For anyone that might be waffling on whether you might like the story, here’s a little sample of the world I created. The night the fun starts, Cain is at work in the kitchen at the Caravan club when a standard night takes a turn for the worse. The image above is what the Bing bot thinks Ted’s scrapyard looks like, and I gotta say iot’s not too far off from what’s in my head!
The night it all began…
“Order up! Table seven!” Cain slammed the bell on the pass-through as he slid the remaining two plates into what little space remained on the crowded surface. “C’mon, Gina. Shit’s gettin’ cold and I ain’t refiring for you again tonight!” He scanned the room for a second, noting the unfavorable expression on more than a few faces throughout the room before locating Gina, hard at work chatting with a table of her friends that had been there for hours. Taking up space and the occasional misplaced bottle of beer, they’d been the focus of most of her attention while paying customers sat and waited for their food to get cold. He shook his head and turned back to the flat-top behind him, deftly flipping three more burger patties to his left while he dropped a basket of frozen french fries to his right. “Fuckin’ typical. Six orders on the window, five more chits on the fly and this bitch has her thumb up her ass again.” He wrenched the fries from the bubbling oil and shook the basket, dropping it onto the latch rail to allow them to drain while he turned his attention to the patties that were beginning to char slightly. “Swear to god I’m gonna lose my shit!”
Gina’s face appeared at the pass-through, giddily unaware of Cain’s seething anger. “Hey, Chief! Can I get one nacho plate and some fries for Seth an’ them?” She snapped a well chewed wad of gum between her teeth and tilted her head to one side, smiling vapidly as Cain turned to face her.
“Call me Chief one more time and I’ll make you get your damn fries outta the fryer with your teeth.” Cain leaned over the cut line, putting his face nearly all the way through the pass-through as he pointed at the now cooling back up of entrees. “Get this shit off of my window and out to the tables it belongs to, or so help me I’ll make you wear it.” He turned back toward the burgers and slapped a slice of cheese on each patty. His mind locked on to the slur, prompting a festering anger he could feel moving from his chest out toward his extremities. Cain was no stranger to getting called out for his heritage. He’d grown up on the Jicarilla Reservation in Dulce, fighting for every scrap. He’d had his braid cut off in school when he was eight years old, and after being the only one to leave the bathroom it happened in under his own power, he never let anyone use where he came from against him again. Now standing six foot four and hardened by working day labor jobs to make ends meet, his imposing presence meant it didn’t happen much at all anymore. As he lifted each patty onto their buns, his arm started shaking, enough to cause one of them to slide off of the flipper and onto the floor. He stopped, stared for a moment at the now hair and crumb encrusted meat, his vision slowly tunneling as the adrenaline focused his senses on a single target at a time. He barely had the presence of mind left to drop the flipper and stomp off to the walk-in cooler, where a shelf of condiments bore the full brunt of his wrath. The masonite surface splintered and cracked more with each strike as he brought his fist down upon it again and again, envisioning every single person who had made him feel less than human because of his heritage feeling the force of each impact. It only took about a minute for him to bleed off the hate, and after a few deep breaths, he steeled himself and returned to the line.
Orders continued to come in throughout the night, and Cain fell back into a rhythm, the massive backlog of orders were cleared in about an hour. Even Gina seemed to have a second wind, running orders as they came out once the table her friends had occupied had gotten their fill. He took advantage of a slight lull in the melee to slap together a quick snack, cold cuts and cheese slices fashioned into a sandwich, before heading out the back door and firing up a smoke as he collapsed onto a weathered yellow milk crate. He felt his shoulders loosen as the smoke permeated his lungs, the faint taste of lighter fluid mixing with Kraft singles and cooked ham providing a sense memory that stretched back into his first nights in the kitchen. Chuck, the owner of the Caravan, had been in the kitchen at the time, and had brought him in as a dishwasher. He’d shown Cain everything he knew about running the line, taught him how to keep his knife in shape with a whet stone, as well as how to deal with the unique set of challenges that came with working in a bar in Tucumcari. Drunk and belligerent tourists, sex workers turning tricks or overdosing in the bathrooms, and the worst the methamphetamine trade had to offer. He exhaled, then took another quick drag before cramming the rest of the protein sandwich into his face, then stubbing the cigarette out and stashing the butt on the top of the doorframe. As he swung the door open, a familiar gust of fryer oil, cheap marinara sauce and pico de gallo washed past him, snapping his mind back into the game.
“Welcome back, sweetheart!” Chuck chided as he tore another chit from the printer, stabbing the paper into the rail above the window as he turned to face Cain. He cocked an eyebrow as Cain brushed past him, chuckling to himself. “That little speech of yours sure gave Gina something to think about. I ain’t seen her move her ass so much in a month.”
Cain shook his head as he reached for the chit, scanning the order and replacing it on the rail before reaching into the lower fridge for a steak. “I swear to god she’s gonna make me snap, man. Every night she drags the loser crew in here and feeds ’em free beer so she can score her shit at the end of her shift.” He slapped the cut beef onto the counter, pinching a few fingers of salt from his mise en place and giving it a fine dusting. “Then I get left holding the fucking bag back here with a window full of orders. Is she really the best you can do?”
Chuck peered through the pass-through, catching sight of Gina as she moved through the room. “No, not really. She’s the best I could find on short notice.” He flipped an empty cambro out of its spot on the back edge of the counter and bent down to grab its replacement from the fridge below. “Still, she fills the hole Tamara left when she peaced out. You ain’t still hot on that bag of daddy issues, are ya?”
“Hey, she’s off limits man. I thought we went through this already.” Cain slapped the steak on the grill as he spoke, shooting a glare at Chuck that gave the older man pause. “Look, I know she’s a little hard to take, but she’s working on it.”
“You sure about that?” Chuck answered, glancing toward the dining room just long enough for Cain to follow his gaze.
Cain stepped to the side from his station and spotted Tamara through the pass-through, doing her best to remain unnoticed as she slid into the booth next to Seth and the rest of Gina’s friends. Her tiny frame folded almost completely out of view as she cozied up to her source. Cain struggled as the memories of the woman he used to know belied the person he saw in the bar. Once a vivacious person that lit up the room with her smile and smokey laugh, Tamara had long ago fallen into a deadly cycle of use that swirled around Seth and his connections to the south of town. She had even tried to get Cain on board at one point, promising him the most mind blowing evening of no rules, no holds barred depravity he could imagine if he’d only loan her twenty dollars. Again. He considered it for a time, having heard from several sources in the bar about the effect meth had on your libido and boundaries , but in the end decided the price was too high. More than once he and Chuck had discovered a body in the bathroom at the end of the night. Most of the time they were naked and sometimes used to the point of irreparable damage to their lower intestinal tract, such that parts that should have been inside now protruded out, some just dead from a stopped heart. Every time he closed his eyes for months after each discovery, he saw Tamara in there, curled up on the floor, bleeding. Even though he knew this was a demon she’d need to fight on her own, he couldn’t help but feel like he had to at least try to help. He owed her that much, right? Still, he couldn’t escape the fact that there she was, slowly sinking under the table to try and suck one more loaner out of Seth. He turned back toward his steak, prodding it with his tongs as his body took over autonomously.
“Whatever Papi. Just don’t let it get in the way of gettin’ your shit done here, alright? Pay attention to the steak!” Chuck had smelled the initial wisps of burnt bovine flesh starting to emanate from the other side of the small kitchen, and had moved to Cain’s side. He watched as Cain lifted the slightly charred slab off of the grill and flipped it, revealing a less than appealing blackened crust. “See? This is s’posed to be mid-rare. Now, best you can do is a mid well. Best hope somebody comes in with shit taste buds in the next five, or you’re buying that one.”
“Fuck!” Cain’s shoulders slumped as he accepted the loss, then turned to grab another steak from the fridge under the line. Still feeling the sting of letting Chuck down, he forced himself to focus on the task, carefully seasoning the meat after blotting the moisture from it. He lifted the overcooked example from the grill and slid it off to the side before dropping the new one down in it’s place. The grill flamed up slightly when he dropped it on the center of the surface and he watched, intently as the flames curled around its surface, searing the edges a dark, chestnut brown. He shifted his attention to the fryer for a quick moment, tossing a handful of fries into a waiting basket before dropping it into the roiling cauldron of week old fryer oil that smelled like it would need to be changed at the end of the shift. He shook his head and turned back to the steak, , turning it not quite ninety degrees to allow the grill to create those marks everybody loved to see before flipping it to its uncooked side for the remainder of its stay in the flame. He checked the fries after another minute, then hung the basket on the back rail to allow them to drain while he prodded his masterpiece with the tip of his tongs. The flesh gave way just enough, so he pulled it from the fire and set it down on Chuck’s cutting board to rest. “Don’t touch it for five. Fries are done, anything else up there?”
Chuck looked at the clip above the window and shook his head. “Nothing yet. Looks like it’s starting to simmer down out there anyway.” He peered out through the pass-through, scanning the room for possible orders. Several tables with empty plates on them sat unattended while the occupants made use of the dance floor, while others supported an untold number of glasses filled with various and sundry drinks, and the occasional head of a passed out patron. He didn’t see anyone that hadn’t been there for at least two hours either, and decided it was probably time to start shutting down the kitchen. “Once you bring the fries up, start shutting it down. Gina can do the dishes tonight but I need you to get the garbage out and change that oil before close.” He stretched a hand toward Cain, grabbing the steel bowl of freshly seasoned fries as it was passed over, neatly sliding them on to a plate on his counter. The steak followed, along with a curl of parsley for garnish before the meal was set on the window to go out. “Order up, Table twelve! C’mon Gina, move your ass! I’d like to get home while my wife’s still warm tonight.”
“Don’t worry, boss! I’ve been keepin’ her nice and toasty for ya, just like you wanted me to” Cain chided, smacking his hips against the back prep counter over and over. “She loves it when I do this…” He barely had time to duck as an orange slice from the cut line sailed past his head and splattered against the tile wall, slowly sliding down toward the counter as Chuck fished for another.
“You keep my woman outta your mouth, ya little fag!” His second orange slice connected with Cain’s cheek, now red from laughter. “Or the next thing slappin’ your cheek is gonna be my dick, got it?”
“Ay, Papi, don’t make me all hot and bothered if you ain’t gonna put out!” Cain turned his backside toward Chuck and stuck it out while he bent over the prep table, doing his best to impersonate a Varga girl he’d seen on an old bomber somewhere.
“Jesus fuckin’ christ!” Chuck wheezed through gritted teeth and tears of laughter, “Shut that fuckin’ hole before you give me a heart attack, and change the goddamn oil!”
Cain laughed as he climbed down off of the prep table, keeping a wary eye out for more citrine projectiles as he turned to grab a stock pot from its spot in the corner. Chuck seemed to have an uncanny ability to detect and defuse tense situations before they became untenable. As he dragged the large pot over to the fryer, he went through the mental checklist that had been drilled into him during his first month at the Caravan, all those years ago. Turn off the heat, check. Shut off the gas valve, check. Screw on the spigot, check. Slide the pot under the spigot and crank the handle, check. A cascade of burnt, acrid oil spilled out of the fryer, filling the pot in less than a minute. He grabbed the rapidly heating aluminum handle with a folded towel and carefully dragged the oil out the back door and waited for Chuck to show up to lend him a hand. He grabbed the half-spent cigarette from the top of the doorframe and quickly lit it again, tilting his head to the side to avoid singing himself on the large, flicking flame from his Zippo. The drag hit his lungs like a welcome breeze, filtering through his body as the stress of the evening melted away. He leaned back against the dumpster, reflecting on the events of the evening. GIna screwing around for the first half of the night and allowing orders to pile up which put everyone into the weeds. Tamara handing out favors in exchange for a hit from that pile of human scabies, Seth. He inhaled deeply again, wincing when the filter melted in his lips as the cigarette ran out of paper and tobacco to burn. He spat the taste of burnt fiberglass onto the ground and flicked the butt out into the back parking lot, and turned back toward the door. Where the hell was Chuck? He considered trying to lift the massive cauldron on his own for a scant second before the reality of a hundred and fifty pounds of three hundred degree kitchen napalm set in. He headed toward the door, stopping just as his hand landed on the latch when he heard Chuck’s anxious voice pleading with someone inside.
“Look, just relax buddy, okay? The lockbox is in the office. I’ll get it for you, just don’t hurt anyone, alright?”
“Then fuckin’ move, ya sack of shit! Get the fuck in there and don’t be pushin’ any alarm buttons neither! I swear I’ll fuckin’ cap your shit if you so much as look at me funny!” Seth’s high pitched, gravel toned voice reached Cain through the door.
“Ah, fuck me,” Cain mused, all of the evenings anxiety returning to him in a single moment. He considered the door for a moment, but if he came through it he’d be in Seth’s line of sight for sure. He shifted gears and took off at a full sprint for the front entrance instead, ripping off his apron as he rounded the corner. He slowed when he reached the glass doors, composing himself as best he could before strolling in like any other paying customer. The bar looked the same as it always had, several regulars sitting in their normal spots while bobbing their heads to the tune the band of the day hammered out. A table of tourists laughed and cackled over whatever curiosities they’d found at the gift shop that day. Cain spotted a difference immediately, however. The table Seth and his friends had been sitting at now sat empty. Tamara was gone, and apparently so was Gina. He strained to see through the kitchen pass-through, just visible in the back of the room, but couldn’t get a read on the situation. He looked to the other side of the room and caught the attention of Harmon, the Caravan’s grizzled old bartender who seemed none the wiser to what was going on in the kitchen. Cain held his fist up to the side of his head with his thumb and pinky extended and mouthed the words, “Call the cops”.
Harmon nodded, and followed Cain’s gaze toward the kitchen. He picked up the phone from the bartop and dialed, cradling it against his shoulder as he motioned Cain over to the bar. “Yeah, it’s Harmon from the Caravan.” He looked to Cain for information, and continued after Cain’s impromptu mime performance explaining the issue. “Looks like we got someone tryin’ to rob the place again. Yeah, he’s got a gun. In the kitchen. Yeah, I’ll try and clear the place before ya get here. Thanks, Bobby.” As he lowered the phone and pressed the disconnect button, he motioned Cain closer. “They’re on the way. You think Chuck’s alright back there?
“Naw, man. Seth sounded unhinged. I doubt he’d ever try shit like this if he was straight, but he sounded high as balls. I don’t trust him not to slip and pop one off by accident.”
Harmon nodded and reached under the bar, sliding an old Winchester shotgun around the end and into Cain’s waiting palm. “Stick to the outside of the room so nobody sees ya. Don’t need no tourist heroes shootin’ the wrong guy tonight.”
Cain nodded, and stepped back to the wall, carefully edging around the room while keeping the long weapon close against his leg. He scanned the room as he went, wondering to himself where in the fuck Gina had gone, when it hit him. She’d left. All of them had. She must have told that piece of shit what the night’s take was, and split as soon as he made his move. He silently cursed her name before slipping down the small hallway that led past the bathrooms to the kitchen. He could hear both Chuck and Seth by this point, and neither of them sounded very happy.
“Where the fuck is it, fag? Don’t fuckin’ lie to me! I SWEAR I’ll fuck your shit up!” Seth’s shrieking had hit a fevered tone, as the meth in his system pushed him past any desire for reasonable discourse.
“I told ya, I don’t fucking know!” Chuck screamed back, his voice wavering as fear crept through his system, straining his vocal cords. “Look man, why the fuck would I lie to you? I got nothin’ to gain and everything to lose here. Somebody must have beat ya here, that’s all I can think of, alright?”
Cain shouldered the shotgun and used the barrel to slowly push the door to the kitchen open, revealing Chuck sitting on the floor with his back against the prep table, hands in front of his face in a futile attempt to defend against Seth’s gun. Seth, meanwhile, had two hands wrapped around the handle of a small revolver, his knuckles white from the pressure as he hunched over Chuck, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his body tried to deal with the effects of his last hit. Thankfully, he had his back to the door to the bar, and had no way of seeing what was coming until the barrel of the Winchester touched his cheek. “Drop the gun, Seth.” Cain said cooly, watching the man’s shoulders for any movement.
Seth froze for a moment, then slowly started to bring his hands toward his shoulders as he straightened up. In a flash, his substance induced bravado got the better of him and he flung his right hand in a wide arc behind him, trying to bring the gun to bear on his assailant. Cain reacted, pulling the barrel of the shotgun back toward his left shoulder while thrusting the stock forward and up, using the weapon to redirect Seth’s arm into the shelf above the line. This knocked the revolver across the shelf and onto the floor, out of reach. He stepped forward and brought the butt down hard on Seth’s nose, splintering the bone and releasing a rivulet of blood across his lips and chin as he fell to the floor, narrowly missing Chuck. Cain tried to take advantage of the moment and regain his footing. He brought the gun around again, but before he could draw a bead Seth’s right foot connected with his wrist, sending the gun tumbling over his shoulder. He wasted no time trying to go after it, instead focusing on the scrambling Seth who was already getting back to his feet.
Chuck didn’t miss a beat, sticking his leg out as Cain leaned into Seth, tripping the latter and sending him to the floor again. Cain pressed his advantage as Chuck attempted to grab Seth’s gun from the floor, bringing his knee into the man’s chest as they hit the floor together. Seth crumpled, and Cain brought his fist down several times in quick succession, landing his blows on the side of Seth’s head.
“Get his arms, hold that fucker down!” Chuck yelled as he scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking from the adrenalin as he leveled the revolver at the two combatants. Cain tried to comply, frantically grabbing at Seth’s wrists but coming up just short each time. Seth took advantage of the change in tactics and threw a hard right jab, connecting with Cain’s nose and sending him back and off balance. Seth scrambled back toward the door to the parking lot, no longer burdened by Cain’s knee. Chuck pushed past Cain and tried to fire the revolver at the fleeing man, but heard nothing from the pistol but a click.
“Empty? You tried to rob me with an empty fucking gun?” Chuck threw the revolver as hard as his arm allowed, glancing it off of Seth’s skull as he smashed the back door open with his body. The blow was just enough to cause him to lose his footing and miss his next step. He tried to recover, but his knee met the rim of the forgotten stockpot next to the oil dumpster, knocking him and it into a frantic ball of sizzling flesh and confusion. The still steaming oil splashed over his right leg as he fell, melting the fabric of his track pants to his skin before he had even made contact with the ground. He panicked, clawing at the waistband in an attempt to remove the pants as his leg began to bubble and smoke under the intense heat. As he pulled them off, a good amount of his own skin came with them, leaving bright red, wet swaths of exposed muscle behind. His addled mind, however, didn’t register the pain. Receptors blocked by the effects of the amphetamines in his system, he quickly got to his feet and ran, stopping only briefly to scoop his revolver from the asphalt as he headed into the lot toward the tired, rusting Mustang that had brought him to the Caravan that night.
“Cain! Get that cocksucker!” Chuck yelled over his shoulder, still unsure that the scene he had just witnessed actually happened.
Cain raced past him, having recovered from the blow to his nose and recovered the shotgun from the top of the line. “I got it! Outta the fuckin’ way!” He rounded the corner of the building at a full run, spotting Seth getting into his car and to his despair, Tamara’s limp frame unconscious in the passenger seat. He leveled the Winchester at Seth as the engine spluttered to life, but thought better of squeezing the trigger as the car peeled out of the lot, worried that Tamara might catch some of the shot intended for Seth. “Fuck! God fuckin’ damnit!” He cursed into the cloud of tire smoke as he turned back toward the kitchen door.
Chuck had made it out to the lot and met him as he made his way back. “Why didn’t you take the shot? Now he’s gonna go get his buddies and bring back all kinds of shit I don’t wanna deal with.”
“Tamara’s in the car. She looked hurt.”
“Tam.. That little sprout you used to bend over the dumpster on your break?” The joke missed the mark.
Cain shoved the shotgun into Chucks arms and shouldered past him. “I said she’s off limits, man! Fuck!”
Chuck dropped his demeanor a peg and tried again. “Look kid, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. You saved my ass back there and I owe ya more than that. You gonna go after that little puke?”
Cain leaned on the line counter as Chuck closed the back door and came to join him. His mind was racing between thoughts of revenge, worry about his ex, and how incredibly close they had come to dying over a few thousand dollars that night. He closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly, allowing his shoulders to relax and feeling his vertebrae pop as the tension drained from them. His rage now slightly tempered, he looked over his shoulder at his boss. “He’s gonna use her to get to me man. I can’t let that happen. Look, you good to wrap up here tonight?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about me kid. We’re almost wrapped up here anyway. Go get her.” Chuck passed the shotgun through the pass-through to Harmon, who had made his way over after cashing out the bar. He would make sure the weapon found its way back to its normal hiding spot long before anyone with a badge made it through the front door.
Cain nodded and pushed off of the counter, resigned to the fact the night was going to get worse before it got better. He and Tamara had been on again, off again for the last few years, each doing their best to deal with the others shortcomings as a means to weather the harsh realities of their station in life. Somehow, sharing your space with someone else in this town meant not having to deal with everything on your own, even though it often meant dealing with their demons as well. He tried to tell himself that the good times outweighed the bad, that things would get better if he just stuck it out a little longer, but once Tamara got a taste of the complete release from reality that methamphetamines offered, her demons had ceased being of any importance to her. That left Cain, doing his utmost to shoulder nicotine, alcohol and a childhood bereft of any meaningful guidance, with the added burden of drug debts, daily visits from the Sheriff and the constant nagging fear of catching a bullet. He had tried to break it off several times, but sooner or later he’d get a phone call, promising everything would be different if he’d please just help her out this one last time. And he did. Over and over again. He sighed heavily as he grabbed his old, worn biker jacket from its hook on the wall and swung it over his shoulders. He knew she was just going to blow him off again once she felt safe, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to let her go down without a fight. He pushed the back door open and headed into the parking lot, waving behind him as Chuck called out a last “good luck”.
“Dude! What the fuck happened? You alright?” Cain nearly jumped out of his skin as his longtime friend Ian appeared from around the corner, out of breath from sprinting down the street when he saw the tail end of the confrontation. He brushed his hair out of his face, struggling for breath as Cain recoiled. Ian had been friends with him for years, having first met him when Cain had managed to find himself attached to a tracking anklet, courtesy of the local Sheriff. Ian had noticed it and offered to remove it for nothing more than the satisfaction of sticking it to the authorities, winning even more favor by quietly attaching it to the undercarriage of a squad car when he was finished. He stood a bit shorter than Cain and was a bit more lithe, having spent most of his formative years in more academic pursuits. Still, he, like Cain, had found that the family you create can often be far more accepting than the one you were born into.
“Jesus fuck! You scared the shit outta me man!”
“Sorry! I saw you chasing that skid out the back door so I ran down here as fast as I could. You ok? Is Chuck alright? What happened?”
Cain regained his composure a little and responded, “Yeah, he’s fine. We’re fine. That little shit tried to rob us, but it looks like someone beat him to the punch. Where the fuck did you come from man? I was just out here a second ago…”
“I was on my way here. Dad decided to pull a bender again, so home isn’t gonna be home for a while. Where are you off to? I thought your shift didn’t end til two?”
“Chuck cut me loose early. Seth’s got Tamara. I gotta go get her outta there. You comin’?”
“Fuck yeah, dude.” Ian slapped Cain’s shoulder as they started to head out from the back of the building. “Hey – call James. Dude got that new Holley 850 he’s been waiting for and was gonna bolt it on tonight. If the van is running, we could all make an appearance at Seth’s place and we’d have a getaway plan.”
A hint of a smile crossed Cain’s lips as he pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped James’ picture on the screen. The three of them had made a practice of having each others back for years, each of them at one time or another responsible for saving the other two from a deserved detention, an impound for street racing, or the odd weapons charge. Most recently, Cain had managed to “accidentally” lose his freshly lit road flare down the vent that led into the local constabulary’s evidence locker, causing a few grams of MDMA that had been found in James’ pocket to magically evaporate. Along with a large amount of cash, cocaine, methamphetamine and a box of shotgun shells that happened to occupy the same shelf. The scene at the police station must have been incredibly comical, he thought to himself, when the shells started going off in the fire. His smile widened.
“What’s up, scumbag?” James’ voice snapped him back to the issue at hand and Cain’s brow furrowed.
“Dude, where are you right now?”
“Just finished putting that new carb on the van over at Uncle Ted’s. Where are you? What’s eating ya man? You sound a little pissed…”
“It’s Tamara. She went back to his place again dude. We gotta get her out.”
“Fucking seriously?”
“Yeah man. I saw her passed out in his car. I don’t think she had a choice.”
“Alright man, I’m coming. You at the Caravan?”
“Yeah. Ian’s here too. We’ll be at the front of the lot when you get here. Put the hammer down man, I don’t wanna let this go too long.”
“Got it. On my way.”
Cain tapped the End Call icon on the phone and returned it to his pocket. “Alright. He’s on the way.”
Ian nodded, joining Cain on the stroll to the front of the Caravan club. The old venue was barely a shell of what it used to be. Back in the sixties, it saw a constant stream of travelers on their way to or from California, and played host to some of the better rockabilly bands of the time. If one were to believe any of the stories Harmon told to his patrons, they could be forgiven for thinking that the likes of Elvis and Buddy Holly used to hang out there every other week during their tours. Now, the best it could offer was whatever Sysco had a clearance on in the kitchen and the possibility of either syphilis or chlamydia from the unattached restroom attendants who were looking to score. They rounded the corner and arrived under the cover of the rusted tin portico, and waited for James to show.
Cain stared down the old highway that ran in front of the building, hoping for a fleeting moment that he’d see Tamara walking down the sidewalk, having somehow gotten free. He knew there was a snowball’s chance in hell, but given his history with her, he had to hold out hope. His friends had only ever seen one side of her – the one that threw empty glasses at wait staff to get their attention or shredded his favorite shirt when she felt he’d chosen his buddies over her by going out for a beer. They hadn’t seen the tortured, scared little girl behind the crazy facade that had been the focus of so much abuse. The one that needed protection from the world that had forsaken her for the bulk of her life. Cain had been that protection for her, and there were times when they were together that she had come out of her protective shell long enough for him to catch a glimpse of what they could be together. But Meth has a way of making everything else in the world seem inconsequential, and since she had made Seth’s unfortunate acquaintance, the draw of an easy way to stop caring had been too much to resist. He caught himself in a thousand yard stare as a rumble off in the distance brought him back to the present. He squinted as headlights came into view to the west, followed by the silhouette of a late seventies Dodge van racing toward them.
“There he is! Let’s go dude.” Ian grabbed his elbow and pulled him toward the street. James’ midnight blue boogie van swung hard off the highway into the lot and had barely slowed to five miles an hour when they met it. As he went for the side door, Cain reached for the passenger handle and popped it open, using the vans forward momentum to help him swing up and into the seat.
“Fuckin’ GO!” Cain screamed as he landed hard in the bucket seat, wincing when he felt a sharp jab in his buttock from whatever had been there before him. Ian, meanwhile, had pulled open one of the side doors and thrown himself across the floor in the rear, and had found himself fighting more than a few G-force to pull the door closed as the van accelerated out of the parking lot. As James straightened the van out and stood hard on the loud pedal, Cain reached under himself, trying to dislodge whatever was between his ass and the seat. “What the hell am I sitting on?” He cocked an eyebrow in James’ direction as his hand came up with something wrapped in an oily shop rag.
“Uncle Ted says Merry Christmas, and he hopes you have fun with his toy.” James smiled wryly as Cain started to pull the package apart. “For real though, I have no idea. He said it might come in handy tonight. Open it up” James was the eldest of the three by only a few months. His story differed from the others in that in his past, family had never been a concern. Ted had taken him in when he had fallen out of favor with the foster system and introduced him to engines and tuning at an early age. He kept his hair long enough to hide from cameras if need be, and preferred to dress for utility rather than any kind of fashion, sticking to jeans and a T-shirt for the most part. He learned quickly that there was a lot of money to be made fleecing the local Route 66 tourists out of their money with his van when vanity and pride in their shop-built classics pushed them to make rash decisions. It had been enough to turn the van into his home and keep him fed and clothed. Through the years, the only people he trusted as much as that old Dodge were Cain, Ian and Ted, as they were the only things in his life that had never failed him.
The rag fell away to reveal the barrel of a sawed off Mossberg shotgun. Cain pulled it off completely and turned the weapon over in his hands. “ Is this thing for real?” He wondered out loud, suddenly aware that old Uncle Ted may be privy to a whole lot more of his private life than he had previously imagined.
James spotted the bewildered gaze on Cain’s face, and offered him a bit of insight. “I guess he knew what we were in for. That old asshole continues to surprise me every time!” He swung the van around a corner and continued, “Make sure you keep the safety on ‘til we get there…”
Cain snickered a bit, and held the gun up like a pistol, peering down the barrel like a six year old boy with a water gun. “Just like a computer, right? I just point and click?” He racked a shell into the chamber with a practiced hand and carried on, “Which end do the bullets come ou’t of again?”
“Just keep it under wraps unless we actually need it man. I’d rather not have to deal with the cops too – this asshole is going to be enough of a headache as it is.” James motioned for Cain to hide the gun as he guided the van on to Seth’s street. As he stashed the shotgun in his waistband, Cain briefly reflected on the past that had led him to this place. Three years of effervescent highs and soul crushing lows, fights with street level dealers, the police, and the realization of Chucks waning respect for him hit him like a truck. Staring out of the window at the run-down post war rancher that Seth called home, he resolved that this would be the last time. Catching the barely perceptible head shake as James killed the lights and slid the gear selector to ‘park’ sealed his decision. Tamara was on her own after this.
“Alright, keep it down and let’s see if we can get a read on what’s happening before we get stupid.” James cautioned, motioning toward the house.
Cain quietly opened the door and made his way toward the house,cutting through a neighbors yard with Ian in tow as James approached behind them in a crouch, carefully peeking over the sill when he reached the peach stucco wall. He spotted Seth first, pacing back and forth around the living room as Tamara lay unconscious on a ratty couch in the middle of the room. “They’re both in the front room”, he whispered, “She’s on the couch curled up and fucko is pacing around like a caged dog. If we get the jump on him he won’t know what hit him and we can get out before he comes around.”
“What if he’s packing?” Ian asked, reminding Cain of the evening’s previous encounter a little too quickly. “I don’t work too well, all holey and ventilated.”
“Ian’s right, dude. Let’s be sneakier about it and save us all a few headaches.” James said, laying a hand on Cain’s shoulder. Cain sighed, the reasonable words quenching his rage just enough for him to see their wisdom. “Ian, head around back and find a window to break. When Seth goes to check it out, Cain and I will slip in through the front door and grab her. You good with that?”
Ian snapped to attention, faking a salute as best he could and whispering back in his best french accent, “Aye Aye, mon Cap-e-tain! Vive la resistance!” He completed the display by grabbing an imaginary rifle and sneaking off to the back yard in a low crouch.
It was almost too much for Cain to take. He could feel a full belly laugh building inside himself and his shoulders started to shake as he did his best to keep quiet. He felt James starting to lose his composure as well, spotting a tear running down his cheek as he strained to keep it together. Just as the hilarity threatened to reveal them, the sound of glass shattering at the back of the house brought them both back into the game.
“Takezat, you nazi peeg!” Ian’s scream carried through the evening air like an air raid siren, renewing the urge to laugh in Cain and James and snapping Seth into a rage inside the house. He came running back past them a second later, on his way to the van to get the doors open and ready for the escape.
Cain looked over the sill again, spotting Seth stomping off toward the back of the house and motioned for James to follow him as he made for the front door. He quietly opened the door and crept toward the couch with James in tow. Tamara lay there motionless, but still breathing, Mildly reassured, he slid the shotgun from his waistband and moved to cover the rear of the house while James attended to Tamara. As he scanned the hallway, he spotted what appeared to be Seth’s phone on an end table, and decided to grab it just in case he decided to call for backup. As he slid it into his pocket, he noticed it was a little different than most; being about twice the thickness and a bluish white color with no discernable screen. The difference wasn’t enough to dissuade him from pocketing the device all the same – investigation could wait for later. He turned his attention back to his surveillance and asked over his shoulder in a hushed tone, “How is she?”
“She’s pretty rough, dude. I’m just gonna carry her, Watch my back.” With that, James hoisted the limp body over his shoulder and headed for the door as Cain grabbed the handle to let them out.
“Where’d ya go, ya little bitch?” Seth’s strained voice echoed through the house as he searched the back yard for the missing assailant. “Come on out, ya pussy!”
Cain locked the door handle and quietly pulled it closed behind him as James slipped through with Tamara. He just managed to spot Seth stumbling back in to the room as the door clicked shut, staring bewildered at the now vacant couch. “Dude, he’s back inside!” he whispered, sprinting past James toward the waiting van. He made it to the curb and dropped the shotgun on the floor of the van, turning to receive Tamara with Ian’s help as James dropped her off. The two of them loaded her into the back onto the built in bed as James jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.
“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” James pushed as Ian pulled the doors shut behind them. He stood on the gas as the van roared, lighting up the rear tires and carving a crescent of tire smoke across the suburban street as it spun a full 180 degrees and sped off away from the house.
Cain had just managed to get Tamara squeezed against the back doors when he heard James scream as a loud crash resounded from the front of the van. He jumped to his feet and stretched between the seats to grab the steering wheel as James recoiled away from the window, a shower of mirrored shards erupting from what used to be the side mirror. He twisted the wheel to correct the vans course just as two more shots impacted the back doors, sending a cloud of acrid dust through the space.
James wiped the blood from his forehead and grabbed the wheel again. “I got it man. Get in the seat and keep that fucker off of us!”
Cain needed no further prodding. “Fuck yeah! Fireworks time, baby!” Convinced James had recovered enough from the shock of his mirror exploding, he released the wheel and traded it for the shotgun from the passenger floor. In less than a second he had the window rolled down and hoisted himself on to the ledge, leaning out with the gun in his left hand while his right grasped the lip of the roof. In the distance, he could just make out the halo of headlights flicking on through the smoke. “He’s coming after us man, light ‘em up!” He slapped the roof of the van to punctuate the warning. He felt the van kick as James answered with his right foot, the transmission downshifting into first gear and breaking the tires loose as they rounded a corner. Seth had begun to make up some ground by the time they made it to the highway, and as they slowed down to make the turn Cain leaned out, squeezed his trigger and screamed, “Get some, fucker!” The blast was high and a bit wide, causing the windshield on the rapidly approaching Mustang to develop a few new spiderweb cracks at the top of the passenger side. Cain cinched himself to the window frame as they rounded the corner onto the highway, racking the shotgun and sending the spent shell across the dash. He popped back out as the van straightened out on the highway and lined up for another shot. This one hit closer to the mark, shattering the passenger side headlight and perforating the hood of the quickly gaining car.
Seth hadn’t even noticed the shots coming from the van, being too fixated on putting all of the rounds in his .38 into its back doors. Once the loud bangs had stopped coming when he pulled the trigger, he turned to a more direct approach and floored the accelerator, hoping to drive straight through the motherfuckers who dared fuck with him.
Cain saw the shift in priorities and racked another shell into the chamber. As Seth gained on them, he grabbed the doorframe with his right hand again and leaned out as far as he could, closing the distance between his shotgun and the Mustang’s grill. He waited until the car was mere feet away from them and took his shot. Seth had seen the gun at the last moment and tried to swerve away, but the buckshot shredded the tire the car was now leaning most of its weight on. The rubber disintegrated and the rim dug into the tarmac at sixty miles an hour, folding the suspension under the frame and vaulting the car in an arc skyward.
“Woo! Suck it bitch!” Cain yelled at the car as it came down on its roof, flipping end over end until coming to rest in the ditch off the side of the highway. He dropped into the seat and turned towards James with a maniacal grin. “FIreworks. Fuck yeah!”
James was just about to ask him what had happened when a bright orange flash reflected off of the landscape, followed by a massive boom. Still dealing with the realization of the explosion, he turned to Cain and asked, “Damn, do you think he made it out?”
“What the fuck was that?!” Ian shouted from the floor, doing his best to keep the limp body of Tamara from too much harm.
“Cain blew up a pony full of meth.” James answered, relaxing just a bit as the present danger was now lapsing.
“Wait, he’s dead? Did we just kill a guy? What the fuck, Cain?”
Cain spun in his seat to face Ian, taken off guard by the question. “I wasn’t trying to kill him man! He was trying to kill us for fucks sake!” He looked down at the still smoking shotgun in his hand and his shoulders dropped as he realized Ian was right.
“Relax, I don’t think anyone saw us.” James interjected, trying to calm his rattled friend. “Let’s just get to Ted’s place and we can figure out what we’re gonna do then. Ian, is she still breathing?”
“Yeah, she’s still here.” Ian bent down and listened, verifying her short, ragged breaths. “Still dunno for how long though. That bastard must have hit her hard.”
“Uncle Ted’s got some history with stuff like this. He’ll take a look at her and get her patched up.” James guided the van down the highway for about a mile, turning off the road under the gaudy pink and blue neon of Ted’s sign. Cain had been gnashing his teeth all the way there, trying to come to terms with the events of the past few moments but having little luck. He’d been hunting lots of times, shot his fair share of game, and he knew what death looked like. Somehow though, this was different. This wasn’t an animal he was going to use for food. The thought clung to his mind as the van rolled into the yard, James guiding it into a cargo container under Ted’s insistence. Cain shook his head and dismissed as much of it as he could, hopping into the back and helping Ian get Tamara out of the back doors as James parked. Ted met them as they emerged, a scoped and tactically festooned AR-15 hanging from a strap around his shoulders.
“Do you know where she got hit?” He asked, feeling the back of her head and checking her eyes for pupil dilation as he walked alongside them.
“No man, she was out when we got there. What do you need us to do?” Cain could feel anxiety creeping up the back of his neck as he looked to Ted for answers.
“Get her inside. There’s a couch in the shop office you can put her on. James, you make sure that box is closed, then roll that old bus in front of it when you’re done. Come on now!” Ted wasn’t normally this curt, nor seemingly, compassionate. The three friends had been the butt of his jokes nearly incessantly any time they were at the shop, but this time Ted moved and spoke with a conviction and purpose that belied his redneck facade. Cain made a beeline for the shop office as James went to lock up the van outside. He carefully set Tamara down on the couch as Ted retrieved an old olive canvas bag emblazoned with a red cross from a cabinet on the wall. He backed off when Ted knelt next to the couch, watching as the old man pulled smelling salts from the bag and snapped them under Tamara’s nose. His breath caught in his throat as what seemed like hours went by before she shook her head slowly, and finally opened her eyes.
An instant later, her eyes flicked wide and she started swinging, catching Ted with a lucky left as she fought to get away. “Get the fuck offa me you son of a…”, she screamed, before coming around a bit more and realizing she was no longer in Seth’s company. “What… how did I get here? Cain? Let me go!”
Cain looked down and realized he’d been holding her wrist since she connected with Ted’s chin. He let go immediately, feeling a sting from her glare he was all too familiar with. “How’s your head?” He asked, hoping to avoid any more of her ire.
“Oh, she’s just fine!” groaned Ted, sitting up from his previous position on the floor. “Hell of a left too. Want some ice for those knuckles?”
“I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She got up from the couch, swatting Cain’s hand away as she swayed, still punch drunk. “Why am I at the scrapyard?” She turned to stare at Ted accusingly.
“Three’s company here found you passed out on the side of the highway, and figured they’d help out for some reason. I’d have let you rot.” Ted shot the three friends a stern look when Tamara turned to look in their direction. Everybody got the hint and picked up on the ruse immediately, each acutely aware of the consequences if the truth got out right then.
Tamara tried to remember her day, searching for any reason she might have been anywhere near the highway, but came up empty. “Whatever. Thanks I guess.” She headed out of the office towards the shop door, supporting herself on workbenches and customer cars along the way, making no more eye contact with anyone in the building. Cain started to get up to follow and ask if she needed a ride, but Ted stopped him with a firm hand on his chest and a look that he understood immediately.
Once she had cleared the area in front of the shop door, Ted turned to Cain, grabbing him by both shoulders. “You’re gonna give that twit a ride huh? Right past the barbecue you geniuses just threw for her dealer? How fucking stupid are ya?”
Cain stared at the floor. “Yeah, I know. Fuck I hate that guy. She used to be a different person, y’know? I hope that douchenozzle burns forever.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s nice and crispy. Speaking of… you didn’t see anyone else out there that could finger you guys, did ya?” Ted moved to the window behind the desk and peeked through the bent and nicotine stained blinds at the highway. The dull orange glow could still be seen in the distance, while somewhat closer to the property, Tamara was slowly staggering in the direction of the town. He pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his chest pocket and removed a slightly curved cigarette, popping it between his lips.
“Nah, it’s dead out there. Everybody in this shithole is asleep by seven anyway.” James answered back, snapping open a Zippo and flicking the flint wheel in a single motion, offering the flickering flame to Ted. “You still got a first aid bottle in that cabinet?”, he asked, motioning toward the bathroom. Ted nodded, and James stepped into the small alcove, swinging the small door open and pulling out a half empty bottle of Don Julio. “Ian, grab a few cups, will ya?”
Ian reached over to the end table in the corner of the room, coming back with four well loved and well worn coffee mugs, procured from around an ancient drip coffee maker that harbored an opaque liquid one would be hard pressed to tell apart from motor oil. He passed them out and kept one for himself. James poured an equal measure into each mug, emptying the bottle between the four of them. It had been one hell of a day, and it didn’t look good for tomorrow. The four of them sat down, Ted in his rickety wooden office chair and the rest on the sagging couch, and got to figuring out their next move.
“What the fuck did we just do?” James mused out loud, staring into his cup as he swirled the tequila around in the bottom. “There’s no way he got out, is there?”
Ted shook his head, “Not from what I could see. He rolled about four times after Cain took him out, then came the fireworks. Unless he got thrown clear, he’s medium rare. And, if he did get chucked out of that thing, I haven’t seen anyone coming to help. It’s still burnin’ now…”
Cain took a long swig from his cup, swallowing behind gritted teeth. He was coming to terms with the fact that for the first time in his life, he had taken someone else’s. Growing up hunting in the woods outside of Dulce had done nothing to prepare him for this. There was a human being, slowly burning away in a wrecked car on its roof in the canal, and he had been the reason. He thought about all of the reasons Seth deserved to die, every person he had wronged or hurt physically. He thought about what that pile of filth had done to Tamara, but he couldn’t make it feel any better. He took another long pull, emptying the mug. “Got any more?” He glanced toward Ted.
Ted slid open the bottom drawer of his desk without moving his gaze from Cain. He pulled out a large bottle of amber liquid and held it in Cain’s direction. Cain reached for the bottle and met Teds gaze, who cautioned him with a word, “Easy..”
Cain pulled a weathered cork out of the neck of the bottle, releasing a vapor that hit his nose like a flamethrower. “Jesus Christ! You run your truck on this shit?” he yelled, still feeling the sting in his nostrils. Ted just smiled and flicked his fingers toward Cain, motioning him to go on. Cain poured a small amount into the mug, and brought it to his lips. He could feel it burn as it passed over his tongue, increasing in intensity until it hit the back of his throat, causing it to snap shut in response. He coughed through the sip, spraying it out as he doubled over, gasping for breath.
The unaffected in the room burst into uproarious laughter, James and Ian both catching their friend before he fell to the floor, and Ted pointing at the unfolding scene as if someone in attendance hadn’t seen it yet. Ian was laid back over the arm of the couch, a tear streaming down his cheek, while James sat doubled over, gasping for breath. Cain began to catch his breath, and fell in with the rest, laughing more at the absurdity of the whole situation than at himself. Here he was, a cold blooded killer, choking to death on a drink that was too strong while his ex girlfriend walked by the body of his victim, none the wiser. He shook his head and smiled.“You guys are assholes! Let me cry in my beer for Christ’s sake!”
“”Not a fuckin’ chance, pansy!” wheezed Ted, still gasping for breath. He collected himself a bit more before continuing, “Get yer shit together and give it another try. You earned it.”
Cain caught his breath, and steeled himself for another shot. It went down this time, however it took his voice with it. Tears welled up in his eyes as he exhaled, hoping to drive enough of the alcohol away from his windpipe that he’d be able to get his next breath into his lungs unimpeded. It worked, although only just. The best he could muster was a whispered, “Smooth…”
“Alright, I’m in!” proffered James, now curious about the level of bad that a beverage could possibly be. He held out his mug, into which Cain happily poured a few fingers worth. “Let’s see what all the moaning is about.” The liquor had a similar effect on him, though being prepared, he managed to keep his first sip in, willing it down his throat with a Herculean effort. His body shivered as he took in his next breath, his throat left feeling like it was on fire.
“Aw hell, me too”, added Ian. “Might as well forget while I still can.” No sooner had Cain finished the pour, Ian had slugged it back. He showed no apparent signs of discomfort, and to the chagrin of James and Cain, responded with a simple, “So that’s what Satan’s taint tastes like. Interesting. More?” Cain obliged, pouring another not insignificant amount into Ian’s mug while staring at him, slack jawed.
“Holy shit, we got a ringer!” Ted cried, jumping up from his seat and clinking his mug against Ian’s. “Fill me up too, cupcake. Looks like I finally got me a drinkin’ buddy!”
Cain leaned in and poured a few ounces into Ted’s cup, and a few on his hand, wrist and the floor. He managed to catch himself before falling face first into the puddle he’d made while Ted saved the bottle from an untimely death with his free hand. The alcohol was in full swing, coursing through him like a warm tide, scrubbing the anxieties of his recent past from his memory. He slowly picked himself up and slid onto the couch having decided that sipping what remained in his mug was a better course of action than, well, anything else really. Through the haze, he thought he could pick out James and Ian laughing and pointing at something… maybe it was him? Whatever. Didn’t matter. Wait, was the prep done? Fuck it. Tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, the old weathered couch in the shop office felt far too comfortable to resist.
