I've been drivin' all night, my hand's wet on the wheel
There's a voice in my head that drives my heel

- Golden Earring

The luncheonette is laid with talking floors
and the waitress says it was salt but I know arsenic
when it's put before me. And the yellow taste of mustard
to mask the bitter odor of almonds.

- Stephen King

Kill them.

Wayne DiRosario stood before the full length mirror in his bedroom, an annoyed look on his face. He slowly buttoned the white long-sleeved dress shirt, his fingers trembling.

Kill them. Kill them.

Done, he picked up the shoulder rig and slipped it on. He took the .357 from the dresser and shoved it into the holster, snapping the strap across the handle. He selected a tie from the rack by the mirror and threaded it around his neck. It was red with diagonal white-trimmed blue stripes. Next, he shrugged into a dark gray blazer.

Kill them! Kill them!

"Will you shut up?" he asked. "I'm going to."

He flashed a smile at his reflection. He looked like a public defender or a small town mayor.

Kill them. Criminals. Kill them. They're criminals.

Ignoring the voice, he grabbed his suitcase and carried it out to the Jeep, which he had backed as close to the kitchen door as possible. The hatch stood open. He slid the case in then went back inside. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a door off the kitchen and snapped on a light. He took down a long black case from the top of a bookshelf, sat it on a desk crammed with papers, and unzipped it. Inside was an M4 rifle with a scope attachment and extra magazines. He checked them, made sure they were all fully loaded, and then grabbed a green rucksack from a corner. He opened it and rummaged through it. Duct tape. Ropes. Knives. Zip ties. Night vision goggles. Lock picking kit. Flashlight. Other handy things.

Criminals. Incest. Criminals. Gay.

"I'm not fucking gay!" DiRosario spat, holding a hand up. "I'm not!"

Killers. Armed and dangerous. Take them out. Terminate. Kill, kill, kill.

Sighing, he slung the rucksack over his shoulder: It was so heavy that he nearly toppled over. "Holy shit," he muttered, his back screaming. He grabbed the rifle case and went out the door. He loaded both into the Jeep's cargo hold and slammed the hatch. When he saw Junior Preston leaning against his side of the fence, a crooked grin on his face, he jumped.

"Hey ya, Wayne, headin' out?"

"Yeah," Wayne said, "I have..."

He knows. They all know. Laughing at you.

"...a case." He almost shouted the last two words; he could barely hear himself speaking.

"Good!" Junior replied loudly, his dumb, wrinkled face glowing with borderline retardation. "Work's good!"

"It sure is, Junior."

Wayne went back inside and did a final sweep of the house, making sure he had everything. He grabbed a zip tie and opened a door, flicking a switch. In the dimly lit basement, he went over to the cage wedged between the stone wall and the long defunct boiler. A naked woman was curled up inside, not moving. He opened the cage and lifted her head. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. "I'm going away now," he said as he wrapped the zip tie around her neck and pulled. Her eyes shot open and her cheeks puffed out as she gasped for air. "I'll take care of you when I get back. Okay?"

He locked the cage and stood over her as she thrashed like a fish flopping on the shore. She was a criminal, a prostitute plying her disgusting trade on , that cyber cesspool that had been the bane of his existence for fifteen years. Wayne hated prostitutes, the way they strutted around in their hot pants and boots like Medieval plague rats, spreading pestilence and death in their wake. They were almost as bad as drug dealers. He sneered as she died, his heart racing. He put his hands on his hips and waited for her to fall still. When she did, he spat on her and went back upstairs. On his way out the door, he grabbed the picture of the Loud family from his kitchen table. Behind the wheel of the Jeep, he clipped it to the sunvisor and stared at it.

Kill them. Mommy doesn't like it. She knows. She hates it. Kill them. Kill them.

He counted eleven children, ten of them girls. They looked happy and normal.

Except for the perps.

Luan Loud, her arms crossed and her eyebrows angled down, reminded him of his mother. How many times had he come home from school to see her staring at him that way, angry over something he didn't do? Luan wore a skirt and a blouse whereas his mother wore housecoats and muumuus. Still, they were the same person.

She came back for you. She came back. She came back.

He saw his mother's face where Luan's had been, and blinked. It was gone, but the cold horror remained in his stomach, slick and oily.

She came back.

Lincoln, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, watched the camera with marked disinterest, his lips tight.

How many people had they killed already?

Dozens, Wayne figured. There were probably bodies from here to Chicago; shot, stabbed, strangled, burned, shoved into the trunks of cars and dumped in bushes along the highway. They were like Bonnie and Clyde, or Charles Starkweather and that little slut Fugate, killing their way across the country and laughing at him. Always laughing.

I came back for you, his mother spoke from the middle of his head, I came back, I came back, I came back.

"Shut up," Wayne said.

Catch me if you can, Wayne. Do it right this time.

He suddenly had the intense desire to drive by Heaven's Gate cemetery and make sure she was still in the ground.

I'm not. I'm with Lincoln. We're kiiiiiiiiilling people, Wayne, killing them and dealing drugs.

Wayne raked his hand through his hair.

Oh, and incest! Hot, dirty, disgusting, unnatural, immoral incest...

Wayne turned on the radio, threw the Jeep into drive, and pulled out onto Quincy Ave, turning north toward the interstate. He drummed his fingers against the wheel as The Bee Gees made their way through "Jive Talkin'" glancing up at the picture of the Louds every couple minutes. Luan stayed Luan. She did not become his mother. He needed to think like her. My name's Luan Loud and I like puns. My parents said I wasn't a-loud to have sex with my own brother so we robbed them and left. Now we're killing people and having disgusting sex.

They were following the interstate. It was the most direct route west. Luan was unsure of herself. She wouldn't take backroads. She was young.

Wayne merged onto I-94 west and fell in line behind a tractor trailer. "You're listening to your hometown station. 95.9 WGRQ. Super hits of the sixties and seventies." John Mellencamp came on next with "Jack and Diane." Wayne listened to the lyrics, shocked at how aptly they fit Lincoln and Luan Loud. They were two American kids growing up in the heartland...then something went wrong and they became monsters. It was a message. He was on the right track.

As he drove, Wayne scanned the shoulders of the highway for dead bodies, but didn't see any. Somewhere ahead, along the highway, were the killers. And he was coming for them.

They stopped at a rundown motel in the town of Hinton, fifty miles east of Chicago; it was an L-shaped building with a green slate roof and moldy brick walls. There was only one other car in the parking lot, a silver Toyota pick-up truck with Ohio plates.

It had been raining for over an hour, alternating between heavy downpour and light drizzle. The cars in front of them kicked up heavy sheets of water, and Vanzilla's ancient windshield wipers struggled to keep up.

"I'm starting to see double," Luan croaked at one point, her eyes squinting against the glare.

"Let's stop," Lincoln said. He was tired too; he could sleep anytime he wanted, but it didn't seem fair when Luan couldn't. Plus, he didn't want to look like a little bitch. "We're far enough away. What are they going to do, hitchhike after us?"

"No, but the cops –"

"We don't have to worry about the cops."

"Yes we do, Lincoln," she said. "Taking a stolen vehicle across state lines is a federal crime."

Lincoln did not know that. "I know that, but out of all the crimes in this country, we're pretty low on the totem pole."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

They took the next exit and followed a series of road signs to the motel. RELAX INN screamed the sign out front. While Luan went into the office, Lincoln fiddled with the radio and eyed the Coke machine under the covered walkway. He could go for a Coke once they got settled.

After a few minutes, Luan returned and climbed behind the wheel. "Room 116," she said, throwing the van into reverse and backing up. "You ever notice how Indians and Arabs own all the motels?"

"No." Lincoln said. "And that's vaguely racist."

"Fuck you," Luan said humorlessly as she pulled into a parking space.

"Fuck you too."

While Luan went into the room, Lincoln went around to the back of the van and grabbed their bags. He dropped them inside the door and studied the room. The walls were faded wood paneling, the single bed was neatly made with a floral print blanket, a painting hanging on the wall over it (a flower grove), and a table and chair set sat by the curtained window. The light came from a lamp on the nightstand. It was warm and low.

"I need a shower," Luan said, and glanced over her shoulder with a crooked smile. "I'm still sticky from lunch."

Lincoln grinned as he remembered.

"I'll do that later though," she said as she yawned. "I wanna get dirty again."

"Sounds like a plan," Lincoln said.

While she used the bathroom, he went back out to the van, opened the door, and reached into the glovebox. Inside, he sat on the bed, opened the nightstand drawer, and sat the gun next to the obligatory Bible. Just in case. Lots of weird people on the highways and byways of America. You can never be too careful.

Luan came out of the bathroom and kicked out of her shoes. With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Then she laid back and propped herself up on her elbow. With a smile, she motioned him forward with her finger. Lincoln felt himself starting to stir, and with a smile, he went to her, putting his hand on her face and tilting his head, their lips touching and their tongues meeting. Lincoln pushed her back against the bed and slipped his hand into her shirt, his fingers finding her nipple and stroking it. She kissed him hungrily, desperately, her hand working at the zipper of his jeans. When he came free, she took him in her hand and ran her fingers up and down his shaft, making him shudder.

She broke the kiss and mounted him, her burning center enveloping him in wet heat. She planted her hands on either side of him and grinned naughtily. He suddenly wanted to see her with her hair down, so he reached up and pulled her scrunchie out: Her hair spilled free and hung down, enshrouding their faces...blocking out everything but their passion.

"I love you, Lincoln," she said. "With all my heart."

"I love you too, Luan," he replied, and kissed her slowly, cherishing the taste of her mouth. She shifted her hips and took him inside of her, his member sliding wetly through the veil of her sex and deep into her stomach, her satin walls undulating around him, her muscles clenching ever so slightly as if in welcome. He ran his hands up her legs and to her hips. She tossed her hair and found a smooth motion, Lincoln taking his cues from her and rising up to meet her. She gradually increased her speed until she was going so fast the headboard slapped a steady tempo against the wall. All Lincoln could do was hold onto her butt for dear life, his nails digging into her soft flesh. She was panting, her head up and her eyes closed, her hair in lying lank in her face. She was so beautiful, and Lincoln simply watched her, letting go and taking her cheeks in his hands, running them down the sides of her face to her slender throat. She was gasping in time to the headboard's beat, her tunnel beginning to constrict around him as her body prepared to cum. In response, he swelled against her, his love threatening to rip her in half. She cried out as she brought herself down one final time and then convulsed with her orgasm. Lincoln, gritting his teeth, let himself go, his seed flooding into her.

For a long time afterwards they held each other, their breathing gradually calming and their pounding hearts falling, sweat drying on their skin.

"You know how many times I dreamed of this, Lincoln?" Luan asked, stroking his cheek.

"Not as many times as me," he replied, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"It made me so mad that I couldn't have you," she said. "You were right there, close enough to touch...but I couldn't." Tears welled in her eyes, and he hugged her against his chest.

"Me too. But that's over."

She sighed. He was right, it was over, but why did she still feel anger in her heart? Why did she feel the same old rage that she'd been feeling for three years?

Holding her, Lincoln wondered much the same thing. It was all over and he had his precious Luan, but deep inside, the embers of his fury still glowed, and beneath that, the cold, cold ash of depression.

It was over, but they were scarred.

Not realizing this yet but feeling something, they held each other close and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Wayne DiRosario drove long into the night, the radio turned up and the A/C on, the vents pointed directly at his face, the air so cold his teeth chattered. They had a roughly fifteen hour jump on him. The girl was the only driver, so that meant they'd have to stop. The van was big enough from what Lynn Loud said that they could stretch out inside, but something told him they would prefer the comforts of a motel room. Criminals are soft. He was not. He would sleep for a few hours in the Jeep when he could drive no longer, which might very well be soon. His eyes were starting to blur and his mind was beginning to get muddled. The voice was weaker, coming less frequently. For once, Wayne missed it.

Killers on the turnpike. Criminals. They're killing people as we speak, as we speak, killing people.

Wayne rubbed his grainy eyes and blinked. On the radio, Eddie Rabbit sang an up-tempo song. WGRQ went out around Battle Creek, and he had to switch channels, settling on a station playing classic country. Wayne liked classic country. It was pure, not like the new crap, which was filled with criminals and perverts: All the songs were about sex. Sex. Sex. Sex. And the occasional mention of fried chicken and dirt roads to remind you you were listening to a country song.

It was after 2am by the soft green glow of the dash clock. Wayne had stopped only once, at a TA truck stop near Lake Michigan to gas up and hurriedly eat dinner: A BLT on untoasted bread. That's the hardest sandwich to poison. Unless they slather it with mayo, you can taste it. The waitress was a fat old lady with cat-eye glasses whose face was bloated and stern. She made Wayne uncomfortable. At one point he saw her talking to the cook through the little window to the kitchen, then they both looked at him. His coffee tasted funny after that and he didn't drink it.

They know. Criminals. They know. Killers. Coming for you. They know, they know, they know killers killers.

Wayne paid and rushed out, feeling like he was going to be shot. For a moment he considered taking out the M4 and raking the place with vengeance, but he had to hurry. Lincoln and Luan were pulling ahead, slashing throats and holding hands like a couple of children in a nursery rhyme.

He'd been on the road ever since. He wasn't sure when they'd stopped for the night, or if they even planned to sleep the whole night. He did the math in his head and figured they'd either be in Chicago or almost to it. If they left at 2am, 24 hours ago, he doubted Luan would have made it much past 5 before needing to sleep, meaning he could catch up with them possibly tomorrow if he didn't sleep long.

He glanced up at the picture clipped to the sunvisor, his eyes narrowing at her knitted brows and crossed arms. I'm coming for you, killer.

At ten to three, he pulled off the highway and parked in a rest area parking lot: A big brick building with bathrooms and snack machines was nestled in a grove of trees and lit with bright floodlights. A man held the leash of a small dog as it squatted in the grass.

Wayne parked as far away from everyone else as he could, locked all the doors, and rested his head against the window, his arms crossed over his scrawny chest.

Soon.

Soon he would make those killers pay.