Sixty-Five Stirrup Iron Road by Brian Keene

Author:Brian Keene
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Deadite Press
Published: 2013-12-04T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve - Wrath James White and Ryan Harding

It had taken Arrianne less than an hour to reach the home of Wally Ochse. Wally’s “home” was a double-wide trailer that looked like it had barely survived the last tornado that whipped through town. The roof had been torn off and replaced with several sheets of corrugated metal. The wheels were gone. It sat directly on the ground, embedded in several inches of mud.

A fence surrounded the trailer, and between the fence and Wally’s home was a maze of what could only be described as junk: broken Barbies, baby dolls, and weather-beaten, sun-bleached teddy bears; rusted bikes and automobile parts; broken furniture and cabinets; and appliances of all sorts, including old washing machines, dishwashers, gas ranges, televisions, stereo equipment, and old computers littered Wally’s front yard.

Arrianne wondered if she had the right place. A skinny, wrinkled, pockmarked man in his early forties wearing a shoulder-length mullet, cut-off jeans that were frayed at the ends, flip-flops, and a wife beater with mustard stains on it stepped out of the trailer and met her at her car. From the backseat, Dickey snarled as the man approached.

“It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.” Arrianne rubbed Dickey’s head and allowed him to lick her face before opening the door and stepping out.

“Wally. Wally Ochse. You Aryan?”

“Arrianne.”

“Ain’t that what I said? Aryan?”

“Yeah, Aryan. Close enough. Look, not to be rude, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can I get the diary please?”

Wally spit a dank stream of brown tobacco and saliva onto an old piss-stained sofa and held out his hand. Arrianne smiled and turned her head away like she was looking for something behind her, trying to politely ignore his outstretched hand for fear of catching something from it that soap and water couldn’t remove.

“If you don’t want to be rude, then don’t be. What’s your hurry? Can’t wait to get home and bump uglies with the hubby?”

Arrianne didn’t know what “bump uglies” meant and didn’t have to. Wally punctuated the statement with a few pelvic thrusts to illustrate the colorful colloquialism. He leered at her openly, staring at her breasts like he was waiting for her to whip one out and offer it to him. Lately, it felt like everyone she met either wanted to fuck her or hurt her or both. She’d heard women say that before but had never felt it until recently. Now it awakened all her feminist ire, and it was a struggle to keep it in check. She had to remind herself that she was in the middle of nowhere with a strange man and that Chuck, or anyone else for that matter, didn’t have the slightest clue where she was. If things got ugly, she was on her own and would be for a very long time.

“Do you have the diary?”

“I got it, but you ain’t paid me yet. I only take cash … unless you got something you want to trade?” His gaze crawled over every inch of her skin like a bath full of leeches.

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