Eric Dimbleby - White Out

Marcus eyes weren’t “wild” in the sense that they would dart all over the place, like he was nervous about something that nobody else could see. No, that was strictly for movies and mental wards. On the contrary, there was a calmness that overtook his burning eyes. Those feisty retinas calculated everything around him, taking in the world with a different filter than the rest of humanity. His eyes were wild in that they looked like they might explode. Mikey’s brother, Binky, once referred to Marcus as having “supernova eyes.” Mikey wasn’t all that sure what he meant by that, but it seemed a fitting enough description.

They’d come to a full stop.

“You hear anything?” Mikey asked, looking over at Marcus, who stood up on the snowmobile, staring off into the distance. That wildness was there, lurking behind Marcus’ demeanor, just about ready to make an appearance and burn the whole damn town down.

“Yeah. I can hear it. She’s way ahead of us, but I think we can get her if we keep a move on. Fucking bitch ,” Marcus said, staring over at Mikey. A fake smile filled Marcus’ face. “We’re gonna crack her skull in, Mikey. You and me, we’re gonna piss inside her brain and see how smart she is then. You hear me, Mikey?”

Mikey thought that sounded a little bit harsh, but he’d go along. Mikey was insufferable like that, sadly enough. He always went along and always would. There wasn’t really any other option with guys like Marcus. If you went along for the ride, then you really went along for the ride. No half commitments. No half measures. All in, or get the fuck out , Marcus was known to say before something unsavory popped up on their itinerary.

“She messed with the wrong guys,” Mikey said, trying to put an edge on his voice, failing miserably. Marcus nodded at this sentiment, pulling his goggles back over his eyes and adjusting his gloves, as well as the hood on his down jacket. Marcus lit up his rig again, revving on the throttle. His pearly white teeth glowed in Mikey’s direction as he did so. Marcus adjusted the choke and revved again. His bright green Arctic Cat chewed through gasoline like a hog, so he was always fidgeting and complaining about it, but never really doing anything about the situation, as was Marcus’ manner. He’d offered Mikey a trade up— snowmobile for snowmobile, no backsies —last fall, but Mikey refused because his own vehicle had belonged to his father before he died. Marcus didn’t push as Mikey expected him to, but the guy had a sentimental streak in him, albeit small and thin like a piece of floss.

“You bet your ass. If she thought we were nasty to her last night, she’s got a whole new game coming her way when we catch that sweet ass this time around. Lessons gotta be learned for what she did,” Marcus shouted over the sound of his motor, smirking as he took off into the white abyss, slowly at first, and then cruising with ease.

Mikey started up his Arctic Cat (two years old, but infinitely more reliable) as well. It seemed that Marcus planned to walk them straight to the gates of hell. Mikey always knew that would be the case. He knew since they were little sprouts that he’d eventually get into some serious law-bending shit for his associations with the hottest hothead in the whole dang county.

The chick from last night had killed Mikey’s cousin. Dan had been the only family Mikey had. Now it was just Marcus, though they had no common blood running through their veins.

Dan was gone from the world forever, with his throat stabbed by the woman they were now chasing. She’d have to pay, that was for sure. Mikey wasn’t all that interested in being the one to do it, but that didn’t mean that a debt was rightly due. Ever since they were kids, he kept a fair distance from Dan, as his cousin always lived up to the cliché of a tiny dog that projected the false sense that he was much larger.

In a way, he was glad that Dan was dead. He didn’t dare say that to Marcus who had been closer to Dan than any of them, but he was just a bit glad, all the same. Dan was an angry little shit and finally—for the first time in his life perhaps—his short man’s anger had finally subsided. When they had gone inside The Purple Cat, only taking enough time to look at his mother’s sister’s baby boy, Mikey stared at the body and took in the sight, thinking to himself that he could never recall such a look of peace on his vertically challenged cousin’s face.

Marcus, on the other hand, considered Dan ( Dinky Dan , as somebody once called him at the bar—that person was quickly dispatched with a serious ass-kicking on Dan’s part) his best friend. Ever since they were children, they were inseparable. Mutual friends would come and go, depending on the weather and the state of the family, but Marcus and Dan always stuck close. They possessed a similar kind of sickness, equally twisted in their own special ways. Marcus wasn’t blood, but he might as well have been for all the good times they’d had together. In reality, Mikey might have never become friends with Marcus (might have been for the best, he now thought) if it hadn’t been for his cousin Dan.

As they’d stood over Dan’s rigid body, Marcus had wept. Mikey turned away out of fear that Marcus would lambast him for noting his unexpected weakness. The man had sobbed deep and long, letting loose that solitary sentimental streak, and then he pushed it aside just as quickly, that vapid fire burning behind his eyeballs.

A few yards ahead of him, Mikey noticed that Marcus started to scream. It was so shrill that it could be easily heard over the loudness of the snowmobiles.

Marcus was ready to rip her into shreds.

Annie couldn’t help but smile.

There it was, in all its glory.

Dreams of Bangkok.

It was their favorite restaurant, from way back before everything had gone to shit with Christian. They couldn’t ever dine on premises (which saved them tip money and made up for a shortage on diaper money) due to a lack of babysitter, but they ordered takeout from Dreams of Bangkok at least once a month. Since they’d started their “separate lives” under the same roof, they’d been fending for themselves at dinner time each and every evening, offering each other bits of their own specially prepared meals, though neither ever gave in to that extended olive branch.

Annie could practically taste the pineapple rice on her lips as she thought back to their first “date night” after Paulie’s birth. Annie’s mother was in town, visiting for a long three-day weekend, and so she insisted that they go out on the town. Once Paulie was in bed for the night, they escaped and the feeling was profound for both of them. It almost felt as if they’d never get out in public again. Togetherness was a strange sort of brew, so they’d both found, for a newly christened parent.

Christian was especially romantic that night, something he struggled with on most occasions. Annie was lucky to get flowers and a box of chocolates from the grocery store on Valentine’s Day. He never engaged in elaborate gestures, mostly because he was one of those guys who just didn’t “get it” like others did. In fact, Christian had once said, “If you want a cooing dove and flower petals all over the bed, you should have married a gay guy or an eighties music video.” Annie had laughed at the joke, mostly because there was a shred of truth in it.

“Remember our wedding night?” He had asked her, once upon a time, spooning a load of Pad Thai noodles into his mouth. “Remember the guy that gave you the flower?”

She had smiled at the quickly retrieved memory, which reawakened after lying dormant in her mind for several years. “I do,” she had said. “The homeless guy, right?”