Parasite
a creepy story by Keith LaFountaine
It’s Halloween! You know what that means. Candy! And costumes. And fall weather! Well, maybe winter weather in Colorado. Nightmare Before Christmas! And other spooky stories? Sure, why not!
The following isn’t your classic slasher or supernatural scary story. It’s more of a slow creep, and decidedly absurd. In other words, underside, where sometimes it’s dark!
PARASITE
by Keith LaFountaine
1.
Clarence ran a comb through his oily, brown hair and grimaced when he spotted lice on the black teeth.
Great, he grumbled. Laid off and riddled with lice.
He tapped the comb against his bathroom sink basin and then, for good measure, flicked on the hot water, soaking the implement, letting those minuscule, black dots swirl down his gurgling drain.
Just great.
2.
Walgreens was closed, and CVS was closed, and Rite Aid was closed. So, Clarence plopped down in his recliner, itching absentmindedly at his scalp, trying not to think of the bloodsucking critters clinging to each follicle and slurping happily on his lifeblood.
Hundreds of them up there—had to be. He’d go in the morning to get a bottle that solution from one of the drug stores on Church Street. And then he’d buy a shower cap so his hair could soak up that poison and kill off the critters. He’d need a new comb, too.
Altogether, that meant too much money being drained from his bank account—an account that would not see a penny for, at the very least, a few weeks. But, if the stock market was anything to go off, he would be lucky to stand behind a register in a month’s time, pulling minimum wage and ringing up some gray-haired lady’s Chartreuse.
He scratched at his head and watched the TV, trying not to think about his spiraling life and the empty side of his bed. Trying not to think about how royally screwed he was.
As if adding insult to injury, the lottery numbers popped on screen, white balls bouncing around like jumping beans at a carnival. And the music, joyous and upbeat. It was almost too much for him to bear.
“Forty-seven.”
“Huh?” Clarence looked around the room. The hair on his arms stood up, and goosebumps followed soon after.
He was alone.
Did he have ghosts? Cripes, what was next?
The announcer’s smooth voice prattled on. “Hello America, I’m Calvin Coates, and it’s February 17th, 2008. The MegaMillions jackpot is an annuitized two-hundred-seven-miiiilllion dollars! You can buy a lot o’ gas with that, America. To win the jackpot, you must match all five white balls plus the gold Mega Ball. Let’s do this…”
The first ball dropped.
“Our first number tonight is… 47.”
“Eleven.”
“Next we have…11. The next number is gonna be a…”
“Forty-six.”
“Followed by… what’s it gonna be America?”
“Thirty-nine.”
Clarence watched in shock and confusion as that small voice correctly predicted all five white balls with ease, as if it was a waiter down the street at the Henry’s Diner, rattling off the specials.
“Now for the Mega Ball tonight. This Mega Ball is….”
“Twenty-six.”
“And there you have it! Tonight’s winning numbers–”
Clarence switched off the TV. Silence consumed the room. He stared at his distorted, bent frame in the black mirror and he held his breath, trying to discern where the voice was coming from.
“Up here.”
Clarence looked up at his water-stained ceiling.
“No. Up here.”
Clarence’s hand started to shake, and he brought his fingers to his hair, feeling the oily follicles flit against his fingernails.
“Thaaaaat’s right, Clary.”
He pulled his hand away, filled with the sudden fear that something was going to gnaw on his knuckles. A tiny, jovial chuckle filled the living room.
“Don’t worry, Clary. We ain’t gonna hurt ya. Opposite, in fact. You listen to us, and we’ll help you with the numbers. How does that sound?”
Clarence swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
“Just your hair, Clary,” the voice said. “You keep it nice and oily for us, and we’ll hold up our end.”
His hands were shaking. His teeth were numb. His hair felt like it was writhing.
“We can take the nasty route with this, Clary,” the voice warned. “But we’d prefer it was amicable. Less parasite, more symbiosis.”
A faint pain emanated from the base of his skull, like a mosquito bite, but hotter and more prolonged. He held up his hands, even though he felt like an idiot for doing so.
“Alright!” he agreed. “Alright. Whaddaya need me to do?”
3.
The lady behind the register – Cathy – was no older than twenty-two, but her eyes were a spitting image of his grandmother’s. She raised a finely plucked eyebrow and cocked her head.
“Well?” she asked.
Clarence ran a hand through his hair, and then he winced, suppressing the urge to apologize. He swallowed; the saliva in his throat was about as thick as mucus and it refused to go down cleanly. There was a camera behind Cathy, and its lens was aimed directly at him.
Was this cheating? Did they know? How could they? His face burned all the same.
“Yes, I’d like to purchase a MegaMillions ticket,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Uh huh,” Cathy agreed, nodding. “Ya got numbers?”
“Yes, I do,” he stammered, nodding. Recalling the numbers the lice had given him the night before, he spluttered his way through them. “46. 34. 23. 12. 18. And 8 as the Mega Ball number.”
Cathy did her magic, and soon enough he was handing her two dollars and she was handing him a ticket with those fateful numbers printed on it.
“Good luck,” she said in a monotone drawl.
He nodded in her direction and accepted the ticket. The last thing he wanted was to say anything incorrect. His scalp itched, but he resisted the urge to touch it.
Once outside and in his car, he dropped the ticket on the passenger’s seat and gripped the steering wheel, breathing hard. His eyes grew wet.
“That’s alright,” the lice cooed. “You did good. Now, let’s go home and make some money.”
He nodded and slid his key in the ignition. As his engine coughed to life, the back of his head pinched painfully. He winced.
“Mmmm, yessssss,” the lice cooed.
4.
Clarence paced back and forth while the news wrapped up its broadcast. Something about bears in the Northeast Kingdom and a man holding up a Cumberland Farms in Burlington. The usual stuff. He chewed on his thumbnail and winced as another one of those painful pinches radiated from the base of his skull. He could practically hear the lice slurping up his blood.
But if I win, he thought, I don’t have to worry about anything. I don’t have to worry about bills, about the apartment, about my car. Hell, I could buy a whole house, buy a brand-new Ferrari. I could do whatever I wanted.
“There is something you need to know, Clary,” the lice spoke in a purring tone. “After you win, you will be tempted to be rid of us. To wash out your oil and to cut your hair. Do not give in to such temptations. For your oil we will gladly…mmmm…repay you.”
The newswoman, Diane Fleurstan, handed off the program with a bright, wide smile and a small gesture. And then it was game time – the music came up, and Calvin Coates waltzed on screen.
“Hello America! I’m Calvin Coates, and it’s February 18th, 2008. The MegaMillions jackpot is an annuitized two-hundred-forty-eight-miiiilllion dollars! You can buy a lot o’ groceries with that, America. To win the jackpot, you must match all five white balls plus the gold Mega Ball. Let’s do this…”
Clarence grabbed his ticket from the coffee table and held it before him as the white balls began to descend.
5.
“Ma! I did it! I freaking won! What? No, this isn’t Pete. It’s Clarence! I won, Ma! Two hundred million bucks.
“No, Ma. I know. I’m sure Pete’s doing just fine. Huh? Yes, I know he got married. Well, I don’t know. It’s hard dating right now. You know, the economy’s crashing and…
“Yes, Ma. I know. Ma, will you…
“Fine, I’ll tell Pete to call more. I just wanted to share the news! It’s crazy, right?
“Right?”
6.
His hair had started to stink, and his white pillowcase was a light shade of yellow. But who cared? Later that morning, he was gonna head to Montpelier to collect his winnings. Lump sum, yes please, obviously, what idiot took the annuity?
And when he cashed out, he was going to buy a shower cap. Not for the chemicals that would kill the lice, but so he could shower without harming them.
He was even starting to get used to the pain.
7.
Oh, Lord it was a bright and shining day when he awoke. Well, okay it was overcast and drizzling, but when he hopped behind the driver’s seat and revved his old Buick’s engine, he did so with the knowledge that he was an honest-to-God millionaire. Even after the taxes, he’d have more money than he could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes.
He formulated plans as he merged onto the highway. Deep Purple was playing on the radio. He cranked it up and drummed on his steering wheel.
Tonight’s for me. I’ll get some dinner. I’ll rent a movie. Oh, and I’ll pay my rent in advance. That’s what rich people do, right? They walk up to their swollen landlord, and they shovel a pile of bills into their ruddy hands, and they say, ‘here ya go, Earnest. It’s for the year.’
A Honda Civic cut him off without signaling, but Clarence eased onto the brakes and whistled along to the music.
Nothing could bother him today.
Nothing.
8.
Accepting the money reminded Clarence of going to the DMV. He stood in a line and signed some paperwork while a woman named Nikki, who had blonde hair fashioned into a tight bun and severe wrinkles surrounding her gray eyes, stared him down and muttered under her breath.
Uncle Sam took his share, of course, and by the time all was said and done, Clarence was back on that highway, merging and weaving, listening to music, a wide smile pasted across his pale face.
But with the joy came another emotion: a sinking horror. He pictured his living room, all bare and empty, with the water-stained ceilings and the patches of black mold in the corner that the landlord refused to acknowledge, let alone take care of.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter and ignored the prick of pain at the base of his head. Was that blood sliding down the back of his neck, or just another louse hanging fat and happy, engorged with his blood?
9.
He sat on the living room floor and watched Wheel of Fortune while eating boneless chicken wings out of a Styrofoam container. In the morning, he’d march up to his landlord and pay off the rest of the year’s rent. Then, he’d dress up in his nicest suit and go down to one of the bars downtown and flash a little green to impress one of the ladies there. That was what normal men did, right?
You’re not normal, a voice crooned in the back of his head. You just got laid off and you’re talking to head lice. You’re a fucking creep, Clarence, and you know it. Nobody loves you.
He shut out the thoughts and stabbed at the next barbecue-sauce-laden wing, stuffing it into his mouth and biting down hard on the tender meat, ignoring the hellish fire that erupted on his tongue as the juices scalded the tender flesh.
People bought vowels. A beautiful woman laughed. A man adjusted his tie.
Clarence watched, stooped, and tried to ignore the pungent odor of black mold.
10.
He awoke in the middle of the night to his cellphone ringing on his nightstand. Sitting upright, Clarence grasped the device and opened it.
It was Pete.
Suddenly, a buoyant hope filled his aching heart. Maybe Ma had told Pete all about the MegaMillions ticket! Maybe now Pete would agree to swing by the apartment on occasion. Maybe they could grab a beer together and jaw about the Sox or do whatever else brothers were supposed to do together.
He pressed the green button and pushed the cellphone to his ear. “Pete! So great to…”
“You need to come down to Fletcher Allen.”
Clarence paused. “Huh?”
“It’s Ma. She had a stroke. She’s in the ICU.”
“Oh…oh my God, is she okay? Did she…”
“Just come down to the hospital, will ya?” The line clicked.
He sat there, blankets bunched around his hips, the phone open in his left hand, his teeth going numb, buzzing like annoyed flies.
The lice, for once, were silent.
11.
When Clarence arrived at the hospital and asked to see Ms. Doris Reardon, the receptionist wrinkled his nose. His eyes shifted from Clarence’s greasy hair to his disheveled attire. He’d dug a wrinkled Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a pair of old, gray sweatpants out of his hamper and pulled them on haphazardly. It was then Clarence realized the Led Zeppelin shirt was inside out.
Oh, well, he thought. Sorry, my mom’s dying. Got more pressing matters to attend to.
The lice chuckled in his hair, and he winced as a small pinch followed.
“She’s in Room 217,” the receptionist said, turning to the security booth, which was on the other side of a swinging half-door. “Just grab a nametag.”
The security guard asked his name, and Clarence offered it. In big, black letters the guard wrote CLARINCE.
He took it and stuck it to his chest. The door opened. Clarence shuffled through, breath caught in his throat like a frightened cat.
12.
Pete stood outside Ma’s room, his arms crossed. His wife, Amy, stood by him, too. Together, they looked like politicians: Pete with his defined cheekbones and his jaw that could slice through concrete; Amy with her relaxed gait and her confident, green eyes.
Pete turned to him, and his gaze immediately shifted to Clarence’s hair. “Jesus, Clarence. Couldn’t shower ahead of time?”
“You said it was an emergency,” Clarence protested, catching his breath.
“That mom…”
Pete shook his head and pressed his hands to his hips. Amy pressed a hand to Pete’s back.
“She had a stroke, man. Bad one. Doctor says she’ll live, but she’ll need care for the rest of her life.”
Clarence didn’t know how to respond. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a series of gasping utterances. Pete eyed him, hands still on his hips. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, and the top button was unclasped.
“What’re we gonna do?” Clarence asked.
Amy chimed in. “Pete and I are going to move in with Doris. Just for the time being, until we can find her better help.”
“Yeah…” Clarence said, nodding. “That makes sense.”
“Listen,” Pete said, lowering his voice. A pair of nurses walked by, and Clarence watched as his brother waited until they were out of earshot. “Ma doesn’t have insurance. Amy’s family offered to help some, but they’ll only be covering the hospital visit. And…well, she’s gonna need a lot of help, Clarence. A 24-hour nurse, modifications to the house, probably a bunch of equipment.” He paused, letting the gravity of each word settle into Clarence’s stomach. “It’s gonna cost thousands, man. Hundreds of thousands.”
“Yeah,” Clarence agreed, nodding.
“We need your help. Ma needs your help.” He paused again. “We talked. I…I was on the phone with her when it happened.”
Clarence watched his brother shudder, deflate a little, and Amy wrapped her arms around him in an awkward sideways hug.
“But before that,” he said, regaining his composure, “she mentioned you’d won the lottery.”
Clarence’s mouth went dry. His tongue swelled up like a magician’s balloon. “Yeah,” he nodded, feeling stupider every time he uttered the word.
“You know I don’t like to ask for help,” Pete said. “But…well, Ma can’t pay the bills, and Amy and I’ll go bankrupt if we try. We…we could really use your help.”
Again, Pete’s eyes flicked upward to Clarence’s greasy hair. Did he see something scurrying in there? Some pest?
“Can I see her?” Clarence asked.
Pete opened his mouth to protest, but Amy pressed her palm flat against Pete’s chest. He glanced down at her and nodded once.
“Sure,” he agreed. “She’s talking, but…she’s confused. It’s a little jumbled.”
“I understand,” Clarence said.
His eyes were wet now, wet and hot, and he stumbled by his brother and approached the partially open door.
When he pushed it open, he noticed either Pete or the doctor had drawn the curtain around Ma’s bed. Clarence hugged himself, looping each hand around the opposite elbow, and walked forward, ignoring how cold the room was, how much it smelled like isopropyl alcohol and bleach, how artificial the lights were.
When he rounded the curtain and saw Ma, his heart shattered. One half of her face was a lumped-up mess of purple bruises. The left side of her mouth drooped down in a severe frown while the other side remained flat as a board. Her eye dragged, too, creating the eerie approximation that she could see him through the distorted lid. That she could see everything.
Clarence went to his knees beside her bed. Her right hand lay on top of the white blanket; the IV was stuck in the inner fold of that arm, and the sloping blue veins stood out underneath her paper thin skin.
He slipped his right hand into hers. A tear fell from his left eye.
“Ma,” he whispered. “Ma, it’s alright! I can help you, too. I got the money today, the lotto money.” He paused as his voice wavered, threatening to break. He tightened his grip on her hand slightly, careful not to apply too much pressure. She felt so delicate, like fine china, and he worried that if he squeezed her hand any harder her thumb would snap off in his grip and a torrent of crimson blood would come gushing free.
“Ma,” he whispered again, “Ma, I can take care of you.”
And then a miracle happened. Ma opened one eye. She looked at him. She saw him. And she smiled.
“Peter?” she croaked.
The lice chittered in his hair.
Clarence blinked away a few more tears. “It’s Clarence, Ma. It’s me.”
Ma chewed on some invisible food, her lips mashing together, and turned her head slightly to the right. The lights highlighted that frown, drooping so savagely it looked as if fishing wire was yanking the lip down. The affected eye watched him, partially open, broken inside.
“I love you, Ma.”
She didn’t respond.
“That was…mmm…very nice, Clary,” the lice said.
Clarence didn’t say anything back. He slipped his hand free from his mother’s grip and retreated from the hospital room, closing the door behind him.
Pete and Amy were chatting down the hall. They turned toward him when he approached.
“The money,” Clarence said, his voice hollow. “I’ll get it to you. On one condition.”
“Name it,” Pete said, nodding.
“When Mom is better and knows where she is, you tell her I was the one who gave it to you.”
Sadness flashed in Pete’s eyes, but he nodded. He gripped Clarence’s shoulder with one thick palm, his fingers neatly curling around and digging into his back.
“You have my word,” his brother said.
Clarence hugged Pete once, hard, and then he stalked out of the hospital.
Tears came, steadily, like a summer rain, but by the time he got back to his apartment and collapsed in his bed, his eyes were as dry as the Sahara and his head burned.
13.
Clarence could never have imagined, in a thousand years, how fast the money would be spent.
Amy’s family rescinded their thoughtful offer once they learned Pete’s little brother was footing the bill. Between Ma’s three-week stay, most of which was in the ICU, refitting her house to accommodate new equipment and safety precautions, paying for her prescriptions, covering the remainder of Ma’s mortgage, and finding a nurse to care for her, the money dried up in less than two months, spent or earmarked.
Clarence called occasionally. In the beginning, it was Pete that answered. Then it was Marla, Ma’s nurse. But every time he talked with Ma, she didn’t know who he was, and her tone grew more irascible with each passing day.
Worse yet, the lice were drawing more blood, growing thirstier. His hair was a rat’s nest, a horrid, greasy blond mop that stank and stained his pillows red and yellow.
The lice were mostly silent, occasionally murmuring, occasionally slurping their draught.
Until Friday, April 4th.
That night, he lay on the floor in the fetal position. And they spoke, crooning, glorious.
“We know how to solve your problem, Clary. You must…mmm…you must trust us.”
Clarence didn’t know what else to do. He was already late on his rent, his car payments, his student loans, and damn near everything else. And for what?
“Mmmmm, we will make it so she…yesss…so she knows your name! And, yess, mmm, the money. It will be yours once more. All you need to do is two things, Clary. Yes, just twoooo things.”
The other louses sang with their leader. “TWO THINGSSSSS, TWO THINGSSSSS.”
Clarence’s throat was parched, and he rasped when he spoke. “What do I have to do?”
14.
He scratched at his hair, and when he looked at his hand, he saw blood and crusted skin flakes scraped underneath each fingernail. Clarence grimaced and refocused on the building he sat outside of.
Nobody had come to repossess his car. Yet. And that was a good thing, because he needed it. And if everything went according to the louses’ plan, he’d be able to pay it off in full come morning.
“Are you sure?” Clarence asked.
“Yes, Claryyy. She is watching the news as we speak. She is watching…and she is…mmm…LUCID. Yes, lucid, our dear sweet Clary. Now is the time. Now is the moment. Inside the bank, there will be a boy with a camera and his mother. They will be drawing their rent payment. And old Mr. Hucksetter, he will be depositing his social security check. Mmm, but you will need to focus on teller number two. She is the one who will help us.”
Clarence nodded.
He pulled open the glove box and retrieved the snub-nosed revolver he’d bought two days before.
15.
When Clarence entered the bank, his scrotum climbed back into his body.
In the left corner stood the kid with the camera and his mother. The kid was snapping photos of the cracked tile floor. His mother was filling out a withdrawal slip, occasionally turning to snap at her boy, “David, stop that.”
Mr. Hucksetter was to the right. Indeed, as expected, he was talking to a young, male teller with coiffed brown hair and a wide, picture-perfect smile.
And there, between the others, was teller number two. A young woman with cherry-red hair, wearing a white blouse and a gold name tag – NAOMI, it declared.
Looking up at the ceiling, Clarence clocked the cameras. There were four of them over the various teller stations and five more around the rest of the lobby.
He swallowed hard and approached the small, brown table that contained deposit and withdrawal slips. He retrieved a withdrawal slip and began to write on the back of it while occasionally peering over his shoulder. If anyone else came into the bank while he was there…
“They will not,” the lice assured.
Clarence finished writing his note to Teller Number Two and folded it in half. Then, he walked around the table and approached her. She turned, laughed at a joke Mr. Hucksetter told, and flipped her red hair over her left shoulder, sliding the sleeves of her blouse up her arm. When Clarence came into view, she smiled wide, though she also stole a glance at his hair.
He didn’t take offense. Everybody did. The skin around his hairline had turned beet-red and was bruised. Blood trickled out from the follicles like beads of sweat, and everything had started to clump together, like wet cat food left to dry in a hot car.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a pleasant, dulcet tone.
Clarence nodded, smiled, and slid the withdrawal slip toward her, still folded. She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. The cords in her neck pulled taut. She flashed a look at the man who was helping Mr. Hucksetter, and that teller glanced at Clarence, too, standing up on his tiptoes to ensure he got a good look.
But this letter was simple enough. It wasn’t a threat. Just an in.
She unfolded it and he watched her read the six words he’d written.
DEAF AND MUTE. NEED WITHDRAWAL. HELP?
He watched as she relaxed, and she tossed a glance back at the other teller that read all good here. He nodded and returned his attention to Mr. Hucksetter, who launched into yet another story. To Clarence’s left, the kid with the camera was now running toward the door to take a picture of the brown table and its various slips. His mother apologized to the teller on his behalf.
I’m so sorry, he’s always getting into trouble.
The teller assured the mother it was alright.
Teller Number Two pulled a piece of printer paper from somewhere underneath her station and wrote on it, with big cursive letters. Then, she pushed it back to Clarence and handed him the pen.
WELCOME TO BURLINGTON UNITED! PLEASE FILL OUT A WITHDRAWAL SLIP AND I CAN HELP YOU WITH IT.
Sweat dripped down Clarence’s face, even though the bank’s AC was cranked into overdrive. He picked up the pen with a shaking hand and wrote a response.
This was the real deal. There was no turning back.
I HAVE A GUN. GIVE ME FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND IN UNMARKED BILLS IN TOTE BAGS. I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU.
He pushed the paper back to her.
Blood drained from her face.
The kid with the camera banged into Clarence’s leg, and he uttered a sharp yelp of pain as the device smacked his kneecap. The kid giggled. The mom demanded he apologize.
Clarence turned, mouth hanging open. Somehow, he felt like everything was going wrong. Like he’d blown it. And when he refocused on the teller, he knew he had. The kid, such a small, minute distraction, had pulled his gaze away from her, and now Teller Number Two’s finger was pressed on that magical button hidden underneath her desk.
The silent alarm.
“No time,” the lice croaked. “Go loud!”
What other choice did he have? He needed the money. Without it, everything else was useless.
Clarence ripped the revolver from his jeans’ waistband and aimed it at Teller Number Two. His ears whined, like an annoying mosquito was buzzing around them, but he was sure he said some variation of, “$500,000 now! Do it and nobody gets hurt!”
Teller Number Two froze and raised her hands in the air. Her eyes were growing wide and wet as shock filtered through her body. But she wasn’t giving him the money!
A fist careened into his cheek, and pain blossomed up Clarence’s skull and down his right arm. He lurched to the left and spilled to the floor, his elbow and knees banging against the tile. He almost lost his grip on the gun, but he clung to that with dear life, swinging it around wildly at his attacker as adrenaline coursed through his body.
He felt the lice in his hair suckling, nursing.
Mr. Hucksetter stood over him, hand still curled into a fist.
Clarence pulled the trigger out of instinct. The gun clicked.
He’d forgotten to cock it.
He fumbled with the weapon, but even as he did, Mr. Hucksetter was swinging a wiry leg at his crotch. It almost connected, but Clarence managed to flop away limply like a jellyfish on a beach.
Outside, Clarence heard the sirens. Cops. They were coming.
Fear filled his chest and his groin threatened to let loose a torrent of urine. He scrambled backward, dropping the gun, pressing his palms against the floor until he finally got enough leverage to lurch wildly to his feet.
He turned and sprinted toward the door, banging through it. The sun burned into his eyes and bore down on his body. He was sweating buckets now.
An object collided with the back of his head, and the lice screamed with fright, the sound akin to air being let out of a tire. To Clarence’s shock, he turned and saw Mr. Hucksetter’s shoe on the ground. The man was hobbling forward still, pulling his other shoe off.
Clarence touched the back of his head. The fingers came away slick with blood.
He sprinted toward his car, leaving everything behind. Thankfully, he’d left it unlocked and running. Forgoing his seatbelt, he pulled the gear shift toward the red D and slammed his foot on the gas. The old car backfired and jerked forward. He cursed.
The sirens were getting louder, so Clarence spun the wheel right, speeding toward one of Burlington’s many backroads. His tires screamed and he left more than a little rubber on the pavement as he peeled away, his speedometer needle jerking upright as the car rocketed down the two-lane road.
I fucked it up, he thought. I fucked it all up. Where do I even go? Pete won’t take me in. I can’t go back to the apartment.
“A motel,” the lice said. “In St. Johnsbury. Drive there. Drive fast. We can make it.”
What else could he do?
He swung off the two-lane road at the next intersection and sped toward the highway.
Once on I-89, he slowed to the speed limit. No use in getting pulled over.
His hand shook as he clutched at the wheel, so he grabbed it tighter, until his knuckles were dead white.
16.
The motel room in St. Johnsbury cost fifteen dollars for the night. Clarence pulled his last twenty from his wallet and the woman behind the desk, who had a tired, drawling expression, typed into her office computer while sucking on a cigarette stuck between her lips. Smoke trailed over her shoulder.
Thankfully, the office did not have a television installed. Rather, a yellowed Dan Brown paperback sat curled on the counter beside her open pack of Marlboro Blacks.
Finally, she pulled down a key from the rack behind her, slapped it on the counter, and said, “Room 12, at the end.” She flicked the sizable, gray head into an ashtray.
“Thanks,” Clarence said.
“Uh-huh.”
He took the key and retreated to the room. When he slid the chunk of metal into the lock, it turned smoothly. He let himself in, slammed the door behind him, threw the deadbolt over, slapped the gold bar at the top of the door over its associated nub. Then, for good measure, he dragged the room’s one desk chair and brought it to the door, pushing it under the knob.
The blinds were already drawn, so there was that.
17.
The news ran a small segment on Clarence’s attempted stick-up at six. The footage showed the note he’d written the teller, his revolver (accompanied by a yellow marker), and his tire rubber burned into the parking lot asphalt. Mr. Hucksetter had even been interviewed, describing in candid detail how he’d kicked the ever-loving shit out of that degenerate and knocked him with the toe of his boot.
So, it had been a boot, not a shoe.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the rest of the nightly news. The program shifted, and Clarence looked at the floor.
“I think I want a shower,” Clarence said.
“Wear your cap,” the lice said, their voice saddled with fatigue, as if they were all curled up and ready for a tight eight hours.
“Didn’t bring it,” Clarence said.
“Then no showerrr,” the lice said.
Clarence hung his head and he thought about his mom.
18.
The motel room phone rang.
Clarence bolted upright in bed. His heart slowly slid from his throat and plopped into his stomach. In the dark, he saw the device glinting. When he turned on the lamp on the nightstand, that yellow light only served to make it seem more alive.
He swallowed hard, reaching for it.
Maybe it was just the front-desk lady, needing to ask him a question. Or a wrong number. Or a prank caller.
Or the cops.
He grasped the ringing phone with his right hand. His hair hung over his eyes in clumps and it itched like hell.
Delicately, he lifted the phone to his ear and waited.
“Clarence?” his mom whispered. “Clar---ence? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Ma,” he said, his voice a froggy shell of its former self.
“Clarence….I….know…about…” she trailed off.
“Yes, Ma?”
“I know…you…paid for Marla…”
A smile broke across his face, as if carved by an invisible knife. He stood from the bed, taking the cordless phone with him as he paced.
“Yeah? Did Pete tell you? Oh, God, Ma! I was so scared! And Pete said you didn’t have insurance, and I just wanted you to know I helped, you know? I just wanted you to be…”
A soft click echoed on the line.
Clarence paused. “Ma?”
“Peter?”
Clarence collapsed onto the bed. “No, Ma. It’s not Peter.”
The line clicked again.
“Hang up,” the lice commanded.
Fear coursed through his veins like a vicious poison. Tears slipped down his cheeks.
He hung up the phone.
But, of course, it was too late.
19.
Sirens.
Blue, flashing lights.
White headlights.
The dark and the silence was broken in a matter of minutes.
Clarence huddled in the shower, the bathroom door closed, but he could see the lights dancing across the tile floor.
The lice sucked hungrily, seemingly aware their feast was reaching its final course.
“CLARENCE REARDON, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”
He sobbed in the shower, his bloody hair dotting the white tile. He stuffed a fist into his mouth to try and stifle the sound, but it did no good.
The motel door cracked once, twice, and then it shattered. Clarence heard wood hit the carpeted floor and dance across it. The chair was tossed aside, thumping quietly as it landed.
The lights grew brighter.
“CLARENCE, IF YOU’RE IN THERE YOU NEED TO SURRENDER NOW.”
Clarence sobbed harder, trying to squirm deeper into the shower, as if some tunnel was going to open and he would be able to tumble free, to descend into a new world, a new existence. One where his mother loved him, and he was rich, and he had a beautiful wife and a big house and a fancy car.
The bathroom door buckled once, and then it shattered. Guns were drawn. Cops screamed. Clarence lifted his hands in the air, snot bubbling from his nose and bursting in horrendous, thick globules.
He was thrown to the floor, his hands tied behind his back. Standing in the parking lot, behind the police, was the front desk woman, calmly puffing on a Marlboro Black, the smoke drifting into the clean, night air.
They read Clarence his Miranda rights, but he didn’t hear them.
No, what he heard was a familiar voice on the TV.
“Hello America, I’m Calvin Coates, and it’s April 11th, 2008. The MegaMillions jackpot is an annuitized three-hundred-eight-miiiilllion dollars! You can buy a lot o’ cheese with that, America. To win the jackpot, you must match all five white balls plus the gold Mega Ball. Let’s do this…”
It didn’t make sense; it was much too late. But then again, none of this made sense.
Maybe it was the lice.
Clarence thought about his mother back home, with her drooping half-frown. And then the cuffs snapped around his wrist, and he was dragged to his feet, pushed out into the open air.
A burly cop with a thick handlebar mustache threw him into the back seat of a cruiser and slammed the door behind him.
Even given the distance, Clarence could hear the MegaMillions music, jangling as another lucky winner was chosen.
He watched, through the window, as that cop brought one burly hand to his head, pulled off his hat, and began to scratch.
Meet the author:
Keith LaFountaine is a writer from Vermont and an affiliate HWA member. His short fiction has appeared in The Vanishing Point Magazine, Tales To Terrify, and Bewildering Stories. Other work can be found on his website, www.keithlafountaine.com
This story was born in the wake of a layoff. For some reason, lice were on my mind, too. Combined, they represent perhaps the most dire and skin-crawling representation of the underside.
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