The Skin Show (24 page)

Luckily,
the tires didn’t appear to be in the ditch. And, none of them had popped, either.
As long as the engine still worked, the car should be able to go.

Miles
scanned the road ahead. No cars in sight. Behind him was empty as well.
Spinning around, Miles started to lose his balance. His vision swam in a blur
as if he was gazing at Hoffman’s Chevelle from underwater. A dull throb in his
skull nearly made him sit down on the gravel on the road’s shoulder. He waited
for everything to clear, then hurried back to the car.   

He
squatted down and felt behind the left rear tire’s wheel well. It didn’t take
him long to find the hidden tool box. Pulling it down, he set it on the ground
and opened the lid. There was a small socket set inside, and some various tools
that Miles had no need for right now. What he wanted was inside the small
manila envelope taped to the lid. He yanked it off. The tape dangled from each
side like clear wings. He put the tip of the envelope between his teeth and
jerked the envelope away. A line of paper stayed in his mouth. He spit out the
top of the envelope and upturned the contents into his opened hand.

The
spare key operated the doors, ignition,
and
trunk. And, the trunk was
what he wanted to open. He could have gone in through the backseat again, but
that would take too much time. Plus knowing Vern’s body was still inside made
him weary to get close to it. Not yet. Not until he had to.

Walking
around to the back, his bare feet stepped on sharp objects. Although they
stung, he didn’t stop to examine the damage. He arrived at the trunk and slid
the key into the lock. Twisting, the lid popped open. He raised it up. Sunlight
poured into the compartment. He saw Hoffman’s other leather satchel right away.
He hadn’t felt the spare bag when he’d been inside, but he hadn’t been looking
for it, either. 

He
reached into the netted pocket on the side, felt around the bottles of oil and
various engine fluids until his fingers brushed something cool. Knowing it was
what he wanted, he took the flashlight out of the pocket. He clicked it on. A
nickel-sized disc of light raked across the carpet. It was dim and faded from
the brightness of the sun. Satisfied, he sat it down, and pulled the heavy duffel
bag closer to the lip of the trunk.

Inside
he found a blanket, more guns, and clothes for both Hoffman and Miles. Just as
he’d assumed, his old shoes were at the bottom. Hoffman had promised he
wouldn’t throw them away unless Miles wanted him to. It was the last thing his
mom had bought for him, a black pair of Converse All-Stars. To Miles, these
shoes were everything. Other than the picture he’d held onto, it was all that
physically linked him to his parents.

Miles
left the trunk open as he walked back to the driver’s door. Sharp things poked
his feet. He opened the door. Vern was slumped against the seatbelt. His head
hung low, the strap tight against his throat. The jagged cavity in the top
corner of his skull was pulpy with gore and oozing a substance that looked like
wet dog food. More disgusting matter had spattered the roof and dashboard.
Grimacing, Miles reached across Vern. He fumbled for the seatbelt clasp. His
finger found the switch, so he pushed it down. The seatbelt snapped back, releasing
Vern’s body. His forehead smacked against the horn, honking it once, spilling
more chunks from the bullet’s exit hole. Then his body fell sideways, landing
halfway out of the car.

Miles
gripped him under the arms. Keeping his eyes aimed at the road behind him, he
pulled. Vern was heavy, very heavy. He could hardly move him. He felt the
sticky lick of Vern’s wounded head on his stomach. After a couple minutes of
strenuous tugging, Miles had only gotten Vern to move an inch, if that.  

Standing
over Vern, hands on his hips and panting, he felt sweat running down his body.
His hair was drenched. This wasn’t going to work. As much as he hated to admit
it, he wasn’t strong enough. Not this way. He had another idea, though. He ran
around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. On his
rump, he put both feet against Vern’s ass.

And,
shoved.

Teeth
grinding, jaw clenched, he shoved.

Vern
started to slide. Growling, Miles shoved harder. Finally, Vern dropped out of
the car. There was a juicy thud when his head landed on the road. Miles
grimaced.

The
job wasn’t completely over. His legs were still inside, feet against the pedals.
After catching his breath, Miles got on his knees. He reached across the seat
and lifted one of Vern’s legs. He pushed it out of the car. Then he did the
other. Vern lay on the road between the car and door. Miles wouldn’t be able to
shut it with him there, so he’d wait until the car was far away from Vern
before closing it. He didn’t want to see the visual to the awful crunching
sound of Vern’s head on the asphalt.

Miles
dropped down in the seat, winded. His mouth was so dry and his lips felt
rubbery and numb. He didn’t think he’d ever sweat so much. He wanted water, but
knew there wasn’t any around, and that seemed to make his body ache.
Refreshment would have to wait. He made himself get moving.

Back
at the trunk, he checked his body for blood. There was a ruddy path going down
the middle of his shirt and the crotch of his pants. Even his thighs had
patterns of red sprinklings.  

Digging
through the bag, Miles found a pair of pants, some holey socks, but no shirts
that would fit him. He settled for one of Hoffman’s black T-shirts. He quickly
changed his pants. The pair he had on, he tossed inside the trunk. Sitting on
the edge of the trunk, he pulled the socks on, then squeezed his feet into the
Chuck Taylors. They felt a little tight, but would work just fine. He’d grown
quite a bit the past year, though he hadn’t noticed until now. Standing up, he
pulled Hoffman’s T-shirt over his head, sticking his arms through the holes. It
hung on him, loose and baggy, but not as much as he’d thought it might. The shirt
felt only a size or two too big. Maybe another year from now he could borrow
Hoffman’s clothes.

If
he’s not already dead.

The
thought stopped Miles. Made his legs stilted and heavy. So far, he’d done a
good job of not allowing thoughts like that to fester. That one had slipped
out. Hopefully it would be the last.

No,
he’s not dead. He’s alive. They wouldn’t kill him. Not right away.

But,
they were probably torturing him.

Miles
smacked the side of his head, hoping to knock such unneeded thoughts away.

Now
that he was dressed, he dumped out the duffel bag. He put the guns back in,
then took the other stashed weapons—the machete, two more pistols, some
grenades—and put them inside as well. He gathered all the additional ammunition
that he could find, adding it with the rest.  

With
the bag’s strap on his shoulder, the bag hanging by his knee, he slammed the
trunk. Then he walked around the passenger side of the car, and got in. Leaving
the bag in the floorboard, he climbed across the seat, and sat down behind the
wheel.

Then
he saw he’d forgotten to close the passenger door behind him.

“Shit!”

He
lay on his side, stretching for the handle. His fingers grazed the rubber
padding a couple times before catching hold. He pulled it hard and the door
banged shut. The muscles around his ribs started to sting and throb with dull
aches. Hopefully he hadn’t pulled something by doing that.    

Leaning
up, Miles grabbed the steering wheel and reached for the pedals with his feet.
They didn’t come close to touching. Reaching between his legs, he found the
lever for the seat adjustment. He pulled it up. The seat flew back, jolting him
when it caught. He tried again, this time planting his feet and pushing
forward. He got the seat where he needed it so he could reach the steering
wheel and floor pedals.

Though
he’d never driven the car before, he could probably do it. He’d studied
Hoffman’s actions while he drove. The engine had manual transmission, and Miles
knew you had to push down on the clutch to change gears. Mimic an H, he’d
remembered Hoffman saying once in regards to the gearshift.

Reading
the white lettering on top of the knob, he saw how the numbers were in order
like an H, starting with the 1 in the upper left position.

 “Okay,”
he muttered. “I can do this.” He held his breath as he put his foot on the
clutch and pushed it to the floorboard. It was hard keeping the pedal pinned
down. It wanted to spring back up. His leg began to tremble from the pressure
it took to keep it there.

He
pulled the gear down, then up and to the left. When it could no longer go any
higher, he assumed that was first gear.

Miles’s
lungs felt like they were on fire from holding his breath. He knew he couldn’t
release it until he heard the engine. Turning the key, the familiar roar of
Hoffman’s car was like a welcomed embrace. Air blasted out of Miles in a
relieved gust.

“Okay.
Now, gently release the clutch…”

He
tried easing the pedal up, but the force threw his foot off. The car bounced a
couple times and shut off.

“Damn!”

Miles
slammed a fist down on the seat. He repeated the process to the same outcome.
Cussing again, he pounded the seat harder.

Three
tries later, he managed to hold the clutch in place while he gave it a little
gas. The car lurched forward. Miles quickly gave it some more gas, moved a
little farther, and stamped the brake in a wild flash of panic.

Sitting
motionless, he realized there had been no reason to stop the car.

“Dammit,
Miles, stop it!” he shouted at himself.

The
door swayed back and inward, sliding over Vern and blocking Miles’s view of
him. Holding the door with one hand, he steered the wheel to the right with the
other. Somehow, he successfully managed to get the car on the road. Far enough
from Vern, he slammed the door. Then he gave it some more gas.

He
was moving.

Miles
howled a triumphant wail. Then he noticed the engine sounded as if it was
holding a grumbling note and his cheer dithered. The motor sounded as if it
might explode from the awful hum. It took him a second to realize the gear
needed to be shifted. So, he took his foot off the gas, heard the engine noise
drop, pushed down the clutch, and tugged the gear down to 2. He put his foot
back on the gas and let up the clutch. The car knocked a couple times before
smoothing out.

When
Miles saw his speed rise on the speedometer, he howled again.

The
sun would be setting before long. Much of the day was already away from him. He
wanted to get to The Skin Show before sundown. Hopefully he could make it.

Miles
handled long stretches of road better than the curves. Whenever he had to drop
down to a lower gear, the car made awful grinding noises, and the gearshift
resisted him. He hated to think what he was doing to the transmission.

But,
even with the abuse, the Chevelle got him where he needed to go. He saw the
bend in the road up ahead, and the dirt road to the right that would take him
to The Skin Show. The ivy-infested wildlife sign was barely visible in the
dwindling light of dusk. The sky looked as if it was burning under the lava-streaked
clouds. A full moon glowed to the left, a pale circle in a sky of fire. There
were little winks of stars spaced around the moon like tiny holes in a screen.
Soon they would be all across the sky, washing the ground in an ashen glow.

The
gears groaned as Miles jiggled the shift into second gear. Easing the car off
the main road, there was a soft bump as the tires touched down on the bumpy
gravel of the dirt road.

Miles
needed the headlights with the trees shielding him from what remained of daylight.
But, he wasn’t going to cut them on. Somebody would surely see the bright bulbs
traveling through the woods like a pair of specter eyes.

He
moved slowly, keeping the car steady in second gear. He was confident he could
remember where they’d hidden the car during their other surveillances.

“Probably
right up here,” he muttered. The quiet volume of his voice sounded like a shout
in the stillness of the car.  

Actually,
everything about his movements seemed overly loud: the crackle of rocks under
the tires, the soft rumble of the engine.

He
knew why his sounds seemed intensified.

There
was nothing to buffer them. Being a densely wooded area, there were no sounds
of nature. The insects, wildlife, rodents and reptiles, had all either moved on
or died off. Hoffman had told Miles before that this was a nymph calling card.
Their evil poisoned anything it touched.

“Please
be all right, Hoffman…”

Miles
saw the small gap in the trees to his right. He almost drove right past it.
Braking, he kept the clutch pinned down as he gingerly shifted down. Then he
eased the car off the road. Remembering how he’d almost been run over last
year, he made sure the car was well off the road. Cars would be going up and
down this road for the next couple hours, until The Skin Show reached its limit
for the night.

He
shut the car off. Finding the treadle for the parking brake with the toe of his
shoe, he pushed it down to engage it. He removed the keys, grabbed the duffel
bag from the floor, and climbed out of the car. Outside, the air was still
thick and heavy with the day’s heat. It smothered him. Though he hadn’t thought
he had any sweat left in him, he felt more starting to immediately bead across
his brow. He dropped the keys in his pants pocket, and carefully shut the door.
When he heard the soft click, he stopped. He fingered a gap between the door
and frame. He hadn’t gotten the door all the way shut, but he decided to leave
it as it was.