Mobius blvd, p.2
Mobius Blvd, page 2
I had the temerity to ask it a question. “Why did you so brutally murder and savage Brit?”
It responded by saying she came into my home, touched and mocked the Wendigo drawing, all the while making disparaging remarks about me and my artwork. It said I had put my heart and soul into the project, and she simply demeaned my creation efforts in front of it. So, she had to die a brutal, gory death at its hands. It had no choice but to avenge my honor as its creator.
It wasn’t too late to dial 911and tell the cops about this most bizarre circumstance. They wouldn’t believe a word about what I’d tell them and send me to the loony bin after which I would be tried, convicted, and imprisoned for Brit’s murder. It was a just punishment for my hubris.
“We are becoming one, one being from two souls. Did you not understand are becoming? You had a fanatical rush to complete me and your unrelenting desire for meat. Soon you will turn into a real Wendigo who will savor the meat of human flesh. It has been preordained. There is nothing you can do to stop you from becoming me and from me from becoming you.”
I must be crazy standing here and listening to a two-dimensional Brixton Board with an illustration of a Wendigo. Now I was certain I would destroy the thing and send it back to Hell or wherever. But how would I do it?
I’d smash the damn thing and then it could no longer murder and cannibalize the population at will. At least that was my plan for the murderous Wendigo! As I reached out to grab the plaster board, I felt my arms being held by powerful hands. Pulling my arms, the Wendigo dragged me into the sketch, and I was no more.
And the penciller was now one with his own self.
ONE MORE SMOKE
Alex J. Barrio
I would kill for a cigarette.
While my boyfriend Leandro and I, along with our friends Ashley and Damon, trudge uphill on a moderate trail in Blanton National Forest on this chilly fall day, soft breeze blowing and leaves crunching underfoot, I cannot for the life of me appreciate the beauty and splendor of the natural world surrounding because all I can think about is how nice that warm smoke would feel flowing into my lungs. The more I try to force the desire down, the more I crave the calm lightheadedness that comes when sweet nicotine hits my adrenal gland.
We stop at an overlook. As we behold the bright green trees in the deep valley and admire the waterfall in the distance, I can’t help but think about how a cigarette would be the perfect complement to this awe-inspiring view. After our lunch of turkey sandwiches and beer, I yearn to step away from the group and contemplate nothing as I bring that orange filter up to my lips.
Leandro hates it. Every time I sneak one I ask why he’s with me if it bothers him so much. “I am with you because I love you, and I hate it because I love you.”
I love him, too, enough to give quitting a shot. I am not an idiot. I know these things will kill me. And yet, whenever I experience that peaceful bliss with my Camels, death feels worth it. The stench of a thousand burning chemicals on my clothes is worth it. The crushing anticipation of the next smoke is worth it.
We are on this trip so I can quit cold turkey. Three days without a cigarette and you’ll never want one again, he promises. Barely halfway through our first day and the hunger has not dissipated. Cigarettes are sustenance and I am starving.
Leandro and our friends see my face hardening into a stone-cold frown and mostly walk ahead of me, pretending not notice how irritable and annoying I find them right now. The other hikers whose paths we cross smile at me and then, immediately look away. They must see how desperate and furious I am becoming.
The only person I greet warmly on the trail is an overweight, balding middle-aged man with a Blanton National Forest messenger bag. He smells of burning leaves and formaldehyde. As soon as I get a whiff, I want to kiss him and taste his delicious ashtray mouth.
When he smiles back at me I see brown and yellow teeth that remind me of a gas station toilet. The smile provides a few hours’ respite from my craving and reminds me that Leandro is right. I need to cut it out.
The memory of that man’s gutter mouth fades and desire roars back when we settle into our campsite for the night. An invisible symphony of frogs welcomes us to the clearing. Their croaks surround us, echoing between the trees around our circle of dirt. We put up our tents and relax for a night of intoxication around the fire Leandro and Damon build as the sun sets. I sit on a log and rest my head between my shaky knees. My nerves vibrate when I deny it the toxic clouds it’s used to whenever I got outside.
“You doing alright?” Leandro asks as he passes me a flask. Damon and Ashley share a blunt, their eyes reddening as their coughs echo, the harsh sound bouncing off the trees and mixing with the incessant croaking of the frog army.
I snatch the flask from Leandro and take a swig, even though the alcohol will only make my withdrawal worse. “Yeah, fine,” I lie, forcing a bitter smile.
I wonder if breaking up with him is worth it. Do I love cigarettes more than the man I expect to marry?
Before I can waste too much time on that dispiriting thought, I hear rustling behind us. “What is that?” I ask.
“I don’t hear anything,” Ashley says.
A twig cracks.
Damon shoots up from his crouch by the fire. “I heard it.”
More twigs break. Dry leaves crinkle. Leandro shoots up from the ground and I follow him to join the others on the opposite side of our fire.
I hear a click next to me. Leandro is holding his gun.
“Are you serious?” I ask. I hate that thing. I swear one day he is going to blow his hand off, maybe mine.
“You’ll thank me if it’s Jason Vorhees out here,” he says with seriousness.
“Jason Vorhees isn’t real.”
The footsteps are louder, faster now. Crunch crunch crunch. The frogs continue their loud and steady song, ribbit ribbit ribbit.
We freeze, bracing ourselves for the worst, though neither of us has any idea what that could be. We are city folk, sitting ducks out here in the middle of nowhere.
I knew quitting was a bad idea, I think, though there is relief in the idea of dying at this moment: I will no longer suffer my pathetic addiction.
“Hello?” a male voice calls from the bushes. “Is anyone there?” He sounds as scared as we are.
“Who’s there?” I yell.
“Frank!” he shouts, like it would mean anything to us. He steps off the trail with his hands up. I recognize him as the smoker on the trail with the messenger bag.
“What’s up, Frank?” I ask. I step closer to him, hoping for another whiff of that dive bar cloud he exists in, but the woods are too thick around us now for me to get a good sniff.
“Oh, not much. Sorry to bother you. Just passing through on the way back to my truck. Y’all from the city?”
“Yep,” Damon says with a tone that firmly conveys to Frank we are not interested in having a conversation with him.
He smiles and opens his bag, seeming oblivious to the hint he should quickly get back on his journey. “Y’all get maps of the park?”
“Yes,” Ashley says. “We were about to eat dinner, so . . .”
He nods apologetically. “Of course. Don’t mean to overstay my welcome.” He walks his way around the fire to pick up the trail on the opposite side. We shuffle counterclockwise behind him, keeping the campfire flames between us.
Before departing, he reaches into his bag one more time and pulls out a colorful array of Dum Dums. “Would you all like some lollipops?”
“Hell yeah,” Damon says, cracking a wide smile. He and Ashley are way too high. Leandro stumbles over and reaches for them, too. I wonder how much of that whiskey he’s had. He hands me one. I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“More for me,” he says happily, popping them both in his mouth.
“You sure, sweetheart? I got all kinds of flavors.”
Sweetheart? Ew. Gross. “I’m fine. Goodnight!”
Frank’s smile dissipates and he shuts his bag with dramatic force. “Okay.” He takes a beat to gather himself before smiling again, those dirty, silt-colored teeth the last things I see before he turns back to the trail. “Good night! Enjoy your evening and remember to use lots of bug spray. This place is full of all kinds of creepy crawlies!”
When we can no longer hear his footsteps, we laugh. “What a freak,” Ashley says.
We cook some hot dogs and s’mores and consume more weed and alcohol. My head is buzzing by the time we all retire to our tents.
I cuddle up next to Leandro. He says he is exhausted.
“It’s not even nine,” I say. I slide my hand down his pants and it collides with the end of his stupid gun. “You sleep with that thing?”
He it from his waistband and tucks it under his pillow. “You’ll thank me if Candyman comes back.”
I rest my hand between his thighs. “You think so? What if I want him to join us?”. Leandro laughs and rolls onto his side away from me.
I shove his softly snoring body and pout. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Everyone is sleeping and I am bored out of my mind. The fire is out, the night is pitch black, and my buzz is going to waste. A cigarette would be perfect for this lonely, disappointed feeling. It would give me something to do out here by myself in the woods. All of Leandro’s promises about this trip making it easier for me to quit have turned out to be bullshit.
Maybe I should go back to the car. Do I have enough time to get there, drive to a convenience store, and return with a fresh pack?
Not if I want to be a functioning human tomorrow. We hike at sunrise. I need sleep.
I lie on the hard ground and shut my eyes, hoping to pass out through sheer force of will.
No luck. The hours tick by. I look at my fingernails, debating which to bite before ultimately deciding to chew them all down to nubs. I check my phone. No signal. I roll around a bit, hoping my squirming will wake Leandro up with the energy to fool around.
He does not stir.
I hate him.
After a couple hours wishing I was someone else somewhere else, I get up to pee. I crouch by a tree along one of the trails, praying no curious spiders will crawl up inside me, when I hear the rustling. I consider yelling out, “Hello?” thinking it might be Leandro stumbling in the darkness, but when I look over the bushes, no one from the tents has stirred. The rustling is not coming from the clearing, but from behind me. I turn off my phone’s flashlight, pull up my shorts, and duck deeper into the woods.
I smell stale ashes before I see Frank. As he passes, I can tell he is dragging what looks like an oxygen tank on wheels. He uses a small, dim flashlight to guide his path.
He goes directly to Ashley and Damon’s tent. He puts the little flashlight in his mouth to free his hands. He unzips the tent door and reaches in, pulling out their feet. He grabs a tube attached to his tank and sticks the end, its needlepoint shining in the dim moonlight, into one of my friends’ ankles. The plastic tube darkens with fluid.
I put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
After about a minute, he pulls the needle out and pushes that foot into the tent. He grabs another foot and does the same. When he is satisfied there, he pushes the second foot in and zips up that tent. He walks to my tent.
Leandro. I want to call out his name, wake him up, but I am too scared. Besides, if getting stabbed in the foot did not wake up Damon and Ashley, shouting is useless.
The lollipops. Son of a bitch must have put drugs in them and planned this whole thing. Probably not his first time, either. But why?
Why is he stealing our blood?
Frank unzips my tent and looks inside. He stops, leans back, and scans the area around the clearing. I collapse to the ground.
Please don’t see me.
Please don’t see me.
Please don’t see me.
He shuffles past me on the trail, muttering to himself. When I no longer hear him, I walk back to the clearing. I try to shake Leandro awake. He groans but does not open his eyes. I grab the heavy gun from under his pillow. My father was a cop. He took me shooting a few times when I was a teenager. I always hated how these things felt in my grip. I hated the idea that this small piece of metal had so much power over whether someone lived or died.
Now I’m grateful for those lessons. Thanks, Pop. Bet you had no idea you were teaching me to survive an encounter with a blood thief.
I check on Damon and Ashley. Their breathing sounds normal and the marks on their ankles look like bug bites.
What now? My phone has no service. I am buzzing about what I just witnessed so sleep is out of the question.
What did I just witness? The weirdest thing that has ever happened, probably.
I figure I have two options. I could stay here all night with the gun, waiting to see if he comes back while praying that he does not. Or I could follow him, see if I could get a license plate or something so the police can find him if my friends are hurt. Plus, there could be other victims. Cops might already be after him. There might even be a reward for his capture. I could use that money for hypnosis or something to help me quit smoking.
I pursue Frank, jogging down the trail with my phone as a flashlight in one hand and squeezing the gun in the other. Sweat pours down my face and back despite the cool night air and I don’t know if it’s because I’m scared or just out of shape. The frogs continue their son unabated, the rolling ribbits nearly hiding the sound of an engine turning over.
I stop jogging and creep the rest of the trail toward that sound. A minute later I see the red taillights of a rusted pick-up truck parked in a dirt lot. A long silver trailer that reminds me of an old roadside diner is attached to the back.
Frank steps out of the trailer, his jeans and flannel shirt stained dark red. He yells at someone inside. “Quit your whining! . . . plenty to go around! . . . shut up!”
High-pitched screams and yowling come from inside the trailer. It sounds like some kind of animal, or maybe an injured person, pleading for help. Someone, or something, is in danger.
Frank slams the trailer door and pulls a pack of smokes from his pocket. He lights one with a Zippo and marches away from the trailer, into the woods to my left, past the truck’s hood.
I try to take pictures of everything with my phone, but they all appear blurry in the darkness. I need to get up close, get behind the truck and take a picture of that license plate.
I wonder about what my dad would do in this situation, how many times he has done the brave thing. I look at the gun in my hand. Could I really use it? Could I pull the trigger?
Could I kill someone?
I hope I don’t need to. I hope that if Frank sees me, all I have to do is show him the weapon and he’ll back off. There’s power in this little hunk of metal. I hate the idea of wielding it, but what choice do I have? Besides, he may have an innocent person trapped in the trailer. I can’t do nothing.
I sprint, eyes darting from the trailer door to the direction Frank walked and back again. The trailer door is unlocked. Whatever or whoever is in there sounded like they need help. I should get pictures of that, too.
Goosebumps roll across my flesh. I wonder if this is how my dad felt most of the time. Maybe I should quit my HR job and go into law enforcement?
The inside of the trailer is lit by a single red bulb in the center of the ceiling. The windows are boarded up. The air stinks of rotten meat. I gag and nearly vomit, covering my face with the sleeve of my shirt to block the odor.
Then I see them and release my half-digested dinner all over the floor.
There are five creatures, each in their own individual section divided by the kind of jagged chain link fence usually found around yards in sketchy neighborhoods. Hanging from the corners of each section is a water bottle with a metal tube, like in a hamster cage.
They vary in height from half my size to head touching the ceiling. They are starving-thin and naked and hairless save for long stringy hair that runs from the tops of their heads down their backs. If not for their faces, I would think they were malnourished captives of a maniac Frank.
But they are not normal prisoners. Their noses are upturned with nostrils facing forward like two doorways. Their eyes are large and when they focus on me, the lenses dilate vertically so the pupils become long, black slits. Their teeth are rotted away except for a pair of fangs at the tops of their mouths.
I back away toward the door. I shut my eyes, hoping their images will vanish, but their faces are etched behind my eyelids, glowing red as in real life.
“What are you doing here?”
Frank’s voice unleashes my screams. He puts his filthy hand on my mouth and drags me out of the trailer. He tosses me to the ground, and I lose my grip. My phone and gun send up little dust clouds as they bounce in the dirt.
He grabs my collar, pulling my face into his. “What are you doing here?” he repeats, his angry spit striking my eyes and cheeks, smoke blowing in my face from the half-burned cigarette on the edge of his lips.
I look at the trailer, still screaming. He covers my mouth again. I taste the sweat on his palms and start to gag again. “You better not vomit on me!” he warns. I shake my head. I can barely breathe. “If I move my hand, will you stop screaming?” I nod. I want him away from me.
I want everything away from me.
He pulls his hand back slow, staring into my eyes the whole time, ready to smack me shut if I utter a peep. When he sees I am going to remain quiet, he stands up straight and extends his hand to help me up. “What are you doing here?” He asks a third time, though calmer now.
I refuse his hand and crabwalk away from him, searching the area for the gun. It rests behind him, near the trailer’s taillights. Shit! “What was that?” I choke out.
“You weren’t supposed to see them,” he grumbles. He flicks his cigarette into the woods. I follow it with my eyes, noting there are still at least a half-dozen puffs left. I could really use those right about now.
