The Ravaged, page 23
Words pass back and forth about where they’ve been. Where not to go. Catching out. Getting stuck on trains. Getting chased by yard bulls. Camping beneath bridges and overpasses. They share their candy bars and jerky and nuts and chips. Bottles of water. Converse about how they’ve lived. Survived without constraints. Anne listens, rapt. This is real freedom. Belonging to a real family. She vows never to be kept down again.
Doc looks Cinnamon in the eye and asks, “Tell me why Dredd is no more. I mean, we all know the guy was a maniac.”
Doc’s friends all chuckle at that.
And Cinnamon tells him, “He was. Why I never stayed more than a day or two at his encampment. But the conversations we had during each visit kept painting a worsening scene. And no one would step up.”
Doc laughs. “He always bragged about being a radical in college. Bitched about handouts, then wanted a handout. You know, always wanted to preach but not do.”
“Wanted to be a ruler, boss everyone around,” Cinnamon tells them. “Once I saw the writing on the wall, I split. Those that stayed just got blinded and beat down.”
Doc says, “When you realize what you bought into, you’re trapped.”
“And everyone was afraid to speak out. Why I kept my distance. Kept passing through. It was a like a rest area for traveling.”
“You knew better. Saw through his lies.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want others to keep getting hurt by his actions.”
“You were smart,” says Doc, the bright feather in his derby hatband bouncing with every nod and shake of his head. “Kept your distance.”
“I did. Just made friends with those in his little flock. They didn’t have anything else. Then I met Anne, brought her in with me. I warned her. But she already saw through his ways and didn’t buy into his words. And she was strong enough to fight back.”
“Sounds like a new leader.”
“I’m no leader,” Anne puts in. “Just want a family.”
Doc grins at her. “Well, looks like you got one, for life.”
Looking around at everyone, Anne realizes that they all have a story. A place they arrived from. Leaving behind their abusers. Fathers who beat them. Mothers who left them. Brothers and sisters who bullied them. Some had good home lives; they just didn’t want what that home suggested. Didn’t want the American dream, whatever that was. Everyone made their own interpretation.
HUNTER
Secrets. Everyone had them, especially his father.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Blake had told him. It seemed that everyone but Hunter knew about their connection. His words had echoed in Hunter’s mind all night as he lay sprawled out on the bunk bed. Nugget and Itch stayed up, drinking Coors Light and munching homemade bison jerky, passing words with Purnell.
Come morning, he was out of the shower, wound cleaned and a new bandage on the knee. A blown tire wasn’t an issue, but the replacement for the bent rim was going to take a while to get delivered, even if they managed to overnight it. Nugget had offered his bike to Hunter, saying he would stay behind, get the rim, and replace the tire. Fix everything and meet up with Itch and Hunter down the road. Tara said that would be fine with her and her father, that Nugget could stay for as long as it took. Hunter could even meet with him back here on his way home.
Now, hauling ass through Utah, the heat rises from the road as the sun climbs over the mountains. The road curves. Miles roll by. Time counts down. Hunter wonders what else his father had kept hidden from him after all the years he was believed to be on the road, traveling and working. Bringing home stories. Life lessons from afar. From encounters with people he met and helped. Hunter supposes he will never know.
The landscape has a desolate beauty. Great sandstone towers rise from the desert floor. A bright green line of cottonwoods marks a seasonal streambed. An atmosphere of changeless calm. Little vegetation, just the vastness of blue overhead. It is something the eyes never tire of, and it delivers a breath of positivity to his senses, cleansing the mind.
Throttling down, Itch and Hunter pull off at a middle-of-nowhere gas station off I-70 for fuel, some water, and a piss.
Footing out the kickstand, taking off his helmet, Hunter misses the iron. He hasn’t lifted weights all week. Thinking that maybe after sewing up the details of his father in California, he’ll find a gym. Get the blood flowing. Get a good pump. Stepping from his bike, he takes a long look at the big red Pegasus from the building’s glory days as a Mobil gas station, sometime back in his childhood. A Route 66 sign in the window reminds Hunter of something out of a movie like From Dusk till Dawn or The Getaway. He’s waiting for the sheriff to roll up wearing a Smokey hat and mirrored shades.
They park beside the retro-looking gas pumps—old-school, with the latch on the side, metal housing, real counters, nothing digital. They walk into the store, the door jangling the little bell over their heads.
A sweet rush of cold air hits Hunter and Itch in the face. Counter to the left. Cigarettes lined overhead. Behind the counter, an attendant in his midtwenties sits on a stool holding his phone up in front of him, thoroughly engrossed in thumbing a message to someone somewhere. It seems everyone is connected by a smartphone.
“Busy day?” Hunter asks.
“Huh?” asks the attendant. Wearing a ball cap on backward, hair stringing out from beneath it. He wears a blue T-shirt with “Billabong” across the chest.
Off to the right are rows of chips. Jerky. Potted meat. Nuts and candy bars. Everything is packed in tight. Coolers straight back in the rear, beside the teensy bathroom. Itch hits the head first.
“Customers. You had many today?” Hunter asks, trying to make small talk.
While the attendant works out a response, he walks to the coolers, opens the door, and grabs two bottles of water.
“They come and go. Out here it’s a slow death. Some days, there’s plenty; others, it’s a big minus. Don’t make me no difference—get paid the same regardless of who trespasses.”
“I hear that,” Hunter says, eyeing the lunch meat and cheeses in the cooler.
Behind Hunter, the bell over the door rings. A kid walks in. He seems cautious, even leery, of the scene he’s just entered. Sizing the area up. He has on a faded Soulfly T-shirt. Hole-worn jeans. Black Converse high-tops. He walks the isles in search of something to lift. Hunter recognizes it right away. He glances at Hunter, looking nervous. Approaches him. Nods. Sizing him up, taking in the ink on his arms.
“Cool tats.”
“Thanks.”
At the counter, Hunter is waiting on Itch when the attendant lowers his phone.
“Hey, that shit on the shelves ain’t free. Take it out of your pocket.”
Hunter turns to the kid, who pulls a package of Reese’s Cups and a Twix from his pocket. Hunter feels sorry for him. “Grab what you want, kid,” he says. “I’m buying.”
“What do you want in return?”
“Nothing.”
At a closer glance, the kid looks a wreck. Sweaty locks. Dirt beneath his fingernails, as if perhaps he lives out in the desert beneath a rock somewhere.
Coming from the bathroom, Itch says, “Already made a buddy, huh?”
“Something like that.”
The kid grabs some chips to go with his Reese’s Cups and Twix. A couple of Monster Energy drinks from the cooler. Placing everything on the counter, Hunter tells the attendant, “I got all of it. And I’ll need two fill-ups out on the pumps. Here’s fifty. I’ll get my change when they’re topped off.”
After paying up and leaving the store, Hunter and Itch open their tanks, release the gas pumps, and start filling their motorcycles. They load bottles of water and some nuts into their saddle bags, and each chug a bottle to quench their thirst. The kid leans against the building as he downs a Monster drink and shoves two Reese’s Cups into his mouth at once. Drops the wrapper on the ground.
After they top off the tanks as high as they can without sloshing on the paint job, Itch goes in and gets the change.
Outside, the kid is chomping away, his cheeks packed like a chipmunk’s. He tells Hunter, “Them’s some badass bikes.” A crumb of Reese’s falls from his mouth.
“Thanks. You from around the area?”
Washing his sugar rush down with the Monster, he says, “Yeah. Hitched up here. Live down the road a ways. You guys part of a gang or some shit?”
“No, just passing through. Headed to California.”
“Ever been to Sturgis?”
“Few times.”
“Bet that fucking rocked.”
“It’s had its moments. You need a lift back home?”
“Yeah. Think you could give me one? I’m just down the road a few miles.”
Hunter looks at Itch. “You mind?”
Itch shakes his head. “I’m good with whatever you’re good with, dude.”
Hunter says, “I’m Hunter. This is Itch. Hop on.”
Kid finishes off his Monster. Crushes the can, drops it on the ground. “Oh, I’m Cory.”
“Nice to meet you, Cory. Think you could pick up your trash? There’s a can right beside the door.”
Hesitant, Cory says, “Yeah, I guess I could.” Bending down, he picks up the can and candy wrapper and tosses them into a black drum with a plastic liner.
Getting on the rear of Hunter’s bike, Cory hangs on to the back of the seat, just in front of the chrome sissy bar. Heeling the stand up, Hunter cranks the bike to life.
Warm wind pushes against Hunter’s face. Giving the kid a lift reminds Hunter of his father helping a runaway girl. She was fed up with her home life. Her mother had died of cancer. Her father worked the barges, was never home. He was trying to provide. The girl stayed with her older sister, her boyfriend, and their crying newborn. But she hated the small, cramped living conditions. So she’d decided to run away, fend for herself. Hitchhiking across the USA. When Hunter’s father gave her a lift, she told her story. She was hungry. Hank had bought her supper. Paid for a separate hotel room. And over the days, he had talked her into returning home. Gave her a lift on his way back to Indiana. He convinced her that the road was no place for a sixteen-year-old. The hunger she had already experienced was nothing compared to what awaited if she stayed in the wind. The world would chew her up and spit her out.
Hunter had to wonder if maybe it was a half sister he never knew about.
Tapping Hunter’s shoulder, Cory yells in his ear, “Turn down the next dirt road.”
Slowing down, hanging a left down a wide dirt track liberally strewn with loose rock. Everything is flat, with nary a tree or bush. Not even grass—just scraggly purple nightshades growing on bare dirt. They roll up to a frame house with a corrugated metal roof. Some boards are graying, others chipped and showing white. Windows are boarded up or covered with cardboard. An air conditioner hangs from a window, dripping moisture, creating a dark spot on the dead earth. Electricity runs from a pole off away from the house. Rusted steel tanks lay about the yard, held in reserve for some unknown or forgotten purpose. A camper stands on legs off to the side of the house. In the distance, a school bus with blown-out tires sits on its axles, surrounded by four or five cars that look beyond any hope of repair.
Downshifting and throttling down, they make less noise—just a low, soft rumble. Everything in sight is glossed and smudged with the aura of defeat. And Hunter wonders what he could possibly do to help this kid living in such squalor and despair. They come to a stop, and Cory gets off the bike. “Appreciate the lift.”
Hunter doesn’t want to leave him here. “You’re welcome. Parents home?”
Cory looks nervous as a cat in a dog pound. “Yeah. Dad’s inside.”
Shutting his bike off, Hunter glances at Itch, asks Cory, “Mind if we come in?”
“I don’t know,” Cory hedges. “He might be sleeping or something. Not fond of strangers.”
“He don’t mind if you’re hitchhiking?”
Dead sagebrush lines a dusty concrete pad. A not-quite-bald tire leans beside the cracked and peeling red front door. Cory twists the knob. The door creaks open. Stepping inside, Cory leaves the door ajar. Hunter and Itch follow several feet behind him, feeling a creeping sense of unease. Hunter tries not to imagine what’s inside. And Itch starts whispering, “Don’t like this. Don’t like this. What if there’s dead bodies? Maniacs. Cannibals sitting in there waiting on supper?”
“Pipe it down, Itch.”
The dead air reeks like a thawed freezer. The thin floorboards give under their weight. The only sound is that of the little overmatched window unit. The house is in a state of neglect, looking as if no one inhabited the interior. Trash is thrown around as if the place were a squat for junkies or meth heads. Balled-up newspapers. Dirty dishes, stacked without organization. More dishes fill a sink the shade of beef broth. Clothing tossed and piled wherever. Kitchen counter and table are lined with pill bottles and Ziploc bags of pills.
What the fuck? Hunter asks himself. His Spidey senses are flaring. “Where’s your dad?”
“Not sure. He was here when I left. Like I said outside, probably taking a nap.”
Itch walks to the counter. “What’s the deal with all these pills?”
“It’s what he does.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” The kid won’t meet his eyes.
“Hold up,” Hunter says. “No one’s judging your situation. But what’s going on here, what it looks like . . . I can’t leave you here.”
“You’ll take me with you?” Cory says, the eagerness in his voice hard to miss.
“I’ll get you outta here. This situation. These conditions. I’ll get you away from this. It’s not right, and it sure as shit ain’t safe.”
From the dark interior of the house comes the heavy clomp of feet, the click of a hammer.
“Ain’t taking my boy nowheres. Cory, what kind of scooter trash you bringing in here?”
The guy has hair as messy as a hawk’s nest, unshaven, neck beard, no shirt. Religiously pale.
“Bikers,” Cory says. “Gave me a lift. Bought me some snacks down at Elmer’s.”
“You some kinda narcs, working with the local pork? ATF? The judge?”
The man’s eyes are bottomless pits without a glimmer of mercy. Hunter says, “No. Just giving your son a lift.” He studies the pistol. Taurus revolver. Six shots.
“Well, looks like you gave it. What you in my home for, snooping where you got no concern?”
“Wanted to make sure Cory wasn’t alone.”
“Really, that how it is?”
The guy looks three-steps-from-the-sanitarium insane. As if things are breaking apart in his brain.
“Yeah, that’s how it is. Kid shouldn’t be home without some supervision.”
The guy looks ready to either cry or explode. “Trying to tell me how to raise my boy? My own kin? What, you the supervision police?”
“No. but—”
“But what? You got kids?”
“No, I don’t. I—”
“Oh, there you go with this ‘I’ bullshit. If you don’t got no kids, then how the fuck you gonna tell me how to raise mine?”
“Not trying to tell you anything. I just don’t believe—”
“Don’t believe in what? God? Satan? Freedom? Well, guess what. I don’t fucking care what you believe, motherfucker!”
Anyone can see that Itch is getting tense. Balling his hands into fists. Hunter feels it. Recognizes it. It’s pulsing through him as well.
“What’s your boyfriend’s problem? Why’s he making fists? You want some of this, you bristly-headed son of a bitch?”
Everyone has a breaking point, and in Hunter’s estimation, Itch is right about there. Hunter feels it too. Violence is coursing through them. Through their veins, organs, bones, connective tissue. Hunter feels as if he had just stepped into a real-life version of some cheesy horror flick. He’s just waiting for a chainsaw or a meat clever to come from somewhere.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to offend you. Just concerned for Cory’s safety.”
“What do you think? You waltz into someone’s home, look at how they live. Critique them. Then run the fuck away? I don’t fucking think so!”
Feet stomp across the floor. The man comes raging toward Hunter, gun raised. Pushes the muzzle against his temple, turning his head to the side. “Real tough guy, huh, until someone puts a gun in your face. What? What you gonna do now, Mr. Tough Guy? Huh?”
Seeing the gun, homing in on the situation, Hunter is reminded of his father, teaching him about fear and weakness. Hank had been selling a home security system to what seemed a hardworking middle-income couple, when something was said that offended the husband, who in turn got mouthy with his wife. Derogatory. Hank stepped in to defend the woman. Calm the husband, who then felt inferior. Went to the bedroom and came back waving a pistol at Hank, who didn’t waver. Didn’t back down. As he told Hunter, “You stand up to weakness.” It was why the guy pulled the pistol on him: he knew he was in the wrong, thought he could intimidate Hank. But he didn’t.
Recalling that now, Hunter tells the father, “Never said I was a tough guy. I told you, was just making sure Cory wasn’t alone. Didn’t know his situation.”
Anger continues to seep into every fiber of Hunter’s being. People have choices. Sometimes, they don’t mesh with morals, with what we view as right or wrong. Having a pistol pointed and poked into your face—there is nothing right about that.
Hunter is fed up. Time is standing stock-still. This guy breathing on him smells like bad feet that had stepped in vomit. Spitting when he spoke. Strung out. Then something breaks internally. Itch hollers, “Get that fucking gun outta his face!”
