The Dirt Chronicles by Kristyn Dunnion

Author:Kristyn Dunnion
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Short Stories
ISBN: 9781551524313
Publisher: Arsenal Pulp Press
Published: 2011-06-21T16:00:00+00:00

Shaker Baker

Nothing.

That’s all there is at first.

I’m dead, I think. Finally.

Then the pain kicks in: the rolling ache in my head builds to stabbing points in each eye socket. My stomach twists and bloats with gas. The crazy-making itch starts up again, like worms chewing through sub-layers of skin, skin that holds my bones and bruises all together. I massage my jaw; it’s sore from clenching my teeth. I clear my throat and hork out chemical-flavoured post-nasal drip.

Okay. I sigh. So I’m alive.

Wherever I am in the world, I’m also lying on the floor between a wall and an old couch. Actually, I’m halfway inside the back of the couch. Hiding from the cops. The fabric is torn away. I can see the wood frame, springs above me, little bugs crawling around, the stuffing pulled out of cushions and neatly piled up in tiny rolled balls of fluff. A pyramid of fluff balls, all the same size, all carefully stacked and counted. That was me, last night, tweaked, fiddling with that stuffing for hours, right after taking my transistor radio apart and lining up the pieces along the baseboard, biggest to smallest, darkest to lightest. Wires and plastic parts, dials and buttons, the coded flat metal pieces all glare at me. What the hell was I thinking?

I pat the chest pocket of my cotton shirt. I can feel the baggies in there, should be two of them left, with clear chunks of beautiful Vancouver meth—an eighth of an ounce, at least. I wiggle my toes. Packets of other stuff I picked up during the raid are hidden in my shoes. My stash.

I pull myself out from behind the couch slowly. My stick legs drag behind, heavy and numb, like they’re somebody else’s. Sunlight blasts through open windows. It’s squinty bright and way too quiet. Morning. I’m in the Factory, alright, even if it’s unrecognizable. I know the smells: sawdust and sheet metal, spilled beer, dirty laundry, rotting bags of dumpstered food. Over top it all is the hot stench of pig shit from the slaughterhouse next door.

I remember Ferret twirling me around last night at the party, trying to get me on the dance floor. She always stood up for me. Cricket and Oreo, even Digit—a hell of a nice boy—knew better than to trust a basehead like me. How could I dance? Me, tweaked, knowing the cops were right outside, knowing I brought them to the doorstep. Desperate to find Sly before the raid. My stomach cramps just thinking about it. I freeze, hold my gut. My ass puckers, but I don’t shit myself. The cramp loosens, the pain rolls away again. I scratch my scabby arms. I pick at my lips.

“Ferret? Anybody?” My voice is a screechy mess.

No one answers. Pigeons purr in the loft. Water drips steadily. Outside, a truck downshifts. Its brakes squeal, just like the pigs it carries. I hear it chug up the long gravel drive.

My legs tingle pins and needles. I limp along the dirty floor, past Oreo’s smashed turntable, all that broken vinyl.

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