Part 11 (1/2)
”Wiiiffffe . . . waannt my wiiiifffffe. . . .” the corpse groaned, spilling maggots from its mouth.
The reanimated corpse reached for Cracker, and this time Cracker didn't p.i.s.s his pants, he simply fainted dead away.
Elroy screamed just as the thing grabbed him by the neck. . . .
”Found it like this when I got here this morning, deputy,” the caretaker said. ”I been tendin' this cemetery longer than you been alive, and I ain't never had no trouble like this before. Never seen nothin' like it.”
The deputy looked into the grave, scratched his chin, then turned and spit on the ground. ”Saw those two last night,” he said. ”They looked a little more lively at the time.”
”What do you want me to do with 'em?” the caretaker asked.
The deputy glanced into the open grave one last time. He read the b.l.o.o.d.y words scrawled on the inside of the coffin lid: May they be eternally happy as one. He hated paperwork, and that's what this looked like to him, a whole bunch of paperwork. Besides, they looked awfully nice together.
The deputy shrugged, spit on the ground again, then said, ”Cover 'em up, they make a cute couple.”
”Whatever you say,” the caretaker replied.
The deputy left him to his work. As he got back into his squad car, he couldn't help but whistle a familiar tune, and then he actually began to sing the words to the song, although about as off key as a man could sing.
”Here comes the bride . . .”
His mama never did get around to paying for those singing lessons. . . .
Line 'Em Up.
George Franklin could handle his booze, f.u.c.k what anybody said. He wasn't some dumb-a.s.s kid out drinking with his buddies on Friday night, showing off so he could get laid. No, George was a professional. A grown man, by G.o.d, and if he wanted to drink, he was d.a.m.n well going to drink.
”Line 'em up,” George called to Max the bartender.
Max was at the end of the bar, polis.h.i.+ng gla.s.ses. He looked in George's direction, still polis.h.i.+ng a shot gla.s.s, and shook his head.
”I said line 'em up,” George demanded, slurring his words and spraying spittle all over the top of the bar. ”I'm a G.o.dd.a.m.ned paying customer. I want my f.u.c.kin' whiskey.”
Max set a freshly polished gla.s.s in front of George. He produced a bottle of Wild Turkey and poured one more. George finished it in quick order and said, ”Line 'em up,” s...o...b..ring all over himself.
”I think that's your last one, George,” Max said.
”You don't get paid to think. You get paid to serve me drinks.”
”Forget it,” Max said. ”Last call is over.”
George picked up a gla.s.s and slammed it down on the bar. The gla.s.s shattered and cut his hand, but he didn't seem to notice.
”Gimme more,” he demanded.
”Leave, George, or I'm calling the police,” Max said.
George struggled to his feet, cursing and bemoaning the injustice in the world. He stumbled outside and paused long enough to relieve himself on the building, then he staggered to his car and fumbled for his keys.
George could drink and work a motor vehicle like a pro. He'd been at it for more than twenty years, and if anybody knew his limits, it was good ol' George Franklin. He wouldn't get behind the wheel if he didn't think he was capable of driving while intoxicated. Not with all the tickets he'd managed to acquire over the years. That'd be just plain stupid.
George got his car started. He backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce, s.h.i.+fted into drive, and dropped his foot on the accelerator.
Something that sounded like a foghorn scared the s.h.i.+t out of him. He jammed his foot on the brake, stopping with the nose of his car partially in the street. An eighteen-wheeler shot by, narrowly missing him.
”Dangerous sons a b.i.t.c.hes,” George mumbled, flipping off the driver of the truck as he pulled onto Highway 18 without bothering to check traffic.
He began playing with the radio dial and continued to do it a full minute or so before he realized the radio wasn't on. He solved that problem right quick, then he spun the dial to a country-western station.
Highway 18 was a two-lane ribbon of blacktop twisting through farmland and rock enclosed grades. This stretch of Highway 18 was better known as Blood Alley. Some nonsense about it being one of the most dangerous stretches of road in the whole United States. The percentage of alcohol-related accidents was higher here than on any other comparable road in America. Didn't that just beat the s.h.i.+t out of everything?
George knew why the road was so dangerous. Most folks didn't know their limits. George knew his limits just fine. He could handle this. Focus was all it took. A little focus and knowing your limits.
His vision was a little blurry, sure, but he could see well enough to know he was driving fine, even if the nose of his car edged over the center line every now and then.
George thought about the statistics. It was those d.a.m.n kids to blame for all the accidents. None of 'em knew how to drive. They got out on the road without knowing their limits. Wasn't it Dirty Harry that said a man's got to know his limits?
A horn snapped George from his haze just in time to see a pair of headlights staring him in the face. He jerked hard on the wheel, bringing his car back into his lane, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision.
”G.o.dd.a.m.n kids,” George mumbled.
All along highway 18 there were wreaths that had been placed to mark the scenes of fatal traffic accidents. More wreaths than George had ever seen. Flowers too, and even a few placards with names and dates and loving-memory stuff.
George shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. His eyelids were heavy. He rolled down the window, hoping the chilly night air would help keep him awake.
He reached down and thrust a hand under the seat, craning his neck now and then to watch the road. He found the bottle of Wild Turkey, still unopened, and worked the cap off.
”Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, bringing the bottle to his lips to take a healthy swig. ”That should keep me sharp.”
He recapped the bottle and shoved it back under the seat. As he did, he crossed the center line, driving on the wrong side of the road half a minute before he realized what he was doing and eased back to his side of the road.
He began humming along to a song on the radio. He didn't know the words. Didn't matter anyway. He was too tired to sing.
A hard-working man deserves his down time. George liked to stop at Max's bar on his way home from work. Stress relief. He worked hard all day. Selling insurance wasn't easy. A guy needed to unwind, and who the h.e.l.l did Max think he was anyway, running a paying customer out of the bar.
George saw more wreaths in his peripheral vision. Sort of pretty, all lined up one after the other like they were, but d.a.m.ned distracting to a motorist when you got down to it.
Line 'em upa”
He was in the wrong lane again. When the headlights of an oncoming vehicle hit him in the face, George froze like a startled deer. He heard the horn but couldn't react in time. The next sound he heard was the sound of squealing rubber . . .
The two cars collided, sending the sounds of crunching metal and shattering gla.s.s ringing through the night like a death song.