Sick
Are you angry?” Eddie asks from the passenger seat, finally addressing the quiet fury simmering within me. “You seem angry.”
I might’ve considered being deceptive with my answer, keeping my cards close to the chest, but Eddie’s uncanny persuasion doesn’t allow this grace.
“Yes,” I blurt, compelled to speak the truth.
“Why?”
“Because you’re a murderous sociopath,” I remind him.
“Tell us how you really feel!” He laughs.
“I feel like I want to escape.”
Eddie nods. “Yep, it’s about that time. You don’t want to escape. You’re not upset by the death you’ve seen tonight.”
And just like that, I feel so much better. I stop thinking about all the horrific violence, dwelling instead on the curious scent of popcorn that seems to permeate everything.
Eddie is careful to roll out a constant parade of instructions, diligently reupping his commands for me not to run away, and keeping my mood stabilized.
As an influencer, I can appreciate his commitment to a posting schedule, the walking corpse doling out a few simple words every twenty minutes or so.
Consistency is key, after all.
“Just two more stops,” Eddie informs me. “Then it’s over and done with.”
I nod.
“Do you believe me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s absolutely no reason for you to keep me alive,” I state. “I don’t even know why you’ve got me driving this truck. It makes no sense.”
Eddie sits with this as he stares out the window. Palm Springs sweeps past us on either side, luxurious upturned spotlights illuminating giant fronds and succulents. Every once in a while we pass a cheeky neon sign, an ode to the city’s unflinching dedication to ’60s camp.
“A lot of people are motivated by hate and violence and greed,” Eddie finally says, his head still turned away as he watches the shifting landscape. “I can understand calling those people monsters. They are monsters.”
Eddie removes his sunglasses, taking a moment to itch the massive gaping hole where his right eye used to be. He puts his sunglasses back on.
“That’s not me,” he continues. “I just want to entertain. Is that so bad?”
As absurd as it might seem, I find myself instantly relating to this simple reflection.
I know the feeling—the pull of the spotlight—but if there’s one thing I’ve realized over the course of this evening, it’s what actually matters when you’re knocking on death’s door.
Since things went sideways, I haven’t worried about losing followers, but I’ve certainly worried about losing Marlo.
“There’s more to life than entertaining,” I say.
Eddie grins. “Gonna have to disagree with you there, sport. Food, water, shelter: that’s how we survive. Art is the why.”
If someone said this yesterday, I would’ve agreed with every fiber of my being. Hell, I probably would’ve taken a selfie and posted this little morsel of wisdom as the caption.
It’s a reasonable argument, but he’s leaving something out. Art makes life worth living, but it’s not the apex of humanity that Eddie seems to think it is. There’s another force out there pushing me onward, another racehorse steadily creeping up from behind.
Love.
Marlo is more important than any of this.
On my left, a long wall of lush, beautiful landscaping appears, the outer shell of yet another massive gated community.
“Here we go,” my undead passenger announces as I slow the vehicle, approaching our turn. “You don’t care if this guard dies.”
This entrance is the only break along an enormous, mile-long wall, a small divot where the well-manicured palms give way to a security booth and an enormous metal gate. I cruise up to the booth and come to a full stop, then roll down my window.
Standing to greet us, the guard lets out a loud snort and rubs the bridge of her nose.
Her eyes are bright red and her skin pale, which seems odd until I notice the balled-up tissues covering her desk and a half-chugged bottle of bright orange DayQuil.
A firearm is holstered on the woman’s belt and a large pit bull lies curled up at her feet, disinterested.
“Who are you here to see?” she asks, her voice muted by congestion.
Eddie leans over the middle seat and offers a friendly wave. “You should shoot yourself in the face,” he calls out, grinning wide.
The woman unclips her weapon. She pulls her gun from its holster.
A terrible realization crosses my mind, but as Eddie commanded, I’m not concerned for the security guard’s life or safety, I’m just deeply annoyed that I might get blood and brain splattered across my shirt.
The woman slowly lifts her gun, then stops.
What the fuck?
She furrows her brow, snorting again before clearing her throat. “Both of you, get out of the truck,” the woman demands.
Eddie’s smile falters. “What?”
“Out,” she presses, stepping back and pointing her weapon directly at him with one hand. She wipes her nose with the other.
“You’re sick,” Eddie mumbles, then repeats the words with a mixture of panic and rage. “Oh fuck, you’re sick!”
“Out of the truck! Now!” the security guard screams, swiveling her weapon toward me.
Eddie punches my chest—at least, I think that’s what’s happening.
He doesn’t lift his hand back up, however, and it suddenly occurs to me that Eddie is pushing me back against the driver’s seat.
It’s a maneuver so unexpected that—for a brief moment—I can’t even translate what it means, unwilling to accept the utterly bizarre answer sitting right in front of me.
He’s trying to protect me.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Eddie shrieks. “Go!”
The second Eddie utters this command everything snaps back into place like a race car slipping into gear, every mental lane wide open.
The entirety of my subconscious mind shudders and lurches as it’s untethered from the one thing that was holding me back, a decree that has now been overwritten with a panicked, wide-ranging brush.
Don’t try to escape is no longer my primary objective. I need to get the fuck out of here.
The circumstances aren’t perfect—what with a gun in my face and all—but they’re what I’ve got.
“Don’t shoot me!” I scream, throwing off my seat belt and flinging open the door. “I’m being kidnapped!”
Before Eddie or the security guard has any idea what’s happening, I’ve cupped my hands over my ears and slipped from the vehicle.
I run. My feet pound against the pavement as night wraps itself around me and I barrel into the empty street, struggling to put as much distance between myself and Eddie as I possibly can.
I’m too racked with adrenaline to know exactly where I’m headed just yet, simply understanding that I need to be somewhere else—anywhere else.
Despite my best efforts to cover my ears, however, I can still hear Eddie’s passenger-side door slam shut as he leaps out after me.
“Goddamn it!” he bellows, beset with rage. “Sto—”
Before Eddie can make his command, something cuts him short and transforms his voice into a startled yelp. It’s such an unexpected shift that I can’t help glancing back for a quick look.
The security guard’s pit bull violently shakes and tugs Eddie’s arm, its jaws locked around him as it snarls and growls. This attack is extremely satisfying to witness, but Eddie’s reaction isn’t quite what I expected.
He should be screaming, should be howling in pain as he struggles to extract himself from the canine’s mighty grip. Instead, Eddie just looks annoyed. He drags the dog along, not at all slowed by the creature hanging from his wrist.
The security guard comes barreling around the side of the truck, her gun raised. “Stop!” she yells. “Get on the ground!”
At first, Eddie completely ignores her, but when the guard starts yelling into her radio for backup he finally turns around, throwing his one free hand in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
I turn and keep running.
Crossing the street, I find myself on the recently renovated grounds of a boutique motel, the campus sporting a distinctly hip “California desert” aesthetic.
These buildings are covered with a stark white stucco, and a large set of bull horns hangs above the lobby doors.
Nearby, a giant iron T leans against the outside wall of the lobby.
Despite the ungodly hour, there’s someone waiting for me when I burst through the door.
A young man who’s been relaxing behind the counter immediately sits up in his chair, confused by the intensity of my entrance.
“Welcome to the T, a curated lifestyle experience from Everett Vacation and Entertainment. How can I help you?”
I immediately crouch down, hissing through my teeth as though Eddie could possibly hear me all the way over here. “Call the cops!” I demand, then I scurry over to the window.
Pop! Pop!
Two resounding cracks echo through the night. The motel worker drops behind his desk, confused and frightened.
I carefully peer over the windowsill, gazing across the street to see Eddie lurching toward the security guard. She fires again, and again, and again, backed up to her booth now.
Meanwhile, the pit bull is retreating. The canine is injured enough to surrender, limping down the block with a broken hind leg and its tail tucked under its body.
The fact that Eddie was strong enough to quickly subdue a full-grown guard dog—to break the animal’s leg and yank its jaws open—is deeply concerning.
I’m not sure how much pressure a pit bull is capable of exerting with those giant mandibles, but I’ve certainly never heard of a human breaking that grip, especially someone in his late sixties.
The security guard fires another shot, this one causing Eddie’s shoulder to jolt back as it absorbs the energy. Unfortunately, it doesn’t slow him down in the slightest, only adding to the oddity of Eddie’s staggering forward momentum.
Eddie tackles the security guard, landing on top of her and holding her down. He grabs her wrist with one hand and cracks it to the side, prompting her to let out a terrible shriek and release her weapon. He places his other hand on the woman’s face, holding her against the cement.