Left on St. Truth-Be-Well by Amy Lane Page B

bird-shit pyramids—without squealing like a frightened teenager and running away in his bobby-sox.
    “God forbid we kill anything about your willie,” Dale said, and Carson didn’t even have a comeback.
    He did feel better after eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and downing a soda. Dale flat out said he refused to order a salad wrap from McDonald’s, and since he was in the front of the car, Carson had to cave and eat some red meat. “Okay, fine, you just remember what happens to men who eat dairy. You’re the one who wanted to top.”
    “I can handle gas,” Dale said as he pulled on his own shake. “I don’t know if I can handle you getting all wussied out because you’re afraid of it.”
    “God, picky much?”
    “I’m really fucking picky, and don’t forget it,” Dale told him as he licked his fingers before wiping them on the napkin, and Carson rolled his eyes.
    “I’m picky too. Wash your hands like a human when we get to this mystery serial killer cabin in the woods, okay?”
    “It’s not the woods, it’s the swamp, city boy, and I’m not joking about alligators in the backyard.”
    Carson grunted sourly and threw his napkin into the bag, along with the two cartons and straw wrappers and other detritus that came with eating your dinner out of a white paper bag. “Yeah, I know. Ivan called me and told me I was looking for Stassy, and I googled the place to make sure none of the nature channels were exaggerating. I’m fully aware once we get there I’m at your mercy, surfer boy, don’t worry. If you really are a serial killer, I’m screwed.”
    “Yeah.” Dale nodded, completely serious. “It’s one of the reasons I put off getting a dog. I don’t want him to be alone all the time.”
    Carson sighed a little and looked out into the amazing darkness. No streetlights illuminated the quiet area. He could see the short palm trees and some of the other lush vegetation that made the place Florida only as a deeper black filigree against the darkness. “Isn’t that the worst part about being a grown-up?” he asked out of nowhere. “You have these things you think grown-ups should be, ways they should be, and you still believe that, even if you reach adulthood and realize that you can’t be that way. It’s like you’ll always be a failure because you can’t have your own dog, or you don’t have a wife and kids, or you don’t get a college degree or get famous, right? Even if you’re happy, you’re pretty sure you blew it.”
    The truck made its way through a series of twists and turns in what looked to be a small semisuburban neighborhood of little houses with big overgrown lawns. That topography was followed by a long, bumpy stretch of nowhere, and just when Carson stopped talking, Dale turned right, drove through a tunnel of underbrush, and stopped abruptly because the driveway ended.
    “You’re not happy,” Dale said, “and don’t get out yet.” From down under the front seat, he pulled a giant halogen lamp, which he plugged into the outlet in the truck and then switched on. It flooded the entire front yard with daylight, and Dale put his hand on Carson’s arm. “See? Yeah—gotta be careful at night—they tend to just hide in the corners.”
    Carson watched as a snake hiding out by the porch steps uncoiled itself in the glare and slunk silently away. His stomach went cold and he almost dropped his water. “Jesus fucking Christ….”
    “It’s okay. He probably wouldn’t have bit us as we were walking up, but you don’t want ’em to get too comfortable, you know?”
    “I have… I have no words.”
    Dale fumbled for Carson’s hand in the dark and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s okay, Carson. Most of the time we just need to know it’s out there. It’s like your mob-boss boss-guy. He’s probably deadly, but he really has no interest in hurting you, so you ignore him, right?”
    Carson looked at Dale irritably as he held the lamp over his head. “You ever think