Bert McCracken

SCREEEEEACH

The sound of rubber tires skidding against asphalt tore through the otherwise quiet street. Bert had been half leaned over the center console, pawing through a mountain of fast food wrappers, jewel cases, and dirty laundry piled on the passenger seat for his smokes. “C’mon, you little fucker, where are you?” He grunted, one hand gripping the wheel. His eyes had been off the road for three, maybe four seconds. He glanced back up just in time to see a figure be swallowed up by the glare of his headlights.

Bert’s foot slammed on the brake pedal, the van protesting with a sickening lurch that threw him forward against the seatbelt. He felt a solid, meaty thud hit the bumper. “Fuck,” His mind went blank, struggling to catch up with the sudden turn of events. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The string of expletives were choked out, all the air forced from his lungs. His hands shook as he fumbled with his seatbelt buckle, panic flooding his veins. He flung the door open, nearly falling out of the van in his haste.

His boots slipped on the road as he scrambled around to the front of the van, his fingers coming up to tug messily at his greasy black hair. The beam of his headlights cut a sharp path in the darkness, and it was right there, in that unforgiving light, that he saw the figure crumpled on the ground a few feet from the bumper. A wave of nausea surged in his gut. Jesus Christ, he’d hit someone. He’d actually fucking hit someone.

He dropped to his knees, ignoring the bite of gravel digging through his jeans. He hovered his hands over the crumpled body, too terrified to touch. "Please don't be dead, man, I can't deal with a fucking corpse right now.” He babbled, finally reaching down. The skin was warm. That was good. Warm meant alive, right? "Hey, can you hear me?" His voice cracked, pitching up an octave in his hysteria. "I... I hit you. I didn't see you until it was too late, I swear to fucking god. Are you okay? Say something.”

Bert stopped in front of a motel door, squinting at the faded numbers painted onto the wood. 116. Looked right. He swiped the plastic card the pimply kid at the front desk had handed over to him. The light on the metal handle blinked red, refusing to click unlocked. He swore under his breath and tried again, this time more aggressively. Still red. "Fucking piece of shit," he muttered, jiggling the handle violently. It wouldn't budge. The lock was jammed, or the key was demagnetized, or the universe had decided Bert McCracken didn't deserve decent sleep tonight.

Screw it. He didn’t have the patience to walk down three flights of stairs for a new key. He reared back and slammed his shoulder into the wood just above the lock. The frame groaned, wood splintering under the force, and with a second, harder shove, the door finally gave with a loud snap, banging against the stopper. “Finally,” he breathed, stumbling inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

He didn’t bother hitting the lights. He just toed off his shoes, not caring where they landed, and peeled his jacket and ratty jeans off next, letting them drop to the floor. The bed looked like heaven, or at least the best thing he’d seen in days. He flopped onto it face-first with a blissful groan, the scratchy comforter rough against his cheek. The mattress was lumpy and the pillowcase smelled like someone elses perfume, but to Bert, it might as well have been a cloud.

Just as he was about to tip over the edge, the jarring shriek of a key being forced into a lock ripped him back to consciousness. He assumed it was Jepha, probably locked out of his own room and looking to crash on his floor. The lock gave a loud BEEP and the door easily swung inward, framing a figure against the dim glow of the parking lot lights. “Dude, if you’re gonna bring another groupie in here, at least give me a heads up so I can put my fuckin’ pants back on,” Bert grumbled into the pillow.

Slowly, grudgingly, Bert pushed himself up onto his elbows, turning his head towards the opened door. The person standing in his room was definitely not Jepha. Or Quinn. Or anyone he knew. "What the fuck?" Bert's voice was a gravelly rasp, thick with confusion. The comforter slipped down to pool around his lap, the cool air hitting his bare chest. "Who are you?" He squinted, trying to make out the intruder’s features in the gloom. "This is my room.”

Bert was four beers and a shot of something that burned like hellfire deep, and the world had taken on that pleasant, fuzzy quality where everything seemed like a good idea. Some whiny pop-punk band was blasting through the speakers, sweaty bodies packed like sardines all around him. He felt like the king of nothing, sprawled on a stained couch in some stranger's living room, legs splayed wide and a bottle of booze dangling from his fingers.

He blinked heavily as he tried to focus on the room spinning gently around him. There were too many people, too much noise, but he was content to just sit there and let the chaos wash over him. That was, until his bleary eyes landed on her.

She was standing next to the makeshift bar, which was really just a kitchen counter littered with half-empty liquor bottles and plastic cups. He’d never seen her before in his entire life, couldn’t even tell you the color of her eyes from here, but to Bert, she might as well have been a goddamn angel, plucked straight from the grimy recesses of one of his nightly fantasies. Or maybe she was just cute. Yeah, that was probably it. He squinted, trying to determine if she was real or just a really vivid hallucination brought on by whatever mysterious pill the guy in the bathroom had given him.

Bert leaned forward, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through him. He nearly toppled off the couch but caught himself at the last second, sloshing beer onto his already ruined jeans. "Hey," he called out, his voice raspy, just loud enough to be heard over the music. He didn't stand up (standing up seemed like a lot of work), but he waved a hand frantically, beckoning her over with the urgency of a man who’d just realized he was dying of thirst. "You. With the... the everything. C'mere.”

Bert’s grin was a wide, sloppy thing as she approached. “You look,” He started, paused to burp, swallowed it down, and tried again. “You look like you're bored to tears, princess.” His words were slurred, each one bleeding into the next. “Was’ a pretty thing like you doing hidin' in the kitchen with all those losers anyway?” He gestured vaguely around the room with the hand holding his beer.

Bert was four beers and a shot of something that burned like hellfire deep, and the world had taken on that pleasant, fuzzy quality where everything seemed like a good idea. Some whiny pop-punk band was blasting through the speakers, sweaty bodies packed like sardines all around him. He felt like the king of nothing, sprawled on a stained couch in some stranger's living room, legs splayed wide and a bottle of booze dangling from his fingers.

He blinked heavily as he tried to focus on the room spinning gently around him. There were too many people, too much noise, but he was content to just sit there and let the chaos wash over him. That was, until his bleary eyes landed on him.

He was standing next to the makeshift bar, which was really just a kitchen counter littered with half-empty liquor bottles and plastic cups. Bert had never seen him before in his entire life, couldn’t even tell you the color of his eyes from here, but to Bert, he might as well have been a goddamn angel, plucked straight from the grimy recesses of one of his nightly fantasies. Or maybe he was just cute. Yeah, that was probably it. Bert squinted, trying to determine if he was real or just a really vivid hallucination brought on by whatever mysterious pill the guy in the bathroom had given him.

Bert leaned forward, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through him. He nearly toppled off the couch but caught himself at the last second, sloshing beer onto his already ruined jeans. "Hey," he called out, his voice raspy, just loud enough to be heard over the music. He didn't stand up (standing up seemed like a lot of work), but he waved a hand frantically, beckoning the guy over with the urgency of a man who’d just realized he was dying of thirst. "You. With the... the everything. C'mere.”

Bert’s grin was a wide, sloppy thing as he approached. “You look,” He started, paused to burp, swallowed it down, and tried again. “You look like you're bored to tears, sweetheart.” His words were slurred, each one bleeding into the next. “Was’ a pretty thing like you doing hidin' in the kitchen with all those losers anyway?” He gestured vaguely around the room with the hand holding his beer.

...