Six Bad Things Part 25

The front pa.s.senger door opens right behind me. Sid! I fling myself to the floor between the front seats, twisting to land on my back, thumb groping for the safety. I land hard and my head whaps the driver's seat and my vision rolls a couple times like a TV with the vertical hold out. Sid climbs into the pa.s.senger seat I've vacated, the stubby camping shovel in his right hand.

--Dude!

My thumb clicks the safety. I'm waving the pistol up and down like a conductor's baton, trying to track Sid as he flips up my eyeb.a.l.l.s over and over.

--Chill.

I pull the trigger and a bullet whangs through the roof of the bus, followed immediately by three or four more. Danny, the incredible a.s.shole, has set the trigger weight at an insanely high sensitivity, and the pistol jumps in my hand, the recoil of each round triggering the next. The blips in my vision roll around once more, and stop as Sid pushes back, tumbling out the door like Rolf did. Time to go.

I crane my head around and reach for the steering wheel to pull myself up, and am just in time to see Rolf's arm stretched through the open driver's door, his hand s.n.a.t.c.hing the keys from the ignition.

--No!

I grab at the keys, snag the cuff of his yellow s.h.i.+rt, and press the barrel of the gun against his wrist.

--I'll blow your f.u.c.king hand off, Rolf. Drop the f.u.c.king keys.

The bus rocks. Sid again. I turn, bringing the gun around. Rolf pulls free, Sid brings the flat of his shovel down on my right foot and ducks back out of sight before I can get off another shot. This is not working. My little plan of kicking Rolf out of the bus and driving off is not working. I stay low and edge back until I hit the bench seat. The throbbing in my head and left thigh has been joined by one in my right foot.

I peek left and right through the open front doors. No sign of either of them.

--Rolf!

--Dude?

He's still outside the driver's side.

--Toss the keys in and then I want you both to walk over in front of the bus where I can see you.

--Dude, no f.u.c.king way.

--Rolf, I am going to come out there and just shoot you guys. Now throw in the keys and get where I can see you.

--Dude, you know we have a gun, right?

Uh?

--Like, Sid had to shoot that deputy with something, right, dude?

My stomach drops.

--Bulls.h.i.+t. Why didn't he just shoot me?

--Dude, because I don't want to.

Sid, still on the pa.s.senger side.

--Bulls.h.i.+t.

BANG!.

I duck.

--That wasn't at you, dude. Just to, like, prove it, you know.

Bad plan, Hank, very bad plan.

--So, dude, toss your piece out and we'll all chill and get back with the program.

I get on my hands and knees and crawl around the bench seat, into the back of the bus. I find the Anaconda where I stashed it under a loose flap of carpet, and stick it in the pocket of my pullover.

--Dude?

I edge up onto the bed where I hid earlier, staying flat so I can't be seen through the windows. I grab the handle that opens the rear window, push the little b.u.t.ton at its center, and twist.

--Dude?

Is he a little closer? I shout.

--I need to think!

I push the window and it lifts up and out.

Sid calls.

--Brah, don't do this, man, don't f.u.c.k this up. You know, you so know how important this is to me. I'm all, I'm all . . . please, dude.

I let go of the window and springs draw it open. I lever myself up and over the window's lip, roll out, and drop to the ground. The landing jars my squishy brain and blackness strobes at the edge of my vision, then recedes. I crawl the first few feet, the sand dragging at my clumsy limbs, then get into a low crouch, stumbling away from the bus, trying to keep it between me and them.

--DUUUUUDE!.

I hear them behind me, climbing into the bus. I drop flat on the ground, worming around so I'm facing the VW. I hold the pistol out, line up the sights with the open rear window of the bus. Rolf's dreadlocked head appears in the window. I have a shot. I drop the sights and pull the trigger. The bullet dimples the body of the bus and Rolf disappears.

--Dude! No good, man.

--You guys f.u.c.k off right now. It's over.

--Dude. It is not over.

--Rolf, I got more than a few rounds left. You want to rush me? Wait me out till daylight when anyone can see us? It's over. Take the bus and get going.

--We had a f.u.c.king deal.

--Not anymore.

Silence. Then the front doors shut and the bus's engine starts. The running lights blip on, the bus moves forward a couple feet, stops, and the pa.s.senger door opens. Sid steps out.

I draw a bead on him.

--Get back in, Sid.

He walks to the back of the bus.

--I'm gonna shoot, Sid.

He stops, stands there, bathed in red from the taillights.

--This is wrong, Henry. We should all be, like, working together. We can do things together. It's no good being alone, dude.

--Get back in the bus or I'm gonna shoot you.

--Dude, so ill.

He turns and shuffles back through the sand, head hung low. He's climbing back into the bus.

--Sid!

--Dude?

--Try not to hurt any more people. It's wrong.

--Whatever.

He gets in and slams his door. The bus heads for the highway. At the edge of the blacktop it pauses, the headlights come on, a blinker blinks, signaling a merge onto the empty road, and the Westphalia pulls away, the sound of the Allman Brothers spilling from the open back window. "Whipping Post" trailing into the distance.

I stand there, alone in the desert with two guns.

JUST TWENTY miles to Vegas, and I may not be able to make it.

Walking through loose sand in the dark with a gunshot wound in your left leg, a swelling right ankle, and a concussion, is an ordeal. Thirty minutes into the hike I'm exhausted and I've smoked my last two cigarettes. I stumble into an embankment, falling into loose rock, and jarring my head. Again. I wait a moment for my vision to clear.

I remember Russ, remember dragging him around, his head getting knocked over and over after I had already smacked it with a baseball bat. The way his speech started to slur, the way he silently died. I need to stop falling down.

I crawl up the short embankment, and grab onto a steel rail. I've tripped over the tracks of the Union Pacific.

I pick my way over the tracks and down the opposite embankment and find a two-lane local road. I look in both directions. The road is long and straight and has a culvert running parallel to it. I walk along the edge of the road, making better time, the aches in my foot and leg easing a bit. I pa.s.s a road sign. I'm on the County 6 East, six miles from Sloan. Great. Sloan. Not that I know what I'll do when I get there.

I'm getting cold. I stuff my hands into the front pocket of the pullover along with the two cold hunks of steel. Then I hear a sound building behind me and look over my shoulder. No headlights, but it sounds like a diesel is back there. I edge down into the culvert and lie on my stomach. I can feel a vibration going through the ground. Oh. I flip over and see the headlight of the locomotive coming up the track. Train. I could hop a train. Do these tracks run into Vegas? Where else would they be going out here?

It's hard to tell how far away the train is, but it must be pretty close for me to feel its vibrations. And it doesn't look like it's going all that fast. I climb out of the culvert, hustle as best I can to the tracks, and crouch there. Yeah, this should work. The light gets brighter. The train gets bigger and louder, taking its time, chugging closer. Bigger. Louder. Closer. Bigger. Bigger. Uh. A mult.i.ton, yellow and black monster of steel slams past at sixty, buffeting me in its diesel cloud, shaking the earth like a quake and leaving me clutching the rocks on the rail bed, in awe at my utter stupidity. I get to my feet, still shaking, and watch the train disappear in the night. Well, that was an interesting way to almost kill myself.

A mile later I come to a place called Erie, find the same train sitting on the siding, creep up to a car loaded with Nissans, and climb on. Sometimes, even I get lucky.

THE TRAIN pulls out five minutes later and I spend the next half hour huddled between the nose of one Pathfinder and the rear of another, and try to expose the least possible amount of my flesh to the wind of our pa.s.sage. When I feel the landscape open up around me in the darkness, and the deafening thunder of the train rolls out across the desert, I stick my head out. Up ahead I can see the apocalyptic glow of Las Vegas, the spear of light from the top of the Luxor shooting into the underside of the cloud cover.

Soon, we are pa.s.sing through the kind of gritty neighborhoods you expect to find bordering a rail line. I see street signs like Blue Diamond Road, West Warm Springs Road, West Sunset Road. None of them are on the very short list of Vegas place names I have in my head, most of which have been culled from Viva Las Vegas and the one trip I took out here when I was in college. Then it's there, The Strip, a couple blocks off to the right. I can't see much, but, even ten years after my only visit, I know that's the place.

We pull into the Vegas rail yard. The train is slowing now, but not much. Doesn't matter, I have to get off before I find myself in a locked yard patrolled by Union Pacific security.

The train can't be moving faster than twenty as it pulls in to the yard and I fling myself from the edge of the railcar. I hit, bounce, flop to the ground, and roll over and over in the rocks, praying that the loaded guns in my pocket don't go off. They don't.

I sprawl on my back, watching the strange oyster glow of the sky swim around, wis.h.i.+ng desperately that I could stay here until someone comes along from UP maintenance to scoop me up with a shovel and toss me into the bed of a truck with the rest of the rail-kill. But I have things to do. I creak to my feet, and limp away from the tracks and around the corner of the wall that surrounds the yard. The signs at the corner tell me I'm at East Charleston and Commerce Street. I close my eyes and collect my thoughts one by one and stack them up where I can look at them.

I need to get the money to keep Mom and Dad safe. I gave the money to Tim. Tim has gone missing. But I do know Tim's address. Hey! I know Tim's address! It hasn't been beaned out of my brain. I can go to Tim's and . . . do something! Great! OK. I need a map. I walk into the middle of the empty intersection and look up and down the streets, and see, several blocks away on Commerce, the bright sign of an ampm.

I LOOK like s.h.i.+t. I do not need to see myself to know this, but I take a look in the wing mirror of a parked car just to be sure. I have a cut over my right eye, sticky with clotted blood, my hair is matted with sand and soot, my clothes are torn and filthy, and my hands are sc.r.a.ped and black with the greasy dirt of the train. Wait a minute, what am I worried about? An ampm? In this neighborhood? I am far from the worst case they've ever seen in there. h.e.l.l, they've probably had worse tonight alone.

I walk into a land of fluorescent light and Muzak Christmas carols. The pimply kid behind the counter looks up from his comic book. He looks at me hard. Maybe I look even worse than I thought. Oh, f.u.c.k, Hank, you don't care what you look like, you care about people recognizing you. How did I forget that? Oh, yeah, brain hurt bad. The zitty kid is still looking at me.

--Yeah?

I gape at him.

--You can't use the bathroom. For customers only.

I don't need the bathroom. I need. Oh, c.r.a.p, what do I need? I look around the store. What did I want? No clue. I reach in my pocket and feel around. Guns: two. Check. Cigarettes: none. Check. Cigarettes! I need cigarettes. I take the empty Benson & Hedges box from my pocket, walk to the counter, and show it to the kid. He finishes the page he's reading, puts down his comic, and looks at the crushed box.

--Benson & Hedges?

I hold up two fingers, and he reaches up to the rack above the counter, grabs two packs.

--Seven even.

I hand him a hundred. He takes it and holds it up to the light, then rings in the sale. I take my smokes and the change and he picks up his comic.

Cool, I've achieved something. He lowers his comic a bit and looks at me still standing there.

--What?

Huh?

--You need something else, hombre?

Uh?

--Yes? No?

I shrug.

--So get lost then.

Lost! I look around the store again, and see the maps on the magazine rack. I grab one of Vegas and hand it to the kid. He slaps his comic down on the counter.

--f.u.c.king A. Three ninety-five.

I walk out of the store, map in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and get blinded by the headlights of a car as it pulls up to the pumps. I head for the light cast by a street lamp, and sit down on the curb. I open the map and run down the lists of street names, looking for Commerce. I find it and trace it until it runs into the intersection with West California where the gas station sits. OK, this is a start, I know where I am. I smudge some grease from my finger onto the spot so I won't lose it. Now, what is Tim's address? s.h.i.+t! I had it before. I know where Tim lives, and his address is? Oh, f.u.c.k me!

I'm cold and tired and lost and I've had enough and I want, I want, I want to call home. I've got a phone. But I can't call home. I can't do that to them.