Step by Step/Issue 34

This is Issue #34 of Step by Step''. ''This is the fourth issue of Volume Six.

'''NOTE: THIS IS UNFINISHED AND UNEDITED SWAG. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.'''

All Cloud
Lyle Jackson is a killer. Nolan, too.

On a boiling hot autumn night, the two had spent hours galloping along the interstate. They'd stopped at a diner, one called through virtue Blacktop Diner ("Two for one specials," a sign said in the front. Who couldn't resist?). People–fellers walking down and about the crosswalks–minded not much of them. If asked, out of those who had passed them, only two or three would have recalled with truth. And whether they liked it or not, here the two of them were trespassers. Grave-robbers across a field of tombstones and crosses, bone to bone and flesh shackled together.

That evening, not a squint-size of people walked the streets. A large portion was at the night's Sunday church services, the rest in their dwellings. Outside, there was a vicious freedom, untainted by noise. A numbed commotion inside the diner was all. At the front stools, baseball-capped men watched the dark o'clock news. Tom Gallenger, a despicable Smiths Ferrian, had gone missing. Next, the mumbling men predicted, the devil's face would have made it onto the backs of milk cartons. All possibility, but Nolan didn't mind.

Indeed, then there remained no souls in the hallow woods. This is where, after a mild lunch at the diner, Nolan and Lyle had gone to work. At about a quarter after eight, they'd begun digging up fresh holes. On these swampy marsh lands, nobody could be of witness. After a while, digging them up and slipping hand-signed documents into each one became a habit. A Dodge pickup stood at the edge of a row of holes, the headlights illuminating critter-buzzing ground for the men to dig. They were thieves hiding something, fresh after a great plunder.

What they hadn't hoped for was one pair of eyes in the area. On the far edge of town lived one person, and he watched them bring up the soil. Midnight oil, Lyle had that on him. He smelled like the bitter ash of a campfire. The place smelled like a sewer, so there was that.

"Looks good to me," said the Marlboro man. "A little dab of gum-juice wouldn't hurt none."

"You're sober," Nolan reminded him. He held a shovel between his hands. Before setting it upright in the soil, he felt eyes on him. "Stick to the cancer sticks, Jack."

A mosquito fell on his denim shoulder. It flew off, but the paranoia did not. These parts scared him, it was dark country. Some place to be avoided. He noticed his voice was trembling, taking feet with no breath in them.

"Plus," he said jabbing the shovel into the earth. "We have some deliveries to take care of."

"True that."

And with that, Nolan went to grab a plastic-bagged body. It was in the bed of his truck. He would came back, dump the body overboard, and sense that boss-man was smiling from somewhere. What would matter, would be those curious eyes peeking at them. They must think we're new, he'd thought and took note of it. He was not a local, but had passed through this small town like a bird from river to river. A toad from lily to lily.

"Neighbors are watching," he told Lyle as the churchgoers were praying. "We done?"

"Slicker than honey," the headman declared. He met Nolan's eyes. The thrill filled them. Lyle was having his predator day, a night on the hunt. The light from his cigarette crackled to life. "It's late, you got–"

"I have the rest." Nolan did have the rest of the graves. To himself, you see. It would be his task to fatten the holes back up. He grabbed the shovel, lifted a mucky boot out of the wet ground with a squelching sound, and nodded. "The graveyard shift."

"The graveyard shift," Lyle ushered him a cigarette. "Wanna hit?"

Nolan shook his head no. Hell, he had from now to midnight. After that, he would need to skip down. First thing in the morning. It was the best form of common courtesy he could have thought've. Now this was before Alexander's last gasp for air. He still had time to live down stuff, things among the nightfall. He wasn't scared then, and he certainly was now.

He was a killer, you ought to see. Just how much of a killer, he had no idea.

"You got five pits to tend to," Lyle reminded him. He pointed at Tom's spot, "Make sure you add extra dirt there."

"Shit."

"Don't think about it."

"I can try." Nolan covered his lower face with a handkerchief. He looked around one last time.

The headman, the sleeper leader, looked at Nolan. The man stood half in Tom's grave. "What happened here?"

"We killed a guy."

The headman's eyes strained the whites.

"He just got a little bit too hot," said Lyle. "You know what it's like. With the sun all day. People get hot, really hot."

"A little too hot," Nolan corrected him.

"We were all a little hot today," said Lyle. "The blood starts to boil."

"That's what happened."

A chilly breeze blew their way. It'd eddied past the mustard weeds, coming like the breath from a headless pigeon. As a matter of fact, right before Lyle left, Nolan saw his shadow had no head. He moved to the side, and then it appeared. He gulped down fear.

"All right, we're done here. Now what do you do?"

"Gonna catch the evening services."