Kwik Krimes (38 page)

Andrew Waters works for a nonprofit land trust in Salisbury, North Carolina. His short fiction has been published in
The Bad Version, Pembroke Magazine,
and
The North Carolina Literary Review.
His flash fiction has appeared online at
Every Day Fiction, Grift Magazine, Yellow Mama, Flash Jab Fiction, Black Heart Magazine,
and others.

Jim Wilsky

L
uke comes roaring down the dark lane like Dale Earnhardt Jr. after a quick pit at Daytona. He bangs through and over an old cow gate without even thinking about the brakes. Sneaking a look in the rearview mirror, he sees nothing but swirling dust.

The high weeds are lit up by the bouncing headlights and they blur by. A tilted mailbox up ahead signals a blacktop country road coming up fast. Downshifting now, cranking hard to the right, he fishtails onto the main road. Loses it to the left, gets it back, and then flirts with the ditch on the right.

Winding out second gear, he grinds it into third and stands on the gas pedal. The dark road ahead is arrow straight. The land is flat as grandma’s pancakes, lit only by a crescent moon in a cloudless sky. Spider’s truck is shivering and shaking, but he coaxes it up around sixty.

He’s beat all to shit. Bruised bad from being clubbed. Bleeding from all the cuts she did, and the deep gash at the hairline is the worst. Flowing blood keeps getting in his eyes. Swiping at it with his forearm, he shouts out in pain. He’s got to have some busted ribs. His breathing is ragged, wet. The only thing he’s wearing is jeans, and those are soaked in blood.

His Katy is gone. They’d messed with him plenty but made sure he stayed conscious to see what they were doing to her. He wasn’t sure how long this shit had been going on, his head wasn’t right, time was screwed up. Could have been two days down in that dank-ass storm cellar. Maybe three. They tried to make it last. Make her last.

Spider had been bad enough, but Alex, his crazy-bitch girlfriend, was the one he feared most. She looked like a homecoming queen and had a smile that would melt you, but the girl was the devil’s own. The things she’d done. The chants and language he couldn’t understand. Her dancing eyes. He could still hear the echo of her deep, husky laugh.

He looks in the rearview again. Nothing but darkness and the single pole light at the old farmhouse. Spider has to be dead. He’d caved his head in with a spade, took his keys, and split. Alex though, he didn’t know where she was.

The engine coughs, pauses, coughs again, and finally roars on. He’s still doing fifty, but his eyes click over to the temp gauge. He’s blown a hose or some fucking thing. Ten seconds later and the old Silverado sputters out for good. It rolls to a smoking stop only about a mile and a half away from hell.

Luke falls out of the truck as much as he steps out and doubles over after a lightning bolt in his ribs. He stands bent over, weaving in the middle of the road.

It’s around ten miles to town. He’ll never make it, but hey. He starts down the road with a painful shuffle, as fast he can go without falling down or passing out. Clearing the fading arc of headlights, he just keeps gimping along in the dark.

Then he hears it. Way off. Not a scream, more like a whoop.

There it is again.

Like a goddamn war cry.

He veers like a drunk over to the shallow ditch and goes down to a knee, looking back toward the truck. He’ll go into the corn rows if he has to.

Time stops.

Then the truck taillights light her up in red. An Olympic track star. At least that’s what Alex looks like as she comes busting ass down that blacktop. Really pickin’ ’em up and puttin’ ’em down.

Slowing to a trot at the truck, she stops dead just past it. Short-short cutoffs, tennis shoes, and an old ZZ Top T-shirt. She has that large butcher knife, and it reflects a quick sliver of light. She doesn’t move.

The crickets and night bugs drone on.

Finally in the dying headlights, her head swivels slowly up the road. She looks right at where he’s hunkered down. He swears he sees that gleaming homecoming smile.

He struggles toward the corn with clenched teeth.

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
S
HOTGUN
H
ONEY
.

Jim Wilsky was born and raised in the Midwest. His debut novel, a crime fiction work titled
Blood on Blood,
was released in August 2012; it is the first of a three-book series. He has also had short stories featured in some of the most highly respected online magazines such as
Beat to a Pulp, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Rose & Thorn Journal, All Due Respect, Pulp Metal,
and
Mysterical-E.

O
tto Penzler is a renowned mystery author, editor, publisher, columnist, and bookstore owner. His love for mystery stories inspired him to establish the Mysterious Press, which published only crime and mystery, and eventually led him to found the Mysterious Bookshop in New York City. Today, the Mysterious Bookshop is known as the oldest and largest bookstores solely dedicated to mystery novels.

Penzler’s award-winning career includes fourteen years of service on the board of directors for the Mystery Writers of America, and he is the recipient of two Edgar Allen Poe Awards, an Ellery Queen Award, and a Raven Award, among others. To date, he has edited more than fifty crime-fiction anthologies. He currently alternates between living in New York City and in Connecticut with his wife.