Processed cheese, p.38
Processed Cheese, page 38
The song ended.
Ambience turned to stare out the window into the gathering dusk.
“My God,” she said. “I see cows. Those are actual cows. There’s cows out there on the hill.”
“Lordy me, Maw,” Graveyard said in the appropriate bad accent, “they got real critters on real farms and everything.” He dropped the accent. “You sure those might not be deer?” He glanced quickly over to his right but couldn’t see anything. It was getting darker and darker. “Aren’t cows supposed to be brought into the barn at night?”
“They’re big and fat and standing still and lying down and they’re in black and white.”
“Cows,” Graveyard said.
“That’s what I said.”
“Those are farms over there. We’re in farm country.”
“Where nervous white people huddle together to vote for other nervous white people?”
“Whining always enjoys a big chorus. You know my father is local district chair of the Flying Freedom Freedom Party.”
“You’ve told me often enough. You must be so proud.”
“I used to get free stuff at the annual Liberty roundups.”
“What—a kiddie StreetCleaner and a Make The World Go Away baseball cap?”
“Mostly divinity fudge and unlimited servings of frosted flake crumble.”
“Everything a growing boy needs.”
“Couldn’t get enough.”
“Listen, there any real stores at this so-called mall? Places where you can get real stuff worth buying? I haven’t gifted myself a single party favor on this entire trip that was both ludicrously priced and completely unnecessary. And I’m beginning to suffer serious withdrawal symptoms.”
“Used to be a pretty good Synapsaurus outlet there, but that was twenty years ago, so who knows if it still even exists today?”
“I need to buy something, Grave. Soon. Seriously soon. I’m getting the shakes.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find some sort of uselessly stupid and glamorous knickknack that’ll get you well again.”
“That’s why I love you, Grave. You always know how to say just the right thing.”
“Well, sometimes.”
“And you were certainly right about this route. Talk about the road less traveled. I haven’t noticed another car since we turned onto it.”
“Sautéed kale and broiled ramps.” He kept glancing up into the rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong?”
“You might’ve spoken too soon. This dickweed’s been hotdogging us for miles now.” He reached up and twisted the mirror off to one side. “Like to shoot out those brights, too.”
Ambience turned to look back through the rear window. “He’s gaining,” she said.
“We’ll see about that.” Graveyard hit the accelerator. But the tailing car not only kept pace, it also moved up to about a foot off the HomoDebonaire, then began knocking repeatedly against the rear bumper, at the same time leaning on an abrasive, persistent horn.
“Didn’t know small-town hicks could be such rude drivers,” Ambience said.
“I don’t think those are small-town hicks.”
As he spoke, the pursuing car began grinding against the rear of the HomoDebonaire, attempting to push it forward. Metal complained and shrieked. Graveyard sped up. The trailing car cut abruptly to the left, moved up rapidly from behind, and began trying to pass him in the oncoming lane. It was a shiny black late-model Fustian XL with darkly tinted windows and an invisible driver who obviously liked its horn. When Graveyard sped up to keep the vehicle from cutting him off, the SUV swerved suddenly to the right, bumping into the HomoDebonaire, scraping its side. More metallic screeching. It pulled away for a moment, then immediately came back again, grinding relentlessly against them. “Jellied liver and lima bean relish,” said Graveyard. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“This roach is definitely getting on my nerves,” Ambience said. “What’s he think he’s doing?”
“Well, I think he’s trying to run us off the road.”
The black SUV, which had fallen back behind them for a few seconds, now began accelerating again for another pass. Graveyard reached out to his brushed steel Navigation Gallery, lightly touched an icon on the display screen, and instantly the HomoDebonaire’s deluxe Ultra-Drive function was activated. They easily zoomed out ahead of the receding Fustian.
“Okay,” said Ambience, “that may have done it. You’ve dusted ’em.”
“Thanks to the Homo’s five seventy hp.”
But then, despite their lead, the trailing headlamps began growing ominously in size. “Think maybe you might want to take up a position in back,” Graveyard said. “Just to be on the safe side.”
Without a word Ambience climbed over into the back seat and immediately turned around to face out the rear window. “Those blinders are like arc lamps,” she said, blinking against the glare. “What’s—he got his high beams on?”
“Yeah, they’re probably customized HIDs, and god knows what he’s got under the hood.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious they’re probably associates of Mr. BlisterPac. And they’re not in party mode.”
“Here they come again,” Ambience said.
The light from the approaching SUV magnified in intensity, eventually filling the HomoDebonaire’s interior. Then the Fustian began bumping again and again against their tail fender as its driver leaned without mercy on his horn. The Debonaire swerved slightly to the left, then slightly to the right. Despite the Ultra-Drive, Graveyard couldn’t seem to shake them.
The first shot struck somewhere in the trunk of the Debonaire. It made a dull thump.
“You hear that?” said Ambience.
“Not good,” Graveyard said. And he already had the pedal to the floor. Ambience pulled the bag of guns onto the seat beside her and began sorting through them. “What did I tell you?” she said. “I knew it was eventually going to come down to something like this. Money and guns. Guns and money. What did I tell you?”
“We can handle this. We’ve got the car and we’ve got the firepower.”
The next shot cracked the rear glass. “Shit!” said Ambience. She ducked down in her seat. Graveyard checked the dash. The digital read on the velocity amplification was flickering up and down around the hundred mark. Suddenly several shots hit the body of the car simultaneously. “Shit!” Ambience said again, ducking again. “Whoever Mr. Big is, it appears he wants his money back real bad.”
“Unfortunately, they always do,” Graveyard said, fighting to maintain control of the rattling wheel. “We’ve arrived at the butt end of the corporate life.” He couldn’t depress the accelerator any further. Under him the car felt alive, an animated being of blood, muscle, and heart that moved in sync with his will. He was no longer looking at the gauges. He had never driven so fast in his life and he was riding on sheer car jockey’s grace. It was like he was flying, the road slithering around like an angry snake before him. And still he couldn’t seem to shake the Fustian. What had they done to that engine? No machine should be able to pace a maxed-out HomoDebonaire. Yet here they were. And this service road hadn’t been built for such speed. So far the stretch had been a relatively flat straightaway, though the steering column was vibrating and so were his arms. What he tried not to think about were curves. How would he handle those? Up ahead, out there in the darkness, beyond the reach of the headlamps, hovered the Red Hole. He was hurtling toward it at max acceleration. But he blinked once, twice, three times, and the Red Hole went away.
“What do you want me to do?” Ambience said. “Lean out the window and let off a few caps?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Give that a try.”
Ambience powered down the left window. A hard wind came howling in. She picked up the first weapon at hand, a converted Gibe & Cloister 418, stuck out her head, hair whipping across her face, pointed the gun in the general direction of the Fustian, and popped a half dozen rounds, which were immediately answered by a return spray of automatic fire that peppered the Debonaire to the accompaniment of sudden pocking sounds. Ambience pulled her head back inside. “Holy shit!” she said. “They got major clout.”
“I’ve had it with these people,” Graveyard said. “Break out the LampLighter.”
Ambience fumbled around in the bag, eventually producing the short, stocky shape of the ever-reliable LampLighter 505, the weapon she’d stitched her initials with into the paper zombie back at Bullets ’N’ Brunch. It felt pretty cozy in her arms. Before she could raise it into firing position, though, several more hostile rounds came bursting through the rear window. She fell flat onto the back seat, heart in overdrive.
“Knock out the rest of the glass and give ’em a big kiss from me,” Graveyard said. This wasn’t really real. This was a flick he’d seen before. Many times before. With an audience. In a darkened theater. Actually being in the cast—in a starring role, yet—occupied an entirely different level of being. A picture of a gun was not a gun. A real bullet was as hard as reality could get.
Ambience used the barrel of the gun to break out the remaining bits of window glass and once she’d gotten a clear field of fire she propped the weapon on the top edge of the back seat, took aim, and let loose. A whole magazine’s worth. One of the Fustian’s headlamps went dark. She reloaded and shot off a volley into the black space above the remaining light, where she imagined the windscreen to be. She fired and fired.
“I’m trying to take out the window,” she said, “but nothing.”
“They’ve probably got that freaking Hexigard sheeting with spall face. If you can, keep knocking at the same spot. Might weaken the glass enough to get in.”
So she did. No dice. The Fustian kept coming. The Fustian kept shooting.
“Go for the tires,” Graveyard said.
So she did. And, for a moment, the Fustian appeared to actually begin slowing.
“They’re dropping back,” Ambience said. As they did, they released several additional bursts of fire, the flashes speckling the night.
Then, up ahead, at the very forward edge of the Debonaire’s headlights, a sharp curve began bearing rapidly down upon them. “Hold on!” Graveyard shouted. He tried braking. He tried twisting the wheel. But it was too late. At terrific speed the luxury sedan slid sidewise off the road, bounced off a telephone pole or a cable pole or an electric pole or whatever the hell kind of pole it was, crashed through the guardrail and on down into a dead cornfield, the dry, brittle stalks thrashing against the grille and side doors of the careering car until it came at last to a shuddering stop somewhere in the midst of the field, dust, tiny bits of dirt, and withered leaf settling over the ruined body of the car.
“You okay?” Graveyard said.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Ambience. “The fucking gun bag slammed into my face. I think my nose is bleeding.”
Graveyard tried restarting the engine. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He leaned forward, turned off the headlamps. The clear sky was utterly moonless. Except for the faintly illuminated windows of a farmhouse in the far distance, there was absolutely no light. It was the darkest dark Graveyard had ever experienced, country dark.
“Ready for what comes next?” he said.
“Bring it on,” she said.
The Fustian had slowed, turned off the highway, made its leisurely, crunching way down onto the tattered field, and edged up to a position somewhere between unnervingly close and eerily distant from the rear of the Debonaire, where it came to a deliberate stop. Its remaining headlight switched off. Its doors remained closed. Silence.
“Give me the MojoMaster,” Graveyard said. “If you can find it.”
Ambience felt around on the floor. “The MojoMaster the one with the HiggledyPiggledy rails?”
“No; other.”
She passed him the rifle over the seat. She turned around to scan the quiet darkness framed in the busted-out rear window. “What’re they doing? No one’s gotten out of the car yet. At least that I can see.”
“Old mob technique,” Graveyard said. “I read about it once. Or maybe I saw it in a movie. They want to give you plenty of time to contemplate all the pretty stuff that’s going to be coming your way shortly.” He retrieved a box of rounds from under the seat and got busy loading magazines.
A cold wind had begun blowing in through the open back window. Ambience could feel the chill through her clothes. “Should’ve worn a heavier coat,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Graveyard said. “We’ll all be sufficiently warmed up in a couple minutes.” He inserted a full magazine into the MojoMaster, clicked it into place. He looked back at Ambience. She looked at him. They didn’t need to exchange a word. Then Ambience heard a sound and quickly turned back toward the window. “Somebody’s getting out,” she said.
“Try giving them a sweet wake-up call.”
Ambience opened up with the LampLighter, let it run for a few deafening seconds. In the dark at least two people answered, the muzzle flares clearly visible and shockingly long. She immediately answered, aiming right toward where the last flashes had appeared. Out there somebody yelled something.
“What’d he say?” Graveyard said.
“Fuck if I know.” She fired off more rounds into the dark. “How many you think there are?”
“As many assclowns as could fit in that tacky circus car of theirs. Or, more likely, as many as BlisterPac’s mysterious overlord is willing to shell out for. I wouldn’t be surprised if, on the grand all-encompassing spreadsheet, we haven’t already been written off as an unfortunate minor liability. We’re probably not worth anything more than an economy mission. I’d say four at the most, if that. Give them a friendly ‘Hi, there.’ See what happens.”
Ambience let off a five-second stream of rounds. Loud and bright.
Silence. No response.
“Maybe they’re already out of the car and slipping toward us,” she said.
“You’d think we would have heard a door opening or something. Give me a turn. These shitholes are really pissing me off.” Ambience crouched down in her seat. Graveyard pointed his MojoMaster over her head and out into the night, squeezed the trigger, and held it until his ears hurt too much. Again, there was no reply.
“Time for a recon,” Ambience said. “I’m going out.”
“In the open? You’ll lose your cover.”
“Number one rule in the Rangers: keep moving.” She opened her door as cautiously as she could. From out of the dark came a sudden violent eruption of intense fire that made lots of twinkling lights and plunking sounds. Ambience and Graveyard ducked down behind their seats.
“Did you see where it was coming from?” Graveyard said.
“I‘ve a good idea.” She raised up and fired off into the night. Nothing came back.
“Cute,” Graveyard said. “They’re playing with us.”
“I’ve got no patience with games.” She took out her pack of Daredevils, lit up, and proceeded to smoke what she hoped would not be her last cig. The effect was better than ever.
“Give me one of those,” Graveyard said. She did. She lit his for him. He noisily exhaled. “I’d forgotten what these can be like,” he said. They sat smoking together in silence. When Ambience finished, she tossed the still-glowing butt off into the night. Then, clutching the LampLighter, she started to climb almost delicately out of the car. “Time to woman up.”
“Where you going?”
“To do what has to be done.”
“Maybe we should both go.”
“You stay here, sit on the money. You’re good at it. I’ll do the moving around. I’m good at that. Remember Bubu Bugaboo?”
“Where you almost got killed?”
“But I didn’t.”
“Yeah, truffle mouth, you should most definitely try to remember that.”
They shared a look, all their lives summed up in the silence. “See you in hell,” she said. She’d always wanted to say that. Now she had. She slipped back toward the front of the car and then stepped silently off into the night. Graveyard leaned over his seat back, grabbed the bag of guns, yanked it into the front with him. He picked out his favorites—the BoxcarSystem 20/10, the StreetCleaner, the trusty HoiPolloi, along with the MojoMaster—and, balancing the unwieldy weight as best he could, exited the driver’s side of the Debonaire with a surprising amount of stealth and made his way to the front of the car. He wanted the solid cover of the engine block. He leaned against the warm hood, metal still ticking like a can of trapped insects, cradled the Boxcar in his arms, and sighted down the barrel. He couldn’t see a thing. Should have sprung for a fancy pair of those night-vision specs, but frankly he hadn’t ever planned on needing them. Live and learn. Without those lenses there wasn’t anything to see but total night. Trick, of course, was to keep focused in the proper direction and wait for the darkness to begin breaking apart into pieces that moved around in a suspiciously humanlike manner. After a while he started seeing white spots, and of course they were moving all over the place. He wondered how Ambience was doing. If anything happened to her…Then suddenly there was a rapid burst of light off to the left. Then another burst even closer. As soon as Graveyard shifted to the left side of the hood to cover that action, someone opened up on him from the right side. He crouched down behind the engine. He could hear the rounds pouring in like a bucket of pebbles being tossed against the car. Bits of window glass showered onto his head. And whoever was shooting was shooting seriously. Even when Graveyard thought the blistering fire was going to stop, it didn’t. Then abruptly it did. In the interval the silence seemed deafening. My turn, Graveyard said to himself. He stepped out briefly into the clear, raised the Boxcar to chest level, and let go. He put all of himself into the machine rattling between his arms. It felt good. But before he could finish, something bit him on the left calf. Ow! he said to himself. That hurt. Then something bit his right arm. Ow! again. He was being nibbled to death. Then, just as he was ducking back behind the safety of the car, he took a sudden kick straight to the gut. Scones and smoked marrowbone, he said to himself. Definitely not good. He didn’t want to, he couldn’t help himself, but he went down. He could feel himself falling and knew the ground was going to be hard before he even hit it. It was. Scallop crudo and apricot cream cheese, he said to himself. I am fucked. He felt wet, so he touched the front of his jacket. He didn’t need to look at his hand. Everything seemed to be running out of him. And if this was the part where his life was supposed to be fast-forwarding through his screen, why wasn’t it? No memory train whatsoever. What could that mean? The show must not be over. Maybe there was going to be another beat or two and several more after that. So in this important climactic scene, he would act it extra. Before the martini shot there would be at least one other random player, maybe more, who would find his parts unexpectedly and brutally trimmed. Bracing himself against the body of the car, he rose by separate considered stages to his feet. He stared out into the armed obscurity. As he watched, a firefight broke out off in the distance, stopped, then started again. Kill them, Amb, he said to himself, kill all of ’em. Then some pieces of the darkness got loose and came charging toward him. He didn’t even aim. He didn’t have to. He just fired. The MojoMaster did what the MojoMaster was built to do. The piece of darkness on the left tumbled to earth. Then the piece of darkness on the right. He settled back against the front fender. His chest hurt. His right leg hurt. His left arm hurt. It was all hurt. Pictures of Ambience came stuttering through his mind. If anything happened…Then he decided it would be a good thing if he could just lie down on the ground and rest for a while. So he did. He lay there listening. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, strong and steady, and his own rasping breaths, short and weak, and then, beyond that, heavy feet stumbling clumsily across the frozen ground from behind. They neared. They stopped. He tried to turn to see who it was, but he couldn’t move. “Ambience?” he said.
