Chapter Thirteen

Chuck called Vent from a pay phone outside Merck Chemists. The town was just beginning to come alive, blue-collar workers heading to George’s for bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, the newspaper, and collecting on their bets from last night’s games. Or paying up. George was the town bookie and short-order cook who made a mean breakfast on the cheap. Just don’t look at the floor too hard. You didn’t want to know what skittered around the old luncheonette.

“Hello,” Vent answered on the third ring. He coughed hard into the phone. Chuck had to pull the receiver away from his ear.

“Let me talk to Mick.”

“Who is this?”

“Really?”

“Oh, man, I’m so frigging tired. Hold on, Chuck.” Vent put the phone down. Chuck heard him shuffling around his room, clearing out his lungs. A door opened and Vent tromped away. He didn’t come back for over a minute. Chuck eyed the change on the shelf beneath the phone, waiting for the automated operator to tell him he needed to feed more into the slot.

When Vent returned, he said, “Dude, he’s not here.”

“Then where is he?”

“I don’t know. I just know he’s not in my house. I even checked the basement.”

Dammit. First Dredd and now Mick.

“Dredd is missing,” Chuck said.

That seemed to shake Vent from his stupor. “Shit, did they kill him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. His truck was gone. But his cabin was destroyed. I went there this morning. As I was about to leave, it was set on fire. And then my car was pelted by rocks and branches. They fucked it up good.”

“Did you see them? Did they follow you?”

“No, and I’m pretty sure no.” Chuck had been wondering how far the Melon Heads’ reach extended. Did they have sentries all along Dracula Drive? It only made sense. You couldn’t maintain that kind of secretive existence without some kind of planning and preparation. Now, everywhere Chuck spied a clump of trees and bushes, he suspected there was a Melon Head peering at him through the leaves, noting his whereabouts, waiting for the moment to grab him.

“Maybe Mick went to Dredd’s and they took off. Did you check his trailer?”

Chuck had been considered indestructible by everyone for as long as he could remember. Fear wasn’t something he was allowed to show.

Today, he was afraid. There was no way he was going to Mick’s trailer alone.

“No. Your father still have that rifle?”

Vent’s old man used to be an avid hunter until his eyesight started getting bad from diabetes. He’d sold most of his guns but kept his first rifle, which had been given to him by his father. He’d often said he wanted to save it for his son, but with the way Vent was turning out, he wouldn’t trust him with a slingshot, much less a rifle.

“Yeah, he keeps it in the back of his closet.”

“I need you to get it.”

“Are you crazy, man? Him and my mom are sleeping. I’m not going in there.”

Chuck gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t say to get it now. Wait until they’re out of the house. Then meet me at my place.”

He could hear the click of Vent’s throat as he dry-swallowed. “You want us to go out there, don’t you?”

“Yep. Only this time, we need to be ready for them.”

* * *

So far, Mick had bagged two rabbits. Their bodies, curled against one another in the leather bag strapped to his shoulder, bopped against his hip when he walked. His trailer was to his back about two hundred yards to the west. The long walk from Vent’s house to his rusted can of a home had taken some of the wind from his sails. His big plans would have to be adjusted to smaller ones for now. Hence, the bag of rabbits.

He wished he had something more powerful than a BB gun. If he was going to do this, he wanted to do it right.

Spotting a squirrel on a branch, its bushy tail whickering, Mick paused and lifted the gun. A BB shot out with a dull whap of air. It hit the branch and sent the squirrel scurrying higher into the tree and out of Mick’s range.

“Dammit.”

Mick kicked the tree. The squirrel chittered nervously. Or was it laughing at him? Maybe he should just wait here. It had to come down eventually. The nearest branch wasn’t close enough for the little bastard to reach.

Nah, he was too scrawny anyway. It would be great to find a raccoon, but it’s too early. If a raccoon is out this time of day, it’s probably rabid. Hmmm. What would happen if I fed rabid meat to them? Would it make them sick? Maybe just crazier. I’m sure they’ve eaten plenty of spoiled meat. Bet their bodies have learned how to handle it.

What he needed most was to talk to Dredd, but his place was just too far for Mick to walk. After what they’d seen, he was sure there was a chance Dredd would clue him in on the rules to working with the Melon Heads. Mick saw his face last night. He was terrified. Maybe it was time for a new Melon Head guardian. Sure, Mick was scared, too, but that could change in time. He could be the reason his friends, and the town, survived. There was power in that. Power was something in short supply in Mick’s life.

“Probably be happy to pass the torch to me,” he said aloud. Many times out here in the woods, he was his only and best company. “He talks all tough, but he looked pretty wigged out when they attacked. I bet he shit his pants.” Mick chuckled, walking as stealthily as he could along the terrain of crunchy leaves and sticks. The Melon Heads could be watching him right now, following his every move. He quickly turned around to see if anyone was behind him. The only thing back there was a cricket.

He had to see Dredd today. There were too many questions that he needed answered.

Who would take him there? Not Chuck. It was plain to see he was mad at Mick. No way would he ever go back there. He could convince Heidi to take him. She would be reluctant at first, but he knew how to circumnavigate her walls. The only way she’d say no and stick to it is if she was still with Marnie. And Marnie looked pretty bad. Just thinking about it stoked his anger all over again.

Vent would be more than happy to do it, but he’d failed his road test twice and he’d never steal his parents’ car.

Odds are, Mick would have to do it alone. He could always walk into town and swipe an unattended bike. He’d bring it back where he found it when he was done. It technically wasn’t stealing.

A crow cawed as it sailed overhead. The morning’s crispness was being dulled by a pall of late-season humidity. All this walking was making him sweat. Better to find a place to sit for a while and let the prey come to him. He found a white paper birch tree, its stark paleness like a beacon in a forest of muted colors. What may have been a lightning strike had split the wide trunk in half, cleaving a space that would just fit him. Mick put the bag and gun down and settled back into the cramped space. It was more comfortable than it looked, like being embraced by nature. He didn’t give two shits about tree-hugging hippies, but even he had to admit it was nice.

Resting the gun on his knees, he waited. Something would come along. There were too many critters out here for him not to add to his bloody bag.

His mind kept flashing back to the night before. Sometimes he cringed. He’d seriously thought those Melon Head freaks were going to get Chuck. Other times he grinned; those first screams bursting out of Dunwoody when the Melon Heads went for him were like the best grunge tunes ever made. Kurt fucking Cobain couldn’t reproduce a sound like that, or elicit so much emotion. His eyelids grew heavy as he tried to replay it all, moment by moment.

A flock of birds lining just about every branch around him woke him up. They chattered incessantly, their shrill bleats like a knife through his skull. He fired wildly into the trees to get them to piss off to another tree, and they were happy to oblige.

“Damn birds.”

Something smelled bad. He sniffed the air, his nose rapidly detecting the foul smell that was coming from his bag. He looked up. The sun had shifted considerably westward in the pale blue sky.

“How long was I out?”

Extricating himself from the confines of the tree was like being born all over again, only with aching joints and muscles. He stood up, stretched, popped his knuckles and cracked his neck. His right leg had gone to sleep. Every time he moved it, a fresh onslaught of pins and needles pricked his nerves.

Shit. All he had to show for his day were the two measly rabbits. That wouldn’t be enough. Not near enough. If he had money and proper transportation, he’d go to Shopwell and pick up some cheap steaks or something.

All he could do tonight was lay out his bounty and hope that if they came, the Melon Heads would see it as a sign of his willingness to cooperate with them, to atone for his sin. He couldn’t trust how they would react, so there was no way he was going to seal himself up in the trailer. He saw what their fingers did to Chuck. They could pry that Airstream open like their hands were can openers.

Good thing he’d dug out that little bunker under the trailer last year when things started getting bad. No one, not even Vent, knew it was there. He’d hunker down there for the night. He could sleep a night with some bugs. It was better than the alternative. If the Melon Heads came for him, he’d hear them, but they’d never hear him.

He walked back to the trailer in better spirits.

He even hummed ‘Outshined’ while he walked, no longer worrying if he had enough game to offer. It would all work out in its own fucked-up way, just like everything else in his life.

The sight of the strange car parked outside the trailer stopped him in his tracks. A blue Cadillac, its top down, was parked on top of the ring of stones he’d set up so he could make fires at night. One of the quarter panels was a dull compound gray. Lights were on in the trailer.

“Who the fuck?”

Mick dropped the bag of rabbits and cocked his BB gun. It wouldn’t kill a person, but one shot at close range would send a pretty clear message – get the hell off my property.

He cautiously approached the trailer, stepping lightly on the auburn leaves, trying to make as little noise as possible. Whoever was in there, he wanted them good and surprised when he flung the door open, giving him the upper hand. He cocked his ear, straining to hear a voice. All was quiet in the trailer, which made him more wary. They could be watching him right now, waiting to spring up behind him.

Just try it. Give me a reason to pop a BB in your face.

If they were people just looking for a place to hang and screw around, it would be easy to chase them off. If it was a thief, or thieves, out to rob him, it could get ugly. He was plenty nervous, not that he’d ever let anyone know. There was no one around to help him if things went south.

No matter. He’d done plenty on his own, especially over these past few months.

With just a dozen or so yards to go before he could grab the doorknob, headlights bounced off the tarnished silver trailer. Mick spun around and fired off a BB. It hit home with a metallic ping.

Two doors flew open.

“What’d you do that for?”

It was Chuck and Vent. Mick exhaled and aimed the gun at the ground.

“Why does everyone hate my car today?” Chuck said. When he turned off the lights, Mick saw the damage. It looked like Chuck had rolled his car down a gulley.

“You get in an accident?” Mick asked, realizing the element of surprise had flown the coop, yet relieved he wouldn’t have to face whomever was in there alone.

“Not exactly.”

Vent was sporting a rifle. His eyes flicked from tree to tree like a frightened bird’s.

“You got an extra one for me?”

“I wish,” Vent said. He nodded at the gun in Mick’s hand. “You see any of them around?”

“Nah. I was hunting.”

“Whose car is that?” Chuck asked.

“I was about to go in there and find out,” Mick said, feeling brave now that he had backup.

“Maybe it’s Dredd,” Chuck said. “He could have ditched his truck.” He eyeballed the old Caddy. “It’s just as beat up as his truck. He doesn’t look like a guy that can afford an expensive ride.”

Mick didn’t like that. If Dredd was here, he was sure it wasn’t just to pay a nice little social call. The dude was royally pissed at Mick. Getting Dredd out of his little hidey-hole was no easy feat. This could be more serious than he thought.

“Well, at least it’s not a cop. Even an undercover cop wouldn’t drive around in that shitbox,” Vent said. “I bet that thing couldn’t chase down a go-cart.”

Muffled movement from inside the Airstream shushed them. The knob started to turn. Mick raised the BB gun. Chuck took a step forward, his big hands tightening into fists, while Vent eased back toward the car, the safety net if whoever was about to open the door tried to run away.

Mick gave Chuck a solemn nod that said, You ready for this?

The door swung open.

Mick shouted, “Get the fuck down, now!”

The man in the open doorway had his head pointed at his feet, fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants. He looked up at Mick and grimaced. “Put that goddamn thing away before you blow off that acorn you call a pecker.”