11:34

By L. Marshall James

11:34 is a horror compilation featuring 1 novel, 1 novella, 3 novelettes, and 4 short stories that will lead you through dark passageways of horror, dread, and suspense into a world where not every question is answered and not every answer is what you want it to be. If you discover what happens at 11:34, you might wish you hadn't.

In order:

In "The Haunt" (~9,500 words), Brad begins to suspect that someone is playing pranks on him. Is he beginning to lose his sanity or is something else amiss?

"Revolution" (3,500 words) presents us with the interview of Blake Homestead, an eccentric billionaire with a strange worldview and an unorthodox plan.

"Speck" (~18,600 words) begins innocently enough when part of a mountain glacier breaks away and begins to melt, unleashing its ancient contents onto an unsuspecting world.

In "Toe" (~2,600 words), an old man goes fishing and for the life of him, he cannot fathom what he catches.

"Darker" (~12,800 words) is the diary of Bella Darnell, a woman who hears a name that triggers a meltdown. To find out what the name means to her, she'll have to delve into her past.

"Hammer and Nails" (~6,400) words) shows us life at the bottom of the barrel.

In "11:34" (~4,600 words) an old woman appears in a young girl's bedroom doorway, every night at 11:34. How did the woman come to be there, and what is her purpose?

In "The Null" (~9,200 words), the crew of the spaceship "Athena" have been tasked with a mission of discovery that takes them to the edge of the Milky Way, to a planet called "Cardinal."

"The House of Allure" (~56,600 words), is set in a futuristic version of our world in which personal computers are integrated into the bodies of most first-world citizens, and brothels are as common as restaurants. This story is told mostly from the perspectives of Tad Barlow, an introvert and virtual virgin, and Symphony Rains, a longterm brothel girl. The paths of their lives are separate, but they converge in spectacular fashion!

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Marshall James
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9780989797429

L. Marshall James

L. Marshall James hails from northwest rural Pennsylvania, where he ran around barefoot and played 8-bit Nintendo when he wasn't playing with tar in the middle of the road. After a subpar high school performance, he obtained an associate's degree in information technology. He then worked in the IT field for over six years before calling it quits and joining his girlfriend in Southeast Asia for a traveling foray that lasted almost two years. He returned home just in time for Thanksgiving. Surprisingly enough, his family still loved him.

Book preview

11:34

L. Marshall James

Copyright © 2015 by L. Marshall James

All rights reserved.

Book and cover design by Highwater Publishing

Editing by Jennifer Zaczek

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed Digitally on the Internets.

First Publishing 2015

Highwater Publishing

ISBN-10: 0-9897974-2-2

ISBN-13: 978-0-9897974-2-9

To Mel.

THE HAUNT

May 22nd

All right, you fucker, time to get you running.

Brad held the alternator in place with one hand and used the other to thread in the bolts. Once they were all loosely secured, he reached out from under the truck and felt around for the wrench. His fingers brushed against the cold, wet side of a bottle, then stopped and wrapped around it.

Close enough.

He sat up as much as he could beneath the truck, took a long swig, then set the bottle to the side and resumed the search. He found only dust, dirt, and concrete. Brad mumbled a curse and contorted beneath the cramped undercarriage, then spied the errant tool. He extended a hand, came up a foot short, and swore again before scooting over the dirt, grabbing the tool, and returning to his previous position. He continued in silence and secured each bolt in turn, ignoring the radio as it droned on with unceasing news and local election results. The phone rang from the kitchen, temporarily drowning out the chattering of the anchorwoman.

Fuck you, Brad replied without slowing.

The ringing continued three, four, five times before the answering machine clicked on. Brad stopped cranking and craned his neck toward the kitchen door. Hearing nothing but the hiss of static, he shook his head and returned his attention to the bolts. After several seconds of silence, the answering machine clicked off.

Thought so, Brad mumbled.

Immediately, the phone rang again. Brad paused momentarily, then opted to ignore it. After the answering machine picked up, there was only the same silence. When the answering machine clicked off, the ringing started again. Brad swore and flung the wrench, then wrapped a hand around part of the truck frame and pulled himself across the floor in jerking fits. Once he cleared the undercarriage, he rolled off the wheeled creeper, pushed to his feet, and stomped toward the kitchen. Beside the door, a large dog lifted his shaggy head to look at Brad from atop a ragged denim coat, then lay back down and closed his eyes.

Don’t worry about it, Buddy, Brad said as he passed. I got it, ya lazy bum.

Inside, Brad answered the phone after the fourth ring.

Yeah, he prompted.

He waited through the silence, then said, Hello?

No response.

Fuck you, he said, and slammed the phone onto the counter. Fucking assholes.

He took a few steps toward the garage, then changed his mind and grabbed another beer from the fridge. As the door swung shut, he pried the cap loose and drank deeply until half the bottle was gone. He belched, then used his free hand to grab another beer. As he started toward the garage, the phone rang again. Brad set the bottles down and glared at the phone’s LCD screen, which said only PRIVATE NUMBER. He hit the green button and held the receiver to his ear.

Hello? he yelled.

There was no answer.

Listen, asshole, he slurred, "you better stop fucking calling me or I will find your ass."

He hung up and slammed the phone onto the stained white metal of the stove top.

Cocksuckers, he said.

Brad grabbed the beers and returned to the garage. As he lowered himself to one knee by the creeper, the phone rang again. He lost his balance and teetered forward until his forehead rested against the front of the truck. For a moment he stayed there, one bottle in each hand, and sighed as the phone kept ringing. Then he turned around and settled onto his butt. The answering machine picked up again, and Brad listened to the static.

Fuck it, he said.

He chugged what remained of the first bottle, then drank all but a gulp of the second and poured the rest onto the concrete. With the empty bottles in his left hand, he slapped his thigh with his right.

Bud, he said.

The dog lifted his head, ears perked.

Come on over, boy. Have a drink.

Bud rose and scampered over to the pool of beer, then briefly sniffed. As he lapped up the puddle, Brad sauntered back to the kitchen door, held it open, and waited for the dog to finish. Brad rubbed Bud’s head as he scuttled past, then followed him inside and pulled the door shut.

He paused by the overflowing trash can long enough to balance the empty beer bottles on top of a crumpled milk carton, then stumbled through the house to the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep almost instantly as Bud found a suitable place to lie down.

In the bedroom window, a face briefly appeared.

May 23rd

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Brad opened his eyes, closed them, then groaned as he rolled over and slapped at the bedside table until he struck the snooze button on the alarm. Silence returned and he slipped back into sleep.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He slapped the snooze button again and closed his eyes.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

As Brad hit the snooze button a third time, the phone rang. He opened his eyes partway and groaned, then listened for the answering machine to take over. The click was followed by a hiss of static. He rolled his legs off the bed and forced himself into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, then laid his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

Goddammit, he croaked.

Beep. Beep. Be—

He flailed an arm and hit the reset button on the clock.

Ugh, God.

He stood, took a step, lost his balance and righted himself, then continued into the hall and to the bathroom. Bud followed, his claws clicking on the wood floors, and peeked his head through the open bathroom door. Brad looked at the panting canine as he emptied his bladder.

Hey, Buddy, he said. You still drunk, too? Hmm?

Bud answered with a whine.

Ah, Brad said. You want breakfast, don’t ya? Ya fat bastard.

He flushed and walked to the kitchen, then retrieved the bag of Barker’s Choice from under the sink and poured until the bowl overflowed, sending bits of dog food scattering across the floor. Bud ignored the food and whined again.

Piss? Brad asked. You gotta shit, boy? Brad slid open the glass door. Go on out, then. You can clean the food up later. You don’t have a job, anyway.

Bud scrambled through the doorway and into the backyard.

Brad returned to his room and got dressed in the usual: jeans, shoes, and a stained T-shirt. When he came back to the kitchen, he stuffed his lunch in his backpack, slid the glass door shut, and rubbed Bud’s head as he left. The phone rang again as he closed the front door behind him. He ignored it. After he lit a cigarette, took a drag, and gave a brief look around from the stoop, he crossed the lawn and headed down the street. It was a short walk, so when he arrived at the bus stop, he stood off to the side of the benches until the cigarette died. When the bus arrived, he climbed on and sat in silence. He fell in and out of sleep and was jostled awake periodically by potholes and sudden stops.

Excuse me.

Brad heard the words but they didn’t register.

"Excuse me."

Brad jerked awake and blinked at an obese man sitting between him and the bus window. He stood to let the man out, then followed him off the bus when he realized it was his stop as well. Once he descended to the curb, he lit another cigarette and began the quarter-mile walk to the office. As he paralleled the fence between him and the rows of vehicles in the junkyard, something, maybe part of an old junker, shifted and clattered to the grass. Brad ignored the sound and continued on his way. Beads of sweat perched on his forehead by the time he arrived. He flicked the stub of his cigarette into the bushes, pulled open the door, and walked in. The boss was already in his office, sipping coffee behind his computer.

Hey, Pete, Brad called out.

Morning, Brad, Pete responded.

He set his backpack on the floor beside his desk, then knelt and thumbed the power button on his computer. As it beeped and whirred to life, he sauntered over to the table by Pete’s office door and poured a steaming mug of coffee.

How’s the bus treating you? Pete asked.

Brad grunted and stepped to the open office door.

It’s all crackheads and fatties, man, he answered. Every one of ’em.

Pete laughed. Are you starting to second-guess your thriftiness resolution?

Brad scoffed. Fuck that. With all the money I save on gas, it’ll be more than worth dealing with the freaks.

Yeah, I hear ya. What’s the price now, anyway?

Always too much.

Pete chuckled. I’m just praying we don’t get another hurricane. Or a war.

Brad blew on his coffee as he returned to his desk, then sat and jiggled the mouse.

I’m sure there will be, he said. "It’s the end of the fucking world, or so I hear. Jesus’s balls, this computer is shit. Didn’t you say we were getting new computers the other day?"

If I did, I must have been drunk, Pete said.

That still counts.

Hah.

Brad sighed and tapped a few random keys as the computer struggled through the boot process. It’s gonna be a long one.

The day progressed uneventfully aside from a few phone calls and customers who showed up in person to ask questions they could have asked over the phone: a guy in his twenties who asked about installing light effects on a tricked out VW Bug and an old farmer who needed parts for a 1968 Ford Bronco. Near the end of the day, normally the quietest time apart from the mornings, the phone rang again. Brad picked up.

O’Shea’s Auto Yard, this is Brad. Whatcha need?

He was greeted by silence from the other end.

O’Shea’s Auto Yard, how can I help you?

With still no reply, he hung up and returned his attention to Solitaire. He had moved only a few cards when the phone rang again. He picked it up.

O’Shea’s Auto, hello.

There was no answer. He pressed the receiver against his ear and listened. There wasn’t pure silence: from the other end came the sound of breathing, slight but unmistakable. Brad lowered his voice to a whisper so Pete wouldn’t hear him.

Listen, you fuck, he growled. "I don’t know who you are, but you better stop calling me. You hear me?"

Silence.

I hear you, motherfucker. You’ll be breathing real hard if I ever find you.

The breathing continued without response. Brad listened silently until the line clicked and the dial tone sounded. He almost slammed the phone but restrained himself enough to set it gently into the cradle. He stared at it and waited for it to ring again. Instead, the phone rang in Pete’s office.

O’Shea’s Auto, this is Pete. How can I help you?

A pause.

Okay… uh, yeah, I think we can help you with that.

Satisfied it wasn’t the same caller, Brad resumed his game of Solitaire and tuned out the rest of the conversation. A few minutes later, Pete’s phone clattered in its cradle and his chair screeched. Pete emerged from his office and leaned against the door frame.

Hey, Brad.

Yeah? Brad answered, focused on the game.

I got a call for a big order, pretty much the entire right side of a Ford Pinto.

Brad blinked and froze mid-click. Pinto? he asked. Why would they bother?

Yeah, Pete answered. I told them it would probably be more of a pain in the ass than it was worth, but they said it was a sentimental thing. It’s the family car, I guess.

Brad grunted.

I’ll e-mail you the parts list, Pete continued. It’s not a big rush, so don’t bust your balls. They said they have plenty of time. ‘All the time in the world,’ in fact.

Okay.

Pete walked back toward his desk, then stopped and peeked his head out the door. Hey… are you okay, man?

Brad nodded as he turned. All he could see of Pete was his head and the fingers of his left hand wrapped around a mug of coffee.

Yeah, Brad said. Just a little tired.

Okay. Pete nodded. It’s just that you kinda smelled like beer this morning.

Brad looked momentarily at the floor. Yeah… it was a long night.

Pete gave a small, lopsided smile. It’s Tuesday.

Yeah, I know. Brad smiled.

Pete squinted as his smile grew. He shook his head and chuckled. Well, none of my business as long as you show up.

He turned and walked back to his desk, and the chair screeched again a moment later. Brad glanced distrustfully at the phone, then returned his attention to the game.

Okay, Pete called out a few minutes later, I e-mailed that list to you.

Okay.

Brad opened his e-mail and clicked the refresh button until the message appeared. When it did, he immediately right-clicked and printed it. As the printer clacked to life, he sipped the last of his fourth cup of coffee and stared at the game of Solitaire. He knew he wouldn’t win. Music blared abruptly from Pete’s office, then quieted.

Fucking pop-ups, Pete muttered under his breath.

I told you to get AdBlock, man.

I couldn’t find it for Internet Explorer.

Brad laughed. You’re still using IE? Christ, you’re hopeless.

Brad set his mug down as the printer returned to silence, then grabbed the list from the paper tray and walked out to the yard. He meandered between the rows of vehicles toward the back of the lot where most of the Ford vehicles sat, then stopped and stared at the first Pinto he found. It was the most recent addition to the lot, the result of a T-bone hit-and-run. Given the heavy damage, it was unlikely any of the parts he needed were salvageable, but he gave the vehicle a thorough inspection anyway. One by one, he checked every part and ruled them out. Every part on the list was damaged. Brad stared at the car for a few moments, then shook his head and moved on.

He had more luck with the other Pintos. No car had all the parts, but they all had some. When he checked off the last part, Brad slid the list into his shirt pocket, wiped his brow, and wandered back through the rows. Something moved in his peripheral vision, and he slowed to a stop. He shielded his eyes from the sun, squinted across the yard, and listened. After several seconds, he realized he wasn’t breathing and took a deep breath. When nothing else happened and he felt reasonably sure there was nothing there, he continued back to the office, stepped inside, and sighed in relief as the door shut behind him.

Air-conditioning is a gift from God, eh? Pete called out.

You bet your ass, Brad replied.

He stood in front of the window AC unit, spread his arms, and sighed again as the air billowed over him.

So how are we looking? Pete asked.

We have everything they need, Brad replied.

Excellent. You wanna start picking out those parts tomorrow, then?

Brad leaned over and pulled open the top of his shirt to let the cold air pass directly over his face, neck, and chest. Sweet God, he whispered.

Brad? Pete called from his office.

Yeah, Brad answered. It’s a little late in the day to get started now. I’ll get on it tomorrow.

Sounds good. I’m out of town for the rest of the week, by the way.

Yeah? Okay.

Brad held the bottom of his shirt open to let in more of the cold air as he peered outside.

Hey, Pete.

Yeah?

Is there anybody in the yard?

In the yard? Pete said disinterestedly. No, why?

Eh, Brad said, never mind.

Brad returned to his chair, laid the list beside his keyboard, and stared at the clock until it was time to leave.

May 24th

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm sounded for twenty minutes before Brad opened his eyes, sucked in a breath, and coughed it back out. He slapped around blindly for the bedside table, knocked an empty beer bottle to the floor, and mashed the clock with an open hand until he struck the snooze. He rolled over and fell off the bed, narrowly missing Bud, who was already awake and standing at attention. Brad groaned as he pushed to his feet, then stumbled to the toilet. Bud waited in the doorway, raptly attentive and whining, then followed Brad out. In the kitchen, the red light of the answering machine caught Brad’s eye. He stared at it for a moment, then let the dog out and filled the food bowl before returning to the flashing number two.

Two messages, he said aloud. I’m popular.

He pressed the play button and waited through the recorded silence.

Popular with freaks, he said, and deleted the message, then waited for the next one. It, too, was silent.

Brad moved to delete the message, then stopped. He lowered his ear closer to the speaker and listened. Someone was breathing. Faint at first, the breathing grew louder and raspier, then disappeared. When the machine beeped, Brad swore and deleted the message. He stumbled through his usual routine and left.

On the way to work, he leaned his head on the window of the bus and stared absentmindedly at the passing scenery and people. Most of the people looked like zombies. A homeless vagrant sat against the side of a building, his face buried between his raised knees and a hand outstretched with an empty paper cup. An old lady tottered down the sidewalk in a pink woolen jacket, cane in hand. A group of kids stood at an intersection, still mostly asleep. Brad watched a few of them as they talked among themselves but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He turned away when he realized he was staring, then spent the rest of the ride with his eyes closed and his head rested against the window. When he finally arrived at the office, he paused inside the front door, confused by the darkness and silence until he remembered Pete was out.

Sweet, he said aloud.

Brad set the coffee pot to brew a batch of black and sat facing his computer as he waited. He started a game of Solitaire but quit after a few minutes and stared idly at the screen until the dripping and hissing behind him faded. After pouring a cup of coffee and drinking most of the contents, he stood, stretched, and grunted loudly in the otherwise silent office. He then downed the rest of his cup, filled it again, grabbed a toolbox, and made his way outside.

He stopped periodically on his way between the vehicles, sipping coffee as he perused the yard and the forest beyond. Aside from the passing of a large pickup truck in dire need of a muffler replacement, the morning was silent and peaceful. Eventually, Brad found his way to a line of trucks and closely examined each one as he strolled past. When he reached a heavily rusted beater with severe rear-end damage, he set the toolbox down and briefly examined the undercarriage. Satisfied, he dug into the toolbox, opened the hood, and went to work at removing the driver’s side headlight. Once he finished, he carried everything back to the office and slid the light into his backpack.

You hide out here for a bit, he said.

When he turned to head back outside, he noticed a folded piece of paper on the edge of his desk—the list of Pinto parts.

Shit, forgot about you.

Brad grabbed the list, picked his toolbox back up, and made his way out to the yard again. Between each salvaged part, he stood, stretched, and soaked in the quiet. It was a nice day, but long. After work, he took the bus an extra six blocks to the Beer ‘N More. Herb, the cashier, was the only person inside.

Hey, Brad. Closing in five.

No worries, Brad said and waved a hand. I only need one.

He grabbed a thirty-pack of Iron Brew from the far corner, paid, and left in under a minute. He stepped out into the parking lot and headed back the way he came, then slowed. A single glass bottle sat upright in the middle of the lot. As he neared it, he shifted the case of beer to his right arm and picked up the stray with his free hand. It was an unopened bottle of Killer’s Ale, still cold. Brad glanced around but saw no one nearby aside from a skateboarder a few blocks away. Brad eyed the bottle again, then smiled and pried off the cap with an opener on his keychain.

Don’t mind if I do, he said. Shit, you’re pretty expensive for a cast-off.

He took a swig, then continued through the parking lot. As he met the sidewalk, he scoffed. Fifty yards ahead, another beer sat in the middle of the sidewalk. As he neared the bottle, he noticed it was open but mostly full.

Well, that’s just wasteful, he said. Can’t allow that.

Brad chugged what was left of the bottle in his hand, then exchanged it with the bottle on the sidewalk. He shook his head and stepped past the empty, then squinted at another bottle seventy yards ahead. He laughed and downed the bottle in his hand, then approached and switched it with the new bottle before doing the same with the next after that and the next after that. All of the bottles were open.

Fuckin’ savages, Brad muttered. Wasteful goddamn savages.

When he switched his empty for the next bottle, he noticed it was half-full. He stopped then, and looked back at the previous bottle, which had been slightly more full but less so than the bottles before it.

Drunk motherfuckers have too much time on their hands, he mumbled, then belched.

He stopped when he reached the next intersection. In the glare of the streetlights, the line of bottles continued unbroken along the entire sidewalk and stopped in front of Brad’s house. The apparent prankster stood a few feet away, partially obscured by shadow.

Ran out of beers, eh? Brad called out.

He held up the bottle. She didn’t react, so Brad gave an exaggerated wave. Then, she stepped into the glow of the streetlight. Brad froze. She was too far away to pick out many details, but he could see her clearly enough. She had brown hair to the shoulders of a pink jacket, and blue jeans beneath. She was covered in blood. Brad cleared his throat.

You okay? he said quietly, then yelled, Are you okay?

The girl didn’t respond. Brad swallowed the remainder of the beer, tossed the bottle into a hedge, and carried the case in both arms as he broke into a jog. He called out again as he came within a block of the house, but the girl still didn’t reply. Instead, she turned and disappeared into his yard behind the hedges separating his property from the neighbors’ yards.

Hey! Brad yelled. Hey, come back!

The bottles jostled violently as he sped up. As he approached, he peered through gaps in the hedges but couldn’t see her. When he finally passed the hedges, the yard was empty. He took a step toward the backyard, then stopped. There was another bottle on the stoop of his front door. He glanced around as he walked over, then picked it up. The cap was still on and it was full, but the contents were dark. The label said Killer’s Ale, like the others, but the contents were darker than the others, too dark to be ale. With another look around, Brad made his way inside, set the case of beer on the kitchen counter, and held the Killer’s Ale up to the bare bulb in the ceiling. Light barely shone through. He pried off the cap and poured the contents of the bottle into a whiskey glass, then dipped two fingers into the liquid and rubbed them against his thumb. It was unmistakable—dark, thick, and red. It was blood. And it was warm.

"The fuck is going on…"

He flinched as something slammed against the front door. He waited for another noise but heard nothing: no phone, no door, no barking… Brad looked around with the sudden realization that he hadn’t seen Buddy. He set the glass on the counter and glanced at the empty dog bowl.

Buddy? he yelled. Buddy, come get dinner!

Again, something banged against the front door. Brad broke into a sprint, slipped on the linoleum, and rebounded off a wall, then raced through the living room and yanked open the front door. There was no one there.

Come on out, fucker! he yelled.

He waited and listened. All was quiet aside from the sounds of distant traffic. Brad whistled.

Buddy! he called. Go get ’em!

There was only silence. Brad waited a moment longer and pulled the door shut. As he did, something caught his eye. A picture lay on the stoop that hadn’t been there when he arrived. He leaned out the doorway and scanned the yard, then took the picture inside and locked the door behind him. He looked closely at the picture. It was a portrait of a smiling girl, about sixteen, with smooth brown hair reaching her shoulders. She was wearing a pink jacket. The only thing missing was blood.

He crumpled the picture, tossed it behind the couch, and grabbed the case of Iron Brew on the way through the kitchen to the garage. He flipped the light switch with a corner of the box, then set the case beside the truck, opened it, and extracted a beer. He stared at the truck as he opened the bottle and chugged it.

May 25th

Brad woke before the alarm and looked around in confusion.

Buddy? he called out. Bu—

He stopped when he remembered Buddy was missing. He called for him again as he walked through the house, but there was no corresponding bark, whine, or click of nails. He filled the dog bowl anyway and opened the back door.

Just in case, he said.

On the way to work, he eyed everyone and everything around him with sleepy suspicion. He half expected to see the girl sitting in the front of the bus or jogging along beside it, but it was the same crowd as usual: the fatties, the oldies, the druggies. When he arrived at work, Brad dropped the backpack beside his desk and remained rooted to his chair until his third full cup of coffee. Only then did he go outside. He made his way out to the line of trucks and removed a few more parts, setting each one on the hood of an old Volvo beside his coffee. He kept a wary eye on the yard around him. Once he finished collecting truck parts, he carried them into the office and laid them on top of his desk, then unzipped the main compartment of the backpack. When he shoved the first of the parts inside and heard a clank, Brad reached past the part and closed his fingers around a familiar shape. He pulled out an Iron Brew.

Well, lookie here, he said. We got a stowaway.

He examined the bottle and saw nothing wrong with it, so he placed it on his desk and reached again into the bag. He found another bottle, followed by three more.

"I guess you were a little heavy this morning, huh?"

He opened his toolbox and tried to rearrange tools to make space for the bottles, then changed his mind. Instead, he laid the truck parts by his desk and returned all but one of the bottles to the backpack before hefting the bag to one shoulder. He pocketed the list of Pinto parts and headed to the yard with a beer in one hand and the toolbox in the other. He’d consumed half the bottle before he stepped out the door. Brad swore quietly at the brightness of the sun and lowered his gaze as he walked through the maze of vehicles.

Gonna need you, he said to the beer and chugged what remained.

Brad used the empty bottle to shield his eyes from the sun as he approached the cluster of Pintos, then he stopped and stared.

Jesus.

All the Pintos were covered in blood. Some appeared to have been sprinkled, others sprayed, and several drowned by the bucketful. As he stared, glass shattered nearby. Brad dropped the toolbox and fell back into the car behind him, then froze and listened for another sound. When nothing else happened, he knelt and used his free hand to open the toolbox, then chose a small pry bar and held it in front of him as he stood again. There was a patch of color on the other side of one of the cars. With the pry bar in one hand and the bottle in the other, he inched toward the car. Brad moved around the vehicle in a wide arc until he could see the other side. The driver’s side window was shattered. Cautiously, he stepped closer, lowered himself to the grass, and peered beneath the undercarriage. There was nothing but grass and dirt. As he rose, he noticed a patch of pink fabric hanging from the door handle beneath the broken window. He pulled it loose, then cried out and let it flutter to the ground. It was faded, dirty, and bloodstained, but there was no question it was from the girl’s pink jacket. He jumped to his feet and looked around.

I dare you to come out, he said.

He lashed out and heaved the bottle at nothing. It struck the top edge of an old sedan, shattered, and sent a spray of glass tinkling against the nearby cars.

"I fucking dare you to come out!"

He surveyed the yard around him. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. After standing motionless for so long that he grew thirsty, he slipped a beer from the backpack and sipped it as he glared at the blood-spattered Pintos. Once the bottle was empty, he exchanged the pry bar for a screwdriver and went to work on the nearest of the vehicles. Between each part, he stood and looked around. Over the course of the rest of the day, he drank the five bottles and finished collecting the rest of the parts on the list. Despite the weirdness of the day, and although Brad could have gone for at least another beer, his trip home was more pleasant than usual. When he returned home and stepped inside, he called for Bud, then walked to the back door and peeked outside.

Buddy? he called out. Buddy! Dinner!

When the dog didn’t come, Brad hesitantly closed the door, then walked a circuit of the house, room by room, and searched for a way Buddy could have sneaked outside. When he found nothing, he grabbed several beers from the fridge and emptied the bag of truck parts beside his creeper, then stood and stared at the truck. It was nearly finished. All that remained was to replace the windshield and the few parts he brought with him, and then he would be back in business. No more bus rides with all the godforsaken losers on his route.

All right, he said, let’s do this.

He turned on the radio and cranked the volume all the way up. As he worked late into the night, Brad consumed another twelve beers and replaced all the remaining parts. It was four in the morning before he finished his work and started the truck for the first time in almost a month. The remaining cracks in the windshield meant it wasn’t yet street legal, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the damn thing worked. The beast was alive. He chugged another beer to celebrate, then he went to sleep.

May 26th

Brad never heard the alarm. It was almost noon when he woke, moaned, and went through the usual morning routine aside from pouring more dog food. He left the back door open again, just in case, and took a moment to gaze at the resurrected beast in the garage before stuffing his backpack with beer and heading to work. The afternoon bus ride was emptier, less smelly, and in general more pleasant than usual. The sun was out, the weather was warm, and since he had the office to himself, he got to come in late. Add beer to that delicious recipe, and it was going to be a great day.

Afternoon, Brad.

Brad was instantly awake. He stared through the dim building into Pete’s office, where his boss’s face peered back from beside his computer monitor.

Pete? he called out. I thought you were out all week.

Yeah, ended up coming back early. Late start, eh?

Ah, yeah, he replied. Sorry. I’ll make up the hours.

As Brad headed toward the coffee pot, he stepped as gently as possible to prevent the bottles in his bag from clinking together. Pete didn’t respond, so Brad pushed on.

Did something happen? Brad prompted.

Nah, nothing, Pete responded.

He poured a cup of coffee and waited for elaboration, but Pete didn’t take the bait. To avoid jostling the bottles in the bag, Brad hung it from the back of the chair instead of setting it down.

I got all those Pinto parts already, Brad said.

Yeah, I saw.

Despite the unusual tone in Pete’s voice, Brad sat and sipped his coffee as casually as he could manage.

Brad, Pete said, what was the red shit all over the Pinto parts you collected?

Red shi— He started to respond, then stopped. He’d forgotten to clean the parts. He looked back to try and gauge his boss’s mood, but Pete’s face was oddly inscrutable.

Oh, right, he said. I don’t know. I think somebody snuck in and poured that shit on some of the cars.

Somebody sneaked into the yard?

I guess so.

Did you see anything? Pete asked.

Like, a person, or something? No, nothing.

Pete looked at Brad for a few seconds without saying anything, then shrugged his shoulders and returned his focus to his computer.

Well, whatever, Pete said.

Don’t worry, he said. I’ll take care of it before they come to get ’em.

Nah, I got it, Pete said. I already cleaned the parts.

Brad frowned at his coffee. You did? When did you do that?

This morning, after she called. She’s coming in this afternoon to pick them up. Probably any minute.

As if on cue, the front door opened and a girl stepped inside. After the initial flash of sunlight, the door swung shut behind her and Brad gasped. She sported brown hair to her shoulders, a pink jacket, and blue jeans. The only thing missing was blood.

Hey there, Ms. Dotell! Pete called out from his office.

Hello! the girl replied.

Wide-brimmed sunglasses hid her eyes, but Brad felt her gaze as she stopped in front of his desk and smiled.

I’m here for the Pinto parts? she said.

Brad moved his mouth as if to reply but said nothing. He searched the girl’s face for some hint of recognition, waited for a confession that she had been following him, tormenting him. He thought he saw her blink in the darkness behind her sunglasses, but she said nothing. She gave no hint she knew him.

Yeah, Pete said from behind him, they’re all ready.

Stunned, Brad turned toward Pete, who was standing in his office doorway.

I’ll take care of you, ma’am. Brad, why don’t you go take a break.

Brad pushed to his feet and took a step. As he did, the chair fell backward with the weight of the bottles. He lunged to catch the bag, but the resonant clank of the bottles and the distinct sounds of breaking glass made his failure clear. He froze in mid-lunge for a moment, righted himself, then bent again and reached for