Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

“Hellllll. .” she groaned.

“Fuck!” Harold said. “Fuck!”

Mama gasped, a spike of barbed wire tearing her trachea. “Hellll. .” she whispered. “Helllllppp. .”

Then she was dead.

Harold’s gaze was everywhere at once. The concrete bunker. The tumbledown chapel. The shooting range. The cars and the surrounding ridges and the old dirt road that stretched forty miles to the highway.

But there was nothing. No movement at all except the vultures circling above, patient and black and hungry.

Sweat poured off Harold’s bald head and trickled down his neck. What the fuck had he been thinking, anyway? Angel Gemignani belonged to a Mafia family. He had fucked with them. Seriously. And he had come up short. And now they had found him. And when it came to blood vengeance and torture that made you pray for death, no one outdid the Mafia.

No one even came close.

The vultures circled lower and lower. Soon one landed, talons scrabbling as it balanced atop Mama’s head.

Harold turned away, his gut lurching. The bunker. He had to check it out. If Eden was still alive, that’s where she would be. And right now all Harold wanted was to be with her.

Even if the bunker was full of Mafia hit men. Even if Eden was already dead. He wanted to see her one last time.

He wanted to say that he was sorry before the end came.

But the bunker was empty. There was no sign of Eden or her Daddy. No sign of Tura or Lorelei. And not a single Mafia hit man, either.

Harold stepped through the front door. The sun beat down relentlessly. Man, today it was hot on top of hot. Harold couldn’t remember another day like this one.

He started toward his Chevy. Maybe the Mafia guys had taken Eden with them. Maybe they were going to use her for bait so they could round up the rest of the gang.

Harold didn’t know if he could rescue her. There probably wasn’t much of a chance. He wasn’t exactly a fucking knight in shining armor. But he had to try-

The creaking sound came from behind him. He whirled, pistol raised in his right hand just as the chapel door swung closed.

Maybe the door had been closed all along. Maybe the movement he’d seen out of the corner of his eye was just an illusion-a false image planted in his brain by rippling heat waves. With this heat, it looked like damn near everything was alive. Today had to be a real record-buster. If Harold stayed out in the sun much longer he would no doubt witness a first-class mirage-an oasis, camels, leaning palms, harem girls. .

Harold’s clothes were sticky with perspiration. The.357 was growing hot in his hand. The pistol grips were so slick with sweat he was sure he’d drop the gun any second.

No sign of movement from the chapel. The door didn’t budge. Harold stared at the sign above the door, the snakeskin letters on blistered black enamel that proclaimed: hell’s half acre church of SATAN.

Magnum held high, Harold walked toward the chapel. His feet were heavy, like he was wearing weighted diver’s boots. Walking through heat waves instead of ocean waves, kicking up little swirls of dust. .

He knew what he was going to do before he did it. And he knew how stupid it was. But he reached up and did it anyway, because at heart he was still a good Catholic boy.

Harold Ticks crossed himself and entered Satan’s church.

The place stunk of dead things. Old bones. Books bound in human flesh. Rattlesnakes frozen in threatening poses by the taxidermist’s art.

And then there was the sound. The lazy buzzing of fat black flies. The insects cut slow patterns through the musty air, never leaving the chapel, always returning to the same spot.

Daddy Deke lay on the altar. Unlit candles surrounded him, trickling lazy ebony droplets as they melted in the afternoon heat. The top hat with the rattlesnake band was balanced on his chest and his string tie was cinched up tight, but he did not look at all peaceful. His eyes were open and glazed, and his thin lips were drawn back over yellow teeth, and the fat black flies buzzed in and out of his open mouth.

Harold spotted the rattlesnake bite on Daddy’s cheek as he drew nearer, but he wasn’t sure that the bite had killed Eden’s father. Someone had bound the old satanist to the altar with barbed wire. You didn’t bind a dead man.

Someone had bound Daddy, and then that someone had sliced Daddy Deke’s throat from ear to ear.

Harold could see that now. A fly crawled into the open wound. A moment later the same fly buzzed out of the corpse’s mouth, its black body wet with blood.

Harold retched, dropping to one knee. Coffee and bile burned his throat and he tried to choke it back but couldn’t. . his mouth opened and he vomited a hot black stream.

His pulse pounded beneath the SS tattoo on his neck. Sweat bathed his brow and burned his eyes. It was too damn hot, and the taste in his mouth was awful, and whoever had killed Mama and Daddy Lynch probably had taken Eden, and who the hell knew what the sick fuck had done to her.

Or would do. .

But where would the killer take her?

Mama was outside, lashed to a yucca tree. Daddy was in the chapel, bound to the altar. And Eden. .

Harold stared at the back wall of the chapel-the old mine shaft that cut a black hole in white Mojave soil.

No, he thought. . No way I’m going in there. . That’s it. That’s all.

Harold crouched on the floor. No woman was worth this. He should have never come back. He should have kept on driving east. Hell, even Salt Lake City was better than this shit.

He’d get the hell out of here. That’s what he’d do. He’d drive east.

Harold stood and wiped his face. He stepped toward the open door.

Outside. A sound.

Tires whispering across Mojave soil.

Harold retreated into the darkness, clutching his.357.

Someone was here.

Tura screamed like a demon when she saw her mother’s corpse cinched to the yucca tree.

Harold watched Eden’s sister through a crack in the wall. Man, she’d flipped. The crazy redhead was pacing back and forth in front of the twisted yucca, that Steyr AUG gripped tightly in her hands. .

Tura aimed it heavenward and let loose with a long burst of gunfire. “Come out, you bastards! I’m here! I’m waiting!”

Harold watched her. Jesus. He couldn’t believe it. No way was he going out there. Not with Tura acting like this. She would probably think he fucking killed her mama. .

And wait until she saw Daddy. Jesus H. -

“Hi, honey.”

Harold nearly shit himself. “Eden! You’re still alive!”

She stood at the mouth of the mine shaft, wearing black leather, lace-covered wrist braces, and her carrion beetle sunglasses.

“What happened?” Harold asked. “Where have you been?”

Eden set a glowing kerosene lantern on the altar next to Daddy’s head. “Daddy told me that I should take a walk. I did. I’ve been down in the mine. Just walking, like Daddy said. You know, he was right about the mine shaft. It leads straight to hell.”

“What?” Harold glanced through the crack in the wall. Tura fired another burst and screamed. “Look, Eden, you need to get a grip on things. Your daddy’s dead, honey. And we have to-”

“I saw it,” Eden said. “I saw the River Styx. I bathed in its black waters. And I saw the dog.” She laughed, short and hard. “I don’t mean the Chihuahua. I mean the one with three heads-”

Jesus. She was gone. Gone. Harold glanced through the crack in the wall. Tura was headed this way.

“Honey.” Eden held out a hand. “Come take a walk with me.”

“Eden, we don’t have time for this-”

“Sure we do.”

She plunged the rusty knife into Harold’s back again and again.

Harold dropped like a sack of potatoes.