Fall of '69 Ch. 04

Anticipating a hasty departure, I drove to the gas pumps and filled my tank, all the while keeping an eye on the van. Then I backed into a space in plain sight, hoping they'd recognize the truck and give a reaction that would identify them as Becky's assailants.

While I waited, my mind wandered over all the bad things that might have happened to Becky since she was taken. If these were the kidnappers, I'd caught up to them faster than I would have dared hope, which means they'd spent a lot of time parked, doing God knows what. Doing Satan knows what, would be more appropriate.

When I'd worked myself up to a blind panic, and was about to bust a window and break into the van, three people exited the diner and headed toward Satan's milk truck.

From a distance, they looked like the walking dead -- faces gaunt, eyes dark and deep set. One was a girl, or appeared to be a girl, only because she wore a dress, which hung straight as a drape on her wraith-like frame. My anger exploded when I noticed she wore one dirty blue sneaker and one, clean and bright, red one.

Immediately, I climbed out of the truck and leaned against the grill, careful not to block the Pennsylvania license plate. All three looked in my direction, but it was the girl who showed surprise, and whispered in the ear of the zombie to her right.

They tried to ignore me, but walked faster toward the safety of their hell on wheels.

I jogged the 10 yards to stand between them and their van. "Hey! What's shakin'?"

The lead zombie put up his hands in surrender. "Nothin', man, we're just leaving. Not looking for any trouble."

Trying to keep my anger under control, my voice vibrated with menace. "I think you asked for trouble when you took something that belonged to me."

In a placating, calm tone, he asked, "What was that, my friend?"

I didn't have any proof of a crime, so I had to bluff. I'd brought Becky's sneaker, and held it out, then pointed at the zombie-girl's red sneaker. "That belongs to my girlfriend. You also have my eight-tracks."

The girl's shocked expression told me all I needed to know, but she obligingly added, "How did you--"

Lead zombie barked, "Shut-up!" and she wilted like a dead flower.

He tried to walk around me, pretending I wasn't there. But he stopped when I threatened him with the tire iron, which I'd also brought with me, in case the sneaker wasn't persuasive enough. Hopefully, they weren't packing a Saturday Night Special, which would nullify my tire iron in a flash.

We were in plain sight of the diner, so the zombies had to worry about causing a scene. I figured Satanist preferred working in the shadows, and not in front of a crowd. I, on the other hand, started to feel like a crowd would be nice company.

No guns or knives materialized, so I assumed all their weaponry must be in the van.

"Give me the keys," I said, "and I'll have a look, while you wait here. If I find what I want, you can go."

No one made a move, so I love tapped the lead zombie on the shoulder with the iron. "Now!"

"Give him the keys," said LZ to the other male zombie.

Quickly, he handed them over and I marched to the truck, watching over my shoulder to make sure they didn't follow.

Inside the cab, I immediately spotted a switchblade on the center console and pocketed it. Glancing through the windshield, Satan's trio hadn't moved, but they were talking with hushed intensity.

Screw them. I grabbed my Stones tape from the player, inadvertently crushing the player with the tire iron afterwards. They'd have to sue me for damages. After another quick glance, I ducked through the curtain that separated the cab from the cargo bay, and my heart jumped into my throat. Becky was hog tied, hand to foot, with a pillowcase over her head.

Choking up, I said, "Beckster, Everything is going to be all right. It's me, Don."

She began to whimper and roll back and forth.

I pulled off the pillowcase and pulled a bandana out of her mouth saying, "Hold still, Baby."

The switchblade came in handy. She was free in seconds.

She mumbled incoherently and tried to stand, but couldn't balance. They must've drugged her, to keep her quiet and manageable.

"Put your arm around my shoulders."

We stood in a crouch and I opened the back door. I got out and then helped her out.

"Beckster, hold these." I handed her the tape case, and she was able to cradle it against her stomach. With my free hand, I grabbed the tire iron and her sneaker.

In the light of day, I noticed her pants were open and the sweatshirt I gave her was ripped. Bile surged up. I glared at the zombies from between the trucks. They stood rooted, like tombstones in a graveyard.

Instead of taking Becky out into the open, I helped her walk behind the abandoned trailer that stood between their van and my pickup. As fast as we could stumble, we made it safely to my truck, and I locked her inside.

The zombies were due for some hell-raising. Since they loved the devil, I was in the mood to arrange a face to face meeting with their idol.

Just as I rounded the front of my pickup, Satan's milk truck tore past, raising a cloud of dust and throwing stones. I never thought to ask them for the spare ignition key.

All I could do was watch them go. The fight drained out of me. Becky needed me, now.

Out of the cloud of dust flew a red sneaker, bouncing to a stop 30 feet away. Maybe they were afraid I'd hunt them down for it. I picked it up and returned to my truck, trying to think rational thoughts. My first priority was Becky.

We sat quietly for several minutes.

No one from the diner seemed to have noticed anything unusual. But from the look of the place, unusual might have to be an alien landing. Non-involvement was the status quo.

Becky's cheek was red and swollen. She didn't seem able to open her eyes wider than slits, and had a hard time holding her head up. She had to lean against the door for support.

"Beckster, I'm taking you to a hospital."

"No! Don't! Take me home."

"You need help. We need to call the cops."

"No. I won't... talk to the police."

"What did they give you? What kind of drug?"

"Made me... swallow some... pills."

I held her wrists and pushed up her sleeves, looking for needle marks, but didn't find any.

"Your pants are undone, Becky. What did they do?"

Her body jerked as if shocked. "Nothing. The girl... wouldn't let them touch me."

Becky pulled up her shirt, baring a little belly skin, to button her jeans. A black line had been drawn on her stomach.

"What's that?"

She mumbled, "What?"

I reached over and pulled the sweatshirt up, until I could see the whole design. They'd drawn a pentagram on Becky's stomach.

Bleary eyed, she slurred out, "What is that? I don't remember that!" She clumsily spit on her palm and tried to rub it off, but couldn't. "Oh, Doc, I need to get it off. Take me someplace, where I can wash it off. Please!"

It was a mistake. I know that now. But all I wanted to do was take care of her, evidence be damned. Her emotional health was the most important thing to me.

"Okay, Beckster."

A few minutes after we were on the smooth highway, Becky fell asleep. Sleep was good. Sleep off the drugs, nice and peaceful.

As we drove through Indianapolis, I kept my eyes open for Satan's milk truck, but never spotted anything even close to resembling it. Night had fallen by the time I pulled into a shiny Howard Johnson's motor lodge. While Becky slept, I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Carter. It felt weird, but good. I hated disturbing Becky. I thought about carrying her across the threshold like newlyweds, but it wasn't the right time for that.

"Becky, wake up, Honey." I gently shook her. "We have a motel room. You can wash up now."

She sat up, still woozy.

I opened her door, put the sneakers on her feet, and tied them. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah."

We had no luggage. Appearances were immoral. Good thing no one knew us. Our room, 215, was on the second floor balcony. We struggled up the stairs like a couple who'd partied all day. Once the room door was open, we headed straight to the bathroom.

I was afraid she'd drown if left alone, so I helped her into the shower and then joined her. Whatever they used to draw the pentagram on her stomach was difficult to wash off. We sat down in the tub, while I scrubbed. Becky drifted in and out of reality. The sedative they'd used must've been powerful, but she didn't appear to have any problem breathing. I waffled on what was best for her -- waffled between emergency room and observation, and settled on personal observation.

After 30 minutes, I had Becky dry and under the covers. She looked comfortable and peaceful.

I was exhausted, but my mind wouldn't shut down. What if they raped her? Would she remember? What if she was pregnant? In my feeble brain I concocted a contingency plan. Instead of sleeping in the other bed, I slipped naked into bed beside her. If she were pregnant, I'd tell her it was mine. I'd tell her I had sex with her when she was still drugged. It was wrong, but at least she could claim to know who the father was. Wrapping her in my arms, I held her close, sure that if she moved it would wake me.

Some hours later, she rolled over and I woke up. I listened for any distress and heard none. I felt her hands on me, caressing me.

I whispered, "Becky?"

"Shh," she answered, as her fingers aroused my body.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving my Good Samaritan."

Her body was soft and warm, her hands persuasive. She kissed me gently, while adjusting her hips. I felt her moist heat swallow me. The gentle undulation of her hips seduced me.

It was then I knew she'd been raped. It was then I knew she had devised the same plan of plausible paternity, as I.

I took control and rolled on top. Kissing her passionately, I showed her exactly how I felt. I finished what she'd started, planting my seed where none other belonged.