My name is Warren Ditcum, and I was twenty-seven when I got murdered, three years ago. By a stupid fucking cop. I was better known as Did-it, because that was usually my response when told something needed to be done. Always had been. I'm not the kind of guy who likes to fuck around before handling a task. My asshole folks raised me right about that, at least.
Now, I wasn't a bad guy who deserved to be shot in the back, or even some minority the cops like to kill. Sandy hair. Solid build thanks to the gym, four days a week...not from vanity but because construction work was physically demanding and made me a hungry boy, at all times. So if I didn't also work out I'd probably balloon to three-hundred pounds like my fucking father. And mother. Man, was it a fight to keep at one-ninety. But girls said I looked like a movie star, and that got my nice-sized dick plenty of pussy.
In the twelve years prior to being killed, I probably fucked about a thousand babes, most of them willing. Even the ones I had to talk into it, the only one who left that fuck-fest not completely happy was me. I liked girls and they always got me off, but I still felt like something was missing.
My pack was pretty much like me. Jack, Charley, Winn, Conner--t-shirts, boots and jeans kinds of guys. Your basic construction crew with the same ages, interests and more attitude than necessary. Half of us rode Harleys, myself included, while the rest had old trucks kept together with spit and duck tape. The cops didn't like us, but we were always careful not to step over the line. And always recorded every encounter with any motherfucker in uniform.
We worked pretty much nonstop, since the town was booming. My forte was brickwork while Jack and Charley were framing, Winn did roof-work and Conner handled cement. They had wives and girlfriends who were always trying to get me set up with the right female friend of theirs. And I usually went along. Of course, I never told any of them about my feelings after fucking; we just weren't that kind of group and I didn't want to get smacked around for being queer, which would be their go-to bullshit.
The motherfucker who killed me was named Molinaro. Bastard was a couple inches taller, dark hair, probably shaved his body, and had a bit more in the muscle department. No question. Not like one of those magazines, where you get the feeling they're all juicers; he was just your usual power builder in non-stop spandex who likes to let everybody know he's benching twice as much as anybody else in the room. Arrogant and irritating.
I guess it's obvious we hit the same gym, just not usually at the same time. By my choice, once I figured out his routine. Before that, I barely looked at him. Never talked to him. Just went about my business then split for my rat-trap, close by, to shower. Never did like gym showers. Once or twice he tried to start up some chat, but I knew he was highway patrol so shut him down, fast. I don't talk to cops. I think that and me not agreeing he was the top dog of the gym pissed him off.
Now, my pack would get together at various places we knew, well away from town. Up the mountains. Out in Death Valley. Just drink beer and whiskey, blast our favorite tunes, smoke loads of pot, drop something, now and then...the usual clichés. We to those places just to be left the fuck alone by any cop chancing by. And truth is, I loved riding my bike fifty-sixty-hell, ninety miles in the middle of the night down a deserted two-lane blacktop. Which worked great, till Molinaro started hating on me.
The night my life ended, we'd all met at this old cave not far off the 190, near Panamint. Total desert. There was an old abandoned motel on the north side of the highway, backed up to some tall hills, and on the other side of the hills was a drop of a hundred feet. The cave was at the base. A great location for drinking, smoking and fucking around as loud as we wanted.
It looked like there'd been a little bit of an earthquake since we'd been there, the last time, but it was still solid. The nights were cool, and when one of the pack wanted to fuck his girl, the cave was a nice place to do it.
Especially since their moans and gasps and yelps and shit were magnified by it. I think there was a competition to see who could get the loudest. It was also a place the cops never came to harass us because nobody but us knew about it.
Until Molinaro showed up. He'd followed this Charley's ratty pickup truck, since they were the last to show. Probably sat in his cruiser for half an hour to give us time to get our party going, then set his lights to flashing and rolled up.
He should have waited for backup, but he was an arrogant tool.
"Okay, out with your IDs," he hollered. "All of you."
I sighed and started towards him. Nobody else moved...especially since there was a little grunting and groaning coming from the cave.Charley and his girl had slipped in there, fast.
"What the fuck, Molinaro," I snapped. "We ain't on the road. This is public land. So you got no reason to pull this shit."
The motherfucker pulled his pistol and aimed it at me, growling, "No closer. Stay back. And I want your IDs! NOW!"
I stayed. I ain't stupid. I looked back at the others and asked, "Any of you wanna show this dipshit anything?"
That got some chuckles, mixed in with louder groans and gasps from the cave.
"I got backup on the way," Molinaro yelled, beginning to sound nervous. "So IDs, now, or you're all going to jail on drug charges."
That brought more laughs until --
A massive shriek came from the female partner in that cave, followed by howls of pain, from Charley...that suddenly cut off. The girl appeared at the mouth of the cave, no pants on and screaming, incoherently. Then suddenly a whip snapped out and around her neck and yanked her back inside. And she went silent.
That got everybody moving. Even Molinaro jolted back. The pack scrambled for their bikes and trucks as I ran for the cave.
Molinaro howled, "Everybody stay where you are! I MEAN IT!"
Then he fired and hit me in the back. I crashed to the ground and rolled and was facing the midnight sky, confused as to why I couldn't feel anything. The whole world was in slow-motion.
Even as...as this...this monstrous thing scrambled from the cave. Some kind of beast that was a cross between a crab and octopus on four spindly legs with a claw-like mouth, oval eyes and a dozen tentacle arms and as many whips swirling from its sides. Two of the tentacles held Charley and his girl, despite their struggles, as the rest snapped out to grab everyone in my pack around their torsos and yank them close, like into a hug, of sorts.
Molinaro fired at it as he scrambled back to his cruiser, but it scurried over and caught him around the hips. Then it scurried back into the cave, with all of them fighting and screaming and shrieking, their howls of fear echoing across the desert.
And as I passed into death, I thought, "Fuck, the devil's come to drag us down to hell."
