Lot Lizards Page 9

  Footsteps.

  Bill tensed but could not move, held for a moment in the invisible grip of whatever hunkered inside the trailer.

  The footsteps drew nearer and Bill stepped back into darkness, became invisible.

  "Some kinda bullshit," a gravelly voice mumbled as a short fat man walked into view, kicking slush with his boots.

  Bill inclined his head forward and sniffed the air delicately. The man smelled dirty.

  He walked between the black trucks and stopped, facing the first one Bill had approached. He knocked three times on the trailer—one...two-three—then waited. Silence. Then he turned to the other trailer, lifted his hand, knuckle crooked, and—

  —he froze. His raised hand trembled and he licked his dry lips anxiously, then repeated the knock. Two knocks responded from inside and the man took a quick step backward, shuddering as he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. Turning, he walked toward the back of the trailer, muttering, "Goddamned freak, anyways."

  Bill backed further into the darkness and watched the man step into the aisle behind the trucks and look in both directions, head bowed against the snow. As the man turned, Bill gathered all his strength—which, even in his weakened condition, would be superior to that of this fat, huffing man—and moved.

  The man was face down on the slushy ground between the trailers in a heartbeat with Bill straddling him, clutching his soft round shoulders.

  "What the fuh—"

  "Shut up," Bill whispered.

  "Whattaya want? I ain't got any muh—"

  "Just shut up and listen. What's your name?"

  "Claude. Carsey."

  "You drive one of these trucks?"

  "Yuh-yeah. Yeah."

  "What are you hauling?"

  "Cuh-caskets. Y'know, for dead people. Coffins."

  "What was the knocking for?"

  "Whuh-whuh-what?"

  "You knocked on the trailers. Why?"

  "Nunna yer fuckin' bidness."

  "Who knocked back? Who's inside the trailer?"

  "What the hell d'you—"

  Bill got off him, rolled him over and pressed a knee to his chest clutching his collar. When he saw that the man was looking up at him, Bill snapped his mouth open, extending his fangs.

  "Oh-oh, sweet Jesus God, no, no, yuh-you're, you're one of 'em," the man whimpered. Bill felt his flabby body quiver beneath him. "Please don't hurt me. Please. I-I swear... I'll...do whatever you want. I swear."

  "What do you haul in the trucks?"

  The man looked puzzled, confused. "But...you know. Don't you?"

  "Tell me."

  "Girls. Girls who're...like you. 'Cept they're not in there now. They're working."

  "Working?"

  "Yeah, the lot. Y'know. Lot lizards? They hook. And then they... well, they get what they need. And they get us what we need. Money. And whatever else they can find."

  "Who knocked in there just now?"

  The confusion was replaced by fear. The man even seemed to lose some of the color in his face. "You...don't know?" he breathed.

  "I'm asking, aren't I?"

  "But...you're one of them. How could you not—"

  Bill pulled him close until their noses were almost touching. "Don't fuck with me, Claude. Answer my question. Who knocked in the trailer?"

  "Buh-but she'll kuh-kill me if I—"

  "I've got news for you, Claude. I'm gonna kill you anyway. So just think of this as a final confession. Who is she? What is she? Why is she still in there?"

  Claude's eyes darted around and he whispered, as if afraid of being overheard: "We call her their queen. She's like them, but...worse. They're human. Or...they were. Before they...changed. She changed them. And she's not human."

  "Why does she stay in the truck?"

  "Because she's—" Claude shuddered violently and looked sick. "—she looks...too different to go out. The girls bring people to her. Usually kids. She likes 'em young. She says they're—" His face twisted briefly. "—fresher."

  Bill stared at him for a long moment. He wasn't lying. There were so many questions Bill wanted to ask him, but there was no time; soon, there would be more screams like the one he'd heard earlier. "Does everyone they bite become like them?"

  "Nuh-no! God damn, you know what that'd mean? They'd be everywhere! No, they just take what they need and leave 'em. Usually they're unconscious and they wake up later with a little mark somewhere feelin', y'know, hung over."

  Anger burned in Bill's chest and he shook the man, growling, "That's a fucking lie! One of them changed me!"

  "Really! It's the truth! I don't know what happened to you, but that's the way they do it. Really!"

  He still seemed to be telling the truth; he was too terrified to lie. Had the girl told the truth? Had they really broken down and gone for a while without eating? Without feeding? Bill could understand how an overwhelming hunger could make her go too far, take too much.

  "Can they be killed?" he asked.

  Claude's eyes widened. "Who th'fuck knows? /sure as hell ain't gonna try!"

  "Can they be stopped?"

  "Wuh-well...they get really sick if they get near garlic. Just—" He cackled nervously. "—just like in the movies."

  "How do they—"

  "Dad?"

  Bill dropped the man to the ground and jerked around with a gasp. Jon stood at the end of one of the trailers, shivering in the cold.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Bill hissed. "I told you to stay inside!"

  "I couldn't." He told Bill about what he'd heard and seen in the back room of the shop after following Adelle there.

  "Well, go back!" Bill snapped. "Now. Get inside."

  Jon simply stared at his dad, jaw quaking. "What are you doing, Dad?"

  Bill opened his mouth to respond but simply stared at his son silently.

  I was just about to kill this man, he thought, that's all.

  Jon stared at him with brows furrowed above pained eyes, as if Bill had done something that hurt him. Bill looked down at Claude and saw quivering fear. He closed his eyes, ashamed; suddenly it didn' t matter what Claude Carsey was—an asshole, yes, a monster, definitely, but still a human life—Bill had sworn to himself that he would not kill.

  But, aahhh... the temptation...

  Bill stood and lifted Claude easily by his collars, slamming him into the side of the trailer. "How do they die?" he growled.

  Claude looked as if he were about to cry. "I'm tellin' you, man, I don't know!" he rasped, spittle dribbling over his lumpy lips. "None of 'em've ever died. And that—" He glanced fearfully at the the trailer behind Bill and lowered his voice to a breath. "—that thing in there...she's been around for...oh, God, I don't know...she's old, man, I'm tellin' ya. Hundreds a years...maybe thousands, for all I know. I'm tellin' ya...they don't—" He stopped and swallowed hard, his head bobbing; then he hissed, "—you don't die!"

  Never loosening his grip, Bill turned to Jon, who had not moved an inch, as if the snow had frozen him where he stood; his eyes had doubled in size and his mouth hung open. "I thought I told you to go inside, boy!" Bill snapped.

  Jon shrunk back at the anger in his dad's voice and Bill bit his lip, hating himself for barking at the boy.

  "What is it, Jon?" he asked, his voice softer this time.

  "A man...in the shop. He's been bitten. I...thought you should know."

  Bill nodded. "Yeah. Okay. You go on back inside with your mom, now."

  "She's in the shop, too."

  In his shock, Bill's grip on Claude's collars loosened. "What?"

  "The freeway's closed, so they can't call an ambulance," Jon said. "They called for a doctor or nurse to come help this guy, so Mom went to see if she could do anything."

  Bill's arms weakened and almost fell to his sides, but he pressed his hands to Claude's puffy chest. The thought of A.J. wandering around outside the restaurant horrified him. He whispered, "You mean...your mom is—"

  Pain exploded in his groin and sh
ot up into his abdomen like lava from a volcano.

  Claude's knee.

  His abdomen imploded and all the air left his body.

  Claude's fist.

  Bill fell to the icy pavement and curled into a groaning ball as Claude's heavy footsteps faded across the lot.

  Bill's fingers left trails in the snow as they clawed the ground and he rose slowly with a series of pained grunts. He could still hear Claude puffing as he ran away. Gathering his strength and ignoring his pain, which was fading rapidly anyway—one of the more acceptable changes he'd noticed in himself since being bled—Bill stood, leaning against the trailer.

  Jon was at his side, clutching his arm. "Dad! You okay, Dad?"

  "Yuh-yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." He looked across the lot and could see Claude weaving his clumsy way between the trucks. He squeezed Jon's shoulder and said, "Stay here, you understand me? Just stay here!"

  Bill ran, his feet slapping the snow with a rhythm more than twice as fast as Claude's, but Claude, who was headed for the side entrance to the truck stop, surprised him. The heavy man ducked behind a truck, his feet skittered precariously a moment and, for a bit, Bill lost him. He could still hear Claude's footsteps, but he couldn't see him, and for a moment wasn't sure in which direction he was headed. Then Bill spotted him.

  Claude had doubled back and was heading for the rear of the truck stop; a dark narrow alley ran between the back of the building and the shop and Claude disappeared around a corner.

  Bill headed after him again; his pain was completely gone and forgotten now and he was able to run even faster, rounding the back corner and closing the distance between himself and Claude in seconds. He dove for the man's broad back and Claude hit the slushy pavement with a muffled grunt. There was a resounding crack when Claude's forehead slammed into the ground.

  Bill rolled the heavy man over with ease and stared into unconscious eyes; the lids were half closed and only glassy whites were visible. A bloody lump was rising quickly on Claude's forehead. When Bill tried to revive him, he got no response, although Claude still had a heartbeat.

  "Shit," Bill sighed. He looked back over his shoulder, concerned for Jon's safety; he wanted to milk as much information from Claude as he could, but didn't want to wait around for him to regain consciousness. He looked around frantically, not knowing what he was looking for but spotting something that might be helpful.

  To his left there was a small rectangular window level with the ground. Upon closer inspection, he found that it was open a crack. He looked into the darkness inside and saw stacks of boxes and crates and a narrow wooden staircase that led to a door that appeared rather heavy. He only hoped it was kept locked and that no one would come downstairs anytime soon.

  Hooking his arms beneath Claude's shoulders, Bill dragged him to the window and, with little effort in spite of his weakness, shoved him headfirst through the window. There was a clatter and a crash, then silence. Bill looked into the window to see Claude lying in a heap on the cement floor surrounded by tumbled boxes and a shattered crate. But once Claude regained consciousness, Bill knew it wouldn't be hard for him to stack some crates back up to the window and climb out. He looked around again.

  A filthy garbage dumpster that had once been white stood against the side wall of the shop. Its lid was propped open by the surplus of garbage that rose above the dumpster's lip and hung over the sides.

  Bill rolled it across the alley, its wheels screeching with effort, and turned it up on its side directly in front of the window with less than half an inch between the dumpster and the wall. The lid squealed as it swung open and garbage spilled over the ground; the dumpster came to rest with a metallic thump.

  Stepping back with his hands on his hips, Bill looked it over to reassure himself that Claude would not be getting out the window...although there was the possibility that he could just wake up and go upstairs.

  "What the hell you doing back there?"

  Bill spun toward the voice and saw an enormous figure standing at the end of the alley, sillhouetted against the lights of the truck lot.

  "Huh?" the large man bellowed. It was the voice of a black man, a strong resonant voice. "What're you doing?" He started toward Bill, his big arms held out slightly at his sides as if he were prepared to defend himself. "And what's this mess? What the hell did you do with the damned garbage, man? Huh? Whatta you think you're—"

  "Dad!" Jon cried from the lot. "Daaad!"

  The man stopped and turned toward the cry.

  "That's my son," Bill hissed, rushing past the man, who turned and followed him, growling, "Whole fuckin' place is falling apart tonight..."

  Adelle heard Jon's cry, too.

  She was leaning over David Pike, who had calmed down in the last few minutes as Adelle and the doctor washed and tended his wound. Deputy Cody had just announced that he couldn't stay any longer when she heard the distant, fearful cry. Adelle froze, listened and heard it again an instant later.

  "My God," she breathed.

  "Excuse me?" Dr. Kane said, blinking.

  She listened. The voice cried out again and there was no doubt in her mind that it was Jon, but...was he calling for his dad?

  Adelle shot to her feet, dropping the bloody rag she'd been using to clean Pike's wound, and clutched Deputy Cody's elbow. "My God, that's my son," she said.

  Cody looked both puzzled and irritated and started to pull his arm away when he heard the voice, too.

  She shook his arm and said firmly, "That's my son, something's wrong with my son," as she started out of the room, pulling Cody with her...

  Bill moved fast, weaving around the trucks, much faster than the big man behind him, although the heavy footsteps were trying to keep up.

  Stupid, Bill thought, what a stupid, stupid thing to do, leaving him alone like that when you know they're—

  He ducked between the two Carsey Bros, trucks and stopped so fast that his feet slid over the icy pavement.

  Jon had done as Bill had told him; he'd stayed where Bill had left him. But now he was not alone.

  It was dark between the two trucks, but Bill could see its eyes glistening wetly and the long dark nails that extended from its fingers stood out against the pale skin of Jon's throat. Jon's eyes were wide with panic and his chest jackhammered up and down with rapid breaths.

  "I could kill him in an instant," it said in a soft, sibilant voice that spoke with the accents of countless languages and seemed slightly garbled, as if there were something in its mouth. Teeth, perhaps. Lots and lots of malformed teeth. "Or I could bleed him. Feed on him. Make him just like you. Would you like that?"

  Bill considered rushing the thing, wrestling Jon away from it, but he couldn't take his eyes off that black claw, the tip of which pressed delicately on Jon's throat, puckering the flesh.

  ...she looks...too different to go out, Claude Carsey had said.

  "God, no," Bill whispered. "Don't do that. Please."

  Footsteps crunched through the snow, stopping behind Bill, and the big man muttered, "Oh, Lord in heaven."

  "Then bring Mr. Carsey back," the voice hissed, like a needle cutting across ice.

  "He's...he's okay."

  "I don't care about that. Bring him back."

  "Lord in heaven," the man said again, repeating it over and over under his breath.

  "Give me my son," Bill said, trying to sound firm, authoritative.

  The voice laughed. Rather, it was more of an animal-like sound that resembled a laugh than actual human laughter. "What do you want? Why do you follow us?"

  Bill's mouth worked, but nothing came out. He didn't know what to say; all he knew at the moment was that he wanted his son back.

  "Do you want to bring us harm?" the voice asked with a sarcastic lilt. "Do you want to bring harm to your own kind?"

  "I-I...I'm not your kind."

  "But you are. You are."

  There were more footsteps then, coming closer at a jog. And a voice.

  "Jon? Jonny?"


  Bill felt weak with horror. It was A.J.

  "Jonathan, are you all ri—" She rounded the back end of one of the black trucks and froze, staring open mouthed at Bill, then at the thing that held their son between them.

  A sheriff's deputy stepped up beside her, his hand fumbling for his gun once he realized what he was seeing.

  "Okay," the deputy said, raising the gun, "just hold it there, just hold it a second. Let the boy go."

  They can't see it, either, Bill thought.

  The thing shifted in the darkness—it was an unnatural darkness, even darker than the shadows, that seemed to enfold the creature like a blanket—and Bill could see the glistening eyes turn to the deputy, who was stepping forward cautiously.

  "You hear me?" he called. "Just let the boy go and we'll work this out without anybody getting hurt, okay?" Moving closer, he added firmly: "Right now." Closer. "I'm not playing with you." Closer still...Bill was going to speak up, warn the deputy, but what could he say? He was too late, anyway.

  Something—Bill suspected it was an arm—whipped out of the darkness so fast that it was little more than a blur and struck the deputy in the chest. Ribs cracked like dry twigs and the deputy left the ground as if caught in a powerful wind. The gun tumbled away from him as his arms and legs flew out in front of him and his body shot across the aisle to the next row of parked trucks. His back slammed into the back of a trailer and he slid to the ground, crumbling into a rag-doll heap in the snow.

  A.J. screamed. For a moment, she looked as if she were about to dive forward and attack the thing.

  The big man behind Bill gasped, "Holy shit, what the hell is—"

  Bill reached back and clutched the man's arm. "Get that woman out of here. Now."

  He was around the truck in seconds, standing behind A.J. and holding her shoulders, trying to lead her away. He pulled her backward to the other side of the truck where her cries faded.

  "Give me my son," Bill said, "and I'll do whatever you want."

  "Join us," the black voice hissed without hesitation.

  "What?"

  "Travel with us. Hunt with us. You are endangering too many—yourself as well—by traveling alone. You are inexperienced. Ignorant. We can teach you. I can teach you. After all," it whispered slowly, almost sensuously, "you are one of my own."