Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 3

Painted Blake

El looks in his mirror and reflects for a moment longer on the men that were his team for a day—Lances Jacob, Snake, Larry Gekks, and Charlie Belmond. He cracks a smile, knowing that though not everything is OK, they will cross paths again. This isn't the end of a journey; they all have a part to play in this game, even if they don't understand it. As they begin their trek, Lacerti crosses his arms, lying back in his seat. "You're still thinking about them," he says lazily.

"They're good people."

"Your father wouldn't approve."

"Maybe some tunes?" El says, changing the subject.

"You never listen to the radio."

"I think now is a good time to start." Lacerti chuckles a little at El as his heartless facade fades away, revealing, momentarily, his loneliness. El reaches for the radio and turns the dial, looking for a working station.

A woman's voice comes on. "You are listening to KOTOR. Next up we have Iron Maiden and 'The Long Distance Runner'" Time is long, and things are not going to improve. The next adventure rests just on the other side of the valley.

* * *

The Lamia's Back behind them; the two truckers find their way back onto the interstate and press on. They have lost time to make up for and have gone for over twenty-four hours without sleep already. As for decent food, it turns out that half the truck stops in the country serve food that's better than the MRE-'s that they forced down back in Nam. El and Lacerti are soldiers; they can take it. "Eat now, taste it some other time," Private First Class E. Presley would say that most every day. He had a good point. Food doesn't have to be good, only filling.

As they pull up to their next weighing station, El rubs his eyes. Lacerti looks over, a clear exasperation of concern on his face. He reaches out to take El's arm.

"You all right?" the giant asked his balled friend.

El shakes himself off. "I've had a headache since we left Vern."

Lacerti nods in understanding. "Do you need anything from the shop?" he asks in his low husky voice.

"Salted nut bar and something spicy."

"Drink?"

"Light."

"Got it."

Lacerti steps out of the truck and heads into the station. El turns his attention to the radio and notices that it has been on static for some time now. El takes a moment to search the dial just for the hell of it. A signal starts to come in; a man's voice comes over the speakers. "That was the Surgeon's hit single 'Your Heart is in My Hand.' Next up we have the Laundrymen with 'Hanging you Out to Dry.' You are tuned into KDUM. I'm Johnny, be good now."

El shakes his head in disgust. "No, thanks, Johnny." He clicks off the radio. El lays back in the truck. Reaching into his pocket, El withdraws a tape recorder. He rewinds to the beginning of his last entry as he takes in his own voice. He begins to recall the events in vivid detail.

"September 10, noon, Double fetches me from my den and reminds me that 'the client' is expected to arrive shortly. Lacerti and I exchange a glance, and we both know what is coming. I make my way to the normal spot. I have the usual drink placed at my left hand. I sit with my hands folded. Lacerti is across the street. He can see me. The client can't see him. I lay down the rules. The client disapproves."

* * *

The Cuban has drawn his gun, a 13 mm Jackal, limited edition. It's a good gun. Too much gun for most to handle, El thinks to himself while examining the firearm. He is completely without fear as he stares down the muzzle of the gun with his head held high. He adjusts the collar of his gray, economy-class suit with matching tie, then crosses his arms atop the table. His eyes are deep brown and seem to hold back a fiery evil, and his imposing presence even as he sits makes it clear that he would stand over six feet tall.

"Mr. El, your price—it's just too much!" the Cuban man yells out. "Seven thousand for only one truck?"

"Plus seven grand more on delivery, plus expenses." El's face is stone cold as always.

"What do I pay for?" the Cuban asks.

"Insurance," El responds, his voice calm and piercing. "No questions, guaranteed. I provide the tools and the training. If I fail, my replacement picks up where I left off . . . ." El continues in his soft but demanding voice, "Before you think anymore about shooting anyone, are you any good with numbers?" "No, why?" the Cuban questions.

"It so happens to be that I'm exceptional, so let's play a game. Count with me. If you look around right now, you will see there are twenty-seven men looking at you in addition to myself. Twenty-five of them are carrying guns, twenty-four of which are pointed at you. Half of those guns are 9 mm Berettas, the favored gun of the CIA, a third are .45 Dostoveis, a Russian hand cannon. The rest are United States .50 Desert Eagles, and there's one man outside with an M18 an assault rifle, which the army will started using in 2008. So tell me, how many rounds are there between them?" The Cuban tries to count on his fingers as El continues, "Its 388 not counting your Jackal. You fire, you're not getting out of here alive."

"I see your point, Mr. El." The Cuban puts his gun down and El takes it.

"I trust the package is outside, like in the deal?" "Yes," the Cuban man responds.

"Let's all take a look."

* * *

The mission from moment one looks like it would be atypical. The Cuban brings with him a partner, a Negro; neither man look like the local sc.u.m I deal with on a daily basis. Both men look off balanced; it is clear that they want me to think that they are mobsters, but to anyone that has ever worked with the mob there are clearly problems with how they moved. The two men walk in step, side by side. Every gangster I had ever met make a point of walking with one man ahead of the rest of their group; it's like a status symbol.

Both men are wearing suits. Both still have the factory creases; these suits are less than a week old. The way they walk, the way they talk, slapping each other and speaking in hushed tune—more likely they're college boys. But the real giveaway comes when the Negro asks me if I was a killer. No mobster worth his weight would dare ask a question of that nature. When you hire a driver, you expect that they are ready to do whatever it takes to get the job done, up to and including killing the Computation.

The client did something I didn't expect; he provided me with a map that he wanted me to follow. The map outlines a path leading from Vern, Florida, to Taiwan, Mexico. Not a tough ride, I've made it hundreds of times. But the path is winding; lots of dirt roads even take us past Taiwan by some ways, then turn around.

Something happens partway that is simple unacceptable. I get lost . . .

* * *

"This map shows my intended path. If this is not acceptable, you can set a new one. I will arrive at the rendezvous in seven to fourteen days. Once there, I will make two attempts to deliver the package, thirteen hours apart. If there is any sign of danger, I will leave and come back in one hour. If there is no one to meet me, I will take the contents and sell it myself. If I get there and there is no money or it's not the right amount, I kill the messenger, call my assistants, and have them kill you, find your address book, and take the remainder of the money from your accounts. So don't mess up again."

Everyone agrees, and El sets off, everything according to plan. Less than a block away, El picks up his partner, Lacerti. A giant of a man with dark red hair and a matching beard, Lacerti is reminiscent of the Vikings. He seems to stand over eight feet tall and has a highly trim, but muscular, physique.

The drive from Florida to Mexico is long and unfriendly, but one that El and his partner have made dozens of times, just like their fathers had made and their sons will make after them. El's family has been in the same career for generations, moving and transporting anything and everything, and always with the same set of rules.

On the fourth day, they hit a snag. A road that's on El's map isn't actually there in truth. El turns the truck around, and they return to the last town for both gas and directions. They stop at a diner where there seems to be a biker gang dining as well.

Inside, El approaches the waitress and calmly asks, "Miss, can you help me?"

She is chewing gum and smells heavily of a watermelon-scented perfume. "What's up, stranger?"

"Ten miles up the road there is supposed to be a bridge that leads into the town on the other side of the mountains."

One of the bikers pipes in. He is a man with black hair and has a face torn up from years of drug use. "That's old Navu, isn't it? The bridge is gone, but there is still a road that goes through."

"What happened there?" El inquires with curiosity.

"Some acid or radiation or something spilled all over the place. The cops closed the bridge and barred the road. They say it's unlivable now," the biker explains.

"Still some folks live 'round there, though."

"Can you tell me how to get there?" El asks in his always calm tone.

"No, but I can show you. The eight of us are heading that way," the man answers.

"Take a load off. Have a beer. We'll be leaving soon."

El cracks a smile. "We don't drink, but thank you. We will sit."

As El and Lacerti wait around with the bikers, they learn that the one who spoke with them is named Pistol. The rest of the talk, though, is almost incoherent blabber. After a time, they leave, El and Lacerti following the bikers around the mountain to "the hangout."

* * *

The place looked unsavory from the get-go. There were dozens of trucks out front, most of which were unmarked. In and amongst smugglers this is a business card, our little way of saying "your logo here." Should you have one ear to the ground one might think the place looks like a death trap. Steel doors, no windows, no exterior lights, it's the Alamo: one way in, no way out. If between the two of us we had any good sense, we would have gotten right back in the truck and looked for a different place to spend the night.

Lacerti had a hand full of drinks and made his way to the restroom. I spent a moment to take in my surroundings; unfortunately the local flavor wasn't to my taste . . .

* * *

The place is not quite El's style, but it's the only stop along the way, if they want to stay punctual. He goes to the front bar to sit by himself while Lacerti makes his way to the restroom and the rest of the group finds a table together to continue their heavy drinking.

Some commotion begins, but El pays no heed until the bartender takes his cup and growls at him, "Time to pay your tab."

El looks at him and quickly notices that something is not right. Blood begins to rain from above, projected by the sprinkler system, and the bartender has grown a second head. Neither head resembles anything even remotely human looking. He leans over to grab El, but El kicks his chair back out of reach and leaps to his feet. The bartender jumps onto the bar and crouches like some kind of wild animal. El round-kicks him in the side and then ax-kicks him to the ground. The mutated bartender grabs El as he gets back up and throws him over the bar.

"Bleed for me!" the monstrous bartender ferociously orders.

El stands and cracks his neck in a prominent show of defense. The bartender stretches his rubbery necks and snaps at the man. El grabs a nearby fire extinguisher and swings. It gets caught in one of the monsters' mouths. Having bought some time and wondering where the hell Lacerti is in the surrounding ruckus, El raises his new gun to blast that mutant's second head to pieces. By this time, the room is crowded with dozens of beasts of all shapes and sizes. "It looks like the mail will be late today," El mutters.

One shot, one kill, El thinks to himself as he's blowing both heads off the bartender with a single bullet from his Jackal. Never be wasteful. Every movement must count. Nothing seems to escape El's eagle eyes. Zombies start leaping over the bar at him. El grabs the nearest one, bends it over the bar, and drives a steak knife from the table into its c.h.e.s.t. He backhands the second to spin it around, grabs its head with both hands, and cracks its neck. The third comer he round-kicks into the wine rack, impaling it with a second kick.

El hears a girl scream, turns toward the sound, and spotting a monster carrying a young girl, raises his Jackal to attempt to snipe the flyman. Just in time he spots his partner. "Lacerti," El says over the ruckus, nodding at him. Lacerti nods in return and continues his pursuit of the monster and girl. El leaps back over the bar and tries to find a clean shot, but instead he is forced to shoot the eyes out of three other closer zombies. This clears a path to the pool table, where El grabs a cue.

Meanwhile, Lacerti runs at the door to save the girl, but he is met instead with an unmovable object as the iron door slams on him. Lacerti looks at El, disappointed. El catches the glance and nods in understanding. Nothing Lacerti can do now but resume his primary objective of protecting El—as if either of them needed protection.

* * *

. . . Pandemonium is the best word to come to mind as to what would come next—a nearly endless descent into hell as it were. I quickly come to find we are as great a threat to each other as the demons we slay; in retrospect, I feel we handled the situation handsomely. The group of us now includes Lances Jacob, incapacitated at the time, Snake Gekks, Larry Gekks—Larry has suffered an injury of the most unnerving variety, Mohamed Quinn, previously introduced himself as Spooky, Lucia Wingate—she has been referring to herself as Trash, myself, and Lacerti.

Charlie Belmond is still MIA . . .

* * *

Snake laughs in irritation. "Well, Mr. Wizard," he says, covering his eyes as if a headache seems to have set in. "Do you get a kick out of busting my balls?" He smiles f.o.r.c.i.b.l.y. "I mean, really, is there anything you don't know?" "If so, I haven't figured it out yet," El replies sassily.

"Ouch!" Larry yells. "Incineration! You set the high score!" he jokes.

"OK." Snake starts undoing his tie and shirt. "That's it, Coin Dexter. I am sending your a.s.s to school."

El exhales hard. "You're not really going to do this, are you?"

Snake cracks his neck. "The name of the class is Pain. My name is Professor Gekks, and I will be your instructor."

Snake throws down his coat. He steps into El, throwing a punch. El grabs his arm and spins him around, tucking the appendage behind its owner. El places his free hand on Snake's shoulder, bending him over. He jars upward, pushing Snake's own elbow into his shoulder blade.

Snake raises his head and starts shouting nonsensically. El c.o.c.ks Snake's wrist downward. "Will you look at this?" he says, taunting. El starts dragging Snake around the room, bent over. "It seems I have your arm." He pushes his catch into a wall face first. "I think I might just chop it off." "Oh, f.u.c.k no!" Snake cries out.

"Why not?" El whispers to him. "It's mine now to do with what I want."

Lacerti knows well that El is simply playing with him—not that El couldn't rip Snake's arm off right now. To the contrary, he could have snapped his spine just as quickly. But El doesn't kill people that don't need to die. Killing those people is my job, Lacerti thinks, snickering at the fruitless conflict. Pistol stares on in shock, not knowing whether to help Snake or stand back and let El have his fun.

El is a combat artist. He could have thrown Snake to the ground and he wouldn't have felt a thing, but instead he twists Snake's arm a little farther. El wants him to feel it, and he does. "You want to know about pain? Let me take you to school, wise a.s.s," El teases him. "Pain is a nervous response of the body stimulated by the interruption of the brain's electromagnetic resonation. There is a thin line when it comes to pain. If the resonation is slow and rhythmic, we perceive it as p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e. But if it's fast and violent, even a good touch can turn into a painful one. The trick is to learn the differences."

"Snake," Larry yells, "are you OK?" Larry rushes over to help his brother. Lacerti holds out an interposing hand.

"Fight back! Fight me, you worthless maggot!" El commands, smashing him into the wall again. "Prove you're not as worthless as you look!" Snake can do nothing but call out for help. "Goddamn it!" El shouts as his inner demons make their way to the surface. "Do something. Do something! Do you hear me? You sack of shit!"

"I can't," Snake cries.

El squeezes his wrist, and the bone starts to make a tense, pulling sound. El smiles devilishly. He understands that Snake is helpless, and if he squeezes any harder, all the cartilage in his arm will be destroyed. "How disappointing!" El spins around and throws Snake partway across the room onto his back. "Now get the troops organized. Figure out who knows what about what and stop wasting my time with banter."

"Holy shit, Snake," Larry whispers as he helps Snake to his feet. "It looks like you just got owned."

Snake nods as he grabs his shirt and coat, redressing. "I guess I did." He cradles his arm. "What are you going to do?" he says, looking up at El.

El rubs his eyes. "I have to think."

* * *

El clicks off his tape recorder and slides down in his chair. His eyes turn up to look at the weighing stations sign; his eyes narrow as the numbers start to roll through his mind. Something is not right. "A 101 boxes weighing between twenty and forty-five pounds each?" He recalls the Cuban's description of the cargo. "Four thousand five hundred and forty-five pounds of cargo max. Ten wheels, three axles, refrigeration unit . . ." El feverishly divides out the components of his truck and their weights, sensing something's not adding up. "Five thousand nine hundred rounded out to the nearest hundred. We're over a thousand pounds overweight." In sheer irritation, El slaps his steering-wheel. "We've been had."

Lacerti makes his way back to the truck holding a taco and a hot dog in one hand and four liters of diet soda in the other hand.