Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13301178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, Multi, Other
  Fandom:
      God_Bless_America_(2011)
  Relationship:
      Frank_&_Sunday
  Character:
      Frank_Murdoch, Sunday/Sunny_(OC), Grace, No_Roxy
  Additional Tags:
      Not_fully_romantic, Sexual_Tension, Touching, Murder, Lots_of_Murder, but
      in_a_good_way, God_Bless_America_-_Freeform, Rewrite_of_original, New
      character_in_place_of_Roxy, Not_self_insert, Adventure, Satire, LOTS_of
      original_scenes, Some_scenes_from_film
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-07 Chapters: 9/? Words: 20253
****** The Road ******
by Lucifreta
Summary
     Frank Murdoch has had it up to here. He's had it with the hate speech
     and the off-color jokes. He's had it with celebrity worship and the
     general unkindness of America. The country is going down the toilet
     and Frank is pretty sure it can't get any worse until he loses his
     job to a phony harassment claim and receives a suspicious notice from
     an oncologist. His neighbors are about to drive him over the edge and
     he can't seem to disengage himself from his ex-wife and her daughter.
     Just when it seems like suicide might be the only solution, he takes
     off across the US to put his gun to better use. Then he meets Sunday,
     a beautiful but equally fed-up teenager who is eager and willing to
     rain hell down upon the country alongside him.
Notes
     This is a reworking of the original film, however, the bulk of the
     story is totally original. I did keep some lines and scenes from the
     film, so you might recognize those, but I surprised myself with how
     creative I was able to get with this. One major change you'll notice
     is the absence of Roxy, who I've replaced with Sunday.
     Sunday's problem is nothing like Roxy's and that's why I ditched
     Roxy. I thought her excuse for being how she was was illegitimate and
     dumb. So I gave Sunday a problem that I feel like very few people
     recognize: that sometimes being beautiful is a curse.
     Frank, I kept primarily the same; maybe a little difference found its
     way in.
     Their relationship is worlds apart from the film, but I steered away
     from actual, real romance. But they will have a more physical
     proximity to one another. They're humans after all.
     The longer this goes on, the better it gets in my view. I've been
     working on it on and off for years so my writing has changed as it's
     progressed.
     This story is also on Wattpad.
***** Chapter 1: The Downward Spiral *****
Channel thirteen, a loud and inappropriate sales pitch for a farting ring tone.
Channel fourteen, a gay bashing televangelist and his rally of self-righteous
bigots. Channel fifteen, a blaring declaration of political failure Barack
Obama's latest misguided attempts to right the ruin of our "third world
economic status." Sixteen: a new episode if Baby Mommaz in which a sixteen year
old held her wailing bastard child and let fly every censored curse word there
was at a filthy obese redneck male.
Frank sighed and watched through watery red eyes.
You're behind three payments asshole! I can't work full time with the baby!"
she screamed.
"So get off your ass and hire a nanny." The swine-human hybrid chugged his
beer.
"I can't hire a nanny till you pay up dipshit!"
The misfortune the child faced at the hands to these two ill-considerate,
uneducated, underemployed fools was staggering. But the fact that they were
filmed, paid and aired with the label "entertainment" was absolutely soul
crushing. He didn't know why he bothered watching TV anymore. No one had
anything articulate to say. They were legitimately concerned about all the
wrong things. There was enough hate, political turmoil, and narcissism to
frighten the Devil away.
Frank flipped the television off and sat motionless in the dark. In the midst
of all the yelling and flashing and farting his migraine had flared up. He
reached for the bottle of aspirin sitting on the end table and gave it a
jiggle. Empty. He was due to work in one hour and even if he showered, dressed
and skipped coffee there wouldn't be enough time to pick any up. So shower he
did, then gathered his bag and headed to the parking lot.
The way the sun glinted off the yellow Camaro made him wince in pain. It was a
great car, but impractical for all his needs. Gave off the impression he was
enduring some sort of pathetic midlife crisis and wanted to express just how
jilted he felt. Nope. Frank walked passed it and climbed into his 1989 Ford
Piece of Shit. The mere sight of it was a constant reminder that he was due for
a raise.
As it choked and sputtered through the streets of Syracuse Frank tried not to
think of those eleven faithful years at the office and how it seemed he was
financially no further ahead than he had been eleven years earlier. Actually,
he had been fairly well-off six years ago before the divorce became final. But
when all was said and done it was as though all his support had become about as
supportive as a house of cards. And every day more was a test of its strength.
He rolled to a halt at the command of the traffic light. He stared at it and
listened to the radio he hadn't realized was on.
"...if he plays that good with only one testicle maybe the whole team should
get cancer!" Frank quickly flipped the channel, disgusted.
"...I think we should build a fence! A big square fence and put all the gays
and the lesbians and the homosexuals in it and just leave 'em there. And you
know what?! Eventually, they'd all die out. You know why?! 'Cause they can't
reproduce--"
Frank flipped off the radio with some force. This from the man who sold himself
as today's messenger of God. He called himself Reverend Michael Scott
("reverend" was a sort of punchline) and he hosted a radio sermon that promoted
everything from racism to, now, concentration camps run by Nazis dressed in
their Sunday best. Unfortunately, Reverend Scott's ratings weren't exactly
suffering. It was becoming fashionable to call his station your place of
worship, where the only liberal thing was the dress code.
"Social Darwinism," Frank murmured.
He whipped into a distant parking space, not bothering to lock his doors, and
traipsed inside. He was greeted by seizure-inducing fluorescent lighting and
the hot papery scent of overworked printers. That smell always made him itch.
"Frank!"
He stopped and spun around slowly to avoid whacking anyone with his briefcase.
The receptionist, Susan, was trotting toward him, her Stilettos clacking loudly
on the tile floor. Frank tried to keep his ever-growing grin professional.
"Hi," she said, a little out of breath. The smile on her face was bright and
flirtatious. When she spoke to him, she twirled the tips of her short blond
hair.
He stuttered a little. "Hi, Susan." Several seconds passed between them filled
with nothing but crooked smiles and her nervous laughter. They shared hellos
and goodbyes most days, and their conversations consisted of little more than
this. He didn't care. These minute-long encounters were the only good thing he
had going at the moment and there was no better incentive besides a paycheck to
get him into work.
"Listen I don't want to keep you long. Mr. Sullivan said to send you to his
office as soon as I saw you."
"Great. Just what I need first thing in the morning, huh?"
She laughed a little harder than necessary. "Yeah. I'm sure it'll be fine
though."
Yeah. So, did you find the plane tickets you were looking for? That site I told
you about--"
"Yep. Thanks for that." Her lipstick slathered mouth sealed shut like a plastic
bag. With the overwhelming impression that their meeting was coming to a close,
Frank gave her one last bashful smile and meandered over to his desk where he
discovered he hadn't beat his cubical mate, Brian--the prepubescent little
prick. Frank set his bag down in silence, praying that the air around him was a
repellent one. But it never was.
"Hey, Frank."
"Hey, Brian," he deadpanned. Brian swiveled around in his chair and was met
with the back of Frank's head.
"Jeez, did you see Susan this morning? Her tits must've got a good night's
sleep, huh?"
"Actually I was a little busy talking to her face. Y'know since she's a human
being and not a college dorm poster." Brian ignored this.
"Hey, did you catch the Victor Macy show last night? He had a chimp in a dress
crushing beer cans on its forehead." Brian laughed. It was the laugh Frank
imagined one would hear while being mocked and ridiculed in Hell. "It was
hilarious."
"Yeah. Sounds like a riot. I don't watch that show."
"Well, you must've seen it. Or at least heard about it. They ran the clip on
Good Day New York and Reverend Scott mentioned it on his show this morning."
"Hm." Please! Anything but that.
"Ohhh... Not too religious are you Frank?" he said in a downward tone. Frank
was on his last nerve with this little ass wipe prying into his life and then
sneering down his snot nose at it. The only way to be less religious than Frank
was to be like ninety percent of the population in Syracuse and tune in. But he
wasn't going to give Brian the satisfaction.
"No. I am religious," Frank swiveled to the side and looked over his shoulder.
"And that's why I don't listen to that hate monger."
Brian snorted. "So what are you? One of those holier-than-thous? Like, if
you're not a member of my church then you're not a member of God's church?
'Cause you know that's what America is all about. Freedom of speech and freedom
of religion. America was founded because of religious persecution." He was
proud of himself to be sure, but Frank only wanted to spit.
"I think Americans are misinterpreting exactly what freedom of speech means."
Swiveling in his chair, Frank could feel his temperature rising. His migraine
twisted like a screw in his skull. "It doesn't mean open your trap with a
blatant disregard for the self-esteem of others. It doesn't mean bashing
minorities to the point of teen suicide or-or using it to smother the opinions
of people who are actually right.
"And as for the founding of our nation...we've cultivated a society built on
persecution which we take and spread over the world like it's our one true
export." Frank was on a downhill slide now. It would be hard to stop, but it
felt so liberating. He wasn't aware that Brian was gawping, he wasn't aware
that his tone had risen to a near yell, but he was aware that, for once, he was
being heard. "We call ourselves a free country but there's only freedom if you
adhere to the one size fits all standard set by those Social Darwinists we call
the media. And if you had really been listening this morning you'd have
realized we aren't any better than Nazi Germany or Afghanistan." He leaned
toward Brian emphatically. "We are a civilization who is no longer interested
in being civilized."
Brian stared.
Probably he was just caught off guard by an intelligent statement. Frank felt
strangely relieved, and he wanted to keep it that way. Picking up his bag, he
remembered he was due in Mr. Sullivan's office ten minutes ago. When he reached
the plain wooden door bearing his boss's name on a gold plaque, it swung open
before he could raise his fist to knock.
"Frank. Come in."
It was difficult to tell whether one should be worried with Mr. Sullivan; he
was rather stoic in all situations. Frank felt he had no cause to be worried.
His attendance record was impeccable, he was always polite (disregarding his
most recent encounter), and never found himself distracted by Facebook or that
infernal Tweeter that constantly had someone under fire.
Mr. Sullivan offered him a seat, then sat down himself and flipped open a
folder on his desk. When he had finished reviewing the contents he glanced
speculatively at Frank from beneath his brow.
"Frank...did you send Susan flowers to her home?"
"Uh...yeah. I did. Last Friday I think." Mr. Sullivan folded his hands. From
across the vast expanse of synthetic wood, he considered Frank in the same
manner a counselor might size up a troubled juvenile. And it was beginning to
make him squirm. His toes curled in his shoes.
"Whyyy?"
"Well, she came down with the flu and missed two days of work so...I thought
it'd make her feel better. I-I would have waited till she felt well enough to
come back but by then it would have seemed silly. And I didn't want to
embarrass her at the office," he explained with a bashful smile.
"I see. And...how did you get her address?"
Suddenly, Frank didn't feel so confident. He had taken the liberty of sending a
sick coworker some flowers and a get well card. Could his motive really be so
unclear?
"I...checked the phone book." A lie. He had checked her records, a violation
that superiors saw as spitting and shitting on company policy. A beat of
silence endured, during which Mr. Sullivan's eyes fell in what was clearly
disappointment.
"Let's cut to the chase. And this isn't easy for me, I want you to know that.
You've been a wonderful asset to this company, a real workhorse. But...I'm
going to have to let you go."
Frank's stomach dropped with an echo. Fired? For sending flowers to Susan, the
sweet flirtatious receptionist with whom he shared fleeting glances every
morning? Who he occasionally bought peanut M&Ms for at the vending machine?
"Wha-- no. No, this is just a misunderstanding." Frank got to his feet and
stepped toward the door. "Let me go talk to her--" Mr. Sullivan lept out of his
chair and wedged himself between Frank and the door.
"I can't let you do that Frank. Look...I know you understand what this is
about, so don't make me spell it out. I'm sorry, but Susan doesn't feel safe
while you remain employed here."
"While I'm emp--while I!--Sir..." Desperation overcame him. This harassment
complaint had him over the moon. How could Susan possibly feel this way when
she seemed so interested? "I've been here for...eleven years...Eleven! I don't
mean to throw people under the bus here or tell you how to do your job but you
might want to pay a visit to Brian and a bunch of the other greenhorns. Talk
about sexual harassment!"
Mr. Sullivan gripped him firmly by the shoulder and held out his other hand.
"I'm just taking it case by case, son. If you ever need a recommendation..."
Frank mustered all the dignity that remained in him and shook his former boss's
hand.
A single small box was spacious enough to fit all his belongings in and he was
grateful. As he carted it down the hall it hardly betrayed him in his newly
acquired unemployment. As he swept past the front desk, he avoided Susan's eye
and they said nothing to one another. Despite the hulking desire to put his
fist through the decorative glass wall surrounding her desk and totally unload.
He wanted to leave here with his image intact, providing zero proof for the
claims stacked against him. All he had to do, he told himself, was hold that
pose until he was out the door.
***** Enter the Gun *****
Chapter Notes
     You will probably notice everything is very consistent with the film
     so far, and it will be for a little bit longer, but very soon I'll be
     straying from the template, so keep the faith. Enjoy! Let me know in
     the next few chapters what you think (it spurs my will to create).
The phone was ringing its fifth ring and Frank was about to hang up. Sometimes
his ex-wife answered, but usually she didn't, making him feel like a joke.
"Hello?"
"Hey," said Frank, trying not to sound downtrodden right off the bat.
"How's it going? I was just about to call you but something came up. Ava's
sick. She's already missed two days of school."
"Oh, well...do I need to come up there? I could take her to the doctor while
you're at work, it's no trouble."
"No. Frank. It's not...she's not your responsibility."
Which translated to, she's not your daughter, she's mine. It stung quite a bit.
Ava wasn't Franks, but he had liked her a lot. Had done everything he could
think of to fill the paternal position she was in need of. He wondered why
Grace bothered telling him about Ava at all.
"Okay."
"And besides. I sort of...quit my job. Aaron got a promotion at work and I
thought it would be a good opportunity to take some time for myself."
"Oh yeah," Frank said bitterly. "How is little ass kiss Aaron?"
"Ugh. He's great. I know how much you care." There was a dim commotion on the
other end of the line that sounded like drawers shutting. He knew the tiny
voice he heard in the background was Ava's, and he wished he hadn't heard it at
all.
"Oh. Listen, Frank. Um....Aaron and I are...we're getting married."
In an attempt to mask the bile that was pooling in his stomach, Frank kept his
voice level and his gait consistent, concentrating on the burn in his calves as
he walked too fast.
"Well, tell Aaron...when he's down there to smell my balls."
"That's mature," she spat. "I just want to be a family for once."
"And what was I? A roommate?"
"We've started doing Friday game nights and every Sunday morning we listen to
Reverend Scott." Frank was floored. His little Ava's brain was being soiled.
"Grace! That man is the Antichrist! Dammit! There's a perfectly normal church
six blocks from the house, take her there. It has nuns!"
"Frank I don't need to hear this, okay. It's a start for us."
He was willing to stow it. For now. But only because he was in a bad enough
mood as it was and his migraine was surging. "Hey, uh...you won't believe what
happened today--"
"Oh no! Ava...Aaron help her, she spilled her drink. Frank, I gotta go. Ava's
made a mess and the rolls are burning. I'll call you later."
The click that followed blew a hole through the middle of him and the wind was
whistling through it. Frank had never felt so alone, so cut off in his entire
life. It was occurring to him just how empty and menial his life had become.
And as he went about his evening routine for another night of unsuccessful
sleep attempts, he realized just why his superficial relationship to Susan had
meant so much to him. It was the closest thing he had to any sort of intimate
relationship. There were no ties binding him to his ex-wife, except for a
desire to be Ava's father. But he was not and never would be thanks to Grace.
Frank rifled through the mail he'd tossed onto the counter that morning,
needing the distraction more than anything. Bills, bills, junk mail, a letter
addressed to the neighbors, and...
An envelope from an oncologist he didn't recognize. It was stamped Open
Immediately. Frank stared at it. Three weeks ago, he'd visited the doctor about
his chronic migraines. They took some scans, blinded him with a flashlight, and
he was out. He had never been notified that his case was being referred to an
oncologist. Those people didn't waste precious paper doling false alarms.
Opening it would be redundant and pointless. Folding up the envelope and
stuffing it into his wallet, he collapsed onto the couch. The TV flashed
silently into the darkness. He could plainly hear the neighbors bickering
loudly, only it wasn't directed at one another. They were bickering with the
TV. Swarming like sharks over the latest bloody dump of celebrity chum.
"...and I looked him in the eye and I said, 'you're retarded' then I punched
him right in the face."
"Oh my God, what is wrong with Lindsay Lohan? She used to have so much
potential..."
He cringed, on the brink of tears. They would do this all night. It didn't
matter how often he asked them to practice some common courtesy. They were
incapable of comprehending that their actions affect other people.
And that baby.
Frank hated that baby. He hated that baby's fat, stupid face. He wondered if it
only slept in the daytime when he was gone to work. All he knew was that every
night in his bed was like trying to sleep during some nocturnal civil defense
air raid siren that went off every fucking night like it was Pearl Harbor.
It wailed and his brain tumor wailed with it.
Frank couldn't take it. The loneliness, the tumor, the United States...
His house of cards was imploding. His thoughts wandered to the metal box hidden
away under the exact spot where he currently sat, life in shambles. He groped
beneath the couch until he felt its cold metallic exterior and brought it into
his lap. There were several items inside: badges, his dog tags...but Frank was
only interested in the largest item swathed in white cloth. The cloth fell away
when he lifted it and there in his hand lay a tempting solution. The semi-
automatic was heavier now than it had ever been during his years of service. He
fished the magazine out of the box and clicked it into place with the butt of
his hand.
All sounds faded away. As far as Frank was concerned, anything outside of his
living room had become a white sheet of nonexistence. He could hear his
heartbeat, strangely calm and rhythmic. He could feel the shrinkage and
expansion of his working lungs. Every nerve lept into action until he was aware
of every finger, toe, arm, leg, tingle, and itch. But his mind remained a void.
And it was the most restful that he had felt in years.
The nose of the gun slide into his mouth until it connected with the palette.
It was tangy and greasy on his tongue. And for the longest time, Frank just sat
there, breathing, marveling at death's close proximity, his nearness to the
edge of existence. He'd never experienced anything so surreal. Would he feel it
before he went? There would be a mess to be sure, but on the upside, he
wouldn't have to lay there long; the gunshot would more than likely wake up
everyone in his building. Maybe he should leave a note implicating those who
would never know just how involved they were. Say that he hadn't wanted to
disembark from stepfatherhood; he hadn't wanted to lose his job--no matter how
much he hated it--to some airhead. He hadn't wanted to find out about his tumor
from a cold, faceless envelope. And he did not want to be part of a country so
exalting of holy conmen, disparaging remarks, and all around unkindness.
For whatever reason, his eyes flicked to a piece of paper lying on the coffee
table. Perhaps to glimpse some part of reality, any part, one last time. He
angled his head a few degrees to read what was written on it. The gun remained
in his mouth.
It was a receipt.
A receipt from the florist on Second street, where he had purchased Susan's
flowers. It declared that the bouquet had cost $24.83 and the card $3.14.
Sensations and the rest of the world rushed back into the forefront of his
consciousness like awakening from a sound slumber. He could hear the neighbors,
very loud and clear. The last 24 hours flooded back into his brain, and at some
point he must have sat on the remote because the TV was blaring.
"...but the question is...are her tits real. I have all the respect in the
world for natural tits but if you're gonna be seen in a dress like that--and on
the red carpet no less--you need to flaunt what the surgeon gave you..."
Frank was a dying breed. But if he surrendered now, like this, then he might as
well go on living. Let the modernist succubi bleed the rest of his soul out and
be herded back into line. You don't want your life? We'll take it and put it to
good use. Get up tomorrow, find a new job, call his ex-wife and come home for
another sleepless night in front of mind-numbing commentary.
If he was going to die before the tumor said so, he didn't want it to be here
in his sad sack apartment in the midst of an argument about tit authenticity.
He could die happily, the last of his kind, in a world that was, by his hand,
short an asshole or two.
***** The Beginning *****
Chapter Notes
     Sorry this one is such a shorty, but it was meant to be very
     straightforward.
Frank's apartment door slammed behind him and he lumbered down the stairs, his
bloated leather suitcase scraped and plodded along behind him. He didn't look
back, didn't slow down, didn't think twice. Under the white glare of the
parking lot lamps, he hoisted the suitcase up onto the edge of the truck and
prepared for its landing into the bed. But a movement off to his left caught
his attention.
A car was turning into the parking lot. Frank watched it glide smoothly in and
out of rows of parked cars until it came to rest in an empty spot not too far
from his truck. Even at night, the Camaro he eyed every chance he got shone a
glorious bright yellow.
The driver's door opened and a man exited, but the car continued to idle, even
as he slammed the door and jogged toward one of the buildings. Frank watched
until the man had disappeared completely, and then a second more just to be
sure he wasn't about to return after realizing what a fool he'd been to leave
the engine running.
...Nothing...
Before Frank could process the action, he was swinging his suitcase into the
trunk and speeding off in a streak of a yellow blur. Once he reached the main
roads, he slowed to the speed limit. His heart was pounding from exhilaration,
both from the nature of his endeavors and the well-oiled operation of the car
he'd stolen. It wasn't too late. He could abandon the car and walk home. But
the sting of today's humiliation and the memory of the burdensome news in his
wallet carried him onward. He had so little time left to be miserable.
The question that remained was where to begin. He was already headed out of
Syracuse by way of the interstate. No matter which way he considered it, it
only made sense to start with what he knew first. Celebrities, talk show hosts,
protesters... But they weren't the beginning; they had always been there. When
had his sanity fallen, pride first, into this gladiator pit? First, he
considered the divorce, but that had really just been a matter of
irreconcilable differences. Grace had good maternal intentions and, as much as
it pained him to say it, Aaron was a decent choice for a husband.
And a father.
Frank's problem lay nowhere near Ava. In fact, if he followed through with
this, his separation from her would be complete. It was what Grace wanted and
he needed.
His boss? It was only partially his fault. Someone had filed a harassment
complaint against him, Frank, the least likely person in this day and age to
harass anyone, especially a woman, sexually or otherwise. He had been so
dejected and embarrassed having to march past her, life's work in hand.
A smile crept across his mouth.
He had his starting fire.
The siren who had lured him to his untimely doom would be in Virginia Beach in
a couple of hours with her sister who was buying a house there. Frank had never
dreamed that information would turn out to be so useful. From Frank's location,
it was about a nine hour drive. Thankfully his adrenaline had chased off any
traces of fatigue. He had a full tank, a full magazine, and a clear objective.
He rolled his urge back and forth in his mind. At first, he compared it to a
nicotine craving, but after some thought, he realized, that wasn't it at all.
He didn't have a bloodlust; he wasn't a psychopath who wanted to kill anything
he stumbled across. This was much more meaningful. This was like......being
horny. Witnessing a scene or hearing a phrase or seeing a person that set off
all sorts of chemical responses in the brain, and, based on one's resources and
willfulness, either acted on the impulse or did not.
It was going to be a long drive with only his thoughts to keep him company, and
Frank had to beat back the urge to dial up Grace just for an excuse to talk out
loud. No. He had nothing anymore but himself and the car. In a way, it was
liberating, but it was a joy he could only share with himself.
***** Sunday *****
He was entering the city now, coming into the outer suburban regions. It was
fairly subdued compared to Syracuse. The downtown region was a small district
of cityscape but the tamer city life radiated out around it. Frank was used to
finding his way around unfamiliar cities, he lived in New York after all, but
the arduous task of navigating an out of state where he'd never set foot in
search of a single estate made him sigh. He needed a plan. He would find a
cheap, filthy motel, check in, terminate the objective and wait out the hubbub
there. But first, he needed to find a gas station, again.
Frank headed deeper into the suburbs, keeping watch for his target
neighborhood, a suitable motel and a low key filling station. Unfortunately, at
this hour the city was ripe with activity. He passed several stations that were
simply too busy to risk. But a few more miles and Frank was delving into the
sketchier part of town. It wasn't quite what most would call ghetto but it
certainly wasn't 90210 either. There were fewer cars here, but more
pedestrians. Frank pulled into the first gas station he saw and sidled up along
one of the pumps. The place was practically deserted, and for good reason.
There were bars on all the windows and it looked like prime robbing territory.
He put the fuel on his card, filled up and pulled forward into a parking space.
He was going on two days with this migraine, and maybe he would grab a coffee.
Those hideous bells clinked as he entered. Damn, he thought, not completely
deserted. There was a greasy low-life sidled up to the counter having what
appeared to be a one-way conversation based on the expression the clerk was
wearing. Frank made his way discreetly to the back of the store and meandered
through the aisles. Between his grazings, he cast furtive glances from beneath
his eyelashes in the direction of the pair. The clerk was an attractive blonde
who couldn't have been a minute over sixteen.
"No."
Frank looked up at the persistence in her voice, but the shady uncle type
didn't seem fazed. Frank rather hoped this didn't call for an intervention;
superhero wasn't exactly what he was going for. He concentrated on finding the
aspirin. There was every type of period cramp and gas relief medication on the
market, but good old-fashioned aspirin was, astoundingly, nowhere.
"I said no."
Why didn't this girl call the cops? But then again it was entirely possible
this place had no under-the-counter alert system. What kind of freak leaves a
teenager running a convenience store?
"Don't you have a playground to infiltrate?" She went back to thumbing through
her magazine. Frank had to admit he was impressed with her resiliency. On that
note, he was disgusted by the man's. Pedophiles were a good sized portion of
everything that was wrong with humanity. How low must a grown man's self-esteem
be to hit on children?
"Watch your tone, bitch."
Frank had heard enough. He dropped the bottle of Pamprin he'd been examining
(by now he was desperate) and strolled to the counter. The girl behind the
register gaped at him, but it was a long moment before the sleaze caught sight
of him.
He gave Frank the up-down and smacked his gum. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Don't you think you're being a little rude?" Frank inquired. The guy snorted
and glanced at the girl as if expecting her to sympathize.
"Look fuckhead this ain't your problem," he spat, turning his attention back to
the girl. Frank looked at her himself; she was still staring, but it was with
the kind of expression that said: "If you can do something about this...now's
the time."
"Is this guy your problem?" he asked her.
"He's all of my problems."
"You're hitting on a child!" Frank exclaimed. "Don't you think there's
something wrong with that?"
"Pussy's pussy, okay? Fuck you."
"No." Frank pulled the gun from his beneath his belt and aimed. "Fuck you."
He fired. The bullet set off a firecracker of blood that spurted all over
Frank, the cashier, the counter and the rack of candy just below it. The man's
body hit the tile floor, sliding backward several feet where it lay still. Just
the power in the way the gun's hilt bucked in his hand, and the jarring echo in
his ears was enough to lull him into a deep, cozy state of release. One down,
one billion to go.
"You killed him," the girl observed, absently studying at the prone body.
With a sickening lurch, reality struck. How was he to explain this? He and the
girl stared at one another in a silence so tense the air had become like cling
wrap. He could not read her face but guessed that his own was likely one of, Oh
shit.
He could run out the door, get in his car and speed off. She hadn't called the
police on this literal deadbeat, she might not on him either. But by now, she'd
had an excellent view of his face. And even if she didn't call, he couldn't
stay here long; anyone on the block would have heard the shot.
In a second, the girl had thrown off her employee's vest and was jogging toward
the door. His first impression was that she was making a mad dash to the
nearest person without a gun. But when she fumbled the deadbolt shut and
flipped the "open" sign to "closed," she whirled around to face him. The
exhilarated smile on her face could have powered a small town.
"Hi!"
After a stupefied pause, Frank said, "Hhii?"
"I'm Sunday. What's your name?" She was visibly delighted. Frank was lost for
words. His brow knitted as he studied her.
"Frank," he answered. The girl, Sunday, jeez what a name, thought Frank,
grabbed his free hand and shook it vigorously.
"It's really excellent to meet you, Frank." Her smile vanished. "Now help me."
Sunday trotted over to where the bleeding body lay and bent down to grab the
ankles. It was occurring to Frank that he needed more than anything now to be
thankful. But he was so disarmed that he could hardly move. And when he didn't
she peeked at him over her shoulder, her lengthy hair spilling forward until it
brushed the floor.
"Let's go!" she snapped.
Her urgency roused Frank into action. He lodged the gun back into the security
of his belt and hurried around her. He bent down and lifted the cumbersome
torso by the armpits. Together, with much grunting and contorting of faces,
they dragged the lifeless body into a storage room and dumped it roughly in the
middle of the floor. The exit wound had left bloody streak on the tile that ran
between Sunday's feet. The pair stood over the body, gazing down on it and
panting.
"Ugly fuck isn't he?" said Sunday, crinkling her upturned nose. She kicked him
over onto his face with her foot. Frank stole a furtive glance at her from the
corner of his roving eye. Her face--youthful and pretty, with large blue eyes
and short pixie nose--was as impassive as it was innocent. She bit the corner
of her lip as she continued to eye the corpse.
"You uh...you're not--y'know..." She blinked at him. "Upset by this?"
Sunday snorted. "No. This is the best day I've had on this job so far." She
turned back to the dead man and shook her head, lips tight, eyes far, far away.
"I used to imagine this. I used to kill this guy a hundred ways day. I have to
admit...compared to those fantasies..." she nodded, "the actual event was a
little anticlimactic. But man, what a rush! Huh?"
Wasn't that the truth? Adrenaline was still coursing through Frank's body. He
would have to remember this: his first shooting. Already he was hard at work
memorializing it in his head. Creating a pictorial shrine around the sight of
the body on the floor.
It was then that they heard the distant cry of a siren.
Frank looked at Sunday, and she at him, her blue eyes expanding.
"We have to get out of here," she declared.
"We?"
Sunday jerked back, her face pinching in disbelief. "Frank! You have to take me
with you! I helped you hide the body! If I stay here what am I supposed to tell
them?"
"What--you have the perfect alibi!" Franke exclaimed. "You say a lunatic with a
gun ran in here and shot him and you didn't!"
"And then I tell them...what? That I watched, too helpless to call the cops,
while you dragged him in here?"
The sirens were getting louder. She had a point; her story would be full of
holes. Frank decided dealing with her was his best option. If he left her
behind, she might turn him in just to even the score. His head pounded.
"Dammit! Fine! Go, go!" Sunday grinned and led the way as they bolted out of
the store. Frank fumbled with the car lock until he managed to wrestle it open,
all the while Sunday was slapping impatiently at the passenger side window. He
jabbed the unlock and she wrenched the door open. The tires shrieked as they
sped off, delving into the nearest neighborhood and weaving in and out of
random streets to shake off anyone who might be tailing them.
"Woo-hoo!" she squealed, pumping up and down as she watched out of the back
windshield.
"Hey! Hey! Stop it! Put your seat-belt on!" Frank scolded. She did, but with a
mile wide grin and no breath.
"Thanks, Frank! Y'know, for not leaving me."
"Yeah...just...tell me how to get to a motel from here."
"Turn ri--"
"Cheap."
"Turn right at the next light. God...wow! You have no idea how long I've been
waiting for that to happen! Oh, turn here. He came in almost every day just to
buy cigarettes and try to get in my pants." Frank's ears were ringing. This
wasn't how things were supposed to go. His first kill and he was already
evading law enforcement, had already been seen by a witness, and that under-
aged witness was now in the car with him, an accessory to murder.
"That's great. Where do I go now?"
"Right here." Frank slowed down abruptly, having been about to pass it, and
turned in.
Cheap was what he had asked for and this place delivered. But it was perfect.
He only needed a place to squat and figure things out. Maybe this girl could
tell him how to get to Oak Hills. Getting rid of her would be another issue.
Frank unloaded his suitcase from the trunk and lugged it inside, Sunday trailed
eagerly after him. Bringing her up with him felt all kinds of wrong but right
now it was his only option. At the counter, he paid for a single bedroom and
handed the clerk his card. She took it and eyed them both with unmasked
suspicion, but ran the transaction through.
"Room 34 on the second floor and to the left. Pool's out back, checkout by noon
tomorrow," she rattled, ready to hand the card and room key back to Frank.
"Thanks. We'll probably be out of here before then." Frank reached for the
cards, but the clerk squinted and withdrew. Her eyes roved over his blood-
spattered shirt, mouth poised to open, but the opportunity to speak never came.
Sunday craned over the counter and snatched the cards from the clerk's hand.
"Thank you for your cooperation..." She glanced at the clerk's badge. "Ginger.
Here you go, Dad." She offered the cards to Frank, who, wishing for no more
attention to be drawn to them, grabbed them and took off for the stairs with
Sunday in tote. Or at least, she was in tote until she decided Frank was moving
far too slow and skipped ahead of him, her waist-length yellow hair flowing
behind her like a shining flag of victory.
"You're welcome," she said.
"What?"
"You were about to let that bitch two-step all over you, but it's not your
fault." She glanced back over her shoulder with a flip of her hair. "It's just
your face. Makes you seem liable."
"Uh...yeah."
Their room was a garish collision of 1980s Miami art deco and what reminded
Frank of the set of the Golden Girls. Sunday skipped across the room to the
heavily draped windows and peered out. Not that he was listening, but from the
bathroom, Frank thought he heard her scoff, "They're calling that a pool? I
think we better stay here. The toilet might be bigger...and cleaner."
He closed the bathroom door and buried his face in his hands.
What. The. Hell?
Maybe he should have shot her too, at least when it became clear leaving her
behind was not an option. But that would have been a senseless, coldblooded
homicide and a trigger-happy psychopath he was not. Goddamn that bimbo
receptionist and her beguiling wiles! The only optimism to be had in trailing
her out of state was that it would be harder to trace her impending death back
to him. And he didn't necessarily want to leave a string of dead bodies in his
wake. She should have been his first.
Frank paced the tiny tile space anxiously and rubbed his face to bits. When he
caught sight of himself in the wide mirror he collapsed his elbows on the
counter and peered at his face from between a cage of fingers.
The plan, he thought. Focus on the next step. There is only forwards now.
Knock, knock. "Frank?"
Deal with this. Immediately, said a voice in his head.
Frank calmly opened the door and stared down at the obstacle. It stared back,
clearly questioning...everything. "What do we do now?" she asked. He should
have said, "Nothing. Go home. Go anywhere but within a hundred yards of me."
But she was now the chief suspect in the slaying of a dumpster diving child
predator, who also knew his face, his name, and his vehicle; and he was too
sensible to leave a kid behind to climb out of her own hole.
"Do you know how to get to Oak Hills from here?"
"That depends," she said, shrugging.
He squinted. "Depends?"
"Yeah. See...I know you're about kill somebody else and I want to help."
Oh great, he thought. First murder and now blackmail. But he had to admit, he
might be in custody right now if she hadn't--
"No," he said flatly. Her elated countenance deflated and drooped.
"Please, Frank! I can't go home now! They're going to pin that cornhole's
murder on me!"
"You're...a kid! You're a child for crying out loud! What sort of vendetta
could you possibly have?"
Sunday frowned and looked thoughtful. She swiveled halfheartedly around on her
heels, folded one leg beneath her and collapsed onto the bed looking so
pathetically defeated Frank almost cringed.
"It's just...I've been waiting for an opportunity like this..." Her eyes
glistened beneath a crinkled forehead. "Please. I want this more than
anything."
"Wha--wh--what about your family?" Frank sputtered. Sunny regarded him blankly.
"Don't you have any family--or-or friends--that would report you missing? You
can't just walk off the face of the earth!"
She shrugged, but her overall countenance did nothing to improve. "I don't have
a real family. I live in a foster home on Malcolm Street with three other
losers. Our "mother's" never heard of a bra..." Sunday looked at the floor and
the snide expression she wore to discuss her foster mother fell. "And I don't
like Craig." He figured he knew what she meant by that. "And I don't have any
friends either," she added forcefully. "Frank, this world is a vampire. And you
aren't going to find anyone else in the whole U.S. who's willing to help you
just for shits and giggles!" Frank almost laughed at that. Sunday rose from the
bed, smiling brightly as her translucent blue eyes set into a cold pose beneath
her brow. "But I am. And I promise not to slow you down either. Please, Frank?"
Frank suddenly felt desperately tired; his migraine pulsed and his ears rang.
He sat down on the bed and tried to regulate his breathing as he mulled over
his thoughts. Meanwhile, he could feel Sunday's gaze burning a hole in the side
of his head.
Fact: he had no idea what to do with her if he decided it was too much of a
risk to bring her along. Fact: if he was caught, he'd be in twice the shit. She
probably had no experience with shooting; Frank would have to watch her back as
often as he watched his own. That's twice the need for provisions and twice the
chances of being recognized. Fact: she knew the way to Susan's sister's house.
She knew that bodies had to be hidden. And Frank had never seen anyone so
cheerful in the wake of death. Maybe he wouldn't have to travel this road
alone. He sat up and looked at her.
"You will do everything I say," he ground out. She nodded somberly, but
eagerly. "I'm in charge. I'm the adult. 'Kay? When I say something it goes, no
more shit."
"Absolutely."
"You can't back out halfway through this."
"And I'll make sure you don't," she promised.
They had worked out the plan. The sun had set an hour and a half ago. Frank's
hands gripped tight to the wheel without any effort or fatigue: his muscles
were just frozen that way. The lights of cars and street lamps whizzing by
seemed to leave streaks in his vision. His skin felt as though it had been
rubbed down in Icy Hot. Now that this was real, now that it was happening,
Frank wondered if it would still give him the satisfaction he expected from it.
What if his rage had mellowed? What if it came down to it and, once he heard
her cry and beg, he realized he didn't have the heart? It certainly hadn't
taken much back at the convenience store, although in his defense, they had
been in a bit of a hurry. And it had taken even less back at the motel room. A
few choice words and his conscience had completely evaporated. So many things
could go wrong. So many things already had.
"Is that what you look like when you really want to turn around?" Sunday's
voice wafted through his thought cloud. She was sitting in the passenger seat,
peering at him analytically.
"I'm about to shoot someone. I'm allowed to be nervous."
"I know," she said, eyes wide and giddy. "I'm nervous too. But like an excited
nervous, y'know?"
"Myea,"
"Okay, at the second stop light make a left and go straight on that road for a
little while. Can I ask what our motive is? I feel like if I'm going to be a
part of this I really need to be part of it."
The truth rushed into Frank's mind in blips of images and sound bites. There
was too much to tell now. The last thing he needed was to rile himself into a
rage-induced frenzy. He needed to go in clear-headed, confident, like he had
leaving Syracuse.
"Later, maybe. I have to think now."
There was scant traffic on this side of town. It was dark but the hour was not
especially late, so Frank reasoned that it must have had something to do with
all the egotistical upper crusts that seemed to have colonized this area with
their miniature palaces. Not that he was being cynical--why go out when you
could hole up in your manse, with or without your friends? Pig out on your
brand name groceries and fully stocked bar, hire enough exotic dancers to
populate Rhode Island, lounge in your hot tub until your insides were
parboiled...It was understandable. But for all the desertion, it meant the
possibility of busybody eyes peering between mini blinds, poking through slats
in pool deck fences.
"You're about to pass it."
Sunday's voice punctuated his reverie again. There was just enough time to
glance in the rearview before swerving. The tires squealed dramatically,
someone somewhere laid on their horn, Sunday shrieked as if on a theme park
ride. When Frank had regained control of the vehicle--because honestly at some
point he was sure he had lost it--he straightened the wheel and cast dashed
glances over at Sunday.
"Y'okay? Y'alright?"
"We're both fine Frank," she panted, thrill ghosting her face. "You're behind
the wheel. I'm just along for the ride. Okay...slow down so I can see where we
are."
He let the speed drop below thirty and coasted along. Each of them peered out
of their respective windows at the passing luxury. He let out an appreciative
whistle. This was a swanky neighborhood. Not at all like the middle class field
of mass-produced clone homes he'd been expecting. They cruised down the main
road, checking each street sign that the glare of the headlights revealed to
them.
"What street are we looking for?" Sunday asked. And just like that, Frank felt
his brain explode like a punctured tire. He punched the brakes, the momentum
throwing both of their bodies forward. Sunday stared at him. "What's wrong?"
He had never felt so moronic. Susan had told him every detail of her trip down
to what restaurant they planned to have breakfast in. She told him enough to
get him this far...but not the address. What was worse...he'd come all this
way, made all these plans, and at no point had it occurred to him to wonder how
exactly he planned to find her. He stared at the wheel.
"My god. This is so perfect. It's like she did it on purpose," he mumbled. A
beat of introspection, and then..."Son of a--Goddamn..." He yanked at the
steering wheel like a maniac, shaking the entire car, wanting more than
anything to pry it off and beat himself to death with it. "Motherfuckin'..."
"Whoa! Whoa!" Sunday clutched onto her seat belt, her long hair undulating with
the motions. Frank collapsed against the headrest, heaving. "Be cool. We can
find another way. Come back tomorrow morning if we have to and case the
neighborhood."
He shook his head. "Nope. I want this done tonight." Flipping on his blinker,
he turned down the first street on their right. "Look for a red Saturn. Four-
door. Scratch near the bumper."
Sunday did as she was told. They inched along slowly, allowing the headlights
to thoroughly bathe the surroundings. Every time a car approached from behind,
Frank pulled alongside the curb, allowing them to pass. He didn't want to be
tailed in a stolen vehicle while in search of a place to commit homicide. Very
little was said between them, discounting the infrequent cases of mistaken
identity. This neighborhood was a field of houses. It was entirely possible he
would never ever find the one he was looking for. Despair settled in his chest
like a sandbag.
An hour. One whole goddamn hour he had been searching. His eyes were starting
to cross from straining to see through the dark. All sorts of plausible
scenarios floated around in his mind. What, for instance, would he do if he
couldn't get Susan alone? He didn't want to have to kill her sister too. What
if--
"Stop!" Sunday cried. Frank slammed on the brakes, which squealed. She pointed.
"There!"
***** Ding-Dong *****
There 'it' was indeed: Susan's car, parked in the drive of a palatial house
whose entry arch was like a cathedral stoop. Frank had parked along the curb
across the street. He could feel Sunday's breath across his neck as she craned
over the console to gawp out of his window with him. There were no neighbors
out, no other cars in the driveway, although the street was aglow with lighted
windows.
"What now?" Sunday uttered. The sound of her voice was so close to his ear that
he jumped.
"I dunno. Can't tell how many people are in there," he said. He observed the
windows closely, hoping to see a shadow; something to attest to who or what was
inside. Unfortunately, all the blinds were drawn. If push came to shove, and he
had to shoot whomever else happened to be home, he supposed he could, but he
felt that it would deduct from the sense of justice he expected to receive.
"I have an idea," said Sunday, and began rooting around.
"What are you looking for?"
"Paper and a pen. You wouldn't by chance have a clipboard would you?"
Frank shrugged. "Maybe. This car's stolen so..."
Sunday paused to look at him, wide-eyed. But soon a devilish smirk of approval
transformed her face and she resumed digging. Frank reached over and popped
open the glove compartment. Sure enough, inside was a small legal pad and a
permanent marker, along with various and sundry other items.
Sunday snatched up the pad and pen and began to get out.
"Whoa! Wh-where are you going?"
"To find out who's in there. And to do that I have to knock on the door."
"You can't just--"
She rolled her eyes. "Frank. Gimme a little credit here. What do you think I'm
going to say? Excuse me, ma'am. I was just wonderin' what the odds are that my
partner and I will be caught trying to murder you on this fine evening. Can I
get a head count?" She gave him her best post-sarcasm cringe and slammed the
door. Frank watched as she crossed the street, golden hair waving out behind
her, notepad tucked into the crook of her elbow.
Partners, huh?
Frank hadn't considered it that way, though, in his defense, he hadn't wanted
her along to begin with. She was certainly willing enough. Unafraid of active
participation. But she hadn't killed anyone yet, so he wouldn't get ahead of
himself here. Right now the only thing that counted for much was her ability to
knock someone off. Having the stomach for dead bodies was one thing; so was
buttering up some unwitting fool. None of that would save your life in a bind,
and it was very likely that in the future, one of them would need the other's
help. He could only hope that when the time arrived, she wouldn't hesitate.
Sunday jogged up the steps and took a second to compose herself. She looked
back at Frank once before turning and ringing the doorbell. His heart quickened
in the following seconds. He could only imagine how Sunday felt, standing under
the glare of the pendant light, waiting and waiting. In all truthfulness, she
was at an advantage here. She and Susan had never met; there was no valid
reason for Susan to suspect that a five foot three teenage girl who looked like
an American dream was out for blood, let alone hers.
The door opened on none other than Susan herself. On instinct, Frank pulled the
lever on his seat and went careening backward, the better to hide, though the
tinting on the windows was probably too dark to see through, especially at
night.
With one eye, Frank peeped around the edge of the car door. They were speaking
(Sunday, with much bouncing and false perk). She scribbled something on the pad
just as Susan disappeared around the open door, only to return and hand Sunday
a crisp dollar bill. Sunday started back down the steps and, rather than making
her way back towards the car, she strolled along the sidewalk. When Susan
closed the door, she darted across the street, yanked the door open and dove
inside.
"So?" Frank prompted when all it seemed she could do was pant.
"She's alone. Or so she says."
"What'd you say to her?" Frank asked. Sunday smiled at him and slipped back
into character.
"Hel-lo. My youth group at Ray of Hope church is collecting for a mission trip
to Peru. If you'd like to make a donation we'll enter you and everyone in your
household to win a prize package. I've already got your address...is anyone
else home?" Sunday held up a ten dollar bill. "Figured I might as well get
something for my troubles while I'm there." She crammed it in her pocket.
Frank stared at her, unable to compute. She had spat that lie out like it had
been in her mouth all day. She had manipulated Susan into telling her that she
was home alone...and scammed her out of ten dollars doing it. Because why the
hell not?
Frank produced his Glock and prepared the chamber. Sunday beheld this process
with rapt attention.
"You listen to me," he commanded. The task was back at hand. "You wait in this
car. Don't get out, don't roll the window down...nothing. If somebody comes,
honk the horn." Frowning, Sunday opened her mouth to object, but Frank beat her
to it. "Don't even. Did you or did you not just agree to obey me?"
Her frown deepened, but she resigned to closing her mouth. A pang of remorse
twitched within him, but he'd have to make it up to her later. He needed to get
this over with before anyone else came home.
Stepping out, he hurried across the street, gun dangling casually in hand by
his side. He should have brought a mask or something. Susan would recognize him
instantly. He'd have to remember to pick one up before the next hit.
The porch light washed over him as he stood before the door and pressed the
bell, listening to its hollow tune echo from the other side of the door. Frank
made sure to stand squarely over the entrance and away from the crystalline
window panels flanking it. If she saw who it was, she was likely to skip
straight for the phone and call the cops, correctly assuming he had stalked her
there.
Several unbearable seconds passed. His heart was working overtime and the wait
wasn't helping. And just as he thought he might have to ring again, the door
swung open and he was face to face with Susan's horrified expression.
"Frank?"
He pulled the gun, concealing it between them. Susan gasped, her face
contorting with terror.
"Inside. Let's go," he ordered, keeping his tone even. Floundering between
shock and fear, Susan scrambled back into the entryway, appearing to pull Frank
with her. He closed the door behind him.
"Fra-Frank! Don't! Are you insane?!"
He advanced on her until they entered the living room and her knees hit the
sofa. She collapsed onto its plush cushions with her trembling hands splayed
out before her in a futile attempt at defense.
"Please! Please, I-I'll do wha--anything you want! Anything!" she stammered.
"Shut up," he said woodenly. Tears sprang from her eye as the lips he had once
been so taken with curled inward obediently. Frank gave himself a moment to
consider what he would say. She needed to know, to understand the point. You
couldn't teach someone a lesson if they didn't know why they were being
punished, after all. In the silence, Susan whimpered.
"Do you know what's happening right now?" he asked. She gaped at him with wide,
frantic eyes that stared down the barrel of his gun.
"You've got a gun...in my face! What...what am I supposed to think is
happening?"
Of course. Of course, she didn't know. She refused to know and probably hadn't
thought of him again since he had dragged himself and his battered pride out of
the office for the last time. It was true that she had been well within her
rights to report things that made her uncomfortable. But why string it out for
so long? Why take it up with his boss instead of him? Why not just tell him to
fuck off instead? It angered him beyond his ability to overcome it.
"You cost me my goddamn job, Susan!" he shouted. "On top of everything
else...your bullshit got me fired!" Susan regarded him, more alarmed than ever
now that his repose had flown out the window. Now, it seemed, he might do
anything.
"Frank...I'm--I'm sorry they let you go...but things were starting to get out
of hand! It-it got to the point where I couldn't get around you. After a while,
I just...felt obligated to --"
"Out of--" He lowered his gun. Disbelief crashed over him. "Have I ever hit on
you? Have I ever done anything that another halfway decent person wouldn't have
done? And while the whole godforsaken office was staring at your ass and making
jokes about your tits, where was I?" Frank gestured with his gun as he spoke.
Susan's eyes trailed it closely. Seeing this, he aimed it at her once more. He
wanted to make sure she was paying attention. "Answer that. Where was I?"
"I don't--" She began to weep in earnest, and he liked to imagine it was
because he had exposed her to her own guilt. "I don't know what you...want me
to say! I had a right...I had a right to do what I did..."
"Yeah. You did." He pursed his lips with the slightest of regrets. "It's just
too bad you managed to do it to the only person who didn't deserve it." Frank
raised the gun, aimed for her forehead, and pulled the trigger. Susan shrieked
and covered her face...but the gun only clicked. And clicked, and clicked
again.
"Son of a bitch..." Frank wrestled with the slide, mentally pleading with it to
unjam, but it was stuck tight. This was precisely the type snafu he'd been
expecting, and not a moment too soon.
Susan wasted no time seizing on his misfortune. She lept to her feet and
vaulted across the room. Frank could think of nothing else to do but give
chase, his gun clicking mutinously out in front of him. He struggled to keep up
with her every bit as much as she struggled to run across the tile in her
hosiery. Screaming and glancing repeatedly over her shoulder didn't help
matters. She zig-zagged evasively, clearing a hall table of its lamp and vase
and swiping pictures off the walls, all things which Frank himself had to
evade. At one point, she skidded into the master bedroom with Frank hot on her
heels.
An immense four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room. Susan raced around it
while Frank attempted to head her off. They fell into a screaming, clicking,
cursing, monkey-chased-the-weasel around the bed. He had her cornered, but the
moment he took his eyes off her to trifle with his obstinate bastard of a gun,
she made a break for the door, Fred-Flintstoneing it on the tile before gaining
traction.
"Aw, fuck..." He fell back into formation behind her, but she was already out
of sight. Not a good sign.
Once in the hallway, he halted. Even her hysterics had died away. He crept
onward, darting his head into passing rooms, his ears on high alert for hushed
blubbering. She couldn't have had time to hide. To run...yes. But where, then,
was she?
Jesus, what a shit show. But it was probably his own fault for not cleaning a
gun that had sat untouched for so many years. It simply hadn't occurred to him
in moment's passion. Now, god willing, if he ever caught up with her, he
supposed he would just use it like the rock it was and bludgeon her into pulp
with it. The idea was stomach-churning, but he had to finish this.
Frank was advancing on the kitchen, which he glimpsed at the end of the hall.
And now that he was approaching...there was a sound; a very subdued one. Was
that...What was that? Gasping? Grunting? Gagging? Suddenly on edge, Frank
didn't bother to hurry. And when he emerged into the spacious kitchen, he
stopped, the hand clutching his useless weapon fell dead at his hip.
Susan was on the floor, her stockinged feet kicking and sliding along the tile,
scraping for purchase. Her hands clutched at her neck below a face that was
many things, but a healthy color was not one of them. And behind her was
Sunday, gripping the tassels of a nylon curtain rope and pulling it with all
her might against Susan's throat. She grimaced in her effort to end it quickly
but considering Susan's bulging eyes and wide, silent mouth, she was failing.
Susan abandoned prying at the rope and began groping around behind her,
anything to flag Sunday's hold. Sunday evaded the swipes by reclining onto the
floor, her knees against Susan's back. They rolled onto their sides as Susan
attempted to get to her knees. Frank watched the tussle in muted stupefaction.
It was mostly soundless, save for the scrape of shoes on tile and rasp of
clothes and skin.
The skirmish drew to a close as Sunday straddled Susan's back and tugged
against the rope like the reigns on a horse, tassels dancing outside her fists.
With a final twitch, Susan stilled. Sunday held her pose for a moment longer,
the better to ensure absolute lifelessness, and let Susan's purple noggin smack
like a rock to the floor.
For the longest time, Sunday sat where she was--on the back of a dead woman--
and panted. Frank was beyond words, but he had to say something.
"Didn't I tell you to stay in the car?" Sunday got shakily to her feet, her
back to him. She was breathless and heaving and when she turned around, her
face was a bonfire of exhilaration.
"I did it!" she proclaimed, jumping into the air and pumping her arms. "Yes!
Yes!" She hurdled over Susan's carcass and latched onto his midsection in a
highly malapropos hug. The impact of her unseemly embrace jarred him from his
stupor.
"Hey. Hey, get off me!" He dislodged himself, but her celebratory hopping went
on unabated. "I don't believe you. This is day one of our tour and already
you're defying rules and endangering yourself," Frank scolded. Finally, utterly
spent, Sunday's arms fell out of the air and perched on her hips. She pivoted
to present him with her shit eating triumph.
"Frank. I want you to look at me. And now look at her," they both cast a glance
at Susan, "and tell me again who was endangered."
She had him there. And as much as it really pissed him off to admit it, if she
hadn't come inside, he and the late Susan might still be on a carousel of
alternating terror and frustration. Or worse.
"Let's get outta here." He ushered her towards the door. "And take that thing
with you. Don't leave it here. We'll get rid of it somewhere else." She wound
the rope around her hand and skipped ahead of him in the direction of the car.
Inside, Frank was careful not to peel away, opting instead for a casual
liftoff. The urgency that had come quite literally with the race against the
clock to knock Susan off was being left behind with every uptick in the speed
limit. Sunday was laughing, the sound of which was musical and freeing, and he
began to loosen all over, easing back into the seat. He had done it: what he
set out to do. They had done it.
For the first time in what might have been months, Frank smiled. Eased into it.
And it felt fantastic; natural and healthy. He felt as though he were laughing
away that chunk of concrete that had solidified in his chest cavity.
He looked over at Sunday in the passenger seat, her hair surfing on currents
from the open window.
He had been right to wish for someone to share this side of himself with. And
after tonight, it seemed taking Sunday along for the ride might turn out be
exactly what he had wished for.
***** The First of Many *****
Frank's migraine was gone. Left, it seemed, with Susan's body miles back.
"You hungry?" he asked. Sunday lit up.
"Ugh, yeah. Make it fast and greasy, too. I haven't eaten since that pack of
Skittles back at the store."
She directed him to the nearest drive-through. They took one look at the
filthy, battered menu marquee and began to drool. Burgers with bacon and extra
cheese, curly fries, large sodas...the works. Their food came to them in a bag
so sodden with grease it was nearly transparent. As they pulled away from the
window in the direction of the motel, Frank didn't think he could feel any
better, nor indeed that he ever had.
"Thanks for this," said Sunday, slurping on her soda. She lowered the hot, damp
bag to the floorboard between her feet.
"Yeah, no problem. I owe you one for cutting in back there." Listening to her
drink was torture; he took up his own and gulped it till his mouth was numb
from the cold. "I should've cleaned this gun before I left. It's so full of
gunk it jammed. I had to chase her all over the goddamn house."
"Who was that anyway? Not that I need any justification or anything, but a
little back story is always juicy," she said, waggling her eyebrows in delight.
Frank was transported back to those mind-numbing days at the office, complete
with sound blips of incessant phone ringing and the never-ending clickity-clack
of keyboards. His eyes squinted involuntarily from the memory of inescapable
fluorescence. Suddenly his collar was too tight and his armpits were sweaty and
Brian was cackling behind him. The bathrooms stunk and the carpet was ugly and
all the fucking papers! "Sooo?"
And he was back in the car, behind the wheel, no less. He cleared his throat.
"We worked together." Sunday awaited elaboration. "She...sort of, was a
receptionist and I...sort of..." he made a flippant gesture, hoping against
hope that he didn't just sound like the token jilted office sleaze, "had a
little crush on her. Not-not that I ever asked her out or-or anything! I
didn't. But...anyway...we talked a lot. Every chance I got, I talked to her.
She made me smile, y'know? Just seeing her face." Frank swallowed, pointedly
keeping his eyes on the road because he could feel Sunday staring intently, and
he imagined that her face reflected the pity he felt for himself. "She was
beautiful. Kind. A great conversationalist, and that's a something that no one
is anymore.
"And then..." he laughed here, but there was no humor in it, "and then I sent
her flowers and found out from my boss that apparently I had been harassing
her, and that was news to me." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sunday's
head turned away. "That week I had overheard four jokes about her, just by
walking in the men's room."
He let it die there so that they road in solemnity filled with the muffled roar
of surrounding traffic and the hiss of the AC. He didn't want to look over at
her; afraid he might find that expression of polite, albeit, reluctant
acceptance plastered across her face. She had asked, and there it was for her
to look at and, perhaps, spit upon if she felt so inclined.
"Well...shit. If you'd told me all of that sooner I might not've made it so
quick and painless."
They looked at one another at last, and Frank began to laugh, not simply
because Susan's death had been neither quick, nor painless, and not only for
the relief that slackened like a noose around his neck, but because of the
enigma that she was. His doubts about her had been her fooling him like she had
probably been fooling people all her short life. But after tonight, after
watching the beautiful, spirited teenager sitting beside him wrap a cord around
the throat of a fully grown woman, wrestle her to the floor and strangle the
life out of her, all because Frank said so--well, he was beginning to think she
wasn't messing around.
"And technically," she added, "I owed you. You took out that scum at the store
for me...I shut down your escaping sweetheart for you. I guess the score is one
to one."
Ginger, the clerk who had quasi-correctly sniffed them out earlier at check-in,
spotted them strolling through the lobby with their junk food and stopped
munching her gum to watch them pass. Frank risked a glance over and caught her
stink eye, but his high was so complete that he smirked triumphantly, much to
her chagrin.
The air in their room was cold, almost damp, and it cooled the misty
perspiration that had accumulated on them. Sunday sprung onto the bed and sat
up just in time to catch the burger Frank had catapulted at her (her fries
arrived more gently).
"So do you have like...a List or something?" Sunday asked, stuffing a bundle of
fries in her mouth.
"No. I'm kinda just...making this up as I go along. I've got a few hopefuls
singled out, but it's best to keep it random."
"Concur. So...what's your M.O.? I mean, you're not just another insatiable
slasher cliche, right?"
This was where he anticipated they would find their common ground. That being
said, he was nervous to discuss it. If they were to disagree, what might that
mean for them? But so far honesty had been a veritable golden ticket to
freedom. A real season pass to all things convenient and satisfactory.
"How about this instead," he began, adjusting his position in the desk chair.
"To make sure right now that we're on the same page before we go any farther
together." Sunday squirmed in excitement. "I'll tell you something I hate. You
tell me something you hate. Things that a person might say or do that, in the
future, could bring about their demise should they run into us."
Frank watched her roll this around in her head. She crumpled her wrappers and
went for a free throw in the corner trash, then wiped her mouth on the back of
her hand. "Okay, you go first."
Frank sat back and thought about it for a minute. God, there were so many.
Where to start...
"Televangelists. Really anybody who makes a living leeching off the gullibility
of sheeple."
Sunday nodded, impressed. "Good one. In keeping with the political theme, I
think NRA kooks. If you're too chicken shit to go bowling without your piece on
display around your waist like it's fuckin' 1885...please, use it on yourself.
I mean, you're the one with the gun, who the fuck are you scared of?"
"I'm for looser gun laws."
Sunday scoffed at him, disbelief across her face. "Frank! Then every nut will
have a gun!"
He chuckled at the irony. "Okay...how about douche bags in Ed Hardy?"
"Or women who call their tits the girls."
"People who go through their lists of ringtones in a restaurant."
"Anyone who's offended by words like 'shoot' or 'crap.'"
"Anyone who has ever purchased an anarchy T-shirt."
"If you misuse the term 'literally."
Frank burst out laughing at that. He felt the same way. "Oh, man. Good one." He
leaned forward, presenting his raised hand for hearty high five. Frowning, she
looked at his open hand, then back at him.
Frank's smile disappeared. "C'mon, don't leave me hangin' Sunny old girl."
"Anyone who gives or receives physical high fives." She cringed. He fell back
into his chair.
"Mental high five?"
"Sure. Mental high five. And who am I? Your nag?"
And as that awkward moment drew to a close, another one promptly introduced
itself. Frank hadn't slept since the night before he left Syracuse, a
realization which he suddenly felt in his bone marrow. Resolution had been the
only thing holding him upright. Now that the god of retribution within had been
appeased, it was all catching up to him. It was bananas to stick around town
after their escapade tonight, but he was going on two days with no sleep and
little food.
And there was only one bed.
"I'll take the floor," he volunteered, grabbing a pillow and plopping it down
onto the atrocious pink and blue carpet. If his vision were better, he imagined
his might see a cloud of dead skin cells take flight around it.
"What?! No! No. Frank, the bed is big enough for both of us. It's a queen."
"Sunday..." He hoped the pleading look on his face was enough of an
explanation. "We aren't sleeping in the same bed."
"Why?"
"Why? Because...you're a kid!" he cried, then more resolutely, "you're a kid,
and I could be your dad, so..."
"You know what?" She got defiantly to her feet and threw her own pillow on the
floor. "If that's how it's gonna be, fine. If you're so goddamn old, you sleep
on the bed, you geezer, and I'll take the floor." She knelt down and
disappeared beneath the horizon of the mattress. "Ugh. Ugh! It smells. Frank.
There's a stain."
Guilt-stricken and fading fast, Frank rubbed his face. She made a good point.
They may as well learn to cozy up to one another now, because if she was
serious about running along beside him, then this wasn't the last hotel room
they'd be sharing, and he had no plans of springing for a two bedder.
"C'mon. Get up from there. That floor has seen some things." Come to think of
it, he thought privately, so has she. Her head popped above the mattress like a
curious gopher. And when she had established that he was genuine based on the
exhausted droop of his features, she sprang up and onto the bed. Frank, in
contrast, hesitated near the bedside, examining the space that was left,
tallying up square inches and making mental allotments. When his eyes jumped to
the bare expanse of her long, slender legs, he shrank away.
She spotted him loitering and rolled her eyes. "Oh my god. What are you so
afraid of? The only two people who'll know about this are in this room. In the
morning we can stop and pick up a chastity belt if it'll make you feel better."
Managing a halfhearted smile, Frank figured if nothing else could be said of
her, at least her sarcasm was lacerating. With that, he went down onto his
side. The muscles lining the half of his body nearest her tensed involuntarily
as he clung to the edge of the mattress. It was like lying on an over-turned
egg carton but his aching body welcomed it.
She flipped off the lamp, plunging them into a darkness that he gladly drowned
in, the burden of sight taken from him at last. How long since he had felt
this? A lie down devoid of raucous laughter or blaring late night talk shows
permeating the wall above his head. No baby wailing, no work in the morning, no
migraine, and most importantly, no more Susan.
***** Free At Last *****
They were able to check out of the motel with little incident. Ginger seemed
happy to have scum like Frank out of such an upstanding retreat and cast
repeated looks of appraisal at Sunny. He hadn't meant to sleep until dawn, but
he had surrendered to that nothingness so consentingly that the alarm he had
set was wasted. He had awoken instead to Sunny gently rocking his body. It was
seven thirty now.
"Do you have a phone?" Sunny asked him on the road. Frank looked at her.
"Yeah. But don't call anybody. You're already being looked for--"
"I'm not making a call. I want to check the news. See if they've released
anything about the murders."
Deciding that was a decent enough idea, Frank straightened the left half of his
body and dug around in his pocket, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with
the car ahead of them. He passed his phone over and she began navigating its
complicated features in the manner of her generation. Meanwhile, and maybe it
was his well-rested mind talking, Frank was realizing how pleasant the morning
was. If this pattern kept up, he might find himself a morning person before all
was said and done.
"Anything?" he prompted.
"Noo..." she drawled, distracted by the search. That was fine with him. He
wanted to be as far as geographically possible from this place by the time word
got around about it. "Wait!" Sunny tucked one leg under the other and held the
phone an inch from her face. "'Home Invasion Yields Body at Oak Hills Estate.'"
She turned her thrilled expression on him and read on. "'Police uncovered the
body of 37 year old Susan Shaffer, of Syracuse, New York, yesterday night at a
home in the Oak Hills housing edition. The home belonged to Shaffer's sister
and brother-in-law, whom she was visiting. The affidavit stated that Shaffer
had been in the home alone late that night and that a struggle appeared to have
occurred between Shaffer and an unknown individual, although there was no sign
of forced entry. Shaffer sustained injuries to her throat consistent with
instrumental strangulation.'"
Sunny fell silent.
"Maybe it's a good thing I didn't use the gun--"
"Hang on, there's more," she interjected. "Oh Jesus, listen to this! 'Police
believe the crime to be the latest in a string up home invasions that have been
taking place in the area for the past year. Past reports indicate that the
perpetrators seem to target houses at random, but on occasion, have been known
to take nothing from the homes. Since reports have begun, these break-ins have
resulted in the deaths of five other Oak Hills residents, those of Mark and
Sherry Gilfrey, 45 and 47; Daniel Milner, 50; and John and Rowena Curtis, 35
and 36.'"
This time the silence persisted. Frank and Sunny stared at one another in
stupefaction. It was so convenient that he dared not hope. Was it possible the
pair of them were about to get off scot-free? Were they about to get away with
murder so easily? Encouraged by their streak of good fortune, Frank pressed it
for more.
"W-well what about you? Does it say anything about the convenience store?"
"Umm..." Sunny began tapping feverishly at the keys. Several intense moments
endured before she spoke. "Yep! Here it is. 'Body of unidentified man found
inside a deserted convenience store. Reports state the victim died of a single
gunshot wound to the chest. The whereabouts of the clerk on duty at the time
are currently unknown. If you have any knowledge of blah blah blah..."
"Weren't there any security cameras in that place?" Frank asked, not sure where
exactly he was going anymore, as long as it was away.
"Yeah, but they don't work. They're just there as an empty threat."
Frank decided to let it drop. The last thing they needed was to frantically
catastrophize. If all that could be done now was drive forward, then what good
did worries and what-ifs do?
So he drove on, headed straight west, leaving Virginia behind mile after mile.
He kept having to remind himself that it didn't matter if they knew where they
were going, or even where they were. That was a sort of perk to this mission:
no matter where they were, they were exactly where they needed to be. In this
line of work, business was always booming. And all this spare time on the road
cooped up in the car together would allow them to get better acquainted.
Already, Sunny seemed fascinated by Frank. Not for any particular reason; just
for him, and of course, his mission.
Privately, he wondered if Sunny had lied to him about her situation and the
possibility that he might be taking her away from a perfectly decent family who
were out of their minds with worry, all to satisfy her rebellious streak. Many
times already the urge to ask had arisen, only to be swallowed. And he knew
fear kept him from it; he didn't want to know. A wall of denial was rapidly
constructed to blind him from the notion.
"Oh no," she said, interrupting his reverie. She turned to him, stricken.
"What? Whassa matter?"
"I don't have anything. Clothes, shoes, toothbrush..." This was quite the
occurrence to Frank as well. His own suitcase was overflowing with all the
clothes and various assorted necessities it would hold, but he didn't have
everything. Certainly not enough to share.
He stole his eyes off the road to give his passenger a once-over.
"You don't have expensive taste, do you?" he asked. She wagged her head. "Not
too picky about it?" No again. "'Kay. We'll find a secondhand store. Buy
seasonal," he warned her. "Worry about the cold when we get somewhere cold."
"Sweet!"
Rather than squander eight hours crossing the state horizontally, Frank
detoured up toward Ohio. And sure enough, they stumbled upon their first
salient thrift store on the outer edge of West Virginia. As soon as the car was
in park, Sunny flew out the door like an uncaged bird and darted inside. Frank
didn't follow her immediately. He wanted to see what was in the trunk.
He lifted the hatch and peered into the darkly carpeted pit. Lying inside was a
spare tire, along with the jack and accouterments, a small tool caddy, which
when shaken told tales of contents, and a slew of goddam titty mags!
He slammed the trunk and glanced around, red-faced. On the downside, the tire
was taking up a sizable portion of the trunk. He'd stow his own suitcase in the
remaining space and anything Sunny bought would likely fill the rest and some
of the backseat.
Upon entering the store, Frank's face slackened. It was a veritable warehouse
of cast-off collateral. Disarmed by the sheer expanse of the clothing aisles,
he grabbed one of the ridiculous tiny shopping carts and began meandering. He
plucked a few well-worn plaid shirts and tossed them in his cart, along with a
couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans. They weren't really here for him.
"There you are." Frank looked up to find Sunny pushing her own mini cart
briskly toward him. She leaned over to snoop through his salvage and frowned.
"Is that all?"
"I got a bunch of stuff in the trunk," he explained, inadvertently recalling
the magazines. His eyes trained on her cart. It was almost full. That wasn't
saying much for the size of it, but they had only been here about half an hour.
"Looks like you made out."
Sunny wanted to try on a few of her finds, so Frank waited on a stool outside
the curtained stall, turned off by the idea of having to track her down in this
wonderland of miscellany. The curtain rippled as she shuffled around on the
other side.
"I feel like crap. You're buying me all this stuff and I can't get you
anything. Let me buy you something with my scam dollars," she said from inside.
"Nah. You more than earned that," he remarked.
"I totally could've taken her for more. Next time." When the curtain was
whipped aside, Frank's gum nearly fell out of his head. "Whatcha think?"
"Christ. Are those shorts or denim underwear?" he quipped, uncomfortable with
everything in his field of vision. The high-waisted shorts she wore covered
more of her belly than her legs. They were frayed and spotty with acid wash.
Sunny's face went from disappointed to scandalized in no time flat.
"Strike one," she warned, then vanished with a flourish behind the curtain.
Frank didn't know what to say after that. He should have known an issue like
this would come up. They could have all the world in common, but at the end of
the day she was a sixteen-year-old girl and he was a forty-year-old man who
reddened at the sight of porno magazines.
The second reveal was no better. "How many of those shorts do you have?"
"Five. Plus two pairs of jeans, a bunch of shirts, a few sleeping things, a
bathing suit, three pairs of shoes and a partridge in a pear tree." She grinned
with self-approval. She modeled a few more things for him that he refused to
look at for more than two seconds. A few of the shirts were not whole, but
literally halves of shirts. The last outfit (because if she walked out after
this, he wouldn't be sitting there) was a real doozie. Frank never imagined
that overalls could cover so little; that was their purpose after all. These
were sheared off above her mid-thigh, and underneath, a tiny white T-shirt
clung to her rib cage. The skin of her sides was on parade.
"I think this is my favorite," she commented, examining herself in the mirror.
When he didn't respond, she caught his face in the reflection behind her and
turned around, frowning. "What? Too Ellie May Clampett?"
"Don't worry, no one's going to be looking at it. 'Cause they're gonna be too
busy ignoring the fact that you're underage," he groused. Sunny, much to
Frank's displeasure, appeared unmoved by the idea. Instead of lashing out, she
strode over and took a seat in the lawn chair beside him. Next to his wooden
bar stool, she might as well have been sitting on the floor. He stared down at
her, watching her think. For the longest time, they sat there, incongruous.
"Are you going to make up some more rules for me to follow?" she asked him. Her
voice held such a cadence of reluctant acceptance that he turned to her. "I
know I disobeyed you last time, but I'm actually pretty good at following
rules. At the house, that was all there ever was. The clothes I was wearing
when I met you...I snuck them to work with me and changed because in the house
girls wear dresses and skirts only. Even to bed. Like what year is it?" She
leaned back and crossed her arms. Her face looked away but not before he caught
the bitterness on it. "The other girls get to wear knee-length skirts and short
sleeves...But not me. I'm not a simpleton. I know why they made that rule.
Because they think I'm too much of a temptation."
Frank was staring when she turned to face him. Her eyes took the shape of
sadness. "And it never stopped anyone from letting me know I was pretty. All
the...long sleeves and turtlenecks, and layers...it didn't stop the men in
their church from staring at me, and it sure as shit didn't stop the boys at
school whispering." Frank found he could not look away from her. "Now that I'm
out, I figured it didn't make a difference. But if you want me to wear
something else...I will," she confessed. "Because this gig is too good to miss
out on over length of my shorts."
Shame like never before came over him. He had been so ready to attribute her
hedonism to the unspoken creed of her youth. So ready to defend how he had felt
looking at her; how he imagined others would feel. And as his charge, Frank
realized he didn't want that for her: to be the target of the same things he'd
heard sniggered about Susan, rest she in...wherever.
Sunny pulled herself to her feet and began gathering the clothes in her arms,
pairing them by type and size, ready, he assumed, to put them back. As she
sauntered past, his hand darted out and grasped her arm.
"I didn't know any of that," he said, almost apologetically. She beheld him.
"And...I'm not your dad or your principal for pity's sake. We're partners,
so...I don't have any authority over what you wear." He let go of her arm and
made sure to look her in the face. "You're free with me."
Her face took on an expression that said she had been waiting to hear something
of that nature for a long, long time. In fact, she looked as though she might
detonate with gratitude any second.
"Thank you, Frank," she said, squeezing the armload of clothes to her chest,
which he suspected was a forced substitute for himself.
He paid for their crap and loaded it up.
"I've always wanted to kill someone in Cincinnati," she admitted, buckling her
seat belt as they took off. "But I'll settle for watching you do it."
The tassels dangling from the rearview mirror jigged as they went.
***** Thank You For Turning Off Your Cell Phone *****
True to his word, Frank said nothing when he sidled up next to the curb and
Sunny got out to grab a newspaper, the slight curvature of her pert ass just
detectable when she bent. If he looked away, it wasn't real.
It was a storybook day in Cincinnati. Little Toy Story clouds hung in a
cerulean sky like ornaments, undisturbed by any winds. The streets and
sidewalks bustled with the carrying out of thousands of individual lives--
totally unawares. Sunny climbed back inside and began thumbing through the
paper, scanning it for work like so many others these days.
"Everybody's already in jail," she complained.
"Trust me. No, they're not. Big place like this...they'll come to us. Just
watch."
As much freedom as their calling allowed, they were, of course, limited in whom
they could bump off. They could not, for example, stroll into a store and
assassinate the douche behind the register (you got one of those per lifetime,
and they had cashed theirs in back in Virginia Beach), nor could they simply
mow some maniac over in the streets. No--they had to be systemic. There had to
be a procedure. Too many factors came into play; they couldn't simply let loose
in a hail of bullets in broad daylight.
And in between killings, they were on vacation together. Sunny had never been
out of Virginia, seldom farther than Virginia Beach. With that in mind, Frank
could easily imagine that this was the adventure of a thousand lifetimes for
her. She never allowed herself to doze while the car was in motion; too much of
the world was passing by outside their windows. Frank himself had scarcely left
the overpopulated hive that was the Northeast, save for his honeymoon with
Grace in Las Vegas all those years ago.
Thereagain, he wondered if Grace had taken notice of the serious lack of missed
calls. Frank had lobbed his cell phone into the north bank of the Ohio river a
while back, because why the hell not? It was the last surviving relic tethering
him to his old life. So of course, he couldn't know if she had called, but
something told him she probably hadn't. He wanted to let go. Wanted it for
years. But his isolation was so advanced in their divorce alone that he
shuddered at the thought of never calling her again. Of never calling anyone
again.
Ergo, he had lobbed his phone into the north bank of the Ohio River.
Frank rolled his eyes over to make sure Sunny wasn't looking and then turned
his head a little more. She was gazing transfixedly out the window, leaning
actively away from the back of her seat. Her long yellow hair nearly dipped
into her lap.
"You wanna go see a movie?" he found himself asking. Sunny's head whipped
around.
"You mean like in a theater?"
"'Course I do. Where else would we go?" he asked, smirking.
"I've never been to a theater," she replied.
Frank glanced repeatedly between her and the road, trying to deduce any
buffoonery, but her expression remained impassive. "Seriously? Never?" She
wagged her head. With each passing hour, the conviction that he really had
rescued this girl grew in strength.
The movie idea had formulated when he passed an independent film theater a few
miles back. It was a shabby little joint, but the parking lot was sparse and it
would be cheap.
They got out and stared up at the marquee. A mild breeze lifted Sunny's waist-
length hair so that it caressed his arm.
"Church Camp," she read, shielding her eyes from the sun. "The Graves of My
Lai."
"Auschwitz: The Musical?" Frank scoffed. "And Buckeye: History's First Donkey
Mayor."
They exchanged matching glances of skepticism.
"I always did make it a point to avoid blaspheming cultural strife with jazz
hands," she commented. "And I've had my fill of God-bothering zealots."
"Yeah. And that sounds like the donkey film my mother warned me about." They
nodded at one another and Frank caught the door.
Much like the parking lot, the inside was all but deserted. There was a chatty
group of teenagers skipping school near the snack counter, each of them
clutching a cell phone and snickering; all except two of them, a boy and girl
who were entangled in such a grotesque display of passion that Frank wanted to
spit on the floor. Their hands roved over one another as if shaping each other
from pottery clay. Sunny stood beside Frank and beheld the scene raptly while
he paid their admission.
"Two for Graves of My Lai," he voiced through the plexiglass. He slid a ten
under the gap to the ancient woman inside. She said nothing (he imagined if she
were to open her mouth, her jaw would snap off) and slid two paper tickets back
through to him. The change that came with it he slipped into Sunny's hand. "Go
get us a soda. I'm going to the bathroom."
"Okay."
"Real. Nothing diet."
Frank strode towards the restroom and rapped smartly on the door. "Ocupado,"
came a sardonic voice from within. "Sorry," he called. What reason was there to
be so belligerent over something like that? Stuffing his hands in his pockets,
he stepped to the side and lounged against the wall with only a mental film
reel of him blasting a hole through the door with a double barrel shotgun to
bear his company. But it was damn good company.
"What are you looking at?"
At the sound of yet further antagonism, Frank spun his head in the direction of
the counter. Sunny was reclining against the bar, much in the same manner as
Frank, and had somehow managed to lasso the collective attention of the
loitering group. If Frank didn't know any better, he would have guessed Sunny
was one of them.
"I haven't decided yet," she rounded. The girl who'd been consuming her
boyfriend sneered.
"Well turn around and get busy figuring it out," she snapped. The onlookers
snickered in unison. Frank watched Sunny closely and held his breath. He had
the only weapon, but there was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that she
didn't need one, and everyone in the room would be the worse for it.
Sunny kept still, nonplussed, and stared at the offending girl. Her eyes didn't
blink, her breath didn't hitch, her face didn't move at all. And to anyone of a
lesser constitution, this might seem, at the very least, odd. But to Frank, who
realized he might know Sunny better than anyone despite their short
acquaintance, this was the loudest of alarms. The ever-present gleam in her
eyes was helpless to mask the darkness that arose there.
The corner of her mouth curled up in a not ungrinch-like manner as she nodded.
"Yep," she said. Pivoting away, she collected the soda that the clerk had set
behind her and made for the theater door. Meanwhile, the bathroom door beside
Frank blew open and the jerk inside vacated, tailing the smell of shit behind
him like a cape. Frank pissed and washed his hands as fast as he could to
escape the cloying odor and took a seat beside Sunny.
The springy cushion of the seat gave a twang of complaint beneath him, but it
was something to revel in; he hadn't been to a movie theater in probably six
years. And this one was everything that he loved about them: the dim lights,
the squashy chairs, the damp, cold air verging on musty....
"What's this about?" she asked, taking a slurp of the drink. It was then that
Frank realized that she had literally gotten them a soda.
"It's something that happened during the Vietnam War," he told her. "My Lai was
this...little village where they sent an American troop to get the drop on a
bunch of Viet Cong that were squatting there. No one else was supposed to be
living in the area." Sunny offered him the one drink. Frank hesitated and took
it, staring at the straw that had been between her lips. "So when they
landed...all these...people came out. Old men, mothers, children..." He took a
drink, cognizant of the straw. "Thought they were Viet Cong and killed them
all. Kicked 'em in a ditch and the military drew the blinds."
Sunny looked at Frank as she allowed this to burrow into her understanding. Her
smooth forehead furrowed with regret. He fought back a smile; moments like
these, when the face of her bloodlust fell away to reveal what she truly was, a
teenage girl, were always so entertaining.
At that moment the lights faded into black. Their faces were lost to one
another and the screen flickered to life. And for a while, Frank couldn't focus
on the film. The sheer liberation he felt left his insides so weightless that
he took a moment to bask in it. Was this true happiness? Was this pleasure?
Freedom? Were there really people in the world who felt this every day...every
moment; people whose paths never crossed perforce with hardship and scarcely
knew the meaning of the word? He fought to subdue the smile creeping across his
mouth by shielding it behind his fingers, because it was so terribly
inappropriate before footage of a war-torn country, behind a soundtrack of
explosives and outcries. But as he reclined and lounged his arms across the
seat backs, he felt that as places to have a happy ending went, he could do
worse.
A small commotion from the back of the theater blew their paradise asunder,
causing Frank and Sunny to crane their necks in unison. One of the sets of
doors leading into the theater was propped open, biding two unwelcome things to
enter: the blinding light of day and the delinquent entourage from the lobby.
They giggled and jostled their way to a row in the center, well behind Frank
and Sunny, who shared a look of silent dissent and tried to focus on the film.
On screen, a man was being interviewed. He recounted the horrors that had
transpired and which he had been unfortunate enough to play witness to. One
thing was for certain: it was enough to wipe the giddy smile right off of
Frank's face.
Behind them, the group snickered. Mouthfuls of popcorn snapped between their
grinning teeth.
One of the boys caught Frank's eyes and scowled.
"What are you looking at, old man?" Frank shook his head and turned around.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," the youth said.
The next ten minutes ticked by in disquiet. The shuffle of restless feet on
sticky carpet; hushed laughter and the hiss of a whispered conversation. The
crackle and squelch of popcorn bags and soda straws. Frank's head began to
pound, the threat of a migraine on the horizon. He glanced sideways at Sunny,
who was straining to concentrate on the dialogue. The muscles in her stiff jaw
were bulging and she was hardly blinking.
These kids could have gone anywhere, done anything, but as luck would have it,
they came to a deserted theater and sat behind Frank and Sunny during the
somberest of war films.
A cell phone began to ring with some obscene tune from behind them, shattering
the tranquil scene of the monochromatic My Lai village on screen.
"Hey, bitch," whispered one of the girls in greeting to whoever had called so
inopportunely. "What? I'm in a movie. I'm in a movie," she said a little
louder. "He what?"
Frank couldn't help himself. He turned around again, submitting to the same
urge one has to glare into the window of a bad driver as they pass by, if only
for the sake of putting a face to the rage he felt, and was presented with the
dirty souls of her shoes propped on the back of the seat in front of her, her
free hand twirling absently at a stream of hair. The boy on her left once again
caught sight of Frank's glaring disapproval.
"Whaaat?" he snarled.
"Don't you think you're being a little loud," he suggested. Sunny finally
glanced over her shoulder, unable to ignore the prospect of confrontation.
"I don't see that it matters since you're too busy staring at us and not paying
attention." By now, his girlfriend had abandoned her phone call and the rest of
the group had tuned in.
Before he could return fire, Sunny was tugging on the shoulder of his sleeve,
trying to get him to huddle in. He allowed this, but only because an argument
wasn't what he wanted. He leaned his head close to Sunny, the better to hear
her.
"What's up?"
"You were right," she whispered, grinning.
"Right? About what?"
"We didn't have to look for them."
He had said that, hadn't he? A mental tape of it played back in his head. Sunny
had been ready to kill these kids since their encounter in the lobby. Her
finger was practically on the trigger. Frank, on the other hand, was a bit more
reluctant. Relatively deserted though the building was, that was just it: they
were inside. Their escape would become an obstacle course of hallways and
doors. No to mention the little old woman at the booth up front and the clerk
at the snack bar. They couldn't become collateral damage; that wasn't their
style.
An explosion on screen rattled the walls of the room and the walls of his
chest. For a moldy shack of a theater, the joint had a stupidly decent sound
system. A scenic portion of the jungle had just fallen victim to a barrage of
bullets and grenades. Palm leaves and bark pelted through the air in a hail of
organic shrapnel. Watching the bullets whiz by, ricocheting off of tree trunks
and buildings, Frank came to realize how serendipitous it was that they had
chosen a war film. And one with such spectacularly realistic sound effects.
Triumphant smugness transformed his face.
He looked at Sunny, who was still eagerly awaiting confirmation that something
terrible might yet transpire in this very room.
"What'd I tell you?" he relented. Appeased, Sunny turned her attention back to
the screen. Conversation was futile anyway; the assault was in full, deafening,
swing. It was so loud that any commotion caused by the disruptive delinquents
behind them was lost.
Right up until a shower of popcorn rained down on the back of Sunny's head,
tumbling in an avalanche down the front of her chest and lap. The now empty bag
had bounced off the back of her head and lay in the aisle behind them. Gaping
mouthed shock had arrested her, but when she turned to Frank, silent with fury,
he looked into her disbelieving eyes and made the decision right then and
there.
With subtlety, his hand snaked down and withdrew the semiautomatic. Before it
was free, Sunny's hand clamped down on his wrist.
"Please let me," she pleaded, her face warped by longing. Frank studied her a
split second longer before nodding his head and relinquishing the gun to her.
She gazed at the weapon gripped tightly in her slender, youthful hand rose out
of her seat. He watched attentively as her still form revolved, menacingly
slow.
"Down in front!" the ill-mannered boy shouted. This was followed by a round of
donkey laughter.
Frank watched Sunny's face--downturned and illuminated by the light of the
projector as she glared at the group from beneath her lashes--and knew he would
never be able to unsee such a look of imminent retribution. In that moment, her
ache for vengeance was greater; her rage burned brighter than his ever had. It
was as if, by placing a gun in her hands, he had liberated some long-caged
demon.
She raised her outstretched arm and aimed. Time ground to a crawl as the teens
launched into action. A seconds bag of popcorn went somersaulting into the air
in a firecracker of buttery kernels. The kids scattered. Some broke for the
exits at the back of the room; the few trapped in the middle of the aisle
between their friends dove for the floor. Sunny pulled the trigger, emitting a
sharp crack. Sitting down, Frank couldn't discern where she had aimed until a
flurry of chair stuffing erupted from a hole in a distant seat cushion,
narrowly missing the boy who had been sprinting past it and causing him to drop
behind the row and out of sight.
Sunny frowned and bit her lip between pretty, white teeth. Her left hand came
up to assist the other in steadying her aim. The gun roved to the right, locked
on the retreating form of a girl galloping down the aisle like a duck at a
carnival shooting range, and fired again, blasting a hole in the wall beneath
the projector booth.
Frank vaulted to his feet. "What the hell are you trying to do? Gimme that!"
He snatched the weapon from her fledgling hands and pointed it at the girl, who
by now had nearly reached the exit. He fired but did not wait to watch her body
disappear behind the seats. He was already swiveling for the others and took
two more out deftly. One of the remaining two made a mad bid for the exist
while crouched to the carpet like a crab but was pitifully slower for it. The
rapid fire of an onscreen turret camouflaged the crack of his shot.
A hush fell over the theater as, behind them, a soft-spoken man was giving a
tearful testimony. Frank had only assassinated four inconsiderate fools. Five
had been there to begin with. He and Sunny scanned the rows of seats in focused
silence. Frank was just preparing himself to turn the place upside down when
the kid burst from behind a seat.
"A-ha!" he cried shakily. He held his phone aloft and shuffled side to side.
"I'm filming this. You'll never get away with it now. I've got it on film.
Everyone will see your fucking faces, you lunatics!"
Disarmed that anyone would employ so dumb a tactic, Frank actually lowered his
arm a few degrees. Obvious retorts flooded his mouth and tied up his tongue. In
the end, he fired a bullet straight through the phone, obliterating it, the
video incrimination, and the idiot on the other side.
And finally, the pair found themselves alone in the flickering light of the
theater, just like they had wanted all along. Unfortunately, they would not be
staying to enjoy the solitude or the remainder of the film.
Out in the lobby, they found the snack bar deserted and the ticket booth empty.
Not sure if this was a bad sign or a stroke of luck, they hurried to the
parking lot and casually drove away.
Sunny had managed to smuggle out their soda (which was thoughtful considering
it had both of their DNAs mixed up all over it) and was slurping noisily. As
the car carried them away from yet another scene of self-made carnage, they
stewed in a dense silence. It was an unforeseen turn of events; his companion
was usually quite chipper in the wake of bloodshed.
"Sorry," she murmured, turning her guilt-stricken doe eyes on him. "It always
looked a lot easier than that."
He couldn't help himself; a wry smirk positioned itself across his mouth as he
recalled the expression of complete bafflement on her face when she failed
twice to gun her targets down. The way her slack hands had surrendered so
willingly to his grabby ones.
"Don't worry about it. It probably should have occurred to me long before it
did...but..." He shrugged and broke into laughter. "Did you see the looks on
their faces?" he chuckled. Sunny squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, snickering.
"And that last one... 'I'm filming this!'"
Sunny was laughing so hard she struggled to produce speech. "It--burst--into
pieces!" She rolled in her seat.
"Yeah, it did."
He laughed, she laughed, they both laughed until all they could do was gasp for
air in silence. Frank knew he had no choice but to teach Sunny how to shoot
properly; he couldn't have her front and center in another exchange without
knowing how to get herself--and him--out of trouble. Suppose she found herself
in a scenario where wielding it might be Frank's only salvation? In the realm
of opportunities, marksmen make every bullet count. For now, he would keep
quiet about it.
They didn't make many stops from there on out, just in case. Often since
leaving Syracuse Frank had lamented that the vehicle he'd chosen to lift was so
conspicuous--it just didn't get more salient than a glaring yellow sports car--
but the get-aways were fast, and hell, it was just plain awesome.
***** The Paper Threat *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"No freakin' way! Frank! We're on the news!"
At this, Frank came charging out of the bathroom, still fumbling with his
zipper. Sunny was at attention on the bed, staring in open-faced amazement at
the TV in the upper corner of their motel room. She aimed the remote and hiked
up the volume.
"...All of whom were found dead when an employee entered the theater to clean.
Officials say the victims had been shot with a semi-automatic weapon."
The camera cut to a police officer who appeared to be standing out front of the
theater Frank and Sunny had left in devastation just days prior.
"Based on the positions we found the victims in, it's clear they understood
there was a threat. They had enough time to try and run for the
exits...unfortunately, none were able to make it out..." Scenes of police tape,
flashing lights, and traffic proceeding along the passing street alternated in
a grim slide show. "We're dealing with a seasoned marksman in this instance,"
the officer explained. "There were five victims and seven shots fired with only
two stray bullets."
Frank caught Sunny stealing a furtive glance his way and met it with a look of
disapproval. She cringed and spun away.
"Employees at the theater report that at the time of the incident, two other
people, a Caucasian man in his fifties--"
"Fifties?!" Frank decried.
"...And a Caucasian female in her mid to early twenties--"
"Mid-twenties!" Sunny rejoiced.
"...Were in the same theater as the victims, but were not seen again by staff.
A sketch artist was able to render this description of the female from one of
the staff members."
Mortified, they watched as a drawing of what appeared to be Sunny materialized
on screen. "Oh man," she said solemnly. "They really did a number on me, Frank.
Look at me...I'm a strung out anime character."
"Police are not commenting on any possible motives at this time, but some
citizens speculate the film itself might have been to blame. The film playing
at the time: Graves of My Lai, a documentary on the events of a U.S. military
operation during the Vietnam War, was the subject of controversy during its
release over the amount of uncensored footage..."
Frank couldn't help himself. "Yeah. Oh, yeah, that's the real atrocity here:
uncensored footage of crimes against humanity! Jesus H. Hang on, Sunny. In a
minute they're either gonna call us patriots or terrorists, just watch."
"...May have inspired acts of terrorism by extremist patriots..."
"Incredible!" he said. "They got us with both. Fascinating."
The story went to commercial and Sunny flipped off the television, probably in
response to its full moon effect on Frank's personality.
Frank began tossing their belongings on the bed to be packed up. "Here." He
flung a pair of sunglasses he'd found in the car over to Sunny. "And do
something with your hair. At least until we get out of range of the
investigation. That sketch may have been a joke but put it with everything else
they know about our situation and it might as well be a mug shot."
"Our 'situation?'"
He folded his button-downs neatly and stacked them inside. His hand recoiled
when his knuckles brushed the pink satin cup of Sunny's bra. He cleared his
throat uncomfortably.
"If someone familiar with this case sees you with me," he explained, "and you
happen to bear a resemblance to a scribbling of a head...that's turbulence we
don't need." After a beat, he peeked over to his companion and asked gently,
"Do you understand?"
She nodded serenely, but he could see she was full of thoughts on the matter.
He zipped up the suitcase and hastily dumped it by the door, hoping to
discourage further discussion about it, and went to check them out. When he
returned, Sunny had loaded the suitcase into the trunk and was waiting in the
car. She was sporting the shades and had pulled her impressive length of hair
into a ponytail.
With an incriminating yet blissfully inaccurate perp. sketch floating around,
Frank decided to push forward. They had breached the Ohio-Indiana border the
day of the murder and it didn't seem too clever to stop for long until
Illinois. But they needed to leave the city anyway, not simply to evade
capture, but because Frank had something planned for Sunny and it required
near-total isolation. No houses in the distance; no infinite scrolling pasture
fences; no nothing.
They stopped for gas outside of Bloomington where Frank refused to allow Sunny
to leave the vehicle to use the bathroom, paranoid to no end about the
possibility of being fingered in the theater-come-slaughterhouse snafu. At the
pump, he leaned in the driver's side window to play his part in what might have
escalated into something loud and hairy had he not thrown down his trump card:
Obedience.
In hindsight, his stance had been admittedly ridiculous. Snags like this were a
guarantee doing what they did, and they were lucky it wasn't worse. It wouldn't
do to lose his shit over every close call because at some point it wouldn't be
a half-assed police sketch--it would be a wanted poster; security footage; an
eyewitness with better memory.
Hang-ups or none, he had made Sunny's welfare his problem when, on impulse, he
had taken her up like some kind of sidekick. And that meant it didn't matter
what mistakes were made or what was said between them. She was his foremost
priority.
"I'm sorry," he blurted as they sailed over the state line.
Sunny abandoned her characteristic sight-seeing to look at him. "I'm sorry
too," she said, frowning. "I shouldn't have called you a sperm burpin' bitch. I
mean you're a lot of things but a submissive isn't one of them."
Frank snickered quietly. "If nothing else, it taught me that I need to step up
my insult game. Chanel my inner Gordon Ramsey."
Sunny laughed. "It's RAAAW you worthless plank!"
By way of apology, Frank agreed to an out-of-vehicle lunch at a diner, so long
as it wasn't too crowded or overpriced. He shot down the first two on account
of the patronage, the likes of whom consisted primarily of trucker filth and
loud-mouth bikers. They seemed like better places to find trouble than chicken
fried steak. In the end, he conceded to one that was slightly overpopulated
with little old women; the atmosphere was saturated with enough expired perfume
to choke a horse.
"God. This is heaven," Sunny purred, peering around the joint with an
expression of pure ecstasy. "Isn't it? A layer of grease on everyone and
everything," she picked up the sugar jar and studied it, "outrageous
portions...no one looks at you cause they don't give a shit..." She turned to
him. "Did you do this a lot before you...ahh...met me?"
"What? Have lunch at a diner?"
"Everything! Go to the movies...buy the clothes you want...travel when you feel
like it..."
Frank was no fool. He could read between the lines and realized what it was
Sunny was asking:
She thought Frank was free.
To an extent, he supposed he was, but it certainly hadn't felt like freedom.
Divorcing Grace had freed him from specific obligations, yes...but then again,
it was divorce. He answered to no one but himself. No one bitched at him to
make his bed so he didn't; he cooked his own meals so if he fancied a turd
sandwich it was always on the menu. It was the sort of liberation men across
the world dreamt of: Going to bed alone, waking up alone, watching TV alone,
going out alone, coming home to no one, never needing to check your phone and
forgetting the sound of your own voice. And clinging to meaningless co-worker
relationships in the event something panned out.
"It didn't feel like it does now," he said, deciding to cut right to the chase.
"It wasn't freedom...it was an under-toe. Or one of those whirling circus rides
where everyone's hurling and you're in the back." He finally met Sunny's gaze,
finding it melancholy. "It only seems like paradise for you because you had
people breathing down your neck all the time. I wouldn't have minded that so
much."
"You would if they kept you all shackled up with their dogma," she replied
bitterly. "Sharing your life with people is only rewarding if they give you a
life to share."
"I guess I can't argue with that."
About that time the waitress came to collect their order. Frank pounced on the
chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes he'd been fantasizing about for months
and Sunny put in for a short stack and hash browns.
"And how does it feel now?" she asked as she drizzled syrup across her
pancakes.
He understood what she meant and returned the knowing grin stretching across
her mouth.
"Feels like the life I signed up for."
Chapter End Notes
     I have more scenes written, but they have to be, I guess, connected
     to the rest of the story, as there are bits missing. As I said,
     positive reviews and comments will encourage me to work faster. On
     the Wattpad version, there is a soundtrack posted. Thanks for keeping
     with it!
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