Chapter Twenty Five

God’s fingers touch’d him, and he slept. - Tennyson

Chapter Twenty Five

Hep and Scroat arrived in Gallup, New Mexico with thirty minutes to spare. Since they had some time, they stopped at a gas station to grab a snack, then set out to find the exact location of their appointment.

They were across the street from a motel, with no real spot to hide and watch. So, they shut down their bikes and waited, watching along the railroad tracks for their mark.

“So do you know what the hell you’re doing?” Scroat asked Hep.

“Nope, but I figure I can play it by ear. The last couple attempts have been learning experiences,” Hep said.

“I sure hope this ends up as more than a fucking learning experience,” Scroat said.

“What are you worried about? You’re just along for the ride.”

“Yeah, well, watching you fail at something isn’t especially fun. You get all pouty.”

“I do not.”

Scroat was about to argue some more, but Hep whispered, “There he is!”

They could see the silhouette of a man stumbling along the railroad tracks. He was either drunk, or had some serious inner-ear issues. A train’s horn sounded. It wasn’t terribly far away, but they couldn’t see it yet.

The man had stopped and appeared to be pissing on the railroad tracks.

“Brilliant,” Hep muttered.

Apparently finished, the man hitched up his pants and continued stumbling along the tracks. He swayed from side to side, and the fact that he hadn’t tripped yet amazed Hep. The man had some kind of good reflexes, even drunk.

The train’s horn blew again, louder this time. They could hear the engine thrumming, and soon the sounds of creaking and crashing freight cars drifted to them.

“Any time now,” Hep said.

The silhouette had produced something from his jacket. A flask. He took a long drink from it, and put it back in his jacket, then walked on. The sounds of the train were now very clear, and in a matter of seconds, Hep was able to see the train’s headlight.

The train came closer, and it’s headlight illuminated the man walking along the tracks. He was wearing a jean jacket and grey work pants, with a green trucker’s cap. He was only about twenty feet away from Hep and Scroat at this point. The train’s headlight blinded him, and he held up a hand to protect his eyes.

In doing so, he lost his footing, tripped and fell right on to the tracks.

“There he goes,” Hep muttered to Scroat. The train passed them then, and they weren’t able to see the moment of impact and the man’s demise, but the two of them dismounted and walked over to where his remains should be.

Eventually the last of the train’s cars rolled by, and they were able to look at the spot where the man would have been hit. There was nothing there, not so much as a blood puddle.

“What the fuck?” Scroat asked, and looked up and down the tracks to see if the body had been thrown. Hep spotted him first.

“There he goes,” Hep said.

“What do you mean, there he goes?” Scroat said.

Hep pointed at the road, where a man in a jean jacket, grey pants and a green hat was walking and said, enunciating each word, “I mean, there he goes.”

“I thought he was supposed to get hit by the train,” Scroat said.

“He was! That’s what’s on the checklist here. It says Darryl Mueller, seven forty three, hit by a train.”

“Well what in the fuck is he doing walking up the street then?”

“Probably looking for a liquor store. Let’s follow him.”

The terrain between the railroad tracks and the road was steep and rough, and Hep had a hard time keeping his balance. Darryl was now nearly a block ahead of them, so they hustled to keep up.

Darryl stopped, and it looked like he was trying to work a cramp out of his leg. He had not yet noticed the strange pair that was tailing him. Hep and Scroat had nearly caught up with him when he started walking again.

The roar of tires on pavement let Hep know a car was approaching behind them. Soon enough, the car rocketed past them, swerved and almost hit Darryl. If he hadn’t stumbled to the right, he would have been creamed by a gray nineteen ninety one Buick Century.

“He’s got the devil’s luck,” Scroat said.

Hep grunted his agreement.

Darryl took a sudden left into the road, then. He swayed back and forth, somehow avoiding being struck by two passing tractor-trailers, a Corvette and the New Mexico chapter of the Devil’s Butlers MC. He wandered into a convenience store.

On his way out, Hep and Scroat were waiting for him on either side of the door. Hep had planned to just keep following him, but Scroat had another idea.

When Darryl had exited the store, Scroat drew a SIG P226 from a holster on his back and shot Darryl in the back of the head. Darryl did not manage to step out of the way this time.

“Where did you get that?,” Hep asked. He was stunned.

“I thought we might need it,” Scroat said. “Dirty deeds, and all.”

Darryl’s soul stood next to his body, and looked at Hep and Scroat.

“But I thought nobody could die anymore,” he said.

“Times are changing. Come on, pal,” Hep said. He grabbed Darryl’s arm and stepped out of this world.

When he reappeared, Scroat was already back by the motorcycles. Hep walked back to the bikes, and smiled at Scroat.

“So it went OK then?” Scroat said.

“Yep, worked out just fine. Let’s go find some beer,” Hep said.

They fired up their bikes, and rode on towards Albuquerque to find some trouble.