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45.

The Meat Rack

“The Darkness doesn’t care.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #66

It was hard for Joe to breathe the Meat Rack’s balmy air through his powder-caked nostrils. Scotty Black’s trail mix had also made Joe so horny and jumpy he felt like leaping out of his skin. Still he wanted to snort more—anything to stay high until he was off the island. The problem was there wasn’t a lot left in the bumper. He’d need to ration it.

Not watching where he was going, Joe stumbled down an embankment, scraping his already twice-wounded leg. He touched the reopened scabs and wiped the blood onto his white shorts. He’d need to be more careful.

Without a flashlight the Rack was far more precarious than he’d imagined, like a giant skateboard park with fifteen-foot drops in places, all covered with dirt, vines, trees, and roots. The only light was from the moon peeking through the twisted trees like some lunar pervert. Soon even that would darken with the eclipse. Wanting to get his bearings, he scrambled up the side of a steep dune. From the top he could see the shimmering sea with its glowing white waves, heaving and crashing on the beach.

If only Fergal could see this. Stop! Don’t think about him! But Joe couldn’t help but think about him. He pictured his face that night he told him he couldn’t see him—those blue-blue eyes hurt, enraged, and betrayed. Joe never deserved Fergal’s love anyway. Fergal was better off without him. Why wasn’t the drug working anymore?

Joe fell to the sand, curled into a ball, his body convulsing as he sobbed. Each tear contained the certainty that he’d never be happy again. He filled the chamber of Scotty Black’s bumper and snorted the last of the yellow-gray powder. He felt the burn, the whoosh, but this time there was no release from the despair. It was still there, along with his cowardice and the crushing pain of all he had lost. He tossed the empty bumper into the shrub pine. Again, his body shook with his tears. He felt so exhausted yet horribly awake. Without more of the drug, how would he make it through the night? How would he brave enough to make his escape?

“What’s going on?” a man’s deep voice asked from the shadows.

Joe looked, but only saw a tall shadowy form. Unable to speak without crying, he waved the man away. Can’t he see what a mess I am? But the man stepped forward from the shadows and angled his body so what was left of the eclipsing moonlight revealed his identity. He wasn’t wearing a Titans sweatshirt, but he had that same expression of desire and disdain on his strikingly handsome face. Gladiator Man.