Author's Note: This is dedicated to my best bud for life, Cheap Indifference. Have a very happy fucking birthday. Half of twenty is only ten—and by that logic, you're still younger than me. I love you more than you'll ever know. Flames are welcome. Point out any and all mistakes.
Disclaimer: I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.
Jan. 1969
The truck catches fire five miles outside of Oklahoma City, on some road I've never heard of. Angela's standing on my right, and Mark's standing on my left, all of us stock-still and waiting. Dark hot flames are licking up under the hood, the heat already thick and dense enough that it might melt my face off if I stand any closer.
Our car is totaled. It's not ours, really—we stole it. But it doesn't matter, because now it's a heap of twisted metal, and I'm lucky nobody is seriously hurt. Angela's forehead is bleeding; she smashed her head on the dashboard pretty good, but she's alright. I can tell by the way she's cussing at me, saying this is all so fucked up.
I want to tell her that I know, but everything is shaking so badly I feel like I might choke on my tongue if I try to say anything. Mark looks over his shoulder, antsy, and gives my sweater a tug.
"We should go," he says, wrinkling his nose, his words half slurred together. It's the best idea any of us have had all night. The smell of burning flesh is starting to creep into the air, and it takes me back to playing chicken with Curly.
I stupidly follow Angela and Mark down through the ditch and into the corn field, and I know that this time, I won't be caught.
Angela phones Tim because she's scared and the only one of us that has any sense. I don't know where in the hell we are, but we're standing outside by some pay phone that looks like it's seen better days. But it's working, which is all I give a shit about.
Mark's pacing, swearing, stopping every few steps to kick at the street lamp. He's soaked right through his jacket and sweater because of the rain; and his matches won't light and his cigarette looks soggy.
"Mark," I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. "Stop it. Calm down."
"Calm down?" He turns around sharply and points at me with his smoke pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "This is your fault."
I blink at him and shove my hands into my pockets, feeling my ears heat up. He's right about it being my fault; I was the one behind the wheel, the one that ran the stop sign, the one that thought one more for the road was a good idea.
Angela loops her arm with mine and glares at Mark. "You're in this just as much as he is," she spits. "We both are."
But Mark's right. I can't help but thinking about the person I killed—if they had a family, where they were going, what they were doing. Mostly, though, I wonder if they were scared and if their fear was the same fear I've always imagined my parents feeling right before they died.
Because nobody dies instantly.
Tim pulls up in front of us with Marty Fox in the front seat, looking pale, and sick, and in so much pain I can't help but feel bad for him. I don't know much about Marty, other than him being Tim's second in command, but he has a younger brother named Lee that Curly and I hang out with.
I watch Marty climb out of the car, face twisted, hand on his side as if that's going to make him stop hurting. Tim gives his shoulder a clap, and I think he looks either relieved or worried, or even both. Jane and Curly are with them, except Jane doesn't get out. She rolls the window down and sticks her hand out, waving at me.
"Hey, Ponykid," she says brightly, smiling. "Rumor has it you fucked up."
"Glory, news travels fast around here." I lean up against the side of the car and swat at her hand as she laughs at me. "This ain't funny."
She looks up at me and shakes her head. "You're right—it's hilarious."
It occurs to me then that I have no idea what Angela told Tim. I don't think this is something that Tim can fix; it's out of his control. Someone is dead because of me, because I didn't use my head, and the cops are going to find out before long. I'll either get thrown into the state pen, or get the chair—and either way, I know I deserve whatever's coming.
"You wanna see somethin' that's really funny?" Marty nudges me, forcing a grin, his voice tight and dry. "Check it out."
He lifts his shirt up and all I can see is a bloody rectangle of bandage, with nothing funny about it. But he's still grinning as if he's proud, as if he thinks maybe it'll make me feel better.
Jane pokes at it. "There's nothing funny about getting shot, Martin Fox."
I feel my stomach drop and my head starts to spin. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I think I might be sick. Marty sighs as he puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Tim and I got a plan," he says quietly. "It'll be like none of this ever happened."
Angela's telling Tim where to go. I have my head against the window, watching the ground rush by. Vaguely, I wonder how fast Tim's driving, if maybe someone will come along and blindside us, and why the hell Tim is helping us. He should be beating my head in for getting his kid sister into this mess.
Fuck. I nudge Jane and look at her wide-eyed. "Don't tell my brothers." I'm practically begging. "Don't tell anybody."
She just puts her head on my shoulder, smiling. "I won't tell a soul, Ponykid."
The truck is smoldering, sitting exactly where we left, on this wire-fence road I don't remember driving down. Mark is in the car, burning through his smokes, and I feel as if I'm in some sort of a stupor, detached from the reality of what I've done.
"What were you driving, kid?" Tim asks me, looking around.
I swallow. "A Plymouth."
He scowls at me. "I don't see no Plymouth, Curtis."
I can't breathe. My mouth is dry and I can't keep the panic down. Angela starts pacing, cussing, asking Tim if this is some kind of a fucking joke.
I stagger off toward the car and lean in the window. "Mark…" I rub my face and slam my fist against the car. "The car we stole is fucking gone."
His eyes are red-rimmed and wide. "Bull-fucking-shit." He throws the car door open, looking like he might hit me. "That's bullshit."
It doesn't make sense. A car doesn't just grow legs and walk away.
"What if the fuzz got it?"
"Shut up, Mark," I snap, because that's the dumbest thing I think I've ever heard. "The fuzz ain't gonna take one car and not the other."
And they aren't going to leave behind a dead body.
Jane and Curly come stumbling out from the cornfield, shaking their heads, but I can tell they didn't go looking for the car. They look too happy, too satisfied. I could shake them both.
Marty has on bright yellow kitchen gloves, and he's trying to get the body out of the truck. It's half burned and stuck to the seat, and I don't know how he and Tim can keep their stomachs. This isn't normal.
"There's no car anywhere, Tim," Curly says, and he cringes when Marty drops the charred skull. "There ain't no marks or nothin'."
Tim looks unconcerned. He shoves a pair of thick gardening gloves at Curly and scratches his jaw. "Didn't think there would be."
Curly pulls the gloves on. "I hope you got your shit figured out," he says, cracking his knuckles.
Tim just smirks and watches Marty stuff what he can of the body in the garbage bag. I swallow and look at Jane instead. She's fixing her hair in the mirror, and I can see the hickeys on her neck.
"Where's Mark and Angela at?" Curly asks.
"Went for a walk," I tell him, thinking they were the smart ones and that I should have gone with them.
Tim narrows his eyes when Marty hisses and presses a hand to his side, curling in on himself. He lights a smoke and wrinkles his nose, and he lifts Marty's shirt up enough to see the bandage. It's bright red and starting to peel away from his skin. I swear I see Tim pale, thinking maybe he's even starting to look as sick as I feel. Marty looks worried, and I know he's relying on Tim to tell him he'll be okay. Because Tim's never wrong.
"Take it easy, Martian," Tim says, handing him his smoke. "Give your gloves to the kid and go clean yourself up."
"Me?" I think this might do me in and finally make me sick; I don't know the first thing about cleaning up dead bodies.
But Marty shoves the gloves at me and shrugs as he walks off.
"I ain't letting my best friend bleed to death because you were too stupid to pay attention to a fucking stop sign." Tim's eyes are livid. "Get your ass moving. Now."
I have a feeling this isn't part of the plan.