By Ray Garton
Garton has created one other small masterpiece, modern grownup horror at its such a lot grotesque and loaded with additional doses of intercourse and gore. The constrained environment creates an ideal claustrophobic degree for the tale and the hellaciously speedy speed by no means we could the motion gradual down.
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They'd come to the truck stop together six years ago. Jon was nine then and out of school for the summer so Dad had taken him along to run a load of sheetrock into Tacoma, Washington. Jon had ridden in the truck before—a dark blue and silver Kenworth that looked, to a nine year old, much bigger than it actually was—but he'd never gone on a whole run with Dad and he remembered having more fun on that trip than in Disneyland the year before.
He was hauling—” Larry's throat was suddenly dry and scratchy and he stopped to swallow. “—caskets. Had a load of caskets. Uhh ... ” he laughed nervously. The man nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Yeah ... caskets ... ” Larry frowned. The man seemed to be thinking it over, digesting the information, as if it were news to him that the Peterbilt had been hauling caskets, as if it were important. And something else ... something that made Larry's scrotum whither like a walnut... When the man spoke, no vapor appeared in the cold air before his face.
The country music playing over the PA system clicked off for a moment and a female voice called, “Janitor to the travel store, please? ” The trucker looked up at Byron again, less conspicuously this time, but Byron saw him and, as he finished cleaning up the mess, shook his head, smacked his lips and muttered, “Dey jes’ ain't ‘nuff hours innuh day,” then wheeled his bucket, mop and broom away, still humming the song. He ambled down the corridor toward the store as the foyer door was pushed open to let in a man, woman, two teenagers—a girl and boy—and a little girl, all soaked through, covered with snow, shivering with cold and looking exhausted; the man had a large bleeding lump on his forehead and blood was trickling from the woman's lower lip.
Lot Lizards by Ray Garton
by Richard
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