Chapter Six

Despite Heidi’s high, whining protests, Chuck made her drive them all to his house so they could pick up his car. He told Vent to stay with her at Hanson’s arcade where they could be seen. When Vent asked him why that was important, Chuck said, “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”

When Marnie said she was coming there was no denying her.

Mick sat in the passenger seat as they rumbled down Fletcher Street in Chuck’s Buick Skylark. It was a hand-me-down from his grandfather and looked the part of an old-man car. It even still smelled like him.

They rode in silence, each lost in their thoughts, Marnie lying down in the back seat with her eyes closed but her legs crossed, the right bouncing off the left in a steady rhythm that had nothing to do with the music playing on the radio. One of the speakers had blown out last fall, so the stereo had been reduced to old-time mono.

The only reason Chuck had agreed to drive them was because he was sure he’d be the only one to stop Mick. Not from taking Dunwoody to the Melon Heads. There was no such thing as Melon Heads, no matter how many times the story had been told from generation to generation. Yes, there was a time he had wholeheartedly believed the urban legend and had even ridden his bike out to Dracula Drive – which was actually Wainscott Road – along with Vent, Mick and Nelson Santos, the only twelve-year-old boy in their class with an ear piercing. They dared to go where older kids said they would have been snatched up by the deformed band of Melon Heads living in the woods for generations. They had just watched Escape from New York and were high on what seemed like gallons of Hawaiian Punch and Snake Plisskin. The VHS, Nelson’s prized possession, had been played over and over until the magnetic tape was ready to give up the ghost. One of them had to sit inches from the television to keep adjusting the tracking. For that moment after the movie had ended, they felt like they could conquer anything. What better way to test their mettle than by taking a cruise down Dracula Drive? Granted, it had been mid-afternoon and without a cloud in the sky, but still, that was a place where deformed Melon Heads lay in wait for anyone stupid enough to traipse into their deep, dark and wooded territory.

The boys sang the Melon Head song as they rode.

Dare to walk,

Down Dracula Drive,

In day or night,

You won’t survive.

They wait in trees,

And hide below,

Hungry for people,

Too blind to know.

It was said the Melon Heads had lived there since the 1700s, the continuing offspring of a line of encephalitic, feral settlers who had been cast out by the founders of Milbury because they were deemed unfit, both mentally and physically. Best to let nature correct its mistake and leave them in the woods to their fates. Or there was the second theory that there had once been a sanitarium out here where the town line died in the late 1800s. Of course, there was the ubiquitous doctor who performed brutal experiments on the insane left in his care. What his goals were was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he had tried his hand at building the ideal man like others had attempted, some in esteemed institutions, during that time period. Eugenics back in the day was more than just an immoral pipe dream. No matter his intentions, things had gone terribly wrong. Each manipulation of his subject’s genetic makeup resulted in gross and horrible failure. His botched experiments, each one more disfigured and mentally incapacitated than the next, were kept in a locked wing of the sanitarium. That is until the night of the fire – because isn’t there always a fire? – when his bastard creations escaped, killing the doctor and everyone around him, fleeing into the forest and forgotten by society.

No matter their origin, they were still out there, hungry, angry, incapable of pity, defiant of fear, waiting. If you were lucky, a trip down Dracula Drive ended in the rustling of bushes and a Melon Head simply scaring you off with a growl. The unlucky might be chased, perhaps suffering a small injury as they swiped at you or threw things at you.

For the tragically unfortunate, there was no coming back from Dracula Drive. Your screams as the Melon Heads captured you with gnarled hands as unyielding as steel, fingernails sharp and deadly, would be heard by no one. Not a soul lived close enough to the Melon Heads to hear you. The only saving grace is that your terror would not last long. They would see to that.

Needless to say, Chuck, Mick, Vent and Nelson didn’t encounter a single Melon Head. Not even a growl from an animal skulking in the brush. They returned home victors, just as Snake had made it out of New York. They told their friends about their daring adventure and almost no one believed them. It wasn’t until Nelson had started embellishing on the story, talking about a feeling of being watched and seeing something tracking them in the woods, that ears started to prick up. Mick was only too happy to jump on the bandwagon, adding that a stick had sailed over his head and would have knocked him off his bike if he hadn’t seen it at the last second and ducked. Strange voices were heard muttering in a language that defied translation. Mick boasted he would have faced them if he’d had his BB gun. Maybe he’d go back someday and finish what he started.

Most kids thought Mick’s story was bullshit, but there was just enough in Nelson’s to pique their interest and believe the boys had bravely or stupidly plunged into Melon Head land. That’s when Chuck learned people were generally gullible and stupid.

Now, Mick generally wasn’t stupid, just prone to say and do dumb things. What made him think he would feed Dunwoody to Melon Heads? Had he been smoking weed laced with something? All that time out there in the trailer alone, on the verge of starving, was screwing with his head.

“Take a right there,” Marnie said from the back seat. She had propped herself up on her elbow and was looking out the front windshield with her one good eye.

“You sure?” Mick asked.

“I dated Chad long enough to know where he lives.”

Mick tapped his fingers on the dash. “Oh yeah. Right.”

Chuck slowed down to make the turn.

“It’s just three blocks down and then make a left on Rossiter.”

Not much further to go. Chuck pulled the car over and put it in park, but left the engine running. “Seriously, Mick, what do you plan on doing?”

He’d convinced his friend to leave the bat behind. Mick creeped most adults out, and at six-foot-four and two-hundred-fifty pounds, Chuck was a walking brick wall. It was why people called him Pink Floyd in middle school, when he was taller than every teacher thanks to an insane growth spurt between fifth and sixth grades. Neither of them needed a weapon to intimidate a flabby popcorn fart like Harold Dunwoody. Chuck didn’t want to hurt him, but he did want to put the fear of god and prison time into him. At least if he was with Mick, he could prevent him from doing something terrible that couldn’t be undone.

The cracked leather seat crumpled as Mick shifted. “Exactly what I said, man. You think I’m joking?”

“Uh, yeah, I do. I was with you when we went down Dracula Drive, remember? There was nothing there. Plus, we’re not kids anymore.”

“Exactly, there was nothing.”

Marnie rested her chin on Chuck’s seat back. “Tell him, Mick.”

“Tell me what?”

“That day we went there, did you hear or see anything?”

Sighing, Chuck replied, “Not a Melon Head in sight. Like any rational person would expect.”

Mick shook his head. “No, you’re not getting it. I noticed because I live in the fucking woods. There wasn’t a single bird, not a squirrel, shit, not even an ant, on that road. Which tells me there was something out there. Something that everything else was afraid of.”

“And the natural assumption is that it was Melon Heads?”

“It’s more than that, but that’s what clued me in to it all at first.”

“Tell him the rest,” Marnie said with the most animation he’d heard in her voice all day.

Mick squinted at Chuck, opened his mouth, and then wiped at his nose with a fist. “Nah, he’s not going to believe me.”

Chuck knew there was no sense trying to lie to Mick. “You’re right there.”

“But you will,” Mick said, wagging a dirty finger at him. “If you can give me just a little trust, you will.”

“I think we should go back and think of a better way, a realistic way, to get even with Dunwoody.”

Mick got in Chuck’s face. His breath smelled like stale weed and yesterday’s bologna sandwiches. “We’re doing this for Marnie and we’re doing this now! Why do you think she came to me? Because she knew exactly what would happen.”

Chuck looked at Marnie. “He’s right,” she said.

Both of them were out of their minds. Mick pointed at Marnie’s swollen cheek, the skin tight and shining like a black-and-purple-swirled marble. “You see this? Dunwoody did this. And that’s not even close to the worst of it. He doesn’t deserve a beating until he’s nothing but a grease stain. He deserves to be nothing. Disappeared. Forgotten. A fucking zero from here on, man. I’m doing it with or without you. I don’t know see how you can look at Marnie ever again knowing you ditched when you had a chance to do something right.”

Marnie’s fingertips brushed Chuck’s shoulder. She said, “I’m still bleeding.”

Chuck turned to look at her. Her eyes swam in tears. He barely recognized the girl he’d known the past seven years. When he was ten, he had a huge crush on Marnie, the girl who could seemingly do whatever she wanted, coming and going as she pleased. How many times had Chuck’s parents had her over for dinner? He couldn’t count the hours they’d spent watching Voltron and Battle of the Planets after school. She was like a member of the family, she’d been with them so much. Back then, Chuck was too young to understand that she was adrift, a latchkey kid and beyond, her parents too self-indulgent in their own issues to cook her meals or care if she was out well after dark. All he knew then, was for sure positive of, was that one day they would be married.

All that puppy love resulted in one quick peck on the lips when they’d played spin the bottle in Heidi’s basement the summer he’d turned eleven. Marnie developed early, grew up too fast, and soon he was watching Voltron alone.

But he still cared for her, maybe even loved her on a platonic level.

I’m still bleeding.

There weren’t going to be any Melon Head feedings, but he sure as hell needed to have a heart-to-heart with Harold Dunwoody.

Chuck put the car in drive.

* * *

“Marnie, you stay in the car,” Mick said. He told Chuck to keep the car running.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

The rage he’d been feeling over what had happened to Marnie had kept him humming. It was as if his nerves were plugged into an outlet, the current buzzing in his brain. He wanted – no, needed – to get revenge. Only when that hum was silenced could he go about doing whatever he could to take care of her and help her recover. No one messed with Marnie. No one. He wished Dunwoody knew what was coming and he was inside right now crapping himself.

Mick saw some of that rage in Marnie’s eyes, whatever anger could penetrate the wall of hurt that kept threatening to sweep her under.

Mick shrugged in quick and rare defeat. “At least stay behind us.” He looked over at the ranch house, paint fading, one of the gutters broken and dangling, the front yard about three weeks past its mowing due date. It was not the home of someone who gave a crap.

Son of a bitch has a house and lets it waste away, Mick thought. Maybe I should set it on fire and make him watch it burn. I bet he’d find a real quick appreciation for what he had after it’s a pile of ashes.

It was a great idea, but it had two flaws. The houses here were spaced too close together. Torch one and the rest would go up like tinder.

Second, nothing was cooler than handing the rapist fuck over to the Melon Heads. Nothing. He couldn’t wait to see Chuck’s face when it happened.

If it happens.

No, it will happen!

With towering Chuck beside him, he rang the bell. He could hear a TV on inside. It sounded like a game show. There was a lot of applause and bad music.

When no one answered, he banged on the door, pounding it as hard as he could.

“I think he hears you,” Chuck said.

“I want him worried.”

He was about to start kicking it with the business end of his Doc Martens when the door flew open.

Harold Dunwoody looked like he was at the tail end of one hell of a bender. His eyes were red and glassy, what looked like dried vomit caught in his week-old beard, and he stank something fierce. All he wore was a dirty white T-shirt with holes on the shoulder and blue-and-white-striped boxers.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, slurring and weaving in the open doorway.

“Is Chad home?” Mick said, careful to keep Marnie out of Dunwoody’s sight.

“Are you crazy banging on my door like that? I should call the cops.”

“I don’t think you’d want to do that,” Chuck said. “Though I’d love it if you did.”

Dunwoody lifted his head to take all of Chuck in.

Mick snapped his fingers in his face. “Yo, is Chad home?”

Running a hand over his face, Dunwoody said, “No, and who the hell are you?”

That’s when Marnie pushed her way between Mick and Chuck. Dunwoody leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You look like you need a hospital, young lady. Don’t tell me. You walked into a door.”

He did the worst thing he could have possibly done at that moment.

Dunwoody started to laugh.

Chuck beat Mick to the punch, literally. Bad breath and a torrent of booze, bile and chunks rocketed from Dunwoody’s mouth the instant Chuck’s fist connected with his belly. Dunwoody folded over, alternating between puking and gasping. Some of his filth got on Mick’s boots. Mick wiped it off by kicking the man in the ribs, leaving a yellow smear on his T-shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” Chuck bellowed. Mick couldn’t tell if he was alarmed by the fact he’d just walloped an adult or by the volume of vomit coming out of the man. Marnie had backed away, staring daggers of hate at the man.

“Help me get him in the car,” Mick said.

Dunwoody looked up, tiny red dots peppering under his eyes, with more burst capillaries to come if he kept heaving like that. “Whuh car?”

When Chuck didn’t move, Mick shoved his shoulder. “Come on, before anyone sees us.”

“Maybe that’s enough,” Chuck said.

The rapist pig was on his hands and knees. He clutched his belly, going stiff when the next wave of vomit exploded. This one hit hard enough to make him shit himself.

Mick was repulsed. There was no way he was letting all that stink and nastiness in the car. “Take him to the backyard.”

Chuck brightened, lifting Dunwoody under his armpits and keeping him as far away from his body as his arms would allow. Dunwoody muttered something and burped.

“What about the Melon Heads?” Marnie said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mick said, checking to see if any of the neighbors were peeking out their windows. This was a pretty apathetic part of town, but the down and out loved the spectacle of another man’s misery.

Chuck hustled down the side of the house and deposited Dunwoody on a picnic bench. The yard was way overgrown. Bags of garbage, birds and animals having poked dozens of holes in the plastic, lay strewn about.

“Now what?” Chuck asked.

Mick looked around and found the hose. “Turn that on,” he said to Marnie. He pulled the nozzle handle so it was on full blast, hammering Dunwoody with water. Dunwoody sputtered and almost fell on his back. “Now get up and turn around.”

He had his hands in front of him, trying in vain to keep the water from hitting him. “Please, leave me alone.”

“I said get up and turn around.” He aimed the nozzle lower, the jet stream pounding Dunwoody’s balls. It elicited a girlish yip. Dunwoody jumped from the bench, both hands protecting his crotch. Chuck grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around the way a parent twirled a blindfolded child before they took a whack at a piñata. When Mick saw the brown stain and sludge on the back of his legs, he almost puked. Pinching his nose, he hosed the feces away. Harold Dunwoody kept still, starting to shiver. It wasn’t exactly swimming weather at the moment.

Once he was sure most of Dunwoody’s shit was settling into the lawn, Mick tossed the hose. “Now let’s get him in the car.”

Chuck looked like the air had gone out of his sails. “Look, kick him around a little more if you want. That’ll be enough.”

Marnie said, “No, it’s not.” Whether she was faking it to make a point or really in pain, she winced, one hand on her lower abdomen. If she’d gone pale it would be impossible to tell through all the bruising.

Mick looked at Chuck and shrugged, as if to say, well, you heard what the lady said. He could see Chuck’s big brain going into overdrive, calculating all of the potential outcomes to their misadventure. That was the problem with Chuck. He always thought with his brain, never his heart. This was a big heart moment.

One thing that surprised Mick was the fact that all that puking and cold water hadn’t sobered up Dunwoody. He stormed over and clutched the back of Dunwoody’s neck. “Let’s go, asshole.” Dunwoody stumbled while Mick pushed him along. Marnie opened the back door of the car and Mick shoved him inside. Dunwoody started to yell. Mick punched him in the nose and wagged a finger in his face. “Not a word outta you.” Then he looked back at Chuck. “I’ll stay in the back with him. You know where to go.”

The key ring dangled over Chuck’s index finger. He sighed and got behind the wheel. “Promise me we’ll just take him back when you’re done with…whatever you think is going to happen.”

Mick smiled. “You have my word.”

Marnie got into the car slowly, pain etched all over her face.

“You okay?” Chuck asked, cranking the ignition.

She pushed her hair over her ear. There was a tear in her eye. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

All along the trek to Dracula Drive, Dunwoody moaned and complained that his nose was broken. He still smelled like shit. Mick kicked his legs whenever he got too close to him and had to roll down the windows in back. They couldn’t get to Dracula Drive fast enough.