Cruiserbound by N.P. Yuggoth
The doorbell rings twice before Huey builds up the energy to push himself out of his seat.
"Goddamn it, I'm coming!" he shouts, reaching for his cane as he stands on wobbly legs. To think that someone is interrupting his Saturday afternoon gets Huey cursing under his breath. Fall is all about relaxing and getting away from the world, but today has been anything but. Earlier, he had the Jehova's Witnesses banging on the door at a quarter past ten, then he had to see his daughter off to college. Then help his fucking wife load her baked goods in her goddamn Volkswagen.
"Can't a man get any peace and quiet around here?" he grumbles and lets out a series of racking coughs. He had been looking out at the bay until that damn doorbell started ringing. The whitecaps on the deep blue were lulling him to sleep, and the shadows were starting to stretch across the hardwood floors when...
RING! RING! RINGRINGRING!
"Jesus Christ, I'm right here!" Huey bellows. If his wife Valerie were here, she would start bitching at him for shouting in the house, but she's off at village bake sale. Huey's heavy frame bumps into the basket near the door, sending Valerie's umbrella skittering in his path. With a mighty kick, Huey sends it flying straight into the door.
Upon opening the door, Huey sees that it's a man. A very tall dark man, to be precise. Huey's mouth twists further into a scowl, as he notices the man's long hair. Probably some faggot, and a Latino faggot by the looks of the man's olive skin. He's got sunglasses on, and even though it's a sunny day, it's probably to hide blood shot eyes. A Latino stoner faggot, for sure. But sitting eye level with Huey is a badge.
Cruiseround
"I wasn't expecting you today," Huey says, and wipes the perspiration from his brow. He forces a smile, hoping that this will expedite the process of receiving his goods from this weirdo. He draws in two deep breaths before he can speak again. "I didn't know that you guys deliver on Saturday."
Nary a flash of emotion falls across the delivery man's face. Of course not, Huey thinks. He's been hotboxing that shitcan of a delivery truck all morning.
"So where's my mobility scooter?" Huey takes in a gasp. He's been waiting for a good 6 months, as they custom built his Cruiseround mobility scooter to his exact specifications. It cost an arm and a leg, but it has been a good year as far as sales. That spring he sold two waterfront properties both clocking in at over 2 million each, which allowed him to put in for the mobility scooter. That way he wouldn't have to get a normal factory model.
Though Huey's house is big enough to allow easy passage all around, he wanted better cornering. He also ordered a bigger seat, knowing full well that he was going to be putting on more weight. And he has; since he ordered the damn thing in April, Huey has put on about 10 pounds. So much for that summer bikini body, but with money, he never has to worry about his looks.
And he wanted it in candy apple red, the same colour as his vintage Mustang. If he ever gets around to it, he wants to buy another with wood grain trim, to match his Criss Craft. The manufacturers gave him hell about that, saying that they didn't do custom paint jobs for mobility scooters, but Huey found out that a sum of money erased any protest.
"Well, are you going to unpack it or what? Where is it?" Huey says, noticing that the man is unresponsive.
"Patrick Hortner?" he asks Huey in a deep bass voice that is almost a growl.
"Yes!" Huey snarls. "That's me!"
The man pauses as if processing the information. "Your friends call you Huey."
"And you call me Mister Hortner, if you want to keep your lousy job," Huey shakes his head. "Get that thing into my living room, and get it set up. I want to start using it yesterday."
There's no reaction on the delivery man's face. Huey points at the truck.
"Get that thing out of your truck, get it running, as per the contract I signed, and get the fuck out of here," Huey says through clenched teeth. "I've got shit to do."
Huey turns around, leaving the door open. He feels something cold shoot through his back, which is followed by a burning pain. When he tries to turn around, he notices that he can't. Something is holding him in place.
With great strain, Huey cranes his neck around. The man is still standing there, expressionless, but his hand clutches the ornate handle of an enormous blade. Huey can't see it, but he knows that the pain in his back is from that blade.
Huey screams, and falls on the floor. The thud is so massive his car keys fall off their hook on the wall. His mouth works to produce the single syllable of "help," but nothing save pathetic whimpering comes forth.
Furiously swinging his hands and pedaling his feet, Huey struggles to take hold of something. His socks slide on the varnished floors. Huey remembers the guy who varnished them last winter. Probably also a stoner, but at least that guy did a good job. He didn't linger and he understood instructions quite well. And he didn't try to kill Huey.
Huey reaches up and grabs the banister of the stairs leading up. He is able to pull himself to his knees before the strength in his arms gives out. Using all his energy reserves, he pushes straight up and stands, his head spinning from the effort.
"Help!" he screams at last, and jaunts towards the kitchen. "Help!" he screams backwards, catching sight of the man, who still stands in the door.
Huey reaches the kitchen and pulls a knife out of the knife rack. He turns around just in time to see the delivery man enter the kitchen. There is still no sign of emotion on the man's face, just the cold look of indifference.
"Get back!" Huey screeches, and thrusts his knife out. At this point, he realizes that it's not a knife, but the sharpening steel. The man crosses the kitchen in two huge strides, and wrenches the sharpening steel from Huey's hand in one fluid motion. It clatters across the tiles, chipping one. Shocked, Huey collapses to the floor.
Huey whimpers again, and squirms past the man, his legs and arms propelling him on his belly like an overweight tortoise. He grabs onto one of the breakfast stools and rises to his feet, then bounds out of the kitchen towards his study.
The man follows him methodically, but with remarkable speed, no doubt due to the huge strides he takes. His expressionless face nods back and forth with each step, the long black hair hanging heavily to his torso. Huey glances back twice to see that the man is maintaining a safe distance.
"Get out of my house!" Huey pleads, running around his desk. He picks up a paperweight in the shape of a bear and throws it at the man. The man lists to one side and the paperweight lands on the wood floor with a dull bang. Huey winces as he notices the large chunk it has taken out of the teak floor.
The man advances two more steps to close the distance on Huey. His back to the bay windows, Huey can see his silhouette reflected in the man's sunglasses, against the harsh glare of afternoon sun off the surface of Lake Michigan. Huey strains as he pushes his swivel chair in the way of the man in desperate attempt to buy time. The man raises one great arm and sweeps the chair aside with such violence that it breaks several panes of glass in the bay window to his left.
Digging in his pocket, Huey fumbles for a key that he knows is there, must be there. The man takes one step towards him and stops. Huey back pedals, making another circumnavigation of the desk, and his fingers lock around the key ring.
"You just get out of here now, mister! Or you're going to regret it!" Huey bleats, holding one shaking hand across the desk. With the other, he fiddles with the lock on the top drawer.
The man, takes a step back and stares at Huey.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Huey says, throwing weak glances at the man and the drawer he's trying to unlock. "Back! Back!" he screeches, though the man has made no further advances. Perhaps he's too stoned to be motivated, but it's enough time for Huey to unlock the drawer.
Brushing aside a layer of papers, Huey's fingers settle on the rubber grip of his Rossi 461 revolver. He brings it up and points it at the man.
"Back! I'm warning you, you fucker!"
Huey cocks the gun, but it gives the man just enough time to take a single stride towards Huey and swat the pistol from his hands. The gun falls to the floor and discharges upon hitting the floor. The bullet tears through the wall.
"Get away from me!" Huey whines, and slides past the man.
The man watches as Huey bounds down the hallway, towards the stairs. Huey doesn't look back as he climbs the stairs, but as he gets about 5 steps up, he can feel lack of oxygen in his blood. It's been about two months since he's been upstairs to the bedrooms, but he knows that there are more guns up there. His hunting rifles in the master bedroom, and another handgun stashed away under the pool table. But judging by the size of this guy, he will probably need a shotgun, which is in the closet of his daughter's bedroom.
Huey stops at the top, clutching the banister and staring down in horror. The delivery man moves to the bottom of the stairs and looks up. Huey takes three panicked breaths, screams, and makes a break for the master bedroom. Over his gasps, he can hear the ominous, deliberate steps of the man as he ascends the stairs. Huey ducks into one of the bathrooms, taking care to shut the door quietly.
Floorboards in the hallway creak as the man advances. Sunlight glints off of the polished floors, and Huey holds his breath as he sees the shadow cast by the man's feet move past the door and disappear all together.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Huey lets his breath out in a huge sigh of relief, then greedily sucks in gulp of air. The air rattles his lungs, and he coughs. Huey clenches his teeth, and squeezes his eyes shut. Don't let that weird fuck hear me, oh please God...
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Huey stuffs his hand in his mouth to dampen his breaths.
Creak. Creak.
No, God, I can't die now. I'm too young.
Creak.
Huey slams his eyelids shut. Hot tears pour down his sweaty cheeks. As if on cue, the sweat from his brow rolls down in big, sloppy drops. Huey can hear them hit the floor with wet smacks.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Huey listens to the footsteps, trying to judge where they are.
Creak...creak...creak.
Huey takes a deep breath. His mouth tastes of copper and salt. He notices a distant pain in his back, and blood seeping down the crack of his ass. Timidly, he raises a hand to the gash in his back, and reels back in horror upon realizing how deep it is. He reaches in his pocket, hoping that his cellphone is there, but knowing full well that it's downstairs in the study. He regrets having discontinued the land line last year. If only he hadn't wanted to save an extra $30 a month, he could use the phone in the master bedroom and call for help.
And he needs help. There might be a neighbour or two nearby, left over millionaires hanging out in their luxury cottages for fall, but with the cold weather, they've all got their windows closed, so there's no way they'd hear him call for help.
Suddenly, it comes clear to him: the MedAlert system. After his first heart attack three years ago, Valerie had it put in. Huey's second heart attack happened in Florida last winter, so he had chastised his wife for investing in such a system in their northern house, where it sat unused. But he hadn't had asked her to remove it.
He has never felt better about spending the money for something as he does now. It's just a jaunt down the hall to the master bedroom, where he can hopefully lock himself in and make the call.
Huey listens an eternity, hoping to hear something, but there is nothing. The man has gone somewhere, maybe downstairs. Wherever he is, he's probably not near, so Huey stands up and puts a shaking hand on the door knob.
Just a quick jaunt down the hallway. A little more than ten steps, Huey thinks. Ten steps is a lot, especially with his heart pounding, but it's all that stands between him and safety.
Huey takes another breath, closes his eyes, and throws the door open. No one in the hallway. He takes a careful step forward, avoiding the creaky boards in the floor. He knows where they all are, so he can make and easy retreat to the master bedroom if he is just careful enough...
Creak.
Creak.
The sound of footsteps somewhere behind sends a fresh jolt through Huey's system, thrusting his heart into overdrive. It hammers like a piece of broken, alien machinery in his chest, and seems to choke off his breathing with each slamming beat.
Creak.
Huey gasps, and sets off at a bouncing pace, his fat rolls rising and falling without any grace. When he feels his socks hit the plush carpet of the master bedroom, he tumbles forward and falls on his face.
CREAK.
Huey rolls around in time to see the man standing right there in the doorway, peering down with absolute detachment.
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Huey howls, and slams the door with his foot.
It takes him two attempts to get to his feet, but when he does, he twists the lock closed and knocks a dresser over in front of the door for good measure.
"Oh God, oh God, I can't die, please no, not today God, I'm too young," Huey says, tears gushing from his eyes.
He looks across the bedroom that only his wife enjoys, due to the fact he can't bear to haul himself up those front stairs. He former throne room is a disorganized mess left to Valerie's negligible cleaning routine. They had a maid this summer, but she may have been deported back to Mexico several weeks ago, so nothing has been tidied since then. The bedroom is dim even in the noonday sun, with only two great skylights facing north, that at this hour allow only the passage of glum blue light to illuminate this rather sad chamber.
There, on the nightstand next to his side of the bed sits the MedAlert device, a lone red LED burning as an angry eye in cold cyan. Huey walks towards it, and feels a familiar tightening pain in his chest. He sits on the bed, and grabs the device, punching the ALERT button several times.
"MedAlert services," a voice says at the other end.
"This is Patrick Horner!" he blubbers into the speaker. "I live at 15078 Bayview--"
"We have your address," the calm woman says. "What is the nature of your emergency?"
"A man is in my house and trying to kill me!" Huey says, and falls into a spell of jagged sobs. "Send help, please."
"Okay, sir, we'll call the police. Are you safe now?" she asks.
With that, the door explodes inward in a storm of slivers. Huey shrieks and drops the MedAlert module.
"Sir? Sir? Are you there sir?" the woman asks, her voice betraying panic.
"LEAVE ME ALONE...oh please, just LEAVE ME ALONE!" Huey yells at the top of his lungs.
The man takes two steps towards him and brandishes his sword.
Next to the nightstand, there is a door, the entrance to a closet. He opens it and shuts himself inside, entombed amoung Valerie's fur coats. Oh, she'll be pissed when she sees all the blood on them, Huey thinks. The guns, are, sadly, not in here--they're in the mirrored closet on the opposite side of the bedroom. Huey feels his knee hit something round.
It's the small door to the cubby hole that leads to the attic above the study. Huey opens it and crawls inside, listening for the man to follow him. The attic is nothing more than a floor of insulation and beams. They've never used it for anything. It's hot, and smells of wood and dryness, and only a small ventilation duct provides light. Huey takes great pains to crawl only on top of the beams, for if he steps between, he'll fall right through to his study, a fall of at least 10 feet, given the high ceilings of the first floor.
"Sir, sir?" he can hear the muffled voice of the MedAlert woman.
The man opens the closet door. Huey can hear him rifling around, pushing the fur coats and shoes to and fro.
I'm fucked, Huey thinks, closing his eyes and feeling his heart tighten even more.
"Sir, if you can hear us, we've got an officer and an ambulance headed to your location. They will be there in less than 10 minutes, so just--"
The woman's voice is cut off but the sound a booted food crushing the MedAlert device. CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH! Then a cacophony of breaking glass as it is kicked across the room into the mirrored closet.
With that all is silent. Huey listens intently for something. At last it comes, the faint grind of a lighter, and then an exhale. At first Huey thinks that the man has perhaps set the house of fire, but then he smells the aroma of a strong cigarette.
10 minutes, Huey thinks. Just 10 minutes. If I can last that long, I'll be safe.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Huey's eyes widen with relief, the first good feeling he's had all day, when he realizes the footsteps are moving away.
Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak.
There is no creak, just the sound of boots against polished wood as the man descends the stairs. They echo away downstairs before finally disappearing entirely. Silence. Just the autumn wind blowing off the lake through the cedars.
Huey shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, carefully, and tries to will his heart back to normal working condition. Fiberglass itches everywhere on his sweaty skin, but he takes it as a sign that he's alive.
He must have known that help was coming, and gave up, Huey thinks, and says as an after thought, "long hair faggot."
Minutes tick by. The air is so hot that buckets of sweat pour from Huey's brow. He wipes it away with a ham of a hand, bringing with it more stinging strands of fiberglass to embed in his scalp.
"Goddamn, this fucking shit," Huey curses in a whisper as he scratches his brow.
Ka-CHUNK!
The sound comes from somewhere near Huey.
Ka-CHUNK!
Huey rolls over to get a look at what is going on. It's coming from his right side. Two bright swaths of light cut through the fiberglass.
Ka-CHUNK!
A long metal object catches the scant rays of light in attic, but it's enough to let Huey know that it's the same sword that was jammed into his back.
Ka-CHUNK!
A piece of plaster, and some insulation fall to the wood floor below.
Ka-CHUNK!
The hole widens. Huey braces himself on the beams, hoping that they'll hold his 300 plus pound frame.
Ka-CHUNK!
The sword slices through one of the beams.
Ka-CHUNK!
Another beam is sliced in half.
"No!" Huey pleads.
Ka-CHUNK!
With a third beam sliced through, the section of ceiling holding Huey up tilts sickeningly. The lacerated beams strain under his body, calling out in pain before splintering. Huey catches a glimpse of the man staring up through the hole in the ceiling. Although there's a light dusting of plaster on his face and hair, the delivery man appear wholly unaffected by the afternoon's festivities.
"You fucking long hair faggot!" Huey howls as he crashes to the floor.
The impact is only enough to knock the wind out of him, so Huey writhes on the floor, trying to draw air into obstinate lungs. He almost wishes that the man would just end it all, as his logical mind knows that being hacked to death would be a fate preferable to suffocation. But there is no reaction, no motion in the man.
"What...do...you...want?" Huey gasps. "I can give you...money."
The man does not reply. He just lights another cigarette.
"What do you want?" Huey yells again.
No reply.
"Why don't you just kill me?" Huey demands. Though his breath has returned, the pain in his broken body is filling every inch of his being with agony.
"You gave up," the man says in his deep voice.
"Gave up? Gave up? I never gave up, on anything!" Huey howls indignantly, before a wave of pain washes over him. Fresh tears burst from his eyes.
"You gave up on life, Huey."
Huey cries on the floor, curling himself into fetal position. A strong hand reaches down and grabs him by the scruff of the neck, but as Huey is too weak and tired to walk, the man drags him down the corridor to the entrance of his house.
As they pass through the door at which Huey had minutes before greeted this man, the tranquility of the fall air greets Huey for the last time. A lone siren squeals in the distance.
There it sits next to the front steps: Huey's Cruiseround. The afternoon sunlight bounces off of its eloquent curves. Huey can almost smell the new rubber of its tires, and the grease in its joints. He smiles weakly. Yes, she is beautiful...just like I wanted her to be.
The man points at the Cruiseround and shakes Huey.
"What the hell do you want, mister?" Huey asks as the tears spill from his eyes. Bloody drool drips from his jaw.
The man hoists Huey into the seat and points again, this time towards the road.
"Ride."
Huey tries to stifle his sobs. He can't remember for the life of him how the Cruiseround works until his foot settles on the accelerator. He turns and looks back at the man, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod.
Go on. You've earned it.
You've deserved this.
Huey pushes the accelerator ever so slightly, but the engine roars into high gear. The Cruiseround lurches forward and Huey is slammed backwards into his seat, his bloated pink arms waving frantically at his sides as he tries to bring them forwards and find purchase on some stopping mechanism.
The Cruiseround blazes past the delivery truck, and Huey turns his head to catch a view inside the cabin. The door is ajar, and another young man is dangling half out of the door, his dead eyes bulging in their sockets. Both arms are tattooed, but at this speed Huey can only made out repeated inscriptions of the word "fuck" on the boy's left forearm. The young man's throat had been cut, and his workman's jacket had been removed, but his Cruiseround uniform left in tact. A white patch embroidered with a friendly blue cursive informs Huey that this boy's name was Dickie.
The siren he had heard becomes all the louder as Huey reaches the end of his driveway. His last thought is Dickie as the ambulance takes the corner of Huey's driveway at speed, and slams into him. The Cruiseround is instantly vaporized in a maelstrom of metal parts and shattered plastic.
Huey is momentarily air-bound, a whale in flight, the for the second time that day, his heavy frame his an unyielding surface. Rolls of fat erupt through the skin, and his skull cracks like an errant honeydew melon that has fallen off the kitchen counter. Huey's view fades to black as the Latino stoner faggot flicks his cigarette into Valerie's flower patch and saunters back into Huey's palace.
