Take the Long Way Home Read online

  DEADITE PRESS

  205 NE BRYANT

  PORTLAND, OR 97217

  www.DEADITEPRESS.com

  AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY

  www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com

  “Take the Long Way Home” first appeared as a limited edition hardback by Necessary Evil Press in 2006.

  ISBN: 1-936383-48-9

  Copyright ©2006, 2011 by Brian Keene

  Introduction ©2006, 2011 by John Skipp

  Cover art copyright © 2011 Alan M. Clark

  www.ALANMCLARK.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  Acknowledgments: For this new edition of Take The Long Way Home, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alan Clark; Joe Nassise, Gord Rollo, Tim Lebbon, and Michael Laimo (for the origin of this novella); John Skipp; Nick Kaufmann; Mary SanGiovanni; and my sons.

  For my parents, Lloyd and Shannon Keene, with love, respect and admiration.

  DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY BRIAN KEENE

  Urban Gothic

  Jack’s Magic Beans

  Clickers II (with J. F. Gonzalez)

  Take The Long Way Home

  A Gathering of Crows

  Author’s Note

  Although many of the exits and locations in this novella exist alongside Interstate 83 as it carves its way through Pennsylvania and Maryland, I have taken certain fictional liberties with them. Don’t look for them during your daily commute. They might have vanished along with everyone else.

  PEELING THE SKIN OFF OF GOD’S KNUCKLE SANDWICH,

  ONE PUNCH TO THE TEETH AT A TIME

  ____________________

  AN INTRODUCTION BY JOHN SKIPP

  Let’s face it: life is a bastard sometimes. It will sneak up behind you and kick your ass. It will spin you around and smack you right in the face, then jab you quick in the solar plexus; and as you whoof with pain, doubling over by reflex, it will bring its knee up to shatter your nose.

  You stagger back, squirting, and life moves in for the kill: a professional of such infinite experience that it seems almost bored as it takes you apart.

  If you get whacked around like that enough—and you happen to believe in God—then you might start to wonder, “What is WRONG with that guy? Is He some kind of crazed bully? Is He off of his meds?

  “WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?”

  Sure, if you’re big on passing the buck, you can blame it all on Satan. But WHO HIRED SATAN? In life—if you’ve been around the block more than once—you can almost always trace the muscle back to the source by following the money.

  Or you can blame it on yourself. Which is a good idea, when you’re actually responsible . . . but not quite as easy to swallow when you’re just minding your own business, trying to be cool, and suddenly life/God/Satan/whatever sneaks up and kicks the living shit out of you.

  Now, for all too many of us, the natural response to an onslaught by overwhelming odds is to curl up, protect the most vulnerable areas, and pray to God that we survive.

  If we live through it—and we always do, till the day we don’t—we are also left to puzzle out why this is happening to us. Why this is happening at all.

  But have you ever watched a good human being get hammered, over and over, and yet stubbornly REFUSE TO FALL?

  It’s an amazing sight. It happens all too rarely. It’s gladiator shit, on the most meaningful scale: a strength of character, a firmness of resolve, and a love of the best, most meaningful parts of life that is SO STRONG, and SO TRUE, that it takes every punch to the face it gets handed.

  Swings back, with all of its might.

  And keeps swinging, even as it gets pummeled to its knees.

  That doesn’t stop till it can swing no more.

  And, even then, wills its arm up for one more blow.

  This isn’t just testosterone and feisty DNA.

  This is a heart on fire.

  Which brings me, at last, to the writer in question, and the book you’re about to read.

  Brian Keene’s prose has a firm handshake. That was one of the first things I noticed. It’s strong, and direct, and personable, like the guy who stands behind it. He doesn’t try to dazzle you with wordplay. He doesn’t feint and weave. For him, this fight is not polite. And there is neither place nor patience for bullshit.

  Keene shakes your hand, then wades right in: a no-nonsense literary slugger with a keen wit, tremendous endurance, and a great sense of detail and rhythm and pacing. He places his blows just so, landing them right where he knows they’ll hurt, or surprise you with a simple, perfect, beautiful truth.

  I’ve only read three of his books so far—The Rising, Terminal, and the one before you—and if there’s one thread I’ve noted throughout, it’s an astounding resolve: defiance coupled with an absolute determination to see this through. A demand for understanding. And a deep, deep yearning for nothing less.

  So that peace can be found.

  So that peace can be earned.

  I respect the fuck out of that.

  In fact, I respect the fuck out of my man Keene, pretty much across the board. He’s one of the hardest-workin’ boyz in the biz (Go ahead! Ask him about his next twelve books!); and as a stand-up guy in a curled-up world, he’s uniquely great at galvanizing the literary troops, getting them up off their asses. I love to watch him work the horror crowd. It is, in a word, inspiring.

  One of the great delights of my career has been meeting the generation of writers I inspired: amazing guys like Brian Keene, Cody Goodfellow, and Carlton Mellick III (name-checked herein, in a wacky cameo). It makes me especially proud, because these cats are The Real Deal. If my shit helped, then—gulp—God bless me!

  I gotta say, though, that Keene is the one clearly emerging new rock star of horror, insofar as I’m concerned. If his books were music, they would occupy a working class, hard-earned space on the shelf between Springsteen, Eminem, and Johnny Cash (not surprisingly, three of his heroes). His edges are raw, his emotions are pure, and his grooves throb with the oftentimes-spilled, still heart-pulsing blood of the ages.

  That said, this isn’t a big-ass rock star turn. It’s more like Springsteen’s Nebraska, maybe gene-spliced a little with King’s The Long Walk: a whisper of godforsaken highway, wind whistling through the holes in a shattered acoustic guitar.

  No zombies. No giant earthworms.

  Just us, and our destiny.

  And a punch in the teeth.

  DOES GOD FEEL OUR PAIN? If It does, It is feeling this book, right now.

  Going “OW,” as the skin scrapes off Its knuckles.

  Maybe even questioning, for a moment, Its plan.

  Or, at least, in awe—as I am—of anyone who stands up.

  And takes a bite out of the fist that feeds them.

  John Skipp

  Just outside of L.A.

  December, 2005

  1

  I kept my eyes shut after the blast. My head was throbbing and blood filled my mouth. Wincing at the taste, I explored with my tongue and found that I’d bitten the inside of my cheek—probably on impact.

  “Steve?”

  Charlie. It sounded like he was in pain.

  “Steve, you okay?”

  I opened my eyes and blinked, staring at the dent my head had made in the dashboard. I spat, bright red, and then spat again. There were chunks of broken glass in my lap, and I wondered where they’d come from. Then it all came rushing back to me.

  “Yeah,” I groaned. “I’m
okay. How about you?”

  Charlie coughed. “Got the wind knocked out of me, but I’m alright. What the hell happened?”

  I didn’t answer, because the answer was obvious. We’d wrecked. It had all happened so suddenly. We’d just gotten out of work, and were crawling north on Interstate 83 during Baltimore’s evening rush hour. Hector was behind the wheel, cursing in Spanish because we’d just been funneled from four lanes down to two, and wondering why they couldn’t do road construction at night, after the rush hour was over. I rode shotgun, staring out the window at nothing and everything, watching the trees and buildings and road signs flash by, and half-listening to NPR’s All Things Considered. Even though it was Hector’s van, we took turns with the radio each day. He liked the Spanish station, I preferred classic rock, and Craig and Charlie both liked National Public Radio. But Craig and Charlie weren’t listening to the radio. They were in the backseat, arguing over the Ravens’ chances of making the Super Bowl this year, which according to Charlie were great, and according to Craig were slim to none and slim had just left town.

  I’d opened my mouth to warn Hector that the yuppie idiot driving the Volvo in front of us was gabbing on his cell phone and not paying attention to the road—but I never got the chance.

  Because of that weird fucking blast.

  It wasn’t an explosion. Didn’t sound like that at all. What it sounded like was a trumpet. The world’s biggest trumpet, blaring a single, concussive, ear-splitting note. I felt it in my chest when it went off, the impact vibrating my ribs. I hadn’t seen any smoke or fire. No mushroom clouds on the horizon. No airplanes slamming into buildings or box trucks blowing up on the median strip. None of the usual things you think of these days when you hear a blast.

  It must have startled Hector. He jumped in his seat and jerked the steering wheel hard. At the same time, the Volvo darted in front of a flatbed truck loaded down with huge steel pipes for a construction site. The truck swerved into our lane to avoid the Volvo, and we sideswiped a concrete construction barrier. The van came to a sudden, jarring stop. My teeth ground together. The air bags deployed on impact. I’d blacked out for a minute or two.

  And now here we were.

  I spat blood again.

  Charlie moaned in the back seat. “This is fucked up.”

  I didn’t respond. Each time I talked, I swallowed more blood. My stomach felt queasy. Unfastening my seatbelt, I brushed fragments of glass from my hair and lap, and turned towards Hector. My mouth fell open and blood dribbled down my chin.

  “Oh fuck . . .”

  There was a pipe jutting from his head. His eyes, nose, and mouth were gone, just eradicated, replaced with a twelve-inch round length of steel pipe. My gaze followed the pipe’s trajectory: from the ruined thing that used to be Hector’s face to the windshield, over the hood, and into the back of the flatbed truck. An old elementary school rhyme ran through my head: Through the teeth and over the gums, look out stomach—here it comes. My mind then changed it to: Through the windshield and past your gums, look out Hector—here it comes. I gave a nervous little laugh. The sound scared me.

  “Steve?” Charlie’s voice was concerned. It must have scared him, too.

  Sour bile rose in my throat, and my stomach lurched. I touched Hector’s bloody shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. It was a stupid thing to do, but the mind is funny that way in times of crisis. Hector didn’t move. His arms hung limp. There was an ugly splotch on his wrist where the airbag had burned him.

  “Is he okay?” Charlie asked.

  “Take a look. What do you think?”

  Somewhere behind us, a car horn blared, loud and obnoxious. I checked Hector’s pulse, but there was none. I’d expected as much, but I went through the motions anyway. My own heartbeat quickened. I couldn’t put my fingers under his nose to determine if he was breathing, because he didn’t have a nose anymore. He had a pipe instead. And besides, he wasn’t breathing anyway.

  Abruptly, the car horn died.

  “He’s gone.” The words caught in my throat. The whole situation seemed surreal.

  “Jesus Christ.” Charlie undid his seatbelt and leaned forward, pressing on my seat. “We’ve got to do CPR on him or something! Use your cell phone. Call 911, man.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to help him, Charlie. He’s dead.”

  “But—”

  “He’s fucking dead, man! He’s got no face. He’s got no fucking face…”

  “Well, how could this happen? I mean, we were only doing what, forty-five miles an hour? Maybe? The airbags deployed.”

  “Yeah. But he’s got a pipe sticking out of his head. It punched right through the air bag and into his head. His face is gone.”

  Charlie’s response was a choked half-sob, half-sigh.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.” He rustled around in the backseat and then paused. “Where’s Craig?”

  “He’s not back there?” I whipped around, and immediately wished that I hadn’t. The muscles in my neck and shoulders screamed.

  “Do you see him back here, Steve?”

  “Check the cargo space behind you.”

  “I did. I’m telling you, man. He’s not in here!”

  My eyes darted around the van’s interior, trying to confirm this new bit of information. There were no Craig-sized holes in the side door or back windshield. The roof and floor were intact. The doors were closed. But there was no sign of Craig.

  “Shit.” I pressed my face into my palms, trying to hold back the sudden and severe headache blossoming behind my eyes. “He must have been thrown from the vehicle. Come on. We’ve got to find him.”

  Charlie blinked, and I noticed that his pupils were dilated. They looked like two black blobs of India ink. He grabbed my arm. His hands were sweaty.

  “Steve, the only hole is the one in the windshield. Where the pipe is. He couldn’t have been thrown out.”

  I shook him off and opened the passenger door. Hot steam rose from the engine, smearing the windows, and I breathed in a lungful. I stumbled out onto the highway, coughing and gagging.

  Charlie followed. He leaned against the side of the van, his eyes wide and dazed. “We were only doing forty-five. We were only doing forty-fucking-five.”

  I got the impression that he was repeating the mantra in an effort to bring back Hector and Craig, as if verifying the safety of our speed would rewind the past two minutes. I reached for him. The ground seemed to spin and I fought to keep my balance. My legs suddenly felt like they were made of rubber. My ears rang, and I started sweating. I could feel it pouring off my forehead and pooling beneath my arms. Charlie said something, but it sounded like he was talking from the end of a very long tunnel. My vision dimmed.

  Shock, I thought. You’re going into shock. It’s okay, Steve-O. You were just banged around in an automobile accident, and one of your co-workers has been killed—he has a pipe in his face—and another one is missing. You’re allowed to go into shock if you want to. Nobody will mind. Go right ahead. Hector will still be dead when you wake up.

  I tried to speak. “Charlie—”

  “Yeah?”

  The road fell out from under me, and I dropped. Then God turned off the lights, and I blacked out again. I’m not sure how long I was out. Probably only a few seconds, but it seemed like hours.

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I was aware of was being thirsty. My mouth was dry, my tongue swollen. The second thing was that Charlie and two strangers were leaning over me. One was a black man in a neatly pressed white shirt and tie with a cross on it. I remember noticing his attire right away—end of the workday and this guy’s shirt still looked freshly ironed. Pants creased. Tie smooth, unwrinkled. He looked crisp. His wiry goatee and mustache were peppered with silver hairs, and when he smiled his teeth gleamed white. The other man was an overweight white guy in a yellow hardhat and flannel shirt. Underneath the flannel was a stained wife-beater T-shirt, stretched over his pro
digious belly. His nose and ruddy face were lined with the red veins of advanced alcoholism. His armpits reeked, and thick beads of sweat rolled off his cheeks.

  All three of them leaned close, staring at me in concern. I could smell the horseradish from the sandwich Charlie had eaten for lunch.

  “What?” I smacked my lips together, trying to work up enough spit to talk. My mouth felt like cotton.

  “You okay?” Charlie’s brow creased.

  I nodded, so that I wouldn’t have to talk. My hands hurt and I raised my palms to investigate. They were bleeding, cut by the small stones in the asphalt.

  “Just lie still, buddy,” the guy wearing the hardhat said. “I called 911 on my cell phone. Cops and an ambulance are on the way.”

  I turned back to Charlie. “Craig?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t find him. And nobody saw him get thrown from the vehicle, either.”

  I thought about this, turning it over in my mind. It didn’t make sense. Where had he gone? Craig couldn’t have just wandered away—Charlie had remained conscious immediately after the crash, and I’d only been out for a few seconds. We would have known if Craig had climbed from the van. He hadn’t. And he wasn’t inside the van either.

  So where the hell was he?

  Charlie glanced around, looking nervous and frightened. I wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling me.

  I struggled to sit up, but the black man pushed me back down. His touch was light, but powerful. It felt like all the strength in the world was in those warm hands. A small jolt of static electricity shot from his fingertips to my chest.

  “Easy now.” His voice was like flowing water. “Just rest until the paramedics get here.”

  My head still throbbed, but my saliva was working again and I managed to speak. “You are?”

  He smiled. “Gabriel. Or Gabe. Whichever you prefer. I caught you as you fell.”

  “Not quick enough, though,” the man in the hardhat grunted. “You scraped your hands.”

  I tried to sit up again, but Gabriel gently forced me back down.

  “Just lie still.”

  “I’m okay,” I insisted. “We need to find our friend. And our other co-worker, Hector, he’s . . .”