Chapter Seventeen

Mick sat on his haunches in the shadows, watching the Airstream. All the lights were on. Tom Jones belted out ‘It’s Not Unusual’, the Welsh singer’s voice echoing between the dense trees.

He rubbed his thumb along the BB gun’s trigger guard. This wasn’t safe. One of those Melon Head freaks could come up behind him and he’d be dead before he could pull the trigger. Not that a BB would do much good. At best, it would only slightly delay the inevitable.

If there were only a way to let them know what he planned to do for them. They had some ability to understand. How else had Dredd managed a peaceful coexistence with them? Mick could be just as useful to them, if not more. He’d been leaving dead animals and packaged meat he’d shoplifted from the supermarket all around the clearing. When he came back each day, it was gone. Maybe that was a sign that it was working. It was impossible to know for sure.

As much as Mick despised Dredd now, he realized their similarities. Hopefully, the Melon Heads did, too. First and foremost, it was important to find a way to save himself and his friends. Second, his future was about as dim as the darkest corners of the Airstream. Lording over the Melon Heads and keeping the town safe was a better prospect than any other of his imagined futures. From Fennerman to Dredd to Mick. It was like a succession of popes or presidents. In a weird way, it would make him special. If only Dredd were around to teach him what to do.

Dredd. Where was that bastard? Mick had spent days scouring the back alleys and woods of Milbury, though he was smart enough to steer clear of the forest around Dracula Drive. He wasn’t suicidal, though he bet Chuck would disagree if he could see him now.

Come on, Dwight, you fat prick. Bring your drunk ass outside. I have a present for you.

His mother and stepfather had been out earlier. He assumed they were at a bar or maybe pawning what little they had. Money was always tight and Dwight didn’t appear to be in working mode at the moment. Mick’s mother sometimes waitressed at the diner, but it had been a long time since she took an order. Something about an argument with the other waitresses and how they were dividing the tips. Tact was not her forte.

No matter where they spent their day, he was there to watch them roll in about nine. The big Cadillac bumped into a tree before it came to a stop. Dwight and Mick’s mother stumbled out of the car, Dwight in loud drunk-laughing mode. He slammed the trailer door shut and a minute later, Tom Jones had started. They were now midway through his greatest hits album. Mick had heard it a thousand times. It was his mother’s favorite and had more skips and pops than he could count. Mick was not a fan of Tom Jones, though he could appreciate the revenge brutality of the song ‘Delilah’.

“I felt the knife in my hand, and she felt no more,” Mick muttered. That was pretty badass coming from some Vegas crooner who wore pants tight enough to see the wrinkles in his ball sack. Mick would have thought he was a homo if not for all the panties he got thrown at him. He bet old Tom was up to his eyeballs in free pussy.

Experience taught Mick that his mother would pass out before eleven. She drank harder than Dwight and was always the first to call it a night. Once she was snoring loud enough to scare even the bats away, Dwight would stumble out and smoke a joint, usually one stolen from Mick’s stash that he spent so much time making fun of. Asswipe.

While they were out, Mick had slipped a fat blunt in his less-than-secret hiding place, knowing Dwight would find it. Now it was only a matter of waiting for him to spark up. Fuck rabbits and squirrels. If he wanted to gain the trust of the Melon Heads, and save his own ass, he had to go for bigger game. He couldn’t think of anyone more worthy of their hunger than Dwight. Sure, there were others (he’d spent an hour making a list that was now tucked in his back pocket), but Dwight held a special place at number one.

The crickets were making such a racket, Mick wanted to scream at them to shut up. There was nothing peaceful about being out in the woods. He missed living in an actual house on the outer edge of Milbury. It was in a crap section of town, but at least it had honest-to-god plumbing and room to move around. And he liked having neighbors and cars rolling down the street and people playing the radio and partying late into the night. It made him feel like he was part of the greater world. After his father died, no, killed himself because he was a selfish prick who obviously didn’t think about the shitty life he was leaving his only child, his mother lost the house and gained a rusted Airstream and Dwight. There wasn’t even any insurance money to see them through the worst of it.

Man, he wished he had Vent’s father’s rifle. As easy as it would have been to borrow it for the night – the freaking thing wasn’t even locked up – he didn’t want to take a hot, steaming dump over his friend’s kindness. People thought Mick was an uncaring sociopath, but they were only half right. He chuckled softly when he thought that. Could a sociopath care, or did that negate one’s sociopathy? Who the fuck cared? Labels were for adults to make them less afraid.

He checked his digital watch, pushing the little button that lit its face. Almost eleven thirty. He hadn’t heard his mother in a while now. Where the hell was Dwight?

As if in direct answer to his question, the trailer door opened and Dwight came into the frame. A misstep brought him crashing to the ground. It took him a while to get back up, his equilibrium hampered by all the booze sloshing around his brain.

Mick plucked the BB gun off the forest floor and held his breath.

Mumbling to himself, Dwight took a few faltering steps while digging in his pocket. He collapsed into a lawn chair. It was a miracle the cheap thing didn’t break. An orange flame flickered and died, flickered and died.

“Fugging lighter.”

Mick rose from his hiding spot. He was still blanketed in darkness. Even a sober Dwight wouldn’t see him.

Though the crunching of leaves was a dead giveaway.

Dwight paused and looked around.

“Whoosh there?”

Mick froze.

“Fugging animals,” Dwight muttered. He worked at the lighter again. The blunt finally caught the flame and he inhaled deeply.

Just a few more hits, Mick thought. He wanted him drunk and high. The BB would only stun him for a moment. He needed Dwight incapable of fending him off.

Dwight took another toke. And then another.

Oh yeah, he was nice and mellow now.

It was time.

Mick rushed out of the darkness and fired a round. It hit Dwight dead center in the chest. He saw his T-shirt jump when the BB slammed home.

“Hey!”

Dwight tried to jump up, but he was wedged in the chair. He ended up right back on the ground, wearing it like a tutu.

Mick pulled the trigger again. This one went wide, pinging off the trailer.

Fuck! Calm down and aim for his head.

Exhaling, Mick adjusted his aim. Dwight flailed about in the chair, not making himself an easy target.

Mick didn’t hear the trailer door banging open. He was so fixated on Dwight, he’d even blocked out the irritating crickets.

He pulled the trigger multiple times, hoping one or more would get Dwight in the face.

His mother shrieked and dropped to the ground.

“Baby! Are you all right?” Dwight and the chair tipped over as he tried to reach out for Mick’s mother. He landed on his side. They were face to face in the leaves and dirt.

Mick’s heart went into overdrive. He dropped the gun and ran.

“Mom!”

Dwight jerked his head up and glared at Mick. “What the fuck did you do?”

Mick dropped to his knees and went to help his mother up. “Mom. Are you all right?”

As he turned her over, the light emanating from the small window above them illuminated the red hole where her right eye used to be. She felt too heavy in his arms. He shook her, trying to get her to wake up.

“Mom? Mom!”

He didn’t notice Dwight extricating himself from the chair. He didn’t see the blow coming until it connected with his temple, nearly knocking him out. Mick dropped his lifeless mother and rolled backward, smashing his head against the trailer.

“Look what you did!” Dwight shouted. The horror of the past few moments had instantly sobered the man. “You killed her.”

“No. I didn’t.” Mick rubbed the knot forming in the back of his head. He was having a hard time bringing everything into focus.

Dwight felt for a pulse on her neck and wrist. He even went so far as to slap her cheek so hard, Mick winced. “She’s dead.”

Mick felt the world sliding out from under him.

She couldn’t be dead. All he had were tiny BBs. He’d somehow shot her in the eye, and yes, the eye was gone, reduced to leaking pulp, but there’s no way it killed her.

Dwight kicked him in the chest. He felt his heart stop for a terrifying moment, and then the air whooshed out of his body.

“You no good waste of life,” Dwight railed. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

A meaty fist clocked Mick in the jaw. Mick’s face hit the ground. He tasted dirt. He tried to reach out for his mother, but Dwight stomped on his hand. He looked up at his stepfather, his vision wavering.

“Better yet, I’m just going to kick the living shit out of you. Then I’m calling the cops and I’ll enjoy watching you spend the rest of your life in prison where you belong. You know what they do to guys in prison who kill their mothers? Heh. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Dwight brought his leg back to deliver another crushing blow. Mick did the only thing he could. He flattened himself on the ground and rolled under the Airstream. He heard Dwight’s foot connect with the solid frame. A string of f-bombs followed. “Stay there like the rat you are. It’ll make it easier for the cops to drag your ass away.”

As hard as it was to think, Mick was sure of one thing: Dwight was in a bind. There was no phone in the trailer. Dwight would have to drive into town to call the cops. He knew the second he got in the car, Mick was going to get out from under the trailer and take off. And Dwight was too goddamn fat to get Mick out before he went for the cops.

Mick watched Dwight pace back and forth, threatening him with every step. It all became dull white noise. Whenever Mick’s gaze fell on his mother’s cooling corpse, a physical ache pierced his chest that had nothing to do with the kick Dwight had delivered. She’d never been mother of the year, shit, she may have been on the top ten of worst mothers in Milbury, but she was all the real family he had.

And he’d killed her, not Dwight.

If he ever needed proof that there was no god or justice in this world, his mother’s one-eyed, blank stare was it. Dwight’s cursing and rambling was just the cherry on top.

“Come out and be a man for once,” Dwight said.

“Fuck you.”

“You’re the one who’s fucked, mother killer.”

Hatred boiled over in Mick. He wanted to grab Dwight by the throat and chew his Adam’s apple out and spit it back in his face.

That’s just what he wants you to do. He needs you out from under the trailer.

Mick bit his cheek until it bled. He welcomed the pain. It kept him focused. And he deserved it.

Dwight’s goading stopped at the sound of shuffling in the surrounding underbrush.

“You bring one of your lowlife friends with you?” Dwight said. “I know you’re out there. You want to share a cell with your buddy? Come on out and maybe I won’t tell the cops you helped him. You’ll owe me one, big time, but you won’t have your shit pushed in every night when you roll over in your narrow cot.”

Four sharp metallic thumps made Mick jump. He smashed his back into the underside of the trailer.

“Agh, Jesus,” Dwight wailed.

Footsteps erupted from every side. Mick peered out and saw a dozen or more bare feet come rushing at Dwight.

“No! Get back! Stay away from me!”

He saw Dwight turn and run for the trailer door. Suddenly, Dwight’s feet and legs disappeared. Several seconds later, his body landed on the ground. Mick had to clamp his hands over his ears to drown out Dwight’s piercing screams.

In the dim light, he watched the Melon Heads gather around Dwight’s writhing body like seagulls descending on scraps of food tossed off the side of a fishing boat.

“Get off me! Get off me! Please! Gaaaaah!”

One hand grabbed his bottom jaw and pulled until it cracked. It reminded Mick of the sound walnuts made when he broke them open. Fingers drove into Dwight’s eyes. Another pale hand dug inside his mouth until it got hold of his tongue, yanking it out with a wet tear. The stench of fresh, hot blood hit him hard in the face. Mick thought he was going to throw up.

He caught glimpses of deformed faces and heads as they dipped into view to savage Dwight’s body. Grim satisfaction bubbled in the back of Mick’s mind, but the visceral terror of the feasting massacre kept him from reveling in the moment.

Any sense of victory was short-lived when the Melon Heads turned their attention to his mother.

He slammed his eyes shut as they made quick work of her, but he couldn’t block out the sounds and smells of their desecration. Mick pressed his face into the soft, sour earth, crying into its embrace.

Please make it stop. Please make it stop.

He willed himself to black out, but his body and mind betrayed him.

He didn’t know how long it took until the sickening sounds of their moaning and chewing and sucking stopped. They would come for him next. As much as the thought of being eaten alive horrified him, a part of him thought he deserved it. It was the only way to think when death was so near. The only way to come to any sort of peace with himself.

Any second now, he expected to feel hands wrapping around his legs and ankles, ready to drag him out.

It didn’t happen.

His mother’s and Dwight’s bodies were lifted up and out of his field of vision. Meat and pieces of organs slipped out of them, plopping on the hard ground. The Melon Heads shuffled away.

They can’t take her!

But they could. Mick was powerless to stop them.

A wide and hideous face dropped under the trailer. Mick covered his mouth to stifle the scream that wanted to rip through his throat. The Melon Head looked him up and down. Blood caked its face. It curled a lip, its tongue darting out.

“P-p-p-lease,” Mick stammered.

Instead of reaching for him, the Melon Head shot back up and joined the others after gathering the loose organs.

Mick trembled under the Aistream until dawn, and even then, he was too horrified to get out.