Lost Highways: Dark Fictions From the Road Read online

  Snot trickled down Dixon’s chin and he could feel it hanging in rivulets like dog slobber. “You’ve gotta be . . . No, I don’t abla fucking espanyolll!” He looked behind the counter. Cigarettes. Cigars. Chewing tobacco. Handwritten signs in Spanish hanging above the products. He motioned with his hand and made a buzzing sound.

  Cashier boy looked at him like he was a stalk of cauliflower.

  Dixon slammed the palm of his hand down on the counter. “Fucking . . . MEDICO! Emergencia. Allergi . . . FUCK!”

  He wiped the snot slobber off his chin with his soaked sleeve, only succeeding in pulling away glistening threads. Dixon turned to go through the aisles to find the section of Tylenol, Band-Aids, and no-doze pills for truckers.

  Donuts and pies. Bread. Coffee. Ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise. One aisle over, Dixon saw the recognizable bottle of black-green Nyquil. He stumbled around the corner, almost knocking over a spin rack of sunglasses, and stopped at the medical section. Sweat dripped down his spine as Dixon scanned the shelves through squinted eyes. Sinus meds. Extra-Strength migraine pills. Hemorrhoid cream.

  “Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUCK!” Dixon’s voice was nothing but a croak and his breathing had turned to an outright wheeze. His stomach cramped up and he doubled over. Dixon turned from the shelves to the section of hanging packages. Bandages big and small. Icy Hot. Aspercreme.

  The bell of the door jingled, and heavy footsteps run into the store. Dixon heard the recognizable metallic sound of a pistol being cocked.

  “Heyyyyy there, spunky! Give me all the fucking money and you won’t die a virgin.”

  Dixon dropped to a crouch and peeked around the aisle. A man in a gray ski mask was pointing a .38 revolver at the kid behind the counter. English speaking or not, the teen understood the language of a gun and looked ready to shit his pants. He popped the register and started handing over the cash.

  Another stomach cramp hit Dixon like a spike in his gut and he sputtered with pain. He reached out to grab a rack to steady himself and knocked several boxes from the shelf.

  The man with the gun turned. “Two for one special tonight.” He kept the pistol trained on the cashier but took a few steps closer and Dixon looked up at him. “What the fuck happened to you, circus freak?” He glanced back at the cashier, then back to Dixon. “Nevermind. Don’t really give a shit. Just hand me your wallet.”

  Dixon felt the world spin and he fell onto his side. The dirty floor was cool against his face and he stared, through the slits of his eyes, at the line of dust along the bottom of the shelving unit.

  He was going to die in a shitty convenience store in the armpit of Arizona from a bee sting. Fucksake.

  The bell on the door jingled and the man spun, aiming the pistol at the entrance.

  Dixon turned his head to watch Andy walk down the aisle toward him. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stopped and looked up at the man with the gun, then down at Dixon.

  “Daddy?”

  “Well shiiiiiiit! A family reunion! Lemme guess . . . ” He waved the .38 at Andy and chuckled. “Got your looks from your momma?” The man’s eyes were hard behind the ski mask. “Get over here, boy. Sit down beside your daddy. He was just about to give me his money.”

  It was like breathing through a straw. Dixon struggled to pull in a breath and noticed black spots at the corner of what little sight he had left. He reached out and held Andy’s arm as the boy sat down. “Mr. Hugsy.” The words were barely a whisper.

  Andy’s face scrunched up and he shook his head. “No, Daddy! I don’t want to!”

  “Do it . . . ” Dixon could hardly swallow, and another stomach cramp racked his body.

  Tears rolled down Andy’s cheeks and then he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

  “Just give me your wallet and you can get back to whatever this—”

  The overhead fluorescents crackled and went dark. The piss-yellow emergency lights came on. Dixon heard some kind of movement at the cash register and the .38 roared in the tight quarters. There was the thick sound of wet meat falling to the floor and Dixon saw the blurry inkblot splatter of blood against the wall of tobacco.

  “Haaaad to fuckin’ go and do something stupid, didn’t ya?” He turned and knelt down to Dixon, patting his pockets down.

  Andy opened his eyes. “I’m sorry Mister, but you’re a bad man.”

  In the space behind Andy, Dixon watched the air begin to swirl, like mercury pooling together. It grew in size and thickness, towering above Andy until it reached the drop ceiling. It grew in density as Dixon watched it take the size of two refrigerators stacked one on top of the other.

  Broad shoulders supported a taffy stretched head crested with a black derby hat. A face as smooth and white as fine china—void of wrinkles and eyebrows—held lidless eyes, a sharp triangle of a nose, and thin lips the color of raw liver. It stretched arms that reached over and beyond the tops of the aisles, and it trembled for a moment as it looked down. Cue ball eyes swiveled in their sockets and it opened its skewed gash of a mouth. Rows of teeth—thick as framing nails—lined the cavern, and they glistened in the yellow emergency light. It trembled again, and a rope of spit spilled out over its chin.

  “Christ Almig—”

  It moved like black silk, launching over Andy and cutting off Ski-mask’s words. The man didn’t even have time to scream. Dixon heard a violent thrashing and sloppy liquid sounds, cloth tearing, and the unmistakable noise of flesh being torn open. Blood didn’t fall in gentle drops, it splashed onto the linoleum around Dixon’s face, close enough he could feel the spatter on his skin and smell the copper.

  Andy never moved, never even flinched, even as a pile of intestines fell to the floor with a wet mop squelching sound. Ski-mask’s body followed, and Dixon could make out a hollowed rib cage, bones gleaming like bloody fork tines.

  The air in front of him darkened and Dixon saw a bone white Silly Putty face lean close to his own. A sound like wind over road gravel whispered from the gaping mouth and Dixon could see the rows of spike teeth, now dark red and caked with bits of pink tissue. He closed his eyes and the world faded into oblivion.

  ***

  “How did you know how to do that?” Dixon glanced in the rearview mirror at Andy. The boy was staring out the window. “Andy?”

  “I watched Mrs. Holicutt at daycare do it. My friend Billy Scavone got stung one day when we were playing soccer. His neck and face swelled up like a balloon and Mrs. Holicutt came running outside to help him. Travis said Billy’s eyes looked like a Chinese person, but Billy’s my friend and that wasn’t nice.” Andy turned from the window and looked at Dixon in the mirror. “Travis had an accident later that day on his bike and broke his arm.”

  “Where the hell did you even find the pen?”

  “There was a First-Aid kit by the sodas. Nurse Holicutt told us about things like that.”

  Dixon shook his head. His throat wasn’t completely normal, but when he breathed, it no longer felt like he was pulling air through a cocktail straw. Hell, even his eyes were starting to become unglued.

  “You done good, kid.” Dixon took a drink of the bottled water he’d stolen. He tossed a bag of beef jerky into the back seat. “Got you some more beef jerky. Or some chips if you want those instead. And water.”

  Dixon spun the cap on his own water and set the bottle down. “Andy, the other thing that happened . . . ”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” He turned to stare out at the dark desert again.

  “Damn it, Andy, it’s something we—”

  “That’s a bad word.”

  “Ahhhh shit, I—”

  “That, too.”

  “Fucking hell!”

  “You say a lot of bad words.”

  “It’s just how grownups talk, okay?”

  “Mommy doesn’t say bad words.”

  Dixon gritted his teeth. “Well that’s ‘cause after Mommy got off the smack and found God, she got a big stick up her—”

  “Did you steal
that money, Daddy?”

  Dixon bit his lip and jerked the car to the side of the road, skidding to a stop. He threw it in park, took a deep breath, and turned around in the seat. “Steal . . . did I steallll the money? Look, they weren’t going to be using it. We need this money, Andy.”

  “And the gun?”

  Dixon glanced over at the passenger side. Blood spattered cash was crumpled on the seat and the silver revolver rested on top. “I took the pistol, too. So what? Sometimes, you do what you need to do.”

  “Even the snacks?”

  “Yes, Andy, even the snacks. I stole the snacks and the money and took the gun. Yesterday, I stole gas twice and . . . ” He ran his hand over his head. Son or not, Dixon could feel his blood getting hot. “Are we fuckin’ done with confession time now? Can we get back on the road?” Dixon took another deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. It was like having a mini Pope as a co-pilot, though Dixon thought even the Pope was a little more relaxed on the fucking rules.

  “Stealing is bad.” Andy put the bag of beef jerky down on the seat beside him as if it was dirty. “I miss Mommy.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, Daddy. I’m sorry. But you’re a bad, bad man.”

  Dixon saw a flutter of movement on the passenger side of the car—swirls of liquid onyx taking shape. A canyon of jagged teeth appeared in the middle of a misshapen dough-white face. The smile grew wider and Dixon turned away to look in the rearview mirror.

  Andy’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

  SWAMP DOG

  LISA KRÖGER

  There are two ways to get to The Yellow Store.

  One is by turning down Vic Taylor Road, off Louisiana Highway 90. The road isn’t paved. It’s rocky and often turns to mud in the rainy season. People don’t turn down Vic Taylor unless they are lost, in need of direction.

  The other is by boat, by way of Pearl River.

  Most people take a boat. Most people who come to The Yellow Store are looking for it.

  It’s why I came.

  ***

  You are not who you used to be.

  This has become my mantra—I’ve become the kind of woman with a mantra. And I repeat those eight words from when I wake up to when I go to sleep, if I sleep. Hell, I probably repeat those words in my sleep too, though I have no one to tell me if I do or not.

  I am repeating those words under my breath as I take the night’s trash bag out to the green dumpster at the other end of the parking lot. I have to unlock a chain link fence to get to it, an act that I’ve learned to do with one hand.

  The bag is heavy with bottles, and the dumpster is ripe with three-day-old trash, fryer oil baked in the Gulf Coast summer sun. But there is something beneath it, lingering. A soured sweetness. It’s what interests me.

  I climb to the top of the dumpster and push my body over. My legs are stronger than they once were. The running has done its job. I’m leaner.

  You made me meaner.

  My arms are still weak. My shoulders will never be stronger than this, no matter how many planks, burpees, push-ups I do. The right one screams as I push my full weight on it to get into the stinking box. I sink into a mound of trash bags. Something wiggles next to my left leg. I reach down without even looking and pull up a small raccoon.

  I was expecting a rat and nearly fall backwards.

  The thing hisses at me, and I toss it outside. It lands with a thump and a crack, but I hear the damn thing skittering away, its long toes scratching at the dirt.

  I paw my way through the debris, not finding what I’m looking for.

  ***

  I ride my blue bicycle, with a brown basket tied to the front, home, the night quiet. The night dark. I’m looking for dead things, dead animals.

  Or more precisely, I’m looking for the thing that may have killed them.

  Morning comes soon. And I ride back to The Yellow Store.

  A bicycle is not as fast as a car, and it’s rather impractical in this heat. But no one can hide in the back seat. And I can quickly veer into the dark pine woods if someone follows me home. I can come up quietly too. No sound of an engine turning on to startle anyone into watching.

  I need to be invisible, or close to it.

  At The Yellow Store, I work the register, for what it is. The boaters stop for gas. I take their money when they want chicken on a stick or corn nuggets.

  It’s easy.

  My name tag says Lucy.

  It’s not my name. I think they know that. The man who hired me didn’t ask too many questions. I get paid in cash. He gives me hours when I need them, doesn’t question when I’m not here. Most around here are like that.

  He’s nice—he leaves me alone.

  Every day, I watch the door open, the tin-can wind chimes blow together, metal against metal. The men who come here are all the same. Quiet. Steel-jawed. White tee shirt turned yellow from sweat and brackish water. They walk past the dusty fake feathers, hanging on a spider-webbed plastic dreamcatcher. They don’t look at the painted sea shells. They don’t look at me. I’ve worked hard to keep it that way.

  I think of you when the big ones come in. The ones who have already had too much to drink. The ones who think they are funny and laugh too loud when they talk to their friends. They usually only notice me when they throw the bag of Zapp’s potato chips on the counter in front of me. Lick their lips. Lean in. Look at my chest, even though I’ve bound it in bandages. Flat as a pancake.

  I said I wasn’t who I once was.

  You wouldn’t know me anymore.

  My hair is brown too. Cut to my ears. It looks thin, stringy. I didn’t realize I was losing so much at the top. It’s stress, most likely. My poor diet. Leftovers that have been sitting under the heater lamps all day. The ones that were going to be thrown away. The grease has left me skinny. But with a flabby paunch of a belly.

  Mr. Woodson, I’ve let myself go, and I laugh every time I think about what you would say about me now.

  ***

  I haven’t stayed in any place as long as this one. Not since I left your house. But I’m close. I can feel it. I can’t let my guard down. Not now. Not when I’ve almost found it.

  The night is for hunters.

  I stop my bike at a familiar grease spot on the road. This time a beaver. Usually it’s a coon. Still, I let the bicycle drop, and I walk over to the dead animal. It looks whole, save for a velvet strip of deep red oozing from the underside. A car. Probably didn’t even know it nicked the animal.

  They never know how deeply they hurt you.

  You never knew how deeply you hurt me.

  A shadow moves through the trees. I pause, watching. The sun will be up soon and I have to wait. Tomorrow.

  ***

  I cycle through the early-morning air. Even this early, it’s still sticky hot out. My tee shirt is sweat-slicked to my skin, chaffing under my arms. The skin rubs red-raw with each pump of my legs. Up, down. Scratch, red. I’ll be bleeding by the time I get home.

  The blood always makes me think—not of you, Mr. Woodson, you’ll be disappointed to know—but of me, of who I was. Mrs. Ada Woodson.

  A list of adjectives. Petite, blonde. Housewife.

  Perfect.

  I know what everyone else saw when they looked at me. A beautiful wife. A happy wife. I know what they saw because I carefully crafted my mask every day. My mask of makeup to hide the bruises, the dark circles under my eyes from tear-stained nights. The long sleeves, even in the heat of summer. They thought it was modesty. They spoke about me, their comments like a Greek chorus.

  “There’s a woman who knows how to dress.”

  “Classy but covered up.”

  “Proof you don’t have to show off your body to be beautiful.”

  They saw a pinnacle of Southern Christian virtue when they looked at me. Do you realize what a feat that was? I was covering up your mess on my body all the while making them
think I was something to be envied.

  It was my power. But it wasn’t enough.

  They saw the mask, but I saw the truth.

  At home, I felt the pain in my side as I peeled off the clothes. I winced when I passed the brush through my hair. You always did prefer the back of the head, the places where the black and blue wouldn’t show.

  But what did you see?

  A wife? A partner? A prize? A possession? A punching bag?

  Whatever I was to you, I know you aren’t finished with me yet.

  I know this to be true because you always came back to finish what you started. When you pushed me so hard that I stumbled backward into our cheap Walmart bookshelf, and books rained down on me, you grabbed me by hair to pull me back up again.

  When you hit the back of my head so hard with the flat of your palm, so hard that I saw stars and went to my knees, you kicked my ribs. You continued to kick my ribs until we both heard a crack. And you kicked one last time, sending blinding white pain.

  You tackled me to the ground. You hit my head until I blacked out and you were still hitting me when I woke. That time, my shoulder tore and my scapula bone winged out like an angel sprouting wings.

  You told my friends that I had a stomach flu. I got excited texts asking if I might be pregnant.

  I had become too good at the mask.

  No more.

  ***

  The next night, I close shop and cycle to the spot where I saw the shadow man. The air is different. Thicker. It smells of mildewed earth and animal, pungent and wild.

  I wait as the moon rises. It’s full tonight, the pine woods lit up as if under a disco ball, fragmented light scattered around the sandy dirt of the forest floor. I walk until the land gets marshy, wet and soft beneath my feet. Bayou land.

  I walk carefully, watching for knotty logs that may be gators in disguise.

  I see none. They are gone from here. They know a bigger hunter is on the stalk.

  I pull a pocket knife, the one with the engraved, pearl-inlaid handle, the one I took from you the night I left. For protection, I thought. But also, to keep us connected.

  Because now I’m not through with you.