Conflagration

III

Sam called out rights and lefts until they reached a small white house at the end of a patch of road. Despite the several turns, they had covered little distance from town and Bill could still see the peak of the Bearwallow steeple above the trees at the end of the yard.

He let Sam lead the way. The house looked regular enough but was oddly warped, as if its walls and roof were made of wet plywood sat on by an unseen weight. Littering the yard were discolored Amazon boxes and various car accessories that looked half buried in the bluegrass that sat at shins length. The screen door was painted green but flaking badly. It creaked as Sam opened it and knocked.

"Who all's there?" A voice hollered from somewhere in the depths.

"It's Santa."

"I'm busy."

"Open the damn door."

Footsteps approached from beyond.

"Leave us loiterin in the yard," Sam muttered to himself.

The door opened and revealed a fat man within.

"I thought you was someone comin to bother."

"Like who?" Sam asked.

"Don't know. Coulda been a officer."

"You seen a good amount of police identify themselves as Santa?"

The man didn't answer. He was already halfway through the house, beckoning them in with his hand. On his feet he wore foam sandals that thonged between his first and second toe. Bill stepped carefully across the wood floor. Each panel was scuffed with black rubber streaks and every few feet a chunk was missing with no apparent explanation. The air was poisoned with mold. A cast iron pan sat longways in the sink to their right, filled with cigarettes smoked down to the tanline and then smoked some more.

They were led into the living room at the back of the house. Yellow bedsheets doubled as curtains, blocking light from the band of three souls sitting on the couch below. There were two women and a man. One of the former was folded over the armrest, unconscious and drooling. The other two were busy crushing a pill with a Sears value card that had faded from blue to the color of cream. They looked up and grinned at them before returning to their work.

Smiling. That was nice.

The back of the house was a collection of small rooms that were occupied by mattresses and furniture that was tattooed with teeth marks and fetid stains. The fat man brought them into a room where the bed was actually resting on a frame. Sam gestured for Bill to close the door after they entered. The fat man walked to the nightstand. Cheep casters and plastic wheels had been crudely drilled into the table's legs. He slid it out of position and revealed what looked like a miniature hatch beneath.

He stopped and jerked his head back, first looking at Bill, then Sam. An eyebrow stood cocked.

"Can this one be trusted?"

Sam smirked. "What're you askin for now? You already showed him the spot."

The man frowned and produced a key from his jean's pocket. He inserted it into the padlock that hung over the hatch and removed it. He spoke as he worked.

"Who is he?"

"Him? Don't worry about him. He's on the run. Broke outta where they were keepin him this mornin."

"Broke out?"

"Yep. Place up in Ohio."

"Ohio?"

"You hearin alright?"

"Yeah I'm hearin alright. Just find it hard to believe."

"That's because it ain't believable. Dang Boots how high are you?"

The man paused. He was folded over his gut like a toddler squatting to retrieve something. A roll of bills was held tight in his hand.

"Shoot. Now that you mention it. Maybe I'm too high to be handin over all this money."

Sam took out the bag of pills and balanced it in his palm. Inside were small white capsules, too many to count.

"I ain't never seen you get there in one day. And I've seen some doozies from you."

The fat man raised himself with great effort, separated a heavy portion of the bills from the rest of the stack and forked it over. Sam counted it silently and then handed over the bag. As the transaction was occurring, the fat man stared at Bill who noticed and looked down at his shoes. Sam pocketed the cash and noticed as well.

"What're you doin, countin his freckles? Quit starin."

"Huh?"

"I said why are you lookin at him like that."

"Who is he?"

"That's Bill."

"Bill?"

"I thought you said you were hearin alright."

"I am hearin alright. Bill what? Is he kin?"

"Boots. I just gave you enough oxys to kill everyone here. Who cares?"

Bill looked at the two uncertainly. Sam caught his eye.

"Bill this is Boots Treadwell."

"What?"

Sam shook his head. "You gunna make me repeat myself too?"

Bill looked at Boots down and up, then down again. Tuffs of hair were peaking out of the thong sandals which looked like the variety one might pick up from a gas station's sales rack.

Boots watched him look. "The name," he told him, "Boots. It ain't literal."

"I see that."

The three stood in silenceuntil Boots turned and slid the nightstand back over the hatch.