Dark Ride Page 7

  Smith feels something in the air. An acrid smell, and a dulling of the dark environment. Surrounded by the band of Angels, the braided woman holds him close. She explains that the Demons seek to gain the streets, not only here in New York, but in other inner cities as well. That they are indeed humans, but in sinful prayer had transformed themselves into powerful beings capable of taking down entire neighborhoods. "They hadn't expected such a formidable enemy," she explains, speaking of the Angels. "The Angels are gorgeous creatures. We are close, bonded by soul. We will protect ourselves and our turf with our lives."

  Flamethrower, leading the procession, stops before the doorway from where the first demon emerged. He sniffs the air. "They are frightened of us." He closes his eyes and offers up a prayer to God, then screams and kicks in the door.

  Smith, carried by the throng, grips his pistol with sweaty hands. Ahead, the burst of the flamethrower drowns out the pounding beat and the subsequent howls of those caught beneath its torch. Inside the building's first floor (which had been shrewdly gutted, forming one large room), Smith catches sight of another demonic man, also black and naked and glistening, crawling up a support column like a spider. A barrage of bullets take him down. Flamethrower adds the final blow.

  Another shape approaches stealthily from a distant set of stairs: a creature bred of man and canine, its snarling muzzle defiant of its attackers. Wounds are pounded into it until it lay wheezing in a steaming puddle. Smith can hear the settling of its wet injuries as bone and oily gristle seep out onto the floor.

  Someone yells: "Look out!".

  A deafening rock of dynamite quakes the room

  Smith drops his gun, collapses to the ground in a heap, along with many others. Needles of pain penetrate his head and teeth. In the booming silence that follows, someone utters, "Ho-ly Shit."

  Smith looks up. There's huge dark hole in the wall, surrounded by a halo of smoke. From within the hole, the beat emanates like a great heart, its source emerging from within its depths.

  Smith's blood stands still in his veins.

  In writhing lumps comes a massive congregation of bodies, knotted together to produce a singular beating heart,

  (thump-thumpa-thump)

  a living, breathing entity gushing hungrily forward, sucking into its collective the closest members of the Angels tribe, ten—or more—bodies. Green smoke sputters from its intricate surface like lava, its agglomerated bulk thick behind it, hundreds of skinless hands reaching out, grabbing the torn wall, rooting itself into the hole. Human parts jut at countless angles, hordes of swelling eyes peering out alongside naked bone. But not all its features are born of human genes: sharp pointed teeth melt into glistening organs; patches of fur and hide riding the transmuted surface like mossy growths.

  Flamethrower launches a fiery spew at the mass. People flee everywhere, forward, backward, sideways—lambs endeavoring one final opportunity to escape their slaughters. Bullets fly. The air in the room darkens and cools, an icy frost coating everything and everyone. It penetrates Smith's skin as he fights his way backwards through the ensuing chaos. He chances a look back at the gangs of Demons and Angels, the conflagration between them dwindling into a battle of one Goliath against a few weakened Davids, the likely victor swelling with the mutilated bodies of its enemy. He chokes at the scene, fleeing bodies seized by writhing tentacles emerging from the bloody mass, gripping ankles and necks, hauling them in. Limbs twist like fleshy ropes, blood bursting at the swelling pressure; bones, ground to silt, muscles and tendon to fibery pulp.

  Smith, scampering toward the door, witnesses the lopping off of a man's head, the eyes exploding as it hits the ground just inches away. The braided woman edges toward him, handless arms reaching out, gushing blood. The boy who brought him water lay gutted in the doorway, entrails seeping farther away from his body as he attempts to move. Smith crawls over him, looking back one last time and witnessing a bloodbath of carnage.

  Why not me? he wonders, stealing his way into the heat of the night, seemingly escaping the war between the Angels and Demons.

  "Sir..."

  Dull pain lances through his ribs. He opens his eyes. They burn from the light.

  Above, a figure looms.

  "Get moving," the voice demands.

  Smith nods, sits up. His head swims with pain and noises. He rubs a hand through his hair and looks around groggily, pondering the reality of his thumping heart.

  Rows of windows. Running adverts above. Vents, blowing cool air.

  Subway car.

  The doors are open.

  He peers back up at the figure, now in focus. Transit cop.

  "Where am I?" Smith asks, tongue parched.

  "Midtown. 54th Street Station. 2-Train."

  He looks around. Confused. The Park Central...it's at 60th Street and 7th Avenue. Not that far away.

  A dream?

  "This train is being taken out of service, due to mechanical problems. Sorry, this here's the end of the line."

  "Thanks for waking me," Smith manages. He stands and exits the car, onto the subway platform.

  On a bench, a man sits reading the Post. The headline: Policeman Murdered In Cold Blood.

  Smith stared curiously at the headline. Then, leans down to tackle an itch on his calf.

  He couldn't get to it.

  Something in the way.

  A bandage...

  From somewhere, a dampered beat emanates. A pervasive chill follows.

  "Jesus Christ," Smith mutters, his breath suddenly visible before him.

  The man on the bench lowers the paper and smiles.

  Revealing to Smith his sheer nakedness, and clubbed hands.

  Comforts of Home

  Will Work For Food, the sign read, or so he was told. He'd never learned to write, nor read, so he had to trust one of the men at the gathering: a leather-skinned, long-bearded drifter who'd called himself Jyro. He'd thought, who names themselves after a friggin' sandwich? It wasn't as though the guy's mother gave him that name. But who knew for certain? Not Charlie. Not anyone else at the 'Squat'.

  South Miami didn't offer much in the way of shelter, so the Squat remained overly popular, and over-populated. Each night a lone police vehicle sat like a sentry across the street at the burned-out pawn shop, replaced every two hours by its twin. Inside, the driver and his partner ate subs and sipped coffee so they wouldn't die from all the excitement.

  It'd been only six months on the streets for Charlie. His cash ran out along with his luck, and the room rental was offered to someone with deeper pockets. He hadn't really earned his keep at the Squat yet (as in the real world), but the streets welcomed him anyway, as did the strays that duped him into half his earnings with their pining eyes and covetous mews. Better to give than to receive, he reasoned, believing that those who pay their good wills shall earn their fair keep in the end. Contemplating the crowd about him, with its abusive disposition and makeshift hierarchy, he wondered if anyone mired at this level could ever rise to taste the cream at the top. Probably not.

  So why not make the best of any situation? The sign had seen better days, now swelled with rain and furled at the edges. C-shaped indentations approached the words on the front, his grip now limited to cramping fingertips campaigning to get his message across. It'd worked, the sign, depending on location of course, supplying him with just enough money to get by on: food for him, and Shitty-Kitty for the cats.

  Charlie knew the others at the Squat sniggered at the weird guy who slept with the cats, making it known that he was one of the 'Squat freaks'. Thankfully these self-appointed leaders never followed through with their cat-mashing threats. Or so he thought. After all, many different cats showed up every night.

  Of course, they weren't really his cats. The city had quite a problem with the strays, and made a not-so-grand effort to eliminate their presence by trapping them and bringing them to the downtown shelter where they'd be gracefully put to sleep, thanks to the taxpayers who insisted on a rabies-fr
ee park. But they bred faster than they were caught, so there were always one or two more to add to the evening mix, and soon enough cat-man Charlie had himself at least two-dozen nightly visitors to contend with, which was just good and fine by him. Thank the Good Lord for Shitty-Kitty that cost only $1.89 for a five pound bag. That left him with about five to seven bucks a day to feed himself. If he found work.

  The jobs were few and far between, and paid ten bucks on a good day, but only if he put in ten hours. He'd gotten work from the landsjaunters who at times were unwilling to shell out minimum wage to the Rent-A-Ricans who worked their day-labor asses off to support eighteen year-old pregnant wives and malnourished kids. The deal was always made ahead of time, and if Charlie wanted the promise of work the next day, he'd have to abide by their agreement. Yeah, ten bucks was just fine, so long as he could eat and feed his cats.

  The Lauderdale Road exit off I-95 was always a safe bet. He'd stand on the grass shoulder, holding up the sign

  (Will Work For Food)

  and wait for the landsjaunters to pull in from Boca or Jupiter or Delray with their side-slat pickups and a spot for Charlie in the back alongside the mowers and the Rent-A-Ricans, who always cowered at the foul odor of the homeless guy. Of course, Charlie was never paid in food—that might cost even more than the ten bucks he was usually offered.

  The only problem, really, was getting to Lauderdale Road, which was a good mile and a half from the Squat. His sneakers had long ago shown the signs of age, soles worn through to threadbare socks, the laces stolen one night while he slept. His feet bled daily, even before the day's work began, and he remained mindful of the pain, doing his best to shove it aside until he returned to the Squat.

  It'd been three days since he last ventured out, and neither he nor the cats had eaten in nearly 48 hours. They'd begun to climb on him, twenty, maybe thirty altogether if you included the kittens, kneading their paws all over his stagnant form. They're hungry, they're hungry, Charlie thought over and over again, knowing he was the only one who'd ever feed them. And if he didn't, well, then fairly soon they'd give up on him and leave him alone in the world that had been so damn cruel to him.

  He took his sign

  (Will Work For Food)

  and began the long arduous trek to the interstate exit where traffic would be high and a passing pickup might just have an extra spot in the back for him to crawl into. He left the Squat early in the morning while it was still too dark to attract attention from those on their way to determine their net worths in life. He'd never begged for money like so many of the others at the Squat routinely did, yet still, those he crossed paths with eyed him suspiciously and diverted their determined gaits to avoid any possible confrontation, whether it be physical, or simply odorous.

  The rising sun loomed surreptitiously behind a veil of clouds, casting grey light across the early morning bustle of Southern Florida. The threat of drizzle loomed, but would soon be defeated by another 98 degree day. By the time he made it to the Lauderdale Road exit, sweat doused his body and dehydration threatened to take him down.

  He held up the sign

  (Will Work For Food)

  as cars and trucks came to rest at the traffic light. Those behind the windows peered at him until he attempted to lock their gazes. The drivers, shock-value urges fulfilled, quickly returned their sights to the road only to press onward as the traffic light switched from red to green.

  The thin cloud cover burned away as the sun beat its maddened rays down on Charlie's head. He began to smell himself again, and did his damndedness to ignore the stench. The early morning hours quickly segued into rush hour. A tremendous thirst sapped his energy. His vision began to fade. Charlie had to dig deep for the strength to simply hold the sign up.

  In a moment of thin traffic, a lone truck advanced from the interstate and came to rest at the traffic light, its motor idling like the purr of a great tiger. In the back cab, wood slats running nine feet high corralled thousands of navels on their way to be crated and shipped off to supermarkets across the state. The aroma of freshly picked oranges doused Charlie like a deluge of sweet water.

  Charlie held up his sign: Will Work For Food.

  The driver rolled down the window. Middle-aged. Marlins cap. In need of a shave.

  Charlie pinned his gaze.

  The driver did not turn away. He grinned pitifully. "Hungry?" he asked.

  Charlie nodded.

  "Thirsty?"

  "Yes sir," he answered timidly, lowering the sign.

  "I just might have a job for you," the driver said. "Get in."

  Charlie looked up at the thousands of oranges packing the rear of the truck. How was he supposed to get up there? Was this some kind of cruel joke?

  The traffic light turned green. Charlie half-expected the truck to take off, but it didn't move.

  "In the cab," the driver said. "Hurry it up. Light's green."

  Charlie scurried around the front of the truck, the sharp pain in his feet lost to the thrill of the moment. He opened the door and hopped into the cab, wedging his sign between his legs. Cool air covered his body like a blanket. The driver handed him a plastic grocery bag filled with oranges. "Help yourself."

  In silence, Charlie peeled and ate four oranges, paying no attention to the roads they traveled. His body tingled with uncanny delight as the cool juice seeped down his throat—as the rich pulp settled in his stomach. Only afterwards did he wonder how many hours he'd have to put in for this ten minutes of ecstasy.

  "There's plenty more where they came from," the driver said. "As many as you can carry home."

  "Thank you."

  "Plus, say, fifty bucks."

  Fifty bucks? There is a God after all.

  He eyed the driver, only somewhat suspiciously. Desperation made every opportunity seem reasonable. So far there seemed nothing to be concerned about. The man was nice, although quiet, driving with a purposeful direction in mind.

  "Where're we headin'?" Charlie asked.

  "Capshaw. Just south of the city. There's some warehouses there. Gotta drop off this load."

  "You need help boxing them?"

  The driver turned left, then shook his head. "No, we got employees that do that. Union guys. And, well...they don't do no dirty work."

  "Dirty work?"

  "I...I need your help cleaning up a bit of a mess."

  Charlie nodded. "For fifty bucks, I'll clean up any mess you got."

  "It's an overnight job."

  Charlie hesitated, then said, "That's okay."

  Twenty minutes later they pulled onto a dirt road leading away from an industrial park filled with cement warehouses. From the thickly sweet aroma filling the air, Charlie figured that a citrus juice plant operated somewhere nearby, and right here along this road were the warehouses where the oranges and grapefruits were temporarily stored before they went off to the nearby factories for juicing. When the factory quotas were filled, many of the fruits were either crated for the supermarkets or roadside stands, or simply donated to charities.

  At the end of the dirt road sat a warehouse smaller than the rest. It was clearly less kept up than the others, this one nothing more than a wooden structure, perhaps a single-unit home in the past whose wood beams lay inescapably caught in the webs of decay. White paint curled away from the pitted facing like a peeling sunburn. High weeds burst from the base of the building in scattered clumps. Horseflies the size of bumblebees hovered about them in droves.

  "Here we are," the driver said, jumping down from the cab. A small cloud of dust rose around him. Charlie followed, eyeing the place with skeptical curiosity. Something rotten filled the air.

  "What's this building for?"

  "I'll play it straight with ya," the man said, removing his hat and swiping his sweaty brow. "This here's where all the rotten fruits go. Been more than a few bad batches of late, and with the surplus and all, we've been working overtime trying to find places to ship our regular stock. So, what you have here is ab
out three months worth of dead fruit. It's been accumulating, still is, and with business being as bad as it's been, well, we can't really afford to pay the union clean-up crews. Which means we gotta do it ourselves. So I guess this is where you come in."

  Charlie peered at the man, then back at the small warehouse. Three months worth of oranges baking in a hot warehouse...

  "There's a dumpster out back, next to the door. There's also a few good shovels and a cooler filled with food and water. All you gotta do is fill up the dumpster with the bad oranges. Should be able to fit 'em all. I figure that with a few rests for food and sleep, you should be able to wrap it all up by tomorrow morning. I'll be back then with your money. Sound good?"

  Charlie nodded, somewhat tentatively. The cooler filled with food and drink was the clincher, really, otherwise he might've walked away from it all. Not that hiking back to the Squat would be a better alternative. Well...his friends were there. And tonight they'll be sniffing around for him, wondering where he's gone.

  The man returned to his truck, waved, then drove off, leaving Charlie alone to face the elements. He took a deep breath, then circled around to the rear of the warehouse, feet crunching over dried reed stems and burnt crabgrass. The waft of putrification grew thicker, and by the time he reached the closed door of the building, the smell was so bad a nausea rose up in him that completely wiped out his appetite. Smells worse than the Squat, he thought, trying to amuse himself. Smells like dead bodies.

  He eyed the cooler—a rather small one at that—then stepped to the door.

  He opened it. Went inside.

  The baking stench assaulted him like a fist, punching its way deep into his lungs. The oranges he ate twisted acidically against the walls of his stomach, threatening to leap from his trembling body in a streaming mass. Jutting crookedly from the eight-foot ceiling, a single bulb dimly illuminated the sea of decay before him, a grey pulpy mound wholly unrecognizable as the pile of citrus fruits they used to be. Seven feet high and perhaps twenty feet across, the bulging mass glistened in spots with mold patches still freshly festering. Thousands—no, millions—of flies, most of them as large as the ones he spotted out front, covered the swelling mountain like sprinkles on a dishfull of soft-serve yogurt.