christine, I meant to ask this while we were there, but we drove all through Minnesota and never stopped anywhere. Didn’t you say you’re from there? Shouldn't there have been someone you'd want to stop and see?”
“Well, Pete, we’re keeping a low profile. Why would I have us stop and see people I know? I don’t want to draw attention to us, or give our pursuers any information to squeeze out of those I know and love.”
“That makes sense, So-“
“I know what you’re trying to get at, Pete. You're trying to figure out what details you know about me are true and which ones aren't.”
“I thought I was being a bit more subtle than I really was, then.”
“We’ve been in this car for almost a week now, and this is the first time you’ve spoken to me about something other than stopping for a piss break or food or gas. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I have to do something to pass the time we have. I’m not from Minnesota, I’ve never lived there, never even been there until we just drove through it. I grew up in New York State as an only child. Whatever you learned about me through Pim was made up. It was all part of the story they gave me to try and weasel my way into Pim’s group. I’m no anarchist. What I told you about my father though, that’s true. I swear on it. I know there isn’t anything I can do to convince you about that, so I can only hope you trust me on my word.”
I didn’t know what to say in response, so I just remained silent. It was how I treated most conversations I had anyway. For the time being, I was content with us just driving off to nowhere. I kept running through my head where we should go, but I didn’t have anything. Back to Pennsylvania where I could take up my old life again? Maybe I could get my old tent spot back. It wasn’t like I was a registered resident there, it wouldn’t be easy for anyone to find me, assuming that what Christine had been telling me about being pursued by corporate assassins was true. Aside from that, my only plan was to continue on the path we were on now. Drive for as long as Christine’s money could take us, and then just hope for the best after that. Maybe I could play out the rest of my life as some stupid hippie who was always hiking the Appalachian Trail. I think I learned enough survival skills from Paul to live out a few years like that. I would spend my days walking around, grow out some dreadful looking beard and long hair, and maybe make some cash on the side clearing up trails. Not sure if that was something people actually got paid for, but I could at least try. If only Paul had also taught me how to hunt, fish for real, forage, and garden. Then I could have lived out my social-recluse fantasy and become a hermit in the woods. I would give myself about a year before I ended up hanging myself by my shoelaces out of sheer boredom.
The last time we stopped for gas, I thought I saw that Christine had a rather concerned look on her face when she was paying. She had been handling all of the finances on this once in a life time fantasy road trip, and being entirely funded by her money I couldn’t complain. I could only assume our budget was wearing thin. No longer was she buying the individually packaged snacks. Instead she scoured the racks for the largest quantity possible to save on the cost per unit. Since we didn’t have much in terms of cooking ware with us, most of the food we eat was pre-made processed garbage. Somehow before we left it didn’t occur to me to bring along all of the camping gear Paul had left me. A cheese Danish for breakfast, a microwave burrito for lunch, and a nice frozen white castle burger for dinner. If the gas station we stopped at doesn’t have a microwave, there was a good chance I was going to have to skip a meal. I don’t think I had pooped on the trip since my alcohol detox ended.
“Pete, I’m sure you’re smart enough to have figured this out on your own by now, but we’re running low on cash. We need to start considering if we should have an ultimate destination for this little joy ride or not.”
“I don’t know, Christine. I haven’t put much thought into it myself. Do you have any suggestions? I just want to avoid where I’ve already been. I need new locations to experience misery.”
“I have one idea in mind, but it’s going to be risky. Not sure if it’s going to be something you’ll want to go for.”
“Lay it on me.”
“What you and Pim started, it really could lead to something big.”
“You mean what Pim started. I’m just an innocent bystander in all of this.”
“Yes, anyway, with what you and Pim found out, and with what I know from what happened to my dad and me, I think we could unleash something really big. And not just to a bunch of internet dweebs either. We could unleash this to people who really matter.”
“That sounds great and all, but how exactly do you propose we do that?”
“When they were terrorizing my father, and then later me, I was able to pick up on a few things. This organization, Megalomerate, they’re based in New York City. In that old Freedom Tower. You know the one?”
“Yeah, and?”
“I’m saying we drive to New York, break into their headquarters, find the information we need to really expose them, and then leak it to the press.”
“And how do you propose we do that? With the years of training and expertise we have in espionage? From our former lives of crime as professional bank robbers? This plan doesn’t sound like it’s that well suited to our specialized skills.”
“It shouldn’t be that difficult. Think about it, the Freedom Tower is a huge building, do you think they can afford to keep it secure at all times?”
“Yes, I do. It’s not like these corporations like Megalomerate are surviving off pennies. They’re inundated with cash. They could afford to cover every square inch of that building with a hired security guard if they wanted.”
“But think about the kind of people who would be running something like Megalomerate. They’re just going to hoard that cash, use it to make themselves even richer. If they did what you suggested, they’d be lining the pockets of the common man, not themselves, and that goes against rule number one of being wealthy and successful.”
“I guess you’re right, but you already touched on another issue, it’s a huge building. How are we going to know where to find what we need?”
“Well, it won’t be that hard to find the Megalomerate HQ in the building, and from there, we’ll just have to hope we get lucky and find what we need quickly.”
“Ok, Christine, let me think on this a bit. You can start heading east now if you want. We have the time to sit on this decision for a while.”
God dammit, Christine. What a great plan she had come up with, to break into Megalomerate, and wander around the tallest building in the country until we found what we were looking for. We still had no clue what the hell we were looking for to begin with. If we were lucky enough to stumble upon the CEOs computer, what would we do then? What would we look for on the computer? Paul already provided us the information about dumping waste in the waters of Montana – what else did she need us to leak? That Megalomerate had been capturing every first-born child and sacrificing them to the sun God? That they performed science experiments on civilians under the guise of providing free flu vaccines? That they approved home loans to those who had no hope of paying them back? I couldn’t handle the shit she was piling on me, but that was what I had been saying at every bad turn throughout my life. If I didn’t sack up and deal with what was in front of me right then, would I ever? Maybe when sacking up and dealing with it didn’t involve breaking and entering and corporate espionage. Christine could be right, though. Getting into their headquarters could be a walk in the park. We could waltz right in through the front door, enter the data center, and steal all of the information onto our non-existent storage devices. Or we would be caught immediately, arrested, tried, and I would be sentenced to rot away the rest of my life in a cell with Big Bubba. I had to make a decision, so I went with my gut. My pained, ulcer ridden gut.
“Christine, I think I’ve made up my mind. Let’s do this. It’s what Paul would have wanted me to do – if I had to guess.”
“I was hoping you would say that, Pete.”
I hoped I didn’t end up regretting that decision. Up to that point in my life I had regretted every decision I had ever made. I could only expect the same of this one. Now I had six hundred or so miles to stew on it, and all of the horrible possible outcomes for my future. I hoped that Christine had been thinking of a plan that was more than just the ‘walk in and see where it gets us’ strategy she proposed before. She was the only one between the two of us who had the least bit of knowledge of what Megalomerate was. Now that I had committed to seeing out this plan, I was relying on her for my survival. Well, that was assuming my survival was even going to be at stake. I kept assuming that something dangerous was ahead for us, based on those torture and assassination threats Christine had been talking about. I couldn’t help but think that Megalomerate had something to do with Paul’s, and his brother’s, deaths. Their deaths may have been ‘accidents’, accidents that occurred conveniently right before they were about to make their ‘big’ discoveries. That, more than anything, was what was driving me to do this, aside from Christine’s literal driving. The one thread of honor I had left was being used to tow me to my destiny. Whatever crap destiny that may be.
I slept for most of the ride to New York, only awakening during the gas stops Christine needed to make. That was at least one thing I could be thankful for – not having to think too much about what was about to happen next. Instead, I had a nice dream about running through a breezy field of grass, before it transformed into a blazing inferno. I was able to escape the hell fire, but only after seeing the half burned bodies of everyone I knew along the way. Jon, Pim, and even that shitstain of a human being Kevin. The only person who seemed oddly missing from my dreams was Paul. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, besides that dream interpretation was pseudo-science bullshit better left to predatory hacks.
I had never seen New York City before even though I spent most of my miserable life only a few hours’ drive away. It was exactly as I had always imagined it. Run down, decrepit, and with a rat population out numbering the human population. It was a semi-habitable landfill. At least that’s how it was where the people actually lived in the city. Christine had us heading to the Freedom Tower, in the Financial District, where the sheen of old New York was still doing its best to hold on for dear life. The capitalists there made sure to spend just enough to keep the area from being too much of eye sore. They needed the area to maintain appearances for their weekly visits to the office, but no more. They had their beautiful mansions and yachts in the Hamptons to maintain after all, they couldn’t be too concerned with a city they knew nothing of. One benefit of the elite’s growing neglect of the city, was that finding parking downtown on a weekend was as easy as could be. Right in front of the entrance to the tower. We couldn’t have asked for anything better.