How to Successfully Kidnap Strangers (16 page)

Like it really mattered at this point. They could accept it, sure, but he’d be in prison long before he was given a chance to sign a contract, and he seriously doubted any publisher would want to do business with a convicted murderer and kidnapper. Although, Nick hated to admit it, if the tables were turned, he would go out of his way to sign on a controversial case such as his own current situation. People would eat that shit up and he’d probably sell a ton of copies. But not everybody had the same kind of balls as he did. People were too afraid of being offensive. That’s why Nick dug small presses. They just didn’t give a shit.

Was there a way to get out of this without going to prison? Nick doubted it. They could try to flee the country, but would they make it across the border? And if they made it across the border, what then? It wasn’t like they were flowing in cash. Where were they going to get money? Maybe they’d fully embrace the outlaw life and start hitting up liquor stores and gas stations across the US on their way to Mexico. Go out with a bang.

The idea seemed surreal and ridiculous. Nick wasn’t an outlaw. He was barely a writer. And he was even less of a publisher. He was nothing.

Except now, he was a kidnapper. He was a murderer.

Last night, he had his whole life ahead of him.

Less than twenty-four hours later, he was closing in on a dead-end with no room for a turn-around.

Where to go from here? Nick didn’t know. He was just going to keep walking until an answer came to him, and if an answer never arrived, then his feet would start getting sore.

He wondered what his mom would say when she found out. Would she understand? Did she understand when he got arrested for fighting in that bar? Or the time he got drunk and stole an inflatable Santa?

He could already hear her lecture. He decided once he was arrested, he would refuse her visitation rights. She didn’t need to see him behind bars and he didn’t need to see her judging him for shit that wasn’t his fault.

Shit like running over and killing a woman. A woman who was still somewhere in those bushes, serving as a midnight snack for the insects. They couldn’t just leave her there. She was a human being. Billy said her name had been Samantha. He knew a few Samanthas in town. Only one of them was blonde, like the one he’d seen in the bush. Although he hadn’t taken a good look at the dead girl’s face, he was willing to bet she was the same Samantha who worked at Burger King. She was known around town as a good source for bad meth. And if she was in the meth business, then it was likely Billy and her were acquaintances.

She hadn’t been that old. Early twenties at the most. Her body would continue to age, but her mind would not. Her flesh would deteriorate but her heart would no longer beat.

Why was she naked, anyway? What the fuck was Billy planning on doing with her? He’d never trusted Eliza’s brother, but now he was afraid of him, too. Only a fool didn’t fear a man riding a crank binge.

If anybody was arrested, it should be Billy. Maybe they all should be arrested, but Nick didn’t like the sound of that. Billy was too dangerous to be left alone. He needed to be locked up. Him and Lewis, except Lewis was different. Lewis wasn’t even human. Him and Billy differed in that Billy didn’t know what he was doing, he was just too high to realize the consequences of his actions. He could be helped for this sickness. Lewis, on the other hand, couldn’t be helped. He was a murderer. A serial killer, if the rumor about the severed heads was true. A sick deviant needing to be put down. Nick didn’t want to be the one to have to put him down, but he didn’t know who else would be up for the job. Hell, he’d already killed one person today. What was another?

But how would he do it? Slice his throat? No, fuck that. That was way too graphic. Just thinking about it made Nick want to vomit. Maybe he could just poison his food or something. There was bound to be some rat poison or some other toxin floating around Sergio’s uncle’s cabin.

Nick sat down on a log at the thought of Sergio.

Sergio had been a good man. More importantly, he had been an amazing writer, and Nick had been truly lucky to exclusively publish his work. Sometimes Nick felt guilty publishing him, because he knew he could never truly market and promote Sergio as he deserved. Sergio was a writer who needed to be read by thousands, not be dozens. With the recent controversy involving
The Cumming of Christ
, Nick was positive Sergio would finally receive his long-owed recognition. And maybe he would, but now it would be found postmortem. And maybe that was all right, in a fucked-up way. The best writers didn’t get recognized until their deaths. Maybe now it was Sergio’s turn to be a legend. A mascot for the new breed of degenerate writers. He would be what Sonic was for Sega, but for small press literature.

As he sat on a log, leaning back against a tree stump and looking at the polluted sky, Nick came to a decision. He would kick Billy out of the group. Tell him to turn himself in to the police or fuck off someplace else; he no longer wanted anything to do with his toxic ass. Then he would put Lewis down for the big sleep, feed him some poison or pour bleach down his throat, something, who gave a shit, really; the man was a monster and deserved to be put down as such. He’d let Harlan go, but not before punching him in the face for all the shit he’d said on his blog. He had no idea what he’d do with Jared. Maybe by the time Nick returned to the cabin he would have bled out from his head wound.

Nick would try for Mexico. Or maybe Canada. It was probably easier to live as an outlaw in Mexico, he figured. He’d ask Louise, Eliza, and Stephen if they wanted to join him. If they didn’t, then fine, whatever, they’d go their separate ways. If they did, then tomorrow, after taking care of everybody else, they would plan their trip. If they didn’t leave by tomorrow, they might as well turn themselves in. Hell, tomorrow might already be too late. He had no idea how much the police already knew. They might not have even found Sergio’s body yet.

When he made it back to the cabin, there was another car parked in front of the cabin. Billy was outside, on his knees with his hands raised high. Standing in front of him was another man, one Nick didn’t recognize.

In one hand the man held a pistol and in the other he held a severed head.

38. AIM FOR THE HEAD

Joseph Nous got
off work at 6:00 P.M. and he couldn’t stop thinking about Sergio Placid. He’d stopped reading
The Cumming of Christ
. Every time he tried to continue he would break down crying. Sure, Sergio wasn’t the first corpse he’d seen, but goddammit, this one had struck a nerve. All day he’d spent reading his words, and to randomly stumble across his murdered body? Joseph had never been a very spiritual man in the past, but after today, shit, who wouldn’t be?

When he made it home, his dachshund, Lucy, was waiting in the doorway to greet him. She ran around him in a frenzied loop, tongue out. Deep down, Joseph knew she was only excited to see him because his presence meant somebody was finally available to open the back door and let her outside to pee and bark at birds.

He let her out and took off his uniform, changed into more casual clothes. A frozen Hungry Man would accompany him tonight for dinner. Instead of Netflix, however, he’d resort to the Internet for entertainment. Sergio Placid had a semi-popular blog about writing that he’d update twice a month. It would never be updated again. Joseph wondered if Sergio’s fans were aware of his demise yet. Was his family?

The last blog post Sergio had written had been about the death of the reclusive writer and the rise of the whore. The whore being, of course, the writer who threw himself or herself out in the wild and did whatever it took to get their work read. The kind of writer who wasn’t just a writer, but an editor, a publicist, and just about anything else one could imagine.

Joseph read the article as he shoved forkfuls of microwaved mashed potatoes into his mouth, the sound of Lucy barking in the backyard as background.

“Shoot Your Readers in the Head”

by Sergio Placid

You’re surrounded.

The living dead circle you like bicycle bullies around the fattest, foulest child in the school. There’s not many bullets left in your pistol, so you have to make every shot count. If you even slip up in the slightest, these things are going to eat you alive. They’ll rip out your guts and breathe in your entrails. There is no time to waste. Take them out before they turn you into a sandwich and move on to someone more interesting.

Raise your arm. Tighten your finger around the trigger. Aim for the head.

Shoot.

There are no do-overs. There are no time-outs. The time to act is now. So shoot.

Now imagine all these drooling flesh eaters are potential readers, and each bullet in your gun is an opportunity to be read. An opportunity to be successful, whatever successful even means to you. There are a finite amount of opportunities in the world, so you have to make each shot count.

You have to aim for the head.

Destroy the brain. Convert the reader.

There are certain misconceptions about the world of writing. Readers without any actual connection to the writing industry often assume writers are rich, and that every single book published hits bookstores worldwide and sells like stolen perfume bottles outside a Wendy’s (I’ve had strange encounters behind Wendy’s).

There’s a reason a stereotype exists that involves parents not wanting their children to become writers. It is not just a silly fear—it is a legitimate concern for their children’s wellbeing. Professional writing is no joke—it is extremely difficult to make a living off your words, especially if you publish with a small press. You have to bust your ass, and even then, it probably won’t be good enough.

It will never be good enough. But you can try.

But how can one writer market to thousands of potential readers? Simple—by starting off small. By planting your seed into one reader and allowing your fiction to gradually grow and spread through many more. I realize how gross “planting your seed into one reader” sounds, and I do not regret my phrasing in the slightest.

You have to appeal to readers. When you realize that you’re not just selling your book, but yourself as a human being, then you can start taking your career seriously. Always remember, the book is not the product—
you
are the product.

Get out there and interact. Show the readers you’re someone worth reading. Show them you are a person.

The day of the reclusive writer is dead. He shot himself over an embarrassing lack of sales.

Joseph let Lucy back inside and refilled her food and water bowls. He returned to the table with a fresh beer, scrolling through Sergio’s blog. This was a man who knew what he was talking about. Someone who wasn’t fucking around. Joseph had never possessed any interest in writing before, but reading Sergio’s articles on writing made him sincerely believe he could do it, if he disciplined himself well enough.

Joseph found another interesting blog post, not so much about writing advice, but about his favorite places to write around the city. He said unlike most writers, he despised writing in public. Sergio figured the kind of writers who liked writing in Starbucks didn’t actually like writing, they just liked being seen as a writer. Sergio preferred doing his writing in seclusion, without interruption. He did a lot of it at his apartment, but he admitted that the Internet ate up a lot of his time. No, his favorite place to write was a cabin his uncle owned. It was out in the woods, away from civilization. No Internet, no electricity, no anything. He would go up to the cabin every month with a stack of notebooks and write like a crazy person, then go back home the next week and type everything he’d written. Most of the time, he was able to write one or two novellas over the weekend. Some people went fishing for relaxing vacations. Sergio went writing in his uncle’s cabin.

Fascinated that there could be such a spot somewhere close by, Joseph logged into the police database and searched Sergio’s profile. He found his uncle, then looked up the man’s known property. The cabin wasn’t difficult to find. It was about a half hour away from Joseph’s house.

Joseph leaned back in his chair and thought about the cabin. It was up there in the woods, empty. Sergio would never again step foot in it. He would never write again. The thought made Joseph incredibly depressed. He wondered when Sergio’s uncle would return to the cabin. Did he even know about his nephew’s death yet?

Joseph finished his beer and thought about it some more. He was putting his shoes on before he realized what he was doing. He got in the car and started driving, still not fully aware that he was driving out to this dead man’s writing utopia. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there. He just knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight until he at least saw it in person. And maybe if it was unlocked he would take a walk around, get a feel for it, sit in the same places Sergio had sat, maybe even whip out a notebook and write like Sergio had written.

Joseph had never felt so inspired in his life.

39. IMAGINARY LOVERS

“I’m going to
call the police.”

Louise stared at Stephen, fists balling up, resisting the urge to strike him. “You are not calling the police.”

Stephen sighed, pacing the bedroom. He had dragged her in and shut the door shortly after arriving at the cabin. Louise thought he was going to fuck her or something. But apparently he just wanted to bitch.

“I swear, I’m the only one thinking any goddamn sense around here,” Stephen said, “because you’ve all lost your minds.”

“How you figure?” Louise asked.

Stephen looked at her like she was an idiot. “People have died, Louise. Sergio was murdered. Nick ran over some girl with his car. Who’s gonna die next, huh? Because it’s bound to happen again. And again. That’s our life now, unless we call the police and put a stop to all this.”

All Stephen ever did lately was whine about everything. Louise couldn’t stand it. “I don’t understand how I was ever attracted to you.”

“That’s a real nice thing to hear,” Stephen said. “I’m trying to be serious here.”