The Orchid Eater by Marc Laidlaw

wrench. He was short and wiry with snarled
black curly hair. In his ripped-up, oily jeans and tank top he looked like a
real mechanic. Only his friends knew otherwise. When Dusty had finished with
the engine, it might never work again. He had a tendency of working on things
when he was dusted, as he was right now. That was how he got himself
“motivated.” His eyes sat on shelves of bone above pits so deep and dark that
the flesh might have been scooped out with a grapefruit spoon; skin seemed to
have been applied sparingly to his bony head, laid onto the skull like gold
leaf. His shoulders and pectorals were covered with tattoos of hollow, tubular
waves—surfers’ wet-dream pipelines, with little Vaughn Bode guys crouched down
low at the tips of rakish boards, all ten toes gripping the tapered noses as
they shot the tubes on tropical-sunset fantasy beaches. Hawk had never known
Dusty to so much as wade barefoot in a tide pool.
    “Whatta
those little fuckups get themselves into this time?” he said.
    “The fag on
the hill has a posse out after them.”
    “Man, I’m
sick of bailing those skinny-ass punks out of their messes. This is the last
time, man. The last time. I got my own troubles.”
    Stoner said,
“I’m not going near that place. That motherfucker Sal tried to kiss me once.”
    “Shut up and
get the shotgun.”
    “Awlriiiiight!”
Dusty said. “That sounds more like it.”
    Stoner
pounded up the makeshift wooden steps of the trailer; he’d destroyed the
original metal stairs by coming down hard on them on the same drunken night
Hawk invited him to stay until he found another place. Months ago, that had
been. Another source of friction with Maggie.
    “Come on,
Dusty, we’ll take the jeep.”
    Dusty
nodded. “That’s good, ’cause this mother won’t start.”
    “Somehow I
had that impression.”
    Stoner
clambered back down the steps, swinging the shotgun in one hand, clutching
something shiny in the other. Hawk took the gun and grabbed his other wrist.
Stoner flinched, twisting away, trying to hide what he had.
    “Give it,
you oaf. You want to get us all killed?”
    Stoner hid
his hand behind his back, looking sheepish at having been caught.
    “Come on,
come on.”
    Stoner put
out his hand. The grenade looked about the size of a grape on his broad palm.
    Hawk jumped
back a step. “Jesus! Didn’t I fuckin’ tell you to put those somewhere safe?
Somewhere if they blew up, they wouldn’t take out half the town?”
    “They’re
safe, Hawk. They’re all in their crate except a few loose ones I got padded in
socks.”
    “In socks?”
    “Hey,” Dusty
said, “them dirty ones are like cast iron. Safer than a lead trunk.”
    “Just go put
it away, would you? And not back in the trailer! Jesus!”
    Stoner took
a walk up the h ill side.
    Maggie stood
at the door, staring down at Hawk. “I won’t be here when you get back.” She
withdrew and slammed the door.
    “Wouldn’t be
the first time,” Dusty said, and turned away grinning.
    Hawk stared
after her a minute, tracing the lines of the big black cross painted on the
door. Thank you, Edgar.
    In the
splash of floodlights mounted near the edges of the lot, the lines from the
Book of Revelations looked wet, still dripping down the sides of the trailer.
He tried to find one to calm himself, to give him focus before his mission, but
they were all somewhat more intense than he felt he needed.
    Have to put
some Psalms up there soon. This whole apocalyptic thing was a bit too much for
the day-to-day.
    Dusty and
Stoner settled into the jeep. Hawk joined them and fired it up, thinking of
Maggie. The row of glowing plastic Saviors on the dashboard soothed him only
slightly. As a man of action, he hated leaving things unfinished. Maggie in her
moods was harder to interpret than Elijah’s rant. He finally achieved a
one-pointed clarity by focusing on the hood ornament, a polished chrome
crucifix that gleamed like liquid silver as they passed under a