Zombie Drug Run

  Chapter 16: William's Dilemma

  William stood at the tarnished sink and let the cold water run across his hands. He reached over and shut off the water, looked at his hands and shook them once before putting them to his face. Shit was not good. He had just opened his third pack of cigarettes for the day. A long ash was even now bent at the mid-point of the new one he was smoking and fell to the concrete floor, breaking up like shaved glass. Tom Fields, the Bull, sat at the table in the center of the room. He had a drink in front of him but knew he dared not get drunk tonight.

  He’d seen this before. And although he was a big man, he wasn’t big enough to want to piss William off. Samuel was the monster; that went without saying, but William was most definitely no one to fuck with either. There was always that Chinese guy to think about. Perhaps the hundred pound chunk of concrete around the dead man's ankles had sunk out of sight by now in the slimy river bottom. Then again, one of the bigger ships may have helped wash him along toward the mouth of the Gulf. Either way, dead was dead, and that had only been six months ago. And over a much smaller problem than this.

  "Dad asked me where Samuel was this morning," William said, not looking at his bull, just looking out into the room. Tom twirled the glass in its wet ring.

  William had let Debbie go almost two hours earlier, and the two men sat alone in the huge warehouse. An ancient, rattling fan clicked out a staccato rhythm in the corner, but the air it circulated was still thick and hot. Tom removed the frayed handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his face; the headache above both eyes had gotten no better since early that morning. It would have been a day better spent in bed, and he had known that before he even got up. Only thing was, you didn’t call in sick on William Franklin. Not anytime and especially not now.

  William crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Tom. "I told him I'd sent Samuel to Alexandria to check on the construction, but you know how the Old Man is..." and Tom nodded though he really didn't have much of an opinion about it one way or the other. When he thought too much his head would ache like a bad tooth. Also, he made a point never to get too close to the elder Franklin. His presence was hard to shake and easy to enjoy missing. "He didn't say much," William continued, more to himself than his handy man, "but I could see in his eyes he didn't believe me." Then he laughed. It was well known neither of the brothers had ever gotten along well with their equally-strange father. "I can remember the day when Dad would have gone apeshit if he caught somebody lying to him, but I guess by now he knows how Samuel is. That" (and another bitter laugh) "or he's getting soft in his old age." He looked up at his sounding board. Tom nodded again and drank deeply this time from his glass so he wouldn't have to say anything.

  William looked down and slapped himself on the knee. "Goddammit, Tom! I knew I shouldn't have let him go! Never trust fucks like that goddamn Lincoln...I know that. Never! Motherfuck! I know that!" He paused, grit his teeth and took a pull off his drink. Checked his watch as if that action could somehow put down a framework to operate around. "They should've been back this morning," he whispered. Tom remained quiet. Rule One: never inject yourself in Franklin family business. Just do like you’re told. He did the dirty work and let whatever else fall where it may. Regardless, the next thing came as a complete surprise.

  "What do you think we ought to do?"

  Tom wasn't much at diplomacy; breaking bones was more his style. He waited (tapping a finger and studying it intently), trying to come up with something, anything, and as William watched he could almost see the sweat begin to bead along Tom's brow. But when it came it couldn't have been any clearer. He polished off the rest of the watery drink and pushed it toward the center of the table. "I don’t know a lot about this kinda shit, Mr. Will, but I guess I better get my ass out there and find that sonofabitch Lincoln," he said. He pursed his lips and nodded, amazed at the sudden inspiration, silently staring at a fixed point somewhere along the back wall where the fan droned on endlessly. He’d make that bastard pay dearly for this head-ache. If he could just find the sonofabitch, this is.

  He took William’s extended silence as a 'yes'.

  "Listen you little fucker, when I say you pay on Tuesday, goddammit, I mean Tuesday!" Lincoln reached out and slapped the slight little black boy standing by the curbside near his Cadillac. The lick was taken as a matter of course, but Lincoln saw the minute twitch, just the barest movement toward the baggy waistline where the kid's underwear rode up over the lip of his jeans. From the inside of the Caddy, Lincoln's face wrinkled in righteous anger.

  "That's right, boy," he intoned. "You pull a piece on me and it'll be the last fucking mistake your black ass ever makes." He saw the boy's face go wooden. "Who's gonna buy groceries for your whore of a mother when her little boy's ass is sprayed all over the fucking street?” The eyes widened even more and the small, shaking hand froze just above his waistline. Lincoln's leaden eyes focused, unblinking. "Lionel," he said, turning to the other boy who also stood close by. "You don't want to teach your little brother stupid tricks, do you? Tell your brother he shouldn't go around carrying heat, his balls ain’t big enough yet to handle what his ass is going to get him into." Lincoln's mouth split in an evil grin, all shiny white and lethal. The smaller boy backed away another step from the car.

  Lincoln sucked at his top lip and swallowed back the wave of alcohol that was threatening to come up. He'd been drinking all day and had no business fucking around outside College Town, less than a mile from the LSU campus. The Dark Section of town. A faint touch of bass reverberated from the lounge right down the street and a girl's loud, shrill laughter rang out. He wiped a hand across his dry lips; his face was pale from the half ounce of cocaine he’d been dragging on all day too. The losing streak in Natchez the night before still didn’t sit right with him.

  He looked back at Lionel. The Caddy idled quietly against the curb with just a faint bluish wisp of smoke trailing out. The way Lincoln drove made it hard to believe the car still ran at all, but because it did would be the only thing to keep him out of six-foot hole in the next five minutes. Even so, that would be a thin respite for what would soon follow.

  Less than fifty yards down the intersection of McKinley and Highland another swaggering group of young blacks meandered along loudly. Lincoln marked them but paid little mind; most of the punks around the area knew his face if not his name and it was uncommon for any low life to try and shit on his parade. He spit out the window and Lionel did a quick chicken step sideways. The even smaller brother was forgotten as he backed away from the dirty Cadillac, annoyed at how his older half-brother was taking shit from some fucked up honky asshole. He was only eight, but he knew what it took to be Hard.

  He watched the group making their way down the street. One of them pointed his way, and the knife-edged crease of a smile spread across his face. He knew about making bones; he knew how to be a man in a slum where the only thing a boy had to look forward to was teaching some white muthafucker who the real owner of the ‘Hood was.

  "...you little nigger bastard," he heard the drunk in the car mumbling to his brother. "I'll be back here tomorrow..." as the boy ducked away from his grasp. "Tomorrow, goddammit!" the asshole yelled.

  The lead youth was passing underneath the street light no more than thirty feet away. Lil Pauly saw the arrogant tilt of the Raiders cap, recognized instantly the gleaming white smile of Jerome the Killa. He ran with the Capitol City Crips, and lil Pauly had heard Killa's name came well deserved. The dude had already waxed a couple of niggas not two months ago.

  He let the smile come on he reached around to the small of his back. The semi-automatic .22 caliber was right there, tucked into the underwear that'd been Lionel's long before it'd been his. The small group of Crips were close enough now to see what was fixing to happen, and when Little Pauly pulled his piece Lincoln was still too busy fucking with Lionel to even remember the smaller boy was around.

  Big fucking mistake.

&nbs
p; Maybe Jerome the Killa saw when the kid pulled out the handgun because he did suddenly put his hands down and stop in mid-stride, his posse pulling up sharp behind him. Lincoln had the wherewithal to stop his harangue as the group looked on. They were no more than twenty feet from the front bumper of the Caddy, and Lincoln's rattlesnake awareness closed over his cocaine-and alcohol-adled brain. "Keep walking," he growled menacingly from inside the car but the ringleader, Lincoln noticed, the one with the cocked baseball cap gave him a "fuck you" attitude and didn't move an inch. It finally dawned on him what circle of Hell he’d entered unaware, but nevertheless, it was too late.

  Too late by far.

  Lincoln was drawing the hand he'd rested on the mirror into the Caddy when he heard the boyish voice over his left shoulder yell, "You ain't goin nowhere, honkymothafucka!" and then the pop-pop-pop of shots ringing out. He ducked down into the seat and stepped on the gas as bullets began perforating the Caddy.

  Glass shattered around his head and just over the dash he saw as the group of black thugs scrambled and dived for cover; all except the cocky nigger with the baseball cap who stood his ground and pulled out his own much more effective piece and began hammering away too. The noise inside the Caddy increased ten-fold with all the pinging, breaking glass, and whistling lead. Lincoln heard a much louder sound, figured it must be Mr. Rapper with the cannon and attempted to squeeze down farther in the seat. He spun the Caddy right, away from the approaching light pole all the while trying to keep his eyes at a level where he could see what the hell was going on. A blistering bolt of heat seared through his left shoulder, just below the collar bone, and a warm spray of blood showered his chin, lower neck, and the windshield. The console glistened red.

  He sucked his breath in deep and pressed down on the accelerator harder. The Caddy choked back a pained roar and lurched the remaining thirty feet to the intersection where the car spun out like a stunt from a Hollywood action flick, replete with surround sound and burning rubber. Most of the windows had already been shot out by now, and smoke billowed from the engine, but Lincoln did not let off the gas. A Porshe narrowly missed him as he careened around in a half-circle and went up on the curb, through the Exxon parking lot where already half a dozen people were either scrambling for cover or looking for some.

  The Caddy crashed into a yellow-frame T-shirt shop on the corner and the front awning fell across the crumpled hood. Down the street where the shooting had taken place not a footfall sounded nor a shadow lurked. Except for the shell casings that lay in the grass and gutter, the street was as silent as Saturday morning before the liquor stores opened.

  Feeling the growing numbness in his left arm, Lincoln tried to lean back and grimaced. Without thinking he turned the key off and the tortured Cadillac's engine ground to a stop with an agonizing, final wheeze. Dimly, Lincoln heard the sound of sirens not far away (a fully-manned substation was just down the street). He closed his watering eyes and patted the seat next to him. Found the bottle neck and pulled it up slowly, spinning off the cap with two trembling fingers. When the first officer got to the car Lincoln had the bottle to his lips, trying to drink his way out of what obviously had to be a nightmare.

  "William. It's Tom. Pick up." William rolled over in bed and stretched out his hand toward the phone, only hesitating momentarily at...what the hell time was it? He listened to more incomprehensible fast-talk in the background as he squinted in the dark room, trying to focus on the bluish glow from the nightstand.

  6:43. His head pounded from the alcohol he'd consumed up until only a few hours before. How late had he stayed at the warehouse? Who the hell had taken him home, and if no one, how had he driven? These thoughts were cut short by a slightly more exaggerated tone of voice.

  "...got his fuckin ass! I'm sitting in the Holiday Inn at Airline and I-10 in Baton Rouge and I'm lookin at a sweet piece a news, boss. Lincoln fucked up last night, right here! The heat’s got his junky ass in Baton Rouge General all shot to hell! I hope you get--"

  William, instantly wide awake, snatched the phone from beside the bed and rammed it to his ear. With his other hand he was already searching the bureau for the pack of Camel no-filters he felt sure were there. "Tom!" he said. "What the fuck's going on?" The pack was just underneath the closest leg, almost out of reach with a few loose cigarettes making the extraction tricky. When he bent over to get them a nasty pain lodged behind his right eye.

  "Hey, that you?"

  "What's the fucking deal, Tom?"

  Tom was done with the preliminaries. "I came to BR last night, like you said," (this was all news to William but he kept his mouth shut; he knew to never let Tom get sidetracked when he had a train of thought going), "you know, he's always fuckin around down here, selling dope to the niggers or...fuckin whores...whatever..."

  William's voice stopped him before he got going good. "What the hell were you saying when I picked up the phone, Tom?"

  "Oh yeah, well, I'm sittin here in my room with The Morning Advocate laid open, and Lincoln’s right there in black and white. Looks like a bunch of coons shot him all to hell and back!"

  William lit a cigarette and balled his fist into a depression beside his aching eye. "What else?"

  "Says here, what they got, that he damned near knocked over a house, got shot at least once, and the stupid sonofawhore was still sluggin down alcohol when the Blue showed! Can you believe this fuckin wreak!?"

  The metallic voice threatened to break into a bout of laughter, and William almost bit through the cigarette. "Is he going to live?" The dead-pan, humorless question cut any attempt at laughter to the quick on the other end of the line.

  "Yeah, he's alive, boss. From what the paper says, the bastard's gonna probably stay that way. Just like that mothafucker to--"

  "How much trouble is he in?"

  "Hard to say. He was drunk, got a DUI, and the paper’s got somethin about drug parafen…whatever. Typical Lincoln shit..."

  "Let's see then," and the pause was a long time ending while William attempted to get a clearer picture of his course of action. "Talk to our man over there in Troop A; you know the one?" The statement was more rhetorical than a question and from the other end William heard a grunt of affirmation. Names were never good to use over any line. "Get that bastard bailed out as fast as you can."

  "I got you. But the paper says he's in the hospital too, so--"

  "I want the motherfucker here, right motherfucking here, as soon as possible. You got me, Tom?"

  "Yeah, I got you."

  "Call me when it’s done. I'm not going in today. You get this shit going; I mean it. And I mean as soon as you find out anything, you let me know. Clear?"

  "Yeah."

  William broke the connection.

  "William?" The old stern, three-pack-a-day voice was fading under the strain of years, although its resonance was still commanding.

  "What’chu got Dad...?" William said. The pain near his right eye was suddenly worse.

  "Called the Warehouse a few minutes ago and your sec told me you weren't in. You sick?" Then, when the answer was not forthcoming, “And where the hell's your brother?"

  "Jesus Christ, Dad, I told you yesterday. He's in Alexandria checking on the housing boys," (those assholes over there had better goddamned well covered his story), "What are you all over my ass for? Whether I’m at work or not? I’m a grown fucking man."

  "Uh huh, Asshole One and Two over in Alec. William, let’s get this straight. They're a bunch of fucking hoods and they tell me whatever the fuck you tell them to tell me! I’m not fucking crazy! I didn't get this old being a goddamn fool!" and the Old Man had to stop in the midst of a coughing fit. William used the time to bargain a position against the shit-on hand he'd been dealt ever since meeting Franklin Paol.

  "Whoa, hold up Dad! I don't know what the hell you’re talking about. You call me up to tell me I'm a fucking liar! What is this?”

  "Come off the bullshit, William. Where's your goddamn brother?"

&
nbsp; "Dad. Listen. You shouldn’t get yourself all worked up. What is this? You don't sound right." The vacant breathing on the other end of the line was faster, harsh and colored with something ancient and terrible, but now, it also seemed tempered from what...fear?

  William leaned in, trying to get closer to the voice on the other end. It came in almost a whisper. "I got a call from the hospital, William. Your mother's having another one of her attacks. And it’s bad this time. Now I’m going to ask you one more time, goddammit! Where's your fucking brother!"

  "I gotta go," William said and hung up.

  A year and a half or at least damn close to it, William mused as he throttled down on the custom Lexus, shifting into a lower gear to take better advantage of the curve. That was a long time to go without seeing your mother but then again not many people had a mother like his. She’d slowly slid away from him over the last couple of years, but he had to admit, it had not been long enough. He crested a ridge and looked out over the farmland that surrounded the car on all sides.

  Christmas, hadn’t it been? The last time he'd seen her? Halloween would have been more suitable, but it had been the Old Man's idea: all three (him and the boys) driving up to see her in a tomb-like silent car. William remembered how nervous Samuel had been. His own time away had not been long past then, but even so, seeing their mother had never been an easy task even in ideal circumstances. Like say, when she was sleeping (really sleeping and not just waiting to catch you in a trap) and you could peer in at her through a crack in the door as you passed by quietly down the hall. And especially not since their father had been able to have the bitch put away. He hoped she’d never get out.

  Another one of her spells, the Old Man had said. Goddammit.

  If witches walked the face of the earth, she definitely fit the bill, and having her safely away, stuffed back in the remote pasturelands and farm communities of middle Louisiana had served to quell many a nervous moment.

  What the hell are you going to do when you get there?

  He turned his attention to the Bose stereo, pressed around finding mostly static (something was fucked up with the XM out here too). What a fucking day, he thought acidly. The nagging headache had ebbed back to a mere dull throb deep in the base of his skull and beyond the reach of any non-prescription pain killers. And even though he had what was left of a number of Percocets from Samuel's court-appointed shrink and resident drug supplier from downtown Metairie, he flatly refused to board that train now. Not where he was going.

  He also remembered now that he had not inquired as to his mother's condition except on one occasion since the last visit. And that had only been protocol, something to get the Old Man out of the way one day when things were running hot. Funny and weird in a morbid way, but completely understandable, at least to William. Because there was always that one time burned into his mind...

  He shook his head but this other memory was fleeter of foot. Her delighted laughter hung in his mind, remembering her taunt the sickly dog she’d coaxed inside after tempting it with the poison meat (she'd not known little Willy saw this from behind the oak, lining his bike up so that she'd not see, or at least not acknowledge seeing him).

  A rush of sweet, evergreen wind filled the car as William rolled down the window. From the corner of his eye he caught the shot-gunned Speed Zone sign leaning from the shoulder of the road, and eased down from a slithering eighty-five to something safer. He made a right at the 220 mile marker and proceeded down the black topped and shoulderless road until he finally came to the same damn, pedestaled STOP sign that had been rooted in the center of the only intersection in Winsome since time out of mind. He paused for only a minute and finger-steered the Lexus left, down 24 to wind another thirty miles into the countryside.

  It wasn’t long until he came to the sign, placed years before by the state DOTD, and probably the only one in this part of Louisiana not to have been shot to hell by some drunk redneck on his way home to beat his wife, or dog, or maybe both. Louisiana State Mental Hospital: all in capitals to drive the point home. 25 miles. Perhaps that had always been talisman enough to keep away the shotgun blasts: the warning that certain behavior could be dealt with quite severely. He was getting close now and he cracked his knuckles.

  When the sweep of four-foot, American-dream white board fence sprang up several miles ahead, seeming to speed along with the car as he raced by, he reached down and snapped the troublesome radio into silence. His breath came quicker now and he willed himself to conscious to calm down. He was only going to see his mother, for Christ's sake! But the hunched figure in his brain offered no solutions.

  Because the other memory would not be suffocated by the hum of the engine or any passing scenery; it was screwed too deep, rotting in the darkness with intent. He could still picture the day when he'd crept into the house, home just a little early from Michael's down the street. He'd heard the weird voices right after opening the front door, and he'd been carefully quiet as he stood there in the foyer, barely inside the door. Two voices most probably, but with the air condition running it had really been impossible to know for sure.

  How long had he stood there? Eyes darting about, just on the verge of yelling for his mother. But he hadn't. Looking back, had he known somehow, even then? Sure, there'd been inclinations like the business with the stray dog, but still...

  The now grown William slowed the Lexus down to forty-five, knocking the gear shift up into third as the memory played through his head like some scratched single from his childhood. Of course there were other times but none that hung on with the tenacity of that one.

  The weird voices had come from the back room (the one set off from the mammoth kitchen entrance and just down a short hallway), his brother's room. Always the empty room regardless who was in there because Samuel had never been a part of childish follies even then, always too aloof and distant to the point that everyone had stopped wanting to carry on in his room though it was the bigger of the two.

  It had been early September, just inside the doorway. September. William had done some reading on the subject, after the fact and well-distanced from the horror he'd witnessed. He'd done the reading on his own, usually removed to some quiet recess in the warehouse after the rows of sodium lights had faded to their dull heat which rained down from the ceiling. September was the month of the Marriage to the Beast Satan, specifically on the seventh, and although his recollection couldn't be perfectly defined after so much time, William thought to this day that it could hardly have been any other, considering.

  Words had begun to filter from behind the door as he poised there, on the verge of shouting out but too afraid to do so.

  Another mile marker came up on the right, but in his state of mind it didn't register.

  Their mother had had a huge, ancient Bible resting on a black pedestal near the front door, the edges flaky and dried and the print only a whisper on the yellowed pages. For some unknown (and unasked) reason the Book had always been open to Leviticus with the 18th chapter outlined in a faded red that appeared to leech itself into the very texture of the ancient volume. It had been the same that day, open as usual to that specific place, but thrust into conflict with a palpable, ominous presence set loose within the bounds of the room.

  "Nema," he'd heard, the sound drifting down the hallway in an odd perversion of his mother's voice. The sweat that beaded on his brow had not been from the heat though, or at least not any from this world. It had come from the infernal fire that his mother had carefully stoked as she’d led her other son down the path of damnation. William wiped his sleeve along his forehead.

  He'd actually tip-toed down to the doorway. Across the spacious living room, carefully skirting the area governed by the huge Bible. The musky, twin voices were louder closer in and he could tell from the flickering shadows flickering around his brother's cracked doorway that candles were burning in there. Not even dark yet, with a house-full of electricity, and yet candles burned behind the door where the parasit
ic voices whispered.

  He stooped down to his knees.

  His heart drummed so loudly he thought for a crazy minute anyone in the house would hear it too. And his breath came in jabs that left him gasping. The door was open just enough to see inside.

  Samuel, little Sammy, was prone on the bed, his feet splayed out and pointed as if invisible wires stretched out from each toenail. His arms were laid out into a V above his head and appeared to be desperately grasping at the headboard of the poster bed. William's eyes widened as he saw his brother was naked. Equally shocking was the fact that his penis, unnaturally large for a boy his age, was rock-hard and aimed at the ceiling, trembling slightly as he breathed. William could not see his face.

  The voices again, louder this time, and William shifted slightly to the right to get a better view of the room. The disgust built in his throat like a roiling fever.

  He stopped breathing at all when he saw his mother’s hand reach over and grab his brother's penis in a vice-like grip. The young boy's back arched and his heels bit into the bed. Their mother was also nude in the cell-like room. A black sheet had been pinned up to the window and countless candles had been placed all around. William was rooted to the spot.

  In the flickering light he'd watched and listened as his mother poured over insane jumbles of arcane words and phrases, all the while keeping up a steady pumping rhythm on his brother’s cock. Her breasts were round and pendulous, and her stomach quivered as she went. In horror, William saw her naked breasts slicked with blood, even to the extent that long sticky rivulets hung from her mouth, congealed on her chin as her head rocked back and forth, her eyes closed as she railed. Her hair was soaking wet and hanging in webs.

  William peed in his pants when he saw the porcelain bowl by her feet, smeared with a montage of bloody fingerprints. A cat's tail hung limply over the side, the rest hidden. His mother’s rants began to take on hideous frequency and volume; William watched helplessly, gagging, as Sammy bucked his hips up and down, his penis engulfed by his mother's hand. William had to hide his eyes when his brother came and his mother went to get at it.

  In a daze he'd slowly turned away and walked down the hallway in a daze, leaving a trail of urine behind. He didn't know what had happened after that, and he'd never said a word.

  Not one fucking thing.