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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 4 (v.1) - Eight Weeks Later

Submitted: June 06, 2016

Reads: 67

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Submitted: June 06, 2016



Chapter 4

Eight weeks later


I watch Danny as he unwraps his leg. He sure is resourceful when he has to be. We’ve been living like outlaws the last few weeks. Danny found an old motel that doesn’t look to have any people in it. Mold and all, it’s been a haven for us while we sit tight and recuperate. Danny, boy scout he is, set his broken leg with two halves of a broomstick and the shirt off his back. Apart from the bruising you can’t tell which leg was the broken one. I smile at Danny as he examines his medical artistry.

I’d do just about anything for some painkillers,he says.

Same as any other day of the week, I chuckle. Danny hobbles over to where I’m sitting.

I think I’ll be all right to set out tomorrow, Fitz. Danny and I’ve been getting a plan of action together while we waited on his leg to heal. Danny doesn't think we can go home, at least not for awhile. There's two dead back in Tweakerville and the Chrysler is still parked outside a house full of God knows what. Danny doesn't think they'll buy our story, not with my history. They'll throw Danny in prison and stick me right back in the looney bin. We can't have that, Danny's not made for prison. We decided the best thing to do is get the Chrysler back and hightail it to Montana. Danny says there's enough open space there that they'll never find us, but I suspect he's itching to find that hick girl he'd been sweet on. I pick myself up and walk over to the food pile. Danny and I’ve had to do some collecting the last few weeks to stay alive. A little borrowing here and there, a little cultivating from the orchard down the road from us too. I grab a can of beans from the pile and work it open with the knife I took from Bill.

Tomorrow we’re gonna have to borrow some gas, says Danny.

Yeah, I say.



Danny’s more savvy than he let’s on. I’m watching with a grin as he looks all around real nervous before feeding the garden hose we found behind the motel into the gas tank of a black SUV we figured would have enough fuel for us to borrow a little. Danny sets down our means of collection at his feet. He fills the white bucket first and then the smaller things like the milk jugs we’d scrounged for in the motel dumpster and an empty handle of vodka. He doesn’t spill much and he only has to spit twice. Danny retrieves the hose and screws the SUV’s gas tank cap back into place.

Let’s get out of here, Fitz, he says. It takes us damn near an hour to lug our haul back to the motel. We gather the gas and what food we can into a shopping cart we’d commandeered a few days before and set out down the road.

Think it’ll be dark by the time we get there? Danny asks.

I know it will, I say. Up ahead we can see the pavement ending and the dirt road of Tweakerville taking its place. Danny, I say. Montana is a good distance away.

Yeah, says Danny.

What I mean is, there’s a lot of backcountry here we could hide out in.

I don’t think that’s all you mean, Fitz.

No, I say. It’s not. Danny stops pushing the cart.

So say what you mean, he says. I grab the cart and start pushing.

Come on, I say. We don’t have time to stand around.

Fitz, says Danny. If you got a better idea than Montana, go ahead and say so.

What’s the name of that girl, Danny?

What girl?

The one that moved away. Used to write you letters.

You know damn well what her name is, says Danny.

Where’d she move to again? I ask.

So that’s what you mean, says Danny.

I got no opposition, Danny, I say. I’m glad you’ve finally got around to going after her.

I got family in Montana, Fitz. My uncle lives there.

Ok, Danny, I say.

What, you got something else on your mind?

No, I chuckle. I can just tell when you’re bullshitting me, Danny.

What you mean?

I mean how are we gonna stay with your uncle? Your family hates me. They say I’m a bad influence, Danny, you remember why they sent you to live here in the first place don’t you? Danny gets quiet for awhile.

My uncle has a lot of property, he says. He doesn’t have to know you’re there.

And what about the girl? I ask.

What about her?

What are you gonna do when you find her?

Honest, Fitz, I haven't thought about it.



The sun’s been gone awhile by the time we see the Chrysler. I’m not sure if the mound of trash bags has grown or shrunk. Danny can’t take his eyes off the house.

Not our business, Danny, I say.

You think they’re still down there?

They’re dead if they are.

I feel bad, Fitz.

We can’t help them now, Danny, we gotta help ourselves. I push the cart up alongside the Chrysler. I pop the gas cap and start emptying the gas into the tank.

Hey, Fitz,stop what you're doing, says Danny. He rushes over to where I'm standing. Look, he says. I bend down to see what he's pointing at. A steady stream of gasoline is flowing out from somewhere in the Chrysler’s underbelly.

Well, shit, I say. We can try to fix it ourselves. We’ll have to check that garage for tools.

Fuck, Fitz, I don't think we should go in there.  Danny looks over his shoulder at the house. I pat his back.

If it’s too much, I say. You can stay here with the car and I’ll check for tools.

What about fingerprints?

What about them? Danny looks real nervous.

If you go poking around, you’ll get fingerprints everywhere, he says. It’ll make us look more guilty.

Danny we don’t have time to worry about that, I say. We already got fingerprints all over this place. We ate at the table, I’ll bet they’ll find DNA evidence. We slept in the bed, our hairs and skin fibers and shit, they’re everywhere, Danny. That shotgun out in the woods up there has my fingerprints all over it and it’s lying right next to a dead hillbilly.

Just be quick then.


I can hear Danny’s teeth chattering behind me as I walk up to the house. Something seems off as I get closer to the front door. I stop a few steps away, I can see it’s been smashed in. The wood around where the deadbolt should be is all splintered. I walk up to the door. There’s some scuffing near the bottom, boot marks maybe. I look behind me. Danny’s staring at me and not saying a word. I turn back and push the door open as quiet as I can. I reach out and trace the wall for a light switch. I find one and blink as the fluorescent bulbs above me flicker to life. The place looks like a car accident. I make my way through the debris and head for the basement door. Its hinges have nearly been ripped out of the wall. I peek through the open door into the black. I have no way of lighting the place up, my phone’s been dead for weeks and the light from the room behind me isn’t strong enough to make anything in the basement visible. I hold my breath and strain my ears in the unbreathable silence. Nothing breaks it. I gulp down the spit in my cheeks and continue my trek through what looks like a warzone. I stop at the garage door. The handle’s cold as ice. I twist and turn the thing and push my way into the garage. I throw the lights on and have a look around. It’s been torn apart like the rest of the house. Papers scattered over every inch of the concrete floor, toolbox overturned and spilling all over the place. The sliding door is up just like we left it and sounds and smells from the woods around the house fill the garage like a gas chamber. I have a look at the toolbox. I get down on my hands and knees and comb through the spillage. After a few minutes of sifting I give up. There's nothing useful here. I return to Danny empty handed.

Change of plans, I say.

We can't fix it? Danny seems worried.

We're going to have to gas up and haul ass into town. That leak is slow, but it's steady. We’ll have to find a mechanic before the gas runs out.

What about the gun? Asks Danny.

What about it?

It’s like you said. Your fingerprints are all over it. We should go get it before we leave.

Yeah, I say. It’s not doing anyone any good just sitting out there in the woods. I sit in the driver’s seat of the Chrysler as Danny pours a couple of the milk jugs into the tank. He hops in the passenger side and I fire up the car. We drive until we see the pickup truck off to the side of the road. I pull up next to the thing and leave the Chrysler running. I make my way through the woods. I stop short of the stinking mound of what’s left of Bill. I try not to pay too much attention to him, he looks pretty picked over. I have to dig around for the shotgun, it’s been covered up with a few layers of fallen oak leaves and it’s still pretty dark out. My hand knows it when it comes across the cold, metal frame. It feels heavier than before. I rush the thing back to the Chrysler. The sun coming up to our right makes strange shadows from the trees.

It must be about six in the morning by the time we get into town. We’ve been running on fumes the last half hour. Danny keeps looking behind him at the shotgun resting on the back seat.

That was a good call,Danny, I say.

I don’t like looking at it, he says.

That needle’s been on Empty for awhile now, we gotta find a place fast.

Take a left at that light, says Danny. There’s a garage at the end of the street.

The one that’s owned by all the spics?

Yeah, so what?

That place is a chop shop, Danny.

It’s the closest garage and we don’t have the fuel to get anywhere else.

Well let’s hope those spics don’t mind working for free.

You don’t think they’ll help us? Danny looks over at me.

I don’t think we can give them a choice. Danny looks over at the back seat.

You don’t think we’re going to use that, he says.

I already used it once. This chop shop isn’t going to be giving away free samples, Danny.

Let’s not get in more trouble than we’re already in.

You can stay in the car, Danny. I’ll handle it. I turn left and speed toward the garage. There’s not much activity on the outskirts of town, not this early in the morning. I swing the Chrysler off the street and into the lot behind the garage. There’s one lone spic carrying a box. He turns around pretty quick when he hears me coming. I throw the Chrysler into park and reach back for the shotgun. Danny’s closing his eyes and pressing his palm to the side of his head. I step out of the Chrysler and steady the shotgun at my hip. The mechanic bends and sets the box down at his feet.

Ingles? I ask. The mechanic frowns at me and raises his hands above his head. Ingles? I ask again. The mechanic shakes his head. I nod toward the Chrysler. Repara, I say. The spic shifts his eyes from me to the gun to the Chrysler. Mira, I say and tap my foot against the Chrysler’s underside. The spic hesitates for a moment before stepping toward the car and ducking his head to have a look at her belly. Rapidamente, I say. Por favor.

Chupa mi verga, he says.

I don’t know a lot of Spanish, I say. But what little I do know, I didn’t learn from no school. The spic is glaring at me. Repara, I say. Ahora. O chupa mi verga.

It takes the mechanic much more than a comfortable amount of time to finish his work on the Chrysler. He keeps disappearing beneath the car and squirming out to grab more tools. I keep the gun on him the whole time, my eyes constantly darting to the streets. It’s still very early and only one car drives past us. Finally he rolls out from under the Chrysler. He rises to his feet and wipes his hands on his pants.

Danny, I call out. Come put some gas in the tank. The spic stares at me the whole time Danny steps out and pours the white bucket of fuel into the Chrysler. I squat down and check for leakage. Satisfied, I stand up and nod to the mechanic. Gracias, I say as I hop into the driver's seat. I rest the shotgun out the window as I pull away. I keep it on the mechanic until we turn the corner.

Was that necessary? Danny asks.

Of course it was, I say.


© Copyright 2018 Evan James Devereaux. All rights reserved.


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