Bigfoot Crank Stomp (5 page)

Russell moved around the side. Hidden from view behind it was a door, perpendicular to the back of the locker.

“Cleaning gear room,” Mickey said, his voice a tight whisper. “Or maybe a laundry room.”

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound was definitely coming from the other side of the hidden door. Russell swallowed and stepped closer. He glanced at Mickey, who nodded. Then he reached out and gripped the knob. He gave a slight twist. It moved. Not locked.

He twisted it all the way and threw the door open and stepped aside and Mickey moved forward.

“Get your fucking hands in the air!” Mickey stood in the doorframe.

Russell wondered why Mickey didn’t just blow whoever it was away. Then he peeked over his shoulder and realized. A long haired white dude sat at a card table piled high with glass. Mickey didn’t want to get blood on the product.

It only took Russell another moment to see an open gym bag on the floor at the dude’s feet. Inside, rolls of tens and twenties filled it to the zipper and starting to spill out. The stash.

Russell pushed past Mickey and raised his shotgun. “Did you fucking hear him, man? Get your fucking hands in the air.”

The dude picked up a small sledge hammer and tap, tap, tapped a handful of meth into dust. Then he swept it into a small dustpan and dumped it in a Tupperware bowl.

Russell’s eyes widened. The bowl was completely full of dust and rose above the edge in a rounded summit. He glanced at Mickey, who shrugged.

The dude giggled. Not in a funny way. In an insane way. At least, that’s what Russell thought. Then they guy grabbed more glass and tap, tap, tapped and swept it into the bowl.

“Hey, buddy,” Mickey said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The dude stopped and lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was young, probably no older than nineteen or twenty. A big grin spread across his face.

Russell swallowed, suddenly nervous. Something wasn’t just off with this guy. He was completely over the edge. Bugfuck crazy. And bugfuck crazy and meth didn’t go well together.

“I’m making dinner,” the dude said. His voice was ragged and strained.

Mickey motioned at the bowl overflowing with dust with the barrel. “That’s a big dinner.”

The dude shrugged. “Big appetites require big portions.” He giggled. “Big portions.”

Mickey’s left eyebrow arched up and shifted to Russell. Now Russell shrugged, not liking this. It was too...weird.

“You want to kill yourself, I’ll oblige,” Mickey said. “Just step away from the glass and cash and I’ll end you right now.”

“Got to feed it first.” The dude turned back to the glass. He took the hammer and tap, tap, tapped.

“It?” Russell said.

“It’ll be up soon. It’ll be hungry. Jonesing like you wouldn’t believe. The others thought we’d be good through the rest of the cook. But I know better. It’ll be up and ready for more.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mickey said and inched closer.

“You wait too long, it gets angry. I mean rip your arms out angry.” Tap, tap, tap. Sweep. “Just ask Jimmy.” The dude giggled again. “Actually, you can’t ask Jimmy.”

“He one of the ones I blew away upstairs?”

“What? Uh, no.” Tap, tap, tap. Sweep. “Jimmy’s dead. Took too long to feed the need. Didn’t feed it enough. Got used to the dose. Needed more. But we didn’t know. And Jimmygot got. So we figure we need to kill it. But we need to get close and if it’s up and hungry, need a meal ready to satiate it. Or we end up like Jimmy. Unless we burn the place down. Need to finish the cook first.”

Mickey pressed the barrel against the dude’s head. “Get up you crazy fuck and back away from the table. Now.”

The dude shook his head. “Got to feed the need.” Tap, tap, tap. Instead of a sweep, the dude bent down and snorted damn near a hand full of powder. He shivered and laughed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t feed it until I get fed, too, you know what I’m saying? Can’t face it without a taste.”

“Face what?” Russell said.

“Fuck it,” Mickey said. “This dude if fucking cracked. Grab the stash and I’ll blow him away. Fuck the meth that’s left in here.”

“Sure.” Russell grabbed the bag of cash and zipped it closed. “Sure thing.”

Mickey started to squeeze the trigger when the dude pushed away from the table and rose. The sudden movement caused both of them to step back.

“Sit your ass back down.” Mickey regained the step he’d surrendered.

“No can do, man.” The dude checked his watch. “Only got a few minutes left and I got to get the right amount. If it ain’t the right amount, might as well not give it any at all.”

The dude lifted the bowl of dust, turning it slowly in his hand, surveying the mound. Then he gently set it on a scale. He clapped. “Nailed it.”

“Come on, Mickey.” Russell scratched his neck. “Do this guy and let’s get the fuck out of here. Cops could be on their way.”

“True that.” Mickey never took his eyes off the dude. “Snort one more noseful now cuz it’s your last.”

The dude lifted the bowl. “You need to step aside. I have to deliver this right now.”

Mickey laughed. “Shit son, you’re done. Might as well set it down and close your eyes.”

The dude took a step toward Mickey as if to push by him. Mickey pushed the barrel into the dude’s cheek.

“Ain’t you full of energy all the sudden?”

“I got to deliver—”

“The product. I got that part.”

“If it ain’t there when it wakes up—”

“It gets angry, whatever the fuck it is. Got that part, too. Got it all, including you’re high and crazy. None of it matters, though. I’m done talking to you.”

“It’ll wake up any—”

“Hush now and it’ll be over in a sec.”

Something roared. Loud. Reverberating off the walls from somewhere down. Somewhere below them.

MANNY

Manny knelt, listening, waiting for more gunshots or the sound of cop sirens. Neither came. Not yet at least.

Pines creaked in the slight wind. A small animal sprinted across pine needles and dry twigs, rustling and snapping until it faded around a property to the left. A fire crackled somewhere down in the valley.

An ungodly roar ripped through the Loop. Manny didn’t jump but would readily admit it induced a shiver or two. He’d heard something similar the last couple of weeks. Here and there. Figured it was just something on
Animal Planet
being broadcasted at an unbearable volume. Not now, though. No, this was real and here. It sure as hell wasn’t any animal either. At least not one he recognized. Manny knew the animals in this region pretty well. Whatever made that noise was foreign.

It roared again. He blinked and shook his head. There was something familiar in the tenor of it. He’d heard it before. Not around here but definitely before.

Fallujah
, Manny thought. The IED that took his spotter’s leg and most of his torso. Chris flopped in his blood as Manny held his hand, whimpering. Then Chris roared. Not screamed. Roared. Not as loud as the one Manny just heard. Nowhere near the same sound. But the same tenor? Yes. The same anguish and fury and desperation. It dissolved into a final gasp and Chris died.

Manny touched his right side where the shrapnel had shredded his oblique. Mostly scar tissue now. The only wound he suffered that day. Chris had taken the blunt of the explosion and paid the ultimate price.

Strange it was a roar and not a gunshot that sent him diving into the past. Then again was it? It seemed to happen that way often enough. He heard gunshots from time to time on the Loop. Hunters in and out of season. No flashbacks then. Ever. No, it was the odd things he didn’t expect that triggered the memories. The certain way a car’s exhaust smelled on a hot day. Similar to a HUMVEE burning fuel as it raced to help a bombed-out buddy. The flavor of canned ravioli, so similar to the way the MREs in the field tasted. The hot sun beating down on his face on a dry summer day. Not desert like but enough to remind him of those early mornings in country before the anvil of Vulcan really heated up. A guy laughing in the grocery story. Eerily similar to Chris’s. So much so Manny forgot where he was for a second or two.

Now this.

Another roar snapped Manny out of the past and back into the present.

What the hell could it be? Did he really want to find out?

Just go inside
, he thought.
Go inside and watch
Sportscenter
and leave this alone. Your time protecting people is over.

No, he’d wait. Wait until he heard or saw the cops. Then he’d surrender the watch. He could live with himself then.

GABE

“Run the plates,” Gabe said.

Stanger complied, punching in the Ford’s license plate number. It sat parked at the foot of the long driveway heading up toward the old Robertson place. It looked familiar but in the dark, it could be any local shitkicker’s.

Gabe hummed “Green Hell” and tapped his thigh. He glanced in the side view mirror. Lyle’s car was parked behind them. The deputy sat there, picking his nose. Gabe shook his head a looked away. Pronger and Betts hadn’t showed up yet. Betts was off duty at home. Pronger had to pick him up. But they should’ve been there by now.

“Any bets on whether Betts was passed out drunk?” Gabe said.

“I’d be an idiot to take that bet.”

Yes, you would
, Gabe thought.

They’d just pulled up and started to swing in the driveway when they noticed the truck parked off to the side. Gabe had considered passing it by but the place was quiet. No gunshots. No screams. None of the stuff you’d expect from a shootout. Maybe they were all dead.

Or maybe there wasn’t a shootout, he thought. Maybe Manny Lopez had heard someone’s cranked-up television and had a flashback.

Maybe.

Hell, the more he thought about it the more likely it was.

Stanger cleared his throat. “Here we go. Truck’s registered to Mickey Gannon.”

“That little shit? One who runs with Russell O’Brien?”

“That’s the one. Meth pushers, too.”

“But this isn’t their base of operations.”

“Nope. Haven’t figured out where they cook. Then again haven’t really tried. They’re pros. The assholes in the cabin are rookies, from what I hear.”

I guess we had a shootout after all. “So that came to wipe out the new competition.”

“Appears that way.”

Tires crunched gravel. Gabe looked out his window to see Pronger’s puffy face smiling at him. He rolled down the window.

“Hey, Sheriff.”

“Pronger.” Gabe saw Betts slumped over in the passenger seat. A long string of drool dangled down to his chest. “Not exactly fit for duty, is he?”

“He’ll be all right.” Pronger slapped Betts’s chest. “Wake up, asshole.”

Betts’s head shot up and his eyes bolted open. “Fuck, man.” Then he saw Gabe. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Sheriff. Just catching more shuteye. I’m good to go.”

“You sure?”

“Hell, yes. I wouldn’t miss this.”

Gabe shook his head. “Fine then. Here’s the pla—”

A roar cut him off.

“What the fuck was that?” Betts nearly screamed.

“Just a damn bear,” Pronger said.

Gabe didn’t think it was a bear. No bear he ever heard at least. And he’d shot a couple of bears in his life.

“Think we should still head up there?” Stanger said.

“You pussing out on me?”

“Nah. Just didn’t sound right—”

The roar came again. Then more in rapid succession.

Gabe rubbed his mouth. “That ain’t a bear.”

RUSSELL

Russell jumped at the sound of the roar and lost his grip on the shotgun. It slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete floor, discharging a round of buckshot that tore through the side of a dryer. The concussion inside the small space caused almost complete deafness. But he heard the roar again. Muffled. And this time he felt it, vibrating the floor underneath his feet.

“What the fuck is that?” Mickey shouted.

Russell scooped up the shotgun. “I don’t know but let’s get out of here.”

“What is th—” Mickey’s words stuck somewhere in his throat when he turned and found the dude gone. He spun around. “Where the fuck did he go?”

Russell stared where the dude had been standing. Gone with his bowl of powder. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I was picking up the shotgun.” Russell pointed at Mickey. “How did you lose sight of him?”

“I ducked when your jumpy ass dropped the gun.” Mickey kicked the table. “Shit.”

Another roar.

“Christ, what the hell is that?” Russell said, rubbing his face.