LATE NIGHT DINNER GUESTS
Chuck Broward carefully loaded the last bag of garden fertilizer into the bed of his white pickup truck. Then placed a fifteen-foot roll of hexagonal chicken wire on the passenger seat.
9:08 PM
It was a humid, muggy evening and far too late for him to be starting this errand. It was way too late for a man of his sixty-two years of age to be out shopping. But he had made a promise to Emmaline, his lovely granddaughter. Last Spring, he said they would build a garden together in the backyard before Fall came to Dermott.
Earlier, on their weekly phone call, she had admonished him. “It’s already mid-August! Are we going to have to buy snow shovels before we start?” Her voice rose in pitch whenever she complained. It was cute. And this little eight-year-old knew the exact buttons to push.
So…this was the weekend, Sunday, he would make good on his word.
He wiped at his sweaty brow and cursed his aching hips. “God! Don’t let me have a heart attack in the middle of setting this up.”
He turned the key and started the old Chevy. Traffic on the surface streets was docile but when he merged onto the I-18 freeway, it was busy. Most were young people heading out for a night of dancing and drinking, he supposed. His days of carousing were long ago and his wife Marcy has also long since passed.
He smiled to himself at the sudden memory of her. Not a day had gone by that he hadn’t thought of her and missed her laughter. He was good at making her giggle or even cackle like an old-timey witch. It was such an endearing trait of hers. Was…
He shook his head to clear away the emotions building inside, leaned over and fished around inside his glove compartment for his pack of cigs. His twenty-eight-year-old doctor had demanded he quit. Easy for him to say but this dirty habit had been going on longer than that little pissant had been alive!
A rusty van coated in splotchy flat black paint roared by him and cut across his lane nearly clipping Chuck’s front end. It careened into the fast lane then tailgated a semi-tractor-trailer.
“You idiot! Learn to drive before you kill someone!” He screamed. Nothing was more evident to him that the country was going to Hell than the way young people drove nowadays. Always in a frenzied rush, careless and completely unaware of the other drivers on the road.
His sudden temper boiled and he rolled down his window and stuck out his arm to flip the van’s driver off.
The van’s brake lights flashed for a second. As if the vehicle itself has taken notice of Chuck’s derisive slight.
Traffic began to slow further as luck would have it due to a minor fender-bender somewhere ahead. Chuck was still in the slow lane but only two cars behind the van. The ugly van’s passenger window was up and tinted very black. He could identify the make now. It was a late model GMC Savana with balding tires, sagging shocks on the back driver side, and two cracked and painted-over rear windows.
Somehow Chuck felt eyes crawling all over him as if he was being studied as well. “Oh yeah?” he yelled. “That’s right! You can go fuck yourself if you won’t drive right!” He flipped them off again.
There was no reply and the lanes restarted their progress. Yet when the traffic opened up, the van crept along and stayed parallel with his pickup.
A mile passed then two with the pair of vehicles remaining even in the lanes.
You don’t frighten me, pal, Chuck thought. He glanced subconsciously at the passenger seat. There, hidden underneath, was a small, silver aluminum baseball bat. From his past experience as an outside salesman for an office furniture company, he always carried some form of protection. You never knew who you might encounter. He shied away from guns as it required a lot of paperwork and government bullshit regulation. Yet a knife, sap, blackjack stick or bat was easy and still as effective.
Ahead he spotted the 209A exit ramp, his stop. He veered away. The van slowed then cut back to follow behind him. One of the van’s headlights was oddly dimmed, angled to the side. It reminded him of Chester Conklen, a kid in his childhood neighborhood who had a crooked smile and a lazy eye. Talking with Chester was always awkward and off-putting. His lazy eye gave you the impression he wasn’t really listening and he was more interested in something else behind you. This GMC van was kind of the same. It was watching you, but it was also angling to see what else was out there to the side. Hunting?…
The exit ramp circled back on itself and then marched up to a red stop light at a busy four-lane street called Adams Avenue.
Chuck waited on edge, the traffic light taking infinitely long. In his rearview mirror, he watched the van pull up directly behind him. All he could see were a pair of white hands gripping a steering wheel. The interior was pitch black and hid the driver’s features.
“What’s your play here?” he asked aloud. The audacity of the driver was fanning the fires to his anger. ”Didn’t like me cussing at ya? Well, go sit down with the other bitches waiting to see if I give a shit!”
The light turned green, but Chuck paused and sat at the stop. The van revved its engine in irritation but didn’t honk the horn. Finally, he accelerated and made a right turn down the street. The GMC followed. He sighed out loud, feeling put out. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation. He only expressed his irritation about how the other driver was driving. Yet now he couldn’t avoid the guy nor could he even proceed home.
As he approached another traffic light, he decided to go left versus right. The van roared forward and blasted ahead in a sudden burst of speed. It then pitched to the left, cutting off Chuck again in the same manner he had on the freeway. This time a small, brown paper sack was vaulted out from the passenger’s window. When it hit Chuck’s windshield, a thin orange liquid splashed and coated the glass.
Immediately Chuck had to brake and park. He cursed vehemently as he switched on the wipers. A broad, half-circle smear followed the wipers. It was a cheap paint of some kind!
Check stepped out from the truck and dug around in the collected trash inside the truck bed. He found a pair of red rags. “You son-of-a-bitch! I’m going to call the cops. No screw that! If I see you again, I’m going to go to third base on your head with my bat!” His words and rage flowed profusely from his mouth. “You went too far. Now I have the right to bash your freaking head in! Goddamn—“ his ranting faded away, his attempts to mop at the paint stopped. The black, intimidating van sat idle along the street facing him. Watching and waiting…Hunting?
“YOU ARE GONNA PAY!” Chuck screamed as he bolted back into the truck. He slammed his foot on the pedal and his Chevy jumped forward as it gunned toward the van. The truck’s door swung closed with a bang. He hadn’t even shut it before taking off. He only saw red. His fury controlled his actions.
The black van raced off going past Chuck who had to do an awkward, ugly u-turn in the middle of the street. Now with the orange paint spread all over, he only had a tiny circle of window to see through where his rag had cleaned off some of the coating. He didn’t care. He sped up until he was nearly crashing into the other vehicle’s back bumper. There was an Ohio license plate swinging back and forth as it was held on by one bolt. He didn’t bother with memorizing the numbers. This guy was not getting away from him now.
Together the pair of vehicles raced at dangerous speeds through a residential neighborhood. Chuck was panting, sweat dripping down his temples. However, he was grinning. A big, toothy smile that promised pain and punishment.
The van abruptly took a hard right that he couldn’t anticipate or copy. His truck went straight and plowed into a chain link fence and exploded through someone’s mailbox. Letters, advertisements, and junk newspapers went everywhere and somersaulted in the air. He had the presence of mind now to stop and catch his breath. If that had been a car or a house he would have careened right through them. Could have even died or killed someone in the process.
“Aw shit,” he moaned. “What the hell am I doing?”
At that moment bright lights lit up his truck’s interior. Two headlights on full bright, one lamp still skewed to the left, came straight on. Oh god! He’s going to ram me! Chuck screamed inside.
Again with supernatural agility, the van twisted to the side narrowly missing the Chevy. A soda bottle arched high into the air. It came again from the passenger side window. The plastic container hit and lodged in the hood between the wiper blades spilling its contents. A putrid, acidic odor of urine filled Chuck’s nose. It burned as if the bottle was poured directly into his nostrils.
HE JUST PISSED ON YOU! His brain screamed in outrage, stunned again by the audacity of this bastard. HE JUST PISSED ON YOU! HE PISSED ALL OVER YOUR TRUCK. PISSED ON–
He saw the man at the same time he shot his arm inside and put a dirty, white t-shirt against Chuck’s face. It reeked of strong chemicals. The other driver was young, in his late twenties and had long, choppy black hair obscuring his eyes.
His vision blurred. He didn’t get a chance to mutter even a word before he fell away into nothingness.
Hours later maybe, it could’ve been days. Chuck didn’t know, but he finally woke up. The night was still very dark and without wind. Stars peeked down at him from behind wisps of clouds as if curious as to what he was doing. His whole body ached and protested at the strain it was under. His head was held back by layers of duct tape, exposing his neck. HIs arms were tied together behind a tall telephone pole with a lamp that hung over him. A long rope of Christmas lights was wound around his chest and down his legs. The wood of the pole poked into his back through the thin material of his gray and blue t-shirt.
Standing and smoking a cigarette was the young man who had attacked him. He wore faded blue jeans, a dingy green shirt and a cheap black leather jacket. The kid faced away and hadn’t noticed Chuck was awake yet.
In his limited field of vision, he saw an old dark barn, the black GMC Savana was parked there. A dozen or so yards behind it, he saw his Chevy Tahoe parked and abandoned with other neglected cars and trucks in an overgrown field. Beyond the small parking lot of vehicles were mounds of trash. They encircled the area. The smell of rot and discarded refuse hung heavy in the air like pollution. Chuck guessed it was a local junkyard.
“Mister?” Chuck mumbled. His throat and his lips were sandpaper dry. “Mister? I’m–I’m sorry.”
The lanky young man turned slowly around. His face was pasty white, tattoos blanketed his neck, silver skull earrings dangled from wide, gauged earlobes. “What?” he asked.
“I said, I am sorry. So very sorry. Can we forget all this happened?” Chuck pleaded. Moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes. He had never had this type of intense experience. Never been so afraid of what could happen next.
“Sorry? For what? I don’t understand.” He seemed genuinely confused.
A raspy, high-pitched voice called out. “Is he awake? Is he awake now?” The words were frantic and rushed, tumbling over each other in their urgency.
“Please, man. Let me go. I have a family. I…I have a beautiful granddaughter I very much want to see again. Please!”
The youth laughed. “We all have family. All have someone we need.” A shadow seemed to pass over his features. The mirth was stolen from his smile. “I have a sister, man. Well…they have, I mean.”.
“What?” It was Chuck’s turn to be lost in the conversation.
“He’s awake! He’s awake! Hey! He is awake!” The other voice crooned. Laughter followed after it. Then other sources of laughter joined in from the dark gloom. The laughter surrounded them.
“What’s going on? What do you want, sir? I apologize for cursing you. You upset me when you came close to my truck. I am sorry!” He was earnest. Just want to go home.
“Don’t worry. I’m not mad. It’s all part of the deal. I’m Neal by the way. You are?” he asked.
“Chuck Broward.”
“Ooooo Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” The other voices filled the air.
“Hey, Chuck. You see, man, you chose the wrong night. You chose the wrong person to vent on, that’s all. I mean, shit, lucky for me, but, yeah, shit deal for you.” He stopped, turned toward the dark building and whistled.
At first, only the reflection of a pair of eyes could be seen. They were an odd faint blue. Then another pair opened, followed by two more behind it. Chuck gasped in terror when a small, thin gray creature crept out of the gloom of the barn. It had a tiny, softball-sized skull, the whitish skin stretched very tight over it. It didn’t have a nose but a wide maw that crossed over the entire skull. The mouth was filled with tubular teeth, translucent and very pointed. A pair of gray and pink tongues flashed snakelike in and out. Their eyes were solid, white buttons in the light. They were surrounded by triangular patches of red flesh that pulsated in obscure rhythms. The wolf-size beasts crawled on two legs but had three sets of arms, the smallest near to the face, obviously meant for feeding scraps to the mouth.
“What the fuck is that?” Chuck cried out.
“Dinner guests! Dinner guests! Dinner guests!” One of the monsters bleated out.
Another one climbed out of the passenger side window of the GMC. It was broader than the others. Its back had two rows of small, ebony spikes sticking up from its skin. It said, “We accept! We accept! We accept your donation, Neal!”
Glumly, Neal took one last long pull from his cigarette and snuffed it out under his boot. He glanced again at Chuck who was trembling and gasping for air. “I am really sorry, too. Like you said, man, I have family and I want to see her again too. Sorry.”
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” they taunted. “Bad driver! Bad driver! Bad temper! But is he sweet? He he he!”
He walked past the streaming horde of beasts as they crept out of the shadows and the barn. From his jacket, he retrieved some earbuds and settled in behind the wheel of his van.
He refused to look up until the meal was done.
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