H A N K B E L B I N
About
Last Night in Town
First published March 2022. 3,500 words
Now available as an Audiobook
“The world is more alive at night; it’s like God isn’t looking” — Elvis Presley
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The following tape recording was found at the scene at the Sundance Motel near the Belle River, Louisianna:
“Testing... One... Two. Well, I’m live, and here I am. Yet another lonely night, driving on yet another dark highway in this foul year of our Lord 1988. The headlights of other solitary drivers are all passing me by in a haze out there. It’s all just a blur. I wonder how many of them are thinking the same thing? Cooped up in their little aluminium coffins like me. Life. It’s all just some goddamn pantomime, and we all know it, but we go through the motions regardless. You walk down the streets at night and everyone’s behaving like dogs. The buildings are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos and the diesel smell in the air makes you want to gag on your own tongue. Kind of makes you wonder what it’s all for, don’t it? Driving alone in the emptiness of night always has that ability to install a sense of melancholia in me. Here I am, and here lies behind me just another wasted day gone up in smoke. The awful city in my wake spills out like an overflowing sewer across the delta. Here lies a man, not that the cavalcade of prostitutes and losers on the street corners would care anyway. Usually, I would be all sombre and depressed on this kind of night. But, not anymore. Not now. No, tonight is a special night: it’s my last night in town. I'm grinning from ear to fuckin' ear.
I just left New Orleans. I just robbed the CBS there on the outskirts. Stuck my blade right in the man’s face and told him to give me everything. No, I didn’t kill him. I just put the fear of God in him instead. Under my arm, as I left the store was a crate of Miller Lite, two bottles of hooch—one of which is now half empty—and two packs of Marlborough Reds. Not to mention $259. Yep, it’s gonna be one wild night. I stole one of them dictaphones that you see on detective shows too. A little hand-held tape recorder thing. That’s what I’m speaking into right now. Treat this recording as a confession, a diary, an acknowledgement of my existence, or whatever you choose. It doesn’t really matter to me. By dawn, I won’t be here anyway. And I’ll tell you why…
That asshole boss of mine called me into his office just before clocking out on a Friday. And you know what? He fired me right there. Can you believe that? Thirty years I’d been with that company. Thirty years of my life given to them and some slick little bastard in a tie calls me in and fires me without severance on a Friday afternoon. He said I was ‘underperforming’. That’s the word he used. I hate that kind of talk. That’s one of them buzz-words that carries a lot of weight but doesn’t actually mean anything. Twenty years my younger and he fires me. No talk, no warnings, just a cold cut. The little bastard probably can’t even tie his shoelace and he’s got more money than the entire floor I worked on.
I went to Brown. I worked in finance my entire life. And he treated me like I never meant nothing. But I tell you what does mean something. I stole his car. A suave little Mercedes with a convertible roof. That’ll teach him.
Why? Because I just don’t give a crap anymore. I’ve been nothing but a good person my whole life, and where has it gotten me? Just another divorced fifty-year-old bum whose kids won’t even pick up the phone to him anymore. Well, tonight cowboy, it ends. I’m going off the edge; out with a bang. I’m heading to Lafayette, and I’m gonna kill that slick little prick. On the passenger seat is my Remington 870 shotgun, and two Colt 1911s. He deserves it. That’s what I think. People like him get to do what they want and the rest of us suffer in silence. The world is on a diagonal now, but tonight, I’m the balancing point.”
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On the I-10…
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“It’s a bit later now. Must be midnight? I can’t quite read my watch, on account of the bourbon. But, I thought it best to document this night as and when it unfurls before me. And boy, I thought I’d document this. I’ve just pulled away from some fly-ridden gas station outside Baton Rouge. I think it was off Interstate-10. I’d just filled up the little tin can that was my boss’s car, and as I did, I stood there in the silence. The night was quiet, quieter than normal.
Had to admit, I felt pretty exposed. The air seemed thicker than usual. It was hot. The pops of sweat ran down my back like beads of oil. The flies buzzed all around the twitching halogen lamps in the forecourt. I peered beyond that island of light at the station, and out to the dark bayous of Atchafalaya beyond. They stretched on endlessly into the sultry night. Toads ribbited, and at the edges of the swamps, just past the highway, the hissing of those crocs was as clear as cop sirens to me. Something was not right back at that station. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink, but something don’t feel right at all. There’s a net settling over us tonight.
I saw a man slumped over back there. He was near the ATM. He was convulsing and fitting. The cashier in the station didn’t take any notice of either of us out there on the forecourt. I stood at the car and looked down at him. At first, I just thought he was just some junkie. Just another crumpled life. But then I saw his mouth, and what was frothing out of it. A thick bubbling white liquid. Rabies. The poor son of a bitch had rabies. When you get to the point where you’re fitting on the asphalt of some gas station, you’re pretty much fucked. His face was all swollen and bruised like he'd been stung by a gang of hornets; like his face was half-filled up with water. But, the thing that really scared me was how in between the man’s excruciating fits, he managed to glare right at me and point his finger at my body. His eyes were wide and black and hollow and he just stared up at me, grasping, while all the froth and sickness of the damned seeped down his vest. He didn't even seem to be living anymore. His mind had left him. Maybe he was asking for help? It was like a warning or a bad omen, but one I didn’t understand. I was so shook up that I leapt into the car and sped away from the station, kicking up bits of stone as I did. The gas station disappeared into the wall of blackness behind me like a fading star. I dared not look back in the rearview mirror, just in case, that man was still there on the forecourt, pointing at me, dying, choking, decaying. His swollen bloodied eyes still staring at me…
That was a while ago now. I’ve managed to finish the first bottle of hooch, and now I have no idea where I’m driving to. Guess I just wanted to get away from the crazy bastard.
Because of that, I think I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. That’s what happens when you see some lone dying man sucking on his last petrol-soaked breathes at the edges of society. It sends you off the reservation too. Something’s not right. Feels like tonight is our night of judgement. There’s a pestilence coming.
All around me are those endless bayous and swamps. The single road I’m on, carving its way down the middle of the dark mire like a great tarmac snake towards my terminus.
Anyway, let’s forget all that for now. I tell you one thing though: Louisiana is hotter than the Devil’s asshole. Must be Old Scratch himself coming for me. Time for a cigarette and a swig of bourbon. I think it’s time for the Rolling Stones too. Let’s welcome the old bastard to my side, shall we…”
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Two hours go by…
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“It’s official. I’m lost. I don’t know where in Christ’s name I am. I even entertained the idea of turning back and sleeping this one off, but now, I am well and truly in the back O’ beyond. Cajun Country. So much for one wild night. This was not the type of ‘wild’ I had in mind. The rows and rows of Cyprus trees out there in the bayous are starting to make me feel uncomfortable. And I’m still speaking into this dumb tape recorder like it means something. It’s one in the morning and I’ve started on the Millers. ‘Bout halfway through the crate. I think I may be heading towards Vermillion Bay, but can’t be too sure. You know, they call it the bay of blood? Vermillion was a red substance made from Mercury Sulphide. Imagine that? Oh, who even cares?
The swollen silver moon is hanging high in the sky above. It’s casting this weird scintillating glow over everything. Out there on those swamps is where all the Creole fishermen made their huts. Makes me scared. How the hell do people live out here? Might as well live on the far side of Saturn.
The road just keeps…
Wait… what the fuuuuck is that? There’s people on the road ahead. Four of them. Shit. I’ve just passed them by.
Jesus Christ, I think they were dragging a body off the road. I just saw a couple of shirtless ragged people dragging something across the asphalt and into the woods back there. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving. It looked like a body…
Sheesh. There’s something wet on the road. It’s black. I can see it in my rearview mirror. What the Hell? Did I just witness a murder?
Their faces didn’t look right, man. The waning of the moon highlighted all their disgusting features. They looked like… that guy back at the gas station. Their faces were all swollen and bleeding from the eyes. Have they got the rabies too? What the hell is wrong with these people out here? I swear one of them had some kind of scythe.
I don’t like this, man. I’m turning back.”
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Much later…
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“It’s two in the morning. I guess I was pretty shook up after what I saw back there on them dark roads, so I stopped off at the nearest motel I could find. The Sundance Motel it’s called. Somewhere down by Morgan City. One of them yellow-stained old lodges that only truckers and drug dealers dare stop off at. I’m sitting on the single bed in the cheapest room they had.
I can’t put that scene out of my head. For some reason, I can’t be shut of it. I mean, what the hell were those people doing out on that road at night with that… body? They moved different. They all walked like they were drunk and didn’t know where they were. Something’s abroad here. Feels like it’s all connected somehow. The rabid man back at the gas station was trying to warn me. But, warn me of what? I don’t know.
The motel is a sad old thing. Faded neon sign with half the letters blown out. The mould on the walls of the room is slick and black and full of promises of illness. The carpet is damp and I’d be damned if I take my shoes off. I set out to murder my boss tonight, but instead, I ended up in the armpit of Hell. Nothing else to do now but drink myself into oblivion. Nothing else to do but wonder just how far off the rails I’ve fallen. By sun up, the last of the booze will be gone. Whoever finds this tape, if I’m no longer alive, I didn’t commit suicide. The mould on the walls probably got me. Yes, that was a joke, asshole. Very funny. Ha. Ha.
If it’s any consolation, I was never going to kill my boss. I guess I just wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me. I wanted him to fear for his life. And for my sins, I’m fearing for mine. Maybe they’d go easy on me if I return the car with a full tank of gas?”
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Much later into the night…
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“I don’t know what to make of any of this. Honest to God, I don’t. I’d just woken up in a daze on the damp floor of this shitty motel room. I’d finished all the booze and I guess at some point in the night, I must’ve passed out on the carpet here. When I finally got up out of the puddle of vomit I’d found myself in some time later, I looked up at the clock on the wall. It said 3:13. It still says 3:13. But that’s impossible. I must’ve checked into this dive at two in the morning. That, plus a couple hours drinking and watching bad cable TV should’ve taken me up to at least daybreak. I remember the blur of adverts and softcore porn. But it’s still nighttime out there. The clock on the wall still says 3:13. The second-hand ticks but doesn’t edge any further forward. Something is wrong here. But, that’s not what has got me so rilled up though.
Something else just happened. Something I’m not sure I have the words to even explain right now.
As I raised up and sat on the bed about ten minutes ago, trying to shake my head clean of the hangover, I’d heard something. This low scratching and slapping sound. It was coming from my left, towards the bathroom. It sounded like lazy flesh rubbing against wood. Blearily, my eyes were tugged towards the bathroom door. On the other side of the cheap pine door, something was rapping against it. I dropped my gaze to the base of the door and saw that the lights were on in there. The two pillars of shadows that could’ve only been legs moved around in the light. Someone was in there… Someone was in the room with me.
I jolted up in shock. I didn’t remember ever using the bathroom. I didn’t even know what it looked like. The second I’d gotten into this roach pit, I started drinking. And that was that. But, when I’d woken up from the blackout, the fear sunk back into me, cold and hard. My heart pounded in my ribcage like a nuclear bomb. It was the same fear I’d felt when I saw them strangers on the road earlier, the ones that were collecting the ‘road kill’. It was the same primal fear that a deer must feel when the hungry stare of a wolf is on its back.
Instinctually, I’d reached for the shotgun by the pillow. I didn’t make a sound. Each movement was slow and cautious. With one smooth motion, I’d grabbed the shotgun and cocked it. The mechanism only gave off a faint click. I stood up from the bed.
Then, with slow, soft steps, I approached the bathroom. The shotgun pointed out ahead of my torse like a protecting spear. I sucked in quiet, controlled breaths and crept towards the door. On the other side, I heard coughing, shouting, sobbing. Whatever it was, it was once a human.
I reached out and clasped the doorknob firmly in my palm. Then, with resolution in me, I yanked it open. When the door swung back and revealed what was on the other side, I screamed.
There, standing in the middle of the bathroom, bathed in the twitching amber lights was a man. Except, he wasn’t a man anymore…
Parts of his body were all infected and swollen like they were filled with pus. The thing craned its head up and stared at me. He saw me and came staggering out of the bathroom towards me. Trousers down round his ankles. His shirt was all ripped up like he’d been brawling with a crocodile. Worst of all, his face was swollen and bloated; just like all the others. The pores in his skin squirmed like they were filled with worms.
“Jesus! Who are you?” I think I’d asked him. But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Thick black liquid poured from his mouth and eyes. His hollow eyes reflected a mind that had left long ago. Now, there was only this rabid and feral animal in front of me. He coughed a bunch of spit and blood onto the carpet, then he screeched and hissed as he lurched at me, arms outstretched, ready to embrace me as one of his own. I yelped and without even thinking, raised up the shotgun and let loose with two 12 gauge buckshots. The shotgun kicked like a mule in my grip. And the diseased man absorbed the shots like they were nothing. I stood in front of the writhing thing and was utterly shocked. He was still standing. The two shots hit him dead in the chest and put a hole straight through his ribcage. Any normal human would’ve hit the deck like a sack of spuds. But he didn’t…
I remember screaming. Maybe I shouted something at him too.
The man spasmed and then tried to run at me. In a split second, I let off one more shot at his head. The thunder of the shotgun sounded like a stick of dynamite going off in my ears.
The man’s head snapped back from the impact. Then, when his head raised back up again, it was all mangled and bloody. I just stared at what was left of his face, clutching my shotgun tight.
As he stood there, his body swaying from side to side, the skin on his head peeled off like a banana. It dropped down to his neck in flaps and the writhing black husk underneath was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I don’t think I’ve described that properly. Let me say it like this: underneath his skin, there were no bones. There was no skull. Instead, this thick slithering worm came out from his throat and took the spot where the man’s face used to be. I gasped and took a step back, pointing my Remington up at it. It looked like a black anaconda that had been hiding in his chest the whole time.
The man’s body slumped to the floor with a thud. I stood above him and peered down at the utter horror before my eyes. All around his corpse now was a strange black blood that seemed to be teeming with some kind of pond life. The slick black worm protruding from his neck then wriggled free of the body and slithered off quickly to the bathroom. It was more scared of me than I was it. It fled down the plughole of the bath and left behind it a trail of clear ooze, like a slug.
“What the fuuuuck?” I think I’d said. Then I threw up some.
I tell you, I was so overwrought that I dropped my shotgun and fell to my knees before God right there and then. I prayed and prayed. What was happening scared the shit out of me. Is this punishment for my sins? Is this my perdition? I don’t know.
All of that was about ten minutes ago, and the clock on the wall is still saying 3:13. I think this might be Hell.
Just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I got up from the bed and peered out the yellow-stained windows of my room. In the dim parking lot of the motel are about ten of those same people. They’re waiting for me. All of them bloated and motionless, like they don’t know what to do with themselves Some are stumbling around and crowing up at the moon. Others are standing still and throwing up this tar-like substance at their feet. Their skin is bubbling with sores and boils.
I don’t know what’s going on here, but they’re all sick. There’s a pestilence going around. Maybe something in the water? It all started with that man back at the gas station. I should’ve listened to him. Goddamnit!”
Four hours later…
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“It’s been at least an hour now. I haven’t moved. Neither have they. I’m sitting at the desk, and the clock still hasn’t moved forward anymore. I think this might be my end. Jesus, how did I get here?
You know, I had a wife once? Been divorced about ten years now. Clara was her name. Yeah. Everything after that went to shit. I guess since the papers were signed, it all went into a downward spiral. Can’t say I’m surprised.
… I haven’t been exactly been truthful, by the way. Now that it seems I’m about to join the ranks of Hell, I guess I should be. He didn’t fire me for underperforming. He fired me because I drank too much. Goddamn. Since Clara left me, I’ve been hitting the bottle pretty hard. I’ve tried to come off it, but the withdrawal is like nothing I’d ever expected. It’s…
So, here I am. Just another lonely bum on his way out. I doubt I’m the only one. It hurts in your chest, you know? That razor-tipped sadness that only cuts in deeper as the years crawl by. Eventually, everything good leaves you; until you’re nothing but a bloated vessel, full of cheap booze and blue ruin. In the end, you find yourself spilling your guts out over the sides like some burst mains pipe full of rag water, spewing it all out to anyone who will listen. You find yourself sitting alone in a roach-pit, mumbling into a stolen tape recorder, doubting yourself; and trying to piece together the broken mirror of just how you managed to fuck your life up so much? Did I imagine the whole goddamn thing? I don't know. A part of the alcohol withdrawal is hallucinations. God, I pray it’s that. But, as I look across from me, back at the unnamed headless and diseased man that once was a human; he’s still on the carpet not ten feet away from me. So I guess this must be real…
I don’t want to be like this. If I get out of here, I’m gonna change. I promise. Just give me one shot. Just, let me live. I’m gonna make a break for it now. There are ten of them infected outside my window, but the car is only across the parking lot. My guns are loaded and I want to escape. If I run, I think I can make it. Here goes nothing. Well, I did say it was going to be my last night in town…”